don’t talk to me i’m maladaptive daydreaming

The pool is how you become a mainstay as a part of Craig and Deran's little crew. You'd never admit that you actually like hanging out with them. They don't care that you live in a shithole apartment; they don't care that your mother turns tricks to feed her drug addiction. They don't tease you for it like the other kids. They just care that you like to surf and swim and you can cry on command, so if they get caught swiping a wallet or a beer, you just turn on the waterworks.

You're good at pickpocketing. Had to be. Your mother was usually too strung out to feed you. So you learned how to cook young. Learned how to steal even younger. There's never been a lock that you couldn't pick. You fit perfectly in with the Codys.

But Smurf loves to cook. She loves these big family meals. Doesn't mind when more kids arrive to eat at the table. Most days you're there having dinner in between Craig and Deran. They eat like the place is going out of business. You're just happy to be eating a proper meal.

But it's not until you're sixteen, when you arrive at the Cody house with a rucksack and a busted lip that you officially move in. One of Smurf's strays.

First there was Baz, then Cath, then Lucy. More will come. More will go.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" she asks you when she sees your little face.

"My mom," you say with a sniff. "She wants me to...She doesn't think I should be giving it away for free. Thinks she can pimp me out to her Johns too. I don't...I don't wanna do that. I've never had sex before. I don't want it to be like that."

Smurf strokes your hair and lets you cry in her arms. Sure, your mom fucking sucked, but this? Pimping out her own daughter? That was low even for her. Instead, you move you into Julia's old room. Smurf likes having a girl back in the house, she tells you. Cath and Baz have moved out. Lucy has gone back down to Mexico. You don't really care. You have food on the table, three meals a day, you have a roof over your head, and you won't have to bar your door closed in case some creep tried to walk in.

You have Pope Cody watching out for you. He's like Smurf's watchdog. And he watches out for her strays too.

Cath watches you in the pool with Craig, Deran, Adrien and Renn one summer afternoon. She frowns, "How fucked up does your life have to be that Smurf's house of horrors is a haven?"

Baz kisses the top of her head, reminding her, "Was for you."

Cath hums in response, watching the five of you, reminds her of being sixteen again. Her and Baz, Julia and Pope...and Lucy. Of course, Lucy. She watches you as you lean against the side of the pool to speak to Smurf. Cath has been burnt by Smurf; she's hoping this time is different. That you don't attract the attention of her boys the way she did.

"You think you're gonna be like my Lucy and Cath?" Craig asks you later that evening as you share a joint at the beach.

You and Renn look at each other and make a face. You know Renn and Craig have been sleeping together. You have no interest in Craig. No offence. But he's too loud, too desperate for attention, too much of a class clown.

You thought maybe you had a crush on Deran, but then you realised, even if you did, that he had no interest in you. Or any other girl, for that matter. You see the way he looks at Adrien...and how Adrien looks at him.

"I still don't understand why everyone is in love with Baz," you confess making a face. Even Julia!

"Well it's either that or Pope," Craig points out.

You shrug as you take a drag, "At least Pope can do his own laundry."

Pope Cody has been watching you. Of course, he loves his little brothers. But they're idiots. And he doesn't want you to get mixed up like his sister or Lucy or even Cath. You could have a good life, he thinks. Get out of this shit hole.

He's seen how you hole up in your room with your homework. He's taken your books out of your bag when you're sleeping. You're getting straight As. So he goes to Smurf.

"This kid could go to college," he tells her one night.

"And what does that get us, baby?" she asks as she sips the vodka cranberry that Pope made her.

He shrugs, screwing up his face.

"You think cos her mother lives in the shit hole, that Julia does that you're saving your sister, baby? Your sister made her choices. She picked drugs over you," she coos softly. "Sending this girl to college won't change that."

He sniffs, hard.

"She's smart, Smurf. She'd owe you as well. You could suggest law school. Business school. And then she could work for you. It'd be good to have her," he argues.

Smurf hums as she takes a drag of her cigarette.

"She owes me anyway, baby. For letting her live here. Her mother wanted her to pimp her out. Screw guys for her to get another fix. Do you know that? That sweet thing being pimped out by her own mother!" she says, shaking her head.

The Codys love to party. Every other night, there's a party in the house. Pope doesn't live there anymore. He has his own place, thankfully. It's peaceful. But sometimes Smurf wants everyone to be there. And while Pope Cody is a grown man, he's smart enough not to cross his mother.

He watches from the edge of the pool as his brothers splash around in the water. He frowns, however, when Craig pulls out a bag of coke. He watches as your face freezes. Pope moves without thinking, grabbing your arm and all but hauling you out of the pool.

"You stay away from that shit," he snarls at you.

Pope doesn't talk, especially not to you. He was more of a guard dog. Sometimes he'll walk you to school. Well, walk behind you to school. You pretend you don't know you're being followed. Craig has graduated...well, dropped out. And Deran's busy with surfing now. And sometimes Pope noticed you needed a bit of extra protection. So he would walk a few steps behind you on your way to school.

But he never spoke. And you didn't mind. Didn't mind having your guard dog.

But sometimes Pope snapped, like a trapped dog. And when he saw his stupid brothers wave that bag in front of your face, he just saw Julia. Throwing her life away. And he wasn't gonna let you do it too.

"Ouch, Pope!" you snap as he grips you. "I'm not frying my brain with your dumbass brothers. Don't worry."

You weren't going to. While no one else who lived here finished school, you knew you needed to get out of Oceanside. You could go to community college. It didn't matter, you didn't need anything fancy. You just needed to give yourself a future. You weren't gonna turn out like your mother. And while the Codys lived like royalty, you knew that their money didn't come legit.

You wanted to be legit.

One day on your walk home from school, you're pulled into an alleyway and a man slams you against the wall.

"Your bitch of a mother owes me," he snarls at you. "I hear you're hanging around the Codys now. You got money right?"

You shake your head. You don't have shit. And you're so fucking scared. You know the boys taught you some self-defence, but fuck, when it was happening, you couldn't think. Especially after he smacked your head against the wall. He smacks you, right across the face, hard enough you can feel your burst.

"Well if you ain't got money. I'm sure we can figure something else out," he snarls.

This is enough to get your brain to turn on. You knee him right between the legs, this at least has him stumbling backwards. You lunge yourself forward, smashing your forehead against his nose. And then you run.

You run faster than you ever had in your life. You don't stop until you run into a wall of muscle - Pope Cody.

"What happened to you?" he hisses, seeing the blood trickling down your forehead and your split lip.

You just burst into tears and tell him. He sends you into Smurf to get patched up. Later that night as you eat dinner by the pool, you watch Pope come back in. His knuckles are bruised up and his eyes are almost black. You don't question it.

You notice Pope starts walking behind you when you're on your way home from school, too.

Smurf's beaming when you walk out of your bedroom in your gown and cap.

"My first kid to graduate from high school," she coos as she cups your face.

"That's cos she was almost grown before she got here," Baz said with that cocky smirk he always wore.

"Thank you, Smurf," you say, ignoring Baz as always. Piece of shit.

You'd been living under her roof for two years. You were aware that she wanted you to repay her. And you would. But you weren't gonna start running jobs for her. Anyway, despite what she said, you weren't family. She would never trust you, not fully.

"Are you comin' to my graduation?" you ask her with a small smile.

"Of course, sweetheart. I wouldn't miss it. Would we Baz?" she says fixing your hair as she speaks. "This is such a pretty dress, baby. Where did you get it?"

You look down at the dress you're wearing and back up at Smurf.

"It fell in my bag," you try giving her a smile.

"Those sticky fingers are going to get you in trouble," she responds but twirls you around. "But I'm going to have to borrow this from you."

Of course, with a graduation comes a party. And Cody parties are legendary, so everyone is in the house. You're sitting by the pool, sipping on a beer, watching the boys wrestle underwater. You've swapped your graduation dress for a bikini. You stand up, the shells on your anklet jingling as you walk, to get another beer.

You wince when you feel a sharp smack on your ass as you walk towards the bar.

"Hey, pretty girl. Why don't you come sit on my lap?" a friend of a friend of Craig's coos.

You roll your eyes and keep walking, but he sits up and grabs your wrist, trying to physically pull you onto his knee. This time you don't have to fight because Pope has punched this guy across the face. He moves to get up and retaliate, but Pope is on top of him.

"Pope! Enough! Pope!" you yell. "Andrew!"

He immediately stops, sniffs, looks at you before going back inside. The whole thing has caught Smurf's attention. Her eyes narrow as she watches Pope listen to you. Interesting.

You jump when you go to your bedroom and see Pope sitting there in silence, just looking at the wall.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" you ask, folding your arms over your body.

Pope stands and walks to you. He presses a wad of cash into your hand.

"For college. You leave. You don't come back," he says. "Get a place for yourself. Disappear."

That's what you do. You don't go straight away. But you tell Smurf you got into an early graduate programme. And you pack your shit, one rucksack and you move out of Oceanside.

You follow Deran's surf career. He burns out at twenty. You're not surprised. He took it seriously... but Craig didn't. And if Craig was fucking around so was Deran.

Then you hear about a job gone wrong. Andrew "Pope" Cody is behind bars. You frown. You don't know why; you haven't seen him since you were eighteen. Five years ago now. But the idea that Pope might not be around to save you when someone gets too handsy or too aggressive doesn't sit right with you. You felt safer knowing that Pope was around.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" your boyfriend asks, kissing your cheek.

You shake you head, "Nothing. Nothing."

You've left Oceanside, left San Diego. You've moved to Santa Monica after college. You worked in a bank, finance, hedge funds, all that shit. You were bringing in money you could have only dreamed of as a kid. And you had your boyfriend, rich, painfully rich.

You don't think of Oceanside again for almost four years. Until you get a phone call. Your mother has died. Your now fiancé tries to comfort you. You don't need comforting. You hadn't thought of her as your mother for over a decade.

"You never talk about family," he says as he strokes your hair.

"I don't have family," is all your reply.

But you pack a suitcase and go back to Oceanside to bury your mother. No one else will.

"Oh sweetheart," you hear just hours after you arrive back, the voice sending shivers up your spine.

"Smurf," you say with a small smile.

You had the funeral home set up a memorial for the day you arrived. The funeral will happen the day after. You asked your fiancé not to come. So you're standing alone in your designer black dress and the huge engagement ring sparkling on your finger. And Smurf notices.

"Look at you. All grown up. I'm sorry about your mother," she says crossing the room to hug you.

You allow it. You suppose you don't have any bad blood with Smurf. But you're older, wiser. You don't trust her.

"You know she wasn't much of a mother," you say.

You really should be smarter, but somehow you're sitting in the Cody house for dinner. You've changed out of the black dress; it felt gauche. Instead, you slip into a pair of jean shorts and a tank top. You look like you did a decade ago. Except your hair is perfectly styled, your makeup is flawless, and you have a massive engagement ring on your finger.

"That is a sparkler," Smurf says as you help her with the dinner. "Must be an impressive guy."

You shrug, "Bigger isn't always better."

You, of course, loved your fiancé at one point. But a part of you thinks you might have fallen in love with the idea of having a steady family. A family that loves you rather than the man himself.

"Holy shit!" you hear, turning to see Craig and Deran standing in the door way.

"We never thought we'd see you again," Deran says, wrapping his arms around you and picking you up.

You smile and tug Deran's long hair.

"Okay surfer boy. Look at you, look at you both all grown up," you say with a smile.

You hate to admit it, but you missed them. You bring the food out, meeting Smurf's grandson, J and his girlfriend, Nicky. Recently reconciled, you realise.

"I was one of Smurf's strays too," you tell her with a smile as you clean up. "Just don't get too caught up with the Cody boys."

"Did you..." she begins but you shake your head.

"Only friends. Never touched 'em. You don't know where they've been," you say.

It's in this moment when Craig walks in, "No she only ever had eyes for Pope."

You can feel your face go red and you shake your head.

"Pope useda walk her to school like a bodyguard and everything. She would point her finger at someone, and Pope would just fuckin' wail on 'em," he continued.

"That's not true," you hiss at him. "But I'm gonna wail on you now if you don't shut up."

You look up as the door opens and Pope Cody is standing there. In all his glory. He's bulked out. His skin is covered in freckles. Were his eyes always that intense?

"Thought you were in jail," you say in way of greeting.

"Thought I told you to stay away," he says before walking past into the back of the house.

"Look I should get going. I have the funeral in the morning," you say as you hand Craig the cloth to keep drying.

Smurf takes this moment to enter.

"Oh no, sweetheart. Let me make up your old room. You can stay here," she tells you, stroking your hair. Just like old times.

You haven't booked a hotel yet. You weren't thinking when you came down. You didn't have a home here anymore. So that's how you end up sleeping in your old bedroom. In Julia's bedroom. Well, not sleeping. You can't sleep. You eventually decide to get up and get a water. You jump when you open the door, and Pope is there.

"Were you...like standing guard?" you ask as you look up at him.

Pope hasn't seen you in almost ten years. He told you to leave. He told you not to come back. You could make something of yourself. And clearly you have. You look rich. But when you look up at him, and you're scowling up at him, you look like that kid from Oceanside.

"You come into this house with that ring and expect to walk away unscathed?" he asks.

You roll your eyes and walk out. He follows you, like a puppy, his eyes dipping down to the swell of your ass. You're only wearing an oversized sleepshirt. You've grown up, your body swelling with womanly curves. And Pope digs his nails into the palms of his hands.

"Smurf told me about Julia," you say as you fill a glass with water. "I'm sorry Pope. I know she meant a lot to you."

You turn to see the way his face has contorted. He's trying not to cry.

"When did you get out?" you ask. "I saw on the news that you..."

Pope doesn't flirt. He's never flirted. Not really. So you don't expect him to say, "You keeping tabs on me?"

You roll your eyes and duck your head, looking into your glass.

You rarely spoke to Pope when you were kid. Why would you? There was 10 years between you. But now? Now it doesn't seem that important because you realise you like talking to Pope. He's not as loud as his other brothers. He lets you talk. He listens. You talk about life in Santa Monica. You tell him about your fiancé.

"And he didn't come to your mother's funeral?" Pope asks as you sit by the pool watching the sun come up.

"I didn't want him to. Didn't think some rich kid would fit in in Oceanside. But now I see it's all...Bitcoin guys and AirBnBs. Things have really changed," you say.

"But I don't want him to see this side of me. I don't want Craig and Deran to...go all Cody on him."

You close your eyes as you hear him inhale.

"Shouldn't the person you're going to marry know you. All of you?" he asks.

You look at him then, "What if I don't like all of me?"

Pope doesn't know what to say so he just looks at the sunrise with you.

You let Smurf drive you to the funeral. You smooth down your black dress, swearing as your designer heels sink into the grass. Shoulda worn wedges. Your eyes flick up when you hear a car arrive. Everyone who should be here is here. Your eyes widen when you see your fiancé make your way towards you.

Pope watches as he kisses you, stiffens as he watches it happen. This rich prick doesn't deserve to kiss you. But he has to shake his head, shake that thought away.

"You said you didn't have any family," your fiancé says as he looks at the group of men who surround you. "And you've got like five brothers."

You go to shake your head but Smurf has her hand on your shoulder.

"You never mentioned your brothers to your future husband?" she says with a pout. She goes around and introduces everyone.

Andrew. Baz. Craig. Deran. J.

You don't even know J! But suddenly he's your brother. And you're not in the mood for this. So you just stand and listen to the priest talk about your mother. You watch them lower the coffin into the ground. And then you walk off.

"Baby, are you bringing your handsome boy back to the house?" Smurf calls after you.

You give her a smile over your shoulder, trying to convince him to go to his hotel. That you're tired. That you're distraught. But he wants to go to the Cody place. Already enamoured by their boyish charm. How could he not be? Rich people loved to slum it!

"Don't say I didn't warn ya," you say then as you let him drive you over to the house.

You let him get swept up with Baz and Craig and Deran. You go back to your bedroom and look up when the door opens with Pope standing there.

"Do you want to go for a swim?" you ask him. "At the beach?"

He sniffs and nods his head. Funerals make him think of Julia. He doesn't really swim. But he gets changed and drives you to the beach.

"I didn't ask him to come," you say once you get to the beach. "And you know your brothers are gonna fleece him. He's gonna blab about his big fuckin' summer house and then you're gonna go do a job."

Pope's head snaps to you.

"I'm not stupid. I know what you Cody boys do. You went to jail for it," you remind him.

You don't know how long you spend in the water. You just know that you're starving when you come back. Pope is trying not to watch how your body moves in your bikini. He wonders why you packed a bikini if you were just coming to the funeral. Or maybe you didn't. Maybe it was from when you were a kid.

When you get back, the other Cody boys and your fiancé are nowhere to be seen. You close your eyes and pinch your nose. Of course. You're not going to lick his wounds when they rob him. You go take a shower.

You can feel Pope's eyes on you, and you don't know why, but you don't close the door to the bathroom fully. You let him watch as you strip out of your bikini and step into the shower. You know he hasn't taken his eyes off you as you wash the saltwater off you. When you turn the shower off, your eyes finally meet Pope's. You don't drop his gaze until Pope looks away and rushes off.

You know you shouldn't do it. Especially as your engagement ring sparkles under the fluorescent lights. You walk into your bedroom and get dressed in denim shorts and a tank top. You look at your hairstyling tools and ignore them. It's only been a day but Oceanside is seeping back into your body.

When you wake up the next morning, your fiancé still isn't back. You make breakfast and sit by the pool waiting. Eventually, they come back. Looking worse for wear.

"Baby," you coo when you see him walk in. "I just found out that I have to take care of business here. You know it's a bit messier when your mother ODs. Why don't you go back, and I'll follow you in a few days?"

He's too drunk to argue. You manage to get him into an Uber and send him back to your apartment in Santa Monica. You squeeze your eyes shut. And you storm straight into Craig's room. You start pummelling him with your fists. It doesn't hurt. He's huge.

"What the fuck? You nutcase!" he groans.

"Gimme whatever shit you took from him," you snap.

"I didn't take shit. He paid for everything last night. Not my fault," he yells pushing you off him.

You land on your ass on the floor, but you're back up in seconds, hitting Craig again.

"You're wearing his fuckin' watch!" you yell. "Where the fuck did you take him? Coked up off your fuckin' tits."

Craig grabs your arms and pins you down so you stop.

"He flashed all that cash. He showed off his watch and he told us all about you working in a bank. You trying to bait us huh?" he asks.

You kick him right between the legs sending him reeling back.

"I can smell the strip club off you!" you screech.

"Well, someone has to give your rich prick of a fiancé a proper bachelor party!" he says with a smirk.

You hear a creak at the door and look up to see Pope standing there. You give him a small shake of your head and he keeps moving.

But for the first time since you heard Pope was sent to jail you feel a weight lifted from your chest. Pope is here, your protector is back.

You slap Craig, "Keep the watch. But you stay away from him from now on."

"Look he spent most of his money on the girls. And he had fun with 'em! You not putting out?" he asks with a fuckass smirk.

You lunge and start punching his chest. You feel a strong pair of arms around you. Pope drags you off his brother and carries you back to your room.

"You can't fight," he tells you as he places you on the bed.

"I don't need to know how to fight," you say as you grab your hairbrush.

"Everyone should know how to fight," Pope responds.

And that's how you end up by the pool with Pope tightening his boxing gloves on your wrists. He shows you how to punch. He stands behind you, kicking your feet wide, fixing your stance, he takes your hands in his as he physically moves you, showing you how to punch. You can't focus as his front presses against your back. You can feel too much of him.

"Just cos you've got a fancy life doesn't mean you shouldn't know how to defend yourself," he tells you.

You turn your head to look at him, you can see each freckle on his face.

"You've always defended me, Andrew," you whisper.

Neither of you move. You could kiss him. But you don't. You just watch each other. Until eventually Pope moves. He moves like he's been burned. He shakes his head and leaves.

You don't want to fall into old ways. You should go back. Forget about the Codys. But you stay. You even teach J how to boost cars. You do some bullshit pickpocketing with Craig. Deran takes you out surfing. You've always been shit at it. But you like swimming so you don't mind.

And you can't get Pope Cody out of your head. And he can't stop thinking about you. Last time he saw you, you were a kid. Now you're all grown up. Different. You're dangerous. The way you let him watch you shower. The way you moved your body against him.

You're going to visit your mother's grave. You probably should once before you go back to your real life. But you don't expect to run into one of your mother's dealers. Who she owes money to. How can this be happening again? You're about to pull out a wad of cash when this man is pulled off you.

Pope is there, on top of this man, punching and punching.

"Andrew," you call. Stopping him.

"He's not worth it. C'mon."

You bring him to your car and drive him back to his apartment. You walk him inside and sit him on his couch. That's how you end up patching up Andrew Cody's busted knuckles.

"I don't need you to beat on people for me," you say as you wrap his hand.

"That's what I do," he says with a sniff.

You look at him but he ducks his head. You cup his face in your hands and force him to look at you.

"You don't gotta do that. I know you've been doing it since you were a kid. And I appreciate you helping me. Being...being my little guard dog. But you don't need to do that," you say gently.

"What else can I do?" he whispers then.

You smile, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip.

"You could be kind for me," you breathe in return and replace your thumb with your lips.

You just kiss. Spend hours kissing Pope Cody until you fall asleep in each other's arms. And you like this. You could die happily kissing him. You like he tastes, how he lets out soft little hums as he licks into your mouth, you like how needy he gets as he pulls you impossibly closer.

You become used to this. Waking up beside him, cooking for him, curling into his side as you watch TV, just being with Pope.

But this isn't your life. You have a job in Santa Monica. You have a fiancé. Someone who hasn't reached out since he spent the night with strippers and hookers. You know you should go.

"You could come with me, baby," you tell Pope, running your fingers through his auburn curls as he lays on your lap.

But you know that he won't. He's too deep in with his family. While he can be gentle for you, he'll always be Smurf's executioner.

So you just sniff, nodding your head and gathering your things. It didn't matter. Kissing was kids play. You never went further than that. It meant nothing. That's what you tell yourself over and over.

You forget about the Codys. Forget about Oceanside. You try to go back to how your life, your real life was before your mother's death. You wake up next to a man you can't stand, expecting auburn curls and hazel eyes. You go to a job you hate, looking at numbers, making rich people richer.

But, you try. And you try until you walk into your fiancé's birthday party at his family home. There you see all the Cody boys...not Pope. Pope is notably absent. You look at Craig, your face falling. You drag Deran outside.

"What the fuck are you doing?" you hiss.

"Your boy invited us. You didn't tell us it was such a nice place," Deran responds with a shrug.

"Don't. Don't you pull your shit. Not here," you snap, poking him in the chest.

But, of course, a leopard never changes its spots. So now you're sitting there watching as your fiancé's family freaks out that all their valuables are gone.

"Who would have done this? It must have been someone at the party," your fiancé asks.

You just shake your head, "There were so many people-"

But he cuts you off.

"Your trailer trash brothers," he snaps. "I invited them. They're the only people we don't know..."

"I know them. They would never-"

"They stole my watch when we...after your mother's funeral. I just didn't know they were big-time gangsters. Just low-life scumbags," he hisses.

You look at him with huge eyes.

"You spent all your money on prostitutes," you snap. "You probably owed Craig money. Probably so high off your face on drugs you didn't even know what you spending. Who you were giving money to."

You let out a cry when he slaps you across the face.

"Shut your whore mouth up. They told me what your mother was. What you were before you came up here. Probably blew them all too. Even the weirdo who doesn't talk," he hisses.

He grabs your hair pulling you close to him.

"Did you get fucked by all of your brothers. Is that why you didn't mention 'em before?" he snaps. "Let them all fuckin' tag-team you. You dirty, fuckin' whore."

He wraps his hands around your throat and squeezes.

Your eyes are burning with tears. You got out of Oceanside to get away from men like this. But the problem is, men like this are everywhere. And Pope was right. You need to be able to fight. You can't fight.

You wish you had listened. But you were gonna die under some rich asshole. Until it all stops. Maybe you're dead. But then you hear the familiar sound of skin on skin. You manage to sit up and see Pope. Pope was the driver for his brother's cleaning the place out at the party last night. But he couldn't leave you. He missed you.

He came back. Bad idea. But he needed to see you. And now he has never been so thankful.

"Andrew!" you call, your voice tight after being strangled. "He's not worth it."

You let Pope pick you up, carry you to his car. You're adrenaline drops and you pass out in the car. You wake up to Pope tending to the bruises on your neck.

"I'm sorry you keep having to save me," you whisper.

"I woulda killed him...if you'd asked me to," he responds.

You shake your head, "I'm not Smurf, baby. I don't want you to do any of that for me. I don't want Pope. I just want Andrew. I just want you to love me. I don't need a protector or a bodyguard or whatever else..."

Pope looks at you.

"Loving means protecting," he grits out.

You smile, leaning forward to kiss him.

"Not like that, Andrew. Not in a bloodied knuckles kinda way," you promise. "In a...I don't know. You'll make sure the doors are locked. You'll make sure that my tyre pressure is right. Love is patient and gentle and kind."

"I'm not kind," Pope tells you, kissing over your face, your lips, your cheeks, your knees, your eyelids. "I would kill for you."

You look at him, returning his kisses, kissing over the constellations of freckles on his face.

"Be kind for me, baby. Reject the impulse to indulge in your violent nature for me," you whisper. "I left Oceanside. I had a life way from this place. Away from Smurf. We could do that too."

"You make feel quiet. You make me feel gentle. When you think about the way you make me feel...the way I love you, because I do love you, it doesn't make me feel violent," he tells you. "But I don't know how to not be this."

You look at him, kissing him.

"Let me show you, baby."

You kiss him, softly, then you deepen it. You explore the familiar inside of his mouth, but you've decided to explore more. You slip your hands up Andrew's shirt, feeling the hard muscles under your hands. You undress each other slowly. His rough hands on your soft skin; your small hands trace the freckles over his skin. You smile against his lips. He never breaks the kiss as you undress each other. You giggle like a teenager when you finally see each other completely naked.

You move to your knees, between his thick thighs. You look up at him, your eyes never leaving his hazel ones as you take him in your mouth. You hum as you take him, inch by inch. You trace the veins with your tongue as you feel him grow in your mouth.

Pope Cody is not gentle or patient or soft. But you've asked him to try. He wants to fuck your throat so badly. But he tracks his fingers through your soft hair, letting you take control.

"Baby," he begs, squeezing his eyes shut. "I don't want this to be over before we even start. Lemme taste you."

You barely get a chance to nod before he has his arms around your thighs and is all but throwing you onto the couch. Your giggle turns into a desperate moan as his tongue finds your clit. You don't know how you lasted weeks sleeping in bed with him without touching each other. You're like an exposed nerve, ready to cum at any second.

Andrew Cody may try to be patient, but when he hears your cries of pleasure and the way you shudder underneath him. He is pulling an orgasm out of you in no time. You explode on his tongue. And Pope wants you to do it again. He presses two thick fingers inside you and starts teasing you gently at first, until he sees you go cross-eyed. He quickens his pace, moving his fingers faster. He needs to see you cum again.

You cry out his name as you cum this time. This makes Pope almost cum himself. He pulls you onto his lap and starts kissing, desperately, hungrily.

"I wanna see it once more," he tells you.

You're eager, nodding your head, expecting to sink down onto his cock. Instead, he shifts you to grind against his thigh. Craig may have teased you about having a crush on Pope when you were kids, but he wasn't wrong. And the number of times you've fantasised about grinding against his thigh while you desperately humped at a pillow was embarassingly high. So you rock your hips against his thick thigh. Your pussy was already so sensitive none of it mattered.

Your tits are bouncing in Pope's face. An invitation if he ever saw one. And Pope Cody is nothing if not a tits man. So as you ride his thigh, he sucks and kisses at your nipples. Your cries of pleasure echo throughout the room. You grip his knees as you ride him until you cum. You convulse over him. Pope wraps his arms around you to calm your shuddering body.

"Andy, baby. I need to feel you inside me. Please?" you beg after the high of your third orgasm wears off.

You're clenching around nothing. And you're desperate and achey.

"Still so needy for me baby. Prettiest pussy I've ever seen," he praises you as he lays you down on the couch. "My pretty baby and her pretty pussy. You've been so good for me. Waiting for me. Huh?"

You nod your head as Pope hovers over you. He kisses over the bruises starting to form on your neck.

"My sweet, gentle girl. I'm so sorry," he tells you. "I'm never gonna let anything bad ever happen to you again. Here me?"

He presses into you. Your cunt is so ready for him after an hour of playing. You gasp and squirm under him. He rolls his hips, slowly, steadily, taking his time with you.

"Andrew. Need ya," you finally beg after what feels like hours of him teasing you.

He lets out a strangled moan as you rock your hips up to meet his. And he starts going harder, faster, gripping at the flesh of your ass. He hooks under your knee so he can spread you wider. He can go deeper now. And you're a goner as soon as he palms roughly at your tits.

"Fuck! Andrew! Andrew! Andrew!" you cry out as you squirt over his cock.

You're so overstimulated. Your cunt clamps down like a vice, used and spent. His hips stutter to a stop, pressed flush against you. You gasp again as you feel him empty into you. His forehead is pressed against yours as rope after rope of cum fills you. His hips roll in short aborted thrusts.

You don't know how many times over the next week you and Andrew fuck, make love, have sex. Every way you can explore each other's bodies, you do.

And when you look at him with those big puppy dog eyes, he finally decides that it's time to leave Oceanside. You sell your engagement ring and it's enough to set you up for life. But still, you take a new job with a new bank. Andrew fixes cars. He's happy.

He's happy until he comes to visit you at work. Sees the inside of a bank again and gets that familiar rush.

Pope Cody isn't a violent dog. But an animal can't resist its base urges.

a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated. requests open

taglist: @sweetashhh @orangecheescakeleftover @elenamoncadaibarra @joelmillrenthusiast @abbotaes

“Happy first year down..” Shen smiles as he sets down a dunkin cup on your desk, making you stare on in shock.

“Oh. Shen, you shouldn’t have-“ He waves a hand, interrupting your humbleness.

“Just be grateful. I spent points on you.” He teases as you quickly get up to hug him.

“You’re such a dork. Thank you..” You giggle.

“No hugging on the clock.”

The voice comes from behind you both, but you already know who it is. Pulling away, you give Jack a playful up/down.

“We hug ‘on the clock’..” You point out as you squint your eyes at the older man’s ‘rule’.

“That’s different..” He shrugs as he sets the copies in front of Lena so she can start filing them away.

“How so?!” You chuckle, crossing your arms over your chest and corking your head to the side.

“I’m the one getting a hug.” Jack smirks a bit as if it’s obvious. Shen shakes his head before turning back to you.

“See? You earned the coffee simply for putting up with that for a whole year.” Shen states as he nods towards a now playfully offended looking Jack.

“Aw..” You play along. “It was hard work. I’m so glad I’m being acknowledged for it now..” You smile as you playfully place a hand over your heart, acting as if you’re about to cry.

“Ha ha. You two are so very entertaining.” Jack says sarcastically as you grab your files and your coffee, muttering another soft thank you to Shen before you slip away to do your rounds.

Being a resident on the night shift was only doable when you had coworkers like Shen.

Well, it also helped when you had Jack on your side too. And as if sensing his residency in your mind, the 50-year old attending makes himself known beside you.

Innocently, he stays in step with you until you feel him nudge you ever so slightly, making you turn down an empty hallway before you can fully comprehend the change in direction.

Hands find your waist, pulling you close and making you laugh giddily before you can help yourself. Mostly, you’re just pleasantly shocked. How the hell Jack manages to act like you’re in high school, you’ll never know.

Some may say having a secret love affair with your attending is a ‘bad thing’. Hell, even one of your friends proclaimed you were just living a real life episode of Grey’s Anatomy..

But, this was way more than some dirty, little, collection of rendezvous. Jack and you were actually dating.

You were just.. Taking things slow..

You two actually started dating after your first day here at the Pitt.

Fourth of July.

It was hot and muggy and you wanted to have a minute to yourself in a private hospital room. When you walked in though, you found Jack already trying to settle himself.

He halfheartedly attempted making a joke about the irony of Fourth of July being a terrible day for veterans, but you saw right through his act. You instead sat next to him and held his hand until the sounds of fireworks faded enough for him to settle.

After shift, he offered you breakfast as a thank you. And that friendship very quickly turned into.. Well, this.

“Happy one year, bunny..” He says tenderly as he watches you with soft eyes that shine with pride. It makes you blush.

“Oh, so you do remember..” You tease quietly as you let him hold you close, leaning somewhat against him even with your hands full.

“I remembered. Just trying to surprise you with something later..” Jack defends assuringly with a shrug.

You bite your lip.

A part of you genuinely thought Jack had forgotten. But how the hell could he forget your anniversary as a resident when tomorrow is the anniversary of this relationship?!

“I told you it’d go by fast though, didn’t I?” He continues, looking down at you as his one hand reaches up to move your hair away from your face more. Jack was just attentive to detail like that..

“You’ve been kicking ass at this, bunny. I knew you’d make it a year. And you’re gonna have many, many more ahead of you..” He compliments gently as you bashfully look elsewhere.

“Here’s hoping..” You say gently before looking back up at him.

“Happy almost one year, Fox..” You finally say back, making him smirk. He lazily pecks your lips, humming to savor the flavor of your lipgloss.

“Tonight’s not about me. It’s about you. We’ll celebrate us tomorrow night. Tonight… I’m waiting for a good moment to give you your surprise.” Jack explains gently as you quietly try to fuss with him about surprises.

Jack always did too much with romantic gestures. He was real old school in that way. You could never get used to it..

“Hey. Big occasion. I’m allowed, that was the deal..” Jack smirks as you playfully groan, remembering.

“Fine. You get to be all cheesy and romantic tonight.” You mutter jokingly, as if it’s so dreadful.

“And tomorrow night.” Jack brags, making you laugh. You sweetly kiss him before pulling away, reminding him about the rounds you still need to make. You had one patient that was still unconscious, after all..

Jack lets you slip away, sighing in content to himself before he gets himself busy as well..

You do your rounds of all the 7 patients you have.

Some here because they’re sick, some because of accidents, and one because of drunkenly slipping outside of a bar earlier in the night. Still out cold and 12 stitches had to be given.

Walking into the man’s room, you silently work on charting and realize one of the pads is misplaced. With a heavy sigh, you set down your iPad and coffee before you move closer to the man as he lays soundly in the bed. You gently tug at his hospital gown so you can check the tags and it’s that moment that he begins to stir.

“Wha…” The man slurs a bit.

“Oh. Hi, Mr. Westley?” You ask, only knowing his name from the ID you’d taken from his wallet when he was being admitted.

“What the fuck?!” The man snaps, instantly pushing at you a bit. Your eyes widen, thrown off by the sudden aggression.

“Oh! Uh.. M-Mr. Westley, please relax, I can explain everything.” You try, heart racing. You’ve had patients wake up disoriented before, sure. Some even wake up terrified. But you’ve never dealt with anger.

“Fucking bitch. Where’s my fucking… Fucking..” He angrily rambles as he sits up more to fight with the cords all around him. You step closer without thinking, just wanting him to relax for a second. Your hands hover close to him.

“Don’t pull on those. I can help you take them off if-“

It all happens so fast.

Too fast.

It’s actually embarrassing how quickly he’s able to grab you by your neck and put you in a headlock. Your hands instantly go to his forearm, whining because that’s the only sound you can let out as you try and tug and claw at his arm.

Fuck.

Fuck, you’re in here all alone. Fuck, your iPad is on a chair that’s nowhere in arm’s length, and fuck, you don’t know when someone is going to notice you’re gone.

“Yeah. That’s right. Fight back..” The man growls lowly, making your stomach lurch. You could throw up in this moment if it wasn’t for the panic making your throat close. Tears flood your vision and you let out a broken sob before you can stop yourself.

You remember learning that some men really like fear in women. That no matter what they’re doing, it’s only because they want that reaction. And it’s best to not give in. It makes you feel worse now though. To know that you’re giving him exactly what he wants.

But you know the fear isn’t over if he does manage to knock you out. Because then what would be next.

That thought only makes you cry more..

“Get off of her!”

The voice is like a godsend in this moment you’ve got such a head rush that you don’t even know who it belongs to.

The grip around your neck is loosened enough for you to fall back and hit the floor flat on your butt because of the force and pressure. You cough wildly, grabbing at your neck and jaw. Both feel sore already.

“She stole from me!” The man slurs back as hands try to grab at you and you fight against them.

“Don’t touch me!” You snap out in a rasp, saying the words that had been burning in your mouth since this attack first started.

Shen steps back from you and Lena instantly yells for security as the man continues to proclaim you stole his watch. A watch you don’t even recall him coming in with.

“Hula Hoop! I repeat, Hula Hoop!” Lena shouts as three security guards run inside the room. Lena moves now to grab you. This time, you take the help..

You don’t know where you’re being led to until you’re being told to sit down on a hospital bed. It only adds to your embarrassment..

“Only women..”

You hear Lena saying it but you don’t look up to see who she’s saying it to.

Ellis and Vivi are by your side instantly.

“Shit. Y/N, hey. Look at me..” Vivi says quietly as she tries to get your attention. You two are already close as is given your ages and common interests, but you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes.

“Hey. Y/N, you… You did nothing wrong..” Vivi continues softly as you finally look at her, softly breaking down. She moves to hug you carefully as Lena looks away but rubs your back.

You shake a bit as it all starts to sink in. And one thing becomes extremely clear in your mind. “Don’t tell Jack..” You whimper to Lena.

He’d go to jail tonight if he knew…

*

*

*

“And you didn’t provoke him in any way?”

You slowly look up at the police officer as he stares at his notepad, not glancing at you until he realizes you aren’t answering his question. His partner raises an eyebrow at the tense silence.

“Ma’am?” His partner asks, thinking you just hadn’t heard him.

“I’m just gonna let you sit with that question..” You finally whispers, voice hoarse from both the attack and the crying done before the police got here. Both officers shift a bit as if not understanding what’s so hard about answering it, but Lena is quick to step in.

“Is that all?” She bluntly asks. “Because there’s sure a lot of questions that need to be asked to someone who’s a medical professional and attacked while providing a service..” She states.

“Standard protocol.” The officer argues back, letting the annoyance show on his face now. Vivi had yet to leave your side, rolling her eyes at the officers too just as Jack comes storming down the hallway towards the hallway bed.

“Shit.” You whisper as you try to reach up to cover your neck.

“Y/N..” He calls as he reaches you. “What happened? Are you okay?” He asks firmly as he pushes past the cops without a care, standing right in front of you. You try looking away, but he tenderly touches your jaw. His face hardens as the bruise he sees.

“Fuck. Bunny…” He whispers, making Lena and ViVi share a look. It was teased a lot on the ED floor, but… Actual confirmation wasn’t going to be celebrated tonight..

Jack turns to the cops. “You’re gonna arrest him, right? Why is he still here and not in cuffs?” He asks, voice tense and authoritative.

“We plan on taking him in after his care is done.” The other officer assures with a slight hand raise as if it’s no big deal. Jack’s eyes darken.

“He got his stitches. His care is done.” He says lowly, as if that’s a warning.

“Not according to him. He says he’s still in need of medical care.” The other officer shrugs and Jack watches both cops before he slowly nods.

“Ask him again. I think he changed his mind..” Jack says calmly. Both cops pause before excusing themselves.

“He did?” Lena asks.

“Well, when it’s between jail or being forced into a 48 hour psych hold… You tend to want the safer choice, right?” Jack mutters, letting it be clear that he made sure Mr. Westley would rather jail than to be stuck here with Jack as his primary care.

“Jack. You threatened a patient?” You whisper.

“He’s lucky I didn’t rip the stitches from his head..” Jack says shortly before gently checking on you again. You try to whisper you’re fine and Lena finally gives a look to ViVi.

“Let’s… Give them some privacy..” Lena says. The two women leave, closing the privacy curtain behind them.

Maybe it’s the fact that his hands are cradling your face like he needs the assurance that you’re still here. Maybe it’s the hospital being shut out behind that curtain. Maybe it’s the fact that deep down all you wanted when the attack was happening was Jack. Whatever the reason, you softly begin to cry again.

“I’m here. I’m so fucking sorry, bunny. I’m here…” He whispers lowly as he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, just leaving his lips there as you grip his shirt to hold him close. He stands in front of you, between your legs to get as close to you as possible.

“I feel so stupid…” You manage to sob out.

“No…” He whispers against your skin, eyes closing as if in pain from hearing your cry. His hands stay on your face though, his nose nuzzling into your hair as you whine nonsense. You’re just ranting and rambling at this point. You don’t even know half the things you’re saying, but you know it feels good to let it all out.

“You didn’t do this. You were doing your job, you were helping. He’s the monster here, Y/N. Not you. He’s the fucking idiot here, Y/N. Not you. Do you understand me?” Jack whispers as you sniffle more while moving to hug him tight like a teddy bear.

