in carcosa

Robby kept one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested loosely over the center console, fingers brushing your thigh without really thinking about it. His eyes stayed on the road, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“I think I do.”

You sighed dramatically and leaned your head against the cold window. “She asked my cousin’s boyfriend how much money he made before she’d even offered him coffee.”

“Hm.”

“‘Hm?’ That’s your response?”

He shrugged one shoulder.

“I’ve been an attending physician for twenty years.”

“I know.”

“I’ve testified in court.”

“I know.”

“I’ve told parents their kid wasn’t going to survive.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I can survive one seventy-eight-year-old woman.”

You groaned loud enough that he actually chuckled.

“What?”

“Nice laugh.” Robby was smug.

“I didn’t laugh.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I exhaled.”

“You smiled.”

“I don’t smile.” You turned toward him with narrowed eyes.

“You smile.”

“I tolerate things.”

“You tolerate me?” He glanced over just long enough to meet your eyes before looking back at the road.

“I tolerate you considerably more than everyone else.” You laughed despite yourself.

“That’s…probably the closest thing to a compliment you’ve ever given me.”

“It’s top five.”

“You have a ranking?”

“I absolutely have a ranking.”

“Oh my God.”

The truck fell quiet again, though this silence didn’t last nearly as long.

“What if they think you’re too old?”

This time he looked over immediately.

“…What?”

You immediately regretted saying it aloud.

“I’m just saying—”

“Stop.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I do.”

He sighed, rubbing one hand over the stubble on his jaw while stopped briefly at a red light in a tiny town you’d already forgotten the name of.

“Kid.”

“I’m thirty-six.”

“I know.”

“You’re forty-nine.”

“I continue to know.”

“That’s thirteen years.”

“I can still do math.”

“I just…” Your voice faltered. “I don’t know.”

He watched you for a second before the light turned green again. The truck rolled forward.

“You’ve been doing this for an hour.”

“Doing what?”

“Working yourself into a panic.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You reorganized my glove compartment.”

“I was helping.”

“You folded the registration.”

“It looked messy.”

“You apologized to the cashier at the gas station because she said the coffee machine was broken.”

“I felt bad.”

“You’ve asked if your hair looks okay three times. And now you’re worried your grandmother is going to reject me because I had the audacity to be born in the seventies.”

You folded your arms across your chest.

“When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous.”

“You don’t know my family.”

“No.” His voice softened. “I know you.”

You looked over. His attention remained on the road.

“And I know you’ve been carrying this around for weeks.”

You swallowed.

“I just…” You picked nervously at the sleeve of your sweater. “My dad never got to meet…anyone.”

His expression shifted immediately. The teasing disappeared. He reached over, finding your hand without taking his eyes off the road. His fingers threaded between yours instinctively.

“I know.”

“I keep thinking about him.” Your voice had gone quieter now. “He would’ve loved giving every guy I dated a hard time.”

“You’ve told me.”

“He would’ve grilled you.”

“I would’ve survived.”

“He would’ve asked you what your intentions were.”

“I would’ve told him.”

“And what would’ve you said?”

He didn’t answer right away. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thoughtful. Finally, he spoke.

“That I make your coffee every morning because you’re incapable of remembering breakfast.” You smiled faintly at him. “That you fall asleep on my couch every time we try to watch a movie after shift.”

Another smile.

“That you steal my shirts.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re mine.”

“They become mine.”

“I don't know if that's how clothes work.”

He squeezed your hand once before continuing.

“I would’ve told him…” His voice became almost impossibly gentle. “…that I take care of you.”

Your eyes stung. Not because the words were grand. Because they weren’t. He hadn’t said he’d protect you from the world. He hadn’t promised forever. He hadn’t made some sweeping declaration. He’d simply stated a fact. He took care of you. You looked out the window before he could see your eyes watering.

“I miss him.”

“I know.”

“I wish he could’ve met you.”

“So do I.”

That answer caught you off guard. You turned back toward him.

“You do?”

He nodded once.

“I would’ve liked to thank him.”

“For what?”

He looked genuinely confused by the question.

“For you.”

The words settled heavily inside the truck. You stared at him. He didn’t seem to realize what he’d just said. Or maybe he did. With Robby, it was always impossible to tell.

“You make it sound like I was a gift.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“Weren’t you?”

Your breath caught. He immediately looked annoyed with himself, almost like the sentence had escaped before he’d approved it.

“You know what I mean.”

“I…don’t actually.”

He sighed, giving the steering wheel a tiny shake.

“I mean…” He searched for the words. “…you’re a good person.”

Your smile grew.

“You help women give birth to babies.”

“I do.”

“You make impossible decisions every day.”

“I also yell at residents.”

“They deserve it.”

“They usually do.”

“You call your mom every Sunday.”

“I try.”

“You still send your grandparents birthday cards.”

“They’re eighty-six and ninety-one, Robby.”

“So?”

“So everyone sends birthday cards.”

“No.” He shook his head. “They don’t.”

You blinked.

“They don’t?”

He glanced over again. Your chest tightened. There he was. That man. The one almost nobody got to see because he buried himself beneath exhaustion, sarcasm, and impossible workdays. You reached over and rested your hand against the side of his neck. His shoulders visibly relaxed beneath the touch.

“You know…” you said quietly.

“What?”

“I think they’re going to love you.”

He snorted.

“I’m not worried about them.”

“I am.”

“I know.”

“You should be at least a little worried.”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

He smiled, a real one this time, tired and warm and just for you.

“Because if they’re anything like you…” His thumb rubbed across the back of your hand. “…I’m already looking forward to meeting them.”

Before you could answer, the GPS chimed softly.

“In two miles, turn left.”

Your stomach immediately flipped. You recognized the road. Home. You took one slow breath before looking out at the familiar church steeple in the distance, your childhood grocery store, and the snow-covered streets you’d ridden your bike down a lifetime ago. Beside you, Robby gave your hand one reassuring squeeze.

“You ready?”

You looked at the house just coming into view at the end of the street, every light glowing warmly against the winter afternoon.

“…Ask me again in ten minutes.”

A quiet chuckle filled the cab.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s about what I expected.”

******

The moment Robby turned into your mother’s driveway, you knew two things. First, someone had absolutely ignored your repeated instructions to stay inside until we knock. Second, you were about to lose complete control of the situation. The front door flew open before the truck had even rolled to a stop.

“Oh, for the love of—”

You watched your mother hurry down the porch steps, your Aunt Maggie only a few feet behind her, bundled in a bright red winter coat that could probably be seen from space. Behind them came your grandparents at a far more sensible pace, your grandfather insisting he didn’t need anyone’s arm despite the icy walkway, while your grandmother ignored him and linked hers through his anyway.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, the front door opened again. Two teenage boys burst out of the house like missiles.

“She’s here!”

“I called shotgun to hug her first!”

“No you didn’t!”

“I literally did!”

“You literally didn’t!”

The cousins. Wonderful.

“Oh my God…” you muttered, covering your face with one hand. “I told them not to do this.”

Beside you, Robby shut off the engine.

“I thought you said they were excited.”

“This is excited.”

He looked through the windshield as your family continued making their way toward the truck.

“…Looks more like an invasion.”

You laughed despite your nerves.

“It gets worse.”

“It does?”

“My grandma kisses everybody.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“My aunt asks inappropriate questions.”

“I’ve met those women at the hospital before.”

“My cousins have no filter.”

“I supervise residents.”

“My mother cries.”

He finally looked over at you.

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“You look like you’re about to bolt.”

“I might.”

He smiled softly.

“I’ll tackle you.”

“You absolutely will not.”

“I’ve still got decent knees.”

“Barely.”

“Barely is still enough.”

Before you could answer, there was a knock on your window. Your cousin Tyler had his face practically pressed against the glass.

“Hey!”

You sighed.

“Here we go.”

You opened the truck door and barely had time to stand before Tyler collided with you in a hug.

“There she is!”

“Oof—Tyler!”

“You never come home!”

“I literally came home for Thanksgiving.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Why?”

“You worked half of it.”

“…Fair.”

A second later, his younger brother, Ben, wrapped both arms around you too, nearly knocking all three of you sideways.

“We missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“You look tired.”

You pointed toward Robby without missing a beat.

“I learned from him.”

“I heard that.”

You looked over your shoulder to find Robby climbing out of the driver’s seat, tugging his wool coat closed against the cold. He looked exactly like himself. Dark jeans. Heavy boots. A charcoal sweater beneath his coat. Messy dark hair from the drive. His beard a little longer for the winter.

No attempt whatsoever to impress anyone. Which somehow made him more handsome. He shut the truck door and looked around as six pairs of eyes immediately landed on him.

There it was. The moment. Your stomach lurched.

“Mom…” you began. “This is—”

“Oh, honey.”

Your mother walked right past you. You blinked.

“…Mom?”

She stopped in front of Robby with the warmest smile you’d ever seen.

“You must be Robby.”

He nodded once.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” She immediately reached forward and hugged him. “None of that.”

You stared. Robby froze for approximately three seconds before awkwardly returning the hug with the hesitant uncertainty of a man who probably hadn’t been hugged by someone else’s mother in decades.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“You too.”

“You drove all the way up here today?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She pointed a finger at him.

“I said no ‘ma’am.’ Makes me feel ancient.”

A tiny smile appeared.

“…Sorry.”

“Much better.”

Your aunt Maggie stepped forward next.

“So you’re the emergency room doctor.”

“Unfortunately.”

She laughed immediately.

“Oh, I like him.”

“Aunt Maggie.”

“What?”

“You’ve known him for eleven seconds.”

“Twelve now.”

She stuck her hand out.

“Maggie.”

He shook it.

“Robby.”

“So…do you really see people with things stuck where they shouldn’t be?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. Robby looked at your aunt for a long second. Then, completely deadpan, “More often than I’d like.”

“What was the weirdest?”

“Maggie!”

“What?”

“No.”

Robby’s expression never changed.

“A bowling trophy.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…Seriously?” Maggie asked.

“No.”

She burst into laughter so loud your grandfather shook his head.

“I walked right into that.”

“Yep.”

You looked at Robby.

“You lied to my aunt.”

“I protected your innocence.”

“My innocence?”

“You seemed invested.”

“I absolutely was.”

Your grandmother finally reached the two of you. She was small now, age having stolen several inches from the woman you remembered towering over everyone as a child, but she still possessed the same sharp blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing. She looked at Robby for several long moments. Long enough that your heart started pounding. Then she reached up and patted his cheek.

“My.”

Robby blinked.

“…Hello.”

“Well.” She smiled. “He’s handsome.”

“Oh my God.”

“Shush.” She eyed you.

“What?”

“I have eyes.”

You wanted the icy driveway to open beneath your feet. Your grandmother ignored you entirely. She looked back at Robby.

“You’ve got kind eyes.”

His ears turned pink.

“…Thank you.”

“And you look tired.”

You snorted. Grandma pointed triumphantly.

“See? I was right.”

“You are,” you admitted. “He always looks tired.”

“I’m standing right here.”

“I know.”

Your grandfather finally extended his hand.

“Frank.”

“Robby.”

They shook firmly.

“My granddaughter says you’re in emergency medicine.”

“I am.”

“She’s an OBGYN.”

“I know.”

Grandpa nodded once.

“Means you both have terrible schedules.”

Robby let out a quiet breath that almost sounded relieved.

“We do.”

“You actually understand each other then.”

“Most days.”

Grandpa smiled.

“Good.”

That was it. No interrogation. No skepticism. Just…good. The conversation was interrupted by Tyler stepping directly in front of Robby.

“So.”

Robby looked down.

“So.”

“How tall are you?”

You closed your eyes.

“Tyler…”

“What? It’s a valid question.”

Robby answered anyway.

“Six-three.”

“I knew it!”

Ben looked impressed.

“You play football?”

“No.”

“Basketball?”

“In the park as a kid.”

“What’d you do?”

“I studied.”

Both boys looked horrified.

“Voluntarily?”

A smile tugged at Robby’s mouth.

“…Eventually.”

You couldn’t help laughing.

“So you’re basically a giant nerd.”

“I’ve never been called that before.”

“I can think of worse.”

Ben squinted suspiciously.

“You seem…less scary than she said.”

Your head whipped around.

“I never said he was scary!”

Tyler looked confused.

“You said he was grumpy.”

“I said he could be grumpy.”

“You also said he growls.”

“He does growl.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“When?”

“When people interrupt your coffee.”

“Reasonable.”

“When residents ask stupid questions.”

“Also reasonable.”

“When someone steals your favorite pen.”

He looked genuinely offended.

“That happened once.”

“It happened yesterday.”

“They knew it was my pen.”

Your entire family laughed. Not because he was trying to be funny. Because he wasn’t. He was simply…Robby. Standing there in your mother’s snowy driveway, looking mildly inconvenienced by the cold and completely unaware that he’d already charmed nearly every member of your family without trying.

You caught your mother watching the two of you from a few feet away. She smiled knowingly when your eyes met. Then she clapped her hands together.

“All right, enough freezing. Lunch is getting cold.”

Your grandmother immediately slipped her arm through Robby’s.

“Come inside, dear.”

He looked down at the elderly woman attached to him, then over at you with an expression that clearly said, Am I allowed to move? You bit back a grin.

“You’re family now.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Already?”

Grandma answered for you.

“If she brought you here…” She squeezed his arm gently. “…you’ve already passed the hard part.”

You watched the words land. Just for a moment. His tired eyes found yours across the snowy yard. And without saying a word, he gave you the smallest smile.

It was barely there. But it was enough to make your anxious heart settle, if only for a little while.

******

Lunch had somehow turned into three hours. You weren’t entirely sure how. One minute everyone had been squeezing around your mother’s dining room table, passing bowls of mashed potatoes and homemade rolls while your grandmother insisted everyone take seconds before they’d even finished firsts.

The next, dishes had been cleared away, coffee had appeared as if by magic, dessert had been cut, and nobody seemed interested in leaving the table. Least of all your family. And, much to your surprise…Least of all Robby. He looked comfortable.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him like that outside the apartment. No pager clipped to his waistband. No trauma bay waiting downstairs. No resident hovering nearby. No administration emails. Just…Robby.

Relaxed. Well, as relaxed as a forty-nine-year-old emergency physician who’d worked three twelve-hour shifts this week was capable of being.

“So,” Grandpa Frank said, setting down his coffee mug. “My granddaughter tells me you fish.”

You looked up.

“I told you that?”

“You mention things.”

“I don’t remember mentioning fishing.”

“You did.”

“When?”

“Three months ago.”

“…You remember conversations from three months ago?”

“I remember everything.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Show-off.”

Grandpa grinned.

“What do you fish for?”

“Mostly trout.”

“You fly fish?”

“When I have time.”

Grandpa nodded approvingly.

“Haven’t done that in years.”

“I’ve got two rods in the garage,” Robby replied. “One doesn’t get used much.”

“You don’t have anybody to go with?”

Robby shrugged.

“Schedules.”

“You two never go?”

He looked over at you.

“She hates getting up before sunrise.”

“I do not hate it.”

“You complain.”

“I complain because it’s four in the morning.”

“It’s five.”

“It feels like four.”

He smirked into his coffee. Your grandfather chuckled.

“She’s been like that since she was twelve.”

“I have always valued sleep.”

“No,” your mom called from the kitchen. “You’ve always valued complaining about sleep.”

You pointed toward the kitchen.

“Betrayal.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I don’t know if I will.”

Robby leaned closer just enough for only you to hear.

“You’ve survived residency.”

“Barely.”

“You’ll make it.”

The quiet confidence in his voice made your lips twitch despite yourself. Then Grandma looked up from her pie.

“So.”

Oh no.

“So?”

She pointed her fork toward Robby.

“She says you’re chief.”

You immediately corrected her.

“Chief attending.”

“That’s what I said.”

“It isn’t.”

“It’s close enough.”

Robby took another sip of coffee.

“It’s fine.”

Grandma ignored both of you.

“Do you like being in charge?”

He actually thought about it.

“I like teaching.”

“Really?”

“The administrative part can disappear tomorrow.”

Your aunt laughed.

“See? That’s exactly what she says.”

He looked over.

“You complain about administration too?”

You stared.

“…You think OB is immune to hospital politics?”

“Fair.”

“I spend half my life in meetings.”

“I thought you just delivered babies.”

You gasped dramatically.

“You did not just reduce my entire specialty to that.”

“I absolutely did.”

“I perform surgeries.”

“I know.”

“I manage high-risk pregnancies.”

“I know.”

“I save lives.”

“I know.”

“You ass.”

He smiled into his coffee.

“I like when you get worked up.”

“I know you do.”

Grandma watched the exchange with unmistakable amusement. Then she leaned toward your mother.

“Look.”

“I know.”

“They bicker.”

“I know.”

“They’re adorable.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Mom.”

Your mother wasn’t even pretending not to smile anymore.

“They’re not wrong.”

“Aunt Maggie…”

“They’re not wrong either.”

You looked at Robby for help. The traitor had the audacity to look entertained.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I might be.”

“I need you on my side.”

“I am.”

“Doesn’t feel like you are.”

“You’ll recover.”

“You are literally laughing at me.”

“I exhaled.”

“You smiled.”

“I tolerated.”

You pointed accusingly.

“See? He does that!”

Your cousins were nearly doubled over.

“I like him,” Tyler announced.

“I gathered.”

“No,” he continued. “Like…he gets your sarcasm.”

Ben nodded.

“Nobody usually gets your sarcasm.”

“I am sitting right here.”

“We know.”

“You guys are awful.”

“We learned from you.”

Before you could defend yourself, Grandpa stood.

“I’m going to check on that old snowblower.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

Every head turned toward Robby.

“You don’t have to do that,” Grandpa said.

“I know.”

“You just got here.”

“I’ve been sitting for three hours.”

“So?”

“I’ll feel guilty.”

Grandpa laughed.

“I understand that.”

The two men disappeared toward the mudroom. Your grandmother watched them leave before quietly saying, “I like that.”

You frowned.

“What?”

“He didn’t ask because he wanted to impress anybody. He asked because he saw something that needed doing.”

Your mother nodded.

“Your father was like that.”

The room became quiet for a moment. Not painfully. Respectfully. Your chest tightened. Then Aunt Maggie ruined it.

“So.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“I do.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

She grinned wickedly.

“When are you two getting married?”

“Maggie!”

“What?”

“We’re not—” you huffed. “We’re just—”

You stopped. Because…what were you? You and Robby had never put labels on anything beyond the obvious. You were together. Exclusively. Most nights were spent at his apartment. You knew where he kept the extra coffee. He knew exactly how you liked your tea.

You’d met Frank Langdon. Dana adored you. Mel teased both of you mercilessly. You slept curled against his chest more often than you slept in your own bed. But neither of you had ever…said it. Not out loud.

“We’re happy,” you answered finally.

Your mother smiled softly.

“That’s enough.”

Thankfully. Very thankfully. The back door opened before anyone could continue. Grandpa walked back in, stomping snow from his boots. Robby followed with a light dusting of snow across the shoulders of his coat.

“Snowblower still runs,” Grandpa announced.

“Barely,” Robby replied.

“It’s older than both of us.”

“Combined.”

Grandpa barked out a laugh.

“I told him the carburetor sticks.”

“It does.”

“He fixed it.”

You blinked.

“…You fixed it?”

Robby shrugged while pulling off his gloves.

“It wasn’t much.”

“You’ve known him for…” Tyler looked at his watch dramatically. “…four hours.”

“Little over.”

“And you fixed Grandpa’s snowblower?”

“It was sticking.”

“So you fixed it?”

“…Yeah.”

Grandma looked entirely too pleased.

“I told you.”

“Told us what?” you asked.

She looked at your mother.

“He’s a keeper.”

Heat rushed into your face.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Grandma.”

She looked genuinely confused.

“I didn’t say marry him.”

“Yet,” Aunt Maggie muttered.

“Maggie.”

“I’m just saying.”

Your mother laughed into her coffee.

“You all are impossible.”

“No,” Tyler said.

He looked between you and Robby.

“We’re just confused.”

“About what?”

“You’ve been dating for almost a year.”

“Tyler.”

“What?”

“How have you not figured out you’re in love yet?”

Silence. Complete. Utter. Silence. Your eyes grew wide. Your mother looked horrified.

“Tyler.”

“What?”

“You cannot ask people that.”

“It was just a question.”

Ben nodded.

“It kinda was.”

Your face burned so hot you thought you might spontaneously combust. You looked at Robby. He was already looking at you. Not embarrassed. Not panicked. Watching you. Calmly. Like he was waiting to see if you were okay. Your grandmother broke the silence first.

“Leave them alone.”

“I was just asking.”

“They’ll figure it out.”

Grandpa took another sip of coffee.

“They already have.”

Nobody said anything else. Conversation slowly drifted back to football, weather, and whether the roads would freeze overnight. But you barely heard any of it. Because from across the living room, while everyone else was distracted, you caught Robby looking at you again.

He gave you the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. One that said Breathe. One that somehow made the room feel quieter despite all the laughter around you. And then, a few minutes later, you wandered into the kitchen to refill your coffee. When you came back, you stopped in the doorway.

Robby was sitting on the living room floor. On the floor. Your six-foot-three, perpetually exhausted, bad-kneed emergency physician. Cross-legged on your mother’s rug. Tyler and Ben had talked him into helping them assemble a model airplane they’d gotten for Christmas and never finished.

Grandpa was offering completely unsolicited advice. Grandma was knitting in her recliner while sneaking glances over the top of her glasses. Your mother stood in the kitchen doorway, drying a dish she hadn’t touched in nearly five minutes because she was too busy watching.

And Robby…was laughing. Not the dry little huff you usually coaxed out of him. Not the sarcastic chuckle he gave Frank. A real laugh. Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkled. Shoulders relaxed.

It hit you so suddenly it almost knocked the breath from your lungs. He looked…like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there. And instead of bringing relief, something unexpected twisted painfully in your chest. Because everyone loved him. Effortlessly.

They’d folded him into your family in a single afternoon. You should have been thrilled. Instead, a tiny, irrational voice whispered in the back of your mind.

They’re all looking at him now.

They’re all laughing with him.

They don’t need you to keep the conversation going anymore.

You hated yourself for thinking it. You hated how childish it sounded. But the feeling lingered all the same. Robby glanced up from the airplane as though he’d sensed your eyes on him. The moment he saw you standing quietly in the doorway, his smile softened.

“You okay?”

The room continued buzzing around him. But he was only looking at you. And somehow that made the ache in your chest hurt even more.

******

You lasted another fifteen minutes. That, you decided later, was actually pretty impressive. You smiled through another story about your residency years. You laughed when Tyler and Ben insisted Robby settle the great debate over whether cereal counted as soup. You even survived your grandmother asking him if he’d always had “those little gray hairs at his temples,” to which he’d replied, completely straight-faced, “No. Your granddaughter gave me those.”

The room had erupted into laughter. You had laughed too. But somewhere underneath it all, your chest still felt…tight. Not because anyone had done anything wrong. Because they hadn’t. Everything had gone exactly the way you’d hoped. Better, actually. So why did it suddenly feel like you couldn’t breathe?

“I’ll be right back,” you murmured, setting your coffee mug on the kitchen counter.

Your mother barely looked up.

“Okay, sweetheart.”

You slipped your boots back on in the mudroom and quietly stepped out the back door. The cold hit you immediately. Pennsylvania winter didn’t ease you into anything. It grabbed your lungs, stole your breath, and painted your cheeks pink within seconds.

Snow covered the backyard in a thick blanket, untouched except for a few rabbit tracks cutting across toward the old maple tree. The porch creaked beneath your boots as you walked to the railing. The air was so still that you could hear the faint crunch of cars driving somewhere on the main road a mile away.

You inhaled deeply. Then again. Your eyes burned.

“Oh, honey.”

You smiled weakly before you even turned around.

“I knew you’d follow me eventually.”

Your mother stepped outside carrying two knit blankets over one arm.

“You’ve been disappearing outside since you were twelve.”

She wrapped one around your shoulders before settling beside you against the porch railing. Neither of you spoke for a minute. You watched your breath disappear into the gray afternoon. Finally she asked quietly,

“So…”

You sighed.

“So.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

She gave you the exact look every mother somehow perfected before their children were even born.

“The nice thing about raising you by myself?”

You groaned softly.

“Mom…”

“I know every version of your ‘nothing.’”

You stared out across the snowy yard.

“I’m just…” Your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”

“You do.”

“I…” You laughed once, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “I sound ridiculous.”

“I’ll decide that.”

You looked down at your boots.

“I thought…” You rubbed your gloved thumb across the porch railing. “I thought I’d spend today worried you’d all hate him.”

She blinked.

“Hate him?”

“I know.”

“Honey.”

“I know.”

She waited.

“And instead…” You swallowed. “You all love him.”

Your mother smiled.

“We do.”

“I know.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

“But…”

Your eyes filled despite yourself.

“I feel…” You searched for the right word. “…scared of if this doesn’t work.”

The confession hung in the cold air between you. Your mother didn’t laugh. Didn’t tell you it was silly. She simply looked at you with all the gentleness in the world.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“I know how awful that sounds.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“It sounds like someone who’s realizing just how important another person has become.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

“I walked into the living room…” Your voice cracked. “…and everybody was laughing with him.”

“I saw.”

“And he looked…” You smiled through the tears. “…happy.”

“He did.”

