JUNI

Claire’s smile widened. “Is that a hickey?”

Everything in you went cold.

Jack’s hand tightened around yours beneath the table, not enough for anyone else to see, but enough for you to feel.

For one long second, nobody spoke.

Taylor had gone completely still across from you. Ethan’s fry hovered halfway to his mouth, forgotten. Claire’s eyes stayed fixed beneath Jack’s jaw, bright with the horrible thrill of having found something.

Then she laughed softly.

“Oh my God,” Claire said. “It is.”

Your fingers loosened around Jack’s before you could stop them.

Not all at once.

Just enough.

A reflex. A retreat.

Jack felt it.

His hand stayed still for half a second, palm open beneath yours, like he was giving you the chance to come back on your own.

You did not.

You pulled your hand away.

The loss of contact was immediate.

Awful.

Jack did not look at you.

That was almost worse.

His face did not change, but something in his jaw tightened once before he smoothed it away. By the time Claire looked back at his face, he was unreadable again.

“That’s none of your business,” Jack said.

The booth went silent.

Claire blinked. “Relax. I’m just saying—”

“No,” Jack said.

One word.

Flat.

Clean.

Claire’s mouth closed.

Taylor looked down at her plate, but not before you saw her expression shift into something careful and protective.

Ethan lowered his fry very slowly, as if sudden movement might get him killed.

Claire recovered with a small laugh, but it did not land right this time. “Come on, Abbot. Who did it?”

Jack looked at her then.

Fully.

“That’s also none of your business,” he said.

Your stomach twisted.

He had not denied it.

He had not exposed you.

He had left the truth exactly where it belonged.

Private.

Yours.

His.

And you had pulled your hand away like it burned.

Claire’s smile thinned. “I was joking.”

Jack’s voice stayed even. “I heard you.”

No one spoke.

Not for a beat.

Then Taylor picked up her water with exaggerated calm. “Well. I’m going home to take the most well-deserved nap of my life before the bar.”

Ethan blinked, then latched onto the topic with visible gratitude. “Yes. Nap. Excellent plan. Medically necessary.”

Taylor looked at him. “You’re still coming out later?”

Ethan pointed a fry at her. “After I lose consciousness for three to five business hours, absolutely.”

Claire stirred her straw through her drink. “I was thinking nine?”

Taylor smiled, bright and deliberate. “Nine works.”

Ethan nodded. “Nine gives me enough time to nap, shower, and become a person people invite places.”

Taylor looked at him. “Optimistic.”

You stared down at your plate and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

Beside you, Jack picked up his coffee.

His arm did not brush yours this time.

You noticed.

You hated that you noticed.

Taylor started talking about the bar like the entire table had not just watched Jack draw a line through the middle of it. Ethan latched onto it with the desperation of a man grateful for any topic that did not involve the mark under Jack’s jaw.

You answered when you had to.

Laughed once when Ethan said something about needing a nap so powerful it counted as a coma.

Ate three fries.

Maybe four.

Jack did not touch you again.

Not under the table.

Not by accident.

Not even when the waitress came back, and everyone shifted to make room for the check.

He stayed beside you, warm and close and miles away.

That was the worst part.

He was doing exactly what you had asked him to do without ever asking.

Giving you space.

You wanted to scream.

When the check came, Jack reached for it before anyone else could.

Ethan frowned. “Are you paying because you’re generous or because you want us to leave faster?”

Jack took out his wallet. “Yes.”

Taylor kicked Ethan under the table.

Ethan looked offended. “That was a reasonable question.”

“It was not,” Taylor said.

You reached for your bag. “I can pay for mine.”

Jack did not look at you. “I’ve got it.”

Your fingers tightened around the strap.

You should have argued.

You did not.

Claire was quiet after that.

Not apologetic, exactly.

Just quieter.

Taylor watched you too carefully as everyone slid out of the booth. Ethan hovered like he wanted to say something helpful but had correctly identified that his help was usually hazardous.

Outside the diner, the group split apart in the pale afternoon light.

Taylor touched your elbow. “Call me later?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Her eyes searched yours. “You okay?”

You forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

Taylor’s expression said she believed absolutely none of that.

But she nodded anyway.

Ethan lifted one hand. “Good work surviving disease class.”

Jack looked at him. “Pathology.”

“That’s what I said,” Ethan said.

Taylor grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away before he could keep talking.

Claire lingered for half a second.

Her eyes flicked to Jack, then to you.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” Claire said.

No one answered right away.

Your throat tightened.

Jack’s voice came even beside you. “You did.”

Claire blinked.

You looked at him.

He did not look back.

Claire’s mouth opened, then closed again. “Right.”

She left after that.

The sidewalk went quiet.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved.

The diner door opened behind you, spilling out warmth and noise, then shut again.

Jack adjusted the strap of his bag. “Ready?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You started walking.

Not together, exactly.

Beside each other, yes, but not in rhythm.

Not like that morning when the silence had been full of restraint and anticipation and the terrible promise of after.

This silence was different.

This silence had teeth.

Jack walked close enough that you could have reached for him.

He did not reach for you.

You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets.

The sidewalk was still damp in places from the storm, the same dark patches you had passed that morning on the way to the exam. It felt impossible that this was the same day. That a few hours ago, he had leaned close in the kitchen and made one word sound like a threat. That you had walked to campus trying to survive him.

Now you were trying to survive yourself.

You could feel him looking at you.

Not constantly.

That would have been easier to resent.

Every half block, his gaze would move to your face and then away again before you could decide what to do with it.

He was gauging you.

You knew that.

Measuring the distance.

Checking the damage.

Trying to figure out whether one wrong word would make you bolt or turn on him or break apart completely.

You hated that he was good at it.

You hated more that he was right to be careful.

At the corner, you stopped for the light.

Jack stopped beside you.

A car rolled through a puddle near the curb, water hissing under the tires.

You stared at the crosswalk sign.

Jack’s voice came low. “You’re quiet.”

You laughed once, without humor. “Observant.”

His jaw shifted.

You regretted it immediately.

Not because he looked hurt.

Because he did not.

He just absorbed it.

Tucked it away.

Recovered so quickly it made your chest ache.

The light changed.

You stepped off the curb.

Jack followed.

The rest of the walk stretched too long and too short at the same time.

Every brush of his sleeve against yours felt accidental now.

Not charged.

Not playful.

Dangerous.

Like if either of you moved wrong, something would finally go down.

A fight.

A confession.

A mistake.

Maybe all three.

By the time you reached the apartment building, your chest felt too tight.

Jack unlocked the front door and held it open.

You stepped inside without looking at him.

The stairs were worse.

Too narrow.

Too familiar.

Every step brought you closer to the apartment and farther from every excuse you had left.

No exam.

No Taylor.

No Ethan.

No Claire.

No booth.

No table hiding your hands.

Just home.

Jack unlocked the apartment door.

You walked in first.

The place looked exactly the same as it had that morning. Coffee mug in the sink. Notes still stacked on the table. One of your pens on the counter. His notebook closed beside it.

Normal things.

Morning things.

Before things.

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

You stood in the middle of the living room and did not know what to do with your hands.

Jack set his keys on the counter.

The sound was small.

Too loud anyway.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then his voice came quietly behind you. “Hey.”

You closed your eyes for half a second before you turned.

Jack was still near the door, one hand resting near the strap of his bag. He looked careful.

Too careful.

Like he was trying to decide whether touching you would make it better or ruin everything.

His eyes moved over your face.

“You okay?” he asked.

Your answer came too fast. “I’m fine.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “No, you’re not.”

You looked away. “You don’t know that.”

Jack stayed by the door. “I do.”

The certainty in his voice scraped over something raw.

You crossed your arms. “Great. Then why ask?”

Jack was quiet for a beat.

Then he set his bag down by the door. “Because I want you to tell me the truth.”

That was worse.

The patience.

The room.

The fact that he was giving you space when some miserable part of you wanted him to cross it.

You looked at the coffee table. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Jack did not move closer. “Okay.”

You hated that too.

The okay.

The way he accepted the door without trying to kick it open.

You swallowed. “I just don’t want people knowing.”

Jack went still.

His expression closed by one careful inch.

“Oh,” Jack said.

One word.

Flat.

Controlled.

Awful.

Your stomach dropped.

You looked back at him immediately. “No.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “No?”

“That’s not—” You stopped, because you did not know how to finish without making everything worse. “That’s not what I meant.”

Jack’s voice stayed even. “You sure?”

Your chest tightened.

His jaw shifted once. “Because you let go of my hand pretty damn fast.”

There it was.

Not an accusation.

Not quite.

But close enough to hurt.

Guilt moved through you so quickly it had nowhere to go, so it came out as something sharper.

You looked at him. “What did you want me to do?”

Jack did not answer.

You took one step farther into the room. “What, announce to the entire diner that we fucked once?”

Jack went still.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

“Seriously?” Jack asked. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

Your mouth went dry.

The room went quiet in a way that made your own words come back to you worse than they had sounded leaving your mouth.

Fucked once.

Like it had been simple.

Like it had been nothing.

Like you had not spent the entire morning waiting for after the exam like it was a promise.

You crossed your arms tighter. “It’s what happened.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “No.”

Your chin lifted. “No?”

Jack’s voice stayed low. “It’s the smallest part of what happened.”

That was worse.

Because he was right.

Because you had picked the one version of it that did not include the storm, or the morning after, or the way he had cleaned you up without making you feel small, or the way he had slept with his hand on your back like touching you had been the easiest thing in the world.

You looked away. “It was once.”

Jack nodded once. “I know.”

You forced yourself to look at him again. “So why are you acting like—”

“Like it mattered?” Jack asked.

You stopped.

His eyes held yours.

Jack’s voice came quieter. “Because it did.”

Your pulse jumped.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then you looked away first. “Jack.”

His expression tightened. “Don’t lie to me.”

Your head snapped back toward him. “I’m not lying.”

“You are,” Jack said, stepping away from the door.

Your chest tightened. “You don’t know that.”

Jack’s gaze did not move from your face. “I know enough.”

The words landed too close.

You looked away.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

The apartment felt too small around the silence.

Your arms tightened across your chest. “It’s just easier if people don’t know, Abbot.”

Jack was quiet for a beat.

Then he asked, “Easier for who?”

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Because the answer should have been simple.

Both of us.

That was the safe answer.

The reasonable answer.

The one you had been trying to build a case for since the diner.

But he was looking at you, and suddenly you could not make yourself say it.

You looked away. “You know how people get.”

Jack stayed still. “That’s not an answer.”

Your chest tightened. “It is.”

“It’s not,” Jack said.

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “God, you are impossible.”

Jack’s jaw shifted once. “Right now, yeah.”

You looked back at him.

He did not look smug or pleased with himself.

He just looked tired.

Careful.

Hurt, maybe, though he was doing a good job of hiding it.

You hated that too.

You hated all of it.

You hated the diner and Claire and your own stupid hand in your own stupid lap and the way you could still feel the absence of his fingers against yours.

Your voice came sharper than you meant it to. “What do you want me to say?”

Jack’s answer came immediately. “The truth.”

Your throat tightened.

You stared at him.

Jack held your gaze. “That’s it.”

You swallowed. “The truth.”

“Yes,” Jack said.

You gave another small laugh, but it broke at the edges. “About what?”

Jack did not take the bait.

His voice stayed low. “About why you let go of my hand.”

Your fingers tightened against your sleeve.

For one second, you almost told him.

You almost said, Because it felt too real.

You almost said, Because if I kept holding on, everyone would know I wanted to.

Instead, panic moved through you, hot and immediate, and you threw your hands up.

“Because we slept together once,” you said.

Jack went still.

“Once,” you said, the word sharper the second time. “That’s all.”

His jaw shifted. “That’s all.”

“The power went out,” you said. “We kissed. We fucked. We were both tired and stressed.”

Jack’s jaw shifted once.

Then he looked at you, and something in his expression made your stomach drop before he even spoke.

“So that’s what this is to you?” Jack asked.

Your throat tightened.

Jack did not move. “That’s what I am to you?”

Your breath caught.

The room went too quiet.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “A power outage. A kiss. A fuck. Bad timing.”

Your chest tightened. “Jack.”

His name landed differently this time.

Not as a plea.

Not yet.

More like panic.

Jack heard it.

You knew he did.

His jaw moved once, but he did not soften enough to let you escape.

“You don’t get to do that,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. “Do what?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Diminish this.”

The words landed hard.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His voice dropped. “Not for me.”

For a second, the apartment went still around you.

Not quiet.

Still.

Like even the walls knew not to move.

You stared at him.

Jack did not look angry.

That would have been easier.

He looked controlled.

Careful.

Hurt in a way he was refusing to hand over completely.

Your fingers curled against your palms. “I’m not diminishing it.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “You just called me a power outage and bad timing.”

Your throat tightened.

Your chest ached.

You looked away.

That was the problem.

You had not meant it like that.

You had meant the night.

The circumstances.

The excuse.

You had meant to make the whole thing sound smaller so it would stop taking up so much room inside you.

But Jack had been part of that night too.

Jack had been the one kissing you in the dark.

Jack had been the one touching you like he knew exactly how much restraint cost him.

Jack had been the one beside you in the morning, careful and quiet and real.

You had tried to make the night nothing.

And Jack had heard himself disappear inside it.

Your voice came smaller. “That’s not what I meant.”

Jack’s answer was immediate. “Then say what you mean.”

You looked back at him.

His expression did not change.

He was not chasing you.

He was not rescuing you.

He was standing there, steady and stubborn and impossible, asking you to stop hiding behind the worst version of your own words.

Your throat worked. “I don’t know how.”

Jack’s eyes softened by a fraction.

Only a fraction.

Enough to make your chest hurt worse.

“Start with why you let go,” Jack said.

Your pulse jumped.

You looked down at your hands.

Empty now.