Your head goes to the cork of his neck as your hands nervously knead his shirt. He rubs your back comfortingly as he kisses anywhere his lips can reach. Temple, cheek, ear..

“I wanna get you home..” Jack whispers close to your ear after a moment. “Hm? Home?” He offers quietly. “Bed? Bath?” He tries to sell it to you, making you hesitate.

“My shift-“ He cuts you off.

“Fuck the shift. You need rest. I already called in a favor, we’re covered. Hm? Come on…” He whispers as he gently tugs at you to get you off the hospital bed. You sheepishly agree the second your feet touch the ground…

*

*

*

It’s a last minute choice in the cab to go to Jack’s place instead of yours. You always loved his bed a little bit more. The sheets were soft and warm and always smelled like him. So even when he would slip out of bed early in the mornings, that and his black out shades would never wake you.

You slowly step out of his bathroom in a t-shirt of his and some boxers that you could use as shorts. You dry your hair with the towel as you see Jack already setting his leg aside for the night.

That’s not what slows your movements.

It’s the white bakery box on the bed and the two forks on top of it.

“Even if this put a damper on my original plan, you still deserve a surprise..” Jack says softly, as if reading your mind. You slowly set the towel down and walk over to the bed.

“How did you…” You trail off.

“Ran out while you were showering found this at a bakery about to close..” He exposing gently. You get into bed and then carefully uncover the box.

It’s a small, personal, heart shaped cake with the words ‘One year down, forever to go!’ on the front of it. You smile tearfully and turn to face Jack. He cups your face with one hand, stroking your cheek.

“I love you..” He says firmly and shamelessly, looking you directly in the eyes so you know he means those words with his whole chest. “And I am so fucking proud of you..” He continues quietly.

You pout a bit. Not out of sadness, but.. Gratefulness. “I love you..” You sniffle back before kissing him certainly. You pull back slightly when he playfully offers you a fork so you can have the first bite of the cake. You smile shyly as you grab the fork, both of you settling in for cake and movies in bed..

You should’ve known it was a simple scheduling error, an oversight from whichever manager had been responsible for this week’s schedule, but the thought of getting take-out and spending your Friday night catching up on a few of your favorite shows that you’ve neglected the newest episodes of had been too tempting for you to think about questioning why your name wasn’t listed under Friday, as it usually is.

Then, at 9:15 pm, precisely fifteen minutes after your shift's typical start time, your phone rang. Right away, a ball of nausea wound tight in your stomach. You didn’t even have to look at the screen to know whose name was displayed across it.

You also knew better than to risk not answering.

“Yes?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

Silas is pissed. That’s nothing new. Silas has been in a perpetual state of pissed off since the day you had the misfortune of meeting him. Pissed is his default.

“Not at work.”

A loud, sarcastic guffaw sounds from your speaker. “Yeah, I fuckin’ see that. Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? To ask about your overall wellbeing?”

“Oh, I’d never think that,” you mutter under your breath, too low and quick for him to make out over the roar of R&B music that blares in the background. “I wasn’t on the schedule tonight,” you say more clearly, digging your nails into your palm in an effort to keep your voice level.

“Yeah, and your buddy Trevor is getting his ass chewed out for that, too,” Silas spits. “You always work Friday nights. The only exception was the time you got food poisoning because I didn’t want you shitting on a customer during a dance. You know that.”

Damn it. Trevor is your favorite of all of the floor managers - the only one who talks to you like a human being. Why couldn’t it have been Gregory? That pervert getting in trouble would almost be worth this phone call and whatever punishment Silas has in mind for you not being at work right now.

“It’s not my fault that Trevor fucked up the schedule,” you say, voice still lethally calm. “I show up when I’m told to. Nothing more.”

“I don’t give a rat’s fat ass whose fault it is,” Silas hisses. “And I’m telling you to show up now, so you better get here before ten o’clock or—”

You don’t want to hear whatever he’s about to threaten you with. It could be anything from not letting you perform a solo routine on center stage tonight to taking a bigger cut of the money you make from private rooms…to even worse.

“Okay, okay. Jesus fuck. I’m on my way.”

You hang up before his voice can give you a migraine before you even arrive at the club.

Forty minutes later, after doing your hair and makeup in record time, throwing on the first cute lingerie set you can find that’s clean, and speeding at least ten over the speed limit the entire drive to the club, you show up with less than five minutes to spare.

Luckily, Silas is nowhere to be found when you enter through the back door. You know that he’ll bitch at you some more whenever you see him, but right now, you’re relieved to start your normal rounds while he’s otherwise occupied. Likely smoking himself to death with a hotdog-sized cigar in his office.

You walk the main floor, making small talk with a few regulars that aren’t complete pieces of shit as far as men who frequent strip clubs go. You book your first private room of the night, and Gregory is a little too happy to inform you that Silas will be taking sixty percent of your earnings tonight as opposed to the standard fifty.

As annoying as that is, you can’t help but feel a little relieved. As far as punishments go, a ten percent increase in his cut is mild. Last time you were reprimanded (for not fucking smiling enough), Silas added an additional five grand to the already exorbitant amount of money that your father owes him.

The exorbitant amount of money that just so happens to be the very reason you are working in this shithole in the first place.

Not even two hours into your shift, and you’re already over it. So over it that you offer to take out a bag of trash for the bartenders just as an excuse to get some fresh air for two fucking minutes.

This part of Los Angeles isn’t exactly quaint - there’s a near constant stream of car horns blaring and police sirens wailing but it’s white noise to you at this point. At least the night air is a nice reprieve from the stench of cheap weed and cheaper cologne even for only a moment.

It says a lot that you consider hanging out by literal dumpsters more appealing than being inside.

You should’ve been out of here a long time ago. It wasn’t supposed to take more than a year to clear the debt that isn’t even your debt to clear.

You didn’t even know that your dad was sick. Not until you came home from college on a random weekend, hoping to surprise him, and found him far thinner and more frail than you had ever seen him, hooked up to a dialysis machine to keep himself from dying of kidney failure.

He’d tried his hardest to keep it all from you. He didn’t want you to worry, didn’t want you to drop out of school to take care of him. He tried to handle the medical bills that accumulated rapidly on his own for as long as he could.

And when he accepted that he couldn’t, he got desperate.

He thought Silas was just a lender. Someone who would help him stay afloat long enough to get a transplant, recover, and get back to work. He didn’t realize exactly what kind of man he had borrowed from until Silas showed up at his house, uninvited and unannounced, waltzing right in like he owned the place.

So vividly you can remember the look of shame on your father’s face when Silas revealed the truth, and the panic that quickly bloomed when he looked directly at you and said the words that changed the trajectory of your life.

“You failed to mention that you have a daughter,” Silas purrs. “She sure is pretty. You know, I think she’d do real well working in one of my clubs. Yeah, she’d be popular. Make me a lot of money. How does that sound? You wanna help your poor, sick daddy out?”

Your dad had instantly refused, pleading with Silas to just give him a little more time, but you could tell that Silas wasn’t really asking. He was telling you what you were going to do. And because you were scared, for your own life and your father’s, you agreed.

Here you are, three years later, with no true end in sight.

The club’s back door screeches open, and you know that your ninety seconds of the closest thing you can get to peace around here has come to an end.

“The hell are you doing out here?” Silas booms, interrupting the relative quiet of the alleyway. “It’s almost time for you to go on center stage. You’re lucky that I’m even letting you go on at all tonight. I wasn’t planning on it, but there’s a group of guys in there requesting you.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. The last thing you want is for him to change his mind at the last second and give your solo slot to one of the other girls. “I’m coming. I was just taking out the trash.”

You take a step to walk past him, but he blocks the doorway, his clammy hand shooting out to catch you by the elbow. His grip isn’t quite hard enough to bruise, but still makes bile churn in your gut.

“Don’t get cute with me,” he spits. “You’re already on thin ice tonight.”

You don’t say anything, biting your lip to hold back the overwhelming desire to spit in his face. Silas leans in, his breath foul with the stench of whiskey and cigar smoke.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s at stake here.” His fingers tighten just a fraction around your arm. Just enough to make you wince. “Maybe your dad needs a reminder.”

You taste iron from where your teeth break the skin of your lip. “I said I’m coming.”

Silas snorts, satisfied for now. He lets go of your arm with a shove that is more dismissive than violent and turns back toward the door.

“And try not to fuck up your set,” he snaps over his shoulder. “Those guys in there are blowing their money on you. Don’t make me regret doing you any favors.”

And then he’s gone, letting the metal door slam closed behind him before you can follow him inside.

You stand there for a moment, breathing in and then slowly exhaling when movement from your peripheral vision catches your eye.

Great. Just what you fucking need right now. An audience. Men, of course. Two of them. Just close enough to have heard every word.

“What are you looking at, boys?” You call, voice void of emotion as you make direct eye contact with the stocky, curly-haired one.

He’d be cute, you think, if he wasn’t the kind of guy to spend his Friday night outside of a strip club. The sandy blond looks slightly surprised that you’re acknowledging them, but his buddy remains stoic.

You jerk your chin towards the door Silas slammed behind him.

“The show’s inside.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope all but forced Deran to switch tasks with him at the last second.

Originally, he was supposed to be the one keeping a close eye on Silas Leary, Solstice’s owner, while Deran scopes out the club’s main floor for the heist that Craig, of all people, is orchestrating.

He shouldn’t be surprised. A luxury gentleman’s club based heist is quite possibly the most Craig heist possible.

But now, instead of watching the balding, sweaty jackass who had berated you in the alleyway not even ten minutes ago, he’s watching you on stage.

You’re more pleasant to look at, at least.

He’s never really seen anything quite like it - the way you dance. This isn’t his first time at a strip club. His brothers have coerced him into going to strip clubs before, though every time prior to tonight was for pleasure, not business. Still, he isn’t unfamiliar with the scene. He’s watched women pole dance before, but not like this.

You’re the only thing in the room that he can concentrate on. For the entirety of the five minutes and some change that your set lasts, he forgets that he’s technically here for recon. He and his brothers made this trip to Los Angeles to get a feel for the building’s layout, to see how operations work, to check out the security systems…not watch the strippers.

He tells himself he’s keeping up appearances. It would be weird to not watch you. Everyone in the room is - even the other dancers, though they watch with less enchantment and more disdain than the patrons.

The song comes to an end all too soon, and Pope continues to watch as you make quick work of collecting all of the bills that had been thrown onto the stage. He stands just a few feet away, close enough that he can see the body glitter dusted across your chest sparkle in the glow of the neon stage lights.

When you stand up, thick stack of cash in hand, your gaze locks with his for one tense but fleeting moment. The look in your eyes is the same as when you had made direct eye contact with him outside the club.

Just as fast as you had appeared on the stage, you then disappear, leaving Pope staring after you.

He thinks back to what he and Deran had witnessed in the alley. He had instantly recognized Silas Leary from pictures he’d seen online, so he and Deran hung around to witness the brief interaction, hoping to get some idea as to what Silas is like in person before entering the club.

It came as no shock to Pope that his reputation precedes him. Harsh, volatile, cruel seemingly for the sake of being cruel. That isn’t what made Pope freeze in place in the alley. It’s what Silas had said to you.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s at stake here. Maybe your dad needs a reminder.”

And your response. You didn’t agree or disagree. Didn’t fight him on it. You looked Silas dead in the eyes, expression unreadable, and barely flinched. Like you had heard the threat a thousand times before, like you were used to the way he grabbed you by the arm. Like it hardly even phased you.

Pope’s first instinct had been to intervene, but he knew doing so would have tanked the job before it began. He couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself and Deran, and deep down, he also knew that stepping in would have likely made things worse on you, too, in the long run.

So he watched from the sidelines, feeling more at peace than ever at the prospect of stealing loads of money from someone, knowing Silas Leary deserves what’s coming for him.

Deran knew it, too, playing it off with a joke that sparked an idea in Pope’s head.

“Shit. You think she hates the fucker enough to help us rob him?”

Pope had said nothing at the time, but he was unable to shake the thought. The entire time that he watched you on stage, the look of unadulterated hatred on your face kept replaying in his mind.

But for just a few minutes, as you danced on the center stage, you seemed different than you did in the alley. Different than you did when you were collecting the dozens of tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills off of the stage floor. For a few moments, Pope saw himself in you. The way you seemed to completely dissociate while you performed, like there was no one else in the room but you and nothing else mattered. In his own way, he’s been there. With skateboarding, and with boxing. For him, those things are escapes.

He can’t help but wonder if that’s what dancing is for you. An escape from this place.

He supposes there’s really only one way to find out - if he’s right, and if Deran could possibly be right, too.

Good thing Craig had suggested they all bring plenty of cash with them. To keep up appearances, he had said. If you’re going to a strip club, you should always have cash on you. This is just recon, but you never know.

He’d smirked when he said it, as if he already had plans to spend said cash in ways that weren’t relevant to recon, but he still made a fair point.

Pope’s eyes scan the crowded room, searching through all of the dancers and customers in hopes of finding someone who might be of some help. He notices a short, pudgy, middle-aged man who appears to be scolding another dancer.

Gregory, Pope sees that his name tag reads once he approaches him.

“The dancer that just finished up on stage,” Pope asks him, “What’s her name?”

A creepy, almost unsettling smile grows on Gregory’s face. “Oh, that would be Soleil. Why? You want a room with her?”

What Pope wants is to wipe that perverted look off of his face, but rationally he knows that would be counterproductive right now, so he settles for a curt nod. “Yeah, I do.”

“Half hour? Or a full hour?”

Pope knows that he’s supposed to meet his brothers and nephew where they parked a couple blocks away in less than an hour, so he isn’t really sure why he lets the next words come out of his mouth, but for whatever reason, he does.

“Full hour.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Gregory barges into the locker room without so much as knocking.

You’re dressed (as dressed as you possibly can be in a place like this), just counting the money you made from your solo set, but his sudden presence still unnerves you.

“You’ve got a private room,” he barks, not bothering to be subtle with the way his beady little eyes trail up your legs. “Room two. Full hour. This guy asked for you after watching your solo performance, so you better not disappoint him.”

You cram the rest of your money into the locker and snap it shut, trying not to give Gregory the satisfaction of seeing how irritated you are - at the way he thinks he owns this place and can enter a changing room without knocking, and especially at hearing you have to do another private room. For a full hour.

You don’t bother asking who the private room is with. You’re confident it’s one of the men who had convinced Silas to let you go on center stage tonight. A group of four or five sat as close as possible to the front, several familiar faces throwing bills at you every few seconds. Any given one of them looks like the type to drop six hundred dollars on an hour-long private room.

“Oh, I’ll try my hardest,” you breathe sarcastically. “Now can I have a second to freshen up? Alone?”

“Hurry,” Gregory snaps. “He’s waiting for you.”

You wait until the door clicks shut behind him to curse under your breath. Sometimes, you think you might hate Gregory as much as you hate Silas - if that’s even possible.

After reapplying your lipgloss and spritzing on a little more perfume, you reluctantly make your way to the private room where you’ll spend the next hour of your life.

At least once it’s over, it’ll be after midnight, which means the rest of the shift likely won’t be quite as busy, and you’ll be able to go home soon—

“Hi,” you chirp, slipping into the room with a forced smile and your best customer service voice. “I’m Soleil. Thanks so much for booking a room with me tonight. And what’s your na—”

You freeze as soon as you turn around from shutting the door behind you, the question dying on your tongue.

Not one of the men from the eager group that sat right next to the stage. You do recognize him, though. He too had stood close to the stage, by himself.

One of the men from the alley.

“Oh,” you quip, voice rising an octave. “You’re—”

“Pope,” he interrupts, and you’re thankful for it, because you didn’t really even know where you were going with that sentence. “My name is Pope.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Pope,” you smile, taking a tentative step closer to where he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Would you like to sit down?” You ask, gesturing towards the couch behind him.

He nods. You hover for a moment, giving him space as he lowers himself stiffly onto the couch. He looks around with uncertainty, like this entire process is completely unfamiliar to him and he isn’t sure what exactly he is supposed to say or do.

“Let me guess,” he starts, settling into the velvet couch. He runs his palms over jean fabric that conceals his bulky thighs. “Your name isn’t actually Soleil?”

You snort a laugh as you take a seat in the empty space beside him. You tuck your legs beneath you, one arm relaxing across the top of the couch, your hand coming to rest just behind his head. Instinctively, your fingers inch towards the base of his skull to toy with the reddish brown curls there, but you stop yourself at the last second, instead smoothing your fingertips over the soft, velvet material of the couch.

Normally, you wouldn’t hesitate to show physical affection for such high-paying clientele - that is what at least 95% of them are here for, anyway - but something about the way he stiffens at your sudden closeness makes you think twice before touching him.

“That depends,” you counter. “Is Pope actually your name?”

He turns his neck to look you in the eye - now close enough that you’re able to see his hazel irises and the light dusting of freckles across his skin.

Pretty, you think - even if he is the kind of man to spend an asinine amount of money on a nearly naked and complete stranger’s attention, you can’t deny that he’s pretty.

“No,” he says lowly. He pauses, swallowing. “Pope’s just a childhood nickname. My real name is Andrew.”

“Andrew,” you repeat with a slow nod. “And which would you prefer that I call you?”

A slight blush appears on the apples of his cheeks. “You can call me whatever you want to.”

It doesn’t really make a difference to you, considering you’ll likely never see him again after the hour he paid for comes to an end, but you can’t help but think the way he blushed when you said Andrew was oddly endearing.

“Well, Andrew,” you hum, “you are correct in assuming that my name is not really Soleil. That’s just the stage name I chose to go by.” You nod towards the sign on the opposite wall that spells Solstice in neon, cursive lettering. You give a small shrug. “I thought it pairs well with the name of the club. Soleil at Solstice.”

There’s something close to a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m sure you’re already aware that soleil means sun in French.”

Yes, you are aware of that, but you’re slightly surprised that he knows that. Most men that come here don’t know their left from their right.

“That it does,” you agree. “Kind of ironic, actually.”

His eyebrows pinch together a bit. “How so?”

Because there isn’t actually any sun in a place like this. A dark, dystopian fucking hellscape.

But you can’t say that, of course. God forbid you say anything even slightly negative about this place and word somehow gets back to Silas. That would be your third strike of the night, and he’d likely tack on an additional twenty grand to your father’s outstanding balance for the hell of it.

You instantly regret saying anything at all.

“Oh, nothing.” You shake your head in dismissal. “Just meant the only thing that’s bright here is the strobe lights.”

He stares at you for an extended moment before responding, his gaze heavy on you. “I wouldn’t say the only thing.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, your cheeks warming more than they should at the sentiment. It fills you with a bit of shame, really - the fact that you’d feel even slightly flustered over a vague compliment from a stranger paying for your company.

“So, Andrew…” you say, breaking the brief but loaded silence that had settled between you. “You paid for this room. What would you like to do in it?”

You dread what comes next. You always do. The kind of “dancing” that you hardly even consider dancing. The stripping, the touching. There’s supposed to be boundaries, of course, but most men think that if they’re paying then that gives them a right to cross them.

But private rooms are part of the job. Silas has made that clear from day one. He lets you perform your solo routines because they generate too much revenue to deny you the one part of the night that you don’t absolutely despise - but your sets last five, maybe ten minutes at most. Your shifts run about six hours. That leaves five hours and fifty minutes to keep the money flowing if you want to keep Silas appeased, which means doing every soul-sucking part of the job you hate: the floor dances, the private rooms, the mandatory mingling and endless flirting.

Every now and then, though, someone will book a private room and pleasantly surprise you.

“I just wanna talk,” Andrew says simply. “If that’s alright with you.”

You have to hold back the urge to sigh in relief. Talking you can do. And the fact that Andrew doesn’t reek of body odor and stout liquor like the majority of your customers makes the thought of conversing with him for the remainder of the next hour even less painful.

Six hundred dollars (well, significantly less once Silas takes his sixty percent cut…) and all you have to do is sit and talk to a decent looking man who isn’t belligerently drunk? You’ve had far worse nights.

“Of course,” you smile, and for once it isn’t completely forced. “You’re paying. If you want to talk, then we talk.”

Andrew is silent for a moment, as if he’s considering what to say next. His stare is unyielding, but not in the way that would normally make you cringe so hard that you risk breaking a tooth. Instead, it feels like he’s really looking at you. Not Soleil, but you.

“I watched your set earlier,” he says when he finally speaks. “That was very impressive. How long have you been dancing?”

Ah. Yes, you had noticed him towards the very front of the crowd when you finished your routine. He’d looked every bit as serious and solemn as he had when you first saw him in the alleyway earlier tonight.

“Dancing? Since I was four. Ballet, tap, jazz, lyrical…” You list off all of the weekly classes you remember taking throughout your childhood. “Pole dancing, though? About three years.”

Andrew looks surprised by the answer, his brows lifting slightly and hazel eyes widening. “Only three years? I would’ve thought a lot longer than that. Is that how long you’ve worked here, then?”

You nod, retracting your arm from where it had been resting behind his head now that it’s clear that - for whatever reason - Andrew is only interested in conversation. You let yourself relax a bit, relieved that you don’t have to put up the usual facade that makes most men swoon.

“Yeah, right at three years now. I practice a lot at home, though. I even got a pole for my apartment. If you work here, you’ve really gotta know your way around a pole, so…I’ve put in the hours.”

He looks impressed at that - or maybe surprised. Or maybe something else entirely. You aren’t sure. You can’t read his facial expressions or his body language nearly as easily as most of the men that enter this room.

“Wow,” Andrew hums with what appears to be a nod of approval. “That’s dedication. You must have really wanted to work here to put so much effort into learning such a specific skill.”

You barely manage to hold back a cackle at that. If he only fucking knew.

You give a half shrug, playing it off. “What can I say?” You sigh. “Guess I really needed the money.”

It’s the truth. Not the whole, disgusting, gritty truth, but it is accurate. As accurate as you can be without trauma dumping and jeopardizing your life…and your father’s.

Andrew nods, looking down at his hands splayed across the tops of his thighs. “Yeah. I get that. I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t made money in some unconventional ways.”

That piques your interest. “Oh? Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

He exhales a small laugh before bringing his eyes back to yours again. “As long as you promise not to tell anyone. If I tell you, it can’t leave this room.”

You make a motion with a hand across your mouth as if you’re zipping your lips and throwing away the key. “My lips are sealed. Pinky promise.” Then, for good measure, you hold out your pinky finger to him in offering.

He stares at your littlest finger for a long moment, the slightest hint of a smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his lips again before he finally lifts a hand of his own, pinky finger upright. He wraps the digit around yours, giving it a firm squeeze before slowly pulling away.

“Years ago,” Andrew starts, “I robbed a bank. It didn’t go as planned, and I spent a few years in prison for it.”

You blink, and wait for him to laugh, or say that he’s kidding. But then five, ten, fifteen seconds pass, and he’s still looking at you with the exact same unreadable expression.

“You robbed a bank?” You ask incredulously. “Jesus, I thought you were going to say that you sold pictures of your feet online or something.”

He doesn’t smile or flinch, just holds your gaze for a second longer. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t say that I’m proud of it, but I did.”

You know that your face must give away your surprise. His revelation should freak you out - if he’s capable of bank robbery, what else is this stranger capable of?

Maybe you’ve become somewhat desensitized to the concept of people going to extremes for money. Your dad. Silas. Even you. A few years ago, you never would have imagined that you’d be here right now. But you have your reasons, and you are. Even though it isn’t your first choice, you wouldn’t want anyone to judge you too harshly for doing what you feel you have to do.

You don’t know Andrew’s past. You have no idea what happened in his life that led him to make the decision to rob a bank. It probably wasn’t because he woke up bored one morning and decided that it sounded like a fun thing to do. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and you know that all too well.

“Well,” you huff a laugh, “I can’t say that I really blame you. I mean, I’d never be able to execute something like that, but it’s fun to fantasize about on occasion.”

“On occasion?” Andrew repeats in a low, curious tone. His brows lift in question. “Like when you’re here?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Please, if I was planning a bank robbery every time that I’m here, I would’ve been locked up years ago. But this place…” You trail off, searching for the right words for what you want to say but know you shouldn’t, “this place can get to you sometimes. Makes stupid ideas sound less stupid. No offense.”

Andrew makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a hum. “No offense taken.”

The rest of the hour drifts by far easier than you expect. Andrew tells you some stories from his time in prison, and about how he grew up not too far from here, in Oceanside. He talks about his siblings, looking down at his lap when he reveals that he’s a twin, but his twin sister, Julia, passed away somewhat recently. You try not to talk too much about yourself, but when he asks you questions, you answer as honestly as you can - telling him that you had been in your third year of college when you started working here, and that one day, when the time is right, you’d like to finish your degree.

By the time a knock sounds at the door signaling that the hour is up, you’re almost startled. It barely feels as if sixty minutes have passed.

“Huh,” you muse, rising from the couch as he does. “That went by a lot quicker than time usually does here.”

Andrew is silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face, still as serious as when you had first made eye contact with him in the alley. Then, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small envelope.

“Here,” he says quietly, holding out the envelope for you to take. “This is for you.” He pauses. “Just you. Not your boss.”

Your eyes shoot up to his in surprise. Not at the fact that he’s offering what you presume to be a tip, but at the last three words. Not your boss.

When your brain catches up, you accept the envelope, clutching it in both hands. “Thank you,” you murmur, trying to keep an even, neutral tone, though you’re sure your face betrays you. “It was, uh…it was nice to meet you, Andrew.”

He gives a small, polite smile as he takes a step towards the door. “It was nice to meet you, Soleil.”

Only when he reaches for the doorknob do you stop him by uttering a single word. He looks back over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised.

You repeat yourself once more. “That’s my name,” you clarify. “My real name.”

He says your name softly. Barely audible. As if just testing how it feels to say it. Then, with a slow nod, he turns the doorknob and exits the room without another word, leaving you staring after him.

Only after his footsteps fade down the hallway do you open the envelope and find that he has given you a thousand dollars.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“You’re joking, right?”

Jay’s voice fills the silence that had settled over Smurf’s living room following Pope’s suggestion.

“No,” Pope says, trying not to let impatience slip into his tone. “I’m not joking. I really think she would be willing to help us.”

The three men take turns looking at each other before turning their stares back to Pope.

“The stripper?” Craig snorts. “That’s your big idea? I mean, I love strippers as much as the next guy, but you can’t be serious right now.”

“It was technically Deran’s idea.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Deran pipes up.

“When we saw her in the alley,” Pope says, like it’s obvious. “You asked me if I think she hates her boss enough to help us rob him. The answer is yes. I think she does hate him that much. I think she hates that whole place that much.”

No, you hadn’t blatantly said so, but you didn’t need to. He could see it in your eyes, and hear it in your tone. It may as well have been written across your forehead.

“Jesus Christ, man, I wasn’t being serious.”

“Still,” Pope implores, “I spent an hour talking to her. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be there. And after what we witnessed in the alley? It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

His brothers and nephew are silent again, exchanging glances amongst each other.

“She’s been there for three years,” Pope continues. “She knows the layout. She knows when Silas comes and goes. And I’m willing to bet she knows exactly where that safe is and how to get to it, too.”

“So she hates her job,” Craig shrugs. “Doesn’t mean she’s cool with risking a felony charge.”

Pope shakes his head. “She didn’t seem too put off when I told her that I’ve done time for armed robbery.”

All three voices erupt at once.

“You told her what?”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“Dude, are you insane?”

“I wanted her to know that she can trust me,” Pope says simply. “And she reacted fine. More than fine. She seemed to understand.”

Jay clears his throat. “Look, if we do this, she can’t be a liability. She needs to know what she’s doing, and she needs to keep her mouth shut.”

“She will,” Pope says instantly. “I know she will.”

Deran squints. “How? You spent one hour with her. You don’t actually know her.”

Pope meets his eyes with an unblinking stare. “You think I’d risk all of our asses if I wasn’t sure? I know enough to know that I’m not wrong.”

Pope’s stare is locked on Craig. It’s his operation and therefore he gets the final say. If it were solely up to Jay, or even Deran, he wouldn’t think there’s a chance of getting them to agree. But Craig’s a little riskier than they are. If he thinks there’s even a slight chance that it’ll increase the odds of the job being a success, he’s likely to agree.

“Fuck it,” Craig finally mutters, shaking his head. “Fine. We’ll try it your way. But we aren’t sharing our cut with her. If she gets anything, it’s coming out of your share. I’m not sacrificing my payday because you have a crush on the stripper.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope knows a guy who knows a guy who somehow knows everything about everyone. And if that guy doesn’t know, he has ways of finding out.

Well, technically Smurf knew him, but Pope uses that connection to his advantage.

The information doesn’t come cheap, but Pope needed to know with absolute certainty before waltzing back into Solstice and asking you to help him rob your boss.

Except now he isn’t just asking for help pulling off the heist. He’s going to ask for help pulling off an execution, because he doesn’t just want Silas Leary’s money, he wants him dead.

It may have cost him three grand, but Pope now has confirmation that his suspicions were correct and somehow worse than he had thought. Not only are you essentially being trafficked, but you’re doing so because your life and your father’s are on the line.

Now he knows, without a doubt, just how desperate you must be for a way out. And even though he’s only met you one time, Pope wants to give you that way out.

If only you’ll be willing to take it.

Pope makes the hour and a half long drive from Oceanside to Los Angeles again the very next night without any confirmation that you would even be working, but it’s a chance he’s willing to take. Craig and the others want to get on with the job, and Pope wants to get you away from the likes of Silas Leary as quickly as possible.

He goes over it all in his head the entire drive to the club. Everything he knows about you, from what he had witnessed the moment he first saw you in the alley, to every word you said to him in the private room, to what the private investigator informed him of.

But that’s not all he thinks about. He also thinks about the way your pinky finger felt wrapped around his when you offered the symbolic gesture to keep his secret, and the intoxicating smell of your perfume that he had to fight the urge to inhale the entire hour that you sat beside him on that tiny couch. He thinks about how sweet it sounded to hear you say his name, his real name, and how it sounded even sweeter when you told him your real name.

Maybe Craig is right. Maybe he does have a crush. That’s the most logical explanation for why Pope suddenly no longer cares how much money he pulls from this job. There will always be another job - if he wanted to, he could rob another bank by himself next week. He cares more about getting you out of the unfortunate predicament you’re in, and ensuring that Silas can never bring harm to you or anyone else ever again.

When he arrives, it’s close to midnight and the club is packed. He can barely get through the dense crowd of dancers and patrons that occupy the main floor, his eyes carefully scanning the crowd as he makes his way to the bar, where he orders a beer to keep up appearances until he’s able to spot you.

He waits for over half an hour. He doesn’t move from his seat at the bar, where he has the perfect view of center stage, the main floor, and the doorway to the hallway that leads to the private room he shared with you last night.

Just observing it all is overstimulating. From the loud music that pulsates through Pope’s barstool, to the neon strobe lights that make his eyes throb, to the smell of bodies and liquor that hangs heavy in hot club air, he doesn’t know how you have done it for three years without losing your sanity. Even just sitting here, all Pope can think about are all of the germs on every surface of this place.

When you finally appear at the mouth of the small hallway that leads to the private rooms wearing a pale pink, ruffled bodysuit that looks like it was custom made for you, Pope momentarily forgets why he’s here.

He watches as your eyes flicker around the main floor of the club, as if you’re dreading stepping back into the chaos of it all. When you finally glance towards the bar, your gaze locks with his and Pope’s skin warms at the way your face lights up with surprise. He offers you a small smile and wave of his hand, and that’s all you need to walk the short distance to where he sits.

“Andrew,” you breathe, coming to stand next to where he sits. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Soleil,” he greets, a teasing edge to his tone. He almost lets your real name slip out, but thinks better of it at the last second. He isn’t sure why you trusted him enough to let him know your real name after only an hour together, but he gets the feeling that isn’t something that you tell just anyone.

“I didn’t expect to be back so soon, but…” He trails off momentarily, glancing around the crowded room. There’s too many people. He has to speak too loudly in order for you to hear him over all of the voices and loud music, and he doesn’t want to risk anyone overhearing. “Are you busy right now?”

You shake your head. “No. I just finished up a private room. I’ve already done my solo set for the night. I was just going to walk around, make conversation with some regulars. Why? Are you…wanting a room?”

Pope can’t help but think you sound a little hopeful. But maybe that’s wishful thinking on his part. You are doing your job, after all.

“Yeah, I am,” he says, standing up beside you. “If you have time.”

You nod with a smile that reaches your eyes. “Of course.”

He follows as you lead him down the hallway, straight to the exact room that the two of you occupied last night. As he does, a terrifying thought occurs: you might say no. You might get scared, and deny everything, and refuse to help. You might tell him to get lost, and he doesn’t know where the hell that would leave him. But as he walks into the room after you, he swallows that thought down, and focuses on what he does know: you want to be here even less than he does.

“I’m really glad to see you,” you say as you shut the door behind him. “And I’m not just saying that because you tipped me a thousand dollars. Thank you, by the way. That was very generous of you.”

Pope takes a seat on the couch, the exact same spot he sat twenty-four hours ago, though he feels significantly more nervous now than he did then. “No need to thank me,” he murmurs. “I really enjoyed talking to you.”

You take a seat beside him, relaxing against the couch. “Is that why you came back? To talk more?”

He nods. “It is. If that’s okay with you.”

“More than okay with me. Is there anything in particular that you’d like to talk about tonight, Andrew?”

He hesitates for a second. He spent half the drive here rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to you to ensure that this would go as smoothly as possible, but now that he’s sitting beside you, he has forgotten how to string two words together.

He clears his throat slightly. “Can I ask you something?”

Your eyebrows twitch in curiosity. “Sure.”

“If you could walk out of this place tonight and never come back, would you?”

A small laugh escapes you, and you instantly drop his gaze, looking down at your hands in your lap instead. “That’s a hell of a question. You know, most people that get me alone in this room just ask me if I have a boyfriend or what my favorite position is.”

Pope watches you for a moment. “Well, I’m not most people.”

You look back up, your lips pursed. “No,” you agree quietly. “You’re definitely not.” You pause just long enough to make Pope wonder if you’re going to say anything else at all. “Yeah. I would. What makes you ask?”

He exhales slowly, only mildly surprised by your honesty. “I heard what happened in the alley yesterday.”

You’re visibly taken aback, your body going rigid and your eyes going wide, and he can understand why. In the entire hour you spent together last night, he didn’t bring up the incident in the alley. You probably assumed he hadn’t been able to hear what Silas had said, or that he at least hadn’t thought anything of it, but now here he is, bringing it up unprompted.

“Oh,” you start, your voice unnaturally high, “that was just—”

He cuts you off by shaking his head. “I’m not asking you to explain anything to me,” says lowly. “But I know who Silas is. That’s why me and my brothers came here last night. We were supposed to come here, get information, and leave.”

You don’t move as you stare at him in silence, either too stunned or too scared to speak. He continues so you don’t have to.

“But then I met you. And now I can’t just pretend I didn’t see that.”

You study him for a long moment. “What kind of information?”

“Remember when I told you that I did time in prison?”

Your eyebrows scrunch together before realization blooms across your face a fraction of a second later. Instinctively, you change your position on the small sofa, putting more space between the two of you. “Jesus,” you hiss. “You were going to rob—”

You don’t finish your sentence, looking from Pope, to the door just a few feet away, to a security camera in the corner of the room.

“You’re lucky that thing doesn’t have audio,” you spit under your breath.

Pope holds back a laugh. “I know it doesn’t have audio. I know what I’m doing.” He pauses, then offers a small, almost shy smile. “Most of the time.”

“Oh, most of the time?”

Pope shrugs. “Most of the time.”

You sigh, running a hand down your face as you look around the room again.

“Look,” you whisper, “I don’t care what you and your brothers do to Silas, but I can’t get involved.”

Pope doesn’t respond right away. He was expecting you to say something along those lines. But you aren’t screaming at him to get out, or running away to find a security guard, so he still feels hope.

He murmurs your real name for the first time since you had first told him what it is last night. It causes your expression to soften the tiniest bit, a glimpse of vulnerability appearing in your eyes.

“I know that he’s got something over you. And I swear I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

You purse your lips as you stare at him, as if searching for any sign that he could be lying to you.

“I know you don’t know me,” Pope adds delicately. “I wouldn’t blame you for not trusting me. I’m just asking you to hear me out.”

Another beat of loaded silence. “Okay,” you say, barely audible. “But we can’t talk about this here. It’s too risky.” You nod towards the door. “I don’t get off until three.”

“That’s okay,” Pope says, and he hopes that his relief isn’t too evident in his tone. “I can wait.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

When you first noticed Andrew sitting at the bar, grinning as if just waiting for you to walk in the room, you would’ve assumed that would be the most surprising thing to happen to you tonight.

That assumption proved to be dead wrong, because five minutes later, he revealed that he’s planning to rob your boss.

(Correction: he’s planning to rob him, and knows that he’s a huge piece of shit who is blackmailing you).

The surprises don’t stop there, though. Next, you surprise yourself by inviting a practical stranger into your home.

Your self-preservation skills have always been lacking. That was evident the day that you willingly agreed to work for Silas to help pay off your dad’s debt instead of fleeing the state of California and never looking back.

But this might just break the record for most reckless and foolhardy thing you’ve ever done.

Andrew waits for you in the parking garage down the block from the club until you get off just after three o’clock in the morning. Your body is exhausted, but your mind has never been more awake as you drive back to your apartment with him tailing you in his truck.

Your thoughts reel with all of the ways that this could go disastrously wrong.

You do not actually know this man. You’ve spent less than a collective two hours with him. Your gut tells you that he’s being honest, but is it worth the risk? He’s a bank robber. A convicted felon, who apparently comes from a crime family. Is it possible that you could just be trading one Silas for another? Andrew claims he can help you, but how? And at what cost?

Moments after you arrive at your apartment, Andrew pulls into the parking spot directly next to yours and then follows you wordlessly to your unit.

You have every intention of telling him to make himself comfortable on your couch and offering him fresh coffee. It is well after three o’clock in the morning - most people who don’t work the nightshift would be asleep at this time. But as soon as your front door clicks shut, you suddenly forget all pleasantries.

“You said that you know he’s got something over me.” You stand before Andrew in your small kitchen, looking him dead in the eye. “How much do you know, exactly?”

He meets your gaze with an equally level stare. It isn’t harsh, but it is hard for you to read. You’re quickly learning that to be the norm with Andrew. Difficult to read.

“I know enough,” Andrew says calmly. “I know Silas is a loan shark. I know you’re working for him to pay back money that you didn’t borrow.”

You nod slowly, dropping your gaze to the floor as you lean against your kitchen counter. “And how do you think you can help me with that, exactly?” You glance back up. “Don’t get me wrong, I would love to believe you, but I just don’t see how you and your brothers robbing the guy magically frees me of him. I mean, if he were to find out that it was you, and that I’ve even talked you outside of the club, he would—”

“He wouldn’t find out,” Andrew cuts you off, voice even and low. “I would make sure of that.”

“How?” You take a step towards him without thinking, your hands clasped in front of you. “How would you make sure of that? If you know why I’m working for Silas, then I’m assuming you know about my father. It isn’t just my life on the line here, Andrew.”

His hazel eyes soften at that. “I do know about your father. I also know there’s a lot of people stuck in situations like you and your father, because of Silas. A lot of people who would all be better off if Silas…wasn’t around anymore.”

Your eyebrows lift halfway up your forehead. “Wasn’t around anymore?” You echo. As soon as they leave your lips, the implication becomes clear.

Wasn’t around anymore. Gone. Deleted. Erased.

Andrew doesn’t verbalize a response. He just watches you from where he stands an arm’s length away and waits for you to process what he’s telling you.

That he’s offering to kill Silas. Or have him killed. You don’t really know. There’s a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears that’s making it impossible to think clearly.

You finally manage to get two words out. “You’re serious.”

It isn’t posed as a question.

“I am,” Andrew says simply. “If you want me to be.”

You snort at that, because what the fuck are you supposed to say? “Yeah, off with his head!” and “oh no, please don’t hurt him!” somehow feel equally wrong.

You look to the floor again. And then around the room. To your houseplants that need watered, and then to last night’s dishes that still need to be put in the dishwasher. Anywhere but Andrew’s intense, unyielding honey colored stare that you could probably get lost in if it weren’t for the bizarre circumstances for which he is in your apartment right now.

Finally, you exhale. “I think…I want some coffee.” You turn to the espresso machine behind you, and then glance at Andrew over your shoulder. “What about you?”

He looks surprised for a split-second, then nods. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

Upon your invitation, Andrew takes a stiff seat on your couch while you use the few minutes that it takes you to brew and prepare the drinks to attempt to process what the fuck has transpired since the two of you entered your apartment.