“I’ve never seen him like that.”

“I haven’t either.”

“You’ve known him for six hours.”

“I know.”

“But…” Your shoulders slumped. “He fit.”

The words came out barely above a whisper.

“He fits here.”

Your mother reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, just like she’d done when you were six years old.

“You know what I noticed?”

“What?”

“He watches you.”

You frowned.

“What?”

“He watches you.” She smiled softly. “You walk into a room…and within ten seconds he’s looking to see where you are.”

You blinked.

“When your grandmother hugged him, the first person he looked at was you.”

You hadn’t noticed.

“When your cousins started dragging him into the living room…he looked at you. When your grandfather asked him to help with the snowblower…he looked at you. When everyone laughed after Tyler’s question…he looked at you.”

Your mother chuckled quietly.

“I finally stopped watching him.”

“You did?”

“I started watching what he was watching.”

Your heart began beating a little faster.

“And?”

The statements nearly undid you. She leaned against the railing.

“You know what else I noticed?”

You shook your head.

“He never once let you carry your own plate into the kitchen.”

You frowned.

“…He didn’t?”

“No.”

“He opened every door for you.”

“I didn’t even notice.”

“Exactly.”

“He filled your coffee before you realized it was empty.”

You thought back. He had.

“I watched him reach over and straighten the collar of your sweater while everyone was talking.”

Your eyes widened.

“He did?”

“He didn’t even think about it.”

Your mother’s smile grew impossibly warm.

“It was instinct.”

A fresh tear rolled down your cheek.

“I don’t think he realizes he does those things.”

“I don’t think he does either.”

Silence settled again. Then your mother spoke so quietly you almost missed it.

“Your father would’ve loved him.”

Your breath caught. Not because she’d said it. Because she’d said it with complete certainty.

“He would’ve?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She laughed softly. “Your dad would’ve pretended to interrogate him for an hour.”

You smiled through your tears.

“He would’ve.”

“And then…” She looked toward the warm glow spilling from the kitchen windows. “…he would’ve pulled me aside and said, ‘That one’s in deep.’”

Your lips trembled.

“What do you mean?”

“He would’ve seen exactly what I see.”

“And what’s that?”

Your mother turned fully toward you. Her voice was gentle.

“That man loves you.”

Your eyes closed. You hadn’t even said the words. Neither of you had. You shook your head.

“We’ve never—”

“I know.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can.”

“Mom…”

“I’ve been married.” She smiled sadly. “I’ve been in love.”

She reached for your hand.

“And I’ve watched your father look at me exactly the way Robby looks at you.”

Your composure shattered. The tears came all at once. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent. Relentless. Your mother wrapped both arms around you without saying another word. You buried your face against her shoulder like you hadn’t done since medical school, when you’d called after your first patient died.

“I miss Dad.”

“I know.”

“I wish…” You couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“I know.”

“I just wanted…” Another shaky breath. “…one day. One day where Dad got to meet the man I…”

You stopped yourself. Your mother gently rubbed your back.

“The man you what?”

A soft creak interrupted the moment. The back door opened. Both of you turned. Robby stepped onto the porch, pausing the instant he saw you crying.

He didn’t rush over. He didn’t ask questions. He simply looked from your mother…to you. Your mother smiled knowingly.

“I think that’s my cue.”

She squeezed your hand once. Then, as she walked past him, she lightly touched his arm.

“Be good to my girl.”

Robby’s expression softened.

“I always am.”

“I know.”

She disappeared back inside, quietly closing the door behind her. For a moment, neither of you moved. Snow drifted lazily between you. Finally, Robby walked across the porch. He stopped beside you without saying a word. He looked out over the yard, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.

“You came out without yours,” he observed after a moment.

“I know.”

“It’s twenty-three degrees.”

“I know.”

“You’ll get sick.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“So am I.”

A tiny smile tugged at your lips. He slipped out of his coat without another word. Before you could protest, he draped it over your shoulders. It was still warm from him. It smelled like cedar, clean laundry…and that unmistakable scent that was simply Robby.

“You’ll freeze.”

“I run warmer than you.”

“You always say that.”

“I’m always right.”

You wrapped the coat tighter around yourself.

“You usually are.”

Silence settled again. He didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Just stood beside you. Shoulder brushing yours.

“You ready to tell me what’s going on, kid?”

You stared out at the snow.

“I thought…” You laughed weakly. “…I thought today would prove we didn’t work.”

He frowned.

“What?”

“The age difference.”

He sighed quietly.

“Your job.”

Another sigh.

“My family.”

“I’ve met them.”

“I kept waiting for someone to look at us and think…” You swallowed. “…what is a forty-nine-year-old man doing with my daughter?”

Robby was quiet for a long moment. Then he looked over at you.

“I wasn’t interviewing.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I didn’t come here to convince anybody.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I came because you asked me to.”

The simplicity of it hit harder than any grand speech ever could.

“I know.”

“No.” His voice was calm. “I came because you wanted me here.”

Another beat.

“And because they’re your family.” His eyes softened. “That makes them important to me.”

You finally looked at him.

“They all love you.”

He gave the smallest shrug.

“I like them.”

“You…just like them?”

“They’re loud.”

“They are.”

“They tease you.”

“They do.”

“They fed me until I couldn’t move.”

You laughed.

“They do that.”

“They remind me of you.”

His voice grew quieter.

“So…yeah.” Another pause. “I like them.”

You stared at him.

“You know…”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I think you’re intentionally avoiding saying sentimental things.”

“I absolutely am.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“You start expecting me to be poetic.”

“I’d settle for honest.”

His eyes held yours. Long enough that the sounds from inside the house faded away.

“When it comes to you…” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “…I’ve always been honest.”

Your heart stumbled. Neither of you said another word. Neither of you needed to. For the first time all day the anxiety finally began to melt away with the falling snow.

******

The drive back to Pittsburgh was quiet. Not because anything was wrong. Quite the opposite. There was a comfortable fullness to the silence, like the day had finally settled into both of you. The roads were darker now, the snow reflecting the headlights in soft waves as Robby guided the truck back toward the city. His right hand rested on the steering wheel while his left remained loosely intertwined with yours across the center console.

Neither of you seemed eager to let go. Every now and then he’d rub his thumb over the back of your hand absentmindedly. Every time he did, your heart squeezed.

“You’ve been smiling at the dashboard for twenty miles.”

You looked over.

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

You smiled.

“I think your reputation is ruined.”

“My reputation?”

“My family thinks you’re adorable.”

He made a face.

“I’ve spent two decades cultivating a healthy amount of fear.”

“I know.”

“And your grandmother undid it in one afternoon.”

“She did.”

“Called me handsome.”

“She wasn’t wrong.”

His ears pinked just enough for you to notice.

“You enjoying this?”

“Immensely.”

“I knew sleeping with you was a mistake.”

You laughed, resting your head against the window.

“It really wasn’t.”

He glanced over for only a second.

“No. It wasn’t.”

The warmth in his voice lingered long after the conversation faded again.

******

It was almost ten-thirty by the time the elevator doors opened onto his floor. The apartment greeted you the same way it always did. Quiet. Warm. The faint scent of cedar from the bookshelf in the living room mixed with coffee that had long since gone cold in the pot he’d forgotten to empty before leaving that morning.

Home.

Without saying much, the two of you slipped into the easy rhythm you’d built over the last year. He locked the door while you kicked off your boots. You wandered into the bedroom and disappeared into the bathroom to wash your face. When you came back a few minutes later, your hair was damp around your temples, and you were wearing one of his faded PTMC T-shirts that reached the middle of your thighs.

You’d stolen it months ago. Neither of you pretended it was temporary anymore. Robby had already changed into an old pair of gray sleep pants and a black T-shirt. He looked impossibly tired. The kind of tired that settled into his bones.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He looked up from turning off the bedside lamp.

“Hm?”

“You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I wanted to go.”

“I know.”

“And I’d do it again tomorrow.”

Your chest warmed.

“You don’t have to keep proving yourself.”

He frowned.

“I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t?”

“No.” He crossed the room until he was standing in front of you. “I wasn’t there to prove anything.”

His hand found your waist naturally.

“I was there because you wanted me there.”

You looked up at him.

“I know.”

“I wanted to meet the people who made you…” His lips twitched. “…you.”

You smiled.

“They liked you.”

“I noticed.”

“They really liked you.”

“They’re easy people to like.”

You laughed quietly.

“I spent weeks worrying.”

“I know.”

“For nothing.”

He brushed a thumb along your cheek.

“I wish you’d told me.”

“I didn’t want to sound ridiculous.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“I got scared.”

That made him blink.

“…scared?”

You nodded once.

“Watching everyone gather around you…” You laughed softly at yourself. “…it was stupid.”

“I bet it wasn’t.”

“I felt…” You searched for the words. “…like I’d finally brought two parts of my life together.”

His expression softened.

“And?”

“And then I realized…” Your eyes drifted down to where your fingers had begun absentmindedly playing with the hem of his shirt. “…how much I’d lose if you ever weren’t there.”

The room became impossibly still. Robby didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached up and gently tipped your chin until you were looking at him again.

“You know what I spent today thinking about?”

You shook your head.

“I kept looking at your family…” A faint smile appeared. “…and wondering if this is what holidays are supposed to feel like.”

Your heart caught.

“You’ve never really had that.”

“No.”

“They argued.”

“They absolutely argued.”

“They laughed over each other.”

“They did.”

“Nobody cared who was talking.”

You smiled.

“They never have.”

His voice became quieter.

“I liked watching you become somebody’s granddaughter again.”

Your eyes immediately stung. You smiled through the tears threatening again. He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“They were taking care of you.”

You stepped closer until there wasn’t any space left between you. He wrapped both arms around you without hesitation. The hug was slow. Unhurried. The kind that came after a long day, when neither person needed anything except to know the other was there.

You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Steady. Comforting. Real.

“I missed that,” you whispered.

“What?”

“Feeling like somebody’s kid.”

His chin rested lightly against the top of your head.

“I know.”

You stood there for another minute before he finally murmured, “C’mon.”

“You falling asleep standing up?”

“…Maybe.”

You laughed.

“Thought so.”

The bedroom was dark except for the amber glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. You slid beneath the comforter first. A moment later, the mattress dipped as Robby climbed in beside you. Almost instinctively, you rolled toward him. He opened one arm before you even reached him. Like he’d been expecting you to.

You tucked yourself against his chest, your cheek resting just below his collarbone. The oversized shirt you’d stolen bunched slightly beneath the blankets as his hand slipped beneath the soft cotton to rest against the small of your back. His palm was warm. His touch familiar. Slowly, lazily, he began tracing absent circles against your skin. Not with any destination in mind. Just because he knew it relaxed you.

Outside, snow tapped gently against the bedroom window. Inside, there was only the quiet rhythm of your breathing beginning to match his.

“You smell good,” you mumbled.

A sleepy chuckle vibrated beneath your cheek.

“I smell like soap.”

“And you.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It is.”

His fingers continued their slow path across your back. You closed your eyes. For a while, neither of you spoke. There wasn’t a need. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It felt…full.

Like something had quietly shifted over the course of the day. You thought about your mother. About your grandmother slipping her arm through his. About your cousins laughing with him on the living room floor. About your father’s absence. About the place Robby had somehow occupied without trying to replace anyone.

You realized something. You weren’t imagining a future anymore. You were living the beginning of one. Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“Robby?”

“Hm?”

His voice was already heavy with sleep. You lifted your head just enough to look at him. In the dim light, you could barely make out his face. The lines of exhaustion. The silver beginning to thread through his dark hair. The man who carried so much for everyone else. The man who had quietly, steadily become your safest place. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.

“…I love you.”

For one terrifying heartbeat…Nothing. His hand stopped moving against your back. You felt your stomach drop. Then he exhaled slowly. Not in surprise. Almost in relief.

He opened his eyes and looked at you with a softness you’d never seen before. His hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. Then the bridge of your nose. Then one quiet, lingering kiss against your lips that said more than either of you ever could. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I was wondering,” he whispered with the smallest smile, “which one of us was going to be brave enough to say it first.”

A tear escaped before you could stop it. He caught it with his thumb.

“I love you, too.”

There was no hesitation. No uncertainty. No dramatic declaration. Just complete, unwavering certainty.

“I think…” he murmured, “…I’ve loved you for a while.”

You laughed softly through your tears.

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know.”

He sighed with mock defeat.

“…The morning you fell asleep on my couch after that twenty-nine shift.”

You smiled.

“That long?”

“You stole my blanket.”

“I was cold.”

“You drooled on my pillow.”

“I did not.”

“The stain is still there.”

You laughed, hiding your face against his neck.

“I can’t believe that’s the moment.”

“It wasn’t because of the blanket.”

“No?”

“It was because…” He paused, searching for words the way he always did when something mattered. “…I looked at you, and for the first time in a very long time…”

His arms tightened around you.

“…home looked like a person.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t answer. You simply kissed him once more, slow and tender, before settling back against his chest. His hand returned beneath your shirt, gently rubbing soothing circles along your back as the apartment fell quiet again.

“Yeah it’s…..a lot to say the least.”

“Well please, don’t let me hold you up any longer. I’ll probably still be here when you get back in the morning if you need a debrief,” you looked up at him with a smile to let him know you were joking.

He smiled back at you, “Oh yeah, lives to save and all that. Let me give you my number, if you do need any help while I’m gone I can send Michael over to help you, we’ve known each other since med school, I trust him.”

You handed over your phone so he could put his number in your contacts. Walking him to your front door you watched as he walked away, “Drive safe,” you yelled to him “and don’t let any of those crazy patients do anything to you!”

You heard his laugh from across the hall as he shut his door. In a totally not calculated move, you took out some of the accumulated trash so you could get a look at him in his scrubs. Incredible idea if you do say so yourself. He waved again as he got into his truck, pulling out of the shared parking lot.

Walking back into your building, you decided to make some dinner before continuing to unpack. You couldn’t stop thinking about Jack while you were putting things away. He seemed so kind and handsome there’s no way he wasn’t married or at least seeing someone. You tried to shake him from your mind, but like a Polaroid his image just kept getting clearer.

He had helped you put your bedframe together earlier that day, which you could not stop thinking about as you tossed and turned that night. At some point you fell asleep, waking with a start a few hours later to the sound of your phone buzzing on your side table.

You blindly grabbed for it, knowing you didn’t have the foresight to turn the brightness down before you passed out earlier. Once your eyes adjusted you saw that a text from Jack had come through.

“I hope you’re still up for that debrief, you would not believe the night I’ve had”

Smiling up at your phone you quickly typed out a reply “Always up for it Doc, I’ll have breakfast waiting for you when you get here 😋”

You checked the time on your phone and rolled out of bed. If he left to get there for 7 and was still there, you could assume he was doing a 12 hour shift which gives you enough time to throw some stuff together.

Your phone buzzed again, “Really though if it’s too much trouble you don’t have to make anything. I’m not one to turn down a good meal though.”

You snapped a picture of the eggs scrambling in the pan and the pancake mix and sent it off to him. He sent you back a string of 😩 emojis, quickly followed by “Sorry, that was my co-attending.”

Giggling you shot back with “lol i didn’t think you were one to use emojis.”

“They are quite jealous that I have a hot breakfast waiting for me at home”

You 💖 reacted his message, setting your phone down for good this time so you could make sure everything was done by the time he got home. A little bit later, you received another message, “Heading out now, I’m going to change and then I’ll be over.”

You did a silent scream and tried to clean up as best as you could. Running to your room you put some shorts on and made sure there wasn’t any drool on your face. Moments after you stepped out of the bathroom you heard a knock at your door.

Stabilizing your breath, you walked over to let Jack into your apartment, “Hey neighbor,” you said smiling at him, “come in.”

He walked into your apartment and looked around, admittedly you did get a lot of decorating done after he left last night. “I might have to hire you to come decorate my place,” he said with a laugh. “You weren’t joking when you said you’d be getting your place ready all night.”

A soft blush spread across your face as you guided him to the small table between your kitchen & living room. You had put everything into bowls or on platters and smiled as he started serving the both of you.

“Now,” you said, putting your hand on your chin, “I was told I’d be getting a shift brief this morning?”

He smiled at you from across the table, “How much detail would you like to hear sweetheart?”

“Oh everything,” you said with a laugh. As you two continued to eat he told you all about the characters he saw over night, a guy with a bottle sticking out of his chest (more common than you’d think), a woman who had no idea she was pregnant but was actively going into labor, and so many more. You were surprised that it all happened during his shift. “I literally don’t know how you deal with all that. Is it like that every shift for you? Surely there must be quieter days.”

“Ah, I would say, 95% of weekends are that hectic. Weekdays are unpredictable unless it’s a holiday then it’s also a mess.”

You let out a breath before responding, “Man, you must really love it to put up with all that. It’s impressive honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever liked anything that much.” You smiled at him before continuing, “Well, I’m always here if you need to talk through things. Like actually always here because I work from home.”

He shot you a soft smile, “I really appreciate that, I could not tell you the last time I let someone who wasn’t at the ED into my life so I might be a little weird at first.”

“Weird begets weird,” you said with a laugh. “I don’t have many friends myself so I will be just as socially awkward if not more.”

The pair of you sat in silence for a beat before you continued, “Well, I don’t want to mess with your sleep schedule since you’re opposite me, if I’m biting into your rest time please let me know. I won’t be offended if you tell me you have to go.”

“You’re not biting into anything,” he replied, placing a hand on your forearm, “It’s honestly nice to be around someone and play normal for a bit after a shift like that.”

You smiled at him again and proceeded to talk his ear off while you cleaned breakfast up. He made approximately one attempt to help you before you shut him down, “I saw you limping on your way in, if you hurt yourself at work I don’t want you making it worse here,” you said with a smile.

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” he paused while lifting up his pant leg to show you his prosthetic.

“Oh fuck, I am so sorry.” You felt your face go hot and knew it was turning bright red.

“Don’t worry about it, there was literally no way you could’ve known. But you were right, last night was rough on my leg, I usually have it off by now so I think it’s just getting irritated.”

You nodded your head, sitting back down at the table with him. “If you need to go take it off I won’t be offended. I totally get not wanting to share that part of yourself right away.”

He smiled at you again, “Thank you, most people aren’t that understanding.” He gingerly stood up from the table and the pair of you started walking to your front door.

“Like I said, I work from home full time so seriously if you ever need anything just call or text or knock on the door, I truly don’t mind.” You leaned against your door frame as he walked across the hall to his unit.

“Thank you sweetheart, I’ll stop by before I leave for work tonight if that’s okay with you?”

You felt your smile get bigger, “Yeah, of course that’s okay, want me to text you when I’m making dinner? Don’t want you losing steam during your shift.”

He mirrored your stance on his side of the hallway, “Actually, yeah, that would be incredible. Like I said, I don’t eat much food that has been cooked at home.”

Letting out a small laugh you bid him goodbye and see you later.

Later that evening you let him know you were cooking and not too long after you heard a knock at your door. Since you had all day to prepare this time, you actually resembled a functioning human being when you let Jack into your apartment.

Even though this was only the third time he had been in your apartment, he moved like he had been coming over his entire life. Again, he offered help and you politely declined, leading him to settle in at the kitchen table.

You heard his phone buzz as soon as he set it down on the table. Without turning away from the pan of food in front of you, you quipped, “I hope that’s not your job already, you’ve still got what, like two hours before you have to leave?”

He laughed and it quickly turned to a groan, “Not exactly work, it’s Michael, I think I mentioned him to you the other day? He runs day shift and I run night shift, he just told me how in for it I am.”

Putting everything into the oven you turned to join him at the table, “Oh oof, after the night you had last night I was hoping you’d get some peace tonight.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, “Yeah….peace isn’t exactly a word often used to describe the ED. It’s fine though, at least I have you to look forward to coming home to now.” He shot you a grin and a blush spread across your face.

“Well duh, I’m a delight,” you said smiling. “By the way, I made some extra food, I figured maybe you would want to take some with you so you’d have something to eat over night? I can send you with a box for Michael too if you think he hasn’t eaten in a while.”

He smiled again, “That man does not take care of himself at all, I would bet money on him only having had a protein bar his entire shift. That’s also very kind of you, I appreciate it and I’m sure Mike will as well.”

The two of you finished your meal and you packed up two reusable to-go containers for him, sliding them into a small tote bag with some cutlery. You walked out to his truck with him this time, wanting to wish him good luck before his shift.

He sidled up next to you as you opened the passenger door to place his food on the seat. “You know, I think you might be my guardian angel.”

Giggling you responded, “Well, I don’t know about all that, but we can pretend if that’s your thing.”

He pulled you into a hug and kissed the side of your head before moving to the driver’s side, he rolled down the window opposite him to say goodbye before pulling off.

You went back into your apartment to finish cleaning up dinner. About 45 minutes later you received a text from an unknown number, “Thank you for dinner, Jack told me to tell you he was right and that I haven’t eaten much today.” Quickly followed by “This is Michael (actually, I’d prefer if you called me Robby) by the way, Abbott gave me your number.”

You laugh reacted at his first message and responded, “Well I’m glad you’re finally getting some food in you, I hope you enjoy!”

After about an hour and a half of radio silence another text came in, “That may have been one of the best meals I’ve had in months, Jack’s lucky to have you.”

That one threw you for a bit of a loop, you’d literally just met the man two days ago. Deciding to let the second part of the message slide you replied, “I’m happy you liked it! I can send Jack with food for you whenever I send him with some if that’s alright with you? Lmk if you have any preferences or allergies so I don’t accidentally poison you 😇”

He hit you with a ❤️ react and left it at that. You wanted to be offended but you figured he was tired after the day he mentioned to Jack.

A few hours later you received a message from Jack, “Did Michael text you?”

You felt yourself get a little giddy when you saw his name pop up on your phone. You needed to get a grip, you’ve known him for all of 48 hours for christs sake! You went back to take a screenshot of the first message he had sent you, attaching it to your reply. “Yep :)”

Jack’s reply came quickly, “And was he nice?”

You laughed at that one, “As nice as you can be over text I guess, he did leave me on read though.” You attached another screenshot of your last message to him for context.

Moments after you pressed send your phone rang. Jack’s name lit up your screen for a phone call this time. “You know, I told him to be nice to you.”

You laughed at his greeting, “Well hello to you too doctor. It’s not a big deal, like I said, nice as you can be over text. Aaand I figured he was just tired from the day shift, especially after that text he sent you earlier.”

Jack huffed a laugh out in response, “Yeah maybe, he tends to take his exhaustion out on other people though so I wanted to make sure he didn’t say anything particularly mean to you.”

You decided to not tell him about the whole lucky to have you quip for now, he was at work and this certainly wasn’t the time to open that discussion. The pair of you said your goodbyes and hung up. Looking at the clock you figured it was time to get ready for bed.

Just as you felt yourself drifting off your phone buzzed again with a message from Jack, “Instead of breakfast at yours in the morning how would you feel coming to mine? I want to see you but I can already tell how exhausted I’m going to be after tonight.”

Sleepily you responded, “Yeah that works for me, we don’t have to do anything if you’re too tired though!”

His reply came fast, “Never too tired for you sweetheart.”

You followed over and screamed into your pillow before responding with “😇😇😇😇😇”. You decided to set an alarm before you went to bed even though tomorrow was the weekend. If you were going over to Jack’s place you didn’t want to look like a complete mess when you got there.

When you woke up a few hours later you didn’t see any other new messages from Jack and you figured the night had finally caught up to him. Hopping in the shower you tried to make it quick, washing the previous day off of you. You didn’t go too crazy getting ready, just letting your hair air dry and putting on some mascara. You were anxiously pacing in your living room when Jack finally let you know he was on his way home.

You threw a pair of sleep shorts on, reapplying your deodorant and then spent far too long deciding whether or not to use body spray. You decided you’d compromise with yourself and do that thing where you spray it in front of you and walk through, not wanting it to be too strong but still wanting to smell nice.

Your phone finally buzzed again, Jack had made it home. “Hey sweetheart, just pulled in, meet me in the hallway?”

Allowing yourself to freak out for a second you 💖reacted his message and put on your house shoes. You made your way out the door and over to his place, it wasn’t long before you heard him approaching. You turned to smile at him, he looked exhausted. “Rough night?”

He huffed a laugh as he unlocked the door, “You wouldn’t even believe it if I tried to tell you.”

You followed him inside, his place was modestly decorated, not much on the walls and a bookcase in the living room near his television. You smiled to yourself remembering how he told you he might need your help decorating.

It was like he could read your mind, as soon as you had that thought he quipped, “I told you I needed help decorating.”

You smiled softly, “You know I’m happy to help, I think we have very different styles though.”

That finally got a laugh out of him, “Maybe, but at least your place looks like a home and not just a place where someone is passing through.”

You grabbed his hand and squeezed it, “We’ll make this look like a home in no time,” you said with a smile.

He returned your smile, leading you into his bedroom. “I’m going to take my prosthetic off now, I wanted to show you how to do it just in case I ever need help with it.”

Nodding you sat down on the corner of his bed and watched and he pulled his pant leg up. He went slow, showing you how to pull it off and each of the protective layers on his leg.

You moved so you were sitting next to him, “Thank you for showing me this.” Jack turned his head and smiled at you, he looked so tired this morning. Grabbing his hand, you squeezed it gently, “Did you want to shower or anything? Before you get too comfortable I mean.”