Still.

Useless.

You could still feel the memory of his fingers under the diner table.

The warmth of his palm.

The small pressure when Claire asked the question and the whole booth tilted toward him.

You had let go like his hand was the dangerous thing.

But it had not been.

That was the truth.

His hand had been the only thing in that diner that felt safe.

And you had let go anyway.

Your throat tightened.

Jack waited.

Not impatiently.

Not gently enough to let you pretend he was letting it go.

Just waited.

You stared at your hands. “Because I didn’t want you to know.”

Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “Know what?”

Your fingers curled once, then loosened.

“That I care,” you said.

Jack did not move.

Your throat worked around the rest of it.

“I care about you,” you said.

Jack’s jaw shifted once.

You forced yourself to keep looking at your hands. “I care about that night.”

The apartment felt too quiet.

You hated how impossible the words felt now that you had started saying them.

You hated that you could not take them back.

“I care about the way you looked at me,” you said. “And the way you touched me. And the fact that I woke up the next morning and it didn’t feel like a mistake.”

Jack went very still.

You looked away.

Too honest.

Too much.

Still not enough.

Your arms wrapped around your middle. “And at the diner, I didn’t want them to see it.”

Jack’s voice came low. “See what?”

You laughed once, small and miserable. “That I was jealous.”

His expression shifted.

Barely.

Enough.

You shook your head. “I didn’t want them to see that I was jealous. I didn’t want you to see it.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“I had no right to feel that way,” you said.

His jaw tightened.

You kept going before he could answer.

“But I did,” you said. “I did, Jack.”

The name caught in your throat.

You swallowed hard.

“She looked at you like she knew you,” you said. “And I hated it.”

Jack did not interrupt.

You hated him a little for that.

You loved him a little for that.

The thought hit so hard your breath almost caught.

You looked down again. “I hated that she knew things about you. I hated that she could talk about neuro and studying and whatever else happened before I was here, like she had some claim to pieces of you I didn’t even know existed.”

Jack’s voice came rougher. “She doesn’t.”

Your eyes snapped up.

He was watching you now with something darker in his expression.

Not anger.

Not at you.

Something closer to restraint.

Jack repeated himself, quieter. “She doesn’t.”

Your chest tightened.

You believed him.

That was the problem.

You believed him, and it made the next part worse.

“I know,” you said.

Jack’s gaze stayed fixed on you.

You shook your head. “I know she doesn’t. That’s what makes it humiliating.”

His brows drew slightly. “Humiliating.”

“Yes,” you said, voice thinning. “Because we slept together once. We aren’t together. You don’t owe me anything. And I was sitting there like I had any right to want her to stop looking at you.”

Jack’s expression changed.

You pressed your fingers against your arm.

“I wanted her to stop,” you said. “I wanted everyone to stop. I wanted them to stop looking at the stupid hickey and asking questions because I knew if they kept looking, I was going to look guilty.”

Jack’s voice came very quiet. “Guilty of what?”

Your throat tightened.

You looked at him.

“Wanting them to know it was mine,” you said.

Jack stopped breathing.

Or maybe you did.

Your voice dropped. “Wanting you to be.”

The silence after that was full.

Full of him.

Full of you.

Full of the thing you had finally said and could never make unsaid again.

Jack stared at you for one long second.

Then his voice came rough. “I am.”

Your breath caught.

You looked at him. “What?”

Jack took one step closer. “Yours.”

Your chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt.

He stopped before he reached you.

Still careful.

Still giving you room.

His eyes stayed on yours. “If that’s what you want.”

Your fingers loosened against your sleeve.

You could not make yourself breathe right.

Jack’s jaw shifted once. “It’s what I want.”

Your eyes burned.

You hated that.

You hated that he said it plainly, like he was not handing you something that could undo you.

You shook your head once. “Jack.”

His expression changed at his name.

Barely.

Enough.

Jack took another step.

This time, close enough that you had to tip your head back to look at him.

“I’m not confused,” Jack said.

Your throat worked.

His voice stayed low. “Not about that night. Not about this morning, and not in the diner.”

You stared at him.

“I’m not embarrassed by the hickey,” Jack said.

Your pulse jumped.

“I wasn’t sitting there wishing no one knew,” Jack said.

You swallowed hard.

His eyes held yours. “I was sitting there wishing you’d kept holding my hand.”

Your breath left you all at once.

Jack’s hand lifted slowly.

He stopped before he touched you.

Waiting.

Still.

Making you choose.

Your fingers twitched at your side.

His eyes dropped to the movement, then came back to your face.

You knew what he was asking.

Not with words.

Your hand lifted before you could talk yourself out of it.

Jack met you halfway.

His fingers closed around yours.

Warm.

Steady.

There.

Your throat tightened around a sound you did not let out.

Jack looked down at your joined hands.

Then back at you.

His voice came quieter. “That’s what I wanted.”

Your pulse jumped. “What?”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles. “For you not to let go.”

You looked at him.

His expression stayed controlled, but his hand tightened around yours just enough for you to feel it.

Not enough to trap you.

Enough to tell the truth.

You swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Jack’s eyes softened by a fraction. “I know.”

You shook your head. “No, I am. I didn’t mean to make you feel like—”

“I know,” Jack said.

You looked up at him.

He was close enough now that you could see the tiredness under his eyes.

The restraint.

The mark beneath his jaw, still visible, still yours, still sitting there between you like evidence.

Your voice came smaller. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your hand. “You could have held on.”

Your chest ached.

It was not cruel.

That was worse.

You looked down at your hands.

This time, you did not let go.

Jack looked down at your joined hands.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then his thumb brushed once over your knuckles, slow enough that your breath caught.

You looked up at him.

Jack was already looking at you.

The room felt different now.

Not fixed.

Not simple.

But open.

Like something had finally cracked wide enough for both of you to step through.

Your voice came barely above a whisper. “Jack.”

His name did it.

You saw the last of his restraint shift.

Jack’s hand tightened around yours, and then he stepped in.

He gave you half a second.

One breath.

One chance to move away.

You didn’t.

So he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful in the way he had been careful with the silence.

This was careful in a different way.

Like he had been holding himself back since the diner, since the hallway, since the first time your hand left his under that table and took something from both of you.

Your free hand caught in the front of his shirt.

Jack made a low sound against your mouth, and the sound went straight through you.

His hand released yours only so he could touch you properly, one palm sliding to your waist while the other came up to your jaw.

Not grabbing.

Holding.

Keeping you there because you had chosen to stay.

You kissed him back like an answer.

Like an apology.

Like the truth had finally become too heavy to carry anywhere except into his mouth.

Jack backed you up one slow step.

Then another.

Your hip met the edge of the couch, and his hand tightened at your waist, steadying you before you even had to catch yourself.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe.

His mouth stayed close to yours.

Too close.

Not close enough.

Jack’s eyes opened slowly. “Still with me?”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “Yes.”

His gaze searched yours.

You hated how much you loved that he asked.

You hated more that you needed him to.

Jack’s thumb brushed along your jaw. “Say it again.”

Your breath caught. “I’m still with you.”

His eyes darkened.

Jack’s mouth hovered near yours. “And?”

Your pulse jumped. “I want you.”

Then his mouth was on yours again.

This kiss was different.

Less question.

More answer.

Your hands moved up his chest, over his shoulders, into the back of his hair, and Jack’s breath caught when your fingers slid into the curls at his nape.

He pressed closer.

Not enough to crush you.

Enough to make the space between you disappear.

Enough to make every terrible thing you had said in panic feel distant compared to the truth of him here, warm and solid and wanting you back.

Jack’s mouth moved over yours, slow and consuming, and your knees threatened to forget their entire purpose.

His hand shifted from your waist to the small of your back.

You went with him when he pulled you closer.

No hesitation.

No flinching.

No letting go.

Jack felt it.

You knew he did because his kiss changed again, something rougher slipping through at the edges.

His mouth left yours and moved to your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth again like he could not decide where he wanted to keep you.

Your head tipped back.

Jack stopped immediately.

His breath was uneven against your skin. “Tell me.”

Your eyes opened.

He was watching you.

Waiting, even now, even with his hand firm at your back and your fingers tangled in his hair.

Your chest rose against his.

You swallowed. “Don’t stop.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

For one second, he just looked at you.

Then he said, low and rough, “Good.”

Your pulse jumped hard.

“Abbot,” you breathed.

His mouth curved faintly, right against yours. “There she is.”

Then he kissed you again, and this time, when your hand found his, you held on.

Jack felt it.

You knew he did because his fingers tightened around yours.

Not much.

Just enough.

Enough to tell you he noticed.

Enough to make your chest ache.

His mouth slowed against yours.

Not stopping.

Not pulling away.

Just changing, turning less desperate and more deliberate until the kiss became something you could feel everywhere.

You made a small sound against him, and Jack’s hand flexed at your waist.

His mouth left yours slowly.

His forehead hovered near yours, his breath uneven against your lips, his hand still wrapped around yours like he had no intention of letting go now that you had finally stopped trying to make him.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

You should have said something.

You should have asked what this meant.

What came next.

Whether the two of you were about to make the worst possible academic decision of your lives.

Instead, your eyes dropped to the mark beneath his jaw.

Jack noticed.

His mouth curved faintly. “Still worried about that?”

Your pulse jumped. “It’s been noticed.”

His eyes held yours.

For a second, the heat between you shifted into something quieter.

Gentler around the edges.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles. “Yeah.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t mean for anyone to see it.”

“I know,” Jack said.

“It was supposed to be—” You stopped.

Private.

Yours.

His.

Not something dragged under diner lights and turned into a question you did not know how to answer.

Jack’s expression softened by a fraction. “I know.”

Your throat tightened.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth.

The air changed again.

Lower.

Warmer.

More dangerous.

Jack’s hand settled more firmly at your waist. “You did leave it somewhere visible.”

Your eyes snapped back to his. “You made it difficult to be precise.”

His mouth almost curved. “That your excuse?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s a pretty good one.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed in return. “It’s convenient.”

“It’s accurate,” you said.

Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “Sloppy work either way.”

Your mouth fell open. “Sloppy?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Very.”

You stared at him. “You are such an ass.”

His thumb moved once at your waist. “You’re the one who left the mark.”

Your pulse jumped hard.

“Abbot,” you warned.

“I’m not complaining,” Jack said.

Your brow rose. “You sound like you’re complaining.”

“I’m observing,” Jack said.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said.

His answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

That word hit low.

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist, not pulling, just holding.

Certain enough to make your body remember exactly what his hands felt like when he stopped being careful.

“But I think I’m going to be nicer than you were,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. “Nicer?”

His eyes moved over your face, then dipped lower, to the open collar of your shirt.

Not rushing.

Not taking.

Just looking long enough to make your whole body go still.

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice roughening by a fraction. “I’ll leave mine somewhere no one else gets to see.”

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.

“That’s very considerate of you,” you managed.

Jack’s mouth hovered near yours. “I can be considerate.”

“You’re insufferable,” you said.

His mouth brushed yours once, barely a kiss. “You like that too.”

You should have argued.

You did not.

Jack’s thumb brushed the fabric near your collarbone. “Here, maybe.”

Your breath caught.

“Low enough to hide,” Jack said.

His gaze lifted back to yours.

The teasing had not disappeared exactly, but it had changed shape.

There was still heat in it.

Still that controlled edge that made him impossible.

But underneath it was the question he never skipped.

The room.

The choice.

The waiting.

“Only if you want that,” Jack said.

Your grip tightened in his shirt.

You swallowed. “You know I do.”

His eyes darkened.

“I like hearing it anyway,” Jack said.

Your breath caught.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then you took his hand.

Jack looked down at your fingers wrapped around his.

Then back at you.

You held on.

This time, you made sure he felt it.

“Come with me,” you said.

Jack’s jaw shifted once.

His voice came low. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He did not move until you did.

Of course he didn’t.

So you stepped back, pulling him with you.

His fingers tightened around yours as you led him down the narrow hall, past the bathroom, past his bedroom door, to yours.

The walk was only a few feet.

It felt longer.

It felt like crossing every line the two of you had spent months pretending not to see.

Your bedroom door was half open.

You pushed it wider with your shoulder and stepped inside.

Jack followed you in.

Careful.

Quiet.

Still giving you room, even with his eyes dark enough to make your knees feel unreliable.

You turned before he could reach for the door.

Your hand was still in his.

So you used it.

You pulled him closer.

Jack came with you, one step, then another, until your back met the bedroom door and it clicked shut beneath your shoulder.

His breath changed.

Your free hand caught in the front of his shirt. “No diner.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“No table,” you said.

His hand settled at your waist. “No one looking.”

Your throat tightened.

You nodded. “No one looking.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “Just me.”

The words sank low.

You looked at him. “Just you.”

That did something to him.

You saw it in the way his jaw tightened.

Felt it in the way his hand flexed at your waist.

He still did not kiss you first.

Still waited.

Still made you choose.

So you rose onto your toes and kissed him.

Jack answered immediately.

His hand slid more firmly around your waist, the other bracing against the door beside your head, not trapping you, just there, close enough to make the entire room feel like it had narrowed down to his mouth and his hand and the heat of him against you.

Your fingers twisted in his shirt.

Jack made a low sound against your mouth.

You felt it everywhere.

The kiss deepened.

Slowed.

Then sharpened again when you pulled him closer, when there was nowhere left for either of you to pretend you were being careful for any reason other than choice.

Jack broke the kiss just enough to breathe.

His mouth stayed close to yours. “Still with me?”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “Yes.”

His eyes searched yours.

“I’m still with you,” you said.

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

Then he kissed you again.

This time, you were the one who broke it.

Not because you wanted space.

Because you wanted more.

Jack’s brows drew slightly when you leaned back against the door.

Your hands went to the buttons of your shirt.

His gaze dropped.

His whole body went still.