It does little good. You still have just as many questions as you did on the drive home. Even more now. Andrew is offering to kill for you? Has he killed before? Was he really in prison for bank robbery? Or was it something else? Should you be trying to secretly dial 911 on your watch right now?

Probably. If you were smart. But you’re not smart. You’re desperate, and Andrew might just be offering you a way out on a silver platter.

Although it could come back to bite you in the ass, right now, you’re willing to be an open book. You meant what you had said to Andrew at the club tonight - you don’t care what he and his brothers do to Silas. Rob him, or worse…he deserves it. And after the hell he has put you, and your father, through these last three years, you have very little hesitation helping Silas get his karma.

“Hypothetically,” you start, sitting down on your small loveseat directly across the table from him. “Let’s say I agree to this…walk me through it. How would you and your brothers…go about this? What would you need from me? And what about…afterwards? What would I owe you?”

The questions pour out of you faster than you can stop them.

Andrew’s brows scrunch together. “You wouldn’t owe me anything,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’m not Silas. I just want to help you. And if you have any information that could potentially help us, then that would be great, but if not…I still want to do whatever I can to get you out of this mess.”

He says every word so sincerely that it makes you feel silly for even thinking otherwise.

Of course he isn’t Silas. You might not know Andrew very well, but you know that he isn’t Silas. Silas takes what he wants with zero regard for anyone but himself. Andrew has given you every opportunity to express discomfort, to change your mind, to tell him to fuck off. Even now, if you told him to get lost and never contact you again, you don’t doubt that he’d honor your wishes.

Andrew stares so heavy that you swear he can see right through you. His voice is low and steady when he speaks again. “You don’t deserve what Silas is doing to you. But he does deserve what’s coming to him.”

You don’t know if the next words out of your mouth mean that you’re crazy, or just desperate.

“What kind of information do you need?”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope didn’t want to leave you in Los Angeles, but he had to come back home to Oceanside to work out all of the details of the heist with his brothers.

He knows you’re capable of taking care of yourself. You’ve been doing it for years. You don’t need a man that you met two days ago playing bodyguard. But he’d be lying if he said that the thought of you working even one more shift at Solstice, or the thought of you being in close proximity to Silas, or the thought of a random sleazebag laying so much as a finger on you in that place doesn’t make his blood burn white-hot.

He takes comfort in knowing that after tonight, you only have to step foot into that place one more time. And that time, he will be there, too.

Still, he hates knowing that as he sits on his couch in Oceanside, you’re at the club in LA. Pope had suggested that you call out tonight, but you had shot that idea down quickly. You explained that you always work Sunday nights, and you didn’t want to risk drawing any negative attention to yourself before the heist that is now planned for this upcoming Friday night.

Currently, it is 3:46 in the morning, and Pope is wide awake, even though he shouldn’t be, and thinking of you, even though he probably shouldn’t be doing that, either. He wonders if you’ve made it home from work yet, and if your shift went okay or if Silas was there tonight…and he subconsciously grits his teeth at the thought of that.

He manages to hold out until 3:58 before he finds your name in the recently added section of his contacts and presses call.

You answer just after the first ring.

“Andrew,” Your voice pours from his speaker softly, slightly hoarse. “Is everything okay?”

Right away, he’s relieved at the lack of background noise. No music blasting and no drunk frat guys yelling over it. No car horns honking or sirens wailing. It’s safe to assume that you have made it home already.

“Everything’s fine,” he answers. “I just wanted to make sure you got home safely. See how your shift went.”

You exhale a hum of soft laughter. “Just walked through the door a few minutes ago. Work was busy. Really busy for a Sunday night. I’m glad it’s over. Almost.”

“Almost,” he agrees. “At least you’re off for the next few days. The next time you step foot in that place, it’ll be the last.”

There’s a brief pause before you speak. “As long as everything goes according to plan,” you murmur, and Pope can hear the nerves in your voice.

“It will,” he assures you. “Let us worry about that, alright? You just try to relax in the meantime.”

You snort. “Easier said than done.”

“Keep yourself busy so you don’t think about it too much,” Pope suggests lightly. “Do you have any plans this week?”

“Not really,” you grumble. “Los Angeles isn’t really my scene. I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for…” You trail off momentarily. You don’t have to finish the sentence. “Anyway. I go to work, I go home, and sometimes I go to the beach. That’s about it.”

“You like the beach?”

“I do,” you hum. “It’s one of the very few things I like about living here. My apartment is only about a twenty minute drive from Venice Beach. Well, really more like forty with all of the traffic…”

Pope is silent for a moment. During those few seconds of silence, he can hear waves crash against the shore just beyond the front door of the small beachfront house. If he were to step outside and walk mere yards, his feet would touch sand. He can glance out of the window in front of him and see moonlight dance across the water. There’s nothing separating him from the ocean but the walls of the house.

“I live right on the beach, you know,” Pope says, going for casual but probably failing. “The beach is my front yard.”

“Really?” You chirp. “God, that must be nice. I mean, you saw where I live in LA. Just about anywhere beats this shitty apartment, and the shitty traffic, and all of the endless noise, but living on the beach? I can only imagine how peaceful that is.”

There’s an idea forming in Pope’s mind, and he knows it’s irrational and naive, but he has already offered to kill for you after knowing you for one day, so how crazy could anything else really be?

“You ever been to Oceanside?”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Against your better judgment, later that day you drive to Oceanside with the address Andrew sent you typed into your GPS.

You almost turn around at least a dozen times.

You don’t want to turn around, but what little common sense you possess nearly convinces you to do so. What would you say if one of your coworkers told you that they have packed a bag and are going to stay with a mysterious man who booked a private room with them only forty-eight hours ago, tipped them a thousand dollars, came back the very next night, and revealed that he’s planning to both rob and kill your boss?

You would tell them that the next time you see them, it’s going to be on a missing person’s poster or a Dateline episode.

Yet here you are. Doing exactly that. Because for reasons you do not fully understand, Andrew makes you feel safe. Maybe you’re just so used to feeling unsafe that true safety has become a foreign concept to you. Maybe your judgment is clouded. But when he told you that he has a spare room and offered it to you for the days leading up to the heist, it hardly took any convincing for you to say yes.

Now, less than twelve hours later, with only a duffel bag in your passenger seat stuffed full of beach attire and toiletries, you’re driving to him.

Andrew had offered to come get you, too. And even though you ultimately insisted that you were fine with driving yourself to Oceanside, you can’t deny that the offer made your whole body feel irrationally warm and fuzzy - the fact that he’d be willing to make a third trip to Los Angeles in the last three days because you had made an off handed comment about your distaste for LA traffic.

You’re excited. Not only to get away from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for a few days, but also to see Andrew again. This time not inside a private room at Solstice or in your tiny apartment at four o’clock in the morning. You’re eager to get a feel for who he really is outside of the club environment, to see how he is when he’s somewhere that he’s comfortable, to learn about the man who has done nothing but surprise you time and time again since you met him only days ago.

When your car’s GPS announces your arrival, you don’t have to question whether or not you’re at the right place. He’s waiting for you on the front porch.

Like every time that you have seen him so far, he wears a short sleeve button-up shirt and a grave expression that would make you question if he’s actually glad to see you if it weren’t for the fact that he wastes no time trotting down the porch steps to greet you at your car.

He opens your door for you before you have the chance.

“You weren’t exaggerating when you said that the beach is your front yard,” you laugh, grabbing your duffel bag from your passenger seat that Andrew immediately reaches to take from you. “If you were any closer, you’d be in the water.”

When you stand up, Andrew shuts your door behind you and then rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his cheeks flushing slightly. It dawns on you that this is the first time that you’ve seen him in the daylight. Before now, you’ve only seen him in the neon fluorescents of the club and the low lighting of your apartment in the middle of the night. But now, in broad daylight without so much as a cloud in the sky, you feel like you’re really seeing him for the first time.

You already knew he has freckles, but now you could count every single one, if you wanted to. You knew that his eyes were hazel, but now you can see the tiny flecks of gold around his irises. And you thought that he was pretty the very first time you saw him in the alley, but you can’t help but think he’s even prettier in the sunlight.

“I may have said that to make you want to come,” he admits sheepishly. “But it wasn’t a lie.”

Your own face warms at the admission. “Well, clearly it worked. I came.”

Andrew’s mouth upturns slightly at the corners, his eyes crinkling around them. “Come on,” he nods towards the house. “I’ll show you around.”

The place is relatively small - a single story two bedroom, but in comparison to your studio apartment, it feels like a castle. And it’s clean. Spotless, actually. You hadn’t been expecting a pigsty by any means, but the exceptional tidiness is still a pleasant surprise. There’s not a decorative pillow out of place or so much as a dirty dish in the sink.

He carries your bag to the doorway of the first bedroom and lets you enter before him.

“This is the, uh…” Andrew trails off for a fraction of a second, searching for words, “This is the guest room. All yours while you’re here.”

You take in the appearance of the small room. Like the common areas of the house, it’s clean, but there’s certain characteristics that stand out to you. A pastel pink, floral comforter. A stack of children’s books on the dresser. A handful of small clothes hangers in an otherwise empty closet, and a ladder of pencil markings on the wall right beside it. At first, they look like random scratches in the paint, but as you take a step closer, you realize that they are height measurements. Each spaced a few inches apart, with dates scribbled next to each line. Some of the handwriting appears more feminine, whereas the more recent markings seem childlike.

You glance at Andrew over your shoulder, where he still stands in the doorway, watching you. “Do you…have children?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

His gaze shifts past you, to the pencil markings in the far corner of the room. “No, I don’t,” he answers, a hint of melancholy in the words. “This room was my niece’s, but she doesn’t live here anymore. I just…can’t bring myself to erase it.”

Judging by his tone and dejected expression, he doesn’t seem particularly eager to talk about the subject, so you don’t press it any further, instead locking the information away with everything else you’ve learned about him in the last few days.

His childhood nickname is Pope. He had a twin sister named Julia. He drinks his coffee black. He has a niece, and as of last summer, she was approximately 45 inches tall. He did time in prison for armed robbery, and he’s prepared to kill someone for a woman he barely knows.

You offer a small nod. “Well, it’s a really nice place. Thank you, again. For inviting me. You have no idea how glad I am to be away from LA, even for a few days.”

Andrew’s expression softens. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, voice calm in a way that you’re quickly growing to find very comforting. “I’m happy that you’re here.”

You plop down on the edge of the mattress and grin up at him. “So, what’s the plan for today? You gonna show me around Oceanside?”

“I was planning on it.” He leans against the doorframe, his thumbs in his pockets as he smirks at you. “We can do whatever you want. Go to the beach, the pier, just ride around. We do need to go to the grocery store at some point so I can grab some things for dinner.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “We can do whatever I want and you’re going to make me dinner? You’re quite the host, Andrew.”

He blushes at that, the apples of his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. The thought crosses your mind right then and there - you would never in a million years guess that he’s capable of doing what he plans to do later this week just by looking at him. This blushing, thoughtful man who has been nothing but respectful and considerate of you since the moment you met. He’s going to put a permanent end to the problem that has plagued you for years?

There’s more than one side to people, clearly. But that doesn’t bother you. Not in the slightest. In fact, you’re interested in getting to know every side of Andrew Cody. The soft-spoken version of him standing before you, and the version of him capable of the kind of violence you’ve only ever let yourself fantasize about.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Oceanside is - quite literally - a breath of fresh air compared to Los Angeles.

It isn’t exactly a small town, but it feels like one by comparison. There’s less people, less noise, less traffic, less smells. The ocean is five minutes away no matter where you go.

Los Angeles may be less than a two hour drive from Oceanside, but it feels like it’s worlds away. You feel like you can actually fucking breathe here.

By the end of your very first day here, you dread ever returning to LA. To Solstice (even for just one more shift). To your cramped, overpriced studio apartment that you’ve tried your hardest to make feel like home but never really has.

But here? Oceanside? Even just a few hours after your arrival, you can tell that this is a place that could easily start to feel like home to you. Partially due to the relaxed nature of the beach town, and partially due to the curly-haired man who is currently cooking you dinner as you watch from across the kitchen bar.

“Whatcha gonna make for dinner?” You ask as Andrew pulls into the grocery store parking lot.

He puts the truck in park and unbuckles his seatbelt before turning slightly to face you. “That depends entirely on what you’d like to eat.”

You had tried to insist that you were fine with whatever, but Andrew is quite convincing when he wants to be. He had refused to leave the grocery store until you told him what to make for dinner. Not wanting to be an inconvenience, or high maintenance, or too picky, you suggested the first relatively simple and inexpensive meal that you could think of on the spot.

Now, you sit across the counter from him, watching as he cooks fettuccine alfredo for the both of you.

As hard as you try not to let your eyes wander, you can’t stop yourself. Andrew seems oblivious, and if he notices he doesn’t say anything, but your eyes are drawn to his broad shoulders, thick arms, and bulky chest. His curls are wind-blown and skin sun-kissed from an afternoon spent walking on the beach near his house, making his freckles more visible than ever.

He catches you smirking at him as he’s plating up the food. A bashful grin appears on his face. “What is it?”

You shake your head with a small shrug. “Nothing. You’re just…not at all what I thought you’d be when we first met.”

Andrew’s eyebrows arch slightly. “You mean the kind of guy that normally books private rooms with you at the club?”

You snort a laugh. “Yeah, something like that.” You pause, grinning. “I mean, obviously most of them don’t recruit me to help them rob my boss…” Andrew chuckles lowly at that. “But they also don’t cook me Italian food and let me stay at their beach house.”

“What can I say?” Andrew slides your plate across the counter. “I’m full of surprises.”

You can’t disagree with that.

Andrew takes a seat beside you and the meal is eaten in companionable silence for the most part, giving your thoughts time to stray to all of the things that you have tried your hardest not to dwell on too much since you arrived here today.

You’ve tried not to think about what’s to come at the end of the week, and all of the ways that it could go disastrously wrong. As hard as you try to think positively, you can’t help but worry about someone getting hurt. Andrew, or one of his brothers, or a random dancer at the club who somehow gets caught in the crosshairs, or even yourself. Your brain conjures worst case scenarios, causing visions of anyone other than Silas dying to replay on a loop until you snap yourself out of it.

But with Andrew sitting next to you, it’s a little easier to silence those scary thoughts and replace them with better ones. Like maybe, just maybe, if this whole operation doesn’t go to shit, there could be more moments like this.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope isn’t particularly eager for you to meet his family, but he knows it’s bound to happen sooner or later. Especially if he hopes to maintain a regular presence in your life once this week is over.

He doesn’t expect you to want the same, but he does hope.

So, on your second day in Oceanside, he bites the bullet and drives you both to the family home after asking his brothers and nephew to meet there to go over everything for the heist a final time.

You assure him you don’t mind, but you’ve never met his family before. He’s slightly comforted by the fact that he never has to worry about you meeting Smurf, but there’s still Deran and Craig, who act like teenagers more than half the time.

“Look,” Pope stops you with a gentle hand on your arm before he reaches for the front door, “If they say anything inappropriate, or weird, just ignore them. They’re children. We’re just here to go over the plan and then we’ll leave, I promise.”

You exhale a laugh. “I can assure you that I’m used to inappropriate and weird, Andrew. They cannot possibly be any worse than the men that I have dealt with on a regular basis the last three years.”

He hesitates a moment, his hand still on your arm as he watches for any sign of reluctance, but you give none. Grudgingly, Pope opens the door and lets you enter before him.

Inside, there’s less noise than Pope expects, and it gives him the tiniest bit of hope that everyone will be on their best behavior. He leads you through the house, where the two of you find Craig, Deran, and Jay already gathered in the living room.

All three pairs of eyes immediately land on you as soon as you and Pope enter the room.

“Holy shit,” Craig laughs. “She actually exists.”

Deran snorts. “I told you she does.”

“Still,” Craig shrugs. “I didn’t believe that she would actually be willing to hear Pope out and not immediately run screaming to the cops.” He stands then, walking the short distance to where you stand beside Pope, extending a hand to you in offering. “Craig, by the way.”

“Ah,” you sigh, briefly shaking his hand. “The mastermind behind this operation, I hear.”

Craig winks, clicking his tongue. “You’ve heard correctly.”

Jay and Deran then introduce themselves, clarity blooming on your face as you recognize Deran from the brief encounter in the alley. You’re perfectly friendly, but the tension in your shoulders and the way that you clasp your hands in front of you doesn’t go unnoticed by Pope.

He can’t blame you for being nervous. You are in a room full of criminals, all of whom are strangers to you - himself included - to plot not only the financial but also physical demise of the man who has made your life hell for years.

Anyone sane would be nervous. But it speaks volume to Pope how much trust you’re putting in him (and how desperate you must be for any chance at freedom, no matter how risky it may be).

With a featherlight hand on the small of your back, Pope nods to an empty section on the couch for you to take a seat. He sits directly beside you, just close enough for the side of your thigh to brush against his.

Craig immediately launches into the logistics of the plan for Friday night. Jay is to disable all security cameras inside and around the perimeter of the club, and then waits with the getaway car. After the cameras have been disabled, Craig, Deran, and Pope will all enter through the basement. Once they are in the safe room, Pope is to signal to you through a discreet communication device that you’ll wear in your ear.

“…and then you’ll tell your creepy floor manager…”

“Gregory.”

“Gregory,” Craig repeats, “that you saw a customer open the basement door and go downstairs. But only if you know that Silas is distracted at the time. We don’t want Silas coming down before we make Gregory open the safe.”

“Right,” you nod. “So then Gregory opens the safe, Deran takes the money and leaves, you and Andrew make Gregory call for Silas to come downstairs, and then…?”

“And then Craig and I take care of the rest,” Pope answers simply. He doesn’t want you worrying about the specifics as to what happens once Silas enters the basement. The less you know at that point, the better. “Whatever you do, you stay upstairs. Finish your shift just like you would any other night. By the time you get off, it’ll all be finished.”

You’re silent for a moment, glancing around at each of the men in the room before you turn your head just enough to look Pope in the eyes. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do to help? Kinda feel like I’m not really pulling my weight here.”

“We’re sure,” Pope says before any of the others have a chance to speak up, his tone final, leaving no room for objection. “Between the information you’ve given us and what you’ll say to Gregory, you’ve done more than enough.”

You glance down to where your hands are interlocked in your lap. Then, in a smaller voice with a humorless laugh, “Enough for you to kill a man for me? To risk going back to prison?”

The question makes him forget that the two of you are in a room with three other men. He instinctively reaches out, placing a hand on top of both of yours. Your eyes dart down in surprise to where his hand rests on yours and a thick silence settles over the room before Pope slowly retracts his hand before answering you with absolute resolution.

“Yes,” he implores. “I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again. You don’t have to do anything to earn this. I’m offering. Because I want to.”

He wants to for you. Since the moment he first saw you in that alley and he stood and watched as Silas grabbed you by the arm, a part of him has wanted to ensure that Silas never touches you again. That desire has only grown stronger since meeting you, talking to you, and getting to know you these last few days. The only thing that could possibly stop him from sending Silas to an early grave is if you personally begged him not to, and even then, Pope would still want to with every fiber of his being.

You stare at Pope, pursing your lips, and he halfway expects you to argue. But he doesn’t drop your gaze, doesn’t even blink, and eventually you exhale a shaky breath.

“Let’s do this, then.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“You nervous about tomorrow?”

You’re hardly able to make out the words over the crashing of waves against the shore and the squawking of a seagull just a few yards away from where you and Andrew sit on the beach.

You turn your gaze away from the sun that has started to set over the Pacific Ocean to find that Andrew is already looking at you.

“Of course,” you admit with a breathy laugh. “Are you nervous?”

Andrew lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, looking back out to the water. “We’ve pulled off more complicated jobs than this before. Not too long ago we infiltrated a military base. A strip club is nothing compared to that.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, as they tend to do anytime you’re learning new information about the man sitting beside you. “A military base?” You echo in disbelief. “Jesus. How exactly did you guys even get into this kind of thing, anyway?”

Robbing banks. Offering to kill a man for a woman he’s only just met. And apparently, infiltrating military bases. That kind of thing. The kind of thing that should send you running in the opposite direction but for some reason makes you want to lean in closer.

Andrew shakes his head, a quick snort of laughter escaping him. “Our mother,” he answers. “She taught us everything we know. I’ve been doing this since Craig and Deran were still in diapers.”

“Jesus,” you mumble. You don’t know the exact age difference between Andrew and his brothers, but he can’t possibly be all that much older than them. He was just a kid. “And you…enjoy it?”

Andrew thinks about it for a moment, leaning back with his palms pressed into the sand. “I wouldn’t say that enjoy is the right word. It’s just all that I’ve ever known.”

You nod slowly, contemplating the words. This lifestyle is his baseline for normal. If you struggle to remember what life was like before you got dragged into working at Solstice only a few years ago, you can only imagine the complex feelings that come with being groomed into an entire lifetime of crime.

“Have you ever thought about what else you would do?” You ask hesitantly. “If you weren’t doing this?”

Again, he doesn’t answer right away. You watch as his eyes narrow in thought, his stare locked on the pink and orange horizon ahead of you. “I’ve thought about it,” he murmurs, a hint of restrained emotion in his tone. “Never for long enough to act on it, but…maybe I’d open a skatepark. Eventually settle down, start a family of my own.”

“Really?” You can’t hide the surprise from your voice. You aren’t quite sure why the answer surprises you as much as it does - you did literally just meet this man less than a week ago, but you didn’t exactly peg him to be the chasing toddlers, Pee-wee soccer game on a Saturday morning kind of guy. “You want to have kids?”

“Maybe one or two,” he shrugs. “I probably won’t, though. It’s just something I like to think about sometimes.” He pauses. “What about you? What are you gonna do when this is all over?”

That’s a question that you’ve been asking yourself for years. Up until now, it has only felt like a distant fantasy. Even now, you’re trying not to get your hopes up too high for fear that it won’t work out. That things will take a turn for the worst. That someone will get hurt, that Silas will somehow get away and find out what you’ve tried to do. Even with freedom almost close enough to touch, you won’t let yourself believe it’s yours until you’re actually holding it in your hand…and until you are, it’s difficult to imagine what life could possibly look like.

You exhale. “I’ll probably start by visiting my dad. I haven’t seen him in a while. I wanna let him know that me and him are gonna be okay. And then…” You trail off momentarily, “and then I’m gonna get the fuck out of LA. Maybe go back to school eventually,” you shrug. “I guess I haven’t let myself think about it too much either.”

Andrew hums in thought at the response. Then, he sits up straight, pulling his knees awkwardly to his chest and looking at you with the same serious expression that you’re no closer to being able to read than you were the night you first met him.

“You’re always welcome here. If you need a place to stay while you figure out what you wanna do.”

The offer warms you more than the evening California sun. Not only the words, but the way you can’t help but think he sounds nervous, and maybe a little hopeful, when he speaks them.

And because you don’t know how to express your gratitude in words, you place your head on his shoulder, instead. He tenses in surprise for a fraction of a second, then relaxes into the embrace, nuzzling the side of his cheek against the top of your head.

“I do like it here,” you hum. I like you, too, you think to yourself. “I might have to take you up on that.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“Cameras are officially offline. Soleil, if you can hear me, cough two times.”

Jay’s voice pours through the tiny communication device that Andrew had helped place in your ear only an hour ago. You’re able to make out Jay’s words, but they’re muffled, as the club is already extremely busy tonight - which you’re far more grateful for than you usually would be. Tonight, the more noise, the better. Boisterous laughs and obnoxiously loud music means that patrons and dancers are less likely to hear anything out of the ordinary.

As inconspicuously as possible, you raise your arm and cough twice into your elbow.

“Good,” Jay replies. “Everyone keep to the plan. Pope, let us know when you guys are in.”

The line then goes silent, leaving you to attempt to act calm, cool and collected for however long it takes Andrew, Craig and Deran to get into the basement and then the safe room without being caught.

You haven’t even been here for an hour yet, and you already feel the need to reapply deodorant due to the intense nervous sweats that you’re currently experiencing. You’ve already been to the bathroom twice because your stomach is so tied in knots that you are convinced you’re going to get sick.

Maybe you should have listened to Andrew and called out tonight. He had tried to assure that they would find a way to make everything work without you there, but you stubbornly insisted on helping.

What if your anxiety gets the best of you and you get sick on center stage tonight? What if someone notices how antsy you are? What if your earpiece falls out while dancing?

Oh, that’s just a hearing aid. I somehow went partially deaf in the last few days.

It doesn’t help that Silas is exceptionally irritable tonight, barking at every dancer and employee for every little thing. You spend the first part of the night maintaining as much distance between yourself and him as you possibly can while also keeping a careful eye on him. It’s sheer dumb luck that no one requests a private room with you during the first hour of the night so you’re able to monitor both Silas and Gregory from a reasonable distance while simultaneously conversing with customers.

And, if you were having any second thoughts about playing a part in Silas’ demise, those go out the window the minute that he approaches you that night.

You’re standing at the bar, waiting on some drinks for a table you have been entertaining, when he eases up beside you. Call it a sixth sense, but the way that your skin crawls at the sudden presence tells you it’s him before you even glance over.

“Enjoy your days off?” Silas asks, voice low enough for only you to hear. You cut your eyes in his direction to find him smirking at you, the look in his eyes making it clear that he isn’t just making friendly conversation.

“I did,” you answer shortly, eyeing the bartender to see where she’s at with the Jack and cokes. Not that it’s any of your concern, you bite back.

Silas hums, swirling the ice in his glass. “I’m glad to see you tonight, you know. I was starting to worry that maybe you skipped town.”

Your hands clutch the edge of the bar to steady yourself, your stomach sinking. He doesn’t know. There’s no way that he knows. How would he know?

“Am I not allowed to go out of town for a few days when I’m not working?” You snort, trying to play it off, hoping your horror isn’t displayed across your face. You don’t deny it, because if he’s bringing it up, then he already knows. You just don’t know how much he knows. “I have to run my vacation plans by you now?”

A low chuckle escapes him as he takes a slow sip of his drink. “What’s in Oceanside, anyway?”

Fucking hell.

Just as the last word leaves his lips, and the room around you seems to freeze, the bartender slides the tray of drinks across the counter to you. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to pick it up. You’re vaguely aware of Andrew whispering your name in your ear, his voice panicked, but you can’t respond yet.

“The ocean,” you spit, turning around and walking away with the drinks before Silas can say another word.

When you’re halfway across the room, Andrew’s voice pours through the communication device again.

“Are you okay? What the hell was that?”

You still don’t risk responding. You drop the drinks off at the table with exaggerated pleasantries and quickly excuse yourself before the men have a chance to drag you into whatever it is they’re now animatedly conversing about. A fleeting glance in the direction of the bar lets you know that Silas is now occupied by a customer, and only after confirming that his attention is no longer on you, do you take off in the direction of the employee bathroom and lock the door behind you.

“Andrew?” You hiss under your breath. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it,” Andrew answers right away. “How the hell does he know?”

“I have no idea,” you whisper, sitting down on the closed toilet. Now that you’re alone and can begin to process what the hell just happened, your heart is racing and your body is shaking and you’ll be lucky to walk back out of this room without collapsing. “I haven’t told anyone about my trip to Oceanside. He must have someone keeping tabs on me when I’m not here.”

The realization makes bile churn in your gut. He’s watching you. Even when you’re not here, he’s watching. He knows when you come and when you go, and he knows where you go. Who fucking knows how many times he’s had someone spying on you when you were just buying groceries or getting your nails done or—

“Breathe,” Andrew says, somehow able to detect your panic without even seeing you. “He’s just trying to scare you. He might know that you went to Oceanside, but he doesn’t know our plan. This doesn’t change anything, okay? We’re already in. We’re doing this. And you won’t have to worry about him anymore after tonight.”

You inhale, then exhale, then repeat, trying your hardest to convince yourself that what he’s saying is true. You know he believes it, and you trust that he wouldn’t lie to you, but right now the small amount of self-preservation that you possess is screaming at you to abandon ship.

But then you think of Andrew, in the basement, only one floor separating you from him. You think of all he’s risking by what he’ll do for you tonight. You think of your time spent together in Oceanside, and how you long for more, and how that isn’t a possibility unless you leave this bathroom and do what you came here to do.

One more deep breath. “Okay,” you exhale. “Okay, I’m okay.” It sounds like you’re trying to assure yourself as much as you are him.

“Good,” Andrew encourages softly. “We’re in the safe room now. No sign of anyone down here. I need you to get Gregory to come downstairs now, okay? Remember the plan?”

Even though he can’t see you, you nod. “I remember.”

Just in case someone is standing outside the door, you flush the toilet and turn the sink on momentarily for the sake of keeping up appearances as you take in your own appearance. Your makeup is slightly patchy from beads of sweat that have gathered on your forehead, but all things considered, you look normal enough.

You pause with your hand on the bathroom doorknob, taking one last, steadying breath before reentering the main floor of the club. A large group of men are huddled around center stage as another popular dancer performs her solo set, and sensuous music blasts loudly through the room.

Silas has moved from his seat at the bar, relocating to a far corner where he sits conversing with a table of regulars with his back to you. Good. And as for Gregory….

Gregory stands next to one of the newest dancers, who currently looks as if she’s being held hostage by whatever Gregory is saying to her.

Now or never, you suppose, forcing one foot in front of the other as you walk across the room.

“Hey, Angel,” you greet her with a cheerful voice and smile, hoping it sounds genuine. “There’s a guy at the bar asking for a private dance with you. I told him I’d send you over.”

Right away, she looks relieved to be freed from her conversation with Gregory. “Thanks,” she breathes before heading in the direction of the bar.

Gregory starts to walk off - knowing that you won’t engage in casual conversation with him like the newer hires who feel obligated to - when you speak up.

“Hey, I saw a guy trying to open the basement door just a minute ago,” you tell him, relieved when the words come out with just the right amount of faux concern. Gregory immediately looks in that general direction, beady eyes narrowing as he tries to find who you could be referring to.

“He was jiggling the handle,” you continue, hoping it prompts him in that direction.

“A guy?” He repeats. “What guy? What did he look like?”

You shrug. “Never seen him before. He was about your height, middle aged, short black hair.”

Gregory’s eyes dart between you and the hallway behind you. “Okay,” he huffs, taking a step away from you. “I’ll tell Silas—”

“I already told him,” you blurt without thinking. “He’s busy. He told me to tell you to check it out.”

To both your surprise and relief, he doesn’t question you further. He just huffs in annoyance, muttering something under his breath about having to do fucking everything around here and storms in the direction of the basement stairway.

For the briefest of moments, you almost feel bad for him. Then, you remember all of the times he has walked in on you and other dancers in the changing room, or tattled on you to Silas for not smiling enough, or stared directly at your tits with zero shame, and then your guilt disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.

You aren’t quite sure what Andrew and his brothers plan to do with Gregory. You didn’t ask, and you aren’t going to. You figured that Andrew would likely give you the same answer he has to the majority of questions you’ve asked over the last few days: the less you know, the better.

You do your best to appear subtle as you watch Gregory approach the door that leads to the basement of the club. He glances around, seemingly looking for the mystery man that you had made up a description of on the spot. When he sees no one that looks as you had described (because of course he doesn’t), he jiggles the handle to find it still locked. Your stomach sinks as you worry that Gregory will chalk that up to good enough and turn around to report to Silas, but then he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a set of keys, still visibly muttering under his breath and shaking his head.

You breathe an audible sigh of relief when he opens the door and he slips into the stairwell without drawing any attention from Silas, who still has his back to the entire incident on the other side of the room.

“He’s coming,” you murmur under your breath, “Gregory is coming downstairs now.”

There’s a quick whisper of confirmation, so fast and low that you aren’t even sure whose voice it was, and then the line goes silent. Your part of the job is over, and you’re left to wait. Wait until you see Silas walk to the stairs when Andrew makes Gregory call for him. Wait as you hope that he never walks back up those stairs. Wait until you hear from Andrew, wait until your shift is over.

And waiting might just be the hardest part of it all.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“I’m gonna ask you one more time to open this fucking safe.”

Like a rat after a piece of cheese, Gregory had walked right into the trap. He clearly had not actually expected anyone to be down here, because he walked right inside the safe room, muttering to himself about not getting paid enough, where Craig and Deran snuck up behind him, overpowering him within seconds. He didn’t even have a chance to yell before a handkerchief was crammed into his mouth.

Popes gotta hand it to Gregory, though. He fully expected the cowering, sniveling little shit to open the safe the very first time the three masked men demand he do so. But so far, he has yet to cave. Even with the barrel of Pope’s gun pressed to his temple.

He’s trembling, and whimpering, and he has definitely pissed himself, but he is also refusing to put the code in the fucking vault. He’s loyal to Silas, even if he’s nothing else, and that makes Pope feel the slightest bit better about what he plans to do with Gregory whenever they no longer have any use for him.

Pope and his brothers like to avoid casualties if at all possible. But after all you’ve told him about Gregory and now how stubborn he’s being? Pope has a hard time feeling bad.

“I don’t fucking have time for this,” Pope grunts, pulling the Glock away from Gregory’s forehead and instead aiming it towards the lower half of his body. He tries to shout, tries to protest, but the cloth crammed inside his mouth makes it all sound like muffled gibberish.

Pope doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, sending Gregory crumpling to the floor with a shot to the thigh that has him screeching around the gag; a high-pitched, animalistic sound. Upstairs, the music continues to blast, the bass vibrating through the floor. Even if Pope’s gun didn’t have a suppressor, he doubts anyone would have heard the shot over all the noise in the club.

Craig and Deran yank Gregory back upright despite his cries of pain. “The next shot won’t be to your leg. You think we’re bluffing?” Craig bellows. “You’re gonna find out if you don’t open that fucking safe right now.”

Gregory frantically nods. Craig and Deran haul him forward, and he raises his bound wrists to the safe’s keypad and begins typing with shaking hands. After a few seconds, the safe door clicks open. Deran pulls Gregory out of the way, allowing Pope to open the door.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Craig laughs in relief at the sight inside. “This has gotta be even more than I thought.”

It is a lot - too much for Pope to take an accurate guess as to exactly how much, but it has to be in the hundreds of thousands. He can’t get too excited yet, though. Not when Gregory here is bleeding through his pants and you’re still upstairs with Silas.

Pope and Craig make quick work of emptying the safe, shoving the stacks of cash into backpacks that Deran and a soon to be masked Gregory will wear out of here to where Jay awaits with the getaway car while Pope and Craig deal with Silas. But first…

“You got your phone on you?” Pope asks Gregory.

Gregory nods with an unintelligible noise of confirmation through the handkerchief still in his mouth.

“Good,” Pope lifts a hand to remove the gag, pausing before pulling it out. “I’m gonna take this out now. You scream, you die. Understand?”

Gregory nods, eyes wide with fear. Pope then yanks the cloth out of Gregory’s mouth, and he immediately begins to hyperventilate.

“Where’s your phone?” Craig demands.

“Back - back pocket,” Gregory pants.

Deran reaches into the back pocket of Gregory’s pants, retrieving the cell phone and tosses it to Pope. Pope holds the phone up to Gregory’s face, letting Face ID unlock the screen. He goes through Gregory's call history and quickly finds Silas’ name.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Pope says coolly, looking Gregory dead in the eye. “You’re going to give your boss upstairs a call. You’re gonna stay calm, and tell him that you need him to come down here right now. When he asks why, you tell him there’s an issue with the safe. If he tries to question you, you pretend you can’t hear him over the music and reiterate for him to come down here. Am I clear?”

Craig speaks up before Gregory has a chance to agree or disagree. “If you try to warn him, you’ll be bleeding from your other leg, too. Or worse. Got it?”

Gregory nods with a panicked sound of agreement, and Pope presses Silas’ name. He answers after the second ring, pop music pouring through the phone’s speaker.

“What?” Silas barks.

Gregory doesn’t speak right away. He opens his mouth like he’s going to, but then closes it, his eyes darting between Pope, Craig, and Deran. Pope wiggles the phone in his face, giving Gregory a look that dares him to test his luck.

“Hey,” he squeaks. “I - uh - I need you to come downstairs for a minute.”

“What?” Silas snaps. “Why? What are you doing downstairs right now?”

“I…I…uhm—” Gregory stutters, his voice unnaturally shrill and shaky. He looks between Pope and his brothers again in hesitation, unable to force the next words out. Deran nudges Gregory’s ribcage with his gun in a reminder of what’s at stake.

There’s one last, loaded second of silence before Gregory opens his mouth and seals his fate…and yours.

“Soleil told me she saw a man going to the basement, I’m sorry Silas, they made me do it—”

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

You watch Silas from across the room the moment that he raises his cell phone to his ear.

It could be someone else calling him. Maybe it isn’t Gregory, yet. But it only takes about ten seconds for any doubt to fade away, because Silas looks over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room until they lock with yours.

You try to look away, to play it off, to pretend you weren’t just watching him like a hawk, but it’s too late. He noticed. He definitely fucking noticed. And whatever was said to him during that short phone call, makes him stand up and head directly towards you.

“Why don’t we take a little walk?” Silas says, low enough for only you to hear. “There’s some things that we need to talk about.”

Your knees buckle and the room around you begins to spin. “I…have a private room in a few minutes. Can’t it wait?”

That’s a lie, but you’re trying to do whatever it takes to do what Andrew had asked of you. Stay upstairs.

“Nah, it can’t.” Silas glances around briefly before sliding a hand into his coat pocket. The movement looks innocent enough but then the unmistakable outline of a gun straining against the material catches your eye. You look back up, your blood running cold, and he’s smirking at you. “And I’m not asking.”

He doesn’t give you the chance to object before he grabs you by the arm and starts hauling you across the overcrowded dance floor, everyone too drunk and distracted to pay any mind to either of you.

“Where are we going?” You ask, trying to play dumb. You say the words loudly enough that Andrew, or anyone listening downstairs, will be able to hear.

He vibrates with low, chesty laughter. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

It takes every ounce of concentration just to put one foot in front of the other and keep yourself upright. Your thoughts are reeling with worst case scenarios. What will you find when you enter the basement? Did Andrew and the others get caught? Did Gregory have a gun on him? Is someone hurt? Once you walk down these stairs, will you ever walk back up?

Neither of you speak again until Silas opens the stairwell door, pushes you inside, and pulls it closed behind him.

“I’ve always known that you’re a flight risk,” Silas grumbles, steering you down the stairs with one hand gripping you by the shoulder and the barrel of his gun now pressed to the small of your back. You couldn’t escape even if you tried. “You really think I wouldn’t notice if you left town for four days? To fuck off to Oceanside?”

You don’t answer. His grip on your shoulder tightens enough that you’ll still feel the imprint of his hand hours later.

“The tracker that I put on your car sure came in handy,” he chuckles low, the sound sending chills down your spine. “Led me right to the Cody residence. I had to do a little digging after that, but imagine my surprise to learn that the Codys have quite the reputation.”

You reach the bottom of the stairs, and he shoves you up against the concrete wall and brings the gun to the side of your temple. You can’t stop the whimper that escapes your lips.

“I just didn’t think you would risk your dad’s life trying to pull some bullshit like this. Clearly I underestimated just how stupid and naive you really fuckin’ are.” He’s close enough that spit sprays across your face with nearly every word that he says.

“So this is what you are going to do if you want your sweet old daddy to live to see another day,” he murmurs, voice lethally calm in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.

Your dad’s face the night Silas first showed up at his house to collect flashes through your mind. The night that would eventually butterfly effect into you standing right here, right now.

“We’re going to walk in there exactly like this.” He presses the gun harder against your temple for emphasis. “And you’re going to tell whoever is in that room to put my money back where they found it. After they’ve done that, you’re going to tell them to get the fuck out of here unless they want to clean your brains off of my floor. And then I’ll deal with you after.”

He pulls the gun away, and the small device in your left ear suddenly feels impossibly loud despite the silence on the other end.

You can only hope that Andrew has heard every word and knows what is coming.

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

The door to the safe room is wide open, and you see Gregory’s motionless body crumpled on the floor before you even step foot inside, a bullet wound dead-center of his forehead.

The second thing you notice is that Craig and Deran begin to lower their weapons as soon as you, and Silas directly behind you with his gun still aimed at your head, come into view.

The third, and most concerning thing? Andrew is nowhere to be seen.

After you get over the initial shock of realizing that Gregory is dead, presumably killed by one of the boys after saying whatever the hell he said that made it click in Silas’ head that you have very much played a part in all of this, the realization that you have no idea where Andrew is and that Craig and Deran are surrendering their weapons hits you like a brick.

You were so, so stupid to have ever thought this would work. To have actually believed that things wouldn’t go to shit, that everything would go according to plan, that this would end in your freedom. Now it’ll be a miracle if you and every member of the Cody family makes it out of this building alive.

Where the hell is Andrew?

He wouldn’t leave his brothers behind. He wouldn’t leave you behind. You’re sure enough of that. Not if there were any other way.

“Well?” Silas barks, pressing the muzzle of the gun into your temple. “Tell them.”