He nodded, “Yeah, I should. You can wait in here or in the living room if you feel more comfortable there.” He returned the squeeze to your hand and you watched as he got up, grabbing the crutch by his bedside. Jack moved towards the bathroom, grabbing a change of clothes from the dresser that was on the same wall as the bathroom door.

Sliding your shoes off you moved up onto the bed so your back was resting on the headboard. You busied yourself with your phone while Jack was in the shower.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Robby, “Night shift was really bad last night, Jack lost someone. Can you make sure he’s alright?”

Well, that would explain why he looked more tired than he did the previous day. “Yeah of course, I’m with him right now actually.” You hit send, quickly following that message with another, “Jack’s in the shower right now if you were trying to reach him btw”.

Fuck. You weren’t exactly sure how to deal with this one, you assumed that this had happened before but there’s no way someone could get used to it.

Interrupting your silent spiral, you heard the bathroom door open. You could’ve sworn you saw Jack grab a t-shirt from his dresser earlier, but there he was, still damp and walking towards you in nothing but his boxers.

“I know Michael told you,” he said by way of greeting.

“Yeah, um, it just sounded like he was worried about you.” You were clearly flustered at the state of the man in front of you and you were starting to think he ditched the shirt on purpose.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, sitting down on the open side of the bed. “It’s happened before, it’ll happen again. Hazard of the job unfortunately.”

You weren’t sure what to say. He’s making it clear he doesn’t want to talk about it so you don’t push it. You just nodded, “Good shower?”

Jack huffed out a laugh, “You aren’t even going to try to get more out of me?”

“I mean, if you want to talk about it we can but you made it pretty clear you didn’t want to right now. I didn’t want to push it.”

He smiled at that, letting out a soft “thank you” before getting comfortable.

“I can go, if you want I mean,” you were blushing again. You wanted to stay but weren’t sure how to navigate this.

“I want you to stay,” Jack said matter of factly. “I know I said that I didn’t want to talk about it right now, but I also don’t want to be alone.” He looked at you, eyes soft and tired, and motioned for you to come closer.

The curtains were already drawn and his bedroom door shut, the only light coming from his bedside lamp. You nodded, moving closer to him and crawling under the blankets when he lifted them up. He threw an arm around you and pulled you into him, you noticed that he had you on the side with his good leg and you weren’t sure if that was intentional or not.

Putting your head to his chest you whispered, “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

“I swear to fucking god if you start singing happy birthday, I will throw you out of the car.”

“But I’m the one driving. We would both die.”

“I said what I fucking said.”

You smile in delight. Brendon scowls back. 

The day has been pretty unremarkable up to this point. He left home before you were even awake and spent the day operating and terrorizing surgical residents. You attended some meetings on campus in the morning before moving over to the hospital to work on your model. Very normal. But despite his best efforts to get you to treat this like any other Tuesday, you’re fairly vibrating with energy. It’s his birthday after all.

Well, technically tomorrow is his birthday. But he’s on call tomorrow, and you never plan things when he’s on call. It’s like saying it’s quiet in the ED — there’s no empirical evidence to suggest any negative causal effect, but everyone knows you just don’t do it.

So here you are, driving your silently-fuming boyfriend to a mystery destination, while he tries to kill you with his eyes for daring to celebrate him. You beam and wonder, not for the first time, if there’s something wrong with you.  It’s probably not healthy to enjoy antagonizing him so much. But the longer the two of you are together, the more you realize that the more annoyed he gets, the more fun you’re probably having. And right now, he is livid.

“You can’t be mad yet — you don’t even know where we’re going,” you remind him.

“That’s the first issue,” he snaps back. “The fact that you’re the one driving.”

“Hey! I’m a perfectly good driver. I’ve never gotten a ticket.”

“Because giving you a ticket would be like kicking a sad puppy. Doesn’t change the fact that your spatial awareness skills are shit and you can’t park to save your life.”

You reach over and smack his arm without taking your eyes off the road.

“What the fuck?”

“See? I didn’t even have to look. I have great spacial awareness.”

“I will murder you in your sl-“

“Oh look, we’re here.”

He pauses mid-death threat as you turn into the parking lot, sees where you are, then resumes said death threat with vigor.

“I will kill you while you sleep. Why are we at the aquarium?”

It seems like a pretty obvious question, so you ignore him and his steadily rising blood pressure while you park. You’re not nearly as bad at it as he likes to pretend, but it does take a fair amount of concentration to get the car parallel to the lines. He waits like a gentleman while you focus, then immediately resumes his grumbling once you cut the engine.

“This is stupid,” he snipes.

“Have you ever even been to an aquarium?”

“No. There are better ways to waste my time.”

Then he gets out of the car, rounds the hood, and opens the door for you. He also doesn’t immediately back away after he helps you out. Instead he crowds you against the door, bracing his hands against the hood and caging you in. 

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he mutters lowly. 

You hum in response. Having anyone else this close would make you feel nervous, but right now all you feel is safe and loved. Especially since he dips down just enough to press a kiss on top of your head. You do take a moment to search his eyes for any sign that he’s actually unhappy, but you don’t find any. Instead, there’s a spark of interest buried beneath five layers of false affront. God, you love him.

“Come on,” you say, ducking under his arm and dodging his attempt to snag your waist. “It’ll be fun.”

“You think coding books are fun. Excuse me if I don’t trust your judgment.”

But he turns and follows you, and after a few steps of dignified distance, he slips his hand into yours.

When you first met Brendon Park, you got the impression that he tolerated few people and liked even fewer. You had been correct. You also would have put money on him being incapable of basic niceness, and you had again, been correct. Even after a couple of months together, he’s still more likely to say have you always been this annoying when he sees you instead of I missed you. But what you never would have guessed and what you weigh far more than his verbal hostility, is his seemingly pathological need to be physically close to you. 

If the two of you are sitting on the couch, he tugs you against his side. When you’re eating dinner, he hooks one ankle around yours under the table. Sharing a bed with him is always an exercise in patience, since you don’t like being touched when you sleep, and he would like nothing more than to fuse himself to your back. 

His need to touch you persists even in public. Maybe especially in public. He thinks most people are idiots, and he doesn’t like idiots near you. Ergo, he keeps you tucked close when you’re out together. He always has a hand on your waist or the small of your back, and he uses his size as a buffer between you and everyone else. You’d teased him once, saying he wouldn’t die if you wandered into the next grocery aisle without him, and he’d referred to you as annoying-ass gremlin for the rest of the night. He’d also continued keeping you glued to his side.

He does the same now, using your hand to anchor you as you navigate the entrance to the aquarium even though there aren’t many people here. You’d chosen a weekday evening purposefully. He’s surprisingly tolerant of children, but you know he’ll still enjoy himself more without fifty million families running around. 

“I still think this is stupid,” he grumbles once you pass ticketing and security and enter the main atrium. “I want it on the record that I’m only staying because you would pout otherwise.”

“Mm hmm. Come on, I want to see the sharks first.”

“You think you’re fucking funny.”

You do, actually, and you’re also right. 

Brendon Park doesn’t like celebrating his birthday. Brendon Park thinks aquariums are dumb. Brendon Park spends the next two hours looking in every single tank and reading every single sign in the aquarium you took him to for his birthday.  

The aquarium is attached to a zoo, but he seems completely uninterested in both land creatures and marine mammals. He doesn’t even venture into the zoo exhibits, and he walks past polar bears, sea lions, and seals like they’re not there. He does pause by the crocodiles for a minute, but he moves on quickly.

The fish are the only thing that hold his attention. He stands in the coral reef exhibit, arms crossed and unmoving, for a solid twenty minutes. Just his eyes shift, tracking the fish as they dart around the display. At one point you find him zeroed in on a clown fish hovering around an anemone, and you ask him if it’s because he likes Finding Nemo. He tells you to mind your own business. 

The thing he loves most though is the open ocean exhibit. All the practice he gets standing for hours during surgery pays off, because he parks himself in front of the massive tank and then ceases acknowledging the outside world. The only things that exist to him are the 90,000 gallons of water, the sharks inside of it, and occasionally you when you nudge him before he tells you to leave him alone. 

You’re not nearly as fascinated by the fish as he is, but it doesn’t matter. He’s happy despite his best efforts not to be, and you’re happy just watching him. You watch the way the tension in his shoulders gradually drains away, the way the corner of his mouth keeps threatening to tilt up. It makes your heart do something mushy. 

He’s always focused, always serious. He’s freakishly disciplined, and you don’t think you’ve ever once seen him skip a workout or meal prepping or anything else you consider highly optional. Getting to see him slow down and just enjoy himself feels almost sacred. 

Later, much later, when the two of you are walking back to the car, he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a lingering kiss there.

“So did you like it?” you ask.

You already know the answer, you just want to make him say it. He, predictably, does not.

“No.”

You laugh and pretend you don’t see him looking at aquarium memberships on his phone in the car.

When the two of you get back to his place, he goes upstairs to take a shower, and you make an excuse about needing to clean the kitchen. He glances over at the spotless kitchen, looks back at your thrilled smile, and mutters fucking unbelievable under his breath before disappearing up the stairs. 

You wait until you hear the shower turn on before you scramble into the den. It takes some effort to retrieve the bag you’d stashed under the couch earlier in the week, but you manage it. Inside is his present and the wrapping paper you swore you’d take care of yesterday. You absolutely had not. So now you’re racing to wrap the small package before he finishes his military-speed shower, and you’ve barely finished when you hear the water shut off.

Triumphant, you race up the stairs and catch him just as he steps into the bedroom. His hair is wet, and there’s a towel wrapped around his waist, and you admittedly get sidetracked for a minute. It’s not your fault though. There’s a water droplet making its way down his chest and abs. Anyone would be distracted.

“Imp,” he prompts, amused.

“Right, sorry. Happy birthday!”

You pull the present from behind your back and hold it out with a flourish. 

“I said no gifts,” he says slowly.

“Yup!”

Interest, annoyance, and resignation pass across his face in rapid succession. You beam. You watch as he makes his way to the bed and perches on the end of it like he’s ready to bolt at any given second, then place the parcel in his lap.

A moment passes where he just looks at it, and you see something vulnerable flit across his expression. Your heart squeezes. You know his mom died when he was young, and his dad was an objectively terrible parent. He’s dated here and there, but nothing ever serious, and all of his friends from med school and residency live in other states. You wonder how long it’s been since someone gave him a birthday present.

“I can hear you thinking sappy thoughts from here,” he grumbles when you lower lip does something traitorous. 

“Am not,” you counter with absolutely no conviction. 

You don’t know why, but you’re suddenly nervous for him to open your gift. It’s small, simple. Maybe he won’t like it, or he’ll think it’s stupid. Actually, he’s probably guaranteed to think it’s stupid, but maybe he’ll think it’s unacceptable levels of stupid. What if this is the first birthday present he’s had in years and it’s not-

He picks it up and starts unwrapping it.

He does it slowly, methodically. In fact, he takes the time to peel off the tape instead of tearing the paper, and you smile despite your nerves. Ridiculous man. Eventually though, he gets to the actual box, and you hold your breath while he opens the lid.

Inside is a scrub cap. It’s plain — solid navy like the scrubs all surgical staff are required to wear. But when he picks it up, the inside becomes visible, and he pauses. Sharks. The inside of the cap is lined with sharks. There’s also a tiny block of embroidery that says To Shark, From Imp, and he just stares at it. Silence fills the room, and your pathological need to fill it kicks in full force. 

“I know you secretly like being Park the Shark, but I know you would rather die than tell anyone else, so I thought maybe the inside of the cap would be okay since no one but you would know it’s there well except for me I guess but if you think it’s dumb I can-“

He kisses you.

He drops the box and the cap on the ground and yanks you into his lap. Your gasp of surprise gets lost against his mouth when it slots over yours, and then he’s kissing you like he’s drowning and you’re oxygen. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t. There’s no warning, no gentle ease-in — just heat and intensity and the immediate feeling of being consumed.

His arms lock around you like steel bands, and he bites punishingly at your lower lip. Arousal flares, sharp and sudden. You shift until you’re straddling him, delving your fingers into his still-damp hair and pressing yourself as close as humanly possible. The towel around his waist comes undone somewhere in the shuffle, and you gasp. You’re wearing a floaty sundress, and suddenly the only thing between you and his rapidly-hardening cock is the thin material of your panties.

“D-do you like it?” you stutter. “I-“

He rolls his hips up into you, and you break off on a moan. 

“It’s fucking ridiculous,” he snarls back.

Then he’s standing with you in his arms and turning to deposit you on the bed. You hit the mattress with a faint oof, but you don’t have time to complain before he’s shoving your dress up and dropping to his knees.

“Fucking shark cap,” he spits as he yanks your panties down.

Then his mouth is on you, and you forget what words are, let alone complete sentences. He doesn’t waste time teasing. He just latches onto your clit and sucks until your back bows off the bed. Your legs attempt to snap closed at the sudden overload of sensation, but he just growls an approximation of behave against your pussy and keeps going. You whimper. 

Brendon Park gives head the same way he performs high-risk surgery — with laser focus and devastating precision. He tracks every minute twitch of your muscles, every hitch in your breathing and change in your expression. He’s almost clinical about it. Like you’re a computer program, and he’s trying to figure out the right inputs to make the model work. 

His tongue traces a particular pattern against your clit, then does it again when your leg tenses. He pauses to suck a bruise onto your inner thigh, then repeats the gesture when you flex into the pain. He presses one finger inside of you and crooks it with perfect memory, and he makes a pleased noise when you moan.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and your cunt clenches violently.

He takes this as his sign to add another finger. Then he’s licking and sucking your clit again, and you grab the sheets so hard you’re surprised they don’t tear. 

You come embarrassingly fast.

He fucks you with his fingers bent at the perfect angle and scrapes his teeth across your clit, and your orgasm tears through you like a freight train. You choke out his name as pleasure arcs like lightning through your body. Your hips grind down against his face of their own volition, and he hums in approval. He also doesn’t stop, and he works you through this orgasm and well on your way to another.

“Bren,” you gasp. “N-no more.”

He doesn’t even pretend to listen. You both know that if you actually wanted him to stop, you would use your safe word. But you don’t, and neither does he. He keeps fucking his fingers directly against your g-spot with ruthless accuracy, while his tongue alternates between lapping at your folds and sucking on your clit. Your blood turns to lava in your veins.

You feel a second orgasm fast approaching, and you try to squirm away from him.

“I said behave,” he grunts. “Y-“

“Want you inside.”

That finally makes him pause. He looks up at you, and you flush at the sight of your release on his lips and chin. His pupils are blown, nearly swallowing the blue of his irises, and there’s something feral in his gaze. The fingers in your cunt deliver a slow, almost thoughtful stroke. 

“I don’t think you should be making demands when it’s my birthday.”

His thumb moves to your clit, and your legs spasm. 

“Br-“

“I suppose I could accommodate you though if you beg.”

You whine, high and helpless. It’s not the first, the second, or even the tenth time he’s said something like that to you, but it hits you like lightning nonetheless. Your cheeks go nuclear, and your brain goes liquid. You also obey without thinking.

“Please,” you gasp.

He cocks his head.

“Please what?”

“Brendon.”

“Hmm, you’re going to have to be specific, sweetheart.”

His voice is condescending and just a touch cruel, and for a second you’re worried you’re going to come again. Your pussy clamps down on his fingers. He smiles viciously, well aware of the effect he has on you, and waits. You whimper. You just came on his face, but you’re somehow still embarrassed as you say-

“Please, can I have your cock.”

Satisfaction, swift and possessive, lights his face, and then he’s pulling his hand away from you and crawling over body.

“So pretty when you beg. I should make you do it more.”

This time your pussy clenches around nothing, and he actually laughs at you.

“Desperate little thing.”

Any protests die in your throat when he yanks one of your knees up around his hip and drives into you with one, harsh thrust.

You’ve already come once, and you’re so wet you’re nearly dripping, but the intrusion still steals your breath. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve had him. His cock is long and thick enough that every time feels like the first, and you moan at the feeling of being stretched until it’s nearly pain. Then he grinds his hips against yours, forcing himself impossibly deeper, and the ache sharpens until it’s just this side of unbearable. 

The orgasm hits you out of nowhere.

He’s not touching your clit, isn’t even thrusting. You’re just sensitive enough from having his mouth on you and lost enough in the feel of him that the final bite of pain pushes you over. You clamp down on his cock so hard that he chokes and sob as your release tears through you. Your hands scrabble for purchase on his shoulders, your hips jerking uncontrollably like they’re unsure of whether to push closer or pull away. 

“Are you-“

His jaw goes slack with shock for a second, and he freezes.

“You’re-, fuck.”

Something dark and violent and possessive crosses his face, and then he’s fucking you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You think you might if he does. Because you’re still coming, delirious with it, and the feel of him suddenly thrusting his cock into you nearly makes you cry.

“Bren,” you sob, shoving against his chest.

He just fucks you harder. Grabs both your hands in one of his and slams them to the mattress above your head like your overstimulation is just a mild inconvenience to him. 

“Greedy little thing,” he snarls. “Pretty pussy is so desperate for my cock, you can’t even wait for me to fuck you properly.”

You make a noise that’s half agreement, half whine. You think you’ve finally stop coming, but you don’t really know. Everything is hot and wet and too much, and he’s so deep you can feel him in your throat. He grinds deep every time he bottoms out, the movement scraping his pelvis against your clit and punching an embarrassing ah, ah, ah out of you each time. You’re too gone to care. The pleasure is a razor sharp blade tearing its way through, and your entire body feels like a raw, exposed nerve.

You can feel every ridge and vein on his cock as he bullies his way into you, and his tip hits something devastating at the top of each thrust. The intensity of it threatens to make your eyes close, but you force them to stay open. He’s beautiful like this. Cheeks flushed and brow damp with sweat, mouth open on a wordless groan when he shifts your leg to open you wider.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s everything. The feel of him above you, in you, his taste on your tongue and his voice whispering filth in your ear. Vaguely, you’re aware of your hands falling limp at your sides, your eyes drifting closed. Words leave you, and your brain goes fuzzy.

“Fuck, sweetheart, stay with me.”

His voice somehow reaches you and doesn’t at the same time. You try to answer and can’t.

“I know, baby, it feels so good. Just- shit, stay with me.”

You try, you really do. But you’re floating somewhere above your body, and you can’t find your way back down. Every thrust shreds a little bit more of your sanity. You’re so wet you can hear it every time he pulls out. Your body is a live wire, your brain is full of static, and nothing feels real anymore.

“Y/n.”

His voice is sharper this time, more demanding. A pathetic whine escapes your throat. You want to be good for him — you always want to be good for him. Desperate, you fumble around until you find his hand and place it on your chest. Maybe if he holds you down, you won’t float away. 

“Oh, sweetheart.”

His hand slides up to collar your throat, and you keen. You crash back into your body like a falling star, and awareness returns to you all at once. The sound of his hips striking the backs of your thighs with every thrust. The smell of sweat and sex and soap on his skin. The taste of him when he leans down to kiss you. He’s everywhere, he’s everything. 

“There you are,” he grunts when your eyes fly open. “Good girl.”

“P-please,” you whine back. 

You don’t even know what you’re asking for, just that you need it more than you need your next breath. But he knows, he always knows, and he bends to kiss you again. You sigh into his mouth. 

“Doing so well for me,” he coos.

You preen, arching your back to get even closer. 

“That’s it. Such a pretty baby.”

“I love you,” you gasp.

His expression goes feral.

“You’re mine,” he hisses. “Say it.”

“Y-yours.”

“Now my pretty girl is going to come on my cock.”

You whimper and shake your head. You don’t know how you can possibly come again. You’ve already come twice, and it feels like the second orgasm never ended. Your pussy is clamped down around him like a fist, and every thrust shoots lightning up your spine. Any more sensation and you’re going to pass out.

“I can’t.”

He makes a disappointed noise and fakes a pout at you. Your heart stops. 

“I thought you were my good girl, what happened, baby?”

You whine, devastated, and he shushes you.

“You just need to come, you can do that for me, can’t you?”

You nod your head frantically. You can do it, you can be good. You’re always good for him. You reach a shaking hand down between your bodies to your clit, then flinch at the first brush of your fingers. The pleasure is so sharp it’s like a knife. Your pussy tightens until it hurts, and you can’t-

“Fuck, that’s it.”

He shudders, head dropping into the crook of your neck. The groan he lets out is filthy, and the sound of his pleasure is enough to make you keep going. You force your fingers to resume their movements even if it feels like fire traveling through your veins. 

“T-there you go, feels so good. Fuck, that’s my girl.”

He shifts his hips, and his cock shreds up against something electric in you. 

“This perfect goddamned pussy. Just want to stay inside you for the-“

He makes a sound like he’s in pain, and your vision whites out.

“God fucking damn, the r-rest of my fucking life.”

You sob out an approximation of his name, legs clamping around his waist like you want to push him away and keep him close at the same time. Everything where you’re joined is a wet mess. Your fingers are barely keeping up their stiff movements, and you think you might be hyperventilating. But you can also feel the beginnings of another orgasm pulling at your exhausted body, and you fairly cry in relief.

“G-gonna come,” you whisper.

Savage satisfaction lights his face.

“That’s it. Come for me, sweetheart, I want to feel it.”

His hand tightens around your neck, just enough to make you work for the next breath, and you shatter.

Your whole body spasms, and your cunt locks down like a vice. It tears through you, stealing sight, sound, and thought as it goes — nothing is real except the pleasure. It hurts this third time around, and that combined with his grip on your neck is enough to send you spiraling.

“Good girl, shit, so damn gorgeous c-coming on my cock.”

And then he’s coming, too. He groans brokenly, face twisted in a snarl as he empties inside of you. He doesn’t stop, either. He keeps rutting his hips against yours, riding out the orgasm and fucking his come into you like he’s trying to brand you. The thought prolongs your own high, and you’re actually crying from overstimulation when he finally, finally stops. 

“Bren,” you whimper.

“I’m here, baby. Shh, you’re okay.”

Your senses return to you one by one, your eyes opening last. You blink slowly at the sight of him still above you, wild and wrecked and so, so beautiful. His expression gentles. He bends down to give you a slow, lingering kiss, one that’s comfort as much as it is affection.

“I’m going to pull out, okay?” he murmurs.

You shake your head immediately and cling to him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It takes a second, but you eventually nod and loosen your grip. A distressed whine leaves your throat when he withdraws from your body, but true to his word, he doesn’t go anywhere. There’s come dripping out of you, and you’re both sweaty and disheveled, but he just curls around you and tucks you against his chest. The two of you lay there like that for a long time. Neither of you speak, content to just trade soft touches and breath. 

His hand runs soothing patterns over your back, and his lips keep brushing kisses over your temple. That along with the sound of his heart beating underneath your ear is enough to relax your whole body, and you’re nearly asleep when he finally speaks.

“Imp.”

“Hmm?”

You crack open one eye to see him staring at you with devotion so intense it’s violence.

Oceanside California felt foreign to Pope Cody when he stepped out from behind the gated prison walls of Folsom. He hadn’t told anyone he was getting out; there was no one waiting for him as the gate doors closed behind him. No open arms for him to run into or noisy brothers clapping him on the back.

As much as a part of him missed the familiarity of his old room, he didn’t return home right away. He wanted some free time to himself before Smurf got her filthy hands on him again—before she tainted what little chance of starting over Pope clung on to. Before she made him into the dangerous guard dog she so carefully convinced him he was.

He found himself wandering the streets alone instead, shoulders and jaw stiff and tense; like any moment he’d wake up or a guard would appear and drag him back into the grey walls that haunted his nightmares when he was actually able to sleep.

Pope’s memory spun as he took in familiar buildings—places that had been there practically his entire life. The beach air still wafted through the breeze, still smelled the same. Still dusted his skin with the pricklings of ocean salt. If his hair hadn’t been shaved down in a shitty prison cut; his curls would’ve picked it up too. He longed to feel the salty breeze float through his hair again; lull him into a calmness.

His brow furrowed a little at all the new shops and businesses that had popped up since he’d been gone, ones that definitely weren’t there before he went in. Random places like mini grocery stores and self-employed insurance companies. A new book store that he pushed to the back of his mind to visit later.

That’s how he found you; at the new little diner on the corner with bright red letters on the sign.

You're a bit nervous to see Pope again. It's been over six months since you've last seen him, something you feel a little bad about but you're sure he appreciates the fact that you took the time to get yourself settled into a new place. 

You're finally feeling ready to put yourself back out there, at least for a good time. 

Especially when it seems like everyone else in your life is having their own fun. 

You don't want to miss out so you decide it would be nice to see someone you've always been comfortable with. 

Andrew “Pope” Cody, a friend you've had for a long time who has seen you through the worst versions of yourself and still somehow managed to stick around. 

You owe a lot to Pope for being the one you could call in the middle of the night to come pick you up to keep you company while you're bawling your eyes out. He never made you feel lesser for having these anxiety attacks. He always took very good care of you. 

Because he has always liked you, a lot. 

So when you text him asking him if he'd like to meet up and do something together, Pope replies instantly, asking what you'd want to do. You tell him that a cup of coffee would be nice and then the two of you could decide from there. 

Usually, how this goes, at least when you and Pope sleep together, is that the two of you either eat something first and then fuck or fuck and then eat something. 

It's routine, simple, easy. 