You undid the first button.

Then the second.

The fabric parted slowly, exposing the skin beneath your collarbone, the place he had been looking at in the living room.

Jack did not move.

He looked at you like moving too quickly would be a mistake he refused to make.

By the time the last button slipped free, your hands were not as steady as you wanted them to be.

You pushed the shirt off your shoulders and let it fall from your arms.

It landed softly at your feet.

You stood there in your jeans and the soft pink bra you had chosen that morning after standing in front of your dresser for entirely too long.

Delicate mesh, tiny flowers embroidered over sheer fabric, pretty enough to be intentional and sweet enough to make the intention worse.

You had worn it under a button-down to take a pathology exam, which felt ridiculous now that Jack was looking at you like he understood exactly what the choice meant.

His gaze dropped for one careful second.

Then it came back to yours.

He did not smirk.

He did not tease.

He did not make it easy.

Somehow, that made it worse.

His voice was rough. “Show me where.”

You swallowed.

Then you reached for his hand.

Jack let you take it.

You guided his fingers to the slope beneath your collarbone, low enough that no one else would see unless you chose to let them.

His thumb brushed once over the place.

Barely.

Your breath caught anyway.

Jack watched your face. “Here?”

You nodded. “Here.”

His jaw tightened.

For a second, he just stood there with your hand around his wrist and his thumb against your skin, looking at the place you had chosen.

Then his eyes came back to yours.

“You tell me if it’s too much,” Jack said.

“I will,” you said.

His thumb moved once more. “If you want me to stop.”

“I’ll tell you,” you said.

Jack held your gaze for another second.

Then he nodded once.

His hand slid from your waist to your lower back, pulling you away from the door just enough that you followed him without thinking.

Your breath caught when he turned you gently toward the bed.

Not rushed.

Not taking.

Guiding.

You sat on the edge because he brought you there, because your knees were not entirely trustworthy anymore, because the way he looked at you made standing feel like an act of arrogance you could not maintain.

Jack stepped between your knees.

Your hands found his shirt again.

He looked down at you, and something about the angle made your pulse stutter.

“You sure?” Jack asked.

Your fingers tightened in the fabric. “Jack.”

His expression shifted at his name.

You pulled him closer. “I’m sure.”

That was enough.

Jack bent his head.

His mouth touched the place you had chosen.

Softly first.

Almost carefully.

Your eyes closed.

The first kiss was gentle enough to ache.

The second lingered.

The third had intent behind it.

Your fingers slid into his hair, and Jack’s hand tightened at your back as his mouth opened against your skin.

Slow.

Deliberate.

A mark made exactly where you had asked for it.

Somewhere private.

Somewhere chosen.

Somewhere no one else got to see.

Your head tipped back.

Jack paused immediately.

His breath brushed over damp skin. “Still good?”

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Yes.”

His hand flexed at your back.

“Tell me if that changes,” Jack said.

“I will,” you said.

His mouth returned to your skin.

This time, there was no question in it.

Only patience.

Pressure.

The slow, devastating pull of his lips against the tender place beneath your collarbone until your breath turned uneven and your grip in his hair went desperate.

Jack held you through it.

One hand at your back.

The other at your waist.

Steadying you while he marked you exactly where you had asked him to.

Your eyes stayed closed, but you could feel everything.

The heat of his mouth.

The scrape of his breath.

The controlled strength in his hands.

The way he kept you close without making you feel trapped.

The way he took his time like he wanted you to feel every second of being chosen.

Your lips parted around his name. “Jack.”

He lifted his head just enough for his mouth to hover over the mark.

“Too much?” Jack asked.

You shook your head, breathless. “No.”

His thumb moved slowly against your waist. “No?”

You opened your eyes.

Jack was watching you.

Controlled.

Focused.

Barely holding the edge.

You swallowed. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened.

For a second, he just looked at you.

Then Jack’s mouth curved faintly against your skin. “There it is.”

Your pulse jumped.

“Abbot,” you breathed.

His mouth brushed the mark, barely a kiss. “There she is.”

Then he lowered his mouth again.

And this time, when your hand found his, you held on.

Jack felt it.

You knew he did because his fingers closed around yours immediately, threading between them, holding you steady while his mouth lingered against the mark he had left beneath your collarbone.

Your breath came unevenly.

His did too.

That should have comforted you.

It did, for about half a second.

Then it made everything worse, because Jack sounded affected.

Jack sounded like this mattered.

Jack sounded like he wanted you badly enough that the knowledge of it rushed through you too fast to survive.

So you moved.

Your hand went to the hem of his shirt, fingers impatient, tugging the fabric up before you could think better of it.

Jack lifted his head.

His eyes caught yours. “Hey.”

You ignored the warning in his voice and pulled at his shirt again. “Off.”

His hand closed gently around your wrist.

Not stopping you hard.

Just stopping you.

Your pulse jumped.

Jack’s voice stayed low. “Slow down.”

You looked up at him, breathless and already aching. “I don’t want to slow down.”

His thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist. “I know.”

You swallowed.

The way he said it made your chest tighten.

Like he knew exactly why.

Like he knew you wanted to outrun the part where this meant something.

You tried to pull him closer anyway. “Jack.”

His jaw shifted at his name.

For one second, you thought he might give in.

Then his hand tightened around your wrist just enough to keep you still.

“No,” Jack said.

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer, not crowding you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him between your knees.

“You don’t get to rush through this,” Jack said.

Your stomach dipped.

You stared at him.

His eyes stayed on yours, dark and steady and entirely unfair.

“You spent half the afternoon trying to tell me it was nothing,” he said. “I’m not letting you do that in here too.”

Your throat tightened.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His hand slid from your wrist to your palm.

He threaded his fingers through yours again and pressed your joined hands gently against the mattress beside your thigh.

There.

Held.

Chosen.

His voice dropped. “I’m going to take my time.”

Your breath stopped.

Jack leaned closer, his mouth hovering just above yours.

“And you’re going to feel it,” he said.

Your fingers tightened around his.

His eyes stayed locked on your face.

“Every second,” Jack said. “Every time you say my name.”

Your pulse beat hard beneath your skin.

His mouth brushed yours.

Barely.

Not enough.

Cruel because it was not enough.

Then Jack’s lips moved against yours as he finished, low and rough.

“I’m going to make you feel what it’s like to be mine.”

“Not possible.” Andrew’s been trying his hand at being more playful recently. “He likes the customer service here.”

“He does or you do?”

“Same thing.” 

“You know it’s not.”

He shrugs, mouth pulled into his version of a full smile. 

When you hand him the order in two full paper bags, he makes sure to take them from you in such a way that your fingers could almost tangle. The sun is almost done setting, the last warm light of the day touching everything gently.

“I’ll come back to pick you up?” It’s not a question coming from him, it’s a statement. 

You look from him to the bags he’s now holding.

“Not if you’re about to have dinner.”

“I will have dinner. With you.” 

“You’re allowed to be busy, you know.”

“I know.” He starts towards the door. “I’ll come back.”

There’s nothing for you to do but finish your shift and think about Andrew some more. 

X

The first time Andrew drove you home it was spring and the ground was soaked. It had been raining on and off all that day, a cool wind coming off of the water. You were huddled outside the shop under its awning when his truck pulled in. You gave him a sheepish smile when he came around. His eyes were doing that thing that used to make you feel like you were in trouble.

“My ride bailed. I’m just waiting for the rain to stop.” You told him. 

He looked at you then, your hands deep in your pockets, the hood of your sweater already wet, and he handed you his keys, no questions.

“Get in.” 

You blinked at him. He nudged you towards his truck, his big hand overly gentle where it touched you.

“I’ll be right back.” He promised.

So you got in his truck and he got Craig’s sandwiches and he came back, turning up the heat as soon as the truck was started. You didn’t say much but neither did he. He parked in front of your building after a short drive and you both sat there in silence until you felt brave. 

You asked him about his day and his answer was stilted and terse. He wanted to ask about your week but he wasn’t sure how. You asked him how long he’d been living in Oceanside and he said his whole life. He asked you if you liked cats and you looked down at the hello kitty charm on your bag and laughed. It was nice. Really nice. 

He drives you home most nights as long as he’s around, and he always tries to be around. He feeds you now, too. You asked him one time if he minded picking something up on the way to your place, told him you would pay and that he could come in for a movie if he wanted. Now he moves like that’s always the plan; buying you something you’re craving and sitting by you until you get tired. He doesn’t deviate, wouldn’t give up this routine for anything.

It’s such a strange pleasure watching you eat. He stared that first time, he knows it, and he still stares now. The way your mouth moves, the way you hold your hands when they’re messy, the way your posture loosens by degrees as you get full. Knowing you’re comfortable and cared for and worry free while you’re with him gives him a sense of satisfaction that is mostly wholesome and only a little perverse. You get so sleepy some nights, eyes blinking closed, breathing slowing beside him. So vulnerable to all possible danger, Pope Cody included. He’d never hurt you. He’d never dream of touching your pretty throat or soft stomach to be violent. You could ask him for anything and he would say yes. 

X

“Shit, Deran, man, can you go pick up my order?” Craig looks at the clock after coming up from another line.

Deran doesn’t look up from his phone.

“I’ll go.” Andrew says, finishing his last visual sweep of the kitchen.

He had been thinking of you then, while his brothers were fucking around and he was wiping down the counters. He thinks about you more than he should. He thinks a lot of things and gets away with most of them, nobody usually asks how he is or where he’s been or what he’s been up to. Unless he’s working a job, he has a kind of freedom that comes from being forgotten.

He’s been trying to build a life away from Smurf. Away from this house and this work and this looming feeling of inevitable disaster. He has his own place now, something that’s his alone. He reads books and buys candles and watches the ocean at night. He sees you.

Craig sniffs roughly, eyes narrowing at Andrew. Something’s been different, he’s noticed.

“You hate running my errands.”

“I want some air.”

“Then go out back.”

“Smells like pot.”

“That’s never bothered you before.”

“It’s always bothered me.”

“What’s with you, man.” 

Andrew’s steady eyes meet Craig’s blown ones. Andrew says nothing. Craig’s mouth firms then splits into a shit-eating grin.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for shop girl.”

“Do you want your sandwiches or not.”

“You totally do! Deran,” Craig kicks half blindly with his foot. “Pope has a total crush on my sandwich girl.”

“Whatever, man.” Deran does not care.

“You have to bring her by the bar sometime, man. Let us get a good look at her.”

Andrew decides he’s finished with this conversation. 

“Come on, Pope. I mean it, let’s meet your girlfriend.” Craig calls after him, laughing. 

Andrew can’t tell if Craig is laughing at the idea of him having a girlfriend because Craig thinks he’s unloveable or incapable of love. Andrew hasn’t managed to disprove either account yet. 

On his way to you he thinks about what might happen if you met his family. Not Smurf, absolutely not Smurf, but maybe Deran, maybe Craig. It’s what normal people do, isn’t it? He decides against it for the near future. Not yet, he thinks, meaning maybe not ever.

X

“Should we start cooking?” You ask, your order of Thai food on your lap.

Andrew catches the we and tucks it away somewhere in his chest. He considers your question.

“Do you want to?”

“Usually no.” You think about it. “But I saw a recipe I think would be really nice. And plus your kitchen is to die for.”

You like Andrew’s apartment for how fancy it is. He knows you must notice how bare it is, the minimal comforts and decorations. But things he doesn’t think twice about are novel to you: the flatscreen in his bedroom, the nice espresso machine in his kitchen, the beach access out the back door. And you don’t mind the minimalism, you really don’t. You know what Andrew is like and his apartment just makes sense. It’s a continuation of the reserved efficiency he operates with.

He’s still not used to another body in his space. He likes that it’s yours though. He likes the control having you in his apartment gives him. Having you so near, so visible and readable, it allows him to be able to enforce a certain kind of order. When something is wrong he can see it, he can hear it, and he can fix it. You’re hungry? He’ll make sure you eat something. You’re cold? He’ll turn down the A/C. You want something? It’s yours and he’ll get it to you the moment you ask. He understands that you have a life to live. A job and an apartment and friends that you love. But he can’t help the way he wants for you when you’re not within reach. 

If he could be with you always, he thinks that’s something he would want. It’s not currently possible on his end either, he has jobs to plan and a family to wrangle and “properties” to “manage”. He keeps all of that away from you, and will continue to do so until the end of time if he gets his way. If he has his way you’ll never know, you’ll never get hurt, you’ll never be in danger. It’s not quite a pipe dream but it’s a beautiful thought, one he’ll cling to for as long as possible.

You lick sauce from the side of your thumb before wiping your hands off on a napkin. Andrew knows he’s staring again. 

“We can start cooking if you want to.”

You seem pleased by this.

The night moves quietly, waves crashing somewhere out of sight, the stars rotating above you. There’s a solace in having you under his roof. He thinks this as he tidies your leftovers and refills your water.

You’re meant to be picking a movie but you’re not flipping through anything when Andrew returns to your side. You hold the remote lightly in your hand, head tilting towards him.

“Andrew,” You start.

You look almost shy. You’ve been on best behaviour in the two times you’ve been over to his apartment, no snooping or wandering whatsoever. You’re careful with him, he knows this. But he can recognize that it doesn’t come from a place of fear. You approach him the same way he would approach a stray; soft touch and gentle tones, waiting instead of advancing.

“Would it be okay if we watched the TV in your bedroom?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Not like that!” Your skin starts to flush. “It’s just that I never had one in my bedroom. When I was a kid I always used to dream about, like, watching movies in a pillow fort.”

“We’re building a fort now, too?”

“No! No, I just–” You look sideways.

“I’m kidding.” He says mercifully. “We can do anything you want.”

You pause, sheepish.

“Even the fort?”

“Even that.”

He looks at you, all sweet and shy, and he thinks he could eat you whole.