But your mouth has gone bone dry. Andrew. Andrew. Where is Andrew—

Craig and Deran exchange a look that lasts a mere second before Craig opens his mouth to speak. “Look, man, we don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Let her go and we’ll leave. Just take it easy.”

“Easy?” Silas repeats incredulously. “You conspire against me, break into my club, kill one of my employees…” He tips his head in the direction of Gregory’s lifeless body. “…and you want me to take it easy?”

Craig and Deran are both silent.

“Kick the bags over,” Silas sighs, his patience already wearing thin.

“Do what he asks, guys,” you manage to force out. “He’ll let you go. Just give back the money.”

Another second of hesitation, another glance between themselves, and then they nudge the backpacks across the floor.

Silas laughs quietly from behind you. “Smart choice.”

It’s then that you notice Craig’s eyes shift past Silas, the movement too quick and minute for Silas to even register as he starts to reach down for one of the backpacks.

Then all hell breaks loose, and the following thirty seconds feel like something out of a fever dream.

One second, Silas’ gun is pressed against your head, and the next, it’s flying across the room with a shot that goes right through the wall. Your body gets propelled forward by a blunt force from behind you, and you go tumbling to the floor with a sharp cry.

When you look up, there’s chaos all around you, but most importantly, there’s Andrew.

The door to the safe room, which had been wide open just seconds ago, is now nearly shut. He had been here the whole damn time, just waiting for the perfect moment to pop out and strike Silas from behind.

Andrew drives into him like a freight train, wrapping both arms around Silas’ torso and carrying him into a metal shelving unit. The entire thing rattles violently on impact, random boxes and loose paperwork falling from the shelves and scattering across the floor. Silas lets out a startled, animalistic grunt, but he recovers surprisingly fast for a man pushing sixty.

Then Craig and Deran jump in, and the four men crash together in an aggressive tangle of limbs and curses. It all happens so fast that it’s impossible to tell who throws which punch and whose blood is dripping onto the concrete.

All you know is that you’re the reason that they called Silas down here in the first place, and you see someone’s gun on the ground, no more than an arm’s length away from you.

Before you can give it a second thought, you grab the gun and force yourself to your feet.

Your hands are shaking so hard that it looks as if you have Parkinson’s disease, and you’re terrified to take the shot for fear that you’ll hit anyone other than Silas, but every horrible thing he has said and done in the last three years is suddenly replaying in your mind as your finger dances over the trigger and you know without a doubt that you have to do what you’re most scared to do.

You yell. A deep, guttural sound that tears through you, loud enough to get the attention of all four men in front of you. Deran, who’s positioned slightly in front of a beaten and bloodied Silas, instantly moves out of the way, giving you a clear shot.

You hear Andrew say your name, you see Silas start to attempt to lunge towards you, but you don’t let either of those things stop you from squeezing the trigger.

Time slows down. Despite the fact that the gunshot hadn’t been very loud thanks to the suppressor attached to it, there’s still a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears.

For only a fraction of a second, you wonder if you hit him at all. Then, your question is answered when dark crimson begins blooming across the fabric of his cream colored button-down, just over his heart.

Silas opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out, and then he falls forward, collapsing on the ground beside Gregory.

You’re still aiming the gun right where Silas had been standing with shaking hands when Andrew takes a tentative step towards you.

“I killed him,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I killed him.”

Andrew slowly and carefully peels your hands away from the gun and takes it from you. You’re still glued to the spot, both your mind and body in shock from what just happened. From what you just did.

You killed him. You killed Silas. You killed someone. Murdered them. And yes, they deserved it, but you still fucking pulled the trigger and shot them in the chest.

“No, you didn’t,” Andrew murmurs, giving Silas a kick to the shoulder with his foot. Silas lets out a weak groan that makes you instinctively jump back. “He’s still alive.” Then, before you can spiral any further, Andrew aims the gun directly at the man lying on the floor and fires it again, hitting Silas in the head.

He turns to face you, holstering the gun. “See? You didn’t kill him. I killed him.”

“So much for not shooting him in front of her,” Deran grumbles as he picks up one of the backpacks and slides it on. Him and Craig begin to move around the room, but you aren’t paying attention to what they are doing, because your eyes are locked on the body on the floor in front of you.

Bodies. Plural. Two of them. Silas, and Gregory. And blood. A lot of it.

Andrew steps in front of you, blocking your view of it all.

“We need to clean all of this up now,” Andrew tells you gently. He raises his hands as if he’s going to place them on your shoulders, but stops himself at the last second, his hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. “I need you to do one last thing for me, and then this will all be okay. Okay?”

His voice is steady and calm, but his hazel eyes are serious and pleading, like it’s taking every ounce of his willpower to maintain composure for your sake.

You give him a shaky nod to confirm that you heard him.

“I need you to go back upstairs. I need you to keep watch and make sure that no one tries to come down here, and warn us if they do.”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking. “What? No, no. I can’t go back up there. I can’t. I won’t be able to keep it together. I can’t pretend like—”

“You can,” Andrew interjects, voice firm. “It’s for your own safety, too. People will be suspicious if you disappear at the same time as Silas. You need an alibi. Go upstairs, show your face, book a private room or two, and pretend like everything is normal. Just for a few more hours.”

You swallow, inhaling and exhaling. What he says makes sense. All of the individual words make sense. But how the fuck are you supposed to walk back upstairs and act like everything is normal when you just killed a man?

Okay, Andrew technically killed him. But you still shot him in the lung. He would have eventually died from that alone even if Andrew hadn’t taken the gun from you and put a bullet in his brain.

“Just stay until the end of your shift to cover your own ass. Do you know if anyone noticed you come down here?”

“Uh—” you stutter, trying to remember everything that led up to this moment. “Uh, no. I don’t think so. The club’s really crowded tonight, everyone seemed busy and distracted.”

“Good,” Andrew nods. “You were never down here, okay? The cameras are offline, so you were never here.”

You nod, still unsure of how you’re going to will your legs to carry you back up those stairs, or how you’re going to keep the utter shock of what has transpired in this basement off of your face for the next few hours.

“What - what about you guys?” You ask him. “How are you going to get rid of all of this?”

Andrew shakes his head in dismissal. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. We’ll handle it. The bodies, the blood, the money, we’ll take care of all of it. Just go upstairs and keep an eye out for us.” He pauses, his eyes scanning your face. “You’ve trusted me so far, yeah? I just need you to trust me again for a few more hours.”

You have. You do. You don’t know if you trust yourself to not have a full blown panic attack in the middle of the club, but you do know that you trust Andrew.

You can’t quite bring yourself to verbally agree, but you nod.

Andrew takes a step closer and raises a tentative hand to your face, gently tilting your head to the side. “Earpiece is still in place,” he murmurs.

You expect him to pull away once he’s satisfied with his inspection, but he doesn’t. Instead, the soft pad of his thumb sweeps beneath your eye, wiping away a streak of smudged mascara. The touch is so tender that under different circumstances, you might have leaned into it. Might have closed the distance between you entirely. But right now, with blood still drying on the floor, all you can do is stand there and let him.

It gives you the much needed inspiration to get through the next few hours without completely falling apart, at least.

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

It takes every single last ounce of Pope’s self-restraint to not abandon Craig, Deran, and Jay to deal with the aftermath of the heist by themselves while he whisks you far the hell away from the city of Los Angeles in the middle of the night.

Truthfully, the only reason he doesn't do just that is because he doesn’t want it to come back to bite you in the ass.

He has to make sure everything is cleaned up. Everything. Every last drop of blood, every fingerprint, every strand of hair that could have fallen from your person to the floor of that safe room has to be eradicated before he feels comfortable leaving the club’s premises, and he sure as fuck doesn’t trust Craig or Deran to be as thorough as him. Deran lets his dish sponges get filthy and he doesn’t trust Craig to properly wash his own ass.

Finally, in the early hours of morning just before dawn, Pope can confidently say that the job is finished. Through the combined efforts of Craig, Deran, Jay, and himself, the safe room is cleaned spotless, the bodies of Silas and Gregory are disposed of, and the haul of cash makes it back to Oceanside.

Getting both bodies out wasn’t exactly easy, but Pope had planned for shit to go sideways. Jay was on standby in the getaway truck with an appliance dolly in case they were unable to retrieve the money from the safe while inside the club.

It was Craig’s idea, actually, to cram both bodies inside the safe and haul the entire thing offsite…to the middle of the fucking desert where all four men spent several hours digging a hole big enough for a six hundred pound safe.

No, things didn’t go according to plan, but they rarely do. It all proved to be worth it when the cash count ended up being just shy of half a million.

And if Pope’s share of more than a hundred grand wasn't enough to make the entire ordeal feel worthwhile, the relief on your face and the way you fling your arms around his neck when he shows up at your apartment later that day sure as hell does.

Maybe it’s a combination of everything that has happened in the last twelve hours and sleep deprivation, but it takes Pope a moment to register that you’re hugging him in your doorway. When he does, he wraps his arms around your torso and hugs you back, pulling you tight against his chest without a word.

“Sorry,” you breathe when you pull back, just far enough to look up at him. “I’m sorry, I…I’ve been so worried.”

He instantly feels guilty. He had sent you a singular text to let you know that they had left the city when they were on their way to the desert, but after that, he had been so preoccupied with disposing of Silas and Gregory’s corpses that he hadn’t provided you any further updates. He had been operating on autopilot, going through the motions of shoveling dirt, driving his brothers and nephew back to Oceanside, and then driving all the way back to Los Angeles after only a shower and two shots of espresso.

“No, I’m sorry,” Pope murmurs, reluctantly dropping his arms back down to his sides. “I should’ve texted, or called, I just…” He glances around to make sure that none of your neighbors are lingering around outside. You notice his hesitation and move to motion him into your apartment. He steps inside, only continuing once you pull the door closed behind him. “Just wanted to make sure everything was taken care of.”

“And?” You ask, biting your bottom lip in the way Pope has noticed that you tend to do when you are especially nervous about something. “Is it? Taken care of?” You add in a smaller voice.

Pope nods. “Yeah. Everything has been taken care of. There’s nothing that you need to worry about now. No one will ever find them.”

You audibly exhale in relief, your shoulders visibly relaxing as you lean against your kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. “Andrew, I…I don’t even know how to say thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me at all,” he says simply.

He’s told you already, but he’ll tell you again, he did this because he wanted to.

He saw you in that alleyway and knew you didn’t belong in that place. He saw you dance on that stage and knew that he had to talk to you. He had one conversation with you and knew that he would be willing to kill for you.

And he would do it all over again, even if he didn’t gain a penny from it all.

Which reminds him…

He pulls out a large, thick envelope tucked beneath the waistband of his jeans and holds it out to you. “Actually,” he clears his throat, “you can thank me by taking this.”

Your eyebrows scrunch together as you accept it from him. “What’s this?”

“It’s your cut.”

You pause before starting to open it. “My cut?”

“Yeah,” Pope shrugs. “Your cut from the money we pulled last night.”

You don’t even look inside before you’re trying to hand it back to him. “Andrew, no. I can’t take this. You killed a man - two men - for me, and then cleaned up the mess and dumped their bodies in the middle of the ocean—”

“Desert, actually,” he corrects softly, and your mouth snaps shut into a tight line, but he can tell by your eyes that you’re fighting a smirk.

“Still,” you implore. “You have done more than enough for me. Taking your money wouldn’t feel right. Not when you’ve already given me a second chance at life. That’s worth more than any amount of money ever could be, Andrew.”

God, he needs to go to sleep, because the last thing he should be thinking about right now is how much he likes to hear you call him by his name.

He hums a laugh, reluctantly accepting the envelope that you’re practically shoving against his chest, then takes a slow step towards you that leaves very little space between you. You’re slotted between him in front of you and your kitchen counter behind you, but you don’t appear the least bit put off by the tight space.

“Thought you said that you wanna get out of LA?” He murmurs. He reaches beside you, placing the envelope on the counter behind you. Then, instead of dropping his hand back to his side, it hovers for an awkward moment before falling to the edge of the counter, right next to your hip. He isn’t quite touching you, but if he moved his hand over a quarter of an inch, he would be. “Go back to school eventually? Start a new life?”

You’re smirking up at him now. “I did say that.”

He quirks a brow. “Then you’ll need money to do that.”

You’re silent for a moment, your eyes trailing over his face. You raise a tentative hand to his jaw, the soft pad of your thumb brushing a featherlight touch over a bruise that he had sustained in the brief but intense scuffle with Silas. Without thinking, he leans into the touch. The bruise is tender, but the feeling of your skin against his outweighs any discomfort.

“I thought you said that I’m always welcome at yours,” you hum. He opens his eyes to find you grinning slyly. It makes the back of his neck warm.

“You are,” he answers automatically. “Always. Is that…something you think you would want?”

You don’t answer with a yes, or a no, or even a nonchalant shrug. You just stare at him with that same soft, teasing expression as your eyes flicker between his eyes and his mouth, your hand still caressing his face.

There’s barely enough time for him to wonder if you’re thinking of doing what he has wanted but held back from doing since you pulled into his driveway in Oceanside before you lift onto your toes and press your lips to his.

His breath catches in his chest as your lips, tentative and impossibly soft, brush over his and every coherent thought leaves his mind at once. One moment, he’s standing in your kitchen trying to convince you to take sixty thousand dollars in cash, and the next he can’t remember how to breathe because the feel and smell and taste of you is overtaking his senses.

You linger just long enough for him to pull away if he wants to.

He does not. Of course he doesn’t.

His hand moves from the counter to your waist, and yours still resting on his jaw shifts to the back of his neck where your fingertips toy with the hair at the base of his skull. He leans down into the kiss, angling himself closer until there’s barely any space left between the two of you.

It’s soft, and hesitant, as if you’re both worried that if you move too fast, the moment will end all too soon. Warm lips move tenderly against his, your tongue sweeping lightly against his in permission that he eagerly grants.

It’s probably the last thing he should be thinking about in this particular moment, but he’s glad that he didn’t talk Craig out of his idea for a gentleman’s club based heist. Really, really fucking glad.

When you pull away, you release a small, breathless laugh that ghosts across his lips.

“Don’t worry,” you breathe, “that wasn’t me trying to say thank you or anything. I just wanted to do that.”

“Yeah?” He murmurs, brushing his lips over yours a final time. It isn’t quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps down his spine nonetheless. “I take that as a yes, then? You’ll come to Oceanside with me?”

You nod, the tip of your nose nudging his. “I think Oceanside with you is exactly where I need to be.”

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡ three months later ｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

“Are you sure you can’t see anything?”

Your eyes are wide open, and all you see is pitch darkness. Andrew is apparently as meticulous at securing bandannas around a person’s forehead as he is everything else he does in life.

No surprise there.

“Honey, I’m positive,” you laugh, repeating yourself for the third time since you got home from class no more than five minutes ago. Andrew had been waiting to greet you, as he usually is, with a blindfold in hand. That part was unexpected, but you have quickly learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to Andrew. He never disappoints.

He had asked if you trust him (he knows that you do) and proceeded to secure the black cloth around your eyes before guiding you down the hallway to the spare room of yours and his new place, which he recently set up as a study room for you.

“Ready?” He murmurs, one hand on your lower back as the door creaks open.

You step into the room. “I don’t know. Am I?”

He chuckles softly, bringing his hands to where the cloth is tied behind your head and then pauses. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take it down.”

“Take it down?” You echo, brows scrunching beneath the fabric.

He answers by letting the cloth fall away from eyes.

What you see is the very last thing you expect.

Right in the very center of the room, directly in front of where you stand, is a dance pole. Damn near identical to the one you had in your Los Angeles apartment. The one you hadn’t bothered to bring with you to Oceanside, because you had been so eager to leave everything about your life there behind. Everything.

Or so you had thought, until very recently when you began to find yourself missing one, and only one, thing. Dancing.

Not dancing for money, not dancing for men, but just dancing. By yourself, for yourself.

You had mentioned it to Andrew in passing only yesterday, that you wish you had kept your dance pole when you packed your entire life into your car and happily drove from Los Angeles to Oceanside to be with him.

Now, not even a full twenty-four hours later, he has both acquired and installed one since you left for class this morning.

You don’t even realize that you’re just staring at the pole, wordlessly, until Andrew clears his throat.

“Like I said, I can take it back down. It isn’t a big deal.”

“What?” Your gaze snaps to him. “No, it’s not…it’s perfect. I was just thinking,” you murmur.

His eyebrows lift slightly. “What are you thinking about?”

Since you came to Oceanside three months ago, you and Andrew have taken things relatively slow in your relationship, aside from the obvious of living under the same roof.

Things started in such an unexpected and unconventional way, but once you got here, your newfound dynamic was able to settle with a sense of normalcy. You may have met in a strip club, killed your boss together, and had your first kiss all in a week’s time, but Andrew still took you out on a proper first date and has been nothing but patient with letting the relationship progress at a pace that you’re comfortable with - physically, mentally, and emotionally - while processing everything that you’ve been through in the last few years and starting your life over at the same time.

Never, in a million years, would you have expected such beauty to come from such trauma, but it did. Because of him, it did. He was the light waiting for you on the other side of the darkness.

You shrug, grinning softly. “About how much I love you.”

Andrew’s hazel eyes widen in surprise. It’s the first time you have said those three words aloud. It’s not the first time you have thought them, but it is the first time you have verbalized them.

After the initial shock fades from his face, it’s replaced with the grin that you’ve fallen in love with waking up to every morning. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you by taking your face in his hands and slotting his lips against yours. Your arms instinctively wrap around his thick torso, melting into his embrace as he kisses you in a way that is both familiar and takes your breath away.

He murmurs the next words out of his mouth against yours in between kisses, his voice low and sincere.

“I love you very much.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

thank you SOOOO much if you read to the end of this!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated and will make me love you forever.

“-is not available, please leave a message at the tone.” Pope cursed and smashed his thumb against the red call icon. Where the hell were you?? You always answered his calls, no matter what. Hell, one time you were having sex and still answered him, panting into the phone and giggling while answering his questions. Pope pushes his tongue against his cheek in anger at the memory before dialing your number again.

You however, did not have the luxury of your phone. Tied to a chair somewhere in someone’s basement. It’s cold and smells like old water. You’ve banged your head up pretty good so you’re in and out of consciousness until some asshole slams the light on, blinding you momentarily.

“Pope did say you were a pretty little thing.” you can hear a man’s raunchy expression in his tone, and it makes chills shivers up your spine. Finally able to peek your eyes open from the light you find him in-front of you, you don’t recognize him. “Told me allll about his perfect wife” he spits out. You’re confused about whatever he’s talking about, looking around the room trying to make out anything you can. The man grabs your chin in between his fingers making your eyes snap to his with a grunt.

“Think you’re worth $30,000 to him?” he scoffs and walks over to a bag you can see. Pulling out something and walking back over to you. You finally make out that it’s your phone, he shoves it into your face to unlock it and when the screen lights up your heart drops deeper than it already had.

53 missed calls-andrew cody 🐇

“Where the fuck is she, Smurf?!”

Pope’s voice boomed through the big house. He didn't bother knocking, nearly taking the front door off its hinges as he stormed into the living room. His chest heaved, his knuckles white around his phone, the screen still glowing with the red text of another failed call.

Smurf didn’t even look up from the kitchen island where she was slicing up a plate of apples. She picked up a slice, popped it into her mouth, and chewed slowly, her sharp eyes tracking his pacing.

“Calm down, baby. You’re sweating through your shirt,” she said, her tone dripping with that suffocating, motherly calm that usually managed to ground him, or push him right over the edge. “Who are we looking for?”

“You know who, Smurf! She’s not answering!” Pope slammed his fist into the drywall next to the fridge. The plaster cracked under his knuckles, but he didn't even blink. He shoved the phone in her face. “Fifty three times. I’ve called fifty three times. She always answers. You know she does. Even if she's pissed at me she-” his voice breaks as he shakes his head.

Smurf’s eyes narrowed slightly, the nonchalance finally slipping away to reveal the calculating thoughts underneath. “Maybe she’s out, baby. Maybe she’s tired of you smothering her.”

“No,” Pope snarled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly tone. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, his jaw locking. “Something’s wrong.”

Meanwhile, miles away in the damp, freezing dark, the phone screen finally went black, cutting off the blinding light.

Your chin still throbbed where his fingers had dug into your skin. You swallowed hard, trying to blink away the tears of frustration and fear. Fifty three missed calls from Andrew Cody. Not 'Pope.' You had saved him under his real name, with a stupid little rabbit emoji next to it because of how he used to twitch his nose when he was overthinking things around you.

The man holding your phone stared at the lock screen, a nasty, jagged grin spreading across his face. “Andrew Cody,” the man read aloud, mocking the name. “Sounds like a fucking boy scout. Doesn't sound like the psycho everyone in Oceanside is terrified of. Let’s see if he’s ready to pay up.”

He violently grabbed your hair, yanking your head back so hard your neck popped, shoving the phone right in front of your face again. “Unlock it. Now. Or I start taking teeth home to him instead.”

Your face trembled as he forced it against to the screen. The phone clicked open. Before you could even process the bright grid of your apps, the man was already tapping the top contact. He hit dial and put it on speaker, holding it inches from your mouth.

Back at the house, Smurf was just about to reach out and touch Pope's arm to calm him down when the phone in his hand vibrated, the ringtone cutting through the tense silence of the kitchen. Pope didn’t even look at the caller ID. He flipped the phone open so fast it practically snapped.

“Where the fuck are you?!” he growled into the receiver. There was a heavy, agonizing beat of static on the other end. Then, a wet, shaky breath that made Pope’s entire body freeze. “...Andy?”

Your voice came through the speaker, tiny, cracked, and absolutely terrified. Pope’s vision went red. He didn't scream. He didn't rage. He just stopped breathing.

“Baby,” Pope said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, dropping into a pitch that made even Smurf take a step back. “Where are you?” Before you could answer, a rough hand snatched the phone away from your face, and a man’s coarse, mocking laugh filled the line.

“She’s a little tied up right now, Pope,” the guy sneered into the phone. “But if you ever want to see this pretty little thing breathing again, you’re gonna bring thirty grand to the old docks by midnight. No brothers. No Smurf. Just you and the cash. You got that, psycho?”

Pope didn't look at Smurf. He didn't look at the cracked wall. He just stared straight ahead, his eyes completely dead. "Who is this" popes growling into the line. The man on the other end lets out a loud, mocking whistle, clearly getting off on the control he thinks he has over the situation. He presses the phone even closer to your face, wanting you to hear every single bit of his power trip.

“Who I am doesn’t matter, Cody,” the guy sneers, his voice echoing off the damp concrete walls of the basement. “What matters is what I’ve got. And right now, I’ve got the only thing in Oceanside you actually give a shit about.”

To emphasize his point, he digs his knuckles hard into your fresh head wound. A sharp, pathetic whimper tears from your throat before you can stop it, the pain blinding you all over again.

On the other end of the line, the sound of your pain hits Pope like a physical hit. His chest stops its erratic heaving. His jaw locks so tight the muscles in his neck strain against his skin. Smurf watches him, her hand hovering in the air, her expression shifting from maternal annoyance to genuine calculation.

“You hurt her again,” Pope says, his voice dropping into a tone so low, so entirely devoid of human emotion, that it makes the mans smirk falter for a fraction of a second. “You touch her again, and I’m gonna peel the skin off your face while you’re still breathing.”

The guy swallows hard, his bravado slipping just enough for his tone to turn defensive and angry. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a real tough guy on the phone, psycho. You’ve got till midnight. Thirty grand. The old docks, warehouse four. You show up with a single one of your brothers, or if I see Smurf’s truck, I put a bullet in her pretty head and drop her in the ocean. You hear me?”

“Midnight, Cody. Don’t be late.” The line goes dead. The silence in Smurf’s kitchen is deafening. Pope slowly lowers the phone from his ear. His knuckles are completely split open from where he hit the drywall, blood sluggishly dripping down his hand, but he doesn’t even feel it. Smurf steps forward, her voice low and sharp. “Baby. Look at me. Who was that? Did you recognize the voice?”

Pope doesn't answer her. He doesn’t even look at her. His mind is already racing, mapping out every inch of the old docks, calculating the time, the distance, and exactly how many different ways he can kill a man with his bare hands. He walks right past Smurf, heading straight for the hall closet where the heavy-duty duffel bags are kept.

“Andrew!” Smurf barks, taking a step after him. “We need to call Baz. We need a plan. You can’t just walk into a setup with thirty thousand dollars of our money!” Pope stops dead in his tracks. He turns his head just enough to look at her over his shoulder, his eyes dark and entirely hollow. “It’s not your money,” Pope says, his voice terrifyingly calm. “It’s mine. And I’m going to get her.”

The man shoved the serrated blade under your chin, forcing your head up. The cold steel was a sharp contrast to the stinging heat of your wound. “You hear that, princess? That’s the sound of a man who’s lost his mind. But he’s gonna find it real quick when he sees you bleeding out on this concrete.”

You tried to speak, but your throat was scorched. All you could do was stare at your phone, lying face up on the table. The screen flickered one last time, a notification from a weather app or a random text, showing the bunny emoji next to his name before the display timed out into total darkness.

Smurf didn’t follow him to the closet. She knew that look. It was the look he had right before he did things they had to spend months cleaning up. She stood in the kitchen, the half eaten apple browning on the plate, and listened to the heavy, rhythmic thud of Pope packing.

He didn't grab the cash from the floor safe. Instead, he pulled out a heavy roll of duct tape, a pair of industrial pliers, and a short barreled shotgun he’d kept hidden behind the water heater.

“Baby, listen to me,” Smurf said, her voice dropping to that sharp, manipulative whisper. “If you go in there guns blazing, they’ll kill her before you cross the docks. You need a distraction. You need J to loop the security feeds at the docks.”

Pope stopped. He was standing by the back door, his silhouette framed by the moonlight leaking through the screen. He turned his head, and for a second, Smurf saw it, the grief behind the rage. “He heard her cry,” Pope said, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over broken glass. “He made her make that noise, Smurf. On purpose.” He didn’t wait for her response. He stepped out into the night, the screen door slamming shut with a finality that made Smurf flinch.

At the docks, the man was getting impatient. He picked up your phone again, scrolling through your photos. He let out a low whistle, turning the screen toward you. It was a candid photo you’d taken of Pope a month ago, he was looking at you, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes soft and human.

“Look at this,” the man mocked, shoving the screen into your face. “He looks like a normal guy here. Almost fooled me.” He tossed the phone into a dark corner of the dock. “But we both know what he is. And he’s late." The man turned toward the stairs, heading for a crate of beer he’d stashed, when the silence of the night was punctuated by a sound that didn't belong.

It wasn't a car engine. It wasn't a shout. It was the steady, metallic clink of a chain being dragged across the wooden floorboards of the docks. The man froze, his hand flying to the holster at his hip. “Cody? That you?” No answer. Just the sound of the chain, followed by a heavy, wet thud, the sound of the docks night watchman hitting the floor.

The man’s bravado vanished in an instant. He lunged for you, grabbing your chair and spinning you around to use as a shield, burying the barrel of his revolver into your hair. “Come out, you psycho! I’ll do it! I’ll pull the trigger right now!” “Andy?” you whispered, your voice a broken plea into the dark. A match struck.

The tiny flare of light illuminated the top of the stairs to the dock. Pope was sitting there, perched on the top step.. He wasn't holding the shotgun. He was holding a flare. He looked down at the man, his eyes reflecting the flickering red flame, his face a mask of pure unnatural calm.

“You have five seconds to take your hand off her hair,” Pope said, his voice echoing through the hollow docks. “Four.”, “I have the gun, Cody! I have the gun!” the man screamed, his voice breaking into a sob.

"Three." The man’s grip on your hair tightened in sheer panic, his fingers twisting into the strands as he yanked you back against his chest. The barrel of the gun dug so hard into your temple that your vision swam. “I’m not playing, Cody! I’ll blow her fucking head off! Step back up those stairs!”

Pope didn’t step back. He didn’t even blink. The red glare of the flare caught the split, bleeding knuckles of his right hand as he slowly let it drop to his side. "Two.......One."

The word hadn’t even fully left Pope's lips before he tossed the burning flare straight down the stairs. It bounced once, twice, a blinding light of choking red smoke that filled the air. The man’s eyes instinctively tracked the light, his gun hand wavering for a fraction of a second, and in that fraction, Pope was gone from the top step.

He didn't run down the stairs; he dropped, crashing into the wooden boards floor with a heavy momentum. Before the man could re-aim, a hand gripped his wrist. A sickening crack echoed through the air as Pope twisted the man’s arm entirely out of its socket. The gun clattered to the floor, useless.

The man let out a high pitched, gurgling scream, but Pope caught him by the throat mid shriek, slamming him violently against the damp wooden floor right next to your chair. The impact rattled the foundation, knocking the wind out of the guy and turning his scream into a pathetic, wet wheeze.

Pope didn't hit him. He just held him there, pinned by the throat. The red smoke curled around them like fog. "You made her cry," Pope whispered. His face was inches from the man's, completely unbothered by the toxic smoke, his eyes wide and completely blown. "I told you what I’d do."

"P-please," the man choked out, his face turning a deep, bruised purple as his hands clawed uselessly at Pope’s iron forearms. "The money, Smurf," he choked out.

"I don't care about Smurf," Pope growled, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly quiet, gravelly tone. His tongue pushed hard against the inside of his cheek. "And I don't care about thirty grand."

With a sudden, explosive burst of violence, Pope slammed the man’s head into the boards. Once. Twice. The thuds were heavy, wet, and final. The man’s body went completely limp, his legs folding beneath him like paper as Pope finally released his grip, letting the guy slump into a heap on the floor.

The nights air fell dead silent, save for the rhythmic, dripping sound of old water and the frantic, shallow breaths tearing from your lungs.

Pope stood over the body for a long moment, his chest heaving slightly, his knuckles dripping fresh blood onto the man’s jacket. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the terrifying stiffness in his shoulders collapsed.

He turned to you. "Hey," he breathed, his voice cracking. The monster vanished, replaced instantly by the frantic, desperate boy who twitched his nose when he was overthinking. He dropped to his knees in front of your chair, his hands hovering over you, trembling violently, terrified that touching you might hurt you more. "Hey, hey. Look at me. Baby, look at Andy." His big hands cradling your face.

You blinked through the smoke and the tears, the pounding in your head matching the frantic beat of your heart. "Andy..." you choked out."I'm here. I got you," he muttered frantically. He reached behind the chair, his bloody fingers working the knots with an erratic, desperate speed. The moment the ropes gave way, he didn't pull back. He gathered you into his arms, pulling you against his chest so hard it nearly took your breath away.

He buried his face into your neck, his whole body shaking as he breathed you in, oblivious to the blood, the smoke, and the body rotting three feet away. "Fifty three times," he whispered against your skin, his voice breaking completely. "You always answer."

He pulled back just enough to frame your face in his hands again. His palms were rough, stained with the man’s blood, but his touch was incredibly light, as if you were made of glass he had already broken once. He scanned your face, his eyes darting frantically to the gash on your temple, his jaw clenching so hard it looked like it might snap.

“He hit you,” Pope whispered, and the hollow, dark eyed shadow of the "other" Pope flickered back for a second. “He hit you?” “I’m okay,” you lied, your voice trembling. Your head was throbbing in time with your pulse, and the smell of the red flare was making your stomach churn. “Andy, let’s just go. Please. Let’s just leave.”

He didn’t move. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, catching a stray tear before it could fall. He looked like he wanted to crawl inside your skin just to make sure you were still breathing.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the sound of tires screaming on the sand outside. “Pope!” J’s voice echoed from the top of the stairs, sharp and urgent. “Pope! We gotta go! Smurf called it in, she’s trying to burn the guy before he talks, but the cops are two minutes out!”

Pope didn’t even look toward the stairs. He was staring at you, his thumb still stroking your cheek. He looked like he hadn't heard a word.

“Pope!” J was at the bottom of the stairs now, his eyes wide as he took in the scene, the crumpled body, the smoke, and Pope kneeling in the center of it like a dark saint. “Leave him! We have to get her out of here now!”

At the mention of getting you out, Pope finally snapped back. He stood up in one fluid motion, scooping you out of the chair as if you weighed nothing. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. He smelled like gunpowder, salt air, and the expensive laundry detergent Smurf insisted on using.

He marched past J without a word, his stride long and certain. He didn't take the stairs; he headed for the back loading dock, that led straight out to the water. The cool night air hit you like a physical relief, clearing the smoke from your lungs.

He reached his truck, the front end crumpled and steaming from where he’d rammed the building in his panic to find you, and set you gently into the passenger seat. He didn't get in immediately. He leaned into the cab, his hands gripping the headrest on either side of your head, pinning you with a look that was so intense it felt like he was memorizing your soul.

“You’re never going anywhere without me again,” he said. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a possessive growl. It was a statement of fact, as cold and heavy as the ocean behind him. “You hear me? Never.”

You nodded slowly, reaching up to touch the back of his hand. His knuckles were raw and split, but his hand didn't shake anymore. “I lost my phone,” you whispered, the concussion making your thoughts loop. “I lost it.” your whining in front of him on his leather seats.

Pope’s expression softened, a jagged, painful, looking twitch of a smile pulling at his mouth. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “I’ll buy you a phone, bunny,” he muttered, his breath warm against your lips. “Just don't stop answering.”

He slammed the door shut, rounded the front of the truck, and climbed into the driver's seat. As he pulled away from the pier, the sirens grew louder, but Pope didn't look back at the flashing lights. He just reached across the center console, taking your hand in his and squeezing it until it hurt, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

When you arrive back at the Codys house, it's quiet, but you think maybe it's just the ringing In your ears. Popes leading you inside with a hand on the small of your back and you can hear Baz and Smurf talking about the cleanup, about what happened.

Pope takes you into his room, sitting you down on his bed. He's kneeling in front of you, big hands resting on your thighs. "Im sorry, angel. Im sorry fuck- I couldn't protect you and I-"

"Andy." your soft low voice cuts him off. "Don't do that." "You saved me, you saved my life" your hand moves to cradle his cheek and he leans into your palm. His eyes are brimming with tears but he stands and shakes his head, you watch. He opens the door to his connecting bathroom, running warm water on a rag and brining it over to you.

He sits next to you on the bed and tilts your face towards him, starting to wipe the blood and clean you up. After he gets most of it off he offers you a shower, you accept it after the shit show of a day you've had. Pope brings you a fluffy big towel and one of his oversized lived in t shirts and some boxers. Kissing the side of your hair before sending you to the bathroom.

Once you're done, and you've scrubbed your skin almost raw you emerge from the bathroom, in his clothes and smelling like his body wash, and pope is pretty sure his heart stops seeing you there. He's sitting on the bed, scrolling through apples website looking at the newest iPhones.

You settle next to him, the bed dipping slightly under the weight of another person. You grab the lotion off his nightstand and start rubbing it into your legs. "Can I ask you something..?" you pipe up from next to him.

"Anything." he puts his phone down immediately, focusing all his attention solely on you. "That guy," you sigh softly, still rubbing in the lotion. The bedrooms illuminated by one warm toned lamp. "He said something about you telling him about me, being your wife...?"

Pope stills a little next to you, not speaking just yet. "How'd you know him?" you ask quietly, head turned to look at him. "Prison." he talks with his head down, looking at his folded hand that rest on his thighs. "Why'd you...tell him I was your wife?"

He finally lifts his head so his eyes meet yours, "Because, in there nobody knew you as my friend. They knew you as the woman who came to see me every chance she could. Like their wives did, and I thought.....if I can't have you out here, maybe I could have you in there somehow." he looks back down, "Im sorry, I understand if your mad and don't wanna sleep in here, or even talk to me anymore."

Your hand moves to cup his face, turning his face to meet yours. ""Andrew," you whisper softly "I would never be mad at you for that." "You would want me as your wife?" you whisper, a smile on your face.

"Id want you however you'd let me." he says bashfully. The air in the room softens, the heavy tension that had gripped Pope’s shoulders suddenly melting away under the warmth of your hand. For a second, he just stares at you, as if trying to process that you aren’t pulling away, that you’re actually smiling.

"Andrew," you say softly, your thumb tracing the line of his jawline. "Look at me." He brings his gaze back up to yours, his dark eyes vulnerable in the dim, warm light of the bedside lamp. The vulnerability is almost jarring on a man who usually carries himself with so much guarded caution, but with you, the walls are completely down.

"I'm not mad," you reassure him, your voice a gentle anchor. "Not even a little bit. If anything... it makes me happy to know that's how you thought of me. That I was your person, even when things were at their worst."

A small, breathless laugh escapes his lips, a mixture of pure relief and disbelief. He places his hand over yours where it rests on his cheek, his palm warm and grounded. "You're serious? You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"

"I don't say things I don't mean, and you know it," you reply, shifting slightly closer so your knees brush against his thigh. The scent of the lotion wafts between you, clean and familiar. "You really sat in there dreaming up a whole marriage for us?"

A faint flush creeps up his neck, and he looks down for a split second with a bashful, boyish grin before looking back at you. "Maybe. Can you blame me? Every time they called my name for visitors, and I walked out and saw you sitting there... it was the only part of my week that felt real. Everyone else had family or a partner. To me, you were more than just a friend. You were my entire home."

He leans into your touch slightly, his fingers intertwining with yours as he gently pulls your hand down from his face, holding it securely between both of his on his lap.

"If I had known that," you whisper, your heart doing a strange, fluttering flip in your chest, "I would have started wearing a ring to visitation." Pope’s eyes darken with an intense, quiet affection. He squeezes your hand, his voice dropping an octave, completely sincere. "Don't tease me about that. I'd go out and buy you the real thing tomorrow if I thought you'd actually say yes."

"Andrew. If you went out and got a ring... I’d say yes." A sudden, fierce emotion flashes across his face. Before you can even take your next breath, Pope shifts, dropping your hand only to cup both sides of your face. His palms are warm, his touch incredibly gentle despite the sudden intensity radiating off him. He leans in close, his forehead gently resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Say it again," he commands softly, his voice thick with a raw, desperate kind of hope. "Don't kid with me right now. Please."

"I'm not kidding," you whisper, closing the tiny distance between you to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. When you pull back just an inch, you look straight into his dark eyes. "I love you. I've loved you through all of it. If you want me as your wife, I'm yours. I'm saying yes."

A sound that's half laugh, half sob breaks from his chest. He closes his eyes tightly, pulling you into his lap. His arms wrap around your waist, lifting you slightly as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He holds you so tightly it’s almost hard to breathe, but you just wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him right back.

"God, you have no idea," he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled but pure. "You have no idea how many nights I sat in a cell just praying for a life where I got to keep you. I thought I was losing my mind, making up stories just to get through the day."

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, a bright, breathtaking smile breaking across his face, a look so open and happy you’ve never seen it on him before. He hooks a thumb under your chin, tilting your face up.

"Tomorrow," he says, his eyes blazing with absolute certainty. "First thing in the morning, we're going. I don't care if it's the biggest diamond in the window or a simple band, I'm putting a ring on your finger so everyone knows exactly who you belong to."

You laugh, the pure joy of the moment bubbling up. "Andrew, we don't have to rush-" "Yes, we do," he interrupts, a playful but possessive edge to his tone as he leans down to kiss you again, deeper this time, pouring every ounce of the love and relief he’s kept locked away for years into it. When he pulls away, his thumb strokes your cheekbone. "I've waited long enough. You're not getting away from me now."

Pope’s thumb drags across your lower lip, pulling it down just enough to see the flush of your skin. The air in the room feels like it’s thickened, charged with the sudden, heavy realization that the someday he’d hallucinated in a cell was finally standing right in front of him.

"You have no idea," he growls again, his voice dropping into a low tone that vibrates against your chest. "How many times I’ve looked at you and had to force myself to stay in my lane."

He doesn't wait for a response. His hand moves from your cheek, sliding back into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands at the nape of your neck to tilt your head back. He kisses you again, but the gentleness from before is gone, replaced by a hungry, demanding heat. It’s the kiss of a man who has been starving, and you’re the only thing that can fix it.

You moan softly into his mouth, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart through his shirt. The friction of your legs, still slick with the lotion you’d been applying, rubs against the rough denim of his jeans as you shift closer, trying to eliminate every last inch of space between you.

Pope groans, a sound of pure want, and he maneuvers you until you’re flat on your back against the mattress. He follows you down, pinning you with his weight. The bed dips low, the warm lamp casting long, flickering shadows against the walls as he breaks the kiss to trail his lips down the column of your throat.

"I’m never letting you go," he mutters against your skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear. "You’re mine. Everywhere. In here, out there... it doesn't matter. You're the only thing that's ever belonged to me, thats ever been just mine."

His shaky hands roam your body with a new sense of ownership, confident and wandering. He finds the hem of your shirt, his calloused palms dragging over your ribs, sending sparks of electricity through your nerves. Every touch is a claim, a silent promise that he’s going to spend the rest of his life making up for the time he spent away from you.