Nothing like how your day actually ends up going though…

Because the moment you see Pope, your eyes immediately trail the length of his body, staring at the way he has filled in his shirt, his muscles outlined by the soft fabric. 

You have never been more nervous in your life…

You weren't expecting him to be so fit but he did tell you that he took up boxing recently and that he helped move in his older brother, Jack, who plays a lot of tennis. The two of them have been playing together most days, which is why Pope is more muscular than he was the last time you saw him. 

He can tell you're nervous because you don't say anything when you get into his car. 

“Everything alright?” He turns to you for a second before he starts the drive to your favorite cafe.

“You look really good, Andrew.” You blurt out your thoughts, embarrassment making your stomach knot up. 

You open your mouth to try to pad what you just said but then Pope goes, “you look really good too.” 

That has your whole body lighting up because as a subtle flirtation, you decided to wear a shirt Pope let you steal a while back and thin shorts, since you wanted him to know exactly what this meet up was for. 

But now you're feeling more worked up than you were previously and it only gets worse when he parks at the cafe and has his muscular arm around your back as the two of you walk inside. The heat radiating off of him makes you a little dizzy, his hand imprinting its warmth into the side of your hip. 

Has he always been this…big compared to you? 

“What do you want?” He whispers into your ear while the two of you are in line and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest when you feel his hot breath on your skin. 

You mumble your order when the two of you get to the register and Pope whips out a wad of cash from his pocket, setting down enough for your coffee plus tip and then guides you over to where the two of you can wait for your coffee. 

His hand hasn't left your side and he likes that you're letting him keep it there. 

Usually you don't.

It's not that you don't like public displays of affection but you try to keep more of a distance between yourself and someone you're just sleeping with, to lessen any growing attachment. 

But…has Pope ever been “just” someone you're sleeping with?

You've always felt more for Pope than that but you never let yourself feel those feelings until right now. Maybe because you didn't think you deserved him. You still don't think you deserve him. 

And yet, when your eyes lock with his and he leans down to kiss you, why do you kiss him back without minding that the two of you are in the middle of a busy cafe…

Your heart flutters when he moves away from your lips and says, “I missed kissing you.” 

You missed it too. You missed him. 

Something you're unsure if you are going to let yourself feel right now.

When your coffee is ready, Pope asks you if you'd like to come over to his place and meet his older brother, Jack. You remember Pope telling you about his doctor brother moving back into town after years away. 

Jack wanted a change of scenery and the beautiful city of Oceanside has always been a place he was homesick for. Plus, the pay at this hospital is much better than the one back in Pittsburgh. He doesn't have to work the night shift anymore, though he still does. He has a better work-life balance here, which gives him room to pursue other interests.

Like you… 

Because Pope had told Jack all about you. About the kind of sex the two of you have. About how much he wants to be with you but he doesn't want to make you nervous and scare you away. About how you confided in him that you would like to one day try fucking two men at once, though you doubted the opportunity would ever arise. 

Until you get to Pope's place and meet his brother Jack, shaking his hand formally and introducing yourself.

Your heart suddenly pounds in your ears when his hand lingers in yours as he asks, “so what do the two of you plan on doing together today? Can I join?” 

Now, your stomach seriously is in knots and your anxiety starts to peak…

Because this is Pope's older brother. You know for a fact that Pope had to have told Jack about you so Jack definitely knows what he's implying with his words.

And you were not mentally prepared to fuck two men today… 

Which is why you don't answer him and instead ask Pope, "where's your bathroom again?” 

Pope shows you where it is and you lock yourself in there, trying to catch your breath. You have your body leaned up against the door, doing the breathing exercises your therapist taught you, while you eavesdrop on them talking out there. 

“You made her nervous.” Pope scolds Jack. 

“She didn't say no.” Jack says back. “Maybe she's nervous because she wants us both.” 

That is exactly why you're nervous…

It's not an understatement to say you're attracted to Pope. So, of course, you would be attracted to Jack, who is just an older version of Pope. 

Two attractive men…wanting to sleep with you…

You feel like you're going to start hyperventilating. Your anxiety is through the roof and it's getting hard to breathe because you don't want to mess this up but you feel like you already have by acting this way. 

Sometimes, you wish you weren't built like this. That you could just go with the flow and not think so deeply. 

But…you are thinking deeply and you can't help it. 

You're afraid that you'll end up liking this and then what? What will you do then? 

Is it okay to—

You flinch when there's a knock at the door and you hear Pope's voice ask, “are you alright in there?” 

You let out a sigh. 

You can't keep hiding. 

At least, not without explaining yourself a little. 

So, you open the door and look up at Pope and tell him, “I think I just need a moment to myself. Can I borrow your room?” 

Pope nods, leading you back there. Then, before he heads back out to the living room with Jack, he grabs a hold of your shoulders, rubbing them gently before being so sweet to you, “we don't have to do anything today so don't worry about it, okay? I'm just happy to see you.” 

His words have your heart wanting to burst because you were not expecting that at all. 

So, you apologize for behaving this way, “I'm sorry I'm acting all weird. I just…I'm so nervous all of a sudden.” 

“That's okay.” He keeps rubbing your shoulders so gently. “Just let me know if there's anything I can do to make you feel better.” 

Your eyes meet his and then, unconsciously, you drop down to stare at his lips before snapping your eyes back to his. He smiles at that before leaning in, giving you a light kiss that you melt into almost too quickly. 

It's exactly what you needed, so soft and full of care.

“I'll be right out there. Call me if you need anything, okay?” He nuzzles your nose lightly and you nod into it. 

Pope leaves and shuts the door behind him and you don't lock it. You just sit down on his bed then lay back, looking up at the ceiling you've stared up at many times before.

It's different this time, though. There are butterflies flapping around in your tummy. You've never…felt so much before. The nerves are there but there's something more to it.

He lingers on your lips and you miss his kiss already. 

Your heart is still racing in your chest so you need some kind of outlet for the anxious energy. Normally you take a walk, so that's what you'll do. 

You see them both hanging out on the couch when you head out of his room and the moment he hears your footsteps, Pope gets up and walks to you. “Feeling better?”

“I will. I just want to take a walk around for a little. Is that okay?” You don't need to ask permission but it helps you to hear that it doesn't bother him. 

“Why don't we walk to the tennis courts?” Jack suggests. “Pope and I were going to play anyways.”

“I thought you said you wanted to play pickleball.” Pope has been indulging Jack's latest obsession with pickleball. “Now you want to play tennis?” 

“We're definitely playing pickleball.” He says a bit too seriously and you hold in a little laugh because you find that strangely cute how passionate he is. “Maybe we can teach you.” 

You shake your head. “I don't want to learn something new right now. I'm a little overwhelmed as is…”

“Then you can just watch us play.” Jack gets up from the couch, presumably to start getting his gear ready. “Do whatever makes you comfortable, princess.” 

He smiles at the shocked expression on your face when he calls you the nickname you love to hear in bed. You're even more flustered now than you were before. 

So flustered that you barely register Pope cupping your face with his big hands, turning you to look at him. “Does that sound good with you?” 

You nod into his palms. “I think so. I've never seen you play before.” 

“He sucks.” Jack comes back after quickly changing and pats his brother on the shoulder, smirking. “But it'll be entertaining to watch I'm sure.” 

“I do not suck.” Pope glares at Jack, pointing at his prosthetic. “I just don't want to overwork you.” 

You glance down, seeing that Jack is wearing athletic shorts now so his prosthetic leg is visible. You immediately rip your eyes away from him when you can see the faint outline of his cock through the fabric. You shake the image from your mind, but the thought of whether or not he's the same size as Pope stays plastered in your head. 

“I'll get overworked regardless today.” Jack gives you a big smile after he says that and now you’re internally screaming…

Pope rolls his eyes at his brother's direct flirtation then looks back at you. “I'm going to get changed. Don't let him bother you.” 

He leaves then and, of course, Jack can't resist walking up to you. He wants to see the cute look on your face when he gets real close. 

You swallow down the nerves, staring at him as he examines every inch of you. He glances at your shirt and then says, “that's my brother's shirt, isn't it? I have one just like it. It's like you're wearing my clothes too.” 

The nonchalant grin Jack gives you has your heart pounding in your ears louder than ever. He smells different from Pope too. It's nice in its own way but it has you feeling dizzy from how close he is to you. 

“You really are as cute as Pope said.” Jack leans in and your breath gets caught in your throat the moment his lips touch yours and he whispers, “I can't wait to play with you later.” 

He pulls away before he can give you a real kiss. It was just a brush of the lips but now your skin is on fire…

Pope comes back to Jack acting completely unaware of why you look like you've just been jumpscared. “What's going on?” 

“We were just chatting. Right, princess?” Jack flashes that quietly mischievous grin of his at you. 

You nod, not sure what to say back. 

Pope proceeds to grab Jack and drag him into his room, shutting the door behind him. Then, in a low whisper, he tells Jack, “stop messing with her.” 

“I'm not.” Jack lies through his cocky smile. 

“I'm serious, Jack.” Pope doesn't want to scare you off. 

“She let me kiss her.” Jack tells him, which has Pope letting go of his shirt. 

“What?” Pope is surprised to hear that. 

“She wants this. She's just too nervous about it. You can be her comfort and I can be the one who gets her to break out of her shell a little.” He already has a plan formulating in his head for how to make you more comfortable. 

And it starts with making you laugh. 

On the way to the tennis courts, Jack tells you a story about a crazy night shift he had and you can't stop giggling to the point where your stomach is cramping up. You haven't laughed like that in so long. 

Jack is completely unserious and carefree, and it helps get you to relax because you haven't said a word about how his hand has been resting on the small of your back. You've been holding Pope's hand this whole time, squeezing it when you need a bit of comfort. 

It doesn't dawn on you how this might look if someone spotted the three of you until they both leave your side to start playing pickleball. That's when your nerves come back and you start pacing around to release the energy piling up inside of you. 

But then, Jack starts goofing off on the court, messing with Pope, and your laughing fit comes back at full force. 

Jack looks at Pope and then says, “come on, Pope. You have a princess to impress.” 

The glare Pope gives Jack makes you giggle even more. They really are brothers. 

And Pope is much better at pickleball than Jack was leading you to believe. 

The two of them play for what feels like forever, until they're both drenched in sweat. 

You're sweaty too but that's because of the California heat. 

“Let's head back.” Pope can tell you definitely need a cold glass of water. 

He puts his hand out to help you up, since you've been sitting on the sidelines watching them, then proceeds to keep your hand held in his as the three of you walk back. You try not to feel too happy about that. Holding his hand makes the butterflies in your stomach go crazy but not in a bad way. 

You like how nice his calloused palm feels in yours. 

You also like how Jack's hand feels resting on your back, even though the fact that they're both touching you right now has your heart racing. 

Then, Jack leans closer to you and asks, “do you want to shower first or with one of us?” 

And you feel like you might actually explode.

Pope bites back a laugh at how shocked you look at Jack's question because you're just too cute all flustered. It makes it hard for him to not tease you too. 

But, he pulls your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles before he says, “let her shower on her own. She's nervous enough already.” 

“Her choice.” Jack looks at you. “What do you want to do, princess?” 

You're stunned into silence because you have no idea what to say. So many things run through your head, like the sight of them both naked with hot water dripping off their skin…

You'd love to see that… 

But you refrain from the desire, opting to just answer, “I'll shower first.” 

“Suit yourself. We could've sat in my shower chair together.” Jack's words have you imagining that very scene.

You can't believe how forward he's being. That's not what you expected when Pope told you about his brother. But it seems like Jack is the type to live life in the moment and doesn't think very far ahead. 

That's why when you're freshly showered and dressed in one of Jack's shirts, since he insisted on it, he makes his move while Pope is in the shower. 

“Come here.” He gestures for you to sit on the couch with him. “Let's chat a little.”

You definitely don't think he wants to chat because the moment you're in front of him, he grabs you by the waist and sits you down on his lap, making you straddle him.

“Jack, I just showered…” You can feel his sweat on your body.

“You can shower again, with me.” He says with that sly smirk of his. 

“I don't think that's a good idea…” You grip onto his shoulders tighter, the nerves getting to you again.

“You know, you could get up anytime.” Jack tells you and you realize then that he doesn't have his hands on you at all. 

You've just been sitting pretty on his lap. And for some reason, you don't scramble to move. 

Maybe it's the look in his eyes, the one you've seen on Pope before. 

Lust. 

“Push me away, princess.” Jack leans in, whispering so close to your lips. “Before I kiss you while my brother is in the shower.” 

“Is Andrew okay with—” His lips are on yours before you can finish your question, kissing you with such heat that your mind goes fuzzy for a second.

Then, when you kiss Jack back, he smiles against your lips and says, “I think you know the answer.” 

Suddenly, his hands are all over your body and he's grinding up against you, pulling a moan from your lips you can't keep in. 

“Good girl.” He tells you before you can be embarrassed about it. “That's it, let go and just feel good.” 

It does feel good. You like the way Jack kisses you. It's hot and passionate, his hands holding you tight against him, his hips rolling up to meet yours, his hard cock rubbing up against you through your shorts and his own. 

He groans when you start grinding on him, your hands moving into his hair, brushing through his silver curls. “I could fuck you right now if you want me to.” 

You shake your head, your lips still on his when you answer, “I want Andrew too.” 

“Greedy girl.” Jack likes that you're honest. 

You're surprised you are. You have no idea what's gotten into you. But it's like the moment Jack kissed you, a switch flipped in your head and you're aching between your legs at the thought of two men having their way with you. 

Who are you to say no to that? 

So, despite the fear pooling in your belly, you close your eyes and just enjoy the feeling of Jack's lips on yours and his hands on your skin until Pope gets out of the shower and sees the two of you making out on the living room couch. 

“Started without me?” His voice pulls the two of you apart. 

You feel flush all over at his accusation but Jack just laughs and goes, “I loosened her up for you. Don't fuck her until I get back.”

Jack then proceeds to lift you up off of him like you weigh nothing and sets you down next to him. He gives you one last heated kiss before he heads to shower. 

And you don't know if the sweat on your skin is his or your own… 

“Was everything alright with Jack?” Pope joins you on the couch, taking your hand in his. “I can tell him to leave you alone.”

He's certain you don't want that from the way he watched you grind on his brother but he has to ask anyway. 

“Is it alright with you?” You want to make sure because you don't want to do this if Pope is uncomfortable with it. 

But it's his brother and he trusts Jack more than anyone in the world. “Yeah, if it makes you feel good, it's alright with me.” 

“Andrew, we don't have to do this.” You're nervous that he's forcing himself to be okay with this. “I'm sorry if I—”

“Look at me, princess.” His words have you snapping to listen instantly. “I want you to feel good. Did my brother make you feel good?”

Pope's hand slips out of yours and your breath hitches when his hand rests on your thigh. 

“I can check how good he made you feel.” His hand starts sliding between your legs. “Can I do that?” 

You bite down on your lip, then you nod.

“Lay back then.” He instructs and you lay down on the couch and watch as he pulls your shorts off, leaving you completely bare from the waist down. “I've missed looking at your pretty pussy, princess.” 

You choke back a whimper when his finger grazes your clit before drawing a line down your slit. His touch is so featherlike that your body can't handle it. 

You want more than just that light touch… 

“Use your words, princess.” Pope climbs on top of you because he wants to kiss you. “What do you want?” 

“Please touch me.” 

“Ask politely.” He demands in that stern tone of his that has you getting wetter between your legs. 

“Will you please touch me?” You tense up from how shy you get after saying that but the smile on Pope's face has you relaxing a bit. 

Just a bit, because you gasp when his finger slides into you for just a split second before he drags it up along the length of your pussy to swirl around your clit. 

“Who's a good little princess?” He asks, dipping just the tip of his finger into you again before pulling back out. 

“I am.” You'll be so good if he keeps touching you like this. 

“You really are. You're so wet for us.” Pope slips his whole finger inside of you right then and you arch your back in response, driving him deeper. “Are you aching for more?” 

“Yes.” You're practically pleading for him to stop stalling with that single word but much like his brother, Pope enjoys the worked up expression on your face. 

So he's patient and slow, feeling around for that spot you like so much, watching you squirm when he purposefully avoids it. 

It isn't until you're panting that he finally adds another finger and starts kissing you. 

His tongue feels so good on yours. His fingers feel so good inside of you. 

You're drowning in absolute bliss. 

“She looks like she wants to cum.” Jack's voice has you glancing over at him. He's rubbing his hair with a towel, drying those beautiful curls of his. 

You like that Pope's hair is still a little damp. You want to grab a hold of it.

And you do, when he pulls away from your lips so he can head down between your legs and flick your clit with his tongue until you're trembling. 

“Please.” You don't know how much more of this edging you can take. “I want to cum so badly.” 

“I never said you couldn't cum, princess.” Pope rolls his tongue over your clit, sending you reeling but not close enough to the edge to cum. 

“I'm so close.” You whimper out, not caring anymore how you might look or sound. “Please don't stop, please keep going.” 

“She's so cute when she begs.” Jack nudges you to let him slide in behind you on the couch, pulling your back against his chest. 

He slips his hands under your shirt, technically his shirt that you're wearing, and exposes your chest to the air, your nipples peaking in response. 

“Can I help make you cum, princess?” Jack asks as he slides his hands from your sides to cup your breasts. 

“Yes, please.” You don't know why you plead to him but it just slips out… 

And when his thumbs roll over your nipples at the same time Pope seals his lips around your clit, stars flood your vision and you cum so hard that your whole body shakes, your orgasm sending waves and waves of shock through your system. You're gasping for air, lightheaded from the feeling.

“Deep breaths, pretty girl.” Jack nips at your ear, his voice so soft and sweet. “You're okay. That must've felt so good, right?” 

You nod, the pleasure overwhelming you. It's been so long since you've cum and you definitely haven't cum that hard in a while.

“Should we make it happen again?” Pope starts slowly fucking you with his fingers again. “Do you want to cum again?”

“I don't know if…” You're unsure if you'll survive another hit of pleasure like that…

“We can take a break.” Pope goes to slide his fingers out of you but you snatch his wrist before he can, which draws a laugh from Jack. 

“Looks like she doesn't want you to stop, Pope.” Jack chuckles against the nape of your neck. “Tell him what you want. Do you want my brother to make you cum with his fingers?” 

You nod but Pope doesn't move until the words leave your lips. “Please make me cum again, Andrew.” 

“What a good girl, asking for what you want.” Jack rewards you by pinching your nipples, sending such a jolt through you as Pope finds a pace with his fingers that leaves you squirming in their hold. 

Then, when he curls them just right, you unravel completely, squirting with every thrust of his fingers until you feel like you might pass out. He pops his fingers out of you then before giving your pussy a light smack that has you cumming again so quickly. 

“Do that again.” Jack tells his brother. “I think she liked it.” 

Pope gauges your reaction as he slaps your wet pussy again, seeing the way your eyes roll back in response. “Does that feel good, princess?” 

“Too good.” You don't know if you should let him keep doing that. 

It might ruin you… 

“And here I thought you liked it when I was gentle.” Pope leans down, his tongue trailing along the length of your slit before dipping into you slowly. 

Every stroke of his tongue is so light, like you're something delicate he doesn't want to break. 

But you need more than just this and he knows it. 

You're aching for him to slide his cock inside of you… 

Jack tilts your head up, seeing the lust in your eyes, smiling. “That's the face of someone who's needy for cock. Do you want my brother's cock buried inside of you?” 

You nod then turn to look at Pope. “Please, Andrew.” 

“When did you get so polite? Is it because my brother is here? Usually you're more demanding.” Pope teases you with his words and you feel so flushed from it, heat rising through your skin. 

That heat remains when you watch him strip off his pants and you get a view of the cock you're always so desperate for. 

But he doesn't want to give it to you right away. 

So, he grabs your underwear and slips it back on, surprising you. Jack seems surprised as well, until he watches Pope rub your slick all over the fabric before gliding his cock against it. 

Everything clicks for him and he's menacing with his laugh now. “Oh, you're going to get edged to death, princess.” 

“Wait, what?!” You yelp when Jack pins your wrists behind your back with one hand while he holds your head steady with the other, forcing you to watch Pope rub his cock against your pussy through the wet fabric, dipping it in and out of it. 

“When did you get so horny? You're practically drooling all over my cock.” Pope slips just the tip inside of you but pulls out before you can enjoy it, drawing such a whimper of desperation from your lips, which he smiles at. “Do you want more, princess?” 

“Please fuck me, Andrew.” You want him so bad…

“Hmm…” He slides more of his cock inside of you before pulling back out and you whine in response. “Do you think I should fuck her, Jack? I'll let you pick.” 

You can feel Jack shake his head behind you. “I don't think so. She's too adorable all needy like this. I want to enjoy it a little longer.” 

“You heard the man.” Pope smirks at you before sliding his cock along the length of your pussy, teasing your clit over and over again with the tip of it. 

“Please.” You look up at Jack. “Please let Andrew fuck me.” 

That causes Jack to laugh hysterically. “Beg again, princess.” 

“Please, Jack. I want Andrew to fuck me. Let him fuck me.” You lean in closer to him, your lips nearly touching his when you tell him, “I'll let you fuck me too if you do.” 

“We're bartering now? I like this.” Jack grabs you by the chin, turning you to face him more. “What else can I get if I let you have my brother's cock?” 

“Whatever you want.” You're so clouded by your desire that you don't care what he asks of you. “Please just let him fuck me.” 

“What do you want, Pope? Tell her and she'll give it to you.” Jack prompts and Pope swallows nervously for the first time this entire session. 

Because the words that leave his lips have your heart pounding. “I want her to be ours.” 

“W-What do you mean?” You don't get what he's implying. 

Is he saying that they want you to be…

No, there's no way. 

Why would they both want you—

“I want to fuck you more than just today.” Pope says firmly. “I want to fuck you from now on. I want to do more than that…”

You turn to face him and you're not ready to feel his lips press against yours, kissing you with all the affection he can't put into words. And when Jack loosens his grip on your wrists, you move out of his hold to cup Pope's face, pulling him in closer, kissing him harder. 

“Do you really…” You're scared to say the words aloud. 

“I want to be your boyfriend.” Pope nibbles on your bottom lip after he says that, then trails a line of kisses down to your neck. “I want to be with you.” 

Jack scoops your attention away by turning you to face him again, saying, “can I be your boyfriend too?” 

“T-Too?” You're stunned to hear that. 

Jack nuzzles your nose, grinning. “A princess like you deserves two men to spoil you rotten.” 

“So, can I be your boyfriend?” Pope looks up at you, waiting for your answer.

“Can I?” Jack chimes in too. 

And you find the strength to push yourself to say, “yes.” 

To allow yourself to be given the affection you've always desired and more. 

“Our princess is so precious.” Jack kisses your cheek. “I think she deserves a kiss, doesn't she?” 

“I know just where to kiss our princess.” Pope lines his cock up with your entrance before thrusting the entire length of it inside of you in one go, the tip of his cock pressing up so deep inside of you, you might actually burst from that single motion. “Do you like it when I kiss you here?”

You nod but then Pope shakes his head at you. 

“Say “I like it when my boyfriend kisses my womb with his cock” or I won't move.” He stills inside of you, his cock throbbing, making you ache for more. 

“I-I like it when my boyfriend—” You can't get the rest of the words out because Pope starts grinding his cock deeper, causing your head to spin. “Oh god, Andrew, I'm going to cum if you keep—”

“Just cum on your boyfriend's cock, princess.” Jack coaxes you to let go completely. “Like you will on mine in a bit.” 

You moan so loudly that you have to clamp your hands over your mouth when Pope starts pounding into you, fucking you exactly how you always like it. Jack moves your hands away and slips his fingers into your mouth instead to silence you. 

“Suck them on like it's your boyfriend's cock.” He instructs and you listen instantly. “That's a good girl. You're going to suck my cock so well.” 

“Can I?” You say with his fingers in your mouth and he pulls them out immediately.

“Wait a second, Pope.” Jack has his brother slow his thrusts. “She wants me in her mouth. Flip her over.” 

Pope pulls out of you and you bite back a whine from the loss but then you're on your knees in a second. And without Jack having to say anything, you're already tugging off his pants for him while Pope realigns himself behind you. 

“Put my brother in your mouth and then I'll feed you my cock too.” Pope tells you as he rubs your back, the action so soothing like his words. “You can do it, princess. Let me see how good you can suck off your new boyfriend.” 

Jack watches you eagerly sink your mouth down onto his cock, taking him nearly to the base in one go. “Fuck, that's incredible. Look at you go, swallowing me up so easily.”

He grabs a fistful of your hair, groaning at you humming around his cock in response. 

“I'm going to fuck this pretty little mouth the moment my brother's back inside of you. Get ready, princess.” Jack's warning barely preps you for Pope ramming the entirety of his cock inside of you from behind. 

You're squirting immediately, your knees buckling, your lower belly getting pounded into oblivion by how deep his cock is thrusting inside of you. It doesn't help that you're dazed from Jack fucking your mouth just as deeply, stuffing himself as far down your throat as he can.

It all feels better than you could've imagined. 

You could get used to this… 

“Please tell me I can cum inside of you.” Pope is certain you're still on birth control but he wants to be sure. 

You nod around Jack's cock so he answers for you, “she wants you to cum, Pope.” 

So, he does, spilling so much of his cum inside of you that he's fucking it deeper with every additional thrust. You're drooling by the time Jack pulls your mouth off his cock and Pope pulls out of you. 