“No fort today, but could I maybe borrow something comfortable?”

“Of course.”

He lets you get changed while he pretends to wash dishes he’s already cleaned. He breathes over the sink, focusing on the sound of running water instead of the sounds you’re making in his bedroom. Feet on wood, fabric on fabric. You come back out to find him and ask Andrew if he’s going to change, too. He wasn’t, but you’re asking like you want him to so he will. 

And then you’re on top of his covers and he’s on top of his covers and for the first time in his life a California King feels too big. He lets you mess with his pillows, all eight of them, creating some sort of semi-structured pile against his headboard. He leans against them, trying to look relaxed. You make a quick decision about what you’d like to watch and then you’re leaning back too, shifting and sinking into the space you made. 

“Good?” He asks across the measly inches between you.

“Yeah.” You hum like you’re happy.

He can’t look at you for very long, not without his heart rate spiking or his dick hardening when he doesn’t mean it to. So he watches your movie and tries not to notice when you give up on subtlety, settling yourself gently against his side. Arm to arm, your head on his shoulder.

“Is this okay?” You ask, your hands pressing together in your lap.

His head comes down to rest against yours, vision tilted at an angle that makes watching the television a little unpleasant.

“Of course.” He says, closing his eyes because he knows you can’t see him.

Your hands loosen. His shoulders drop. He tries not to imagine more of you in his clothes, in his bed, in his kitchen. He fails.

X

Andrew has spent his morning and most of his afternoon pouring over maps and blueprints, planning and checking and marking. A convenient opportunity fell into Smurf’s lap so there’s a job on the horizon. Not the biggest they’ve ever pulled but not a small one by any means. There’s a lot to do. Casing and timing and talking and arranging. If Andrew were to ever find above board employment, he thinks he would do well in logistics.

He and his brothers move around each other, around Smurf, as they each take care of their given responsibilities. Andrew is as present and careful as he always is. He knows Smurf hovers more intensely the closer to a job they get. 

He doesn’t call you until he’s back at his place. He doesn’t leave meetings early to pick you up. He wants to, god he’d love to, but this was a small sacrifice in the name of your safety. 

He doesn’t lay claim to much, but that which he claims as his own is kept as far away from this life as possible. Smurf does not come to his house. He does not tell his brothers about his favourite places to eat. He leaves the phone Smurf gave him at home when he’s with you. He hoards his scraps of freedom with a kind of desperation.

He goes over the timeline for the new job in his head as he drives home, slotting events and goalposts into their appropriate dates. The calendar in his head already has your schedule on it, when you work and the plans you tell him about. Things like your friend’s birthday and the opening day of a movie you said you want to go see. It’s only ever one or the other; either he’s working or he’s seeing you. He wishes for something different, for a life less fragmented. He would let you and everything you are consume him if he thought it were feasible. 

When he gets home and checks his personal phone, there’s a text from you waiting for him. It hasn’t been too long since you sent it. He doesn’t like keeping you waiting, not for anything.

are you free on thursday?

He’s not but he’ll fix that. He’d pick you every time if he could. For now, he’ll make every concession he’s able.

X

Andrew had never been to a farmer’s market before. It’s like a mini street fair. The market in Oceanside happens on Thursday mornings, in a parking lot close to the Surf Museum. The sun is already warm across his shoulders as he walks with you into the morning crowd.

You’re looking at garden flowers and he’s trailing behind you. You pick up a small nursery pot and hold it towards him after you’ve already taken a sniff. He does as you did, the smell of petals and greens cutting through the smell of grill smoke in the air. He smiles because you’re smiling. You keep looking, he keeps following. 

There are a lot of people here. Not so many that he’s worried but enough that it takes a moment before the woman at a fruit stall can help you. She overturns a punnet of nectarines into a bag before handing it back to you. He hands her a few bills before you can even get your wallet out. 

“I have my own money.” You tell him as you step to the side, tucking the fruit into the tote on your shoulder.

“Exactly. Keep it.” He says, reaching for the bag straps before they’re settled.

“Let me carry my own produce at least.” You turn away from his reach and he almost laughs at how indignant you are.

“Come on,” He coaxes. “That’s my job.”

He still hasn’t called himself your boyfriend. Hasn’t asked for the pleasure. But he’s yours and he wants to show you every chance he gets. 

“You’re going to make me feel useless. You can hold my hand, final offer.”

He takes it with a smile. 

He’s noticed that you like when he touches you. You sat very still when he removed an eyelash from your cheek a few days ago, you lean towards him when he puts a hand on your back or your arm, your face lights up whenever he sits himself right beside you. When he reaches for you, you move to meet him halfway. He doesn’t think you know you’re doing it. 

Walking beside him you look pleased. He feels exceedingly normal. It’s nice to spend time with someone and feel like he can breathe.

Craig has been riding him harder than usual, being mean just to be mean. It’s not personal, despite the way it feels. Andrew has just always been available to absorb hits like that from his family. He doesn’t like it but he does it. 

Deran has been kinder though, balancing Craig in the way they all seem to balance each other. Scales tipped equally, his siblings’ temperaments mirrored graphs of each other's. There’s something mundane about it if he ignores the crime and the drugs of it all. 

Deran’s having a theme night at his bar this week, told his brothers to bring friends. Andrew thought of you, because who else was he going to think of. Deran does vulnerability best out of all of them, so Andrew wasn’t surprised when he later said that he’d like to meet you, said he was happy to see Andrew doing things away from Smurf.

He’s been weighing it. The idea of bringing you to the bar. He buys you a lemonade and thinks about what it would be like to buy you a cocktail, to watch your skin flush after a few of them. Standing in the shade cast by a tent off to the side of the lot, he watches as you survey the vendors you haven’t visited yet. He bets you’ll want to look at the honey and bread just down the way.

He tries his luck.

“My brothers want to meet you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pauses.

“Well, do you want me to meet them?”

He doesn’t have an answer right away. His head turns to watch a parent pull their child in a wagon filled with carrots and ginger.

“My family is not…nice.” He tries. “We aren’t traditional.”

“Andrew, I know who the Codys are.”

Of course you do, you’re far from stupid and Craig has been a regular at your shop for a long time. He dips his head once in a nod. 

“I still had to say it.”

What Andrew doesn’t know is what you might have heard about him, about Pope Cody specifically. He doesn’t ask. He won’t, or maybe he can’t.

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you.” He avoids your eyes. “I don’t know if I like who I am around them.”

You sit with this together.

“What about when you’re around me?”

“Everything makes sense when I’m around you.” This answer comes to him quickly. It’s the truth at the bottom of the matter. “I can be different.”

There’s a clarity in his eyes when they meet yours again. A kind of acceptance or resignation, or something similar. If you could carry things for him, you would. His anger, his pain. You can’t, not yet, so you insist on holding your own bags for now. You refuse to give him anything that would make him feel any heavier.

“Andrew,” Your hand reaches for the side of his face. “I want what you want. If you want me to meet them, I will. If you don’t, then I won’t, and that’s the end of it.”

He nods, jaw pressing further into your hand. The obvious earnestness of your expression almost hurts to look at. 

“Can I kiss you?” You ask.

Your question is the final nail in the coffin. He was already in it, his heart already beating raw and tender in your hands. But he falls then. Not into love, but into something that could be one day.

“Please.” He says, because he wants that so much.

Your mouth meets his in a gentle press and he goes very still, head tilted to allow you to do as you please. The kiss is short-lived, a soft thing that ends too soon for his liking. But there will be more, he thinks. He hopes. He draws you against him and he melts, his arms clasping around you like a shell around a pearl.

X

Everything is fine until it isn’t. That’s how it always goes. 

Tonight has been good, Andrew thinks. He has qualms with Deran, with the way he runs his bar, with bringing you here, with most things really. But he was trying to be good, Trying to give you every part of himself even if he found them hard to look at. This was something safe, he reasoned. The bar wasn’t Smurf’s house and it wasn’t something Smurf owned. It was a public place with decent drinks and somewhere you wouldn’t end up alone with his brothers. He thought it would only be Deran tonight, but Craig does what he wants and goes where he wants without telling anyone. That was fine. It was still manageable. For one night he could try to be a normal guy bringing his normal date to meet his normal family. A very controlled dose of the Codys.

Deran had greeted you using his manners, asking a few questions before being called away to take another order. He found Andrew’s eyes later and gave him a nod, a quiet approval. Craig was himself, loud and a little sleazy, but he still made an attempt to connect with you.

You look beautiful. You always do. Tonight there’s glitter on your cheeks, on your eyelids, stuck to the silk soft skin under your eyes, too. He doesn’t know the first thing about makeup or how it’s supposed to look but he’s dead certain you’re always doing it the right way.

You drift towards him and away from him, finding a coworker or a familiar face in the crowd, but always returning back to his side. He doesn’t have a name for how it feels to know he’s a place you want to come back to. His back straightens every time you leave his arm’s reach. He’s brooding, he knows he is. He knows his brothers are watching his posture, his temperament. He can’t feign casualty on a regular day, much less when you’re around. He sits, tense on his bar stool, eyes tracking your movements, the way you smile, the way you laugh. How long you let people touch you for, how long you look into someone’s eyes.

Craig barks loudly into his ear and he doesn’t flinch, just tilts away from the noise. Craig keeps barking until he gets a reaction.

“What.” Andrew’s affect is flat.

“You make a great guard dog, man. She collar you in the bedroom?”

Andrew doesn’t react. He knows how it will go if he does. Craig cackles anyways.

“Lighten up,” Craig chides, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Tell her if she wants a hit she knows where to find me.”

Something ugly flares inside of Andrew. A kind of dry heat flashing in his stomach. Craig should know better than to try giving you anything, and he does. Andrew had already made the mistake of trying to assert a boundary, trying to enforce distance between you and his brothers.

“What, Pope’s girl is too much of a perfect angel for a line?” 

“She’s not like you, Craig.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not like you either.”

Andrew tries, every day, to not let his family get under his skin. It’s hard when they know exactly where the gaps in his armour are.

You’re back before he realizes, smiling up at him with those eyes of yours. 

Everything is fine. Until it isn’t.

There’s a subtle shift in the room, something that few people can notice. Andrew always notices. He knows when things are headed south long before they start turning that way. Voices get louder, chairs start scraping against the floor. No-one is yelling yet, and there’s still more laughter in the air than anything else. But something sours all the same and Andrew figures he has five minutes or less to remove you before things start escalating.

“Do you want to get some air?” He asks, trying his hand at the beguiling way you speak to him sometimes. Both hands find your waist in a moment of bravery.

“I’d love some air, will you let me bum a smoke?” You lean towards him like you’re melting, movements slowed after a day in the heat and a few drinks.

He sighs and gives you a look but doesn’t say no.

“Yesss,” your voice is soft around the edges, warm and tipsy. You make a small victorious gesture and your nose squishes up with a smile. He thinks you’re fucking adorable. “I’m just gonna get another drink first, take a shot with me?”

“Can we do it after, honey?” He winces, knowing he’s laying it on way too thick but you don’t seem to notice.

“Please?” You reach for his biceps with both hands, giving them a small squeeze. He would fold under any other circumstance.

“Let’s get some air, okay?” 

You pout but nod your consent and Andrew scans the room once more.

It’s too late. Three men are standing near the front now, staring each other down, surrounded by a few others posturing. Several hands are inching towards inner pockets and waistbands.

God-fucking-damnit. This was the last thing he wanted from tonight. He wanted one thing, just one singular night to play boyfriend-girlfriend, to experience the normal milestone of meeting the family. But now there are guns in the same room as you and there will be violence soon and Andrew can’t help but to feel doomed, chained to an ever-sinking ship. He should know better. He should fucking know better.

“Come on,” He murmurs, taking you by the wrist and leading you around the bar. You stumble after him, confusion creeping over you.

“Andrew, wait.” His name comes out a little breathless, followed by a giggle that should not make his heart stutter as hard as it does. 

“Slow down, Andrew, please.” There it is again, his name in your mouth. “You know I’m wearing stupid shoes today.”

He does. He knows this. You’d called them stupid earlier when he picked you up but he hadn’t thought so. He liked the heel, the curve of your feet in them. He forces his shoulders to relax, his grip on your wrist to loosen.

“Just trust me– please. We need to go.” His voice is low and steady. 

To your credit, your expression sobers some immediately, nodding as his eyes hold yours. You slip your fingers down to fit between his. He turns to keep pulling you behind him as soon as he feels your hand is settled in his. He leads you into the kitchen, through the back and helps you up into his truck. He hears the first gunshot as he closes your door. Understanding dawns on you as you buckle in.

He wheels the car backwards out of his parking spot and takes off, riding the curb as he pulls away from it. You clear the first few stoplights in silence.

“Are your brothers going to be mad?”

“What?” 

Your question almost startles him. Both of his hands hold the steering wheel with exactitude, his jaw tight as he stares down the road ahead of him like it might open beneath you.

“Will they be mad that you left?”

“I don’t care.” He’s clipped.

You’re not sure what to say to that.

The drive is otherwise silent. You climb the stairs to your apartment together and you turn to talk to him outside your door.

“Inside.” He directs you before you can speak.

So you unlock your door and step inside, Andrew following. You slip off your shoes and turn to face him in the tight space of your entryway. His hands hang at his sides, awkward and unsure. You look a little tired, he thinks, but you don’t look afraid.

“You won’t be in trouble?”

You’re still worrying about him even though you shouldn’t. There’s no need, and he’s not sure he deserves it. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He says. “You are more important than whatever mess my brothers are in. Than whatever messes I get dragged into. I will always take care of you first, got it?”

You nod, eyes wide in the low light.

“I’m going to go now, I have to fix it. Lock your door.”

He stands for a moment, a breath between you. Selfishly, you wish he didn’t have to go. Selfishly you wish you could keep him, absolve him of everything he holds on to and carries like a cross.