You arch into him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back. "Andrew," you breath out, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips find the hollow of your collarbone. He lifts his head, his dark hair messy, his eyes dark and blown out with need. "Say my name again," he whispers, his hand sliding lower, his touch firm and intentional. "Tell me exactly what you want, angel"

Andrew doesn’t give you a chance to answer. His mouth crashes back down on yours, deeper this time, his tongue tangling with yours in a slow, possessive rhythm that makes your head spin. There is no hesitation left in him; the careful boundaries he had spent months, years, maintaining have completely disintegrated.

He hooks his fingers into the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing it blindly onto the floor. When his bare chest presses down against yours, the heat of his skin is a shock to your system. He’s solid, broad, and slightly rough against you, the friction of his chest hair sending a wave of goosebumps across your skin.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. The lotion on your thighs makes the contact slick and warm against his jeans, a deliberate contrast that draws a low, ragged growl from the back of his throat. He shifts, pinning your hips to the mattress with the heavy weight of his thighs, ensuring you can feel every inch of how much he wants you.

"Andy, please," you breathe out against his lips, your hands sliding down his spine, your nails digging into the tense muscles of his lower back.

He arches into the touch, his hands traveling down your sides to grip your hips, his calloused thumbs digging into your hip bones with a bruising intensity. He breaks the kiss, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and frantic against your skin. His lips trace a burning path down to your collarbone, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp before soothing the spot with his tongue.

"I’ve spent fucking years imagining the scent of your skin," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly whisper against your throat as his hands slide down to the waistband of your shorts. "Sitting in the dark, trying to imagine the exact sound you make when I touch you right here."

His fingers slip beneath the fabric, his warm palm cupping your hip, his thumb caressing the soft skin of your inner thigh. You arch your back, a soft, breathless moan escaping your lips, and pope catches the sound in his own mouth, drinking it down like a man dying of thirst.

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his chest heaving, his dark eyes completely consumed by devotion. With one deliberate movement, he reaches down and rids both of you of the remaining barriers, his gaze never leaving yours for a single second.

When he settles back between your thighs, the sheer heat of him is overwhelming. He leans down, his forearms framing your head, his fingers tangling deep into your hair as he presses his forehead against yours.

"You're it for me," he whispers, his voice thick with an intensity that shakes you to your core. "Forever. Tell me you’re ready please baby, need to feel you." "I'm ready," you whisper back, pulling his face down to yours. "Andy, I'm yours."

He slides into you in one smooth, deep push, a low groan tearing from his chest as your body tightens around him. You gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as he freezes, letting you adjust to the sudden, stretching fullness of his fat cock. The sensation is blinding, a rush of pure pleasure radiates from the center of your core.

He waits until your breath hitches in invite, and then he begins to move. His pace is slow at first, agonizingly deep, the head of his cock hitting your cervix each time. The bed creaks softly beneath his steady, rhythmic thrusts, the warm light of the lamp casting long, shifting shadows of your tangled forms against the wall.

With every movement, the friction builds, a tight, coil of tension gathering low in your stomach. Andrew shifts his grip, sliding his hands under your thighs to lift you higher, altering the angle so he hits you even deeper. A sharp, loud cry escapes your lips, and he catches it with a fierce, bruising kiss, his movements turning faster, harder, driven by a raw desperation that has been locked away for far too long.

You lose yourself in the steady, relentless heat of him, your head tossing against the pillow, your fingers scratching against his back as the pleasure spirals out of control. Popes breath is ragged in your ear, his name a constant, breathless prayer on your lips until the tension finally snaps, sending a wave of blinding ripples through your entire body. He follows you a second later with a heavy, shuddering groan, burying his face in your hair as he pours himself into you, holding you so tightly against him that it feels like you'll never come apart.

The heavy, frantic rhythm of his heart slowly begins to steady against your chest, but Andrew doesn't pull away. He stays buried deep inside you, his heavy frame anchoring you to the mattress, his face still hidden in the soft crook of your neck. He’s breathing in short, ragged bursts, his chest expanding against yours as if he’s trying to swallow the very air you breathe.

"Andrew," you whisper, your voice thick and breathless, your fingers gently tracing the damp line of his spine.

A low, possessive rumble vibrates in his chest. Instead of moving, he shifts his weight just enough to slide his arms under your back, pulling you flush against him as he rolls onto his side, taking you with him. The sudden movement keeps you tightly joined, a sharp intake of breath escaping your lips at the shifting friction. He locks his leg over your thighs, tangling your limbs together so completely that it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins.

He finally pulls his face back, his dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead. In the warm, dim glow of the lamp, his eyes are still heavy, dark, and utterly consumed. He looks down at you with a quiet, reverent awe, his thumb reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from your flushed cheek.

"I used to think I'd wake up," he murmurs, his voice a rough, gravelly scratch. "In that cell. I’d dream about this, about the smell of your skin, the way you feel under me, and I’d wake up to the sound of the guards doing the morning count. I’d just sit there on the edge of the cot, hating the daylight because it took you away from me."

He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your jawline, down to the sensitive pulse point on your neck.

"But you're real," he whispers against your skin, his grip tightening on your hip, his calloused fingers digging in just enough to anchor you. "You're really here. And you said yes."

"I said yes," you breathe out, arching your neck slightly to give him better access, a soft sigh leaving your lips as his tongue traces a burning path down to your collarbone.

The small, involuntary sound you make acts like a spark to dry wood. You feel him harden inside you again, a sudden, thick throb that makes your hips twitch instinctively against his. Andrew groans, a dark, needy sound, and his eyes snap back up to yours. The tenderness from a moment ago instantly sharpens into something hungry, a fierce second wind overtaking him.

"Andy..." you gasp, your hands gripping his biceps as he shifts, pinning you onto your back once more.

"I'm not done," he whispers, his breath hot against your lips. "I'm never going to be done with you. I have years to make up for baby. Every single night I lost."

He doesn't give you a chance to answer. He lifts your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders to open you up completely to him. The angle is incredibly deep, and when he drives back into you with a sudden, powerful thrust, a loud, ragged cry tears from your throat.

Andrew catches the sound with his mouth, devouring it as he begins a relentless, heavy pace. The bed creaks sharply against the wall, the rhythmic sound filling the quiet room as he moves inside you with a fierce, unchecked desperation. His calloused hands grip your waist, steering your hips to meet every deep stroke.

The heat in the room spikes instantly, sweat slicking your skin where your bodies collide. You’re entirely at his mercy, your fingers digging into the mattress as the tension coils tighter and hotter than before. Andrew watches you through hooded eyes, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched in absolute concentration as he drives you both right back over the edge.

The recording studio was supposed to be your big break. As an aspiring singer, the invitation to lay down tracks on a new project felt like the culmination of every late night and shattered dream. You had dressed for the occasion, choosing a beautiful, form-fitting sage green corset top and matching pencil skirt outfit, adorned with delicate white and yellow floral appliques along the neckline, straps, and seams. Your split-dyed sunset orange and fiery red curls were meticulously styled, a bold crown for a day that was supposed to change your life.

Instead, it became a living nightmare.

The three producers in the room didn't care about your voice. The moment the heavy, soundproof door clicked shut, the atmosphere shifted from professional to predatory. They trapped you. The assault was brutal, rough, and relentless, a terrifying blur of hands, muffled screams, and overwhelming force that completely shattered your reality.

When they finally threw you off, you lay gasping on the floor, your body throbbing with a sickening, localized agony. The delicate hook-and-eye closures of your sage green corset were violently torn open, the pale fabric ripped to shreds, stained with a horrifying smear of your own blood where they had dragged you across the rough floorboards. The pretty floral appliques were torn away, hanging by loose threads.

"Go to the bathroom and freshen up," the lead producer muttered casually, lighting a cigarette as if nothing had happened. "We still need to finish recording those vocals. Don't take all day."

You couldn't breathe. Every muscle in your body was shaking so violently you could barely stand. You just wanted to leave, your hands frantically trying to hold the ruined fabric of your outfit together over your chest. You stumbled toward the heavy exit door, but one of the engineers stepped directly in your path, a cold, mocking smirk on his face.

"You heard him. Bathroom's down the hall. You aren't going anywhere until we get what we paid for."

Realizing they wouldn't let you leave, grabbing your bag, you turned and bolted into the small, dimly lit studio bathroom, slamming the door shut and sliding the lock into place. The moment the lock clicked, you collapsed against the cold tile, your knees giving out entirely. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. Shaking, bleeding, and covered in deep, blossoming purple bruises, you fumbled inside your crossbody bag for your phone, your vision blurred by a flood of hot, desperate tears.

You called Deran.

He answered on the second ring, his usual laid-back tone instantly dropping when he heard the raw, agonizing sound of your weeping.

"Deran... please," you choked out, your voice a fractured, broken thread. "Please come get me. The recording studio... they—they wouldn't let me leave. They hurt me, Deran. They were so rough... I'm bleeding, I'm bruised... please, they won't let me out."

On the other end of the line, the silence lasted for a fraction of a second before a terrifying, protective fury erupted from Deran. "Where are you exactly? Give me the address right now." You sobbed out the name of the studio, your body trembling so hard the phone nearly slipped from your hand. "I'm on my way," Deran said, his voice deadly, dangerously calm. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me. I'm bringing Pope and Craig."

For twenty minutes, you sat huddled on the bathroom floor, clutching the shredded, bloody remnants of your green skirt and corset, flinching at every distant footstep in the hallway.

Then came the storm.

The soundproof walls of the studio couldn't mask the sudden, violent chaos that erupted outside. There was a loud crash of a door being kicked off its hinges, followed by immediate, panicked shouting. Craig's booming, feral roar echoed down the hall, followed by the sickening, heavy thud of fists meeting flesh and the sound of glass shattering. The men who had trapped you were suddenly screaming in terror.

Above the chaotic din of the beating, a heavy, authoritative hand knocked firmly on the bathroom door.

"It's me," Deran’s voice called out, uncharacteristically thick with emotion. "It's Deran. open the door, baby. You're safe."

With weak, trembling fingers, you unlocked the door and pulled it open. Deran stood there, his knuckles already split and dripping with blood, his chest heaving. When his eyes landed on your battered form; your torn, bloody outfit, the dark bruises forming on your neck, arms, and face his face contorted in pure heartbreak and rage. Behind him, you could see the main studio room. Craig was ruthlessly throwing one of the producers through a glass partition, while Andrew stood over the lead producer, his face an unblinking, terrifying mask of psychotic focus as he systematically broke the man's hands against the mixing console.

Deran didn't make you look at the carnage. He immediately stripped off his heavy flannel shirt and wrapped it gently around your shivering shoulders, shielding your ruined clothes from view.

"I've got you. I've got you," Deran murmured, scooping you up into his arms. You buried your face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably as he carried you out of the blood-splattered studio, past Craig and a heavily breathing Andrew, who watched you leave with a dark, simmering fire burning in his pale blue eyes.

Deran didn't take you to a hospital knowing the Codys avoided questions at all costs and he didn't take you back to your apartment where you would be alone. He drove straight to the Cody Compound, carrying you into the house and ignoring Smurf’s sharp, questioning look as he brought you straight into a spare bedroom down the hall.

"You're staying here," Deran insisted gently, sitting on the edge of the bed as you curled into a tight, defensive ball, still wrapped in his flannel. "Nobody will touche you here. I promise."

But the physical rescue couldn't stop the severe psychological consequences of the assault from taking root. In the days and weeks that followed, you became a ghost in the Cody house. The trauma completely rewired your nervous system. You didn't leave the spare bedroom, terrified of the open spaces of the house. You stopped eating, revulsion twisting your stomach whenever food was brought to you. Sleep became your enemy. You were so hyper-vigilant and jumpy that even the floorboards creaking outside your door made you gasp and cover your head.

Worst of all, you absolutely loathed being touched. If anyone came within arm's reach, your body locked up, a primal panic taking over your eyes.

When you did manage to fall asleep from sheer exhaustion, the nightmares took over. Nearly every night, the house would be jolted awake by the sound of your raw, guttural screams. You would kick, thrash, and fight against the sheets, desperately trying to fend off the phantom hands of the men from the studio in your sleep.

Deran tried his best to help, frequently checking on you, bringing clean water, and keeping the house quiet, but his busy lifestyle often pulled him away. Slowly, quietly, Andrew began to step into the void.

Andrew understood broken things. He lived in a state of permanent internal chaos, and seeing you shattered by the hands of cruel men triggered something deeply protective, almost sacred, within him. He made it his personal mission to help you survive the aftermath.

The first thing he changed was how he approached you. Knowing how jumpy you were, Andrew never simply walked into your room. He would stand at the threshold, knocking softly against the wood, and announce himself in a low, monotone, grounding voice.

"It's Andrew," he would say, waiting patiently at the door until you turned your hollow eyes toward him. "I'm coming in now."

He never stepped too close, always maintaining a respectful, safe distance that allowed you to breathe. He noticed you weren't eating, your skin growing pale and your frame thinning out. He began bringing small, simple meals up to the room himself. He would set the plate on a small table across from the bed, sitting quietly in a heavy wooden chair in the corner of the room.

"You have to eat a little bit," Andrew said softly one afternoon, his intense, pale blue eyes holding yours with an unblinking, sincere earnestness. "Just a bite. For me. To keep you strong."

Because it was Andrew because he never pushed, never crowded you, and treated you like something incredibly fragile and precious you actually picked up the fork. You ate three bites, and the small, rare ghost of a smile that touched Andrew's lips made something flutter faintly in your hollow chest.

When the night terrors came, Andrew was always the one who ran into the room. He didn't grab you to shake you awake, knowing that would trigger a violent panic attack. Instead, he would stand by the bedside, calling your name firmly and calmly until your eyes snapped open, your chest heaving as you sobbed your way out of the nightmare.

"You're in the house. You're safe," he would anchor you, his large hands resting flat on the mattress near your feet, never touching you without permission. "I'm right here. They're gone."

Once you calmed down, Andrew wouldn't leave. He would retreat back to the wooden chair in the corner of the room. He would sit there for hours in the dark, his massive silhouette a silent, unbreakable sentinel, watching over you while you slept to ensure the monsters stayed away. Seeing him there, unmoving and fiercely protective, became the only thing that allowed you to close your eyes.

As the weeks bled into two months, the deep, jagged wounds of the trauma began a slow, agonizing process of healing. Under Andrew’s meticulous, respectful care, you finally began to settle. You weren't as jumpy anymore. You started leaving the bed to sit by the window, watching the Oceanside sun filter through the glass.

One night, the air in the bedroom felt exceptionally heavy. A thunderstorm was rolling in off the coast, the low rumble of thunder mimicking the dark violence of your nightmares. You lay in bed, staring at Andrew as he sat in his usual spot in the wooden chair, his eyes fixed on the window.

Your aversion to touch began to soften, too but strictly with Andrew. You trusted him implicitly because he had earned it, second by grueling second. He would offer his hand to help you up, always waiting for you to place your palm in his first, letting you dictate the physical boundary. Whenever your skin brushed against his, a quiet, intense warmth would radiate through you. You found yourself looking forward to the sound of his heavy, rhythmic footsteps in the hallway. You were falling for him, deeply and irrevocably, captivated by the profound, gentle soul hidden beneath his intimidating exterior.

"Andrew?" you called out softly, your voice cutting through the shadows.

He turned his head instantly, his focus shifting entirely to you. "Yeah?"

"I don't... I don't want to have a nightmare tonight," you whispered, your fingers nervously clutching the edge of the blanket. You looked at the empty space on the mattress beside you. "Can you... would you sit on the bed tonight? Just while I try to sleep?"

Andrew froze. His pale eyes widened slightly, a rare look of vulnerability crossing his rough features. He hesitated, as if terrified that his presence might somehow bruise you, but the quiet plea in your eyes broke his hesitation. He stood up, walked over to the bed, and carefully sat down on the edge of the mattress, keeping his legs swung over the side, his back resting against the headboard.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely a murmur.

"Yeah," you breathed, moving slightly closer to him, letting your shoulder rest gently against his thigh. "It's perfect."

For the first time since the assault, you slept through the entire night without a single nightmare. There was no screaming, no thrashing, no terror. There was only peace.

When you woke up the next morning, Andrew was still there. He hadn't moved an inch, having stayed awake the entire night just to hold that safe space for you. Seeing the profound relief on your face when you opened your eyes changed something within him.

The next night, without you even having to ask, Andrew walked into the room, announced himself, and went straight to the bed instead of the chair. He sat against the headboard, and you crawled closer, eventually finding the courage to lay your head gently against his broad chest. Andrew’s breath hitched, a full, heavy shudder leaving his body as he cautiously wrapped one massive, protective arm around your shoulders, holding you securely against him.

Lying there, listening to the steady, calming beat of his heart, you fell fast asleep. And as the rhythm of your deep, peaceful breathing filled the quiet room, Andrew looked down at your face, your sunset and red curls splayed across his chest. The fierce, protective instinct in his chest melted into something incredibly profound, heavy, and tender. In the quiet sanctity of that room, safe from the toxic manipulation of Smurf and the violence of the outside world, Andrew fell completely, hopelessly in love with you.

Gradually, he began to sleep, too. The permanent, exhausted lines on his face softened as he slept with you wrapped in his arms, both of you finding a rare, healing sanctuary in each other's presence.

About four to five months passed in this quiet, beautiful routine. You were eating well, your laughter had slowly returned to the quiet corners of the room, and you were no longer afraid of the dark. Andrew had become your absolute anchor, and you had become his peace.

One evening, the house was entirely empty. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching Andrew compile a small plate of fruit for you. He handed it over, his fingers lingering against yours, a soft, intense electricity sparking between you.

You set the plate down on the living room table and looked up at him, your heart swelling with a brave, unyielding affection.

"Andrew," you said softly, taking his large, calloused hand in both of yours. "I need to tell you something."

He sat down on the couch next to you, his unblinking blue eyes fixed entirely on your face, hanging on your every word. "What is it?"

"I love you," you whispered, the words coming out steady, true, and entirely free of fear. "These past few months... you saved me, Andrew. You showed me what it feels like to be safe. I've completely fallen in love with you."

Andrew’s chest rose and fell in a sharp, shallow breath. A sudden, intense emotion flooded his eyes, the heavy, permanent shadow on his face completely lifting. His hand trembled within yours before he reached up, his large palm gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing softly over your skin with a reverence that made your breath catch.

"I love you too," Andrew choked out, his voice thick with a raw, honest devotion he had never expressed to anyone else in his entire life. "I’ve loved you for so long. You’re the only good thing I have. I’m never letting anyone hurt you again."

Leaning in, Andrew closed the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, deep, incredibly tender kiss. It wasn't full of the frantic, desperate hunger of the past; it was a promise. It was a declaration of a new beginning, born from the ashes of trauma and built on an unbreakable foundation of trust. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing in the shared air of a future you were going to build together, completely under the radar.

Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldn’t overdo it. 

As if he could ever say “no” to you. 

“You could smile a bit more, you know,” Steve teased, handing him a beer. 

He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. “I am smiling,” he argued.

His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.

So, yeah, his demeanor was much better. 

“You only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,” Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.

Bucky’s gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away. 

You were glowing.

A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like you’d done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful. 

You were beautiful. 

“Can you blame me for having a smile just for her?” Bucky asked.

“Not at all,” his best friend replied. 

You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didn’t even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. 

You and Sprout. 

Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family. 

Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldn’t help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.

And you just smiled, soft and bright. 

Steve nudged him with his shoulder. “You deserve this, you know.”

Bucky swallowed hard. It didn’t always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, he’d either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.

And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.

“So, you’re saying I deserved to knock up my wife?” he joked to deflect. 

The blonde snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, giving him a small smile. “Also saying you deserve this life.”

His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this. 

His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.

He did deserve this kind of life.

“Thanks, punk,” he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.

“Jerk.”

You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.

Something low and careless.

“Is that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, she’s fucking huge. How many are in there?”

The thought of domesticity and peace left Bucky’s mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous. 

You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.

But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it. 

Super soldier senses really were handy at times.

Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasn’t a friend of his or yours. He was only “invited” because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work. 

That wouldn’t happen again. 

“Better snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.”

My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.

The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

Not yet.

“You know that’s Barnes’s wife, right?” The asshole’s friend shifted uncomfortably. “She’s really nice, and he’s… well, he’s pretty protective of her.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.

No. Can’t kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.

The prick had the nerve to laugh. “So? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?”

…He’s fucking dead.

Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. “Want me to handle him?” he asked, his voice low. 

He exhaled through his nose. Steve didn’t like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.

Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for. 

This was his fight.

“I got this,” he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. “Just keep an eye out for a minute?”

Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious. 

Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldn’t cause a scene out of respect for you. 

But he wasn’t going to stay silent. 

The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately. 

The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile. 

“Hey, man! You-”

“You got something to say about my wife?” he asked, his voice as cold as his stare. 

The man’s eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. “I… What?”

Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole. 

“You were talking about her.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. “My wife.”

The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse. 

“Say it again,” he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. “Where I can really hear you.”

The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. “Um… Barnes, I-”

“My wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.” His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. “And you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I won’t do something about it?”

“I-It was a bad joke,” he tried to reason.

Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood. 

He wasn’t. 

“Oh, now it’s a joke? You think you’re funny?” He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. “You think I’ll laugh while you crack ‘jokes’ about my wife?”

The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of “interrogation” was nothing. Child’s play. 

Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?

“I-I really didn’t mean-”

“Don’t.” His voice dropped even lower. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.

Barely.

But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.

“You know what I see when I look at her?” he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. “I see the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch. 

Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldn’t draw your attention.

I really do have good friends. 

“I’ll say it again. She’s carrying our baby. She’s uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like she’s something to mock when she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.

Good.

Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.

“Get up, Chet,” he ordered.

“Chet’s” mouth fell open. “That’s not my-”

“I know what your name is, and I don’t care,” he cut him off, straightening up. “Because you don’t respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.”

A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled. 

As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didn’t matter.

Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure you are sorry now, but it’s a little too late for that.” 

Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it would’ve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they would’ve missed the firm squeeze. 

“Move.”

The prick didn’t need to be told twice.

He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didn’t make him leave, too. 

The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chet’s pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly. 

It kept him from snapping completely.

Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops. 

Even if they let him off with a warning, he didn’t want to add any stress to your plate.

“Christ, man,” Chet muttered.

“You stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,” Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. “And don’t you ever disrespect my wife again.”

Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I won’t.”

Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, “You’ll never speak about her like that again. You’ll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.”

“I understand,” he swore, his voice cracking.

“Good.” Bucky’s nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. “And the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.”

He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.

Fucking coward. 

Bucky pointed toward the street. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

The idiot practically ran to his car. 

Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.

Where he belonged. 

The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically. 

Still smiling, safe, and his.

He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.

They nodded in return. 

You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too. 

“There’s my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.” You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. “You okay?”

Bucky stared at you in awe. 

God, she’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.

Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too. 

“I should be asking you that,” he replied, his brows furrowing. “Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didn’t take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasn’t the same. 

“I’m just fine,” you assured him, and he knew you weren’t just saying that for his benefit. “But you didn’t answer my question,” you added teasingly. 

Always thinking of me. 

“Yeah,” he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. “Everything’s fine now.”

You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didn’t falter under your gaze. There was no need to. 

“Everything’s fine now, which means it wasn’t fine before,” you guessed. 

Bucky sighed. He should’ve known you’d feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally. 

But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you. 

“Just… needed to throw some trash out,” he said carefully. 

It was true. 

Chet was trash. 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort. 

Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didn’t chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didn’t care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. 

“Hey, Sprout,” he murmured, his entire expression softening. “You behaving for your mama?”

The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.

He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just  threw out. 

“Sprout’s just fine, too,” you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?”

He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that you’d be a good mom. And how you didn’t think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child. 

He wasn’t about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened. 

But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance you’d cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family. 

And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, he’d do it without question.

That was how much he loved you. 

And he’d take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. He’d make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. He’d silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved. 

I love you both so much. 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. “I’m better than okay.”

We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

At first you assumed construction or flooding because of the weather, but then smoke curled upward through the rain and your stomach dropped immediately.

Cars sat mangled across three lanes of traffic at impossible angles. One SUV had spun into the median while another sedan looked almost folded around the back of a delivery truck, its front end crushed so badly it barely resembled a vehicle anymore. Hazard lights blinked weakly through the storm while people stumbled across the interstate in shock.

Your body moved before your brain fully caught up.

“Oh my God.”

You were already unbuckling your seatbelt before the car completely stopped.

Adrenaline sliced straight through your exhaustion hard enough to make your hands shake as you reached for the trauma bag in the passenger seat. Rain hit you instantly the second you shoved the door open, cold water soaking through your clothes within seconds while distant screaming echoed somewhere through the storm.

Someone yelled that a driver was trapped.

Another voice screamed for a medic.

A woman near the shoulder sobbed hard enough she could barely breathe, blood running down the side of her forehead while a man beside her stood completely frozen, staring blankly at the wreckage like his brain had stopped processing reality altogether.

You were already running.

“I’m a doctor,” you shouted over the rain. “Move back and give me some room.”

People listened immediately.

The trapped driver looked somewhere in his forties, pinned awkwardly behind the wheel of the crushed sedan. Blood streamed from a scalp laceration down the side of his face while the airbags hung deflated around him. His breathing came too fast beneath the sound of rain hammering against twisted metal, panic beginning to sharpen around the edges of every inhale.

You crouched carefully beside the shattered driver’s side window, ignoring the glass biting through your scrub pants into your knees.

“Hey,” you said, forcing calmness into your voice despite the adrenaline roaring through your chest. “Can you hear me?”

The man blinked slowly toward you, dazed. “Think so.”

“Good. That’s good.” You adjusted the flashlight between your fingers while quickly checking his pupils. “What’s your name?”

“Leon.”

“Okay, Leon. I’m Dr. Y/L/N.” Your voice stayed steady automatically, years of emergency medicine taking over before panic had a chance to settle in. “Don’t move your neck for me, alright?”

A shaky breath of laughter escaped him. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Despite everything, you smiled a little.

“You’re doing great,” you assured him quietly. “Stay with me.”

And he did.

His eyes kept finding yours every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.

Your hands moved automatically after that.

Pressure against the head wound. Monitoring responsiveness. Keeping him conscious and talking while you assessed what you could from outside the vehicle. Rainwater mixed with blood beneath your fingers while traffic backed up for what looked like miles behind you, headlights glowing dimly through the storm.

Leon kept looking at you every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.

“You work at the PTMC?” he asked weakly after spotting the hospital logo embroidered onto your soaked jacket.

“Unfortunately.”

That got a real laugh out of him, brief and pained but enough that relief loosened slightly in your chest.

“You always this calm when you see a car crash?”

You let out a tired breath through your nose. “No. I’m panicking beautifully internally.”

That made him laugh again.

Patients relaxed faster once they laughed. It was something you learned early in residency, fear loosened the second people felt human again instead of helpless.

So you stayed with him.

Even after the paramedics arrived.

Even after they started finishing the extrication, peeling back what remained of the driver’s side door while rain poured endlessly over the wreckage.

You stayed crouched beside him talking him through every step because shock was already creeping in around the edges of his expression, and every time panic threatened to overwhelm him again, his eyes found yours immediately.

“You’re okay,” you kept saying quietly. “Stay with me. You’re okay.”

The interstate blurred around you in streaks of red brake lights and flashing hazards. Rain soaked through your jacket and scrubs completely now, damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin while your hair stuck to the back of your neck. The adrenaline that had carried you through the crash scene was already fading, leaving behind an exhaustion so heavy it felt physical.

An EMT looked up from the stretcher and did a double take.

“Dr. Y/L/N?”

You snapped back into focus automatically.

“Male, approximately forty-two. Restrained driver. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen currently. Complaining of left-sided rib pain. Possible concussion. Neuro status intact for now, but keep an eye on him.”

The EMT nodded once while adjusting the cervical collar. “Got it.”

They moved quickly after that, securing straps, checking vitals, loading equipment through the rain while Leon tracked every movement with the wide-eyed focus of someone trying very hard not to think too much about what had almost happened.

Your knees ached from kneeling on broken glass. Your hands had started trembling slightly now that nobody urgently needed anything from you anymore.

But you stayed beside him anyway.

Leon caught your wrist weakly just before the paramedics closed the ambulance doors.

“Hey.”

You looked up immediately.

His face looked pale beneath the blood and rainwater, eyes glassy with pain and adrenaline, but there was something steadier there too.

Gratitude maybe.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

The words landed somewhere deeper than they should have.

You swallowed hard before giving his hand one quick squeeze.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Of course.”

For a second, you just stood there breathing.

The interstate still smelled like gasoline and smoke. Somewhere farther down the road another paramedic shouted instructions while tow trucks crawled through the rain toward the wreckage. Traffic in the opposite lanes slowed almost to a stop as people stared through fogged windows at what was left of the crash.

“You riding in with us?” one of the EMTs asked.

You glanced once toward your abandoned car still trapped in unmoving traffic nearly half a mile behind the accident scene. The thought of trying to get back to it right now felt impossible.

“Yeah,” you answered tiredly.

The ambulance doors shut behind you a second later, sealing you inside with the sharp smell of antiseptic, wet clothing, and adrenaline.

Leon talked for almost the entire ride to the hospital.

Nervous talking.

The kind trauma patients did when they were scared enough to fill every silence because silence meant thinking too hard about how close they came to dying. You’d seen it hundreds of times before. Some people cried. Some got angry. Some went terrifyingly quiet.

Leon talked.

So you let him.

He rambled about his job, about his daughter’s soccer game this weekend, about how his wife was going to kill him for wrecking the car because they still hadn’t finished paying it off. Every few sentences his voice shook slightly before he forced another joke out anyway.

You stayed beside him the whole ride, monitoring pupils and vitals while keeping him talking just enough to assess mental status without making it obvious you were doing it.

“You always pick up patients on the highway on your day off?” he asked weakly at one point.

You let out a tired breath of laughter. “Only the lucky ones.”

That earned another shaky smile from him.

The ambulance doors burst open, paramedics already rolling the stretcher down the bay entrance while rainwater dripped steadily from the wheels onto the floor.

By the time the ambulance rolled through the bay doors at The Pitt, you were freezing hard enough your teeth almost hurt. Your scrubs were soaked completely through, your shoes squelching against the floor while trauma staff moved around you in organized chaos.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Santos called across the ER the second she spotted you climbing out of the ambulance bay. “Always a pleasure seeing you this early, Iron Woman.”

You groaned immediately.

You earned the nickname after accidentally mistaking a patient for Robert Downey Jr. during a twenty-hour shift.

To be fair, the goatee had been identical.

“Dana,” you called immediately, falling into step beside the stretcher. “What’s open?”

Dana barely looked up from the nurses’ station. “Trauma Two’s clear.”

“Perfect.” You pushed damp hair back from your face before glancing toward the department. “Whitaker, Javadi, you’re with me. Perlah, can you help set up Two?”

Perlah nodded immediately and disappeared ahead of the group while Whitaker grabbed gloves from the wall dispenser on his way past.

“You look cold,” Whitaker informed you conversationally.

“Thank you,” you replied flatly.

Javadi appeared beside the stretcher while all of you pushed through the trauma bay doors together. “What happened?”

“Restrained driver, approximately forty-two,” you answered automatically. “High-speed MVA during the storm. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen on arrival, complaining of left-sided rib pain and worsening headache. Possible concussion.”

“Vitals stable en route,” one of the paramedics added while helping transfer Leon onto the trauma bed.

Whitaker immediately started attaching monitors while Javadi pulled supplies from cabinets with the frantic efficiency of someone still trying very hard to look calmer than she actually felt.

Then Jack looked up from the computer station.

And somehow, in the middle of the packed emergency department, everything softened slightly around the edges.

You caught the exact moment recognition crossed his face. The exhaustion behind his eyes shifted immediately into concern as his gaze moved slowly over you. Soaked scrubs, blood smeared across your gloves, rainwater dripping steadily from your hair onto the floor beneath you.

Jack crossed the trauma bay almost immediately.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. “What happened? I thought you went home.”

His voice grounded you in a way almost nothing else could anymore.

Maybe it was because he always sounded calm even during chaos. Maybe it was because after years together your body recognized him before your brain consciously caught up. Or maybe it was simply that exhaustion hit harder the second somebody else arrived to help carry it.

“I’m fine,” you answered automatically while stripping off your soaked gloves and replacing them with clean ones. “Probably need a head CT.”

Jack’s expression tightened instantly.

“For you?”

You blinked at him before realizing what you’d said. “What? No. For the patient.”

Behind you, Perlah had already started cutting away Leon’s soaked shirt while Whitaker attached cardiac leads to his chest.

“BP’s holding,” Whitaker called.

“Sinus tach at one-ten,” Javadi added while checking another monitor. “Probably pain and adrenaline.”

“Good,” you answered automatically before stepping back beside the bed.

“Where’s Robby?”

“Overdose in Four,” Dana answered from the doorway.

You nodded once and reached for your penlight again, checking Leon’s pupils carefully while rain continued tapping faintly against the ambulance bay doors behind you.

Santos wandered into Trauma Two looking personally offended. “Why does huckleberry and crash get invited? I can help.”

“You can stand there and look pretty while actual doctors save lives,” you shot back immediately.

Santos gasped dramatically. “Dr. Abbot, your girlfriend is bullying me again.”

“She bullies everybody,” Jack muttered.

But there was no heat behind it.

His eyes lingered on you a second too long.

You knew that look by now.

Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to bury concern beneath sarcasm and exhaustion, but you still caught it every time. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes. The slight tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The way your shoulders sagged whenever you thought nobody was looking.

“You’re freezing,” he said quietly.

“You are correct. I am freezing.”

Without another word, Jack pulled his hoodie off the back of the nurses’ station chair and draped it carefully around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him, smelling faintly like coffee, antiseptic, and the cologne he only remembered to wear maybe twice a month.

Something in your chest tightened stupidly at the gesture.

Behind him, Santos gagged theatrically. “Oh my God. Romance in the trauma bay. I’m going to throw up.”

“Go chart something,” Jack said flatly.

Whitaker looked up from the monitor leads. “Actually, I think it's very sweet."

“You’re all miserable,” you informed them while pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself.

“No,” Javadi corrected while checking Leon’s blood pressure. “You two are just aggressively in love in public.”

Jack looked genuinely offended. “Aggressively? I don't get it."

Despite yourself, you laughed softly while stepping back toward Leon’s bedside.

Leon noticed the interaction immediately.

“That your boyfriend?” he asked weakly from the trauma bed.

“Husband to the emergency department,” you corrected while snapping fresh gloves on. “Boyfriend in real life.”

Jack rolled his eyes while typing orders into the computer. “Don’t encourage her, Leon.”

Leon grinned despite the pain. “You guys are disgustingly cute.”

Under the brighter trauma lights, bruising had already started blooming dark purple across his ribs beneath the rain-soaked skin.

“Headache worse?” you asked while checking his pupils again.

“A little.”

“You nauseous?”

“Not yet.”

“Good,” you answered. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Javadi palpated carefully along his left side while Whitaker adjusted the blood pressure cuff.

“There’s something strangely comforting about you people,” Leon admitted weakly after a moment.

“You say that now,” Javadi muttered.

That earned another tired laugh from him before he winced sharply afterward.

“There it is,” you said softly. “Still joking. Good sign, buddy.”

There was something oddly comforting about patients who stayed conversational. After years in emergency medicine, you learned to appreciate moments where humanity still existed between procedures and bloodwork and trauma assessments.

Sometimes those tiny conversations mattered almost as much as the medicine itself.

Jack stepped beside you while reviewing Leon’s vitals, his shoulder brushing yours briefly in the cramped trauma bay. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, damp fabric, and rainwater now that Leon’s soaked clothing had finally been cut away.

“You should change,” Jack murmured quietly while adjusting one of the monitor leads. “I got this, baby.”

You barely glanced at him, still focused on the chart. “Don’t worry. I’ll survive.”

A tired look crossed his face immediately.

“That’s usually what people say right before passing out.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, though exhaustion dulled most of the energy behind it. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’ve been awake how long now?”

“Eighteen hours.”

Jack stared at you flatly. “That’s not comforting.”

“You stopped at a major accident scene after an eighteen-hour shift?” Javadi asked incredulously.

You shrugged slightly.

And that alone made Jack’s jaw tighten, because that was exactly the kind of thing you always did.

The adrenaline carrying you through the crash scene had almost completely faded now, leaving behind exhaustion so heavy it felt physical. Your wet clothes clung coldly to your skin beneath Jack’s hoodie while every muscle in your body ached now that the immediate crisis had passed.

Jack exhaled softly through his nose before lowering his voice.

“You don’t always have to run yourself into the ground trying to save everybody.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

You focused instead on adjusting Leon’s blanket over his chest, smoothing the fabric carefully just to give your hands something else to do.

Jack knew you too well by now to push after saying something like that.

That was part of what made loving him dangerous sometimes. He noticed things you worked very hard to hide from everybody else.

He noticed the way your hands trembled after bad trauma calls once the adrenaline wore off. How you skipped meals without realizing it during difficult shifts. How every patient death stayed with you longer than you ever admitted aloud.

Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to compartmentalize just enough to survive it, which somehow only made him better at recognizing when you weren’t doing the same.

His hand brushed briefly against the small of your back as he moved toward the monitors again.

“Don’t worry, Leon,” Jack said easily while checking the cardiac tracing. “You’re in good hands.”

Leon looked toward him before his gaze drifted back to you.

“I figured that out already,” he said softly. “She stopped on the interstate for me.”

You glanced up from the chart, slightly surprised by how steady his voice sounded now despite everything.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” Leon continued quietly.

You shrugged lightly, pushing damp hair away from your face. “Part of the job.”

“Maybe,” he answered softly, still watching you carefully. “But most people would’ve kept driving.”

Something warm and uncomfortable settled low in your chest at that.

Most patients never saw the moments in between all of this. They saw calm voices and steady hands. They saw competence because that was what they needed from you in moments like these.

They never saw the aftermath.

The exhaustion. The panic doctors swallowed in real time just to keep functioning. The way people occasionally locked themselves in supply closets for thirty seconds after bad cases just to breathe before walking back out like nothing happened.

But Leon had seen you kneeling beside twisted metal in freezing rain with blood on your hands while traffic screamed past only feet away.

He’d seen the human part too.

And somehow that felt far more exposing than expected.

Before you could answer, something shifted.

Subtle.

Small enough most people in the room probably would have missed it entirely.

But after years in emergency medicine, your body noticed changes before your brain consciously caught up.

Leon’s breathing changed.

One second it was slow and uneven with postictal exhaustion.

The next it caught strangely in his chest.

His eyes lost focus somewhere over your shoulder while every muscle in his body tightened beneath the blankets all at once.

Your stomach dropped instantly.

“Leon?”

Jack looked up from the monitor station at the exact same moment Leon’s entire body stiffened violently against the mattress.

“He’s seizing!”

Everything exploded into motion.

The seizure hit hard and fast, violent enough that the entire trauma bed rattled beneath him. His back arched sharply while his arms convulsed uncontrollably, knocking equipment sideways as monitors erupted into sharp screaming alarms throughout the room.

“Clock started,” Perlah called immediately.

“Two minutes on the seizure pads,” Whitaker added while grabbing suction.

“Turn him,” you ordered.

You and Javadi moved together automatically, carefully rolling Leon onto his side while his body continued jerking violently beneath your hands. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth where he’d bitten through his tongue while every breath came in horrible choking gasps between convulsions.

“Airway’s clear,” Javadi said quickly, though her voice still sounded tight with adrenaline.

Across the room Jack was already pulling medication from the crash cart while Dana called CT from the doorway ahead of transport.

Then finally, slowly, the seizure broke.

Leon’s body slumped heavily back against the mattress drenched in sweat while ragged breaths tore unevenly from his chest. The room fell briefly into that strange silence that always followed emergencies, where everybody still moved quickly even though the worst part had passed.

For now.

“Let’s get a CT stat,” Jack said immediately.

You nodded once, trying to ignore the tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline spike was crashing again.

“I’ll stay with him until transport.”

Jack hesitated.

Only briefly, but long enough for you to notice.

Something unreadable crossed his expression while his eyes flicked from Leon back toward you.

Concern maybe.

The same quiet tension he always carried after particularly violent trauma cases.

“You sure?” he asked softly.

You frowned slightly. “Yeah.”

Whitaker glanced briefly between both of you like he noticed something too, but before he could say anything Dana appeared in the doorway again.

“Trauma Three needs help now.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

His fingers brushed briefly against your wrist before he stepped away toward the hallway, disappearing almost immediately back into the noise and chaos outside the trauma bay.

The room quieted afterward.