“Come ride your new boyfriend.” He pats his lap and you straddle him but he turns you around so your back is against him. “You've got to put on a show for your other boyfriend, princess.” 

You slip off your shirt then, allowing yourself to be completely bare when you sink yourself down on Jack's cock, moaning when he hilts. Him and his brother are similar in size and they both fill you up wonderfully. 

You start grinding down on Jack's cock, burying him further inside of you until you're desperately bouncing on it, wanting to cum already. 

Then you do cum, when Jack smacks your swollen clit. You cum way harder than you should've and he chuckles into your ear. 

“You really like that, don't you? You like it when your clit gets abused?” Jack rubs it gently before slapping it all of a sudden again, making you tighten up around his cock. “Keep milking my cock. You're doing so well. Isn't she, Pope? Aren't you proud of our princess?”

“So proud.” Pope's hand slides to your lower belly, pressing his fingers into your flesh, massaging right above your womb where Jack's cock is pushing up against. “Our princess is going to cum real nice right now for us. Right?” 

You nod and then when Jack's hands come up to play with your breasts and Pope slides his free hand to roll your clit between his fingers, you burst entirely, your orgasm rolling through you immediately. 

“She's too pretty when she's fucked out of her mind.” Jack says, giving your neck a kiss. “I'm glad I get to have a piece of this beauty.”

“She's all ours.” Pope tilts your chin towards him before he kisses you and you're grabbing onto him, kissing him back. 

Jack takes that moment to grab a hold of your hips and starts grinding his hips upwards, fucking you harder until you're moaning against his brother's lips. 

“Move, Pope.” Jack gestures for his brother to get up so he can pull you off of his lap and throw you down onto the couch, ramming his cock back inside of you the moment he's on top of you. He revels in the way your toes curl and your eyes roll back. “I'm going to cum so deep inside my girlfriend right now.”

“Please, Jack.” You want it, just like you wanted Pope's release. “Fill me up too.” 

He grabs a hold of your face before smashing his lips against yours, grunting with every harsh thrust of his hips until you feel that warmth fill your lower belly. 

A warmth you never want to be without from now on…

“Did that feel good?” Jack asks, kissing you lightly on the forehead. 

You nod, then turn to look at Pope. “Can we do it again?” 

Pope lets out a beautiful laugh and then says, “we can do it as much as you want.”

“Anything for our princess.” Jack gives you a warm hug, pulling you up to straddle his lap again, still seated inside of you, surprisingly hard still too… 

You bury your face against his shoulder, mumbling, “are you both sure you want me?” 

And in sync, they both say, “yes.” 

Jack likes the way you smile against him. He lifts your head up so he can lean in and kiss you with the same amount of affection that Pope has when he kisses you. 

“Let's take this one day at a time and see where it goes.” Jack tells you with so much kindness in his tone. 

“Is that alright with you?” Pope sits back down next to his brother, pulling you to look at him. 

You nod and that's when he leans in to kiss you too and you smile against his lips.

Then, you say as a little tease, “are you going to fuck me now or are you going to let your brother go first since he's still inside of me?” 

That makes Pope laugh harder than he has all night, a sound that is so beautiful to hear that it has you giggling too and Jack can't hold in his chuckle either. 

This seems like the start of a very fun relationship with two men who will make it their life's mission to have you laughing your days away, filled with more than just happiness. 

How wonderful does that sound? 

a/n: oh I am so mushy, I swear being in a happy relationship has me wanting to write such cutesy mush, I love it!!! also the title of this fic is based on the song blooming days by exo-cbx ❀

I think this would be fun to add onto in the future whenever I want to revisit a softer, more heartwarming relationship with jack and pope ~ 

heated breaths sent sparks down your spine as your pulse quickened. the skin adorning your nape pimpled up under andrew’s touch.

andrew had you caged beneath him, right hand firmly resting on the swell of your hips, fearing you might leave his hold. this wasn’t like other intimate moments the two of you shared. no frantic kisses with teeth clashing, with the force hard enough to chip enamel, fighting for dominance. no hands roaming urgently as lips follow in sync, each labium devouring the other, like beasts in heat. no, this was different, passionate and slow— borderline torturous.

your bodies pulled together like kitchen magnets, forcing his flexed abdomen to press against yours. there was barely any space left between you, each of you exchanging breaths of warm oxygen, drinking in the smell of mixed arousal. 

none of you could remember what led to this. by now, clothes were discarded on the floor. two pairs of socks, his belt, your underwear, his shirt- all tossed behind him, forgotten like dreaded house chores as he worked to please you. every thrust of his hips was calculated and patient, focusing on the simmering tension that had been threatening to burst all night. now, in the wrinkled sheets, that knot began to snap.

andrew’s nose brushed against the column of your neck, eliciting whimpers of heated pleasure from you. your parted lips trembled as he continued his rhythmic pace. ​your hips reflexively ascended to his groin, naturally straining to meet his rams. one long, powerful thrust after another, the sounds of perspired skin echoing with each shove of his curved head. piercing shocks zap your lower half like static; your stomach swelled with anticipation as you neared your peak. andrew trailed close behind you, sputtering, his hips giving away his desire to come.

a mix of ragged breaths and groans were no longer kept captive in his body. each vibration had ample air time, the frequencies slow and clear. tepid tears cooled your neck as andrew felt more and more cathartic; his release teetered on the edge, every neuron activated by you spread below him, lust so strong that andrew could no longer forcibly deny himself.

his soft lips peppered kisses from your collarbone to your ear; he was lost in his own pleasure, needing to feel you all over. the final kiss andrew had placed left you buzzing, his plush lips tickling your sensitive spot. every action of his was a stimulus, rousing your nails to leave crescents on his broad shoulders. his flushed, freckled skin was now more ruddy than before. loud, uncontrollable whines escaped your lips, your hands pawing at his back for a semblance of relief. your eyes mirrored his gaze. 

“yea? yea?” he pants more to himself than to you. you nod regardless; his gravelly mewls making you flutter open even more, seducing his length to hit the special spot inside you.

thick digits find their way to your blossoming bud. andrew knew your body by heart; he applied more pressure as he traced deep, slow circles. thwacks of hips no longer hide the sound of your wetness. slick poured from you like rich, viscous honey, coating andrew’s fingers as nectar would a spoon.

andrew, the ever-obedient and determined man, works harder to grant you pleasure. fingers sped up as he nudged your velvet wall with his rounded tip. you cry out instantly, eyes and nose scrunching up as your pleasure deepened. 

“andy,” you whined hoarsely, voice higher in pitch now, sounding foreign even to you. andrew continued his speed as he gazed into your eyes. his pupils blown from arousal, a mixture of love and lust glossing his hazel irises. “fuck–i know, baby, i know.” he stammers out as he brushes the sticky hair from your temple. his forehead rests against yours, somehow linking your bodies closer.

the high now in sight, you quickly laced your fingers with his, planting your intertwined palms just a little north of your head. the pit in your pubic region only deepened as your bodies fused. you looked down at where you were joined, his pelvis only slightly visible from your vantage, but that was enough for you to wither.

another whimper escaped andrew, this time more desperate and pressed. his movements pick up a little as he works to carry you to the edge. sharp incisors and canines pierce your flesh, breaking the barrier of your skin on your left shoulder. that was all you needed: the catalyst, the precipice, the beginning of the end. cries tore through your vocal cords; a stinging sensation accompanied tears as you came to. he had wrecked you. 

after he had given you your first orgasm, he continued to chase his own release, pounding into you with more force. his breathy moans layered on top of yours, mixing like arranged harmonies; the melody building your second orgasm. delight stacked like waves crashing down on the shore. you were far gone.

“i’m sorry…please, please, please” he whines, eyes wet and red, waiting for your approval, only wanting to experience ecstasy with your permission, still too ashamed of experiencing pleasure. big pleading eyes stare down at you, new tears brimmed, gluing his bottom lashes together. “let go, andy, it’s okay, baby. take what you need.” andrew doesn’t act immediately, he waits for you to change your mind, to take it back. your hand reaches for his face and you nod; he takes your tacit approval as his official order, finally deserving you, chasing after his own orgasm with wild abandon. your stomachs equally burned hot; his rough movements overstimulated you. spurts of smooth, warm liquid pushed deep inside your core, each pulse overwhelming you. 

andrew gave you three more weak thrusts before collapsing onto you, his body limp and his weight grounding. labored breaths filled the space of silence.  once he regained enough stamina, he gently pulled out of you, careful not to hurt you. your release mixed, spilling out of your entrance and onto the sheets below you. andrew’s skin glistened with your slick, the sight enough to gift you a toothy smile. beads of sweat styled both of your hair, evidence of the passion you had just experienced together.

you close your eyes in an attempt to slow your booming heart; you feel a cool, damp cloth against your navel and then your pubis. warm, quivering lips gingerly kiss your shoulder. the pain had long been forgotten in the heat of your intimacy. andrew runs his fingers over the diamond indents he made, then, too carried away in bliss, fails to realize he has marked you. his brows pinched together before finally breaking the silence. “sorry,” he whispered as if his impression on your skin had meant what he was afraid of. andrew’s eyes were elsewhere now, staring any place but you, scared he had wounded you like a dog.

your lashes fluttered as you were pulled back into the moment, no longer in an unconscious state of euphoria. looking at him was enough to see the guilt and doubt that had started to bubble over, the face of disgust and shame, despite being gentle, treating you first and okay with being starved.

your palm met the side of his cheek, thumb softly making circles on his warmed face before gently turning his chin back to face you. at the invitation, andrew peered into your eyes, looking for any hint of fear or regret. you smiled, as if to say what he needed to hear, and at that his nose nuzzled against your hand before languidly kissing your digits. “you did so good for me, andy. so, so good.” 

the two of you remained there, both too tired to move, andrew’s tears now ceasing, his muscles more relaxed now that you held him. you craned your neck up, lips moving quickly to capture the last salty droplet on his chin. you kissed between his furrowed brows, smiling to yourself, partly because you felt otherworldly and partly because every time you looked at andrew, your heart ached. too scarred to realize he deserved moments like this, moments where love wasn’t transactional.

damp auburn curls sprawled against your breastbone; any moment now, the man atop of you would fall asleep. sleep, a rare occurrence for him, but with you it seemed to happen more often. moments like these were indescribable, one of the few instances where andrew was able to escape. a trust in you that allowed him to get free from his thoughts and fully bask in your love for him.

“i love you,” he mumbled through sleep. you placed a kiss on his crown, twirling the same curl mindlessly. 

your confession of love went unheard by andrew, but he didn’t need to hear you to know that you loved him. you had set him free. no longer tethered to ideas of love inflicted upon him by his mother. no longer a disposable chess piece in her game. you were leading him to see that love was supposed to feel good; be as natural as the ocean, a feeling that keeps his body afloat in rising tides.

i hope it was a sweet read, let me know what you think!! 💌

You got up with a sigh; Pope’s old shirt swaying around your thighs as you shuffled out of his room. You wiped at your bleary eyes as you came to in the bathroom.

“Fuck.” You cursed at your appearance in the mirror, you were supposed to shower last night and remove your make up. But Pope had come home earlier than expected and you jumped at the chance to have him to yourself. Now your eyeliner and mascara had smudged giving you a messy and unintentional smokey eye. You stared at your appearance a little longer, listening to the silence within the Cody compound which told you that it was just you in the house. Alone. Again.

You didn’t care. You told yourself. Smurf could isolate you all she wanted and you’d stick it out for your sweet boy if it meant proving your loyalty. You snapped out of your head, god you were starting to become paranoid, maybe Smurf had gotten to you….

You opened the bathroom door to go grab some extra clothes and a towel from Pope’s room when you heard the front door open, a ruckus filling the Cody compound.

You heard Craig’s boisterous laughter filling the air. “I’m telling you, man, you’ve been off your game.” You heard the second eldest state. You scurried into Pope’s room; while you didn’t normally avoid the rest of the Cody family, you weren’t too sure you wanted them to see your impromptu raccoon makeup.

“I’m not off anything.” You heard your boyfriend’s muffled response. You imagined his gruff face and frown on his face as you dug through the collection of your clothes he had sorted into a specific drawer the more you began staying over.

“It’s 9 in the morning, Craig.” Deran complained out as you heard the familiar sound of a beer being grabbed from the fridge. “And where are you going?” He called out to someone.

“Bed.” Pope single-wordly replied, as you heard his footsteps began approaching the room.

“Ooh say hi to the missus for me,” Craig teasingly called after him, sipping on his beer. Pope ignored him, opening the door to his room, expecting to see you still in bed. He froze in the doorway at the sight of your back digging through the wardrobe, closing the door softly behind him.

“What’re you doing….” He softly asked, afraid.

The sight of your back and the sound of clothes being dug through, triggered a memory of Julia that he didn’t want to think about. It was after a particularly bad fight between her and Smurf when they were teens. He remembered her packing her things, furiously crying, mumbling about finally ‘running away’ and urging Andrew to come with. He remembered how he stood there watching unable to choose between his twin and his mother at the time. He remembered she’d come back after 8 days but still too stubborn to say anything to Smurf for another week.

“Just looking for my clothes, baby.” Your reply snapping him out of his trance as you continued digging for a specific shirt. You loved your boyfriend, but you couldn’t figure out how he organized your things for the life of yourself.

“Why…. Where are you going…” Andrew hoarsely called out. He worried he was losing you too. He couldn’t, not when he had been working so hard recently…

“What? Nowhere… I gotta shower babe.” You huffed exhausted, giving up on finding the particular shirt.

When had you left all this clothes here? You could’ve swore there was more of your clothes here than your own place. You looked back, curious at Pope’s silence, and instantly recognized his tense posture.

“Andy, baby, what’s wrong?” You stood dusting off your hands, getting up to meet him at his spot by the door.

“Are you leaving?” He whimpered looking at you sadly, tilting his head to the side, his frown curling down.

“What? No. I’m showering, where did you get that idea from?” You said, flabbergasted at your boyfriend’s outburst. He melted as you put a hand on his chest in comfort and another on his face to hold him.

Rubbing at the apple of his cheek with your thumb, Pope’s hands gently curling around your waist. His hands taking up your sides as he brushed his own thumbs against your midriff. “What’re you looking for…” He grunted softly, looking over your shoulder at the open drawer.

You chuckled awkwardly at the mess of the once organized clothes. “My polka dot shirt…” You offered him a bashful smile. He nodded and obediently went to his drawers, pulling it out with ease.

“This one?” He offered the top to you with an outstretched arm.

You nodded embarrassed by your obliviousness. “Thank you, Andy…” You kissed his cheek before turning around grabbing the towel and bottoms you had already found.

He took a silent step closer to you and when you turned around to leave your chest met his. Your eyes widened slightly as you tilted your head up to make eye contact with him. He gave you one his signature Pope Cody looks, like a shark locking on its prey.

“Andy?” You asked softly. He melted as you saw past his mask, the glare and pout often mistaken for a frown aimed at your lips, silently urging you for a kiss. You giggled bouncing up on your tiptoes, pecking his lips.

He let out a displeased growl, sending a callous hand from your hip to the back of your neck, trying bringing you closer. However your towel and clothing in your hands got in between the two of you which made him frown as you two pulled away. You smiled softly up at him, mumbling a confession before you realized the impact. “Missed you so much,”

He froze looking down at you. “Sorry…” He gruffly spoke. “Been busy…” As he bent down trying to plant another kiss on your lips but you turn your head slightly, dodging him. His kiss landed on your cheek, earning a whine from the bigger man as he rubs his face into yours.

“I know…” You mumbled, trying to remind yourself of the task at hand. You tightened your grip on your items and took a step away. “Okay, gotta shower before Baz takes all the hot water.” You joke trying to relieve the tension, but as you make your way to the door you can feel Pope following you like a shadow.

You turn around shooting him a playful look. “What’re you doing?”

He deadpans you with his arms behind his back, not answering. Your boyfriend was such a weirdo sometimes. You loved it, the corners of your lips upturned. You began walking away again and you hear the footsteps behind you, ignoring him. As you reach the bathroom, you turn around to shut the door but as you do your boyfriend catches it with a hand. “Andrew…” you scold him with his first name, an action you rarely did.

“I missed you too.” He confesses softly, nudging the door open, trying to follow you in.

“That’s good, honey, but I’ve gotta shower.” You laugh softly trying to brush him off but your boyfriend urged forward, he was seriously like a puppy. You place your hand on the door trying close it, but he leaned his forehead against it. Pope kept his fingers gripping on the edge of the door preventing you from closing it.

“Don’t go.” He whines under his breath, trying not to beg in the middle of the hallway in front of the others. “I’ll be good, promise, missed you so much baby….” Pope urges gently pushing against the door. You were no match; not only against his strength but against his pleading too, so you gently let up.

You giggled as he came in; the Cody bathroom was by no means small, but with Pope’s closeness the two could’ve fit in a porta-potty together. To anyone else, Andrew Cody invading their personal space was a form of intimidation. To you, it was a form of affection. You pointed him over to the toilet to sit and he nodded.

You began taking off your clothes but when you turned around you were met with your boyfriend grabbing yellow dish gloves from under the sink. Without hesitation, Pope began wiping down the toilet lid, but not before getting distracted with the countertop.

You let out a soft endearing smile, only your boyfriend could have a naked woman in front of him and still be more concerned about the state of the bathroom countertop. You shook your head, rolling your eyes playfully as he finished wiping down the toilet lid to sit on. You opened the glass door to the shower, turning it on and waiting for the water to heat up as you watched him sit on the toilet lid awkwardly.

He began wringing his hands together, looking anywhere but you and your body. You smiled teasingly, grabbing his hands and gently rubbing them. “You’ve seen me naked before, Andy.” You reminded him.

“‘m know….” He grunted, looking down at the tiles following the edges. He noticed the dirt that piled up in the grout. He glared at the dirt disapprovingly and put a deep clean of the bathroom on his to-do list, when he had the time. Before he could list another item, he gruntled at the tug of the curls at the base of his neck, causing him to look up at you.

You smirked down at him. “Then look at me. What’re you nervous for…” You said playfully leaning down to plant another kiss on his lips. He groaned softly at the kiss, trying to follow you as you pulled away but you tugged him back by his auburn curls as punishment.

“Nothing.” He said softly, anxiety flatlining as you showered him with affection. You smiled at that as you gave him a final kiss, before leaving for the heated up shower.

He sighed softly as you disappeared into the steamy glass. He was relieved he could breathe again but already missed seeing you. “How was the job today?” He heard you shout over the rushing water.

“Fine.” He grunted softly under his breath. Craig’s words from early still striking him. Off his game. He was never off his game, he was just off. That was his personality. The only reason he would be ‘off his game’ is because—

“Huh???” You shouted back, unable to hear his mumbling over the shower head.

Pope, frustratedly, shouted a little too loud. “Fine!!” After a few seconds, he gruffly apologized. “Sorry…” He didn’t want to talk about the recent jobs because he hadn’t even wanted to do them, Smurf had made him and he needed the money.

You pursed your lips at his response, he’d been touchy on the subject of work recently but it was all he did, before continuing. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?” You asked him.

“No.” He replied truthfully, crossing his arms as he sat up straight, facing forward, watching your body through the wet glass. It was beautiful, the way your body moved even if it was distorted with steam and condensation. He admired you both sexually and as a work of art. In his eyes, no one could ever compare to your beauty, no one even registered as an option, the day you agreed to be his.

A comfortable silence filled the air as you began washing your hair and Pope continued to admire you through the glass. He began, “Y’know I was thinking…” he trailed off.

“You were thinking what? I didn’t hear you.” You popped your head out of the shower, curiously, thinking you missed what he had said. He froze at your face, the mascara and eyeliner had began to run with the water down your face. You looked more like a horror movie monster than a real person.

Regardless, he melted looking up at you from his seat on the toilet, a rare and small smile graced his normally monotone face. A warm giddy feeling, one that he had rarely ever felt in his troubled life, began igniting in his chest at realization of the comfortable domestic air between you two. Yes. He was sure.

“Can you get me my cleanser on the counter? Should be the white tall bottle,” You interrupted his thoughts. Pope nodded, obediently grabbing the bottle he had seen you used every night before bed. A blush ran through his freckled face as his hand made contact with your wet one.

He let out an internal sigh as you dipped back into the shower he sat back down on the toilet lid patiently waiting for you to finish. “You were saying?” You called out to him, and Pope tensed up again at his train of thought.

“Was wonder if you…” Pope began to grumble. You had turned the shower off to hear him better but what you heard made you freeze.

“..wanted to move in together.” Pope’s eyes began darting around and he wrung his hands together at the sudden silence from both you and the shower.

“…like… away from here? Our own place…?” You wondered softly, staring at the water drops running down the green tiles.

“Yeah..” Pope shrugged as you said it aloud. “Been working more jobs, got some money saved up from my cut.”

You purse your lips. “That’s why you’ve been gone? ‘Cause you were saving for a place….” You gasped, he could see the shock through the glass. He nodded even if you weren’t looking at him. “Well what about Smurf?” You sputtered.

“Let me deal with her.” Pope grumbled at the thought of his mother. He knew she wouldn’t like it, she’d have less control over him if he wasn’t under her roof.

But he also knew everyone else in the family knew you were good for him and honestly couldn’t wait to get you two lovebirds hitched and out of the house. So, they could throw more parties without him threatening to shut them down if you were disturbed. He could have Baz, Deran, and Craig whittle away at Smurf’s stubbornness if they tried hard enough.

“Okay…” You murmured softly under your breath. “Let’s do it, let’s move in together.” You announced, more to yourself than him, in the shower.

Pope’s head shot up from the stain on the drywall he wanted to scrub away to your form in the shower. He stood abruptly pulling open the glass door and sticking his head in. You jumped at his suddenly action reflexively covering your body as he had a small smile in his face.

“Aw, but I’ve already seen you naked sweetheart.” He teased, smirking, reminding you of your previous words. You hit him playfully, laughing as you wrapped your wet arms around him as you kissed him happily. He smirked into it leaning into you, placing a hand on your waist and another on the tile wall behind you, leaning over you.

As he tried to pull you closer he placed a hand in your hair, he froze at the soapy lather in your hair. Shit. You’d both forgotten that you were in the middle of a shower. You smiled up at him bashfully, gently pushing him back onto the drier side. He whined softly at the colder air, leaning his forehead against the door, he wanted you so bad it hurt.

“Andy.. that’s glass,” You reminded him that you could see his smushed forehead against the glass, gently running your fingers over the opposite area where his forehead rested. Pope grunted, eyes closed as he, returned back on his spot on the toilet lid and crossed his arms. You laughed softly turning the shower back on to finish washing her hair.

Pope finished fixing the pillows on the white couch. Taking a step back looking at the couch as he backed up standing next to you. “Don’t like it…” He murmured into the side of your head as he kissed it.

“Don’t like what, Andy?” You patiently chided for clarification.

“Pillows… they’re off…” He mumbled to himself.

You laughed at your boyfriend’s comment “Well why don’t we finish building the skate ramp and decorating the pool patio, first.” You murmured back reminding him of the unfinished projects around the house. You leaned up, kissing the corner of his mouth as he wrapped your arm around your waist giving you a proper kiss.

Together you and Pope had found a house that was perfect. It was close enough that Smurf approved and it allowed Pope to continue working Cody family jobs, but it was also far enough that you didn’t have Deran and Craig randomly squatting in your house. You required that it came with a pool, knowing Pope’s love for the one from his family home, even if Pope insisted all he wanted was for his dream house was one with you in it.

Thinking many thoughts about this little clip and just how rabbot coded it is.

Maybe even, and walk with me here, boyfriends dads rabbot.

Maybe you’re staying with your boyfriend for a little while over summer break. Maybe some of those days said boyfriend still has tennis or perhaps soccer training meaning he's out for the majority of the morning/early afternoon.

And on those days, the only people still home just so happens to be his two hot, older dads.

You get along, always have since you first met the pair, but that doesn't quell the fuzzy feeling in your gut whenever they interact with you.

The pair find it endearing really, the way you'll slip sometimes, calling them Mr Abbot and Mr Robinavitch instead of Jack and Robby (or Micheal if you'd prefer it). You struggle to keep eye contact with them too, even more so when you trip your words up when responding to questions about yourself. Your degree, your hobbies, what you enjoy to eat, hell, they'll even how your relationship is going with their boy- they're just interested thats all!

But the thing that gets both Jack and Robby chubbing up in their pants like perverted old bastards the most?

How you've spent your time bouncing around the Robinavitch-Abbot household in what must be the skimpest of summer clothes. That bikini that barely covers your tits as you soak up the sun in their garden, or the denim shorts that hardly hides the line of your panties as you sit on the couch reading.

Theres guilt, of course there is, the pair of them perving over their sons girlfriend. But not nearly enough to make them stop thinking about you in ways they shouldn't be. Like how wet you get when worked up or how beautiful your body must be truly bare.

Robby always thinks your lips would look stretched around the girth of them, while Jack ponders the perfect whines you'd let free as you cum.

Its after a long day of sunbathing does everything finally come to a head though

Your skin glistens with a mix of sunscreen and sweat, heart thudding in your chest from the heat. You're boyfriends gone again, has been all day, leaving you, Jack and Robby at home soaking in the summer sun in the backyard.