His hand smooths your hair back and he kisses your temple before he’s gone. 

He texts you after you’ve fallen asleep to let you know he’s safe. You don’t hear from him again for a few days.

X

In the week that follows, Andrew is quiet on the communication front. It’s not unusual for him to be busy, taking a few days further away from you when he’s working. There’s no job this week, though. There won’t be for at least another two, the shooting the other night having delayed the timeline. He doesn’t know what to say to you. He doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to take up space in your periphery, in your mind, in your phone. He feels guilty. Entirely at fault for something he doesn’t know how to articulate yet. Something he knows has barely started to pan out.

You should never have been at the bar the other night, he sees that now. It was a mistake to bring you up against the border of his life. He’d been good before then. He’d held anything that could hurt you behind a very thick line, never allowing anything to spill or ooze or explode beyond it.

It was optimism, maybe. A delusion. An impossible dream that you might be able to meet his family and walk away untouched. You hadn’t even met Smurf that night but now she knows about you. She’s always been aware, omniscient in her way, but now her sights are on you properly. The risks were undertaken and for what? Certainly not for any apparent reward. 

You call him on a Thursday in the afternoon. Andrew knows he’s going to pick up but he makes himself wait. Makes himself count out the first ring, the second, the seventh. You don’t sound different. You don’t sound like you’ve decided the fabric of your relationship with Andrew has been torn asunder. You sound normal. Happy, even, to be talking to him. 

“Take me on a drive?”

There was no world in which he would have ever said no. 

You don’t tell him there’s somewhere you want to go, only that you want him to pick you up tomorrow morning. After your call he looks up “where to take a girl on a drive reddit”. He spends a few hours on his phone, looking at google maps and trip advisor. He wants to take you somewhere you’ll like, obviously somewhere half local and quiet. By the end of the night he’s looked at all the public parks, beaches and lookout points in a six hour radius. He doesn’t need to take you that far, but he needs to know what to do if you ask him to go for food or find another market. He makes a shortlist in his mind, picking four places that were pretty enough for you to take pictures, had enough flat ground for you to spread your blanket on, were close enough to the kind of cafes he knows you like, and that were accessible by backroads so that you could take the scenic route. 

He’ll have to play it by ear, perform spontaneity well. He wants you to feel like you stumbled upon a hidden gem together. He wants to spin gold for you, make something out of the very little he feels he has to offer you.

In the morning your eyes are tired. You let him in while you finish gathering your things for the day. The early air blows cool through the windows of his truck, lifting the loose neck of your dress, fluttering through the curls against his forehead. The roads are quiet, the two of you cutting across country and open spaces.

Andrew doesn’t love being at the beach. It’s sandy, it can be windy, it can be loud, there could be seaweed. He likes looking at the waves, usually from the rocks or the pier, but he’s never really made an afternoon of it. Not until you anyway. You make more of a fuss out of going to the beach than Andrew ever has. It makes him feel almost pampered. You have a big blanket to spread half in the shade and half in the sun, you pack a tote bag full of water and cut fruit and crackers, and you always bring him an extra book, just in case he wants something to read. He doesn’t think you would make him swim if he didn’t want to, but he would if you asked.

The spot you choose along the shore is quiet. Both of your shoes sit to the side of your blanket, pressed together in alignment. You show him the books you brought and he gets you to tell him about them. He makes sure you drink water and reminds you to reapply your sunscreen.

“Do you think I could manage a nap here?” You wonder.

“Probably.” He answers.

You don’t ask him for anything explicitly, not even implicitly, but he wants to rearrange the world to your whim. 

Andrew makes a choice then, decides he will hold you if you want to rest. He moves over, slightly behind you, and gathers you the rest of the way. He makes a resting place on his chest for your back, a space for you to be held between his legs.

Nothing about you resists. No tension, no protests. His arms rest over your stomach and you sigh into him. A small breeze comes off the water, rustling the leaves and the tall grass.

“So, about the other night.” You start. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You’re the one to bring it up. You still seem unshaken, unbothered by what Andrew feels was a significant series of failures on his part.

“No.”

You accept this, returning to a silence you’re comfortable in. Waves swell, birds call.

“Were you scared?” He asks eventually, tentatively.

“No.” You answer. “We were gone before I could be.”

You feel him nod against the side of your head. Clouds move slowly. Andrew speaks eventually.

“Do you still want to keep seeing me?”

“I do. Do you still want to see me?”

He does, very badly, but that’s not the issue. The issue is that Andrew Cody is a dangerous man who has no right to hold you the way he wants to, who has no right to any of your affection when all he has to offer is blood money and his own trauma. He can see things starting to unravel. He feels himself beginning to fray. He wishes he had done things differently but he can’t take back the other night, what’s done is done. You said you knew who the Codys are, but that doesn’t mean you understand the extent of what they do, the damage they’re able to cause. It’s like he’s watching you put your foot in a bear trap. It hasn’t snapped shut yet, but it will.

“I do.” He says, because he’d want you to be the very last thing he ever saw if he died. 

You seem at ease, as if this conversation had smoothed over every cautious thought in your head. You don’t get it, he thinks. There’s no way you do. 

“Will you read to me?” He asks. He needs to hear something other than his own voice in his head.

Andrew doesn’t ask for much. Not for more of your time, not for any favours, not for things you know he’d like. You wish he would ask you for more. You think it escapes him that you want to give him the world, too. So you read. Of course you read. Your book is something pastoral and meandering, one you’ve finished more than once.

As you speak, your words become woven between the crashing of the waves. Andrew doesn’t pay attention to the actual words so much as the sound of them coming out of your mouth. The way you hold vowels between your lips, the way consonants get softened when you read too quickly. He presses a lingering kiss against the side of your head. You settle against him just that fraction of an inch more. 

You doze off a little once you’ve finished your chapter. The heat of the afternoon has made you both soft and pliable. In Andrew’s head, the boundaries between your skin and his have started blurring, coalescing at the surface. Your head turns a little, adjusting against him. If he could gather you further into himself he would. His arms are already solid around you, your hands resting over them. He dips his head, nosing against your shoulder, up your neck, wanting nothing but to smell the salt stuck to your skin, feel the heat coming off of you. Your hands squeeze a little, maybe an encouragement, maybe a thank you. He thinks he might be overheating. He doesn’t move.

X

“Where have you been?” Smurf asks as soon as he’s through her door. 

It’s been a few days since he’s been back here, not any longer than usual. He’s not stupid. He knows what Smurf is fishing for. But he won’t roll over so easily. It’s been years since he obeyed every trick on command. 

“At home.” He says. Simple.

“That’s it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You know the job is soon, right baby?”

“I know. I’ve been to every meeting.”

“Good.” She says. “I just wouldn’t want anyone to get distracted.”

He stays quiet. There’s nothing else to say. 

That same week, Andrew pulls his truck into the far end of the small parking lot in front of your job. He settles in, crossing his arms to wait an hour for you to text him you were close to clocking out. He doesn’t tell you how long he likes to wait for you. He lets you think he leaves his driveway only after you send him a message. In his head this waiting counts as time spent with you.

His eyes scan the lot, the usual cars parked in their places. The owner’s, the cook’s, the man with a regular Friday order. His eyes catch on a white car just in front of the door. That one, he notices, is new. That one looks an awful lot like one of Smurf’s cars.

His stomach drops. He was sure he had done everything right– done all he was asked, showed up every time he was called, obeyed every time he was given an order. It should have been enough to keep Smurf happy. It should have been enough to keep you safe.

He’s moving before he’s certain, pulling open the door to your shop with poorly concealed urgency. And he sees her. Smurf is there by the small shelves tucked by the side wall, asking you about muffuletta and olives of all things. You’re talking to her like you would any other customer, soft-spoken and informative. She has a pair of big sunglasses between her fingers and she’s smiling at you in a way that he knows means she might bite. Andrew isn’t sure how he’s going to handle this situation, just that he needs to. 

Smurf notices him too soon, he’s at a disadvantage. She turns her head to watch him approach with a kind of boredom on her face. Your head follows, finding him not long after. 

“Smurf.” He says, choosing to stand beside you.

You look up at him with a shine in your eyes you can’t help and he knows his mother sees it.

“Andrew.” She says, putting on a kind of syrup over her words. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Just stopping by.”

“Oh, this isn’t the girl you were telling me about, is it?” A well acted realization takes place on her face. She turns back to you. “It’s nice to officially meet you honey, call me Smurf.”

Her hand sticks out and waits for yours. Pope’s fingers twitch watching you shake hands, hating that his mother would touch you. It’s something so small and calculated, so inane to any onlooker or outsider. Touch, to Smurf, means access. Access means ownership.

“Did you both want to take a seat?” You offer, polite and without motive.

“No, that’s okay.” Smurf says with a smile. “I should probably head out. You take care, I’ll see you at home Andrew.”

She turns almost lazily, meandering back out the door. Andrew stays standing straight and tall until it closes behind her. 

“Hi,” You offer.

“Hi.” 

You wait. He shifts over his feet, trying to shake what’s settled over his shoulders.

“You’re early.”

“I was in the area.”

You hum. He doesn’t think you believe him but you let it go.

“Sit. Want a sandwich?”

“No, thank you.”

He settles stiffly into one of the wrought iron chairs at the little table furthest into the corner. You go about the rest of your shift as if he weren’t there. Taking orders, wiping counters, getting the store ready for the girl who takes over after eight. His shoulders fall a fraction as he watches you, just enough for him to feel a difference.

When he drops you off that night he doesn’t stay. He goes home to sit on his bed and spiral, down and down and down. He doesn’t sleep. 

X

He’s there the next day to drive you home again. He isn’t sure that he should. He doesn’t know what to do, not at all, so he sticks with the routine he knows. Something will give soon, things can’t stay as they are. But he still wants to see you. He can’t quite say no to himself yet. 

He’s quiet on the drive. He’s quiet sitting on your couch. He’s quiet as you eat. You’re giving him so much grace. But a way through feels impossible.

You shower and he stays where he is, an immoble fixture in your living space. You come back to him, steamed and dewy, and he thinks he should go but he doesn’t. When you ask him if he thinks a shower would help he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he deserves the comfort you offer. He doesn’t think hot water will fix anything. But he showers anyway, because it’s something to do.

While the water doesn’t fix things it makes his neck ache a little less. The smell of your soap soothes him somewhat. His skin feels tight by the time he’s done. He still doesn’t feel clean.

He doesn’t see you when he comes back out into the living room so he doubles back to your bedroom. Your lamps are on, casting the space in a warm glow. You’re a soft thing in your shirt and your shorts, legs bare and feet tucked close to you. There’s something playing softly from a speaker he doesn’t see immediately. You look up from the book you’re reading and smile, something small and sticky-sweet. You nod towards the space beside you. He gets on the bed. He lays down and clasps his hands over his chest. It’s quiet. Andrew can do quiet.

One song passes. Then two, then four.  You close your book to watch him breathe. His eyes stay on the ceiling.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He answers without turning his head.

“You stay with your mom sometimes?” You ask it kindly, like it’s just another thing you want to learn about him. It makes something feel sharp behind his ribs. You make it seem so easy, addressing the things he should be able to on his own.

“Sometimes.”

I’ll see you at home, Andrew. Said by Smurf to stake a claim, to tie a leash. 

“Does she ever come to your place?”

“No.” That was Andrew’s apartment, paid for with his own money. “It’s just mine.”

You hum, filing your new understandings away.

“She seems nice.” You offer, aiming for levity.

“She’s not.” Something about Andrew’s voice sounds unsettled, like something is about to come unhinged.

“Oh.” You piece it together. “So, it’s maybe not good that she came to see me?” 

Andrew shakes his head. It really wasn’t. 

You wait. You don’t know what to ask so you don’t ask anything, letting him decide where to take things, what to share.

“Smurf is… dangerous.” He settles on the simple word. He looks at you, finally. “I didn't want you to meet her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He wants to get that straight.

You’re still waiting, watching him with open eyes. You’re always doing this, creating a space for him and guarding the perimeter. Giving him a freedom that comes from being looked after, not forgotten.

Something comes loose inside of him. He finds himself wanting to talk but not knowing what to say. It starts bubbling out of him. He hears himself telling you about Smurf, using words like touch and forced and hurt, each word mapped both to himself and his mother in a nauseating web. He doesn’t know which things should stay unsaid. He thinks all of it should remain unsaid but you deserve honesty, and he won’t let you stay twined with him without knowing. He probably won’t let you stay twined with him at all. 

There’s a beat. A song ends and another starts. 

“You know it’s not okay, right? The way she treated you?” Your voice reaches him, even as he’s in the distant place inside of himself he uses as safety.

He nods once.

“You know none of it was your fault, right?”

Again.

“I’m sorry,” You say, voice low. You unfold your legs to lay on your side. He can still feel your eyes, a gentle kind of attention on his face.

“It’s okay.” He says, automatic. He turns onto his side, too.

“It’s not.”

It’s really not.

He sits with this, not quite ready to meet your eyes again. But his eyes follow the line of your shoulder, the even rise and fall of your chest, the hem of your shirt at the base of your neck.

Your whole body leans towards him halfway, offering comfort, and then it waits. He still can’t look at you but his hand finds your side, follows it's line towards your lower back. You move to tuck yourself against him fully, sternum to sternum, legs threading together. His fingers spread against your back, his pinky finding the space between your top and your bottoms. It almost makes you shiver, the slow drag of his finger.

Your bare skin is so soft. There’s a heat all over and his hands are tingling where they touch you. He tries to stay in the moment, to stay right where he is, but the thoughts creep up on him. Enjoying this, here, with you, feels like a bad decision.