Machines beeped steadily while rain tapped faintly against distant ER windows somewhere down the hall. Whitaker and Javadi had already been pulled into another room, leaving you alone beside Leon while he lay motionless in exhausted postictal confusion.

You dimmed the overhead light slightly before adjusting the blanket higher over his chest.

“Hey,” you said gently when you noticed him beginning to stir. “You’re okay. You had a seizure.”

No response.

His eyes stayed fixed upward, unfocused and confused.

Postictal.

You had seen it hundreds of times before. Disorientation. Confusion. Agitation sometimes. Patients waking terrified because their brains had not fully caught up to reality yet.

Your shoulder ached dully now that exhaustion was settling deeper into your body again. You reached absentmindedly for the chart at the foot of the bed, mentally running through differentials and imaging priorities while waiting for CT to call back.

You missed the shift in him by less than a second.

One moment Leon lay motionless against the mattress, the next his eyes sharpened violently.

Not recognition.

Fear.

Pure terrified instinct.

Your stomach dropped.

“Leon—”

He surged upright before you could finish the sentence.

His hand closed around your throat with terrifying force, slamming you backward into the cabinet hard enough to knock the air violently from your lungs. Pain exploded across the back of your skull as your head cracked sharply against metal.

“Leon!”

The sound came out broken and strangled.

But he wasn’t seeing you.

That was the horrifying part.

His eyes looked completely wild now—unfocused, terrified, empty all at once. Pure neurological panic stripped entirely of recognition.

For one terrible second, training overrode fear.

“Leon,” you gasped desperately, grabbing his wrists instinctively instead of striking him. “Listen to me. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

Nothing reached him.

His grip tightened harder around your throat.

Air stopped.

Panic slammed through you instantly now, sharp and animal and overwhelming in a way you almost never allowed yourself to feel. Your vision flickered violently while you clawed uselessly at his hands, trying desperately to drag in even one full breath.

You needed help.

Safe word.

Your mouth opened automatically.

“H—”

Nothing came out except a rasp.

Leon shoved you backward harder, your skull slamming against the cabinet again hard enough that white exploded across your vision.

The hospital safe word.

You just needed to say it.

“Hula—”

The sound collapsed into another strangled gasp as his fingers crushed tighter against your airway.

Your lungs burned.

Tears blurred your vision from pain and lack of oxygen while movement echoed faintly somewhere outside the trauma bay. People were still moving through the ER completely unaware of what was happening behind the curtain.

Your body was weakening fast.

You forced one shredded breath into your lungs and screamed:

“HULA HOOP!”

The entire department reacted instantly.

The trauma bay doors burst open hard enough to slam against the wall while voices shouted over each other.

Hands grabbed Leon, trying to drag him backward while he fought wildly in blind confusion and terror.

But before anyone could fully pull him away, he shoved you violently across the room.

Your shoulder struck the edge of the cabinetry with a horrible crack before the rest of your body collapsed hard onto the tile floor.

Pain tore through your arm instantly, sharp and wrong enough it barely felt real.

You couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

The room blurred violently while alarms screamed overhead and people shouted your name somewhere nearby.

And through all of it, through the pain and chaos splitting apart around you, your brain found one thing instinctively.

Jack.

You thought about the way he always found you in crowded trauma bays without even trying. The way his hoodie still smelled faintly like coffee and antiseptic around your shoulders. The quiet brush of his hand against your back only minutes earlier.

You wondered irrationally if he was going to blame himself for leaving the room.

That thought hurt almost as badly as the pain itself.

Your eyes slipped closed just as the world dissolved completely into noise.

Jack was halfway through finishing a chart when he realized he had not seen you in several minutes.

He looked up automatically, scanning the department for you out of habit more than anything else. Usually he could spot you immediately no matter how crowded the ER became. You moved quickly when you worked, sharp and focused and impossible to miss once he knew what to look for.

But you were nowhere.

“Hey, Javadi,” he called while signing off medication orders. “Have you seen Dr. Y/L/N?”

Javadi looked up so quickly, like she was a deer caught in headlights. “Uh… no,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. “I haven’t seen her since I left Leon. Sorry.”

Then she disappeared almost immediately toward another patient before he could ask anything else.

He pushed himself upright from the workstation, the familiar ache radiating faintly through his prosthetic. Long shifts always made it worse. The socket rubbed raw after enough hours on his feet, especially during busy trauma nights when he barely sat down.

Normally he ignored it.

Right now he barely felt it at all.

“Dana,” he called, already moving toward the nurses’ station. “Have you seen Y/N?”

Dana barely looked up from the chart she was reviewing. “Pretty sure she’s still with Leon. Why?”

Jack turned the iPad slightly toward her. “They haven’t gone to CT.”

That got her attention.

Her eyes flicked quickly toward the tracking board before settling back on him. “They’re probably backed up upstairs.”

“Maybe.”

But something still felt wrong.

Dana sighed softly. “Jack, she’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

He knew that.

God, he knew that better than anybody.

You were one of the strongest people he had ever met. Smarter than most attendings twice your age. Calm during trauma activations that made residents freeze completely. You handled combative patients, pediatric codes, catastrophic MVCs, and grieving families with a steadiness that still amazed him after all these years.

But that feeling in his chest would not go away.

Dana pointed down the hallway. “I actually need you in Central Fourteen. Chest pain rule-out and Dr. Garcia wants another set of eyes before she calls cards.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, still staring at the tracking board.

“Right,” he muttered distractedly. “Yeah. Okay.”

He turned reluctantly toward the direction of Central Fourteen, adjusting his pace automatically as the prosthetic clicked softly against tile beneath his scrub pants. Fatigue had settled deep into the joint hours ago, making his gait slightly uneven now that the adrenaline from earlier trauma activations had worn off.

Then he heard it.

“HULA HOOP!”

Everything in his body stopped instantly.

The voice was barely recognizable.

Raw. Ragged. Strangled around obvious pain and panic in a way that made every hair on the back of his neck stand upright immediately. For one horrible second his brain refused to process it properly because it did not make sense. Not your voice. Not like that.

And then recognition hit him all at once.

The hospital safe word.

Trauma Two.

Jack’s heart dropped so violently it almost hurt.

No.

The thought hit him before anything else.

No no no.

Adrenaline detonated through his bloodstream hard enough to make him dizzy.

Then instinct took over completely.

“No,” he breathed aloud, already moving before the word fully left his mouth.

He pivoted so sharply pain shot violently through his prosthetic, the sudden turn grinding pressure through the socket hard enough that under normal circumstances it would have staggered him. But right now he barely felt it beneath the sheer overwhelming panic flooding his system.

Fear swallowed everything else whole.

Not the controlled fear he knew from trauma medicine. Not the clinical kind that sharpened your focus during codes and mass casualty calls.

This was different.

This was personal.

Jack shoved past a stretcher hard enough that the wheels screeched across tile while people all around him started reacting at the exact same time. Nurses turned toward Trauma Two instantly at the sound of the safe word. Dana’s head snapped upward from the nurses’ station. Santos was already running before half the department fully understood what was happening.

But Jack got there first.

The curtain outside Trauma Two jerked violently as shouting erupted from inside the room. Monitors screamed overhead loud enough to echo through the entire department while equipment crashed hard against the floor somewhere beyond the drapes.

“Get him off her!”

The words barely registered through the roaring in Jack’s ears.

His pulse was so loud now it drowned everything else out.

He hit the doorway hard enough that the curtain ripped halfway off the track as he shoved inside.

And then he saw you.

Lying on the floor.

Motionless.

For one horrifying second his brain simply stopped functioning.

You were crumpled unnaturally against the tile beside the cabinets, one arm twisted wrong beneath you while blood streaked across the side of your face from where your head had struck something hard enough to split skin open. Jack noticed everything all at once in the brutal hyperclarity trauma doctors developed after years in emergency medicine.

The bruising already forming around your throat.

The abnormal angle of your shoulder.

The way your chest barely moved.

And somehow that was the part that terrified him most.

You were not moving enough.

Leon was still screaming somewhere nearby while Ahmed and two nurses fought to restrain him against the opposite wall, his face wild with postictal confusion and terror. Somebody was yelling for sedation meds. The entire trauma bay had dissolved into complete chaos.

But Jack barely registered any of it.

Because you were on the floor.

And you were not getting up.

Something inside his chest seemed to cave inward violently.

“Oh, honey.”

Then he said your name, and the sound that came out barely resembled the steady, composed voice Jack used during traumas and codes and every impossible shift the hospital threw at him.

This was different.

There was no clinical calm left in him now.

Only fear.

Pure terrified fear.

He dropped beside you so fast pain tore sharply through his prosthetic as his knee hit tile, but he ignored it instantly. His hands shook hard enough he almost missed your carotid pulse the first time he checked.

Then finally.

There. Weak, but there.

Relief hit so hard it almost made him nauseous.

“Oh my God,” he whispered shakily, one bloodstained hand cradling the side of your face carefully while the other pressed against your neck searching for injuries. “Hey. Hey, stay with me. Come on.”

You did not respond.

Jack’s stomach turned violently.

Training forced itself back online in fragmented pieces despite the panic threatening to choke him alive. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Neuro. He assessed automatically even while his brain screamed at him that this was you beneath his hands.

Not a patient.

You.

Blood pressure crash from trauma? Concussion? Cervical injury? Shoulder dislocation? Fracture? Internal bleed?

His eyes flicked instantly toward your throat again and rage flooded him so suddenly it nearly stole his breath.

Finger-shaped bruises were already darkening against your skin.

He hurt you.

The realization nearly made Jack physically sick.

“Jack,” Dana’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as she dropped beside him. “We need to move.”

But Jack could barely hear her.

Your eyelashes fluttered faintly for half a second before falling closed again and something inside him broke completely at the sight.

“No no no,” he whispered frantically, brushing damp hair away from your face with shaking fingers. “Stay awake. Baby, stay awake for me.”

His voice cracked hard on the last word.

That terrified him almost as much as the sight of you bleeding on the floor.

Because Jack Abbot did not lose composure.

Not during traumas, not during mass casualties, not while pronouncing deaths.

But right now panic was tearing straight through him so violently he could barely breathe around it.

And for the first time in years, he had absolutely no idea how to separate being a doctor from being the man who loved you.

“What the hell happened?”

Robby’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as he pushed into Trauma Two with Mohan directly behind him, but for half a second, both of them stopped cold.

The room looked catastrophic. Leon was still fighting violently against security near the far wall, his movements frantic and disorganized while Santos shouted for more sedation. Equipment littered the floor around the trauma bay, overturned trays and scattered supplies crunching beneath people’s shoes as alarms screamed overhead loudly enough to make the entire room feel claustrophobic.

And in the middle of all of it, you were lying motionless on the floor with Jack kneeling beside you.

Blood streaked down the side of your face and disappeared beneath the collar of his hoodie still hanging around your shoulders. Bruising had already started darkening visibly around your throat, ugly fingerprints blooming beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while your left arm rested at an angle that made Mohan’s stomach immediately drop.

“Jesus Christ,” Mohan breathed.

“Security’s got the patient,” Dana snapped, already dropping beside you with Santos. “Probably postictal aggression after the seizure. He went after her.”

Robby moved instantly after that, years of trauma medicine overriding shock the second he reached your side. “Get her on a gurney now. C-spine precautions. Santos, I need vitals. Dana, page CT and tell them we’re coming immediately. Mohan, get me neuro and ortho on standby.”

Everybody moved except Jack.

He stayed frozen beside you on the tile floor, one hand still cradling the side of your face like he physically could not force himself to let go.

“Jack,” Robby said.

No response.

Jack was staring at you with an expression Robby had never seen on him before. Not panic exactly. Worse than panic. Helplessness, maybe, like his brain had short-circuited somewhere between doctor and boyfriend and now could not figure out how to function as either.

“Jack,” Robby repeated more firmly.

That finally seemed to pull him back enough to blink.

“She isn’t breathing right,” he said hoarsely, voice rough enough it barely sounded like him anymore. “He had her by the throat. Her head hit the cabinet, probably. Possible LOC. Shoulder’s definitely dislocated, maybe fractured too.”

The words came out clipped and automatic, pure trauma assessment forced through panic, but his hands were still shaking.

Dana and Santos carefully slid a backboard beneath you while Mohan cut away the remains of the hoodie around your shoulder to assess the injury better. The second the fabric moved, Jack saw the full extent of the bruising spreading across your throat, dark purple already beneath your skin.

“He squeezed hard enough to leave petechiae,” Santos muttered quietly while examining your neck. “Shit.”

Robby’s jaw tightened immediately. “We need airway monitoring. Neck trauma protocol.”

You stirred weakly then, letting out a broken sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as Dana stabilized your shoulder. Jack moved instantly at the sound.

“Hey,” he said, voice softening so fast it almost hurt to hear. “Hey, don’t move. You’re okay.”

Your eyes fluttered halfway open for barely a second before unfocusing again.

“She’s awake,” Jack breathed.

“For now,” Robby answered grimly while checking your pupils with a penlight. “Possible concussion. We’re not ruling anything out yet.”

Jack knew that tone. It was the same one they all used when things might be much worse than they looked initially.

Around them, the room was finally beginning to settle into controlled chaos instead of outright panic. Security had Leon restrained now while Santos pushed sedatives through an IV line with tight, controlled movements. Leon’s terrified shouting dissolved into confused, exhausted mumbling as the medication began taking effect.

“He didn’t know what he was doing,” Mohan said quietly, mostly to fill the horrible silence hanging over the room.

Jack did not answer. Rationally, he already knew that. Postictal aggression, neurological confusion, severe agitation after seizure activity. They had all seen it before. But none of it mattered right now, because every time Jack blinked, he saw your body hitting the floor again.

“On my count,” Santos said firmly while positioning herself near your head. “One, two, three.”

They lifted you carefully onto the gurney, and the second they moved your shoulder, a sharp cry tore from your throat despite your barely conscious state.

Jack physically flinched.

Robby looked at him immediately. “Jack, I need you with me here.”

But Jack still looked frozen. His prosthetic locked slightly as he stood too quickly, pain shooting sharply through the joint while exhaustion and adrenaline crashed violently together inside his body. Normally, he compensated automatically for it. Years of physical therapy had taught him exactly how to move through pain without thinking.

Right now, he barely noticed it. All he could see was you strapped to a trauma gurney instead of standing beside one, and somehow that felt profoundly wrong in a way his brain could not fully process yet.

Dana squeezed his arm briefly as she passed him. “She’s alive,” she said quietly, firmly enough that it sounded almost like an order. “So stay with us.”

Jack swallowed hard, then finally nodded once.

The second the gurney locked into place beside the trauma bed, the room shifted fully into trauma mode. Controlled chaos. Fast hands. Sharply clipped orders. Monitor alarms blending into the constant noise of the ER outside while everybody moved around you with the kind of practiced coordination that only came from years of emergency medicine.

“BP dropping,” Santos called from the monitor station. “Ninety-two over fifty-six. Heart rate one-forty. Pulse ox ninety-four.”

Robby swore quietly under his breath before stepping beside the gurney. “Dana, I need another large bore IV. CBC, CMP, coags, type and screen, lactate. Full trauma panel.”

Dana was already moving before he finished speaking.

Mohan carefully stabilized your cervical spine while Perlah adjusted the collar more securely around your neck. Blood stained the side of your face now, dark against pale skin beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while bruising continued spreading visibly across your throat.

“She’s tachycardic from pain and adrenaline,” Mohan said quickly while palpating carefully along your ribs and clavicle. “Left shoulder deformity obvious. Could be anterior dislocation, maybe proximal humerus fracture too.”

“She hit hard,” Dana added grimly while cutting away the sleeve of your scrub top completely. “Look at the swelling already, poor baby.”

Jack forced himself closer finally, though every instinct in his body screamed at him to stop looking entirely.

Your shoulder looked wrong. Not subtly wrong, catastrophically wrong. The joint sat visibly displaced beneath skin already darkening with bruising while your arm rested protectively against your torso in unconscious guarding. Even barely responsive, your body was trying to protect the injury.

“Y/N?” Robby called firmly while shining the penlight into your eyes again. “Hey, stay with me.”

Your eyelids fluttered weakly, and your lips parted slightly before a small broken sound escaped you, more pain than words.

“There you go,” Dana said softly. “That’s good, hey sweetie.”

“She’s responsive,” Mohan confirmed. “Pupils reactive bilaterally.”

“Any obvious neuro deficits?”

“Hard to assess until she’s more alert.”

Jack swallowed hard. Normally those words would have sounded clinical. Routine. Hearing them about you made him feel sick.

Robby’s fingers moved carefully along your scalp before stopping near the back of your head. “She’s got a laceration here. Probably where she hit the cabinet.”

“How bad?” Jack asked immediately.

Robby looked up briefly. “Needs staples. I’m more concerned about intracranial bleed.”

Jack felt the room narrow sharply around him as his brain supplied every possibility instantly. Subdural. Epidural. Contusion. Diffuse axonal injury. Years of trauma medicine suddenly felt less like a skill and more like torture because now he knew exactly how bad this could become.

“BP’s still dropping,” Santos called sharply.

“Hang another liter.”

Dana connected fluids immediately while Mohan checked your abdomen carefully for rigidity and tenderness.

“She guarding?”

“Little bit.”

“Could just be pain response.”

“Or internal injury,” Robby answered grimly.

Jack closed his eyes briefly. Only twenty minutes ago, he had been teasing you for refusing to change out of wet scrubs. Twenty minutes ago, you had been standing beside him alive and exhausted and rolling your eyes at him. Now you were strapped to a trauma gurney while your coworkers discussed possible brain bleeds.

The trauma bay doors pushed open again.

“What do we have?”

Garcia entered already pulling gloves on, clearly expecting another routine consult before her eyes landed on the gurney. Then she froze.

“Is that...?”

Nobody answered immediately because suddenly saying it aloud made everything feel horrifyingly real.

Garcia moved closer automatically, surgical instincts taking over even while shock still flickered visibly across her face. Her eyes swept quickly across your injuries, taking in the bruising around your throat, the unstable shoulder, and the blood matted into your hair.

“Oh my God.”

Jack looked away sharply at the sound in her voice. He could handle panic, trauma, blood, failed resuscitations, and catastrophic injuries. But he could not handle hearing pity directed at you.

“What happened?” Garcia asked quietly.

“Postictal assault,” Robby answered while reviewing your vitals. “Patient seized after MVC. Became combative during recovery.”

Garcia’s jaw tightened immediately. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Jack, and somehow that made everything worse. Everybody in the hospital knew about the two of you. Not because either of you talked about it much, but because some things became obvious after enough years working together. The way Jack unconsciously searched for you in crowded rooms. The way your voice softened around him even during impossible shifts. The way both of you somehow always ended up side by side during difficult traumas without discussing it first.

And now everybody was watching him try not to fall apart while you lay bleeding in front of him.

“Y/N,” Garcia said gently while stepping closer to assess your airway. “Can you hear me?”

Your brow twitched faintly at the sound of your name.

“Good,” she murmured softly. “Stay with us.”

Jack finally moved closer again until he stood directly beside the gurney. For a second, he just stared at you. Really stared. At the bruises darkening beneath your jaw, at the trembling rise and fall of your breathing, at the blood drying against your temple.

Then very carefully, he reached down and took your hand.

Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm almost immediately.

Tiny movement. Huge relief.

“Okay,” Robby said firmly, forcing the room back into focus. “Let’s move. I want CT angio head and neck immediately. We’re ruling out intracranial bleed and carotid injury.”

Garcia nodded once beside him, already assessing your airway with practiced hands. “Neck swelling’s getting worse.”

Jack saw it too now that she said it aloud. The bruising around your throat had spread darker beneath the fluorescent lights while swelling gathered visibly beneath your jawline. Every breath you took sounded wrong now. Wet. Shallow. Strained enough to make every survival instinct in his body start screaming.

“Pulse ox is dipping,” Santos called sharply. “Ninety-one.”

“Jaw thrust,” Garcia ordered immediately.

Dana repositioned carefully at your head while Garcia leaned closer, studying the bruising around your airway with growing concern. “She may need to be intubated before CT if the swelling progresses.”

The word hit Jack like a physical blow. Intubated. His brain immediately supplied images he did not want. Ventilator settings. Sedation drips. ICU monitors. Neurological checks every hour.

“No,” he said automatically before he could stop himself.

Everybody looked at him.

Jack swallowed hard immediately, realizing too late he had said it aloud.

Robby’s expression softened slightly. “Jack.”

He hated the way Robby said his name right now. Carefully. Like he was one bad second away from falling apart completely.

“I know,” Jack muttered quickly, dragging a shaky hand down his face. “I know.”

But he didn’t. Not really. Because his brain kept splitting violently between two impossible realities. One side of him catalogued injuries automatically. Airway trauma after strangulation. Possible cervical instability. Hypoxia. Concussion. Internal bleeding. Shoulder fracture-dislocation. The other side could barely process the fact that you were lying here at all.

Your breathing suddenly hitched sharply.

Jack’s head snapped toward you instantly.

Your eyes fluttered weakly before opening. Confusion crossed your face immediately while you tried weakly to move, but pain flashed across your expression so fast it made Jack physically tense.

“Don’t,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “Baby, don’t move.”

Your gaze drifted slowly around the trauma bay like you were trying to understand where you were. The bright lights. The people surrounding you. The monitors beeping overhead. Then finally, your eyes landed on Jack.

Relief flickered there instantly. Small. Barely there. Enough to nearly destroy him.

“Hey,” he said softly, gripping your hand tighter without realizing it. “Hey, I’m right here.”

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out at first except a weak breath.

Jack leaned closer immediately. “What?”

Your brow pinched faintly in confusion.

“...Leon?”

The room went quiet for half a second.

Even now, barely conscious and injured and terrified, your first instinct was still the patient. Something inside Jack cracked painfully at that.

“He’s restrained,” Robby answered gently before Jack could. “You’re safe.”

Your eyes shifted again, slower this time.

“Hurts,” you whispered faintly.

Jack looked immediately toward your shoulder. “I know,” he said quietly, voice finally cracking despite how hard he tried to control it. “I know, sweetheart.”

Garcia’s eyes flicked sharply toward him at the sound. Jack almost never lost composure at work. Not like this.

You tried to swallow and immediately winced.

Garcia noticed too. “Throat pain?”

A tiny nod.

“Difficulty breathing?”

Another weak nod.

Garcia looked immediately toward Robby. “Airway’s worsening.”

Robby swore quietly under his breath. “We tube here or risk losing it in CT.”

The room shifted instantly again. More movement. More urgency. Dana reached for airway equipment while Santos prepared sedation meds with visibly tighter movements now. Mohan adjusted oxygen flow quickly while Garcia moved toward the head of the bed.

Jack felt suddenly frozen all over again.

Your eyes moved back toward him weakly, panic beginning to flicker beneath the pain now that you were awake enough to understand pieces of the conversation around you.

“Jack,” you whispered hoarsely.

His chest tightened violently. “I’m here.”

Your fingers curled weakly against his hand.

“Don’t...” Your breathing hitched painfully. “Don’t leave.”

That finally broke him.

Because you sounded scared. You, the person who stayed calm during pediatric arrests and mass casualty incidents and catastrophic traumas that made residents physically sick afterward.

Jack leaned down immediately, pressing his forehead briefly against yours despite the blood and chaos surrounding both of you. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered shakily. “Okay? I’m right here.”

Then your heart rate spiked sharply.

“One-fifty,” Santos warned.

Your oxygen dipped again.

“Eighty-eight.”

Garcia looked up instantly. “That’s it. We’re securing the airway.”

Panic flashed visibly across your face, and Jack felt your hand tighten weakly around his.

“Hey,” he said immediately, brushing damp hair carefully away from your forehead. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Your unfocused eyes found his again.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, even though his own heart was pounding hard enough to make him nauseous. “Just keep breathing for me.”

Garcia stepped beside him carefully. “Jack,” she said quietly. “I need room.”

And suddenly he realized there was nothing else he could do. No medication to order. No procedure capable of fixing this himself. No trauma protocol separating him from the overwhelming terror flooding his chest.

All he could do was let go of your hand and watch other people try to save you, and somehow that felt worse than anything he had seen in his entire career.

And somehow that felt infinitely worse than any injury he had seen in his entire career.

The intubation blurred together afterward in fragments Jack knew would probably stay with him for the rest of his life.

Garcia’s voice turned sharp and clinical the second she stepped fully into procedure mode. “Etomidate ready?”

“Ready.”

“Succinylcholine?”

“Ready.”

“Pulse ox?”

“Eighty-seven and dropping.”

The room moved quickly around you after that. Packaging tore open, monitors screamed softly overhead, and Santos pushed medications through your IV with controlled precision while Dana stabilized your cervical spine at the head of the bed.

Jack stood rooted beside the wall, feeling completely fucking useless.

He had watched hundreds of intubations in his career. He had performed them himself during impossible traumas, with blood filling airways and families screaming outside the room. Usually, the procedure grounded him. Medicine always grounded him because medicine made sense. Algorithms. Protocols. Airway, breathing, circulation. Find the problem and fix it.

But this was you, and suddenly none of it felt clinical anymore.

Your eyes found his one last time before the sedatives fully took effect. Fear still flickered there beneath the exhaustion and pain, but so did trust. Complete trust. The kind that made his chest ache violently because you were still looking at him like he could somehow fix this.

Then your body relaxed beneath the medication.

Garcia moved immediately. “Going in.”

The room fell quieter for a second except for the ventilator alarms and the sound of Jack’s own pulse hammering violently in his ears. He watched Garcia guide the laryngoscope carefully while Robby monitored your vitals from beside the bed.

“Visualized.”

“Tube.”

“Advancing.”

Jack swallowed hard enough that it hurt.

You looked so small suddenly. That was the thought that kept repeating in his head while he stared at your motionless body beneath trauma lights that suddenly felt much too bright. You had always seemed larger than life somehow. Loud when you wanted to be. Brilliant. Sharp-edged. Impossible to intimidate. The kind of doctor residents followed instinctively because even during disasters, you carried yourself like you could handle anything thrown at you.

Now you were lying completely still while somebody else breathed for you.

“Tube’s in,” Garcia confirmed.

Relief swept through the room instantly, subtle but collective.

“End tidal color change confirmed.”

“Breath sounds bilateral.”

“Secure it.”

Dana taped the ET tube carefully into place while the ventilator connected with a soft mechanical hiss. Your chest finally began rising in slow, controlled breaths afterward, steady and artificial and horrifyingly impersonal.

Jack hated the sound immediately.

The ventilator transformed you from injured into critical in a way his brain could no longer avoid.

Robby was already moving again. “Okay, we transport now. I want CTA head and neck, cervical spine imaging, chest CT, trauma series. Somebody call ortho and tell them she’s likely got a fracture-dislocation.”

“She’s still hypotensive,” Santos warned while adjusting fluids.

“Pressure?”

“Ninety systolic.”

“Hang another liter.”

Everything continued moving around him after that, but Jack could barely process any of it fully anymore. The room had narrowed into snapshots burned violently into his memory. Blood staining the collar of your scrub top. Finger-shaped bruises spreading darker around your throat. Your hand slipping weakly from his when they rolled the gurney toward the doors.

He followed automatically beside the bed while they rushed you toward imaging. His prosthetic protested immediately beneath the sudden pace, sharp pain radiating through the socket with every uneven step, but he barely registered it now. His entire body had narrowed itself into one singular instinct.

Stay close. Do not lose sight of her.

Hallway lights blurred overhead while the gurney rattled violently across tile. Nurses moved aside instantly when they recognized who was lying on the stretcher, and somehow that silence hurt worse than panic would have.

People stopped talking when they saw you.

A respiratory therapist physically froze near the elevators before whispering, “Oh my God.”

Jack looked away immediately. He could not handle watching other people realize how bad this was.

Then suddenly, he was left standing alone in the hallway.

The silence hit him all at once.

He stared numbly at the closed doors for several long seconds before finally turning back toward Trauma Two because he genuinely did not know what else to do with himself.

By the time he returned, the room was mostly empty again. The chaos was over. Only the aftermath remained.

One overturned tray still sat abandoned near the wall where it had been kicked over during the struggle. Wrappers and syringes littered the floor beside shattered plastic packaging while a monitor continued beeping pointlessly beside an empty bed.

And blood.

Your blood was still everywhere.

Jack stopped walking.

For a second he just stood there staring at it. Tiny streaks across the tile floor. Smears against the cabinets where your head had hit. Dark fingerprints dried against the bedrail.

His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might actually throw up.

Because the only thing left of you in this room now was blood.

Not your laugh echoing across the nurses’ station during overnight shifts. Not your sarcasm when Santos annoyed you on purpose. Not the warmth of your body curled against his after impossible shifts when both of you were too exhausted to even speak properly anymore.

Just blood.

Jack looked down slowly at his own hands. There was still dried blood caught beneath his fingernails from where he had held your face trying to keep you conscious. More stained the sleeves of his scrub top in dark rust-colored smears that made his chest tighten painfully every time he looked at them.

You were intubated upstairs while trauma surgeons searched your brain for bleeding.

The thought cracked something open inside him.

If he had stayed. If he had trusted his instincts. If he had checked sooner.

“Jack.”

Dana’s voice came softly from the doorway behind him.

He did not turn around immediately. For a second, neither of them spoke while she took in the scene around him. Dana had worked in emergency medicine long enough to understand what trauma aftermath looked like, not just physically, but emotionally too.

Jack looked wrecked. Not outwardly hysterical. That almost would have been easier. Instead, he looked hollowed out from the inside.

“You should sit down,” she said gently.

“I’m fine.”

The answer came automatically, immediate and empty.

Dana almost sighed because they both knew it was complete bullshit. She stepped further into the room slowly, careful with him now in the same way people approached trauma patients who had not realized how badly they were injured yet.

“You’re shaking.”

His hands were trembling badly now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, small uncontrollable tremors moving through his fingers no matter how tightly he clenched them into fists.

“I left her,” he said quietly.

Dana’s expression softened immediately. “Jack.”

“I left her alone with him.”

The guilt in his voice nearly hurt to hear.

Dana moved closer. “You could not have predicted postictal aggression escalating like that.”

“But I should’ve checked sooner.”

Jack laughed once under his breath, but there was absolutely no humor in it. Just panic and exhaustion and guilt twisting together so tightly he could barely breathe around it anymore.

“She sounded scared,” he whispered roughly. “Do you know how bad it has to be for her to sound scared?”

Dana’s chest tightened painfully because she did know. Everybody in that hospital knew how terrifyingly calm you usually were under pressure. You were the person comforting other people during disasters. The doctor residents looked for during bad traumas because your voice never shook.

But tonight it had.

Dana stepped directly in front of him then and reached up without hesitation, gripping the back of his neck firmly enough to ground him.

“Listen to me,” she said softly but seriously. “She is alive.”

Jack swallowed hard. “She squeezed my hand before CT.”

“Then hold onto that.”

His eyes burned immediately at the words.

For a second, he looked terrifyingly close to falling apart completely.

“She was looking at me like she thought she was dying.”

Dana’s face crumpled slightly at the crack in his voice because Jack Abbot almost never sounded fragile. Not after everything life had already put him through.

But this was different.

This was you.

“You know her,” Dana said quietly. “You know how hard she fights.”

Jack closed his eyes briefly because somehow that made this hurt even worse. He did know. He knew the exact stubborn determination living inside you, the way you worked through exhaustion and grief and pain because your body physically did not know how to stop caring about people.

And suddenly, the idea of losing you felt so catastrophic he genuinely could not imagine surviving it.

When you woke up, the first thing you felt was pain.

Not sharp at first. Not localized enough to understand. Just heavy.

A crushing ache spread through your entire body like every bone had shattered somewhere deep beneath your skin. Awareness dragged itself slowly upward through layers of medication and exhaustion while fluorescent hospital light glowed faintly red through your eyelids. For one blissfully empty second, your brain stayed blank enough that you did not remember anything at all.

Then your chest tightened violently around the ventilator tube lodged in your throat.

Panic hit instantly.

Your eyes snapped open as your body reacted on pure instinct, trying desperately to fight the foreign object forcing air into your lungs. The movement sent agony ripping through your throat and jaw so violently it nearly knocked you unconscious again. A horrible choking sound escaped around the tube while pain exploded across the side of your head hard enough to blur your vision immediately.

The monitors beside your bed erupted into sharp alarms.

Then suddenly Jack was there.

He moved so quickly the chair beside your ICU bed nearly tipped backward onto the floor. One second the room felt empty and terrifying and unfamiliar, and the next his hands were hovering carefully near your face like he wanted to touch you everywhere at once but was terrified of hurting you more.

“Hey, hey, don’t fight it,” he said immediately, voice low and urgent. “You’re okay. Breathe with it.”

You could see his mouth moving. Could see panic written all over his face.

But you could not hear him properly.

Everything sounded distorted beneath the ringing in your ears, voices muffled and warped together like you were trapped underwater. The ventilator hissed rhythmically beside you while your chest rose mechanically against your will, and the sensation was horrifying enough to send another wave of panic crashing violently through your body.

Jack kept talking anyway.

You recognized the cadence of his voice more than the words themselves. Calm. Steady. But underneath it there was something rawer now, something desperate he usually hid much better than this.

Your entire body hurt.

Your throat burned every time the ventilator pushed another breath into your lungs. Your jaw ached violently from the intubation while your left shoulder throbbed with deep nauseating pain that radiated all the way down your arm. Even breathing hurt despite the machine doing most of the work for you.

Then memory came back all at once.

The trauma bay. Leon seizing. Hands crushing around your throat. Your head slamming violently against the cabinet. The floor.

You started crying before you even realized it was happening.

Tears slipped silently sideways into your hair while panic clawed straight up your chest hard enough to blur your vision again. You could not stop shaking. Every instinct in your body still screamed danger even though logically you knew you were safe now.

Jack’s entire expression broke the second he realized you were crying.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered hoarsely.

At least you thought that was what he said.

He sat carefully on the edge of the chair beside your bed before reaching for your hand, avoiding IV lines and bruises with practiced gentleness. The second his fingers touched yours, you grabbed onto him desperately enough that pain shot violently through your injured shoulder again.

You did not care.

Jack was here.

And somehow that meant alive. Safe.

Your grip tightened harder around his hand while your breathing turned ragged around the tube again. Jack immediately leaned closer, his thumb brushing shakily across your knuckles while he tried to calm you before you exhausted yourself further.

“It’s okay,” he murmured softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Only then did you really look at him.

And God.

He looked awful.

Dark bruising sat beneath his eyes like he had not slept once since this happened. His hair looked messy in a way that suggested he had spent hours dragging anxious hands through it, and there was something hollowed out in his expression now that made your chest tighten painfully.

You mouthed the question anyway despite the ventilator.

What happened to you?

Jack watched your lips carefully before understanding finally crossed his face. His throat worked once visibly while emotion flashed so openly across his expression it almost scared you more than the pain itself.

He still looked terrified.

Even now.

Instead of speaking, he carefully turned your hand over in his and began tracing slow letters against your palm with his thumb.

Patient attacked you.

The memory crashed back completely after that.

The pressure around your throat. Leon’s empty unfocused eyes. Your body hitting the wall. The terrifying realization that he genuinely did not recognize you anymore.

You jerked violently on instinct before you could stop yourself, panic surging through your bloodstream so fast your vision blurred instantly while the cardiac monitor erupted into another wave of alarms beside the bed.

Jack reacted immediately.

“Hey, hey, look at me.”

You could not fully hear the words, but you knew his voice. Knew the shape of it. The desperation underneath it.

Your breathing turned frantic around the ventilator while terror clawed violently through your chest again. You remembered thinking you were going to die. Not abstractly. Not distantly.

Really die.

And for one horrifying second, lying in this ICU bed unable to speak or breathe on your own, that feeling came rushing back all over again.

Jack kept one hand wrapped tightly around yours while the other hovered uncertainly near your face. He looked like he wanted to pull you against him and protect you from everything all at once but knew touching you too much would only hurt you further.

“You’re safe now,” he kept saying quietly. “He can’t hurt you. You’re safe.”

Safe.

Your eyes darted weakly around the ICU room instead. Machines. IV poles. Bandages. Your leg elevated and immobilized beneath blankets. Soft restraints loosely secured around your wrists so you would not accidentally pull the ventilator tube out while disoriented.

You felt trapped inside your own body.

The panic became unbearable.

Then your eyes landed on the PCA pump beside the bed.

Jack noticed immediately.

His entire face fell.

“Baby…”

You reached weakly toward the button anyway with trembling fingers.

Jack looked absolutely shattered watching you press it. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Heartbroken.

Because he understood immediately what you were doing.

You could not stop the fear. Could not stop the pain.

So you were choosing unconsciousness instead.

Medication flooded slowly through your bloodstream almost immediately afterward. Warmth spread outward in gradual waves, softening the sharp edges of panic first before the pain finally began loosening its grip around your body. The terror still lingered somewhere deep beneath everything else, but it no longer felt sharp enough to suffocate you alive.

Your grip weakened slightly around Jack’s hand as exhaustion dragged heavily at your eyelids again.

Jack stayed exactly where he was.

You could barely keep your eyes open anymore, but you still saw the way he looked at you while the medication slowly pulled you back under.

Completely devastated.

Like watching you choose sedation over consciousness hurt him almost as much as the attack itself.

Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm before your eyes finally slipped closed again.

The last thing you felt before unconsciousness dragged you under completely was Jack lifting your hand carefully toward his mouth and pressing one shaking kiss against your bruised knuckles.

The second time you woke up was somehow worse because this time you stayed conscious long enough to understand what had happened to you.

Pain existed everywhere now.

Not sharp anymore. Not even severe enough in one specific place to focus on. It had settled deeper than that, heavy and constant, wrapping itself around your entire body until even breathing felt exhausting. Every inhale pulled painfully against bruised ribs while your jaw throbbed in slow aching pulses that spread all the way into your skull. The medication dulled the edges enough to keep panic from swallowing you whole again, but not enough to make you forget.

Nothing let you forget for very long.

Garcia stood beside your ICU bed when your eyes finally opened again, flashlight moving carefully across your pupils while monitors hummed steadily around the room. The overhead lights had been dimmed sometime while you slept, leaving everything washed in pale blue-gray shadows that made the hospital feel strangely unreal.

“Hey,” Garcia said softly the second she noticed you were awake. “Welcome back.”

Your hearing still came and went in fractured bursts after the concussion. Some sounds arrived painfully sharp while others disappeared completely beneath the relentless ringing inside your ears. Voices felt warped and distant, like everybody speaking stood underwater somewhere far away from you.

You blinked slowly toward the doorway and spotted Santos hovering there awkwardly holding a bouquet of flowers that looked aggressively stolen from the hospital gift shop. Half the stems bent sideways beneath crinkled plastic wrap while one of the price tags still dangled visibly from the bouquet.

You stared at them for a second before a weak breath of laughter escaped you despite the pain immediately punishing the movement.

Santos looked so relieved at the sound she nearly seemed close to crying herself.

“You scared the absolute shit out of us,” she said quickly, like humor was the only thing keeping her from saying something genuinely emotional instead.

The ghost of a smile tugged weakly at your mouth.

Garcia stepped back after finishing the neuro assessment while Santos moved a little closer to the bed, still clutching the flowers awkwardly against her chest.

“Abbott threatened like six people,” she muttered after clearing her throat.

Your eyes shifted toward her slowly.

“He almost went through security trying to get back to Leon.”

Your stomach twisted instantly.

Leon.

For one horrible second you saw him again exactly as he looked before the attack happened. Pale and exhausted beneath ambulance lights while rain hammered against the windows around both of you. Laughing weakly through pain. Asking if you were always that calm. Looking at you like you were safe.

You swallowed hard against the sudden nausea crawling into your throat.

“What happened to him?” you asked quietly, each word dragging painfully through the ache in your fractured jaw.

Santos’ expression changed immediately. The sarcasm disappeared first. Then the humor.

“He’s okay,” she answered after a moment, voice softer now. “Physically, I mean.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

Santos hesitated before continuing more carefully. “He doesn’t remember anything after the seizure started. Robby thinks it’s the postictal state mixed with the head trauma.”

The room fell quiet after that.

Not awkward quiet.

Heavy quiet.

The kind that settled directly into your ribs and stayed there.

Because the worst part was that you believed her completely.

You knew exactly what postictal violence looked like. You understood the neurological confusion, the blind panic, the total loss of recognition that sometimes followed severe seizures. Rationally and medically, every part of your brain understood exactly what had happened inside Trauma Two.

But emotionally, it still hurt in ways you did not know how to untangle yet.

A strange grief wrapped itself around the fear sitting inside your chest because less than an hour before the attack, Leon had been sitting beside you in the back of an ambulance talking about his daughter and his wife and soccer games and stupid jokes while rain pounded against the windows. You remembered thinking he seemed kind, the sort of patient who apologized too much for being in pain.

You had liked him.

And then suddenly he became the person who nearly killed you.