At lunch you learnt Jack knows a thing or two about making cocktails, by almost dinner you're pretty confident he's got a mean pour.

The world floats by as you lounge on a chair, watching Robby stood by the grill cooking steaks with his own sweating beer. The glass on the table next to you half full, your.. Fourth? Maybe third? Fruity Margarita abandoned as you giggle about something that feels funnier than it is.

Thats the last thing you properly remember- the gruff laughter, the sundrunk haze, Jack and Robby drinking, grilling and hosting like regular older men.

When your eyes blink open again (did you shut them on purpose or did they flutter without you knowing?) the scene is vastly different.

Grey curls sit messily between your plush thighs, hazel eyes peering up lustblown and dark. It hits you then, the intense pleasure of a skilled mouth lapping and lavishing your pussy.

Its hot, wet, perfect and utterly wrong all in one, legs desperate to close around the older mans ears to little avail. Jacks big hands hold you open though, palms flat on your inner thighs, panties of your bathing suit crooked to the side and held steady by two thick fingers.

Your back arches from the lounger, a ragged, breathless gasp ripping from your heaving chest. "O-oh my god!"

The tongue flicks playfully against your clit, before plump lips suckle lewdly, a voice you recognize as Robbys chucking as he sits crouched beside you. "Mm, not quite sweetheart. You wanna that try again?"

The moan breaks with your voice, a hand flying down to those mused salt and pepper curls, tangling tight. "J-jack oh f-fuckk"

"Yeahhh, There you go" he grins wolfish, "s' he makin you feel good kid?"

The nod is jerky, the response even more so. Your hips bump up despite Jack's grip, brain unsure if to run or relish in the overwhelming feeling between your legs; at how fuckig wrong it is to let it continue. "M-mphm y-yeah"

Jack offers some reprive just a moment, unlatching his mouth for just a moment to gravel out "Got you squirmin like no ones done this before, s' our boy holdin out on you honey?"

The question only serves as a reminder these men are your boyfriends fathers, men decades older than you and him. Its wrong, sick, absolutely fucking vile to do to the man you love.. But fuck, his dads devouring you like your sloppy, slick pussy is the only thing left on earth to sustain him. Hes licking you with experience that only comes from enjoyment, suckling like every gasp and whine gives him air.

But in this moment, your hot. Hazy. Utterly drunk of bliss. So you mewl out the truth, jerking your hips to hump at Jack's face like the pleasures the only thing that will keep you alive. "M-mhm.. Says he.. He doesnt like it- fucking shit- that s' not enjoyable-"

"Doesn't like eatin this pretty pussy up, Christ, where'd we go wrong mi- mphmn" Jack murmers incredulous again your folds, stubble rubbing a heavenly kind of pain on your most intimate of areas, fumed point cut off by Robby reaching over a hand that pushes his partner back into your pussy so tight its a wonder he's able to breathe.

"Shhh jack, jus' keep goin. Shes gettin close huh honey?" Robby grins, hand sliding beneath the cups of your bikini top. Your nipples pert and tight as his calloused thumb offers a delightful friction. "Sides, we've gotta correct that bullshit ourselves hm, apologize to that sweet little pussy for everything she's been missin"

Your head is thrown back, hair mused against the chair, your body quivering as the bliss only draws tighter in your gut. Your eyes struggle to stay open between the now setting sun and the onslaught of pleasure. Those plush, still glistening thighs tremble against Jack's touch, one of his hands sliping down to press one, then two, thick digits inside.

You can feel the cool edge of his wedding band bump your hole with each slickened drive, every curl managing to rub at your g spot in a way that only pushes you closer to crumbling.

Then, as quick as Jack's mouth had appeared at your pussy, another sensation has your spine arching almost painfully. Robbys somehow pushed the cup of your top to the side, mouth hot on your skin, his own tongue flicking and teasing at your nipple. His peppered beard making you shake as it rubs your skin with every move he makes.

Its that combo that sends you over the edge with a wail of their names so perfect their chubbed up cocks throb and leak inside the confines of shorts now way too tight. It takes your breath away near violently, the orgasm hitting you so hard you're almost convinced you'll never come back down.

They both keep it up until tears slip down your cheeks, until you're pushing them off and your body is overwhelmingly sensitive. Blood thunders in your ears, hazing over the praise the pair murmer to you.

Jack rises with a groan, shuffling himself forward to meet your mouth in a messy, filthy kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, feel the dampness on his stubble, letting yourself drown in the dopamine a moment longer before you know you'll have to address everything that's just happened..

That is, until hot breath fans over your twitching clit the same but different, you're eyes wide as you dart between Robby who you didn't even realise had moved and Jack.

Robby grins wolfish again, shuffled between your shaking thighs, a large hand pressing on your still heaving belly. Your eyes must look like saucers, lips pouty and bitten raw, peering down with the most doe- like expression.

"Nawh whats that look for?" he coos, pitiful and mocking, inhaling the sweet, musky scent of you in a way that makes your insided lurch. "S'it too much t' take sweetheart? Two old men wantin to lick your sweet pussy?"

"mhm.." you mewl, hand reaching blindly for the loungers edge- for Jack and some semblance of safety. "R-robby please..cant.."

The chuckle is mean, a rumble you feel in the deepest parts of you, hips shifting preemptively to little avail. Robbys gaze drops, as does his wiry haired jaw, his sentiment cut between a broken moan and the envelopement of your puffy clit into the cavern of his mouth.

Pope remembers when he met you for the first time, June 1st 2012. You were eighteen and bright-eyed, happy, smiling. Precious. Catherine needed time to herself, needed help with little Lena, two years old at the time and you were there. The babysitter. 

            He met you when he went over to talk to Baz about a job and found that Baz and Catherine were out and you were there, holding Lena on your hip. 

            “Hi,” you had said, your expression concerned, drawn together, suspicious, your body put between him and your charge, the door not entirely open. “Can I help you?”

            “I’m looking for my brother, Baz,” he had replied and your eyes had narrowed in that analytical way you have, the one he didn’t know then, but he grew to know. Grew to love. “Where can I find him?”

            “Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell have gone out. They won’t be back for a few hours. Should I take a message?” You were perfectly polite, but all he’d done was shaken his head, angry at the stone wall you’d put up, the impenetrableness of the force which you created. 

            “I’ll be back later,” is all he’d said, storming off, walk rigid like always. He’d been told by his brothers that he didn’t walk like a human and when he’d reached his car, he’d glanced back, noticing the door still open. You were watching him, making sure he left, protective of Lena. Of the girl you were tasked to look after. 

            That was the first time he met you, but it was not when he fell into deep, sickening love, a kind of love that others would call obsession, stalking. That time came later, after you’d been introduced to him by Catherine and Baz and he became Mr. Cody, someone okay to be around Lena. 

            You were always there, watching over Lena, your laugh always echoing, infectious. A college student, he’d been told. One studying science, but no one ever told him what science, only that you were quite good, quite skilled at what you did. What you were studying. He could sometimes see you doing complicated equations while Lena scribbled with crayons. 

            But he did not fall into his love (obsession) until October 27th 2012, a date seared into his memory. He’d been tasked with checking on Lena, a task from Smurf who didn’t like Catherine and he knew that you were watching her, most likely at the park. 

            He’d shown up, lurking in the trees, watching as you played with Lena in the sand, pushed her on the swings, looking for all the world like a young mother or older sister. There was just something about you that made him feel you truly cared for the girl. He watched and he felt something shift inside of him, like the compass in his chest that was always steered to Catherine now steered towards you. 

            You’d looked up at that moment, your body haloed by the sun, attention on him. You had noticed him and waved him over, calling out “Mr. Cody!” Lena had grown excited and he complied, standing there awkwardly, standing there unsure what to do, unsure what to say the way he always was. 

            He did not know intimacy. He did not know love. He knew what had paid for, had been purchased, bought, and expected of him. He did not know what it felt to have someone entirely his to be someone else’s entire. He knew what it was liked to be used, forced and hurt. 

            He knew heartbreak. 

            But you made him want more. You made him want love. Especially because as Lena fell asleep against you, the three of you sitting on a grassy knoll, watching the birds as you explained that Lena liked to do, you had been at peace. You had not been scared of him, ashamed. You had felt comfortable, safe. 

            And you read him like an open book. 

            “You’re in love with Cath,” you had whispered and he remembers that he looked at you with shock, surprise. You had smiled at him, the kind of smile that came from being used to people’s surprise. “You don’t hide it, Mr. Cody,” you continued, the smile turning sad. “I just wish more for both of you.”

            “What do you mean?” he had asked and you sighed, your hand stilling on Lena’s head from where you had been smoothing down her ever-growing dark hair. 

            “I mean that Cath deserves someone who loves her wholly and you deserve to love someone capable of loving you back, Mr. Cody.” He had wished that you would call him Andrew, called him by his name, but it seemed like you were incapable of that, a line drawn between professional and personal. Except for Cath, it seemed. 

            “You call her Cath,” he had said, unsure of how to ask, unsure of what to say and you had looked at him with softened eyes and a smile, one nostalgic. 

            “Because she asked me too,” you’d whispered. “She said that I’m more like Lena’s older sister than her babysitter and that I should call her Cath.” He had wanted to ask you what would happen if he asked you to call him Andrew, but he understood then that he was not Cath. That Cath was Cath and he was Mr. Cody, a line forever drawn. 

            But he didn’t want that line there. He just wanted you. You as his and he as yours. A part of him thought you wanted that too. 

            And then he fell headfirst into loving you, learning your music preferences, your favourite colours and foods and days. It didn’t matter, what you loved he knew about. He just wished that he made it onto that list. 

            When he was arrested in 2013, you were the person he thought of, cared about. Worried for. You visited him once at Folsom, a backpack on your shoulders, your body tense and rigid as you stepped into the visiting room, putting the phone to your ear as he did the same on the other side. 

            “I heard Mr. Blackwell and Deran talking about you being here,” you had said and he’d swallowed hard at your words, at this admission that he mattered enough to you for you to do that. “I thought I’d come by.”

            “Why?” he’d asked, watching as your face shifted, shuttered, eyes darting around, refusing to settle on him. 

            “Because I figured no one else was.” It was true, the truest truth he’d heard since…well, ever and it did not surprise him that it came from you. You seemed honest to a fault. “And Lena wanted me to tell you about her ballet recital.” You had pulled your phone out, putting the screen against the dividing wall so he could watch as his niece toddled around the stage in a glittery blue costume. “Made the costume myself,” you’d told him and he felt his heart pound and pound and pound harder and harder because you were so…perfect. 

            You came every so often for a visit, some update about Lena over the three years he was away, but you mainly wrote him letters, keeping him apprised of her daily life, but never you. It was still a line drawn between you and him and what you could be. 

            But in the walls of Folsom, he pretended that the wall did not exist, spoke of you to the inmates as his wife. His, his, his, his, his. He wanted you to be his. So badly. 

            When he got out, the first person he went to was you, your apartment number burned onto his mind and he stayed in the rental vehicle he’d gotten, watching you through your curtains, watching as you moved around. Alone. 

            Blissfully alone. 

            He knew then, that night, his first of freedom, that you would be his. 

            He just had to wait until the time was right. 

            “Are you crying?!” Lena cries, standing up from the couch, her little face twisted into an expression of shock and disgust, hands on her slim hips. 

            “No,” you lie, looking away, your hands pressing against your eyes, moving from in to out, wiping away your tears. 

            “You so are! Why? That movie’s just weird,” she says and you can hear her grab her glass from the coffee table, small feet making a surprising amount of noise as she stomps to the kitchen. 

            “The Notebook is not weird, you little gremlin!” you call out, your voice teasing despite the thickness still there. The movie reduces you to tears every time, the way that love wins and yet it doesn’t. The way they fight for their happy ending and yet lose it so quickly. 

            “He’s so obsessed with her!” Lena calls out and you roll your eyes, untangling your legs from one another and the fluffy blanket you’ve curled up under, planting your feet flat on the hardwood floor, pushing up to a stand, grabbing the popcorn bucket and your glass, walking through the living room, back towards the kitchen, the movie’s credits still rolling. 

            “And what?” you ask, stepping in, walking to the sink while Lena pulls a bottle of water from the fridge. “What’s wrong with him being obsessed with her like that? I think it’s romantic.”

            “He never moves on,” Lena says, her spare hand held up, index finger of her right hand, the one currently wrapped around the bottle ticking down the reasons, folding each finger. “He, like, falls apart and is all unkempt because she’s gone—”

            “He did survive war too, you know,” you interrupt, but she waves you away, silencing your protests with an enthusiastic wave of her hand. 

            “He builds the house for her,” she says. “And he fights to have her even when she’s marrying someone else!”

            “That doesn’t count!” you exclaim, turning from her to the sink, running some water in your glass, the one that held you cream soda. “She wasn’t in love with him. She loved Noah the whole time too.”

            “Yeah, but,” Lena continues, “she was moving on. And Noah ruined it! Besides! Lon’s way cuter!”

            “You take that back!” you cry, spinning around, eyes wide as they settle on the child who has completely and totally destroyed your faith in humanity. “Ryan Gosling is way hotter than James Marsden! That rain scene, man!” Lena’s laughing so hard that it’s more a cackle, her seven, nearly eight year old body, convulsing with her laughter while you roll your eyes, leaning back against the kitchen counter, hands splayed flat on the cool, smooth granite. 

            “I just,” she says, now that she’s calmed down, “think it’s creepy how in love with her Noah was. You know.”

            “I don’t know,” you muse. “I think it would be romantic to have someone…willing do to anything for you—like the house. I think…ah, man, I think I would want that.”

            “You’re weird,” she says, tone flat and thick black brows drawn together, her expression so stern and serious that it’s now your turn to laugh, the kind of laugh that starts deep in your stomach, rumbling through you. 

            “Yeah,” you tell her, amidst the laughter. “Don’t listen to me, kiddo. Now, go get ready for bed.” She runs past you, up to the stairs, her feet padding on the carpet noisily despite the fact that it’s carpet and she’s no more than 60 pounds soaking wet. 

            You can’t help but laugh again, the sound more of an exhalation than any real laugh, as you run some water in the sink, adding soap, knowing that Mr. Cody prefers his house clean, obsessively so. 

            A part of you wonders what would happen if you didn’t bother to clean, what he would say, but you know there’s no use going down that path, even if you sometimes wish that he would speak to you. Look at you. 

            But that line of thinking leads nowhere. 

            It’s best to just close it down. 

            Pope’s heart is in his throat, pulsing and pounding erratically, his lungs tightening and clenching, constricting and burning. He heard you, those words I think it would romantic to have someone willing to do anything for you…I think I would want that still echoing around him, surrounding him, choking him. 

            He’s been waiting for the right time, the right way and here it is. He just has to show you that he’ll do anything for you. 

            And he can do that.

            The club is loud, music pulsing in the air, almost in a way that you can see, the sound so loud, more noise than music. Your friends are laughing, yelling at each other just to be heard over the music, but you’re quiet, hand turning your glass in circles, a single shot of tequila downed. You’re not much of a drinker, never have been, preferring to stay present in your mind. Preferring to stay present. 

            “YOU OKAY?” Jonathan yells, his voice still just barely audible as you turn to him, shrugging. 

            “IT’S TOO LOUD,” you reply and he nods, looping his arm through yours, his touch gentle and kind, sweet in his way. Jonathan is sweet though and pretty, bright green eyes set in skin the colour of toffee, dark hair curling down his forehead and a smile even and pretty. Not crooked in the slightest. Not like…nope, you won’t go there, not even in your own mind. 

            “Better?” he asks, pushing out of the club, the autumn breeze cool and crisp, tinged with cigarette smoke and car exhaust, yet still better than the sweat and alcohol smell of the club that mingles with mildew and broken leather. 

            “Much,” you tell him, sighing and leaning against the brick wall of the club, your head falling back against it, a buzzing in your jacket pocket. “One sec,” you tell him, walking a ways away, pulling your phone out, noticing LENA in all caps on your screen. “Lena?! What’s wrong?”

            “Uncle Deran fell asleep before he could help with the bedtime routine!” she cries, her voice thick and pained and you sigh, your eyes closing for a minute. The bedtime routine became sacred after Cath left, an open sore, her disappearance still a question of what? Where? Who? When? Lena needs to see her door close, needs to know someone is there, the way Cath isn’t. 

            You wanted a single Saturday night to yourself, with friends. You wanted to have fun, to return to a world that wasn’t full of the Cody’s and the Blackwell’s, but rather the life you could have had if you had never accepted the babysitting gig that your friend, Elizabeth, skipped out on seven years ago. 

            You wanted to forget and be someone young. You wanted to act your age. But you just can’t get that. 

            “Hey, I have to call it a night, Jonathan,” you say, tucking your phone into your pocket after assuring Lena that you’ll be there, just wait for a bit, you’ll be there, always. 

            “What’s wrong?” he asks, hands tucked into his jean pockets, cheeks darkening from the cold. 

            “My…Lena needs my help,” you tell him, your lips twisting into an apologetic smile, but he shrugs, eyebrows rising. 

            “I could give you a lift and then, you know, when you’ve helped her…maybe you and I could grab something to eat or…something,” he says and you can feel something inside of you, some kind of feeling that you don’t entirely know rise as you nod and he smiles, a bright kind of smile. 

            “That sounds good,” you tell him, mind only half here, the other part on Lena and who was supposed to be watching her. 

            Why wasn’t Mr. Cody there?

            Where is he?

            Did Lena lose another person again?

            You fumble with the keys that Mr. Cody gave you, the ones needed for the days that you pick Lena up or for the occasional times that you have to take her somewhere and lock up and unlock it again to come back. 

            They’re slipping through your fingers, chiming and clinking against one another as you finally slot it into the door, unlocking first the deadbolt then the knob, twisting the handle and pushing the door open. You step into a quiet house, still except for the sound of snores coming from the couch. 

            Deran, the fucker. 

            “Deran!” you hiss, closing the door behind you with more force than necessary, delighting in the way he jumps on the couch, hissing shit in a startled voice, head swivelling until he sees you, standing, arms crossed, no doubt a seriously pissed off look on your face. 

            “What are you doing here?” he asks you, blinking, sleep still heavy in his eyes, in his voice. 

            “I’m here because Lena called me, fucking crying because you fell asleep before the bedtime routine could happen,” you hiss, watching as realization dawns on his face, his hand coming up, scrubbing down his face as he murmurs “shit” for a different reason now. “And where the fuck is Mr. Cody? He’s supposed to be here watching Lena.”

            “He left real fast. Said he had to check on some girl,” he answers, his voice becoming more alert as he sits up and you grit your teeth together, turning to dart up the stairs, taking them two at a time, conscious of the fact that Lena’s up there, she’s sad and scared and her routine has been thrown out of order. 

            “Lena!” you call out when you reach the second floor landing, pushing open her partly closed door to see her sitting on her bed, face stained with tears. “Lena,” you whisper, “let’s do the routine, okay?”

            “Okay,” she whispers, standing and walking over to you, her face brightening at your presence. “You look fancy,” she says, “were you out with a boy? And did he look like the love of your life Ryan Gosling.”

            “Oh ha-ha, little one,” you say and she giggles, heading across the hall to the bathroom to rewash her face and brush her teeth, but in truth…Jonathan kinda does look like Ryan Gosling. But even as you think that, you swallow hard because that’s not exactly what you want. You want someone older, you want someone rougher around the edges who never looks at you and is awkward and someone you should never want, but do. Someone with dark auburn curls and hazel eyes…you blink, refocusing on the here and now and the nice boy waiting for you who has never seen the inside of a prison. 

            “Okay,” Lena says, bounding into her room, her face clean and words trailing minty breath. “I’m ready.” She runs across the room, leaping onto her twin bed, disturbing her piles of stuffies, tucking herself in as you cross the room towards her, kneeling down and smoothing the hair back from her face. 

            “I miss, Mommy,” she whispers and you can feel something crack inside of you. Something you’ve kept inside, locked up tight. 

            “She was a good woman,” you whisper, feeling tears in the back of your throat as you press a kiss to Lena’s forehead, tucking her blanket in tight all around her and rising, swallowing hard. Lena really does look like Cath, does carry that bit of her. 

            “She liked you,” Lena says and those words threaten to bring you to your knees. 

            “I liked her too. She was my friend.” Lena nods, satisfied with your answer before snuggling deeper into her blanket, eyes still open, watching as you click off her lamp and walk to the door, pulling it closed while you mouth good night. You know as the door clicks shut, the light flipped off that now she’ll fall asleep. Because she saw you leave. 

            You didn’t disappear in the dead of night. 

            You draw in a deep breath, shaking your head against the onslaught of tears that threaten you, bounding down the stairs preparing to rip Deran a new one, except…the living room is empty. You glance around, seeing nothing of Deran, instead just Mr. Cody standing there in the entrance way, his hazel eyes on you. 

            “Where’s Deran?” you call out, watching as Mr. Cody walks towards you, his presence making your mouth go dry and you swallow hard, his walk like that of a predator. 

            “I sent him home,” he says, his voice husky, rough. Dark, in a way that you like but wish you didn’t. You shouldn’t like him; you can’t like him. You are nothing if not professional. 

            “Well,” you say, nodding once and moving to step past him to the door. “I best let you get on with your night. Lena’s all tucked in, Mr. Cody.” You begin to walk, but he catches your wrist, his fingers calloused and warm against your skin in a way that feels good, feels nice, but no, stop that. You can’t think that way. 

            “It’s late,” he says. 

            “I know,” you answer, keeping your gaze trained straight ahead. “But I have a ride waiting for me outside.”

            “The boy?” he asks, his voice darkening, deepening. Primal in a way, if a sound can really be primal, which, you think it can. 

            “Yeah, Jonathan…why?” you ask, feeling a small bit of fear like ice creeping up your spine, goosebumps spreading along your skin. 

            “I sent him home,” he says and you can feel his breath on the back of your neck and you know his body is far too close, but you also don’t want him to step away and god, you’ve always had that line of professionalism, but this man…since Cath disappeared, he’s been the best with Lena and you never expected to feel anything for him, but…you do. 

            “Why?” you whisper and then he’s tugging on your wrist, turning you around, pulling you against him, his broad chest against yours. 

            “Because it’s late,” he whispers, his words actually rumbling through his chest, echoing into your body. “Because you’re already home.” You swallow hard at his words, at the way he’s just said that this…his home…is yours too. 

            It’s not like you haven’t stayed here before on nights when you’ve been told that no one will be watching Lena and you’re needed for a few days, but calling it home…that’s different. That’s making it seem like he likes you, that he caresfor you. 

            “I’m not home,” you whisper, looking down at the ground where the toes of your shoes are against his. You forgot to take your shoes off in the rush to get to Lena and you never do, but he’s forgotten too. 

            “Eyes on me,” he says, two fingers under your chin, tipping your head up, your gaze landing on him because how could it not? Everyone else is afraid of him, but how can they be, when he’s kind and caring and sweet and he’s quiet. He doesn’t just speak what’s on his mind, he looks at a room and decides what to do from there and god, professionalism. Professionalism, you remind yourself even as his proximity is fraying the last of your control because his lips look reallysoft and kissable. 

            Oh god, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?

            His stare is unrelenting, tracing every part of you as if he expects to find some damage on you, but you’ve been safe all night. 

            “Why were you gone, Mr. Cody?” you whisper, noticing the way his jaw tightens at your words, the way his eyes darken and the grip on your wrist tightens. 

            “Andrew,” he spits out, “call me Andrew.”

            “Why were you gone, Andrew?” you ask and he drags his fingers from under your chin to trace your lips, the digits replaced by his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip, a pressure that has a fevered feeling growing beneath your skin. 

            “I was watching someone,” he whispers, his voice husky, watching every bit of your face for a reaction. For a response. 

            “Who?” you ask, the word just slightly muffled by his thumb digging into your lip. 

            “Who do you think?” he asks and Jesus Christ, has his voice always been this hot, this capable of getting a reaction out of you? And you really need to leave now, really need to get going, but with the way he’s looking at you, the closeness of your bodies, you press your thighs together, hoping he doesn’t notice. 

            But of course he does. 

            Because he’s Andrew fucking Cody. And he notices everything. And really, where does he get off on ruining your professionalism, on breaking that line you’ve built, a tentative wall? Where does he get his attitude? And what deity decided that making your boss look like that was fair?!

            You hate your life right now, but also not because as he presses his body against yours, the hard lines of his body fitting against the soft lines of yours, you realize that everything you’ve imagined is not even close to reality. 

            God did not make everyone equal because Andrew Cody might be the hottest man in the entire world and you are so fired if you don’t end this now. 

            “I have to go!” you blurt out, pulling back and sliding your wrist from his hold, running from him to the front door, but he’s faster than you, putting his body between you and the door. 

            “No,” he says. 

            “Why?” you ask him, swallowing hard feeling both serious lust and fear inside of you, the two warring together and yet working together at the same time too. 

            “Because you said you wanted this,” he whispers and you can feel confusion added to the choking mix of emotions, your throat tight, lungs burning and chest constricting, heart pounding, pounding, pounding almost as odd a beat as “Edge of Seventeen”’s drumbeat. 

            “Wanted what?” You don’t want the answer, you’re slightly afraid of it because you really don’t know what he’s talking about, only that he’s blocking an exit.

            “Someone willing to do anything for you.” His words ring in the room where just yesterday, in the kitchen, you mentioned that to Lena, how you thought Noah was romantic and Jesus! He was there the entire time. 