He’s been so good. He’s been working so hard. Knowing and letting himself be known. Trusting you and trusting himself. He was so close to something like surrender. He’ll have to go. He knows he’ll have to. The hardened, avoidant, pessimistic, realistic voice inside of his head tells him as much, tells him to cut his losses now and give in to what he knows is inevitable. But there’s a whimpering, starving, obsessive, pathetically optimistic voice answering back, speaking from a place he can’t identify. It wants to have you, to keep you, but he’s getting less and less sure he’ll be able to by the day. Smurf standing in front of you was the start and the end of it. It never should have happened, and now that it has, there’s nothing to be done. Smurf was her own kind of death sentence.

Andrew is better at self preservation than absolutely anything else. He’s avoided more for less, resorted to more drastic means for less important ends. But he can’t help himself. He wants to have this before he goes. He wants to give you this one thing, something tender and devoted and his alone to give. He wants you to see him on his knees, soft spots exposed for you to lay your hands over. He wants you to know he’d give you anything, expose his muscle and sinew if you wanted to look, leave the world behind if you asked him to.

Yes, he would kill for you. But he would also take his shirt off. He’d let you touch him, taste him, look into his mouth, listen to him fall apart. 

He can’t tell you what’s going on in his head. He barely has a handle on it most days, and doesn’t know how to show it either. He can try though. God help him, he could try. His forehead meets yours, careful not to hurt you when they collide. He takes a moment, and then he tilts his head further. You share a breath before he finally seeks your mouth with his. He kisses you, a little stiff and a little firm, and you let him.

When he feels your hand come up into his hair, his mouth parts under yours. He takes as deep a breath as he can before returning to the kiss, a thrill running through him as he feels your tongue, your teeth.  

His hand sweeps the length of your spine, up then down before reaching further, hungry for more of you. He doesn’t grab exactly, but there’s an assertiveness to his touch. His hand is heavy and low on your hip, and your leg comes higher up, still curled around his. His hips begin to rock against yours and you make a small sound. He stills.

He hesitates not because he doesn’t want you, but because he wants you so unbearably much. His need is overwhelming and it feels unfair to you.

“We don’t have to do anything else.” You mean this, as breathless and burning as you are.

“I want to.” He says. He can try to be braver than he is, knowing you’ll handle him carefully.

Your mouth finds his then, drawing him back into you. His shoulders crowd over you without meaning to, the broadness of his chest pressing against you and encouraging you onto your back as he leans over you. His mouth comes back down against yours, pressing and pressing and pressing. He slides his tongue against yours, trying to pay attention to the feel and your taste and somehow not fully taking in either. The hand over your hip starts to climb upwards, dragging fabric as it goes. His fingers find the band of your bra from over your shirt and then he repeats the motion, this time against your skin. His hand is hot against you, his palm sweeping back up your ribs to cup the bottom of your breast. 

Your chest pushes up into his hand and he understands he’s doing well. He would spend more time on your tits if he felt more self-assured but he’s nervous here. He only wants to touch you in ways he’s certain will feel good for you. He thinks of his hands, the big, rough things that they are, and he can see himself grabbing you too viciously if he’s not careful. No, he’d rather play it safe, stick to things he knows how to do. He gives you one calculated squeeze before his hand moves back down your stomach, his big fingers just teasing your waistband. You take his wrist, guiding his hand further down, asking him not to hesitate. 

His hand slips into your shorts, touching you over your panties. The fabric of them dampens under his fingers as he presses them against your opening, around your clit. You moan, a small breathy thing, and he’s drunk on it. Careful fingers draw small circles around the bud, being mindful of pressure and friction. You breathe into his mouth between kisses and he wants to share the same air as you forever.

“Take them off.” You tell him. It’s a gentle instruction that reminds him of the hardness straining in his jeans. 

He pauses to fit his thumbs under your waistband, pulling everything down your legs. Your panties stick some where he had pressed them against you and the hunger inside him widens. You kick them off the side of the bed and Andrew takes advantage of the extra space between your legs. Two fingers drag confidently through your folds, running through your slick and spreading it over you. He brings one of them back down to tease your entrance, barely pressing in. You squirm, whining and needy.

“Inside, please.” Your hands find his face to hold him, keeping his eyes on yours, right where you want him.

He obliges.

His first finger sinks in all the way down to the knuckle and you make such a pretty sound, coloured with need and satisfaction. Andrew’s cock twitches in his jeans, the pressure of his erection becoming uncomfortable. His hips find your leg, rubbing his bulge against the outside of your thigh. You feel the size of him and it makes you even whinier. His finger fucks you slowly and he knows he’ll need to brace himself if he’s going to be inside of you. 

“More.” You sound breathy.

He gives you what you’re asking for. He pulls out before adding another finger, the stretch makes your hips lift, chasing the pleasure. You make noise after noise and he feels you getting close. The heat in your stomach draws inwards and crashes over you all at once. His fingers don’t stop moving inside of you until you push his wrist away, your knees drawing up together. 

His hand moves to draw you closer to him, holding you through your comedown. His fingers are wet against your side. When you come back into your body your face is flushed and your pupils are blown. Nobody has ever been more beautiful.

“Will you let me fuck you?” The question comes out smaller than he means it to.

“Are you sure?” You ask, voice soft and eyes watchful.

“Please,” He asks against your mouth.

You nod, nose brushing his. You kiss him then, your touch the softest he’s ever received.

Sitting back on his knees he unbuckles his belt and your desire deepens. He removes his jeans and his boxers before settling back on top of you, hesitant again.

“Okay?” You ask, watching his face.

“Yeah.” He says, as confidently as he can.

You roll your hips up then, catching his tip against your entrance. He makes an embarrassing noise, a high whine from the back of his throat. You don’t seem to mind though, lips chasing his as you move underneath him. His hips jerk enough against you to feel your cunt start to suck him in. He takes a deep breath in and holds it as he pushes all the way into you. He thinks he might pass out.

It’s so much; your tightness, your heat, his balls resting against you.

You kiss along his cheek, his jaw, and tell him gently to breathe. He doesn’t. He can’t, not yet, or else he’ll ruin this for you. He shifts, making a miniscule adjustment of his hips against yours, your comfort at the front of his mind. You sigh, breath warming the skin of his shoulder, and it feels like permission. 

Andrew pulls back before pushing back in once, twice, over and over, slow strokes finding a rhythm he can manage to breathe through. You’re so wet, the slide of your walls easing the tight fit. He makes a broken, depraved sound and you clench around him. He can’t stop himself from doing it again creating a beautiful feedback loop, him falling apart inside of you and you getting off on his desperation. 

You moan his name into his ear, against his neck. Andrew, like a plea. Andrew, like a surrender.

He fucks you faster, breath shakier. It’s overwhelming, the white hot feeling in the pit of his stomach, the cavern of wanting inside his chest.

“I can’t,” It’s distressing, trying to hold out but knowing he won’t be able to. “I need–”

“Give it to me baby,” You encourage, finding your own satisfaction in his pleasure.

It feels like he’s breaking. He’s never felt so undone, so held in his undoing.

“I can’t unless– I won’t–” His eyes are shut tight, breathing through clenched teeth to try and reign himself in even an inch.

“Cum for me Andrew– need it, need you so bad.” 

He wants to be good. He wants to be good but you’re so wet and you’re all he ever thinks about and you’re asking him to cum. He tries slowing his pace but it’s no good. His orgasm hits him like a car crash. His cock is twitches inside of you as he paints your cervix, hips pressed almost painfully hard into yours as he cums, releasing something like a sob. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, swallowing the sounds he makes, keeping him in this moment, tethering him to you.

He feels briefly incoherent, but he comes back to you, forehead once again pressed to yours, chests heaving in tandem. You’re cradling his jaw again, your thumbs wiping at his cheeks. He didn’t know he was crying. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, voice pitching.

You kiss him and shake your head.

“You were perfect.” 

“I didn’t make you cum.” He looks sick with worry above you and your heart breaks a little. 

“I don’t need to, baby. I’ve never been happier.”

His face makes a devastating expression and you gather him against you, keeping your hips locked.

“This is what I want, Andrew. Just this.” Your voice carries a conviction that reaches him through the chemical rush he hasn’t recovered from. “Just this, I promise.”

X

The morning after, Andrew is up before you. You wake up to cold sheets but you hear sound from down the hall. Meyer lemon and fresh air fill your apartment. Dappled sun seeps through your windows, warming your floors. You find Andrew kneeling, rag and cleaner in hand. He looks up when he hears you.

You stand at the edge of the room and you watch each other. He slips off the cleaning gloves, resting them on the coffee table nearby, and presses his palms down against his thighs. He doesn’t know what you would like him to do with himself. He barely knows what to do with himself on his own, other than try to be useful. He’s not under the impression that he’s being normal, he knows cleaning your television stand while you’re asleep is not how he’s supposed to act the morning after having sex with someone for the first time. He wants to be good. He just wants to be good.

Then you’re moving, approaching him with sure steps. And then you’re on the floor with him, kneeling to hug him, murmuring a good morning against his skin. You’re warm from sleep and leaning against him like you’ve decided that’s your spot now. He doesn’t move, letting you rest against him, rubbing your back as you settle. Your hair smells like your detergent, your skin still smells like sex.

Later in the day, after he’s dropped you off at home, he finds a florist shop with good reviews.

“A bouquet.” He said, by way of request and explanation to the florist.

Three dozen red roses are on your step when you get back from your day, dressed with baby’s breath and greens. Arranged in their own vase, they’re a little heavy to bring inside. 

You send him a message and a picture of them on your kitchen counter.

thank you andrew <3

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t think he has to. He’s glad you like them. He still feels sick, though. He doesn’t know whether the flowers were more of a thank you or an apology or a confession or an admission. No matter what they are, he’s just happy you’re happy.

X

It only takes a handful of small things to amount to a big problem on a job. Shit is quickly going sideways. Andrew keeps his cool, reminding his brothers to act before they can think. They’ve done this kind of run so much it’s muscle memory at this point. They make it out with exactly what they came for and a little less blood than they came with. The drive home is silent.

They file into the kitchen, Smurf waiting with desert plates and criticisms.

“What was that.” Smurf says in her way. Questions are never really questions. “You were sloppy.”

Andrew wants to protest, to remind everyone that he was the only one holding the splintering job together. Craig was careless and distracted, Deran was twitchy and eager to bolt the way he always is. But he takes his lashings and then some.

“You were distracted.” She stares at him and him only. “It’s that girl.”

Andrew is quiet. If there’s a lecture attached he just has to let it happen.

“She’s not like us, baby. She doesn’t belong here.”

“I know.” He says, because he does. He’s never wanted you here, not in this house or in this life. He’s held you away from it all because that’s never what he would want for you.

Smurf looks at him, cold and exacting and extractive. She sees exactly what he isn’t able to hide: his stupid, hopeful, bleeding heart.

“You could never be with her, you know that? You don’t belong out there having picnics and picking daisies.” She says, speaking down to the dream Andrew has kept hidden in the very back of his head for months, for his entire life. “This is it for you, Pope.”

His jaw clenches. He’s been told, ad nauseam, that his options are limited. That he’s only good for one thing. His mother, his brothers, his numerous associates and acquaintances; they all treat him with a kind of sad disinterest. A kind of fear and pity he’s never managed to grow a thick skin against.

You had never seen him like that. You had never treated him like that.

“Don’t be stupid.” Smurf murmurs, stepping closer to pull Andrew’s head to her shoulder. “She’ll only get hurt if you’re around.”

His hands are immoble, helpless at the ends of his arms. He knows what Smurf is saying. Andrew is to stop seeing you, or else she’ll be the reason harm will come your way. 

He was stupid for dreaming. Stupid for thinking that maybe there could be something else for him, an out after his years of devoted service. Smurf gets what Smurf wants. Andrew gets what Smurf allows.

His brain tries to solve things that week. He’s aloof and forlorn, noticeably more so than usual. He’s tallying numbers, playing out scenarios, counting odds. He thinks about how he could get out, where he could go, where you might be open to going with him. He considers the cash he has on hand, the money he could get together, what he’d need to get you both set up. He works through the long list of allies and enemies of the Cody family, figuring who would be sent after him, who might already be after him independently. He has ideas. What he does not have is time or secrecy.

Smurf joins him at the patio table one morning.

“I heard something went down over at that place Craig likes.” She offers this as conversation, as if it’s not a loaded gun, a threat being followed through.

Pope just looks at her.

“A robbery. The staff got pretty shaken up.”

He trembles. He feels rage. Very carefully, he stands from the table and turns to walk inside.

“Pope.”

He stops.

“You know what you need to do.”

Not a question.

He keeps walking. 

He stands in his room, feeling like his body is a stranger. As always, he feels more like the family dog instead of a son Smurf could love.

When Andrew punches the wall his knuckles don’t feel the impact. He feels just as dizzy and stupid and useless as when he was a kid. His life is not his own. How dare he entertain the idea that it might be.

X

The bruising around your eye is so much worse in person. You open the door with a smile and his heart drops. He feels ill.

“Andrew!” Your voice is bright, mismatched with the evidence of injury on your face.

Looking over your shoulder he can see that the roses are still on your counter, in the vase he picked because he wasn’t sure you’d have one big enough. They’ve only just now started wilting, after a week and a half.

“Are you okay?”

He keeps his hands firmly in his pockets, refusing to allow himself to hold your face, tilt it towards his.

“Oh, yeah, some guy came into the shop on Friday. It’s happened before, you know what the area can be like.” You look at him, no doubt or suspicion behind your eyes.

You don’t know. You don’t even have any idea that you’re hurt because of him. You don’t think he’s the reason that you and your coworkers were subjected to violence, were forced into a situation that did not ever have to happen.

He wants normalcy for you. He wants afternoon shifts and steady paychecks and flower bouquets and Saturday night dates. Ice cream and dinner and boardwalks, and a normal boyfriend with a normal family and normal problems. He’s not that. As much as he wants to be, he’s not that. Not now and, according to Smurf, likely not ever. 