Emergency medicine was cruel like that sometimes. One second somebody was human to you. The next they became trauma.

Santos stepped closer quietly before squeezing your foot gently through the blanket. “We’ll come back later, okay?”

You nodded weakly.

After they left, the ICU room felt unbearably quiet again. Machines hummed softly around you while rain tapped faintly against distant windows somewhere beyond the hallway. Pittsburgh looked gray outside the narrow ICU window, the city blurred beneath another storm rolling slowly across the skyline.

You drifted in and out for hours after that.

Sometimes nurses came in to check vitals and neuro responses. Sometimes transport arrived to wheel you toward imaging. Sometimes you only woke long enough to register pain before medication dragged you under again.

Then sometime deep into the night, consciousness returned slowly enough that you realized somebody was sitting beside your bed.

Jack.

At first you thought he was asleep.

His head rested bowed carefully against your hand where it lay on top of the blanket, broad shoulders slumped forward like exhaustion had physically crushed him downward into the chair. The dim ICU lighting softened the edges of him enough that for one brief second he looked strangely fragile.

Then you noticed he was shaking.

Your heart cracked instantly.

Jack was crying.

Quietly. Almost silently. But hard enough that his shoulders trembled every few seconds beneath the dim blue ICU lights.

The sight hurt worse than any fracture in your body.

You had seen Jack exhausted before. Angry. Burned out after impossible shifts and mass casualty nights and pediatric codes that left entire departments emotionally gutted afterward.

But you had never seen him like this.

Very slowly, ignoring the pain shooting through your ribs and shoulder, you lifted your fingers weakly toward his hair.

The movement alone was enough.

Jack lifted his head immediately.

His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed beneath exhaustion so deep it looked painful. There was stubble shadowing his jaw now like he had not even thought about himself since this happened, and the healing cut near his cheekbone stood out harshly beneath fluorescent light.

Destroyed.

That was the only word your exhausted brain could find for the way he looked.

Jack Abbott was always the steady one. The person everybody else leaned on during disasters because he never seemed to break no matter how catastrophic things became around him.

Until now.

“I should’ve stayed.”

The words came out rough enough they barely sounded like him at all. Raw. Torn open somewhere deep inside.

You frowned weakly despite the pain. “No.”

“I knew something was wrong.”

“You couldn’t know.”

“I did.”

Jack stood abruptly then, pacing once across the small ICU room before turning back toward you like he physically could not force himself to stay still anymore. His prosthetic clicked sharply against the tile beneath his scrub pants while one trembling hand dragged hard through his hair again.

“I left you alone in there.”

“Jack.”

His face crumpled so suddenly it stole what little breath your bruised ribs could manage.

“When they pulled him off you...” His voice broke completely for one horrible second before he forced himself to continue anyway. “You weren’t moving.”

Your own eyes filled instantly.

Jack pressed shaking fingers hard against his mouth, trying desperately to regain control of himself and failing anyway.

“There was so much blood,” he whispered finally.

The confession hollowed the entire room out around both of you.

You reached toward him carefully despite the pain.

Jack moved back to your bedside immediately this time, like he physically could not tolerate distance from you anymore, and leaned down slowly until his forehead rested carefully against yours.

For a long time neither of you spoke.

Machines hummed softly around the room while rain tapped gently against the windows again. Jack’s breathing still shook every few seconds no matter how hard he tried controlling it, and you realized with sudden aching clarity that he had been holding himself together by force ever since the attack happened.

Probably for everyone else.

For the department.

For you.

Until now.

Finally, through the ache in your jaw and throat, you whispered softly, “You saved me.”

Jack closed his eyes immediately like the words hurt almost as much as the memory itself.

For a long moment he did not say anything at all. His forehead stayed pressed carefully against yours while his breathing shook unevenly every few seconds, and you realized suddenly that he was trying very hard not to completely fall apart in front of you. The effort of it sat visibly in every tense line of his body, in the way his fingers curled tightly around yours like letting go might physically destroy him, in the way his shoulders remained rigid even now like some part of him still expected another disaster to happen the second he stopped bracing for it.

“You almost died.”

The words came out so quietly you nearly missed them beneath the hum of machines surrounding both of you.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you again, and the expression on his face made something ache deep inside your chest because he looked terrified still.

Not panicked anymore. Not frantic.

Just deeply, genuinely terrified in a way you had never seen before.

“I couldn’t get to you fast enough,” he admitted roughly, eyes fixed on your face like he needed constant proof you were still here. “I heard the safe word and I ran, but by the time I got there...” His throat tightened visibly. “You were on the floor.”

You swallowed painfully.

Bits and pieces still came back in flashes more than complete memories. Leon’s hands around your throat. The cabinet slamming against the back of your skull. The overwhelming certainty that your body was beginning to give out beneath you.

Then Jack.

Your eyes drifted slowly across his face now, taking him in properly for the first time since waking up. The exhaustion. The fear. The sleepless hollowing beneath his eyes. He looked like somebody who had been surviving on adrenaline alone for far too long.

“You did get to me,” you whispered carefully.

Jack laughed once under his breath, but the sound cracked painfully in the middle. “Barely.”

“That’s not true.”

His jaw tightened immediately.

You knew that look. The same one he got after bad outcomes. After losses he carried around long after everybody else moved on. Jack had always been harder on himself than anyone else could ever be, especially when the people he loved were involved.

And God, he loved deeply.

Even when he pretended not to.

You shifted your hand weakly against his, ignoring the ache radiating through your shoulder and ribs.

“Jack.”

His eyes lifted back to yours instantly.

“I’m here.”

Something inside him seemed to break completely at those words.

Jack lowered his head again, pressing one trembling kiss carefully against your bruised knuckles before holding your hand against his chest. His heartbeat pounded hard and uneven beneath your fingers, fast enough that you could still feel the leftover adrenaline vibrating through him.

For a while neither of you spoke again.

The ICU remained dim and quiet around you while rain continued tapping softly against the windows outside. Nurses’ footsteps echoed faintly somewhere down the hallway, distant enough that it almost felt like the rest of the world existed somewhere very far away from this room.

Your eyelids had started growing heavy again by the time Jack finally spoke.

“You scared me,” he admitted quietly.

The confession sounded small somehow. Honest in a way that made your chest ache more than the injuries did.

You looked at him for a second before squeezing his hand as tightly as your exhausted body would allow.

“I know,” you whispered.

Jack nodded once, eyes never leaving your face.

Then very carefully, like he was handling something impossibly fragile, he leaned closer and pressed a kiss against your forehead while exhaustion slowly began pulling you back under again.

This time, when sleep finally took you, Jack’s hand never left yours.

A stray guard with a shotgun turned the getaway into a bloodbath and you were the one who took the hit.

Now, you were lying across the leather backseat of Craig’s truck, your head resting heavily in Pope’s lap.

He sat rigid. His hand was pressed firmly against the jagged tear in your ribs, dark blood spilling over his knuckles.

He was staring at your face.

And he saw it.

A thin line of crimson began to pool at the corner of your lips, slipping over your chin and tracking a messy path down your neck.

It wasn't just a graze on your ribs.

Something inside was broken.

Something shifted in Pope’s eyes.

"Craig, I need you to go faster," Pope's voice vibrated with intensity.

"I'm going as fast as I can, man!" Craig yelled. "The cops are all over the highway, I gotta take the back roads—"

"Craig." This time, Pope’s voice cracked. "Please."

Baz glanced back from the front passenger seat, his eyes widening as his gaze landed on the blood smeared across your mouth. "Oh, shit, shit, Craig, man, c'mon."

Pope took the hem of his own shirt, his hands shaking, actually shaking, as he gently wiped the blood from your lips. But the moment he wiped it away, more welled up, bright and warm.

"H-Hey," Pope murmured, his voice dropping into a desperate tone. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your cold skin. "Princess. Look at me. Open your eyes. Look at Pope."

Your eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead. The pain in your chest was a crushing weight, making it impossible to draw air. You choked in a wet cough, and more blood spilled past your teeth.

"Don't do that," Pope unblinking eyes were suddenly glossy, swimming with panic. He clamped his hand over yours, squeezing until it hurt. "You breathe. You stay. You hear me?"

Beside Pope, Deran was on the phone with Smurf, telling her to have the medical kit ready. He turned and his face losing all its color as he saw you. "Is she suffocating? Baz, what do we do?!"

"Keep her head up!" Baz ordered. "Don't let her choke on it! Craig, if you don't get us to Smurf's house in two minutes, you're fucking dead! "

"I'm hitting a hundred and ten, man!" Craig screamed.

Pope slid his arm beneath your shoulders, carefully pulling your upper body up against his chest. He didn't care about the stains covering his clothes. He just gathered you into his arms, holding you like you were made of glass.

"I've got you," he muttered frantically against your hair, as he felt your body grow heavier. His grip so tight it was almost suffocating. "I've got you, princess. Don't leave me here."

You couldn't form words, but you managed to squeeze his fingers. Pope let out a ragged, shaking breath as the truck finally violently whipped into Smurf’s driveway.

Pope didn’t wait. He kicked the door open, his arms securely wrapped around your shaking form. He carried you inside.

Smurf was already coming down the hall, her sharp eyes taking in the scene instantly. Her gaze drifted from the blood on your ribs to the terrifying crimson smear coating your mouth and chin.

Her maternal composure didn't break, but her jaw tightened.

"Pu-Put her on the island," Smurf commanded, her voice cutting through the panic like ice. "Deran, lock the gates. Craig, get the oxygen tank from the garage... now."

Pope laid you down on the cold kitchen island, but he refused to step back. His hands stayed glued to your shoulders, keeping you elevated just enough so you wouldn't choke.

"She's bleeding from the inside, Smurf," Baz said. "The shot may fractured a rib. It might have punctured a lung."

"I know," Smurf said calmly, though her fingers moved with frantic speed as she hooked up the portable oxygen mask Craig had just slammed onto the counter.

She pressed the plastic mask over your nose and mouth. "Breathe, sweetheart. Deep breaths for Smurf."

The oxygen helped, but the pain was agonizing. You let out a choked gasp, coughing violently. The mask immediately fogged with a fresh spray of blood.

Deran looked like he was going to vomit.

"Get the chest tube," Baz muttered to Smurf, his hands shaking slightly as he prepped an alcohol swab. "If her lung is collapsing, we have to relieve the pressure or she’s gone."

"No," Craig choked out, backing away a step, his eyes wide as he looked at the surgical instruments. "No, we need a doctor. We need to take her to a real hospital, Smurf! Look at her, she’s drowning!"

"We take her to a hospital, the cops pick us up before she’s even out of triage!" Baz snapped, his adrenaline turning into pure aggression. "Think, Craig!"

"I don't give a shit about the cops!" Craig screamed, slamming his fist into the refrigerator. "She's dying!"

"Shut up!" Pope’s scream vibrated through the entire kitchen.

The room went dead silent. Craig froze. Pope was leaning over you. He was entirely focused on your fading gaze.

"Hold her down," Pope whispered.

Baz moved instantly, pinning your arms. Deran stepped forward and heavily secured your legs.

Smurf didn't hesitate. She located the space between your ribs, wiped it with iodine, and looked up at Pope. "Keep her still, baby."

Pope leaned his weight over your upper body, his face inches from yours. "It’s going to hurt," he whispered. "It’s going to hurt so bad, princess. But we have you, okay?"

When Smurf made the incision to insert the tube, an agonizing scream was choked out of your throat.

Your body violently arched, fighting against the restraint, but the Cody brothers became a human vice.

Deran was using his strength to keep your lower body pinned.

Baz leaned his weight into your side, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked furiously in his cheek.

Pope kept his forehead pressed against yours, taking the brunt of your agony, letting you squeeze his hand until the bones clicked. "Breathe," he chanted like a prayer, his voice breaking over and over. "Come on. Breathe."

A sharp hiss of escaping air and a rush of dark blood into the drainage tube signaled the release of the pressure.

Your chest suddenly expanded, a clean draft of oxygen finally rushing into your lungs. And the violent trembling in your limbs slowly began to subside.

_

An hour later, the kitchen was a bloody battlefield. Smurf had cleaned you up, stitched the outer wound, and helped the boys move you to the massive couch in the living room, the oxygen tank humming quietly beside you.

The house was on complete lockdown.

Baz was out, staring into the dark pool, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the night. Craig and Deran were sitting on the floor right beside the couch, exhausted and pale, refusing to leave your side.

And Andrew hadn't moved an inch.

He sat on the floor, his hand resting gently on top of your hair. Every time your breathing hitched, his entire body went rigid, relaxing only when your chest rose and fell in a steady, healing rhythm.

You weakly opened your eyes, the haze of the painkillers making everything soft.

You looked at him.

Andrew’s face was still stained with your blood, his eyes shadowed and tired. He carefully took his thumb and wiped away a dried speck of crimson from the corner of your lip.

"You're safe," he whispered. "A doctor is coming, you're going to be okay."

​You managed a weak smile, your hand moving slowly across the blanket to find his.

Andrew didn't hesitate. He took your hand in his, wrapping his fingers between yours. He pressed your knuckles firmly against his cheek, leaning into your skin, his eyes closing for a moment as if he were finally letting out the breath he’d been holding since the backseat of the truck.

​He stayed like that, just feeling your pulse against his face.

Then, he rested his forearm right next to your pillow. He leaned his head down on his arm, his face just inches from yours, his eyes fixed on your face with protective devotion.

He didn't have the words to tell you how close he came to breaking, or how much it meant that you were still breathing.

Today had already been a rough start. Being an EMT was no joke and some days it felt like the calls piled on one after the other. 

You had hoped to be on the way back to ptmc to finish the rest of your shift and see your boyfriend Jack. But another call came in, causing your partner Jay to turn the rig around and head for the address given. 

Dispatch had radioed in a 40-year-old male experiencing chest pain, dizziness, and shortness of breath, potentially the start of a heart attack.

The rig pulls up to the residence where there’s a man sitting in his car, door open, seeming to be in distress.

You grab your medical bag and head to him as Jay and Ollie get a gurney down.

“Hi sir, I'm a paramedic and we’re here to help. I heard you were having some chest pain and experiencing dizziness?”

He grabs at his chest, face drenched in sweat “Just get me to the hospital please. I feel sick. It hurts. It hurts a lot.”

You nod as you take in the information and wave your hand over to Jay and Ollie.

They roll the gurney over and quickly help the man onto it.

“We’re taking you to PTMC sir, we’ll be there quickly.”

He nods with a grimace as he’s loaded into the back with you and Ollie, Jay running to the driver seat.

As the ambulance starts moving you lean down to grab some items to take vitals. You rummage through your bag when you suddenly feel something cold press into the side of your head.

You freeze.

“Dont fuckin move sweetheart.” the man's voice says in a firm tone.

All traces of his “pain” are gone.

You try to calm your breathing despite your heart racing. Looking up you see Ollie with wide eyes and sitting deathly still.

He looks at the man “Sir, how about w-”

“SHUT UP!” he yells at Ollie, face red in rage.

“Don’t move a fuckin muscle or I’ll blow the pretty girl’s brains out. And you–” he looks at Jay who has an unreadable expression as he still drives. “Don’t do anything stupid. Drive to PTMC. My issue is in the building. Do what I say and no one dies here. Got it?” he grits out.

All three of you nod.

The drive feels like it takes hours instead of minutes.

Ollie never takes his eyes off of you, offering silent reassurance.

Your eyes start to water as the situation really kicks in.

You might die.

Jack.

You didn't hug him before leaving the apartment today.

Only a brief kiss on the cheek as you quickly left, already running late.

And that might have been the last time you ever do it.

You're pulled out of your thoughts by a movement from the corner of your eye.

Ollie moves his hand slowly towards a bar leaned against the wall.

It’s not subtle enough as the man sees this too and quickly fires a shot at Ollie's arm, hitting his bicep.

He lets out a cry of pain.

“Ollie! N-” you're cut off as the gun is pressed against your head again.

“Uh uh sweetheart”

The tears roll down your face as you watch the blood pour from Ollie’s arm.

“P-Please sir, let me help him. Please…” you beg through the tears.

You look up to where Jay is sitting and he's gripping the wheel impossibly hard, knuckles turning white. He knows he can't do anything without getting you all killed.

The man looks at Ollie for a solid minute or two.

“Fine. But make ANY more fucking moves like that and you both get a bullet and no one will get to save you.”

You nod shakily as he pulls the gun from your head but still has it aimed at you.

You get to Ollie and quickly apply pressure with some dressing and dig in a bag for a tourniquet.

“I-It’s ok-kay Oll, I got you. You’re g-gonna be okay.” you whisper in tears.

He nods shakily as you pull the tourniquet tight, drawing a groan from him.

“I’m sorry. I'm so sorry.” you whimper.

You beg for a miracle in your mind.

I don't want to die.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The ambulance finally pulls into the bay at PTMC and you take a small breath of relief.

It might be okay now.

Hopefully Jack’s here.

“Alright, everyone out now. You in the front, come get the dumbass back here and walk him in. No one speaks or makes any sudden moves.” the man eyes the three of you as Jay comes to hold Ollie up.

Everyone nods and the ambulance doors are opened. The man lets you down first, gun still pressed to your temple. Jay and Ollie follow at your side.

You all move through the bay doors into the pitt.

No one seems to see the gun at your head until a loud gasp is heard from the counter.

Dana stands still with Trinity at her side.

Her mouth is open as she sees you with a gun to your head and your colleagues covered in blood. She leans over slowly to trinity “Get Abbot or Robby and call a code silver. Quick.”

She nods her head and slips away when the man's eyes scan the room.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Robby, Jack, and Shen are sitting in the breakroom debriefing about crazy cases from the night shift.

Jack laughs at something Shen says, glancing at the doorway. He’s waiting for you to walk in so he can take you home where you both can get the sleep he knows you both need.

Just as Shen goes to recall another case, Trinity runs in breathing hard.

They all look towards her, concern starting to set in.

“Santos wh-” Robby’s cut off

“Code S-Silver” she gets out in between breaths.

The three men freeze.

“What?” Jack asks, voice firm.

Trinity stands up, hands shaking “Code Silver. H-He has a gun. He’s got three paramedics a-”

Jack doesn't hear the rest of the sentence as his attention is locked in at the word ‘paramedics’.

It can't be you.

It can't.

He’s up before he can think of anything else.

Robby and Shen run right after.

“Call the cops Santos! Tell them it's someone armed, potentially an active shooter!” he yells to her before he’s gone.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Jack is the first to get to the pitt and then he sees the scene.

Your coworkers and friends, Ollie and Jay, blood on them both. He can't tell if one or both are injured. 

Then he sees you.

You have an arm wrapped around your neck, holding you in place with the barrel of a gun pressed securely against your head.

The military and SWAT training kick in and he's mentally trying to figure out how to get the three of you out safely.

“Sir, I'm Dr. Abbot. What’s going on? How can I help?” he asks calmly.

“I need a doctor. A real doctor. It hurts.” he grimaces as he spits the words out.

Jack starts to take a step forward “Okay, I can help. Let’s just put the g-”

“NO! BACK UP!” the man yells at him while pushing the gun harder against your head.

You whimper at the pain it's causing and at the fear it strikes in you.

Jack immediately freezes.

As much as he wishes he could get closer, he can't risk your safety.

“Okay, okay. What’s your name and what hurts?”

The man is silent for a beat before speaking.

“Don. A-And my head hurts. Bad. And no one will help me. They didn't help me last time.”

“Who didn’t help you?” Jack questions

“T-The fucking doctor here. Didn’t believe me, that I was in pain. Thought I was a fuckin druggie and I’m NOT!” he shouts, growing more agitated.

“Of course you're not Don. I can help you and get some pain meds for you, but you have to drop the gun.”

Don laughs to himself “Do you think I’m fucking stupid doc? Uh uh, she’s my ticket to making sure I get what I want today.”

“Don, I need a show of good faith. Let the other guys go. One of them is hurt and needs medical attention right now.”

The man looks at Ollie and Jay, it's obvious he feels conflicted.

“Fine. They can go but she stays with me.” Don holds onto your neck tighter.

Jack nods as Shen and Dana grab both paramedics and take them to be treated.

Now he's got only one mission.

To get you.

He looks you in the eyes, seeing the tears and fear.

‘I love you, you're okay’ he mouths to you

His heart breaks when a few tears fall down your face as you mouth back ‘I love you too’.

A flicker of movement from the side catches Jack’s eye.

Heavily armed SWAT officers slowly appear from a side hallway.

‘Okay, I can work with that’ he thinks.

She’s gonna hate me for this.

“Don,” Jack calls the man's name and steps forward.

“What did I say man?!” Don yells.

He swings the gun at Jack now.

Good.

You let out a sob at seeing Jack in danger now.

But he’s not too worried with the gun off of you.

He just needed to give you the chance to move.

He also figures Don will be a lousy shot if he shoots with how unstable and strung out he looks.

Jack takes another step towards you and Don.

“I told you I can help but I need you to listen to me..”

“It hurts Dr. Abbot, I JUST NEED FUCKING HELP!”

Don closes his eyes for a brief minute and holds the gun at his side, losing focus.

The move costs him as a SWAT officer comes from behind and disarms him while another tackles him, handcuffing him quickly.

Jack moves swiftly to grab you, his back towards the commotion to shield you.

“It's okay baby, I've got you. I've got you, sweetheart. You're okay.”

He says against your head as he holds you tight.

A tear falls down his cheek.

“You’re okay.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Don was arrested and taken away soon after being apprehended.

Jack took you to an empty room where he, Robby and Dana fussed over you and checked you for injuries.

You were still in shock and quiet with what had happened but you assured them you were okay, just really shaken up.

You made sure to check on Ollie and Jay before leaving. Ollie was going to have a brief procedure for the bullet wound but was stable. You made Jay promise you to call as soon as Ollie was out of surgery and let you know of any updates.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

After the long day, Jack leads you into the apartment. He hangs your bags up and grabs your hand to bring you to the bedroom.

You’ve not said a word since you got in the truck.

He helps you take off your uniform, leaving you in your bra and underwear.

Before he can grab a shirt for you, you’ve already crawled under the covers on your side.

Jack then changes and gets under the covers.

He gets as close as he can to you, pulling you into his side.

Your head lays on his chest.

“Wanna talk about it baby?” he murmurs into the darkness of the room.

You let out a shaky breath as you nod.

Jack rubs your back in soothing motions as he waits for you to speak.

“I’ve never been ambushed on the job like that. I’ve never seen someone shot in front of me.”

Jack holds you tighter knowing this is hard for you.

“I was just doing my j-job” you start to cry, burying your face into his chest.

“And you did everything right sweetheart. You couldn't have known this would've happened. You're so brave. You saved Ollie and Jay’s lives. That was all you.”

You sniffle and lean up to kiss his jaw.

“I think the scariest part, honestly, was that I may not see you again J. That I didn't kiss you goodbye before shift. Didn’t tell you I loved you today. Don't tell you enough really. That I wouldn't get the chance to anymore.”

Jack feels the tears against his shoulder.

‘Sweet girl, its okay. I get it, I do. When I saw him with the gun at your head I–I thought that would be the last memory I had of you. And im so fucking glad it wasnt.” he kisses the side of your head.

“And baby” he continues “I don't ever doubt your love for me. One, you always tell me you love me. Two, if you don't, you always show me. Buying my favorite coffee, waiting for me to get home to watch our show, saving me the cherry starbursts because they're my favorite, and tons more. I feel loved every day because of you.”

You look at him, this time with happy tears.

“I love you Jack.”

He smiles as he kisses you, hand holding your face to his.

You both pull apart briefly, catching your breath.

“And I love you sweetheart. So much.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The Pitt was not for the weak. Not many med students, or even residents, survived this place. It was chaos in its purest form. One second you’d be dealing with a simple case of allergies, and the next you were stuck three hours past your shift because of a mass casualty.

Nothing was ever predictable here, and that was one of the many reasons you loved it.

Sure, you were constantly exhausted and had little to no social life outside of your coworkers. And maybe finding the balance between work and academic demands would be what finally killed off whatever you had left of your sanity. But you couldn’t see yourself working anywhere else.

The last thing you needed to add to your growing list of challenges was having a crush on the night shift attending.

You tried to suppress it from the second you laid eyes on Dr. Jack Abbot. He was your boss, and feeling anything other than professional admiration toward him was way out of line. But he had these intense, engulfing eyes, a smirk that could have anyone on their knees in an instant, and a way of capturing everyone’s attention that had you clinging to every word that came out of his mouth.

Once you got used to seeing him for twelve hours straight during your shifts, it became a little easier to pretend your heart didn’t race every time he was near. You learned how to laser-focus on the cases in front of you, how to compartmentalize, how to save the yearning and pining for when you were finally off the clock.

Today, though, something else had you distracted.

The shift had been busy, way busier than the night shift was used to. You’d already had two codes, and even though you managed to stabilize both patients, the adrenaline crash left your mind and body completely wiped. Somewhere in between, you’d also dealt with a kid whose parents were beyond overprotective, asking a million questions about every single step it took to figure out he’d broken his wrist after falling from his skateboard.

The end of this shift couldn’t come soon enough.

The moment you got a free second, you dropped into a chair near the nurse’s station and tried to catch up on charting. Labs needed to be attached to files. Notes needed to be written and signed off. Orders needed to be updated. It was, without question, the most boring and grueling part of the job. 

You’d just started finding your rhythm with the mind-numbing task when your phone dinged in your pocket. You fished it out of your scrubs and glanced at the screen. It was an email notification. 

You didn’t even need to open it. One look at the subject line and the sender was enough to make your heart drop straight into your stomach.

“Fuck,” you whisper under your breath as you stare down at your phone. You slump deeper into the old, uncomfortable office chair, almost like you wish it could swallow you whole so you don’t have to deal with any of this.

“Everything alright?”

A familiar voice pulls you out of the spiral you’d started falling into. You look up from your screen and see Dr. Abbot leaning against the counter, arms crossed over it. His hair is a little messy, unruly from the midnight rush the night shift had just crawled out of.

You struggle to focus on his question, trying to hide your complete awe at how he somehow still looks good after five hours in the ER. “Yeah, it’s nothing. Sorry. I’ll get right back to charting.”

He squints at you, very clearly not buying it. “Are you sure? You can take five if you want. Things have quieted down a little.”

“No, it’s…” you start, but then you catch the look on his face, an expression that clearly reads cut the bullshit.

You exhale. “It’s my lease. My landlord’s cutting it short. Apparently he just got this huge inheritance he’s been waiting on and he’s moving to California. Someone made an offer to buy the building a while ago and I guess he finally accepted it. They’re tearing the whole place down and turning it into some kind of retail center.”

Abbot lets out a low whistle, dropping his head for a second. “That’s rough, kid. I’m sorry.” He pauses. “You got any other apartments lined up? Anywhere you can apply?”

“No, not really.” You shake your head, still trying to process it. “I had, like, ten months left on my lease. I didn’t even think about this. Not with the whole… you know. Third year of residency and all.” You glance down at your phone again. “I just got the email. I think I’m still in shock.”

You’re rambling, a little, but he has that effect on people. He makes you feel comfortable enough to let things spill out. Or maybe it’s just you and the crush you’ve been repressing for way too long.

“Alright,” he says, voice softer now, like he can hear the way your thoughts are starting to race. “Hey. Take a beat.” He holds your gaze. “Like I said, things have slowed down. Why don’t you go eat something? Grab some coffee, take a lap, whatever. Then you can do your rounds and check on your patients with a clearer head.”

“I’m really okay, Dr. Abbot,” you insist, even though you don’t sound convincing. “I have a lot of charting to catch up on—”

He cuts you off again.

“What if I take my break with you?” he says, tone calm, but there’s something in it, almost like he's pleading with you. “C’mon. Let’s go get some air outside and eat something. I’ve been starving for, like, three hours.”

You can never say no to this man. Not when he talks to you like that, as if there’s something more intimate, more personal, in the space between the words.

You give in.

“Alright,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. “Let me go grab my zip-up.”

A few minutes later, you’re walking out of the ER with him, heading toward the park bench right in front of the hospital. The night air is cool and a little windy, the kind that bites just enough to wake you up. You’ve always liked weather like this way better than the humid summer shifts where you spend twelve hours feeling sticky and gross with no chance to freshen up.

You both sit on the bench, a comfortable amount of space between each other. Abbot’s holding a brown paper bag and a coffee cup that says Best Dad Award, even though he doesn’t have kids. He must’ve grabbed it from the shared cabinet in the break room. You can’t help but snort softly.

He notices immediately. “What?”

You nod toward the cup. “Best Dad Award?”

He glances down at it like he forgot what he was holding, then shrugs. “It was the cleanest one.”

“Sure,” you say, amused. 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile as he opens the bag. “So,” he starts, “how’s this shift treated you? Too chaotic?”

“Not really,” you answer honestly. “I mean, aside from the part where I was just informed I might be homeless in a few weeks. But you know…at least no one has died yet.”

His expression sharpens instantly. “Don’t they have to give you at least a month’s notice?”

“Supposedly, yeah,” you say, already tired just thinking about it. “But there’s a clause in the contract. Something about if the lease needs to be cut short, they have to pay financial compensation. And if the move-out is urgent, the compensation increases by twenty percent.” You let out a humorless laugh. “I was calculating what they’d pay me and it’s literally pennies on the dollar.”

Abbot huffs, jaw tight. “That’s bullshit.”

You sigh and lean back, staring up at the dark blue sky. There are only a couple stars visible, dulled by the city lights.

“Yeah tell me about it,” you mutter. “It sucks even more because I had a hard enough time finding this apartment in the first place. This is not even a very residential area, but med students have inflated the shit out of the rent prices. Landlords ask for an insane amount of requirements and finding a decent roommate is almost as hard as winning the lottery.”

His brows furrow like he’s actually trying to problem-solve with you. “Don’t you have any friends you can crash with until you figure something out?”

“Not really,” you admit. “All my friends are in one-bedrooms with their partners or already have like three roommates.”

His expression softens, and his voice follows. “I’m sorry, kid. That’s a lot to handle on your own.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, then glance at him with a guilty look. “Sorry for dumping all of this on you. I’m sure you have a lot more to deal with than the struggles of an R3.”

He straightens, turning more toward you so he’s fully facing you now. “Don’t apologize. If venting helps you feel less overwhelmed and gets you through this shift, I don’t mind.”

You swallow, suddenly aware of how close he is. “Thank you,” you say quietly. “I really appreciate it.”

He holds your gaze for a few seconds too long. He looks at you in that intense, unreadable way he does when he’s thinking about ten things at once.

Then something shifts in his expression, you can see that a thought lands.

“I have a spare bedroom,” he blurts.

You blink. “What?”

He clears his throat, like he can’t believe he said it out loud either. “I have a spare bedroom. You could crash at my place for a bit.”

For a second, you just stare at him, completely speechless.

Because your attending—the same man you spent months trying not to blush around every time he praised your work—is offering you his spare bedroom like it’s nothing.

When your brain finally catches up enough to function, you shake your head. “That’s really kind, Dr. Abbot, but I can’t. That’s too much—”

“It’s not too much,” he cuts in immediately. “It’s a room.” He says it like he’s stating a simple fact, like he isn’t massively underselling the situation. “You need a place to stay. And we’re both here all the time anyway.”

You hesitate, staring at him like the words might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable if you look hard enough.

“I’m sure I can find someone online who’ll let me crash for a bit,” you try again, even though you already hate how flimsy that sounds. “I really don’t want to bother you.”

His expression darkens, and his voice drops into that tone he uses when he needs to fully go into senior attending mode.

“You’re not bothering me. It was my idea, and you’re out of your damn mind if you think I’m letting you move in with some stranger from the internet. Even for a day.”

That shuts you up.

You sit there, chewing on the inside of your cheek, staring down at your hands. You should say no. You know you should. It’s the reasonable thing to do, the safe and professional thing. You also know he would drop it if he knew you were serious about rejecting his offer. But you can feel the hesitation on your face and you’re sure he sees it too, the panic you’ve been trying to swallow down all night.

You let out a long breath and finally mutter, “HR isn’t gonna like this.”

He chuckles, and it’s low and warm and unfairly attractive. “HR doesn’t have to know.” He takes a sip of his ridiculous Best Dad Award coffee. “It can be our secret.”

Your stomach flips.

“And besides,” he adds, voice calmer now, “it’s temporary, right? Just until you find another place and get back on your feet.”

“Right,” you say, even though you’re pretty sure you’re agreeing to the hardest possible trial. “Yeah. Temporary.”

You glance at him again, resigned. “Okay. I’ll take you up on your offer. But I promise it’s super temporary. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” he says abruptly.

You blink. “Huh?”

He looks at you like it should be obvious. “It’s Jack. If we’re going to be living together, I think we can move to a first-name basis.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks immediately. You pray to every god you don’t believe in that the wind can pass it off as cold.

“Jack,” you repeat, testing it out, trying to get used to the way his name feels on your tongue.

Ignoring hospital rules and regulations, Dana and Robby ran the distance from the elevator to your room in the ICU. They stopped in the doorway, side by side, and took in the reality in front of them.

You were unconscious in the bed, your face bruised black and blue and swollen. There was a white bandage wrapped around your head and a ventilator tube down your throat, kept in place by tape over your mouth. The room, like you, was hauntingly quiet and still, except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and pump of the ventilator.

You weren't alone in the room however, Jack Abbot was sitting vigilantly at your bedside, his chair pulled right up next to the bed. He was leaning forward, his elbows perched on the bed and one hand covering his other one which was pressed against his mouth in a fist. His eyes were locked on your face and unconscious form and when he spoke, he didn't look away.

"I can't come in for my shift tonight." Jack's voice was low and thick, like something was caught in his throat.

"Jack…" Robby said, his voice heavy with sympathy.

"She was just trying to help someone." Jack's voice held an edge now, anger prickling under his skin. "She was being a good person and this was the thanks she got."

It had been a complete shock to the night shift crew when the paramedics had announced that the assault victim they had brought in through the ambulance bay was you. It seemed like the whole department rushed forward to help get you into Trauma 1 and start assessing you. Jack's body had moved on autopilot, pulling the gurney into Trauma 1 and transferring your unconscious body to the hospital gurney with the help of the other night shift staff, while his heart and mind reeled at the sight of your bruised and bloodied face.

You were in a c-collar to keep your head and neck stable, and Jack noted that your forearms and hands were bruised and scratched. Jack had enough lived experience to recognize that kind of wound pattern. Those were defensive wounds. Jack bit back unexpected bile that rose up his throat as one of the nurses cut away your clothing. Jack noticed the imprint of a boot on your shirt and he had to clench his teeth hard to keep his emotions in check.

Another staff stepped forward to suction blood from your mouth and throat, the paramedic who was bagging your oxygen stepping back to give room, while another resident prepped the equipment to intubate you and provide an airway. Jack barely heard the paramedics as they listed off the injuries - facial trauma, cracked ribs, blunt force trauma to your torso, suspected pneumothorax - and their assessment results - blood pressure 70/40 and unresponsive in the field - over the blood rushing through his ears.

Four hours ago you were smiling at him during shift change, the two of you speaking in quiet tones as Jack complimented your hair and confirmed your availability for your second date that coming weekend. Four hours ago he watched you walk away feeling lighter than he had in years, actually looking forward to the future. Four hours ago you were fine. Now you were lying on the gurney in front of him and Jack felt like all the air in his chest evaporated.

Lena, the night shift charge nurse, had thankfully taken notice of Jack's tunnel vision as he began examining you and probing your injuries, and she took charge to order half of the people crammed into the room out to make space to work. Jack ordered medications and tests in a daze as Ellis checked your chest, while Bridget, one of the nurses, took over squeezing the oxygen bag after the intubation was completed.

"What the fuck happened?" Ellis asked as she noted bruising to the skin covering your ribs.

"Bystander said she stepped in to stop a man who was hitting his girlfriend. The man turned on her instead and the girlfriend ran off. The guy got a few good blows in before the elderly convenience store owner across the street came out with his shotgun and scared the guy off." The paramedic explained.

"Yeah? And what was the bystander doing? Twiddling his thumbs while he watched?" Ellis shot back in anger as she prepped your chest for a chest tube to address the pneumothorax.

Before the paramedic could reply, the machines in the room began beeping rapidly as your stats started to fall. Jack's heart seized in panic as the number went dangerously low. Walsh, seemingly having appeared out of nowhere, opened your eyes to flash her pen light over them.

"Her pupils are blown. She has a brain bleed, we need to get her upstairs to surgery now!" In a flurry of movement, the team got everything they needed mobilized and rushed you over to the elevator to bring you up to the OR floor. No one questioned Jack getting into the elevator with you but he was stopped by Walsh at the surgical wing doors.

"I got it from here." She said with a hand outstretched to physically stop Jack from going any further.

"Emery." Jack's voice wavered when he said her name, his eyes still fixed on your gurney as it was rolled down the hallway away from him. Walsh paused, not having heard Jack sound so scared in a long time. He'd put a lot into her name - please help her, please save her, don't let her die - and Walsh understood all of it. She'd known Jack a long time, she'd been there overseas when his leg had been blown off, she was the one who made sure he didn't bleed out and saved his life. For lack of a better term, she was one of his best friends.

"I've got her Jack." Without another word, she took off through the double doors to follow you down the hall to surgery. Jack stood there staring, completely frozen, for who knows how long. He wasn't actually sure how he got from the hallway to the waiting room, probably a nurse who took pity on him and guided him to a chair.

As much as he knew that he was needed downstairs, Jack wasn't in any state to be helping patients. He couldn't even feel his limbs. His mind just spun with images of you, the pretty smile you gave him over your shoulder has you'd left earlier in the evening and then of your face spattered with blood and swollen from the beating you took. Frustration and anger filled Jacks chest and he put his head in his hands.

He was going to be sick.

He was going to cry.

He was going to stand up and kick the waiting room chair across the room.

In the end Jack didn't do any of that. Instead he sat there, palms pressed against his eyes, and tried his best to breath.

Hours long brain and abdominal surgery later, Jack ended up where he was now, sitting next to your bedside in the ICU.

Dana moved slowly into the room and around to the opposite side of the bed. She carefully ran the back of her fingers over your purple tinted cheek, her other hand holding onto the crucifix around her neck in a habitual gesture of comfort. Robby came over to stand next to Jack and placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Did they-" Robby's voice was strained and he coughed in an attempt to clear it. "Did they catch the man who did this?"

"I don't know. I've been here all night." Jack remained unmoving, not taking his eyes off you for even a moment.

"There are some cops downstairs talking to the victim of a hit and run. I'll ask them to look into it for us." Dana offered as she looked down at you, her face painted with a soft sorrow. She took one of your hands in both of hers and bent down to place a tender kiss on the back of your hand before she turned and left. Robby backed away until he was standing at the foot of the bed.

"I have to go back to the Pitt. The staff need help, they're all distraught over the news." Robby's hand squeezed the strap of his backpack. "Tell us if there are any changes."

"I'm not leaving until she wakes up." Jack finally turned his head and looked Robby in the eye. "I was serious about what I said. I'm not coming into work tonight. In fact, consider this conversation my official Leave of Absence request."

"Jack."

"Robby." Jack's tone left no room for argument. The two men paused for a moment, staring at each other as a silent conversation passed between them. Robby nodded once and left, and Jack knew that he hadn't escaped the uncomfortable conversation with Robby about what his words implied. In a normal situation, an attending would not be requesting time off to sit at his residents bedside. Robby could read between the lines and Jack would have to explain himself later.

But he didn't need to do that now. Right now, you were all that mattered.

The next few hours passed in a blur. Walsh stopped by to check on you after her shift ended, reminding Jack that the surgery went well and your stats were good, it was on you now to wake up. A somber Mel came by to drop off a coffee and a sandwich that Jack suspected was from Dana. Mel took note of your stats, asked Jack if he needed anything, and returned to the ED to update everyone. A few more doctors on the surgical and ICU teams came by to check on you throughout the day but for the most part it was you, Jack, and the beeping machines keeping each other company all day.

Jack was crazy about you. It took him a long time to admit it since the last time he felt this way was with his late wife. His feelings for you hadn't been instantaneous, it started off slowly, quietly, with conversations in the break room on the rare slow night, which became coffee exchanged at shift change on other days. Talking about the weather and plans for the weekend became deep and meaningful conversations about your dreams and aspirations, and your traumas and self-care. Snacks exchanged in between patients turned into Jack taking you out for breakfast after a long night shift. Those meals turned into time spent together on the weekends with you asking Jack to teach you some self-defense and the two of you exercising together.

Jack eventually got up the courage to ask you on a date and the two of you went to this small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant that he knew of. In the secluded corner of the restaurant, you two shared a meal and intimate conversation, and Jack found himself laughing more than he had in years. He got you flowers, your favourite kind, and held your hand on the walk after dinner. When he dropped you off at home, he didn’t kiss you goodnight, but you did kissed his cheek in thanks and told him you were looking forward to seeing him again.