            “That’s…that’s out of context,” you tell him, blinking fast, trying to see him while also not see him at the same time. 

            “What context did I need?” he whispers, stepping towards you, steps slow and quiet as if he’s afraid that you’re a doe he’s about to startle before he can get off the killing blow and should that idea really turn you on as much as it does? “Because I would do for you anything that Noah did for Allie? You want a house like he fixed for her because I’ll do it, sweetheart. I’ll do anything for you.”

            “What?” you whisper, confusion winning out over fear because those aren’t the words of someone who only wants one thing. Those are the words of someone in love. Those are the words of someone who wants you for more than sex. 

            “Don’t you get it?” he asks and honestly, not really, because this is the most he’s ever spoken to you before. “I’m in love with you. Completely in love with you.”

            “You don’t talk…to me,” you whisper, turning from him, from the words he’s saying that sound pretty and honest but at the same time like lies and you walk, your shoes dragging against the hardwood floor, your steps slightly off-beat towards the kitchen, the tile floor. 

            “What was it that Noah said?” you hear Andrew whisper behind you. “‘So it’s not gonna be easy. It’s going to be really hard; we’re gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, every day. You and me…every day.’”

            “What did you memorize the movie?” you whisper-yell, spinning around, taking note of his relentless proximity to you. 

            “Maybe,” he whispers and the sheepish expression on his face has you laughing, but not a laugh built of humour, more of someone delirious and surprised and horny, yeah, horny too because he has no right to look that good. 

            You can feel your knees giving way, this night having been too much, too much and you slide down the counter, the handles of the cabinet digging into your spine as you sink down, your head landing in-between your knees. 

            “June first,” you hear him say, his body landing beside yours. “Twenty-twelve. The first day I met you.”

            “What?” you whisper, your head pressing against your left knee as you tilt your head, looking at him. 

            “Yeah,” he says, “I was looking for Baz, but you were there, Lena on your hip, watching me until I disappeared.”

            “No way you loved me then,” you whisper, your arms wrapped around your knees, body folded into a self-contained unit. 

            “No,” he agrees. “That came later. October 27th 2012. You invited me over when I was lurking and I fell in love with you because you were the first person not afraid of me and you talked to me. And I didn’t want to live without that. And then…you visited me in prison and wrote me letters…and…you love me too. I know you do.”

            “Mr. Cody,” you whisper, but he shakes his head, eyes darkening again. 

            “Andrew,” he hisses, “call me Andrew.”

            “You’re my boss,” you cry. “I can’t be with you. That breaks every moral and ethical code I have!”

            “But do you love me?” And for once, you fall silent, the answer in you truth, the answer resting on your tongue a lie and you don’t like to lie. 

            “I knew it,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours, his hands pulling you, shifting you, your body coming to rest on his lap, straddling him as he kisses you relentlessly. He kisses like he stares, deep and dark and predatory. It’s not a battle or a conquest, but a claiming, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip, his tongue controlling yours, sliding along it and leaving you breathless, his hands everywhere, hips moving up into yours, the bulge pressing into you, telling you just how much he wants you. 

            “Andrew,” you whisper, pulling back from his lips as best you can, his hand on the back of your head, holding you close to him. “We can’t do this. Lena’s home.”

            “I’m sick of people telling me what I can’t do,” he whispers, voice low and dangerous and so unfairly hot. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

            “Andrew…” He’s kissing you again and you don’t want to fight this. You don’t want to stop, you want this closeness, you’ve wanted this for so long, but you need assurances. You need to know that this isn’t going to ruin the babysitting job. “Pause,” you murmur against his lips and he listens, his head falling against yours, forehead pressing against you, eyes on you. 

            “What?” he asks, his voice not curt, but concerned. 

            “What does this mean for me? You’re my boss, Andrew,” you whisper and then he’s shifting again, rising, pulling you with him and shoving your hips into the counter, the granite digging into the small of your back, his body pressing into you, caging you in. 

            “Be Mrs. Cody,” he whispers, one hand tracing your face with a feather-light touch. “Be Lena’s aunt…just,” he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder, “be mine. Please.”

            “I don’t have a ring,” you whisper, “but alright.” And then he’s lifting his head and looking at you, deep and dark and now you understand that expression he’s been giving you for years: love. He does love you. 

            Then his lips are on yours again, tongue sliding along yours as he guides you up the stairs, his hands firm on your hips, guiding even as his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, to the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth sinking down onto it, your gasp muffled as you bite your tongue, skin fevered. 

            He pushes you down the hall, to the very last door and inside, shutting the door with his foot, hand leaving you. You can hear the lock flip and then Andrew is walking you back to the bed, his hands drifting to the front of your hips, fingers pulling open the button of your cutoffs, undoing the zipper and they drop to the floor. You step out of them and you want him now, want this relentless ache and throb to end, but he’s someone who seems to savour, his mouth trailing over your neck, teeth sinking into the skin every few minutes, tongue lashing out to soothe the bite marks. 

            He pushes you back, your body landing on his bed and he’s rough, but at the same time gentle as he kneels on the ground, sliding your underwear from off your hips, down your legs, set aside. He pauses for a moment, folding your cutoffs and underwear, setting them aside, his room obsessively neat, something you appreciate. 

            “God,” he whispers when he turns back, lifting your legs onto his shoulders, “so pretty.”

            “Andrew,” you whisper and he looks up at you, eyes black with desire. “You’re too dressed up.” He stands, taking his shirt off and god you wish you’d said nothing because who made him look like that? He’s too attractive for his own good. It’s highly unfair. 

            He unzips his jeans, folding them and his shirt, setting them in a pile beside yours, boxers still on, just like your baggy shirt is still on. He kneels again, a coil in your stomach tight, yet not tight enough, your legs on his broad freckled shoulders. He presses a kiss against each side of your arousal slicked inner thighs before, pulling you closer to him, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe from your entrance to your clit, the fucker locking eyes with you the whole time. 

            He knows exactly what he’s doing and where the fuck did he learn to do this? Because the way he circles your clit with his tongue, doing figure eights, his one hand sliding along your thigh, long fingers slipping along them, into the space between. He teases two fingers between your folds, scissoring them apart before plunging both of them inside of you, sinking them up to the knuckle and scissoring you open before pulling them out, knuckles dragging along your walls. 

            “Jesus—Christ!” you cry as he continues to finger you, tongue never stopping its ceaseless rhythm on your clit, little figure 8s which stop every time that he pulls his fingers out, rather his tongue pressing against your clit, against the swelling pearl. “Andrew! Fuck!”

            You can feel his chuckle against your clit, your pussy and you want to hit him, but also not because that coil in your belly is winding tight, tight, tighter and it’s about to burst and his mouth and hands are really unfairly good at what they’re doing right now. You’d hate to mess up his—rhythm. 

            He has four fingers inside of you at this point, all his extremities pumping in and out of you at a faster and faster pace, knuckles dragging down your walls one by one, each finger leaving you at different times, his index finger the last to leave always, the slowest drag against your walls, stimulating every part of you that it touches. 

            It’s not long before he has you coming apart, your orgasm ripping through, that coil snapping as he pushes all four fingers in again, his tongue pressing against your clit. He holds his fingers still while your cunt trembles with aftershocks. 

            “I’ve got you, sweet girl,” he whispers against you, his breath causing you to hiss as he pulls the four fingers out of you, slipping them in his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes locked on yours as he steps out of his boxers, cock hard and the tip leaking, a bead of precum sitting on top, sliding down, a vein bulging. 

            “Andrew,” you whisper, “how’d you get so good?” He comes to sit beside you on the bed, pulling you up, holding you, his lips on yours for a moment and the kiss is sinful and oh so hot because you can taste yourself on his tongue. 

            “When they…” he looks down at his hands for a moment, “when they paid for women to sleep with me, I learned what they liked because I…I never liked anything.”

            “Andy,” you whisper and his head jerks to yours, “what do you like?”

            “You,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours again and your body is flat on the bed, his cock teasing between your folds, kissing against your entrance as his tongue slides along yours and he murmurs, you, you, you into your mouth. 

            He slides his cock from your entrance to your clit like he did his tongue, circling your clit with his tip once before sliding back down and pushing inside, sinking into the hilt with a single thrust. He moans at the feeling of you all around him, a kind of whimper that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but it is. 

            “You’re okay,” you whisper when he pulls back from the kiss, his eyes closed. “Keep going, Andy. Use me.” And he does, pulling out and slamming himself back in over and over in a brutal rhythm that has your entire body moving with each thrust, his mouth hot on your neck. 

            “You’re so perfect, sweet girl,” he says, his words slightly unclear, but you know what he means, can hear it, the tip of his cock slamming against your cervix. “Gonna fuck a baby into you. Give Lena a cousin, maybe?” He’s hesitant in his words, but you nod and he looks up at you.

            “Go ahead, Andy,” you whisper and his pace picks up, relentless and punishing and delicious, his one hand on your waist, the other resting on your mons, thumb circling your clit, drawing you to orgasm at the same time he does. His release is thick and hot inside of you, cock pulsing and then he’s collapsing beside you, his body pulling yours tight against him and you’re not aware of much, except that he pulls the covers over the two of you and you fall asleep to his kiss against your neck. 

            “Good night, Mrs. Cody.”

            “I knew it!” Lena screams the next morning, taking in the sight of you and Andrew both in the kitchen, making breakfast, your body in his clothes, a ring on your finger that he went out and bought for you. “You’re gonna be my auntie!” And then her stick arms are around you and holding tight. 

            “Yeah, bug,” you whisper, your hand smoothing down her hair, the pancakes in the pan, “I am.”

            “And hopefully,” Andrew chimes in, “you’ll have a cousin soon.”

            “Andrew!” 

            Lena giggles when you hit him with the oven mitt and his response is to press a kiss against your cheek and you feel a contentment you’ve never felt before. 

            Because…wasn’t this what you wanted all along?

            You think it is. 

“They still haven’t found the person who did it?”

Any looks concerned, bless her heart. Only if she knew how many times you’ve been through this. You sigh and shake your head “No, they promised me soon but” you shrug. You haven’t been to the police. You didn’t even tell anyone. She just happened to come by the next morning and saw the mess. The blonde gives you an apologetic smile and pats your thigh before starting prayer circle.

Pope knows he shouldn’t have broke into your apartment.

But how else was he going to start a conversation with you outside of this job? His plan seemed solid until he realized you aren’t going to reach out to him, he’s unblocked you, waited every night for a week by the phone for you to call him, tell him about the robbery, about how your scared and need him to come over like you’ve done in the past when this happened to you. But you haven’t, you’ve been dressed up and going to a fucking prayer circle. He’s been going to, don’t get him wrong just…not when you’re around.

Amy’s nice, she’s sweet, pretty, she’s nice. But pope feels nothing deeper than surface level attraction for her. He notices his mind drifting to you when she’s got her pretty lips wrapped around his cock. Hell, he even almost whimpered your name once with his eyes closed and ruined the whole job. He’s shitty, he’s shitty for avoiding you, shitty for pushing you away after you told him how you feel, but he has good reason.

He won’t hurt you. Pope would rather demote himself of the one person who makes him feel like he can breath rather than hurt you. So he avoids you. He leaves the dinner table as soon as you sit down, he never lets himself be alone in a room with you, he never rides in the car with you, it’s awful. He knows you talk to Amy, but he’s praying to a god he doesn’t know if he believes in yet that you haven’t heard anything about the two of them. Pope thinks he’s trying to keep his mind occupied, with her and it’s absolutely not working.

—

The jobs in two days.

You feel a little in your chest for Amy, one for the fact she thinks you’re friends when in reality you want to throw up every time you see her because you’re imagining her and Andrew, and two because you’re literally ruining her job for a couple weeks after this.

You’d went home, cleaned up the mess someone had made in your apartment, texted and warned Smurf they may be next and moved on. You didn’t call Andrew which is weird because at the point with how many times this has happened to you it’s routine.

You have to go to the Cody’s tonight for a meeting, and you’re absolutely dreading it. Arriving there everyone’s already at the table so you slip in between Deran and Craig silently. Someone’s babbling on about how things are gonna go, who’s where, stuff you’ve already had memorized and stored in the back of your brain. Your eyes drift over to Pope, he’s across from you, and for a brief second you think you imagine him looking at you.

The meeting wraps up, everyone nods and drinks but you slip off quietly out back, leaving everyone in the garage, well you thought everyone. You sit by the pool, slip your sandals off and dip them in the cool water closing your eyes and letting out a deep sigh.

You hear the glass door slide and know who it is instantly, but you don’t turn around, too tired tonight to care anymore, to hurt. Pope stays where he is, crossing his arms over his chest and watching you for a minute before speaking up.

“You alright?” He says lowly and you almost scoff at it, really you do. Why the hell does he care all the sudden how you’re doing? “Don’t you have a sweet little girlfriend to get to?” You pipe up, still not turning around, eyes glued to your floating feet. You know it’s shitty, and out of spite and jealousy but you say it anyways.

—

Fuck.

Popes heart drops from his chest to his toes at the mention of Amy. He feels the need to defend himself, “she’s not-we’re not-“ he starts, “save it pope.”

That’s what really hurts him, you never call him pope, you never categorize him as the scary guy from ocean side, it’s only ever been Andrew, or Andy, or occasionally when your tipsy and smiling and crawling into his lap he’ll get a sweet “baby” out of you. But tonight, Outback by the pool it’s Pope.

He deserves it, God he deserves it and so much more. If any other guy treated you like this after you’d told them how you felt he would’ve beat them black and blue, but this time it’s him, and it’s shocking both of you.

“Smurf told us your house got hit.” He says roughly, closing his eyes. You shrug, taking another sip of your beer. “Yep.” and that’s all you give him. A shrug and one word. His hands feel clammy in his pockets, he doesn’t know how to handle rejection from you, he’s never had to before.

“He take anything valuable?” That makes you freeze, and turn around. Raising an eyebrow “he?” You whisper “you told Smurf there was boot prints.” No you didn’t.

Oh

Oh my god.

“Andrew.” You say lowly, deeper than your voice has ever been, standing up and taking a couple steps towards him. “I didn’t tell Smurf anything other than I got hit, and to watch out, I left it at that.” You whisper looking at him in pure rage. “I’m going to ask you something, and if you’re not honest with me you’re never going to hear from me again.” You whisper shakily.

“Did you rob my fucking house?”

ouuu shittt

Defeat crumpled the frustration that was keeping Craig wound-up and tense. It unravelled from his rigid spine first, slumping him forward until his shoulders went with it. He looked deflated and at a loss. Like a dog at Deran’s doorstep, his spoils of the hunt rejected.

“She could at least give him a call, man,” he sighed dolefully, scratching at the tufts on the nape of his neck. “I know he’s not her responsibility or whatever, but they were in love, weren’t they? That’s gotta count for something.”

It counted for everything.

Deran knew that. Knew you. Knew you still had parts of Pope etched into you so deeply that it reached bone. That you most likely would drop whatever you were doing if he were to pick up the phone and tell you about just how bad things had gotten since you and his biggest brother called it quits—since he twisted that knife in you for the last time that you could stomach and sent you packing from Baz’s place.

That’s the kind of woman you were. The kind of soft-hearted, tender person that he probably should’ve severed himself from years ago but Deran was almost as selfish with you as Pope had been. You’d loved Pope like your skin was uncalloused for the sake of his rough fingers to press dents into. Like your blood’s sweet for him to lap at with his doglike, wounded tongue. Like you were made for him.

You’d loved Deran first—not in the same way, not with your mouth breathing pretty things into his like you did with Pope to calm him down. But you were the first person outside of that nightmarish house of horrors and chlorine-burn and swollen bruises that treated him like a kid and not some burly knucklehead like the rest of his brothers. The two of you bonded over a shared love for surfing and Marlboro Golds. Yours was the first shoulder he’d cried onto after he realised that he loved you—God, he loved the bones of you—but there was something missed that he only really felt when he was with Adrian.

You made his childhood bearable. Deran owed you.

He should’ve kept Pope far away from you as soon as he saw those blown pupils of his, that tell-tale sign that his big brother found another thing to obsess over. But by the time he realised that it was more than some depraved fixation he had, you were already in deep right with him. Submerged in it, in fact. In him. Nursing his wounds like it was goddamn second-nature and kissing the cuts on his knuckles like an anchorite. Until Pope’s eyes were all pupil—not a glimpse of hickory or sun-bleached gold to comb out. He was a goner, and so were you, and it was too late for Deran then to save you.

It wasn’t too late now.

So he shook his head at Craig, feeling all kinds of guilty—like a Cain-figure almost, knowing Pope was at home pummelling his fists against a punching bag and yearning for the one thing he couldn’t have. Then he lifted his shoulders, truly sorry for their oldest brother, but thinking only of the salty sea air and the pigtailed girl who first called him friend.

“Sorry, Craig. But I ain’t asking her to do shit for him.”

Pope would never expect it of you anyway.

Deran knew that. Hell, Craig knew that. If Deran's made some angel out of you from the bloodied cloth of his fonder childhood memories, then whatever Pope has done to you in his head could only be described as idolatry.

Ever since he was a kid, he'd had a complicated relationship with religion. But Pope would've lived on his knees at your feet for the rest of your life if you'd only asked. He thinks of you every time he finds himself on them—in the ring, straddling the brawny waist of some bull-headed asshole, beating the shit out of his face until there's only meat left. It's not quite the on-the-knees worship he was used to when he thought of you. Absent of the draping of your legs over his shoulders as he lapped you up like holy water. These pieces of shit never had their hands in his curls the way your pretty fingers did, pulling and tugging, their grunts nowhere near as sweet as your airy sighs of Andrew Andrew Andrew as he calls you honey, 'cause he swears you taste like it.

Fuck, he'd live with his knees permanently bruised. Hiding the grimace whenever they clicked so he could take you apart, again and again, until it's his mouth doing the unravelling and only his mouth that can put you back together.

It's not just the sex he misses, though. Pope's relationship with intimacy was almost as twisted and depraved as the one he had with God.

(You're the cure in both equations—the doe-eyed salvation to the chronic soft dick he suffered with after prison and the tremble he got in his hands when praying).

He misses everything. Coming home from a job to you and Lena cuddled up under a scratchy blanket, Powerpuff Girls still on the television as her head lolled sleepily on your shoulder and your fingers absently carded through her thick curls. Misses the smell of your skin, all sun-soaked and coconut-drenched from the cream he'd lather generously over you just to get a touch. You'd play with his hair most nights. He'd curl up almost embryonic on your lap and murmur nonsense into the flimsiness of your sleep-shorts, playing with a loose thread as you play with his curls. The two of you comforted with the knowledge that, just down the hall, Lena was fast asleep. In the morning, it would be more of this sickly domesticity—sweet Lena wincing at the saccharine orange juice through the spearmint of her toothpaste, giggling as Pope made a similar face after making the same mistake. You'd plate them both fruit and pancakes, kissing Lena's temple, Pope's mouth (you'd join in on the gag, grimacing at the sourness of the OJ), and sit down at the little table to eat with them.

For a brief, anguishing, gorgeous time, Pope had a life. Had a family. Had a little girl who needed him and a good woman that wanted him.

Now, he was back to nothing. Back to Smurf. May was well crawl back into her barren womb to rot there with the rest of her bile and hate. After all, he and Julia were just the sorry afterbirths of all Smurf's worst parts. He should just return to that nasty, darkened matter—be where he belonged.

Since that was biologically impossible, Pope settled for the next best punishment. The house.

He'd made love to you for the first time in this place. Not in this room where he rots now. In his room. In his bed. Arms bracketing your delicate head as you whimpered at the size of him. He'd been shaky and as nervous as a virgin. Damn near blew his load as soon as you hooked your legs around his waist, ankles digging into the dimples at the small of his spine and hands groping at the freckled meat of his shoulders to coax him deeper. To bring him in home to you.

That room's not his anymore. Neither are you, so it felt fitting. It also felt fitting to serve his time in this room—the one Smurf had decorated for Lena. Walls smeared in lilac and other posters for a little girl that was living on a nicer side of town now. Wardrobe still pink with tagged clothes. His limbs ached from being cramped up on the tiny, twin-sized mattress. He deserved it though. Same as how he deserved the contusions on his ribs and the split-lip. The purplish shiner over his left eye is just as needed as the taunting lettering of his niece's name on the untouched wardrobe. All of this—the room, the house, Smurf's meatloaf, his haunted old room down the hall—serves as a reminder to what he's lost. What he let get away.

Pope sat on the edge of the bed. Spine rigid. Palms flat against his thighs. Light imbuing through gauzy curtains. The lavender paint shines like bluebells in springtime.

"Pope."

Smurf. He had his back to her but he could already picture her hip against the doorframe and that viper-like sharpness in her eyes. Like she wants to cut him open and eat him alive.

"You can't sit in here forever, baby..."

Yeah? Fucking watch him.

Pope merely let his chin graze his shoulder in a halfhearted attempt at acknowledging her, and said, "M'fine."

"When you let those people take Lena, I didn't think that meant I wouldn't be seeing your girl around here anymore either?" Prison must've took it out of Smurf, because the faux-concern was just rubbing salt into his many wounds. Or maybe Pope could just see right through her now. "Where is Honey, Andrew? I didn't realise her and Lena were a package deal."

That sucker-punched him. Didn't realise? Lena would've clung to your hip until she went off to college if she could. And you would've let her. Even when her limbs got too gangly and your knees as creaky as his. You loved that kid. And Lena loved you.

She was fawn-eyed and doleful the day they first took her away. You'd cried yourself sick. Pope had to hold back your hair. (He promised he'd get her back. Promised he'd do anything to bring her home. Even said, mouth heavy and wanting against yours—all apologetic and grieving—that he'd give you a baby of your own, too. Give Lena a little sister...In a way, he had. Just not with your eyes).

"Andrew," Smurf said sternly, "I'm talking to you, baby."

Pope sucked in a trembly breath. "She's gone, Smurf. We're done. She left."

There was a beloved beat of silence when she didn't say anything at all. Pope relished in it. Thanked God for it. Thought of you and the comfortable silences you'd give him.

Until, "Because of Lena?"

"Because of me. I ruined it. I lost Lena. I got angry and stupid. So she left," he said scathingly; not angry at you, but needing to spit the words out else he'd lose them in his throat.

"Well, that ain't on you, baby. I don't think it's very fair of her to leave you over something that wasn't in your hands," mused Smurf. "Why don't you ask Deran where she is? I'm sure your brother wouldn't mind—"

"She left me," he interjected, voice cracking down the middle like a wishbone. "She don't want nothing to do with me. I ain't gonna—" Pope wrenched his eyes shut, balling his hands into his fists on his knees and trying to think of your sweet perfume to calm him down. It just made his chest throb. "I don't wanna chase her 'round town, begging her to take me back. She deserves better, same as Lena."

The two of you should be together still, he thought miserably. Maybe not in Baz's—too many ghosts, too much hurt. Pope ruined that place, same as he ruins everything.

But somewhere else where Lena could hear the sea, with not a glimpse of pink. She didn't like pink. But she liked you, and she liked the sea, and the two of you would've been happy together. Orange juice in the mornings and Powerpuff Girls at night. Seashells on Lena's nightstand and her drawings on yours. You'd braid her hair before school; maybe she'd even start to enjoy it with you taking care of her—maybe she'd have friends 'round for sleepovers, and you'd cook for them. Lovely and motherly in a frilly apron. The two of you wouldn't have to wait up for him. You'd have a whole bed to yourself, no tortured man attaching himself to you like a sad appendage, mumbling into the hollow of your neck.

Instead, Lena lived with strangers. Kind enough ones. She had a swing-set. A sister. She couldn't hear the waves from her room anymore, but the beach wasn't too far.

Did she think of you? Did she dream of you, like Pope did?

Did you dream of him?

The tequila left your throat raw and cheeks warm. Salt lingered on your tongue, the acidity of the lime wedge neutralising the burn.

You were in your nicest dress. God knows why, or for whom. You'd told yourself in the mirror that it was for you, but you so detached from your sense of self lately that it felt hollow and wrong to say that. The hem had ridden up to your upper-thigh, exposing the bare lengths of your legs and a tinkering anklet Pope used to kiss when he fucked you in a mating press.

Deran's bar looked almost garish through the lenses of your drunken, droopy eyes. Your chin was lolled in your palm, elbow perched on the sticky bar, about to slip and knock over your empty shot glass.

"If you don't start to look alive real soon, I'm cutting you off," your best friend drawled as he used a dishcloth to dry out a pint glass.

"You wouldn't," you said childishly, challenging him with the sloppy jilt of your chin and a scowl.

Deran arched a single brow at you. "Yeah. Yeah, I would."

"Well, look—" you perked up, folding both arms out in front of you on the bar surface and giving him your most dazzling smile, "I'm alive. And ready for another!"

"Jesus. Look at 'ya, Honey. You're ready for bed, not tequila."

You hiccupped in offence. "Bed? Bed? You promised me a distraction—a night out! You can't—hik!—" you cringed, "can't expect me to just go home and sleep! C'mon, Der, you're meant to be cheering me up not bumming me out."

"He does that, Honey," a sympathetic voice said from behind you, all cocksure but familiar enough to warm your tender, drunk heart.