Andrew opens his mouth.

“I won’t be around.” He says. Bad start. Too vague. 

Your brows pinch like you’re confused.

“You have to go? Like, away?”

He nods.

“Okay, when will you be back?”

He hesitates. “I won’t.”

Your head tilts.

“I can’t see you anymore.” He tries again. Better. Clearer.

“Is everything okay?” You ask in that soft tone, the one he only ever hears coming from you.

He doesn’t answer, eyes stuck on the vase over your shoulder.

“Did I do something?”

Of course you would think it was you. You’re good enough to see the good in Andrew before anything else.

“If I did something or if you feel overwhelmed you can tell me.” 

He feels like a feral animal that you’re offering the back of your hand to.

“I just can’t.”

“I don’t mind, Andrew. Do what you have to do, I’ll be here. I–”

“No.”

“Andrew,” You’re trying to reason with him. He can’t let you. “You– you know how I feel about you.”

He’d spent the last handful of months hoping. Hoping to see you again, hoping you’d let him near you, hoping he could be something to you, hoping you would still like him even after you got to know him. He’s wanted you, so much it hurt. He had hoped, fervently, that you felt any fraction of what he felt for you. He hadn’t dared believe it. And you can’t say it now, you can’t tell him you love him or he’ll make the wrong choice. He needs to go. There’s no other option.

“Whatever you think you feel for me, you don’t. You don’t know me, and you’re nothing like me.”

It’s like you flinch. Your mouth is tight, your eyes go wet.

You’re quiet for a long time. He doesn’t leave.

“This is about her isn’t it.”

“It’s not about Smurf.” He doesn’t look at you when he answers.

An impasse. You both know you’re right.

“What did she say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But she said something.” 

“She always says something, it doesn’t matter.” He forces a deep breath. “You’re not going to see me again.”

Your chin crumples and his stomach begins to cannibalise itself.

“I have to go. Don’t wait around for me.”

“Andrew–”

“I’m serious,” He says, speaking with more bite than he’s ever used with you. “Don’t. I won’t come back.”

“But you said.” Your chest contracts, your throat hot. “You said I was– I thought I was important.”

Your voice lowers on the word important, embarrassed for having to say it. You feel pathetic. You’ve never been closer to begging in your life. You had felt it, you felt the way you were both on the precipice of something beautiful and delicate and binding. You were right there. You thought you had him. You thought it was a sure thing.

He says your name in a way you don’t understand. 

He still hasn’t left. He thinks he’s waiting for you to get angry. To yell or hit him or tell him what a fucking disappointment he is. He wants you to, he wants you to prove he’s right about himself. To prove he’s nothing more than mean and angry and helplessly inept. But you don’t. And that’s so much worse.

You’re still looking at him with gentleness somehow. Like you see him for what he is and you still want him. He doesn’t know how to handle the idea that you still want him. Not even that you might want him, that you do want him, even now while he’s making you cry. 

He takes a step back and your first tears fall. He turns before he loses his conviction, getting back into his truck without showing you his face.

X

You don’t expect to hear from him again. Men like Pope know how to disappear, how to erase fingerprints and traces. You move through the next five days in a daze, expecting to see his truck in front of your shop, your hands moving to call him before you remember. 

He sends you a text two weeks later, just your name and a comma after it, like he had sent the message before he finished writing it.

You don’t know what it means. 

You don’t hear from him again. 

Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.

He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.

“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.

You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.

He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.

Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.

He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.

His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.

You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.

Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.

“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.

“I liked it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.

And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.

He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.

“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.

“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“

He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.

Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.

“Big.”

He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.

“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“

You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.

“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.

“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”

You blink, and his eyes widen.

“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“

Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.

“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.

Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.

“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”

Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.

“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.

Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.

You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.

He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.

Safe and attended to.

You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.

It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.

“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“

He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.

Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.

He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.

Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.

It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.

Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.

Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.

And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.

Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.

Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.

You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.

There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.

Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.

You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.

He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.

It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.

If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.

On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.

There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.

Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.

It’s an oddly romantic thought.

There are lots of those to go around.

Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.

“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.

“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”

“See it-“

“X-ray vision.”

“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Clark bows his head, almost in shame.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “It fine-“

“I wanted to-“

“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

He blinks at you, then relaxes.

“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.

“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”

Clark laughs at that, and you beam.

It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.

“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.

“I-“

“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”

He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”

You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.

“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“

Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”

You laugh. “Bring it on.”

✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee! (and get early access!)☕️✦

No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.

Pope can see right into your apartment.

Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.

He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.

It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.

He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.

You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.

Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.

You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).

You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.

He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.

Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.

A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?

But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.

You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.

You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.

That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.

But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.

No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.

It makes him jealous.

He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.

But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.

Both for you and for him.

So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.

Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.

You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).

And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.

You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.

Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.

From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.

He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.

But he resists.

The first three times, anyway.

By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?

And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.

So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.

He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.

He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.

Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.

The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.

Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.

Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.

He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.

He knows he should stop.

The problem, however, lies in the wanting.

Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.

Things change late one Friday night.

Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.

There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).

You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.

It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.

Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.

He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.

Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.

And you're staring right back at him.

His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.

But he doesn't do any of that.

He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.

Pope just…stares.

It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.

He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.

But you don't do any of that.

You just stare right back.

Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.

In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.

It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.

And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.

He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.

And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.

You don't.

The following morning, your routine changes.

On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.

But not this time.

No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.

Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.

He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.

You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.

And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.

Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.

Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.

Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.

You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.

Andrew knows it's not.

You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.

He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.

It's…it's weird, right?

Everything about it is wrong.

He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.

He tries, though. For what little it's worth.

Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.

He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.

The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.

One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.

Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.

What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.

You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.

It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.

He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.

But it's not like he can go over and just ask.

So, he chooses a different path instead.

Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.

Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.

But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.

And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"

J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"

Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"

"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."

J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."

In the meantime, Andrew spirals.

The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.

But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.

Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?

Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.

You deserve someone who knows you.

Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.

It was your phone company.

Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.

All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.

And money is something Andrew can provide.

He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.

He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.

Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.

He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.

Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.

But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.

And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?

None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.

Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.

He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.

The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.

His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?

Pope is aching.

Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.

It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.

Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.

Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.

He does it anyway.

Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.

As close as he can get.

As close as he'll probably ever get.

He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.

This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.

Andrew does not leave.

He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.

His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.

And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.

But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.

This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.

His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.

The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.

His heart is beating fast.

It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.

Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.

There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.

He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.

He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.

The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.

Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.

His release is…embarrassingly fast.

A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.

Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).

He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.

There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.

He leaves.

Locks the door behind him with the spare key.

Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.

It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.

Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.

Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.

So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.

He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).

Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.

You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.

You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.

He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.

But Andrew isn't sorry.

And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.

You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.

Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.

You smile at him from fifteen feet away.

And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.

Pope watches you go, like always.

But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.

He needs to get closer.

During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.

When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.

A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.

Your phone number, Pope knows.

He knows he shouldn't text you.

It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.

His message just says,

Hello.

Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.

hey

are u the guy from apt 212 ???

Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.

Yes.

The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.

im gonna be home in like an hr

will u be watching ???

Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.

Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.

Do you want me to be?

No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.

uhmmm tbh yeah <3

He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?

But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.

And the text message is real.

And this…this is real.

Then yes. I will be.

You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.

True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…

Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.

You're teasing him, Pope realizes.

He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.

And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.

You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.

His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…

His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.

Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.

Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.

It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.

The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.

You dressed up for him.

You dressed up for him.

Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.

You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.

Andrew thinks he could die.

He could fucking die, just looking at you.

Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.

Your knees fall apart.

Pope swallows hard.

He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.

For him. It's for him.

His cock throbs so hard it hurts.

Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.

That's what you wanted.

But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?

All you'd have to do is let him in.

Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.

He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.

Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.

Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.

If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.

Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.

Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?

Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.

You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.

He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.

I want to hear you.

You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.

Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.

You're calling him.

He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.

You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.

"Oh, god—"

His inhale is shaky.

"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"

He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."

Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."

His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.

He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.

Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.

Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.

He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"

For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).

But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.

"I…might have been. Once, yes."

"Did you steal my chapstick?"

"You have ten of them."

He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."

"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."

"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."

So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.

Smart, pretty girl.

He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.

You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."

He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."

Pope rides the high of it for days.

Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.

And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.

But is that what this is? Love?

You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.

Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?

All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.

Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.

Define love.

Define obsession.

How to know if you're in love?

How to ask a girl out?

How to get over a girl.

Define voyeur.

Define fetish.

How big of an age gap is too big?

Apartments for sale on the east coast.

Pink champagne candle.

Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.

You text him a week again after your exhibitionistic display.

do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot

He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.

Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"

And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."

He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.

It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.

We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.

Your response is a single, painful letter.

k

He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better than you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.

But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.

Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.

He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.

You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.

Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.

He tells himself he won't interfere.

You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.

And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.

He did it to himself, really.

He should look away.

But he watches instead.

Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.

Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.

Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.

And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?

He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.

But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.

Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.

But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.

His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"

When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.

The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.

Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."

"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"

Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."

"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"

Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"

"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."

Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.

He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.

And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.

He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.

He knows he should.

What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"

Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."

Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.

He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.

"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."

The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.

Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."

You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.

"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."

Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.

You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.

The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.

Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.

He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.

Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."

He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."

That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.

Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.

You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.

Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.

You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.

Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.

Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."

You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.

Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.

His sweet, filthy girl.

Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.

Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"

"Did more than that," he admits.

You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.

"Use it," Pope orders.

"What?"

He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."

There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.

You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.

When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.

He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"

Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.

He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.

But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.

Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."

You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.

And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.

It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.

Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"

A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.

He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.

Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"

It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?

He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.

It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."

Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.

"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"

You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"

"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"

He stops.

Remembers the last time he'd loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.

"You're what, Andrew?"

Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.

But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"

He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.

You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."

Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.

Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.

How silly of him to ever doubt you.

There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.

And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.

And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.

He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.

But you are, too.

Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.

Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.

A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.

But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.

You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.

The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.

It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.

You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.

He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.

Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."

You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.

Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.

"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."

You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.

There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—

"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."

The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.

Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.

He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."

He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.

You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.

He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.

But when you say that?

When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."

He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.

So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.

Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).

Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.

He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."

You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.

Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.

After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"

Yes, he wants to say.

But he feels it, too.

So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."

He feels that smile of yours against his chest.

Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.

He knows that.

But at least, now, he's not alone in it.

“She can’t take care of you the way I can.” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it but he wanted it to be the last. Nobody knew him better, cared or took care of him more than you did. 

He wanted to argue the fact but any assurance he’s had that she wouldn’t hurt you had dies with Baz. 

If she could so that. 

She could do anything. 

He needed you and Lena safe more than anything. 

“You know she isn’t meant for this life, Andrew. She isn’t family.” 

“She’s my family.” He knows it was a mistake as soon as he had rasped it, pained and heartfelt. The total opposite of her voice. 

You were his family. The one he had chosen. The only one who had chosen him for no other reason than you had wanted to.

The statement and the truth of it written across his face filled Smurf with rage. A cold, quiet kind that he’d only seen a handful of times. The fake soft voice replaced by the cutting, abrupt one he was far more familiar with, especially recently.

“You’re being selfish Andrew.” She stood up from the place she had been sat on her bed. There was another party going on outside, for Lena’s return home. When he told her he had taken her back to the foster family he sensed straight away she wasn’t going to let this go easily. 

She wasn’t always so obvious with it but she was desperate to have full control over him again. 

“You know it’s only a matter of time before she gets caught up in shit she can’t handle. You’re going to get her hurt.” He didn’t miss the threat behind her voice. “Or worse…” 

He didn’t say anything and so Smurf kept on, chipping away at him the way she had become an expert at. “You think Lucy couldn’t have made her disappear quicker than you’d have even knew she was gone?” 

“Shut up.” He spits but he holds himself back despite the urge to grab her by the neck. Too frightened of what could happen. Lucy wasn’t just a murderer. She was involved in human trafficking and the thought sent a rage through him that left him frozen. “You threaten her again and you’ll finally see exactly what kind of man you raised.” He gets in her face, a darkness in his eyes she’s never had directed at her before.  

“Don’t you see, Andrew?” She says it in the voice of a concerned Mother teaching him something. “That’s exactly why she would do it.” That was it. That look of bitter understanding in his eyes and she knew she’d got him. 

She had been trying to cling to any last bits of control since he had gotten out of prison and spectacularly failed, she blamed you of course. But she was finally getting some control back. 

And she just couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stop there. She had to seal it in his mind. 

“The cops could turn her.” She triggers the memory of Cath, of what he did.

“I would never!” 

Smurf could see it in his eyes. That he would happily kill her in that moment. It didn’t hurt her though. She could bring him back. She always could, just needed some quality time with him without you in the way.

So she could slither her way into him mind again and make her home there more permanent. 

“Of course, you wouldn’t baby.” She reached up to stroke his hair but he snapped his head backwards, away from her. “But accidents happen.” 

The pair stood there Smurf looking far too pleased with herself and Andrew’s rage breaking him down inside. Every single insecurity he fought so hard against, that you’d fought so hard against, came back. 

“You move back home, stop seeing her and I’ll forget either of them ever existed.” 

She made it sound so simple. Like it wasn’t one of the worst things he could imagine.

Andrew had already thought about how he was going to kill Smurf. When he realised the truth about Baz. When everything started fucking up once she was out of jail. He didn’t know when. But he would. In a way that his brothers would’t know it was him. 

He couldn’t imagine a life without you but maybe it was time. Smurf was right in one way. He had been selfish to keep you a part of this for so long. 

He nods despite the way his mind is screaming at him. 

That this isn’t right. 

That you love him and he loves you. 

That he is worthy. 

That he can keep you safe. 

That everything will be okay. 

The voice sounds like you. 

And in the days that follow he hears you. He listens to you. He sits as still and silent as possible to try and repeat your intonations, that soft tone in his mind, the one that makes everything feel alright. 

It would be his secret. 