You brightened up Jack’s day, you made him feel more alive than he had felt in years. He hadn’t gone up to the roof in months. His therapist knew about you and had encouraged the relationship.

All he could think about now was the second date he had planned and the possibility that the two of you might never go on it. Jack tried to keep his mind from spiraling into a pit of despair, but he couldn’t help it. So many things had gone wrong in his life, first his father leaving and his mother passing, then his leg having to be amputated, and in more recent years, the death of his wife. Jack almost felt foolish, thinking he would be able to have something as lovely as you in his life. He knew it was early and he didn’t want to scare you off, but the truth was that he loved you and he hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell you yet.

As the day winded down closer to shift change, Jack was startled to his feet by the sound of you choking. Relief flooded through Jack's bones as your body fought the intubation tube, indicating you were awake and able to breath on your own. He slapped the call button before ducking out of the room to quickly grab a pair of gloves and come back in to help you.

"It's alright sweetheart." Jack said as he removed the tape from your mouth and helped to pull the intubation tube from your throat. "Try and cough." He instructed as he gently pulled. A few staff ran into the room to help and Jack smiled when you took a big gasp of air when they fully extubated you.

The nurses were quick to wipe the spit from your mouth and chin, and a surgical resident, Garcia, began asking you questions and attempting to shine a light in your eyes to gauge your pupil response. You groaned faintly at the uncomfortable crowding of your body, your eyes squeezed shut, and tried to weakly raise your arm to wave the staff away.

"Hey." Jack said sternly, the loud, commanding sound of his voice catching the attention of everyone in the room and halting their movement. He carefully pushed Garcia's hand away from your face and waved a hand sharply at the rest of the staff in a silent gesture to get them to back up too.

"She's been unconscious for over fifteen hours. Give her a minute."

"Jack," You murmured, your voice low and scratchy from the intubation tube. Jack immediately turned his full attention to you, bending down to be in your eye line.

"Hey." He said softly as he rested his hand carefully on your shoulder. With a considerable amount of effort, you were able to open your eyes and look at his calm, caring face. You licked your very dry lips and tried to speak again.

"C-" Your voice cracked and you groaned. Jack rubbed his thumb encouragingly over your shoulder and he nodded slowly for you to try again. "Can I have some water?" Jack glanced over his shoulder and made eye contact with a nurse who got the message and left the room.

"Garcia needs to do a cognitive and physical exam, okay?" Jack said to you in a gentle voice. You hummed your acknowledgement and Jack nodded at Garcia to go ahead. Jack stayed right by your side as Garcia checked your eyes, the feeling in your limbs, and asked you a few questions to test your memory. You passed all the tests with flying colours and was rewarded with some sips of water. Garcia's pager went off and she spoke to Jack as she walked out.

"That's the ED. I'll let them know she's awake." Soon the rest of the staff filtered out until it was just you and Jack again. He took up residence in the chair he'd been occupying for the past day and took your hand in his. You did your best to squeeze his hand and his mouth twitched with a smile.

"I tried to fight back." You said after a moment. Jack shifted to the edge of his seat, getting closer to you, and raised his free hand to cup your face. "I used everything you taught me but he hit me so hard I couldn't see." Tears welled up in your eyes and Jack knew it wasn't from the memory of the attack, but at the disappointment you felt in yourself.

"You did everything you could and you're alive. That's what matters." You swallowed past the lump in your throat at his words and you did your best to smile. Jack was doing a good job of keeping it together, of being your steady rock during this horrific ordeal, but you could see the whisper of fear in his eyes, just past the loving look. You noticed he was still wearing his scrubs.

"What time is it?"

"A little past 6pm. You were brought in last night."

"You've been here all day?" You asked, a hint of disbelief in your voice.

"Of course," Jack said quietly, his thumb rubbing tenderly across your cheek. "Where else would I be?" The feeling of love that inflated your chest was almost overwhelming. Jack had stayed here all day, and from his demeanor and body language, you assumed he planned to stay all night too.

You thought back to your first date, the way the confident and unshakeable Dr. Jack Abbot had almost seemed nervous when he picked you up at your apartment. The look of awe on his face when you opened the door was something you'd remember forever. The night had been perfect, and like a true gentleman he didn't kiss you goodnight because that would be too forward, so you snuck a quick kiss to his cheek because you couldn't stand the idea of finishing the night without being that close to him.

It occurred to you that if last night had ended differently, you would have never gotten the chance to really kiss him.

"Kiss me." You said. Jack hesitated for a moment and you tugged on his hand. "I'm alive." Jack took in a deep breath at your words, letting them wash over him. He pushed off the chair and leaned in, gently pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was delicate and comforting, and when Jack pulled away he didn't go very far, his face still hovering close to yours. His eyes moved minutely, soaking up every detail of your face. He looked at you so adoringly you almost cried.

"Thank you for staying." You whispered, not wanting to pop the intimate bubble around the two of you.

"Of course." He said, like it was an obvious thing he would do, that for him to have done anything else would have been ridiculous. There was no other place Jack was going to be except by your side. The love in your chest bloomed brighter and you smiled.

"Kiss me again."

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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You had long since lost count of time, with nothing but darkness surrounding you and no hope for any light to work its way into this godforsaken pit, days were passing by without your knowledge. It had been years at this point, how many, you didn’t know but long enough for the world outside to be a distant echo and for your presence to have faded into a pitiful whisper.

Years passed by with only the reminders of your old life to keep you company; you often dreamed of those times your brother carved out time in his day to braid your hair or when you would both jump out of the windows late at night to fly over Velaris together. You’d dream of your mother, how she’d let you sit and ‘help’ her make dresses or that time you were so outraged when you were learning how to fly and she pushed you straight from the balcony of the House of Wind so that you had no choice but to fly.

Your days were filled with flashes of them all; your mother, Rhysand, Mor and Cassian.

You wondered how much of life had moved on without you.

Was Rhysand High Lord yet?

If he was, how had your father died?

Had Rhysand found his mate?

Had he made her High Lady like you both always spoke about?

In those extra difficult times that your control slipped even further, those memories of the Shadowsinger would linger the harshest.

You did not like thinking of how much his life had moved on without you.

Rhysand and Feyre stood together in the kitchen of the townhouse, looking through the window into the garden where Elain was tending to the flower garden and Azriel was sprawled out nearby, sunning his wings.

“Do you think the Cauldron can make mistakes with mates?” Feyre asked him, a look of confused anguish on her face.

Rhysand looked towards his mate, surprise dancing in his eyes at her question. “Nobody truly knows what makes the cauldron put two people together. They’re not always perfectly compatible, my own parents were examples of that, they never truly loved each other. Others, like us, are lucky to find love with their mate.”

Feyre continued looking out into the garden. “Why couldn’t the cauldron have made Azriel, Elain’s mate, instead of Lucien. Lucien is good but they look good together,” Feyre pointed out to where the Shadowsinger was still sprawled on the grass.

A pulse of pain pulled through their bond causing Feyre to snap her eyes back to Rhys. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes, it wasn’t just any pain. It was the sort of pain that lingered and dwelled, a grief that would forever remain no matter how much time passed but there was also a subtle protectiveness in his eyes that could almost be missed.

Feyre was confused.

Rhysand swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Do not mistake Azriel’s kindness towards your sister as affection. He is spending time with her because I ordered him too, to try and understand her powers. You’re reading into something that isn’t there.” His voice was stern but not unkind.

Feyre’s brows furrowed at his words. “It would be an honour for Azriel to find his mate, with anyone.”

“Azriel does not want a mate, Feyre.” The sheer confidence in Rhysand’s words only confused her even more.

“But why would he not want a mate? I thought everyone dreams of having one.” She questioned, looking out at Azriel’s figure in the garden.

She thought Azriel of all people would want a mate.

“Azriel has already had his great love,” Rhysand said. “No mating bond could ever live up to that for him. There are loves that even the cauldron cannot compete with.”

“What?” Feyre asked, shock taking over her face. “Who?”

That pain appeared in Rhys’ eyes again, a quick flash but it was there. “I meant it when I said I have no secrets to keep from you but not all stories are solely mine to tell. I am not going to tell you Azriel’s secrets.”

Feyre nodded silently. She understood, it didn’t diminish her curiosity but she would not pry for answers that weren’t hers to have.

Azriel’s footsteps were silent as always, shadows licking at his heals and fingertips as he walked towards Rhys’ office.

Not bothering to knock, his gloved hand unlatched the handle as he stepped inside. “You called, brother?”

Rhys was sat back in his chair, unsurprisingly dressed in his formals but the conflicted look on his face ruffled his demeanour. “I’d like to preface by saying you haven’t done anything wrong, my mate simply is too nosey for her own good and sees things she hopes are there rather than reality at times.”

Azriel’s face remained at an impasse other than the slight narrowing of his golden, hazel eyes.

Rhysand sighed. “Feyre is under the impression that you and Elain may make for a better match than her and Lucien.”

The control Azriel had on himself immediately slipped as he stepped back, eyes widening in shock, fists clenching by his sides as his shadows fluttered around him. “No. Rhys, I would never-”

“I know” Rhys interrupted. “I am not accusing you of doing anything, Az. I just thought it best to let you know.”

Azriel shifted uncomfortably at his words. “You know there is no one else, there never has been and there will never be anyone else.” He insisted, wanting his brother to believe him.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “I know. I have never doubted that even though it would be okay if eventually-”

“No!” Azriel’s cut him off, “There will never be another.”

“Okay,” Rhys conceded. “I just wanted to let you know, Azriel.”

Azriel nodded his head, not hesitating in taking his exit, leaving Rhys there in a suffocating silence of loss.

“You’re distracted,” Cassian dropped his stance, looking towards Feyre intently.

His High Lady sighed in frustration, leaning back against the ropes of the sparring ring.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked.

Feyre pursed her lips in contemplation before relenting. “Did you three actually used do things in the same room as each other?”

Cassian barked out a deep laugh at her question. “That’s what’s on your mind?”

Feyre shrugged sheepishly.

Cassian shook his head, a large smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, Rhys and I did. It would be a bit weird and incredibly uncomfortable for us all if Azriel did.”

Feyre tilted her head curiously, “Why?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice for Rhys to see his best friend having his way with the girl he loves more than anything, would it?” He said, as though it was obvious. “Besides, Azriel has way too much respect for him to do that anyways.”

Feyre’s eyes widened in shock but there was also a sickening feeling of jealously bubbling in her stomach. “So, Azriel and Rhys loved the same girl?”

Cassian, way too focused now on stretching to acknowledge how his words had been interpreted. “We all love her but those two always have and always will love her most. She’s their number one girl.”

Number one girl.

Feyre did not like the sound of that at all. She hated it and she hated herself even more because of the jealously that gnawed at her. “They didn’t hate each other for that?” She questioned.

Cassian shook his head, mid lunge. “Azriel had no reason to hate Rhys. It was difficult for Rhys to accept in the beginning and Azriel understood that but Rhys saw how much love was there, it was impossible to miss so who was he to stand in the way of that?”

Feyre stood in thought for a moment. “So, Rhys loved her first?”

Cassian laughed. “Of course he did. It’s not really a competition though, is it?”

She didn’t answer him, she simply stood there, thoughts swirling.

Feyre hated herself, she hated that she could not stop thinking about this girl who must have been something really special for both Rhys and Azriel to both love.

She’s their number one girl.

No matter how hard she had tried to not think about it, she couldn’t help it.

“What’s on your mind, Feyre darling?” Rhys’ smooth voice slipped through the silence of their bedroom.

She looked up at him from her place at the edge of their bed. “It’s nothing,” she stated simply.

Rhys frowned at her dismissal, placing his watch on his bedside table before walking to stand in front of her. He pressed a palm to the side of her face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”

She sighed, mostly in frustration at herself, partially in his insistence to talk about it. “Where you in love with Azriel’s mate?”

The utter bewilderment that appeared on Rhys’ face made her immediately regret her words and watch to shrink back in on herself. “What!?”

Feyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she tried to pull away but Rhys kept his hand on the side of her face, steadying her.

“Azriel doesn’t have a mate,” he told her, utter confusion lacing his words.

Feyre shrugged, “Were you in love with the same girl then?”

“I’m so confused, no?” Rhys said, having absolutely no idea where she could’ve gotten this from. “Where have you gotten this from?”

Feyre looked at him, frustration beginning to build within her. “I asked Cassian about how you used to do things in the same room, he said you and him did but not Azriel because it wouldn’t be nice for him to be pleasuring a girl that you loved! He said she was yours and Azriel’s number one girl.”

Rhys pulled his hand from her face and placed it over his mouth. The confusion in his eyes had faded into a an amusing sparkle as his shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.

“What!?” Feyre huffed. “What are you laughing at!?”

Rhysand released a full deep chuckle at her frustrations. “Cassian is an idiot and you are utterly beautiful when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!” She argued.

Rhys simply raised an eyebrow at her, completely unconvinced. “You’ve completely misinterpreted Cassian’s words, Feyre darling. It is still not my story to tell but I can promise you that Azriel and I have never been in love with the same girl.”

It had been five centuries since the disappearance of you and your mother and Azriel had never been the same.

Long before he met you, Azriel had learned what it meant to live in loneliness with nothing but his shadows for company but loneliness in response to your absence was never quite something anyone could become familiar with.

It was an endless void of nothing. Normally the thread of silence would at least end somewhere; a place where you simply got used to the feeling of someone not being there; but not with you.

It had been five centuries since your last laugh and that entire time Azriel has spent sleeping in your room. The room that sat right next to his own where your beds were pushed against the shared wall so even in your own beds you would be sleeping as close as you could get to each other.

It remained exactly how you left it, the same books sat on the nightstands, the same jewellery littered across a dressing table and a beautiful dress of deep blue with glittering silver stars on the bodice hung from the door of the closet, preparing to be worn for a day that never came.

Each morning that Azriel woke and got ready for the day, his last words to the House of Wind always remained the same. Leave it exactly how she left it, please.

The House always listened.

Whilst Azriel no longer slept in his own room, it had changed. The walls that were once a basic white had been transformed into a purple so unique it could only reflect the colour of your eyes.

In those rare moments that Azriel was able to relax away from the world, he would lay in his bed and stare at the walls of his room and whilst they could never reflect the light in a sparkle the way your own eyes could, the paint would simply have to do.

The winter chill of the Illyrian Steppes bit harshly into your cheeks as you ran through the thick snow into the forests surrounding the Windhaven camp.

The males were awful here, brutal even but even they knew to leave the daughter of the High Lord alone and so you were free to wander without the risk of your wings being torn from your back.

The trees created sanctuary for you here, as you weaved in between them you thought of your brother, Rhys and how quickly he would lose his mind once he found you gone.

A deep rooted feeling of being watched suddenly stirred in your stomach causing you to pause. It was the most subtle weight you had ever felt and yet you could not help but feel it as it settled into your bones.

You cast a quick glance up into the branches of the trees above you, where their leaves and twigs clashed and combined with one another, it took a moment for you to spot them but eventually you did.

Within a particular tall tree that was shaped in all groves and turns towards the top, deep within the shadows is where you saw him.

A male.

Sitting, observing.

“Hello,” you greeted softly.

No answer.

“What are you doing up there?” You asked.

The shadows fluttered and twitched at first before melting away into a black mist behind the males shoulders, revealing his face.

“Oh,” you whispered, taking in the hard expression of his face. He had hair of a dark midnight sky, eyebrows just a shade lighter that were furrowed deeply, shadowing his eyes that, against his dark features, seemed to glow golden when they narrowed towards you. He was all sharp lines and tensed muscles.

He shifted slightly in his place against the branches of the tree before stepping forward and allowing himself to gracefully drop down in front of you, merely inches away as he stared down into your eyes.

“How did you see me?” He asked, his voice was rough and deep for his age, possibly a couple years older than you, but his tone was steady.

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “I felt your eyes on me.”

It was then that you took notice of just how tightly his wings were pulled in at his back, a complete contrast to yours that were much more relaxed; pulled in just enough to protect them but let out enough that you didn’t have to consciously hold them in all the time, “you’ll get back pain holding them in like that,” you told him, pointing briefly at his wings.

They twitched in response, shadows fluttering wildly around the tips of his wings. It wasn’t a purposeful movement, that you could tell.

“I can’t control them,” He admitted to you.

Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”

“I cannot fly,” he said. “I never learned how to control them.”

You stepped back at his words. “You can’t fly!?” You spluttered in outrage. “Why can’t you fly? Are you injured?”

He shrugged in a way that showed this wasn’t a big deal to him, as though it was normal. “I wasn’t allowed outside,” he stated simply.

You frowned, the idea of not being allowed outside was unfathomable to you. “You weren’t allowed?”

“My father didn’t let me,” his words remained even, unaware of the turmoil that was stirring in your gut the more he spoke, a turmoil that you couldn’t quite explain.

“Why?” You asked.

“Because I am a bastard,” he said, his tone empty and detached, as though he had long since accepted that was all he was reduced to.

You did not like how he seemed to convinced that that’s all he was worth.

“You’re a Shadowsinger,” you pointed out, remembering old tales of myths and legends you had read before. “Those are very rare.”

The shadows clinging to him fluttered and preened at the tips of his wings and over his shoulders as though they understood your words.

Azriel nodded in response, feet scuffing into the dirt often forest uncomfortably at your words.

“That’s so cool!” You whispered in awe, the admiration you felt was completely authentic but you were also hoping it comforted him a bit.

He looked at you, the only hint of confusion on his face was the soft crease between his browns and the subtlest tilt of his head. “You’re not scared?” He asked.

“Of what?” You laughed, as though the idea was absurd.

“Of me,” he raised one of his gloved hands, tapping his index finger into his chest.

“Have you given me a reason to be scared?”

He paused at your question, internally baffled at this entire interaction. “I suppose not,” he muttered to himself, the idea of you not being scared simply just from his presence was beyond him.

“What’s your name?” You abruptly changed the subject.

He was silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell you or not. “Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeated softly, testing how it sounded. “That’s a beautiful name,” you told him.

His shadows twitched, his wings almost flinched at your complement, Azriel shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you want to be my friend, Azriel?”

“I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

You pursed your lips in response, looking around the forest floor before speaking. “I’ve never really had a friend either, there’s my brother, Rhys, but he doesn’t count. Do you have any siblings?”

Azriel tensed at your question, his entire body stiffening, hands clenching in his gloves. “No, it’s just me.”

“Well,” you began, “I’d be honoured to be your first friend, if you’ll be mine?”

You were beyond confusing to Azriel, the first person besides his mother to not look at him with fear or disgust, to look at him and just see a person.

Azriel did not reply verbally but he didn’t need to, you didn’t mind and so he simply nodded in response earning a beaming smile from you.

“Spread your wings out wide,” you instructed softly.

“They’re heavy,” Azriel muttered, wings spreading in stuttering movements, face twisting slightly as he concentrated on holding them.

Your eyes ran along his wings now that they weren’t tucked in painfully right, taking in the large span of them, they fluttered under your gaze, completely against Azriel’s control.

“That’s because your back muscles aren’t used to holding their weight, we’ll need to strengthen them,” you explained, eyes snapping away from his wings, towards his own hazel eyes instead.

“How do we strengthen them?” He asked.

“Exercises, most are trained from babies to use their wings so it comes a lot more naturally but we can do it together.” You smiled at him encouragingly.

You knew this was hard for him, you knew he thought he wasn’t worth your help and you knew that this entire situation was uncomfortable for him but you wanted to help him and you liked spending time with him.

“I struggled with flying at first,” you admitted, hoping it would comfort him in some way.

His eyes stopped glancing to the trees around you, now focused. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Rhys was flying before he could walk but I was too scared to do it. I didn’t trust myself. I kept imagining my wings just not working one day and falling to my death.”

Azriel shifted subtly, shadows restless. “How did you do it?”

“I had no choice,” you said. “One day my mother and I were looking at the stars from the balcony of our home and she just pushed me off, I had no choice but to trust my wings or fall and I flew for the first time that day.”

Azriel’s eyes widened. “She pushed you off the balcony!?”

You smiled widely. “Yeah, I was so angry, I didn’t speak to her for a week but it worked. I won’t be pushing you off ledges until you can hold your wings properly though.”

You could detect the subtle relief that reflected in the golden hazel hue of Azriel’s eyes, as though he expected you to be able to push him off of any ledge and force him to command his wings that didn’t seem willing to answer him yet.

At some point, you will take great joy in pushing him off a cliff.

Not yet though.

Only when he was ready.

“Where does my starlight keep running off to?” Your mother’s gentle voice filtered through your ears as she brushed through your hair carefully.

You were silent for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal your secret. “I made a friend.”

You felt the comb pause briefly against your head before it continued. Your mother hummed absentmindedly. “Did you? Do I get to meet this friend?”

You pursed your lips in contemplation, an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness surging through your body. “He’s shy, he doesn’t like being around people,” you told her.

You missed the amused smile that appeared on your mother’s face, no doubt intrigued at the strange protectiveness that you had for your age. “He?” She asked, almost teasingly.

You huffed in response but a smile grew on your face that you couldn’t stop. “Yes,” you said strongly before your tone shifted to pride. “He’s my friend, I’m teaching him to fly.”

Your mother paused entirely, turning your body to face her own causing your eyes to meet her own that held the same violet hue she passed down to you and your brother. “Teaching him to fly? How old is this friend?”

Your shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Rhys’ age. His father never let him outside so he can’t fly.”

Worry clouded your mother’s face at your words. “Is he a good boy?”

A bright smile overtook your face at her question. “He’s the best! He’s very quiet but he still speaks to me and he listens to all of my complaining and his shadows play with my hair!”

“Shadows?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“He’s a Shadowsinger,” you whispered. “Those are very rare.”

“They are,” she repeated. “Don’t tell your father about him, starlight.”

“I would never,” you swore, your voice demonstrating the dramatic outrage of a child who couldn’t fathom sharing information like that to your father. “Mama?”

“Yes, starlight?” She asked, turning you back around so she could start braiding your hair.

“Don’t tell Rhys, okay?” You told her, your brother could get way too protective, it was embarrassing.

“I would never tell Rhys, starlight. Or Cassian.” She promised.

“Definitely not Cassian.” You agreed.

“I’m not ready!” Azriel protested, warily looking over the edge of the cliff you had pretty much dragged him too.

“You are ready!” You argued. “You’ve got great control of your wings and your muscles are as strong as can be!”

Azriel shook his head, shadows darting around him, showing his nerves. “What if I fall?”

“Then I’ll catch you!” You replied simply.

“I’m too heavy for you to catch me!” He protested.

“You are not, I’m strong!” You argued, outraged at his accusation. “I’ll hold your hands?” You proposed, already reaching out towards his own gloved hands.

Azriel looked down at your outstretched hands, hesitation clear on his face, he really wasn’t sure about this but he did really want to be able to fly.

He relented, placing his hands in yours, earning himself one of your bright smiles, stars twinkling happily in your eyes.

Your wings fluttered slowly, not enough to lift you off the ground, just enough to encourage Azriel to copy your actions.

You slowly increased the force at which your wings beat, air building with the crevice of each controlled flap of the membrane.

Azriel copied your movements, his own wings much larger in comparison to any you’ve seen on other children your age, your own were quite big for a female Illyrian so young.

Azriel felt the change in gravity, the way his feet were itching to leave the ground on their own accord, as though his body was fully attuned and aware to what was currently happening even if it was unfamiliar.

“You’re doing it,” you whispered proudly, your own feet lifting off the ground before Azriel’s but your hands stayed in his as you remained stationary in the air, feet just slightly off the ground as you waited patiently for his own body to rise into the wind.

“You’re so close, just a bit more.” You encouraged him.

The second the air swept beneath Azriel’s feet for the first time, it felt as though his entire body was about to fall backwards as he had nothing to stand on but your hands tightened on his own, keeping him straight as he unsteadily rose with you, trying to focus on keeping his wings moving.

“It’ll come naturally the more you do it,” you told him. “You won’t even have to think about it.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure about that but as he felt the wind beneath his wings as he became airborne for the first time, with your hands holding his, he chose to believe you anyway.

“You’re flying Azriel!” Sheer joy and pride filled your face as you looked at him, he thought you looked beautiful like this.

The wind causing your hair to flutter around your face, eyes sparkling at the freedom that flying gave you and your smile took up your whole face as it always did.

Distracted by the sight of you in your element, Azriel lost focus of his wings causing him to quickly drop a few feet but your hands tightened on his just as his heart dropped in his chest out of panic.

He concentrated on beating his wings again, fluttering slightly higher than previously.

But even as he concentrated on flying, his mind was also on something else.

You had caught him, just like you said you would.

Wake. Wake. Wake.

Their hissing little whispers nudged you from unconsciousness. The cold concrete of the cave dug uncomfortably into your back. You groaned, shifting as your eyes opened, adjusting to the thick, clouded darkness you had been forced to endure for five centuries.

Another day it remained the same.

A sharp, slithering coldness nudged against your cheek, and again against your fingertips. You looked down in confusion, taking in the grey-black strands of darkness fluttering around your hands.

You raised your hands slightly, it was hard to see clearly but they resembled beings you had not seen in a very long time. The dark strands fluttered around your fingertips as you stared intently at them and in a movement so sharp, one lone sentient being jumped to your shoulder.

Your head snapped to the side as you looked at it, moving around, nestling into your clothes that had long since been reduced to scraps of fabric.

The beating beneath your chest stuttered as you stared at them.

Shadows.

They were shadows.

Master. Master. Master.

She hears us. She hears us.

They fluttered around you in a way that seemed to portray excitement.

Was that them talking?

“Azriel?” You whispered, broken yet that sick part of you still held a bit of hope.

Many years you had locked out memories of the Shadowsinger yet it never worked too well, you could never forget him and you would never forget the sentient beings that obeyed him either.

No.

They almost sounded like hisses.

“Not Azriel then.” You muttered. It did not surprise you, not really.

You didn’t understand.

“Another Shadowsinger?” You asked, it earned that same excited fluttering dance as before. Yes.

But who? You wondered.

It seemed they knew your thoughts too.

You. You.

Your face contorted into confusion. You weren’t a Shadowsinger.

You allowed yourself to think of Azriel again. Not of him exactly or the feeling of his love that had faded long ago but of his story.

Azriel had not been born a Shadowsinger.

How had Azriel become a Shadowsinger?

He had been locked in a dark cell for eleven years and had no choice but to find companionship within the darkness itself.

Oh.

“You’re my shadows.” You did not question this time.

Yes. They hissed again.

“But the faebane chains?” You wondered aloud.

“Shadows are not magic, they’re simply part of me.” Azriel had told you that before.

You studied them again, more intently this time and whilst they resembled the shadows of Azriel’s so very much there was the slightest hint of a difference; they weren’t just a grey-black, they had the slightest underlying tint of purple.

They truly were yours.

Release chains. They muttered, not to you, to themselves, fluttering around frantically.

“I can’t,” you whispered in long accepted defeat. “They won’t come off, someone else needs to do it.”

Your newly acquired shadows ignored you, muttering to themselves.

Shadowsinger will do it. Spymaster will do it.

But your energy was draining again, conscious slipping into darkness, your shadows slipping through the cracks of the cave without you knowing.

Azriel had been born alone and he would die alone.

He had accepted that was all life was made for him, there were those years he had you, moments were he thought he’d have you forever but you were taken, brutally slaughtered along with your mother in the spring court.

He had never and will never forgive himself for not being there to protect you. Truthfully he did not know how Rhysand could go on with life after that, not that his High Lord and brother didn’t deserve to live, he did, but how had grief not taken his sanity Azriel would never know.

He would never know how Rhys could look in the mirror and not see the shadows of his mother and sister, not when some days Azriel could not look into his eyes and see the very reflection of the young woman he lost, his woman.

It would forever just be Azriel and his shadows.

Another night that Azriel slept in your room alone, beneath your sheets, on the pillows you always hid that ridiculous stuffed bat beneath.

When he awoke this time though, it was different.

His shadows, usually fluttering lazily were muttering and batting around recklessly, their unease settling in Azriel’s chest, having the spymaster looking around the room carefully.

The only thing that seemed wrong were his shadows themselves, it was as though they were fighting each other?

Intruder. Intruder. They hissed, flying into each other as though they were in a sort of disorientated state. Azriel had never seen anything like it before.

Deep down, Azriel understood that there was no intruder in the House of Wind but he did not understand what they could be referring to.

The bond between himself and his shadows was strange. They told him things yes, but a lot of their communication came down to feelings, he felt their unease, their frustration, as though they were participating in an internal battle.

But why?

He sat up in your bed and observed them closely. He too, could see that there was something off but couldn’t quite put his mind to it.

Intruder. But where?

The shadows hissed at each other, floating around the room in distress, it was when the golden rays of the morning sunrise shone through the balcony window that he saw it.

His eyes, always so sharp, caught that difference in his shadows. Not his shadows, he concluded. Eyes widening, he reached out to that invisible thread and called his shadows back to him with a snap.

There it was.

A small cluster that did not return to him, a cluster of shadows that looked just the slightest different to his own. That underlying purple tint was not his.

He tried to reach out, tried to find that tether to them.

Nothing.

They did not seem threatening though.

They fluttered and danced around before him, as though they were trying to communicate with him but could not.

Help. His own shadows muttered.

“Help?” He questioned.

They plead help. They hissed into his ears. Another Shadowmaster. Trapped.

Azriel shook his head, he was the only shadowmaster.

No. They hissed, more stern this time, as though telling him he was wrong.

Azriel removed himself from your bed, pulling on his Illyrian leathers as quickly as possible, not even strapping his weapons to himself. Instead he simply grabbed Truthteller alone into its sheath.

He approached the bedroom door, turning to see if those other shadows would follow, they were.

He let himself out of the room, shadows, his and not his following behind closely, he barged into Rhys’ study causing the High Lord to jump, not that he would ever admit.

“Azriel?” Rhys greeted, looking up from his papers in barely concealed surprise. “A knock would be nice.”

“We have a problem.” Azriel simply responded earning Rhys’ full attention.

“What is it?”

Azriel held out a gloved hand and while Azriel had no means to communicate with these shadows, they understood him and gathered into his palm, fluttering into a rounded shape.

Rhys simply looked at them in confusion. “What am I looking at? New party trick?”

Azriel shook his head, face contorting as he studied them. “They’re not mine, I can’t communicate with them.”

“What?” Rhys uttered to himself.

“There’s another Shadowsinger out there,” Azriel responded, mostly to himself. “They communicate with my shadows but I can’t understand them myself.”

“Another Shadowsinger?” His High Lord mumbled, shaking his head. “No, you’re the only Shadowsinger alive.”

“Not anymore,” Azriel argued, his and the guest shadows beginning to flutter wildly in their own disagreement. “Apparently they’re trapped.”

Chained. His shadows corrected. Caved.

“Chained,” he spoke aloud.

“Perhaps for good reason,” Rhys argued, whilst Azriel was his brother and he trusted him beyond measures, he was well aware just how powerful Shadowsingers were, if this other Shadowsinger was locked away then perhaps it was because it was deserved.

Azriel shook his head, a sort of confused anguish taking over his features as he observed the shadows sitting in his palm. “They don’t feel threatening, or evil. They’re scared, pleading for help, for freedom.”

“How do you know they’re not pretending? That this other Shadowsinger hasn’t sent these here to play a ruse just to get their freedom?” Rhys asked.

The guest shadows in his palm shrunk down in defeat whilst his own fluttered in agitation around his shoulders and the tips of his wings.

She doesn’t know they’re here. She can’t control it yet.

Azriel listened to their whispers with widened eyes before looking at Rhys. “She cannot control them, this ability must be newly manifested, they came here on their own. Besides, shadows don’t work like that, they can’t fake feelings or emotions.”

“She?” Rhys sat up straighter in his chair at the newfound information.

“I can’t explain it, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, deep in thought. “I have this feeling that I need to free her, I don’t know why, it just feels right to.”

Those lone little shadows of yours clung to Azriel in the following days, against your knowledge. Azriel spent that time preparing himself for rescuing you, not that he knew it would be you he was rescuing, trying to gain as much information as he could through his own shadows translating messages back and forth with yours.

It was strange for Azriel, not only that there were sentient echoes of darkness that for some reason he could not communicate with but also knowing that somewhere out there, trapped and alone, there was another like him, another who could communicate with the darkness and melt into the shadows, even if it was a new manifestation.

The cave you were imprisoned in, he learned, was located somewhere in The Middle, because of course it was.

What other place would be sick enough to have trapped a person so long that the shadows had sought them out?

Trapped for centuries. The shadows had told him.

Bound by faebane chains, tormented by memories of a time that had long since faded.

Azriel, in all he had been through and in all his grief and terror over the years, could not imagine being trapped within the same four walls for hundreds of years.

He had barely lasted eleven, Rhys had hardly lasted fifty and yet out there, a poor woman had lasted hundreds of years, alone.

A woman of his kind.

The cave, as Azriel stood before it, was hardly a cave. It was more a carved hole in the ground, hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery that even he, a spymaster, would have overlooked had he passed by without your shadows leading him to it.

He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to squeeze his overgrown body into it.

Your shadows shot forward like whips, diving into the underground cave, no doubt snapping back to you, even though your lack of control, they were drawn to you, desired to be close to your being.

Azriel crouched down, inspecting the gap in the ground, his own shadows fluttering around in agitation, some even darting ahead into the cave. He peeled off his outer layers that he strapped his weapons to, sending them down into the cave before him.

Risky, no doubt, but he felt no threat towards whatever presence was inside this cave, only an innocently, trapped Shadowsinger.

One that meant no harm, only desiring freedom.

He heaved himself through the gap, the concrete lining the underground cave scratching against his arms and shoulders as he dragged himself through, gravity doing most of the work, allowing him to drop down onto solid stone and rock.

It smelled awful; blood, dirt, faebane and a hell of a lot like someone had long since lost the will to live.

He saw the chains, loads of them, hanging from the ceiling, from the walls, even some bound to the ground with bolts.

Even as someone bound by shadows and member of the Night Court, Azriel could not see clearly in the darkness of this pit but his shadows led the way, they led him to your shadows.

Your shadows that covered just about every part of you, hiding you as though attempting to protect your presence from anyone who could possibly mean harm, leaving you just the image of a darkened, fuzzy blur.

“I will not harm her,” Azriel promised. “I only want to free her, take her back to the Night Court, help her heal and gain control.”

He saw the way they hesitated, how they debated whether they had made the right decision in finding him or not.

She trusted you. They whispered, confessed. His own shadows translating. Long time ago.

Azriel did not know what they meant by that. Had he known her once upon a time?

It was when they finally relented and made the decision to fade away from covering your body that Azriel, despite all the gore and torment he had witnessed in his life, felt like he was going to be sick as his eyes fell upon the battered figure of a young, fae woman.

His fae woman.

No. He shook his head, as though it would shake the sick illusion from his mind.

Yet you remained in his sight.

He knew that figure, that hair, those lashes. It has all haunted his every sleep and movement for the last five hundred years. The colour beneath your eyelids that he had drenched his walls in, that he would look upon every morning and every night.

Even unhealthily slimmer than you had been five hundred years ago, there would not be a single moment or a single version of you in which Azriel would not recognise.

The first person who had shown him grace, who had shown him that kindness and love does in fact exist, the person who had given him the family that he still clings to today in hopes of grasping at every last remainder of you that he had believed was long lost.

Your name was a ghost on his lips as he surged forward, shadows following, your own fluttering at his shoulders now as he unsheathed truth-teller and sliced through the chains binding you to this sick prison.

The dagger you had given him.

The first gift he had ever received.

He collapsed to his knees beside your battered, unconscious body.

Your breaths shallow, wrists and ankles raw from centuries of imprisonment, body all but skin and bones.

He smoothed a marred thumb over your cheekbone, hands shaking as he took you in, your body surrendered to his touch as though finally, it had found something safe it could relax itself in.

And though you were unaware, still in the depths of your mind, your eyes had fluttered open, a deep purple hue that he had missed for hundreds of years.

Azriel choked on a sob as he gazed upon you again, his soul shattering open at the sight of the only person he had ever loved in his five hundred years walking the lands of Prythian.

He felt the moment part of his soul tore from his chest and landed straight into yours, a golden thread deep within him keeping it tethered to himself even though it now sat with you.

robinavitchmotors

♫ the chain - fleetwood mac

liked by jacksdiner, melkingbooks and 86 others

robinavitchmotors another week in the shop

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jacksdiner

♫ black bird - the beatles

liked by robinavitchmotors, evanscherrytreeinn and 89 others

jacksdiner same coffee, same burgers, same diner as always

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melkingbooks

♫ put your records on - corrine bailey rae

liked by franklangdon, trinsdrinks and 98 others

melkingbooks got some new history books in today and found a friend hiding in the cooking section

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trinsdrinks

♫ the giver - chappell roan

liked by farmboyden, jacksdiner and 70 others

trinsdrinks we'll be playing tonights game in the bar from 8pm so be there

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farmboyden

♫ old time rock and roll - bob seger

liked by mckaysports, trinsdrinks and 76 others

farmboyden annual orchard falls market in the barn next weekend, make sure to stop by

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mckaysports

♫ upside down - jack johnson

liked by robinavitchmotors, franklangdon and 102 others

mckaysports three cheers to orchard elementary for bringing home the gold in soccer AND baseball last friday!

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samirabakesthings

♫ dive - olivia dean

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samirabakesthings we welcomed a new barista this week! giving the warmest welcome to victoria!

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evanscherrytreeinn

♫ can't hurry love - the supremes

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evanscherrytreeinn the cherry tree in is now officially booked up for the first weekend of the summer!

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franklangdon

♫ dancing in the dark - bruce springsteen

liked by melkingbooks, farmboyden and 74 others

franklangdon semester's officially done, well done to orchard high class of 26

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flourstandflorist

♫ valentine - laufey

liked by trinsdrinks, samirabakesthings and 38 others

flourstandflorist hi! i'm so excited to say the flour stand bakery and florist will be reopening this saturday, i can't wait to meet everyone in town

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“Oh, for goodness sake.” You grumbled, rolling your eyes.

“You look beautiful, I’m sorry, has to be said.” He pulled you close, his hands on your hips.

“You’re a horn dog.” You playfully smacked his chest.

“Only for you.” He kissed your neck. “Let’s go to this fucking farmer’s market.” He sighed.

You both worked nights, so you pretty much never got to go to the farmer’s market. It never seemed worth the loss of sleep. You used to go all the time. It was peaceful and fun. You liked being able to buy from real people for once. You had made the decision to go today, despite protests from Jack. You had a craving for fresh strawberries and a tomato sandwich like your mom used to make.

“Look at these flowers! They’re gorgeous.” You leaned over, taking a big whiff of the smell.

“Fresh cut, this morning.” The vendor smiled.

“How much for the bouquet?” Jack asked, pulling his wallet out.

“The small is thirty, big one is forty-five.”

“Jack, you do not need to get me flowers.” You told him.

“Yes, he does.” The vendor chuckled.

“Yeah, I do.” Jack smiled. “Can’t have you walking around flower-less. The big one for the lady.”

“Thank you.” Your face warmed as you took the flowers from the vendor.

You and Jack walked hand in hand through the market. You’d stop every once in a while to look at a stall. Jack stopped and got a tamale, you nursed a lemonade.

“Okay, we’ve done a full lap. This stall has the best-looking produce.” You skipped over to the table full of fruits and vegetables.

“Whatever you say, Honey.” Jack chuckled, his hand on your lower back.

“Smart man, you got there.” The older woman running the stand winked.

“I’ll keep him around for a while.” You smiled. “These tomatoes look great.”

“Four for the bag of Romas and six for the heirlooms. What are you making?” The woman asked.

“Tomato sandwich. Southern classic.” You said.

“A woman of good taste. My granny used to make them for me all summer long. I’d recommend the heirlooms.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” You nodded. “Just one bag, please. Oh! Two cartons of strawberries as well.”

“You got it, sweetheart.” The woman went to bag your haul.

“I’m going to check out that stand with the honey. It’s supposed to be good for allergies and the pollen is killing me. You good for a second?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, go.” You waved him off.

“How long have you two been together?” The woman asked as she typed on her tablet.

“Almost a year.” You smiled.

“Could have fooled me. Seemed like a decade.” She chuckled.

“We worked together for a while before anything happened. We know how we work.” You shrugged.

“What do you do then?”

“I’m a nurse, he’s a doctor. Kind of cliché.” You looked at your feet.

“It’s cute. You must be a great nurse to catch a doctor’s eye. I was married to a surgeon and the egos on those boys is no joke.” The woman chuckled.

“I’m alright. He’s more humble than your average doc.”

“She’s better than alright. One of the best in Pittsburgh.” The voice sent a chill up your spine. You turned to see your ex waltzing up to you.

“Oh.” Was all you could manage.