Delighted, you spun around to smile up at Craig. He towered over you, his hair loose and dishevelled around his rugged face. He grinned crookedly at your dazed, beaming expression and the askew nature of your flimsy dress.

"Hey, Craig," you said sweetly.

"Hey, Honey." He lowered himself into the barstool next to you, still towering, and tauntingly hooked a finger through your fallen strap to slide it back up to your shoulder. He settled it down with a patronising pat before signalling Deran to grab him a beer. "How long you been here, huh? You look wasted."

"Am—hik!—not!" you protested, indignant.

"Yeah," he laughed, "sure." He took the beer from Deran, feeling it sweat into his hand. "Thanks, bro. Put it on my tab, yeah?"

Deran didn't look too pleased to see him. "Your tab."

"Yeah. My tab."

"What are you doing here, Craig?" he sighed.

"I'm here to see my favourite girl, duh," he replied affably, bumping his shoulder with yours. You blushed, a bit girlish in your drunken state. "Where you been, Honey? We don't see you 'round the house no more."

Deran's jaw tightened. "Craig."

"What? I'm only asking," his brother said innocently, blinking back at you and the fresh, forlorn frown that downturned your lips into a shiny pout. "I miss you, s'all. And your bikinis..."

"I just... Andrew and I, we're..." Your brain felt like mush. As liquid and sour as the tequila still burning in your throat. You felt yourself sway a little, slumping into the hard ledge of the bar. "I don't think it's fair of me be there, y'know? Not when he's living there again."

It killed you when Deran told you that Pope had moved back into the family home. You'd thought you'd saved him from all of that. At the very least, if he wanted nothing to do with you anymore, you figured he'd still keep his independence from that place. That woman.

You'd had a home together, the two of you. Lena, three. Well, it was Baz and Cath's place first. You didn't intend on staying forever, just until you found someplace else where Lena could hear the sea. But it had been a home, for all intents and purposes. The place you'd spent the better part of a year with two of your favourite people—eating breakfast, teaching Lena fractions, nursing Pope's wounds (the kind that bled and the kind that only you could reach).

Naively, you'd thought you'd shown him a world that existed without Smurf, violence, and all that generational hurt. But as soon as the two of you called it quits, he went right back to it. To butchering himself for her. To bleeding for her. He probably smells of chlorine again these days. That had faded when he was with you. The artificial tang of the pool had been exchanged for saline and the faint, sweet warmth of sun-cream. That was no doubt gone now. He presumably didn't give a second thought to protecting his skin, nor any other part of himself.

Your beautiful boy, all covered in scars and butterfly-stitches and yellowing bruises.

"Hey," said Deran gently, crouching a little so he was at eye-level with you, "we don't gotta talk about him, Honey. You don't even need to think about him. C'mon, I'll pour you another drink."

And so he did. Then another. And another. Then a mai tai, complete with a gaudy umbrella and a maraschino cherry.

You were sipping it through a red straw, barely keeping upright. The rest of the bar had cleared and you had no idea what time it was. Your dress was even more higher on your thighs now, and you were pretty sure that the wrong turn on the barstool would have you flashing your underwear. Luckily, it was just you, Deran, and Craig—the two of them taking it turns swigging from the bottle of rum that Deran used to make your cocktail.

“—hey,” you blurted, almost sputtering on your drink as you swivelled round to slap a hand down on Craig’s shoulder, “how’s J? I haven’t seen him since, like, well—you know…but how is he? Is he—with Smurf being home—I worry—“

“J’s fine,” Craig swept in, sounding a bit disgruntled. “Kind of thinks he rules the roost now, but whatever.”

You shrugged, indifferent and half-pleased. “He’s a smart kid. I think if you give him the chance—hik!—he could make you legit.”

Craig and Deran exchanged a thoughtful, collusive look over your droopy head until the latter reached over for your tumbler glass and gave the melting ice-cubes a shake.

“Refill?” he mumbled, already going for the bottle of orange curaçao.

You smiled at him blissfully, the muscles in your face stretching out. “Sure.”

So you had another mai tai. Then, a Long Island. You were halfway down it by the time your vision started to go starry and muted-white. Everything went off-kilter. Craig became a burly blur of shoulder-length locks and a concerned frown, then the both of them were ushering you to the bathroom, saying your name and putting brotherly arms around your shoulders. Deran’s hand gathered your hair back but it wasn’t anything like Pops’s, neither was Craig’s as it rubbed halfhearted circles between your shoulders as you hacked up your guts.

Acid, bile, and self-resentment stared back at you, splattered across ceramic along with the remnants of that candied cherry. Soon you were heaving again—half-sobbing into the bowl, mumbling nonsense, mumbling for Pope. It’s like prayers.

“Shit…” cursed Deran, after about your third bout of throwing-up and no sign of reprieve. He kept one hand bunching your hair into a makeshift ponytail as he used the other to miserably rub down his stubbly jawbone. “Fuck it. Craig, call him.”

“Bro, call who? She’s—dude, she’s like, wasted. She’s probably gonna need her stomach pumped or some shit—“

“Pope, man,” Deran snarled through his teeth, smacking Craig on the chest with the backs of his knuckles. “Calling fucking Pope!”

Craig was out of the bathroom like a bullet. Deran, however, stayed with you. He always would. Promised it as kids when the both of you were still missing teeth. He even crouched down next to you, smearing his thumb over your dewy cheekbone to collect a sorrowful tear that had fell from your welling waterline.

It killed his heart to see your bottom lip wobble at the tenderness. How long was it since you last felt a scrap of affection? When you were both young, you’d each yearned for soft touches equally like dogs for a bone. Sniffing around at each other’s frail ankles like hungry sparrow-hawks around carrion.

Deran loved you. Loved the bones of you. He’d said it before and he’ll keep it saying. He needs you like you’re a rib inside of him. An iron lung. To see you like this—all slumped and sad against the graffitied wall of a bathroom stall in his bar; lost eyes, pouty mouth, emptied from the stomach and the heart—he felt sick himself.

You’d saved him all those years ago. Why couldn’t he save you?

“Honey,” he said, trying to be gentle but not knowing how—cursing his mother’s blood, “hey, look at me…” you tried, blinking forlornly through tears and daze. “Shit. M’sorry. I should’ve stopped filling up your glass. Should’ve stuck with my gut.”

“We’re s’posed to be having fun. Was having s’much fun. And then…” you stared, crestfallen, at the evidence of your empty stomach. “Deran, I’m s’sorry. Didn’t—hik!—mean to. Please don’t hate me.”

Deran felt almost as sick as you looked. “I could never hate you. You’re my favourite person.”

After everything, you found it hard to believe that you were anyone’s favourite anything.

Pope was lost to his mother’s clutches again—her nails back in him, right where she’d claimed the pinkish knots for herself decades ago. And Lena was someone else’s daughter now, telling some other patient woman about her nightmares. Even Deran felt distant these days. Face pinched with pity as he looked at you—keeping your glass full and mind fogged so you didn’t spend too much time longing after his brother, nor the ephemeral life you’d had together.

Were you truly so stupid to think that it might last? That Pope was yours, and that the pair of you could raise Lena together?

“Where is she?” a voice viciously banged from outside of the bathroom, muffled and contemptuous and yours.

“Pope, listen, bro—you gotta just—“

“Where is she, Craig?”

You hiccuped again, choking on it and your own air as you stared up at Deran in horror. “Andrew? Did you call…”

“Shit.”

Your best friend straightened up, massaging the throbbing pulse over the bridge of his nose. Your hair fell back down against the nape of your neck, tickling your collarbone. Deran looked distressed and overwhelmed with sudden regret. Had he even meant to ask Craig to call their big brother? What had he been thinking?

“Shit!” Deran yelled then, banging his fist against the steel door of the bathroom stall, making it rattle and you shudder.

All of that was enough to have Pope bursting in.

And you’re there—for the first time in weeks—knelt and weak; wan, hurt, and all apart. You must look wretched. Pope’s eyes go from murderous to aching in moments, and all that tension in him left in a few ragged breaths. He was all yours again. He was all apart, too.

“Honey,” he breathed.

Your lower lip started to waver again. “Andrew.”

“What the hell did you two do?” Pope sneered, glaring furiously at Deran. “You know she’s a lightweight!”

“Hey,” you mumbled disgruntledly, your regurgitated breakfast in your periphery.

“She wanted to drink, Pope. Wanted a distraction. This is on you, not me,” Deran retorted sharply. “I was only trying to clean up the mess that you made.”

“That right? My little brother, cleaning up my mess, huh?” snarled Pope.

Teeth-gnashing and hound-like. All Smurf’s, really. Maybe he wasn’t ever yours.

Then his eyes were on you, and the softness seemed suddenly gone from him—this cold, nearly catatonic, look to them that made you shrink closer towards the dirty wall.

“What're you playin’ at, huh? Sitting here, touching all kinds of germs—throwing up your guts and sitting with these two idiots, letting ‘em get you wasted. This ain’t you,” he ranted, chest heaving. “I know it ain’t, so what the hell?”

“It’s not like I’ve got a kid to come home to,” you shakily manage to spew back, feeling surprisingly defensive considering the state you were in. “Lena’s not exactly waiting for me back at home, is she? I figured I could have a night for myself. Instead of being by myself. Is that—hik!—alright with you, Pope?”

Calling him that was a low-blow, you both knew it. There was an agonised twitch to his left eye that gave his wounded pride away, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. He’d wounded you enough, surely his ego could take a blow or two.

Pope just clenched his jaw at you. “Just get up. Look at you. You’re on the floor. Do you know how filthy it is in here? Get up, Honey. I’m taking you home.”

“You’re not taking me anywhere!” you shrilled, doing everything but stomping your foot like a stropping toddler in protest.

“Yeah?”

“M’staying. ‘Feel better now, anyways. Could drink more. ‘Cause Deran cares about me. Deran wants to see me happy. You, however, are just a big, ol’—“

You were halfway home in fifteen minutes.

Buckled into the passenger side of Pope’s truck, temple cool against the condensation of the window. He didn’t like to drive with the radio on so it was just the two of you, the indigo-blue sky, and the occasional bloodbath of a red-light up ahead. You felt like a chastised child. A mutt locked outside the back door to stand out in the rain and think about what it had done—your upset belly akin to muddy paw-prints over cream carpet. You hated yourself.

Apart from the chirping of grasshoppers in rich people’s well-kept lawns and the low rumble of the engine, it was eerily quiet. Pope didn’t even spare you a single glance, hadn’t even looked at you as he got you into the seat and fastened you in, just muttered to himself about how you must be getting all the germs from the bathroom floor into his car.

The silence and the fresh air from the small crack in your window were enough to sober you up a little, so much so that after a few familiar turns and short-cut gullies, you eventually realised where he was taking you.

“No,” you stammered, scrambling to sit upright in the chair and white-knuckling the side of the door. “Pope, I’m not going there. ‘Don’t wanna see her.”

Pope finally glimpsed at you—brief and concerned through the rearview, where a beaded rosary dangled just out of reach.

“I don’t…” he drummed his fingers against his wheel, anxious, “I was gonna take you home, but I don’t…”

He didn’t know where you lived now. Not since you recklessly gave up the lease of your first ever place to move in with him and Lena at Baz’s. There was entire pieces of you that he had no idea about. New furniture and items of clothing—days gone by where he wasn’t there in the evenings to kiss your hairline and ask you what you’d done. He didn’t know about the uneven floorboard in the living room, nor how a few of the shower nozzles sprayed water up the pearlescent tiles in your bathroom. Pope hadn’t seen the new lamp that you’d gotten for your bedroom, because sleeping in the dark felt so much more frightening now without him next to you. He’d probably forgotten the smell of your sheets and shampoo—how it felt to hold you at night.

(He hadn’t. Never would, really).

“Oh,” you said solemnly, realising. “Erm, well. It’s not too far from Deran’s place. ‘Got it on the front. Y’know, in case…”

In case Lena ever came home.

Pope swallowed threadily, ligaments going taut in his thick, freckled neck. He looked so much broader now, you were slowly realising the more brave you got to look sideways to him. Even more filled out than before, with a half-healed welt over his eye and the scarred flesh of a scabbed over cut on the opposing cheekbone. He’d shucked on a jacket before being called over to play white-knight, and his shoulders and biceps pressed against the dark denim in a way that made you even dizzier.

God, you loved him. You missed him. You wanted him back: Lena too. There was even a spare bedroom in this place you’d gotten. The rent was obscene and your landlord useless, but it was some kept-dream for you. That wraparound porch and the spare room. The entire place smelt of the sea and lavender incense.

Pope would be happy there, you think morosely. You kept the place clean. He’d take over that if he was to move in—would do it religiously. And you’d cook, because Pope’s definition of a healthy meal was a slab of barely-cooked meat and raw asparagus. You’d serve him hearty dinners and bloat him up with it (and love). Sure, you loved how muscular he looked now, but you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t fond of a bit of pudge on him. The cutthroat look he had now was just further proof of Smurf’s talons in him. In some depraved way, you wanted to fatten him just the slightest bit—make him homely, make him comfortable: make him yours.

You gave the directions to where you were living now. He followed them diligently and without a word, exhibiting every last nervous tick you’d ever seen him do, from the drumming of his fingertips to the incessant twitch in his jaw.

He pulled into the communal driveway at the back of the row of houses that yours was on, right between your neighbour’s obnoxious minivan and a Wildcat Ultra Minarelli. He knocked off his headlights and left the both of you bathed in shadows. It was suffocating.

Why was he even here? Why did Deran tell Craig to call him? Why did he pick up? The questions swarmed around your mind like small, primal animals.

Chest tightening, you turned to him, feeling infinitely pathetic and two-inches tall. “Thanks for the lift, I—.”

“I’m not letting you walk in by yourself,” he quickly interrupted you, looking rather insulted that you’d even assume he would. “You were stumbling like a baby deer outside Deran’s bar.”

Insulted, you felt your eyebrows pinch inwards and your mouth open to retort. Pope didn't give you the chance. Scoffing to himself, he popped open the driver's side door and left the car. Feeling quite petulant, you slumped down in your chair and crossly folded your arms over your chest as you glared after the vague outline of him walking around the front of the car to your side.

The air hit you unforgivingly, shivering and scowling at Pope for the offence of exposing you to it. He just gave you this droll, half-apologetic look before extending out his arm. You took it, ignoring the yearning for more of him, to touch skin instead of denim—telling yourself that this wasn't intimate nor domestic, this was Pope being Pope. His brothers called him, and he heeded it. Doglike.

He cared about you still, you knew that—you weren't so butt-hurt to deny that Pope had a beautiful capacity for love, even if it was strange and mangled, and not at all like how you felt it. But he couldn't just switch it off any more than you could. Craig no doubt told him that you were a drunken mess, that you could barely stand and were hurling into a dingy toilet surrounded by coke debris and a used condom. There wasn't a possible scenario where Pope wouldn't show up for you. You supposed this was what hurt the most. The lingering concern, the persisting love, the way his touch still rendered you.

"C'mom," he mumbled, almost to himself, as his hand ghosted along the bare length of your arm and into the dip at the small of your spine, coaxing you out of his truck, "I've got you."

You don't, though, you thought viciously as he lead you over the pebbles to the scrap of a front-garden you had. You don't have me at all.

He walked you up the two small steps onto the wraparound decking, stubbornly ignoring the porch-swing that was swaying softly in the sea breeze. His hands left you then. Suddenly, you were stood in a freezing tundra rather than your doorstep. It made you feel lonelier.

You went for your bag that was already slipping down your shoulder, looking for your keys. Rummaging through a sample perfume bottle, lip glosses, loose sticks of bubblegum, you just kept retrieving random items without even hearing the dainty jangle of your keys. The fading warmth of the booze already had you on edge, but the panic of not being able to find them was making your fingers shake and breaths come out in panicked bursts of air that Pope didn't take long to catch onto.

"Here," he said gravelly, taking the handbag from you and carding through all of your things to quickly take out your house-keys. He didn't gloat. He wouldn't. Not with you. He just gave you this brief, sheepish smile that looked more like a wince and put them into your hands, before returning to staring at his shoes.

"Thanks," you breathed, and moved to unlock your door.

The lungs of your house inhale strangely upon welcoming Pope into them. He followed you slowly inside, half-predator, half-prey; quite unassuming considering his stature. He still had that swagger about him that was never cocky, yet still annoyingly attractive. A heavy, uneven gait. You felt it behind you as you moved deeper into the small entry hallway, flicking on a light-switch and bringing life back into this bizarre night.

He kicked off his shoes without second thought, toeing them off, one-by-one, because that was Pope. He didn't want to trek any outside dirt into this sacred place of yours. Didn't want to ruin it any more than he inevitably would by just being here.

In your living room, as the two of you pass through it like ghosts to seemingly get to your kitchen, he smelt lavender and saw the crochet blanket draped over the back of the sofa that used to be Lena's favourite. It was all so dizzyingly nostalgic. As were the books stacked up in rogue piles by the French-doors leading out to the back porch, and the waxen candles on the coffee table, the cardigan slung over the arm of a thrifted rocking-chair, and a kitsch dreamcatcher looped through your curtain-pole.

Your kitchen wasn't any easier to stomach. So uniquely you, quaint too. Your favourite mug was left on the countertop with a terracotta coffee-ring just underneath it, dried tacky to the cheap wood. There was even a photo-frame on the windowsill just above the sink—it didn't hold a glossy photograph, rather a slightly crinkled drawing of a family of three. It didn't take much for Pope to recognise Lena's crayons. To recognise his unruly curls and your doe-eyes, the sweet girl in-between you.

"D'you want anything?" you asked him, already on your tiptoes trying to reach a glass from a slender cabinet.

Pope blinked, having almost forgotten why he was here.

"I'll get that. You—" he cleared his throat, looking at your still dilated pupils and the fallen straps of your little dress, "go and change, brush your teeth. I'll get you some water. Tylenol, too."

"Oh, you don't..." Then, he levelled you with this look that said, yes, I do have do this, and you went quiet again.

Acquiesced, as you usually do for those puppy-dog, hickory eyes of his, and ducked out of the room to freshen yourself up.

Your absence from the room didn't make it any less suffocating, Pope realised rather quickly. It wasn't just you that did this time, he was coming around to seeing, it was everything that came with you—that fierce love you had for Lena, the earthy, sweet smell of you, and how you hadn't changed one bit.

He poured you a glass of water and found your medicine cabinet with ease, popping two Tylenol out of a sleeve that was almost gone—wondering, unhappily, how many of these you've had to take recently under similar circumstances. He stayed at your kitchen island, thumb working over a chip in the oak surface, staring at the settled water in the glass and the twin pills next to it. Just down the hall, he could hear faucet being turned off in the bathroom, followed shortly by the rustle of fabric and some endearing, disgruntled sounds as you fought with the zipper of your dress. He'd considered going in there to help you, but decided against it—Pope couldn't see you like that; all that soft skin and the dewy, vulnerable look in your eye as he helped you out of the satiny slip. Leaving you in whatever panties you'd put on, because he knew for a fact that you hadn't worn a bra with that dress.

Thankfully, he hadn't needed to, because you came padding out of the bedroom not long after, approaching him and the kitchen as if he were a frightened, bathing animal in the woods. Your hair collected back by a claw-clip, most of your legs bare save for the tops of your thighs that were covered by a plaid pair of boy-shorts and the fraying hem of an oversized tee.

You looked painfully pretty. Eyes soft and still a bit unfocused, with smudges of glitter lingering even after you tried to smear it all off with a cotton-pad and some micellar water. You were wringing your hands together when you walked up beside him, reaching nervously for the tall glass of water and the first of the painkillers.

"Thanks, Pope," you said shyly.

"Andrew," he managed to choke out as you swallowed the first pill, staring at him thoughtfully over the rim. "You call me Andrew. 'Always have."

You settled the glass down carefully. "I didn't think I could anymore. 'Didn't think it was my place."

"S'always your place. I'm—"

Pope cut himself short before he could upset either of you any more. But the stricken look on his face as he dragged his eyes to look out to the sea through your window was enough to suggest that enough damage was done—if the matching hurt in your chest wasn't already.

I'm your place.

You took the moment to just look at him. He really was gorgeous. You'd nearly forgotten how many kisses long his throat was. Would he let you remind yourself? The neckline of the navy tee under his jacket was low enough to expose the strong sinews in his neck: sun-drenched, freckled, and untouched by your mouth for far too long.

"I'm sorry that Craig called you," you mumbled, resting the small of your back into the kitchen island. The two of you were side-by-side now, both looking out at to your little cut of the seaside—where Lena should be in the sunny afternoons, building sandcastles and collecting seashells. "Hell," you scoffed next, "I'm sorry I got this drunk at all. I just—it's been, well. I think you know."

Pope nodded shallowly. "I know."

Gutted, you gnawed down on your bottom lip and looked at him again. It was like you just couldn't help yourself. This time, he actually looked back. Chin tilting down to you, giving you all of his attention. Your knees felt weak.

"I miss her," you told him earnestly.

"Me too. I know. I know. I couldn't—" he looked physically pained as he shook his head, fists balling at his sides. "Smurf was saying all this shit about keeping her close. Saying she'll let us see her. Talking 'bout moving you in with me. I didn't want you there, Honey. Not Lena, not you. Not there. I knew Lena would be happier with that family than in that house. I kept thinking about," Pope choked, "about Julia—"

"Andrew," you interjected, moving in front of him now. He shook his head desperately, pushing himself against the island and away from you, murmuring prayers of please and your name. You listened, surrendering your palms to him, but still went on, "I get it. Lena deserves better than that place—than Smurf. But so do you. What I don't get is why you had to go back there? Why you left? I could've helped get Lena back. It's not always Smurf who has to fix things. I could've—we could've done something. Us. We were doing it together, weren't we? We were happy. Was it..." you wet your lips, apprehensive, "were you happy, too?"

"So happy. It was..."

Pope looked so distraught, hands tucked behind his back, shoulders trembling. He didn't have words for it. You'd give him a home and a family. Softened out the harsh edges of all the ugliness around him. Made Lena feel safe and happy, listened to.

“I lost her. For the both of us. You loved her too, and… They took her, because I wasn’t safe. Because I’m fucked up.” He tucked his wobbling bottom lip between his crooked teeth, a whimper lodging itself violently in his throat. “I couldn’t even—I couldn’t—“

“Andrew. Andrew, hey, hey,” you spoke as gently as you could, angling your head down to try and meet his torn-up gaze. “Can I touch you? Is it okay if I—“

“Please,” he wept, keeping his hands behind his back but baring himself to you. “Please, please, please.”

And you’re on him. Because he was begging so sweetly, because he looked so broken, because you loved him. You love him. You cradled one, steady palm to the nape of his neck, tucking his head into the crook of your own, and smoothed the other between his crumpled shoulders. He shook against you, crying like it hurt. His hands didn’t move. You wondered if he was making the inside of his palms bleed. You never wanted him to bleed again. Thought about tearing the limbs off whatever brutes had been beating him to a pulp in that ring as you ghosted your lips over his sweat-slick throat.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I don’t blame you,” you promised him. “I understand why you did it. She looked happy, yeah? She has a sister. Swings. You wanted her to be happy.”

“You—you…” He couldn’t get his words out, they were ravaging their way from him as if they were being yanked by brutal force from his sternum, “you made her happy, too,” he sobbed.

You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your nails bluntly into the denim of his jacket. “I just want her to be happy. And you, Andrew. You’re not happy right now.”

“Not happy unless m’with you.”

“I’m the same,” you admitted shamefully, eyes still closed. He was yet to return the embrace, but you didn’t begrudge him for it. “I think about you all the time. ‘S why I got drunk tonight. I didn’t wanna think about how lonely I am without you two.”

That made Pope sob harder. “I ruined it. I ruined everything. M’sorry, sweetheart. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He kept saying it. Until his lungs started to rasp, his throat was raw, and he finally moved his arms around your waist, dragging you into his body. You held him impossibly tighter and Pope squeezed at the flesh of you. You wanted to climb into his ribs and stay there. He longed to have you in his blood.

“M’sorry,” he slurred shakily for the last, gut-wrenching time, sounding so exhausted.

His mouth brushed your jawbone, warm breath and devotion.

“I forgive you, Andrew.” You stroked your fingers through his curls. “We’ll figure it out. You and me, yeah?”

He didn’t repeat the words back to you. Couldn’t. It made you deflate a little, only now realising what this was. Knowing he wouldn’t wake up in your bed come the morning. Tomorrow, he’ll be back in that haunted house of his—he’ll be Smurf’s again. This ironic taunt of a home will be empty again and you’ll be alone. The spare bedroom will never know Lena’s laughter, the left half of your wardrobe won’t ever house his clothes, and you’ll make too much breakfast again. The dull throb of your hangover will feel like a punishment that you deserve for mourning this relationship that will never work out. Inevitably, this will all have been for nothing.

Pope was probably never even yours to begin with.

But neither of you wanted to confront that right now. Not with the moon and the sea behind you, and that empty child’s bedroom down the hall. This was the first time in weeks you’d been in each other’s arms, why destroy that with reality?

“You made me so happy,” he sniffled again, rueful and apologising in his own way. Thanking you, too.

You merely hummed, scratching your nails against his scalp now. “Yeah?”

“The happiest I've ever been.”

But that was all over now. That dream of yours—that the three of you could be a family—it was fallible and gone.

The sound of the waves lapping against the shore would never sound the same again.