It would be his way of coping. 

Deran is the first person you see. He shouts through the door that he will literally break it down if you don’t answer which is the only reason you do after almost thirty minutes of him knocking, calling through the door and blasting your phone. 

“What the fuck is going on?” He says as he walks in. Seeing you, hair unbrushed, dark circles and a blank look in your eyes reminds him of a similar looking Pope he had just left. Bare foot, shirtless he’d walked to him and broken down. He had never seen his big brother like that. He had always had you to go to. It had shook Deran to see him like that. 

“What?” You ask as you walk past him to the small sitting area at the back of your apartment, Pope had built a fence for privacy. He’d laughed when you ‘made it pretty’ with flowers. 

Deran joins you there. “You and Pope?”

You stay staring ahead. “He said he can’t see me anymore.”

“Bull shit. This is Smurf you know that right?”

“Course I do, Deran.” You say irritably. 

“Then you know it won’t last. He can’t stay away from you. He’s a mess.” 

That hurt. You were so shared of how this could end. 

“I can’t force him to be with me. She’s fucked him up long before he found me. I tried.” Your voice wobbles and Deran sighs heavily. “Whatever she’s said this time… it’s took.” You knew deep down it was the same old Smurf, seeing him vulnerable after Lena and digging her claws in. 

“No.” Deran shakes his head. He doesn’t get it but you’re just too exhausted to try and explain the intricacies of the eldest Cody the way you understand them. Understand him.  

“He’s always thought he wasn’t good enough. She never told him otherwise.” Your face scrunches up as you try to stop yourself from crying. “None of you did.” You lash out instead. Not by shouting, not by screaming or blaming him. Just simply by saying the things you always wish you had. 

“Maybe you’re right.” Deran said and when you look over at him finally, tears in your eyes he looks just as sad. 

“You’re all good enough. You and Pope especially.” You smile over at him and he scoffs. He always knew you were his favourite of Pope’s brothers. 

“Don’t call him Pope. It’s weird.” He laughs and so do you despite yourself. “Get dressed. You need to get hammered. On me. Come on.” 

“No. I can’t.”

“Yes you can. What’s the use of owning a bar if I can’t get one of my favourite people drunk for free?” He doesn’t tell you that Pope made him promise he would look out for you. Make sure you were okay. Talk to you, make you understand what he did was for the best.

All Deran knew was that in no world was it okay for you and Pope to be apart. 

You turned down the bar so Deran sat with you outside. You drank beers until, exhausted you passed out after being helped to bed by him. 

When he leaves your place he see’s a familiar silhouette at the end of the complex, hidden slightly by the fence in your yard. The perfect spot where said person could see both doors and windows.  

He walks up to his brother. 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“Is she alright?” He doesn’t look away from where your bedroom window is lit up by the dim lamp you always left on when you were alone. 

“Of course, she’s not alright man.” Deran says exasperated by the both of you. “Why are you doing this?” 

“To keep her safe.” Pope says simply. “So she can have a normal life.” 

“A little fucking late, Pope. You’ve loved each other since you were kids. All you’re doing is fucking hurting her.” 

He didn’t attack him like Deran expected him to. That made it worse somehow. He just balled up his fist, the hand that was sporting the large gash he’d gotten when he lost it on the poor woman’s car. 

She was just wrong time and place. Caught the brunt of his splintering mind as she watched the glass shatter around her. He must have looked every bit the monster he was to her.

He wondered if you were the same. Wrong place. wrong time. All those years ago. 

If you hadn’t met the way you did, known him the way you do would you be scared of him? Would you have ran into him on a random afternoon when he lost control?

The pain of the cut reopening, the drip of the blood through his fingers wasn’t enough. 

He needed… no deserved to be punished for what he’d done. 

“I’m sorry.” Pope whispered. Deran knew it was for you. 

“Fuck this.” Deran rolled his eyes and left his brother stood there knowing he would stay stood there all night. 

Three months was the longest you hadn’t spoke to Andrew since you’d first met him decades ago. 

That didn’t mean he wasn’t still there. 

You saw his silhouette everywhere and sure at first you’d thought you were imagining it. Some trick of the mind showing you the thing you most wanted. But it soon became obvious he never really left. 

In the way the lightbulbs you kept forgetting to replace suddenly worked again. 

The way your gas tank was full when you had left for work earlier to give yourself time to refill because you knew it had been empty. 

The way your favourite houseplant had been trimmed, watered and turned towards the sun whilst you forgot. Whilst you were barely taking care of yourself. A sign that someone was rooting for you. 

Your ice trays are always full and the tangle of necklaces on your dresser are neatly laid out. 

Cash was tucked into bags and jackets that you knew wasn’t there before because he knows you haven’t been using their card. 

How could you? It was just a reminder of everything you could never have. 

The loose railing at work is fixed within 24 hours when you nearly slip down the stairs one day in a late rush.

Your alarm clock also ran ten minutes early from that day. But maybe you were crazy. Maybe they were just coincidences. But some things were too obvious. 

Like he wanted you to know it was him. 

You laugh and then break down crying at the sponge from your sink on the windowsill.

He was being less and less conspicuous as time went on.  

You’d finally been convinced to go out one night with your friend. Then the guy you’d met last time, the one that Andrew had scared away had been handsy, taken advantage of a drunk heartbroken woman. Lucky nothing more than him groping you had happened before your friend intervened.

The guy had a ‘fall’ that same night.

Ended up in the ER with a broken jaw, ribs and his right hand a mangled mess. 

Nobody really approached you after that. 

You were glad. 

You know the care crosses into control in ways that would only make sense to people who stopped having boundaries with each other a long time ago.

So of course you allowed it. 

Because you knew it must be helping him. 

You always knew it was him in a crowd, of course you did. As if you wouldn’t know him by the slope of his large shoulders. Even as you noticed them grow larger. The gait of him walking expertly in sync with you in one of those damn hoodies and a cap. 

He was as familiar as the sun to you. 

Deran told you that Andrew had started fighting again. Cage fighting in those grotty underground fights that Smurf put him in like a dog she wanted to get the aggression out of. 

He was the biggest you’d ever seen him. The shadow of him stood at your fence, larger, wider. The way he took up more space in the crowds. 

You got stronger too in your own way. You didn’t cry as much. You were still in pain. So much pain you couldn’t get out of bed sometimes but you carried on. 

Deep down you believed he would be back. 

You just had to survive until then.

You had caved a couple of times. A quick message here and there. 

You:

I hope you’re okay. 

I miss you. 

You: 

I’m not mad at you. 

I miss you. 

If it wasn’t for all the ways he was still so present, for the fact that you knew him better than you knew yourself you’d have left him be. 

There was a particularly bad storm one night and when there was a knock at the door your heart stuttered. The second you’d heard the first clap of thunder you’d thought of him. 

Knew he’d have thought of you too. 

All the times he helped you during those storms. How if the weather report warned of thunder and lightening he would be there with take out and a blanket. How if it came unexpectedly he’d drop everything, within reason to get to you. 

You had to force yourself to move. Each step a silent prayer. 

You answer the door and immediately burst into tears when you see Deran. 

He wraps you in his arms immediately and you cling onto him as he strokes the back of your head. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. I should have called first. He told me to come.”

Later when you’re sat on your couch Deran doesn’t dare tell you just how bad it’s actually gotten.

That Pope was borderline suicidal. Reckless and searching for violence in everything. 

That he was dazed and barely spoke a word. 

That he was basically a shell. 

That loosing Lena was enough to break him but loosing you was too much for him.

He knew it wound’t change anything. Would only make shit more painful for the both of you. 

“You wanna know a secret?” You ask Deran who nods. “I’m not even scared of storms. I was when I was a kid.” You smile with a far off look in your eyes. “I actually kind of like them now. I just never told him cos I liked that he’d always come. The only time he didn’t was when he was in prison or that time you were all in Mexico.” 

Deran just laughs and shakes his head at you. Wraps his arm around your shoulder so you can lean into him. 

He had become a rock for you and you for him. He told you more about his life than ever before, to distract you or just because he needed someone you weren’t sure but it helped. 

One thing he didn’t tell you was that he had gotten Pope to start working in the bar. Partly to keep him busy. 

Partly for free labour. And partly because he was convinced he would eventually be able to convince you to come. He wasn’t sure what kind of cupid shit he was playing at but he was so sure that if you just saw each other… really saw each other you wouldn’t be able to resist. 

Andrew had been near you pretty much every day since the last time he saw you. You just didn’t know it.

He’d seen you on your walks, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, and had to resist the urge to pull over and chastise you for not having water.

He’d watched you struggle with the porch light for ten minutes before finally giving up. He came back later that night and fixed it himself.

Sometimes he parked down the street, or stand outside just to watch the silhouette of your body move behind the curtains as you wandered your house unable to sleep.

He knew your routines better than he should have. He always had. He was the type to notice every minuscule detail, any threat anyway but when it came to you it was second nature. 

Knew which windows you forgot to lock when you were tired. Knew you never checked the back seat before getting into your car.

Once, during a storm, he drove across at two in the morning because he suddenly remembered the kitchen window over your sink didn’t close all the way. Angry at being too distracted to have fixed it already. He stood in your dark kitchen dripping rainwater onto the floor while he forced it shut. Then he fixed it the next time you were at your parents house visiting. 

He replaced the batteries in your smoke detector before they could start chirping because he remembered the way that sound annoyed you. 

He started taking the same trail two cars behind yours after a man stared at you for too long one evening.

Your tires never stayed low for long anymore. Your favourite snacks never ran out.

It was pathetic, probably.

The way he still moved through the world like your safety belonged to him. Like loving you had rewired some primitive part of his brain permanently.

Even now, even away from you, he still caught himself scanning parking lots, imagining you walking through them alone. Still checked weather alerts and thought about whether your tires could handle the rain. 

Still woke up in the middle of the night certain he’d heard your voice.

But he hadn’t planned for this. Sat at the bar talking to Deran. No doubt a scheme from his younger brother. 

He didn’t get it. He didn’t know Smurf had had Baz killed, not definitely. Didn’t see the glint in her eyes as she threatened your safety. 

Fury at his brother rose in him until you stood up and he saw you were wearing a new dress. His rage floated away on the hem of it as it brushed just above your knee. 

It was a dress he’d never seen before. White cotton. You were slightly more tanned than usual. He had noticed you sat out more now.

His angel. 

As always. 

You started walking towards the door he was peeping through the window of and he ducked down. He lifted back up just in time to see you disappear into the corridor with the storage room and like a man possessed he followed you. 

He see’s the edge of the white dress disappear around the door, he can smell your perfume and remember the way your eyes look into his. Seeing all the things he’s begged people to see before but didn’t. Never mattered as much that they didn’t once you had. 

He can’t look into those eyes right now, can’t bare to. 

But he needs you. He always will.

Slipping into the room behind you before the door shuts he hears you curse at the loss of light. It makes his chest ache at the thought of you being worried. It’s pitch black but he finds you. Thinks about how he always would. 

You gasp as he steps behind you, his chest against your back. 

“Shh. It’s just me, sweetheart.” He whispers against your skin as he burrows into your neck. Knowing the hypocrisy of him telling you not to be scared of a monster but you were someone who would never ever need to be scared of him. 

“Andrew…” You sigh in relief but his hand slides up to cover your mouth. 

“Shh…” He silences you gently, recognises the sad edge in your voice and it will break him. 

One solid arm is around your waist until it slides up, over your breasts to rest on your chest, feeling your heart and swearing it beats the same rhythm as his.

His hands are all over you, he fists the cotton skirt of your dress into his hands as he wraps his arms around you. He doesn’t kiss you, just buries his face into the crook of your neck. Over the shell of your ear, your hairline… breathing you in. Three months without you this close felt like another three years. In another life he wouldn’t have left your side for a second. 

He’s trembling and you reach down to cover his hands with your own. He lets you lace your fingers with his and he moans softly in your ear at the simple touch.

You don’t stop him when his hands trace patterns on your inner thighs making your knees weak but he just pulls you closer to him. Pushing you softly against the shelving unit. He’s memorising the feel of you under his palms, giving himself this one moment of weakness. If you’ll let him. 

There was no question about it. You’d give him anything he wanted if he just stayed. Never wanting the moment to end. 

“Miss you…” He murmurs as he pushes his forehead against your shoulder. You try to turn wanting to face him but he doesn’t let you.

“I miss you so much…” Just as much pain in your voice that it makes his eyes and throat burn as he forces away the tears. 

The hard lines of his body press against yours and you feel how much more solid he is, bigger than you think you’ve ever known him and you so badly want to look at him. Tell him how good he looks but you don’t want to compliment something caused by his violent distractions. 

You slide your hands over the muscles in his forearms instead as he tries to almost fuse your bodies together. One hand slides up his arm to reach behind you and when your fingers stroke through his hair, nails scratching gently into his scalp he turns his face into you, leaving desperate kisses down the back of your neck. 

You shiver against him as one of his hands disappears under your skirt to stroke gently just above your panties. That silent question brings tears to your eyes and you nod as you push his hand further down. All the permission he needs and his hand slides into your panties, straight down to your slit. 

The noise he let out was low and involuntary. The kind you knew him to make when he was trying his best to behave. He can never believe how wet you are. For him. 

You had been the second you felt his chest against your back, heard that rough voice in your ear. 

He sucks gently on your neck as you give yourself over to him. He rubs around your slit to gather the wetness, his thick fingers parting your folds, wasting no time before rubbing maddening circles on your clit. You moan and you head falls back onto his shoulder as his other hand joins, fingers delving into you, his strong arms a vice around you, keeping you in place. Keeping you stable.

“Please…” You beg but you aren’t even sure what for. For his words… for an orgasm… for fucking anything from him. 

“Can I fuck you? Please.” He asks in a pathetic voice that has you clenching around his fingers. “You can say no. I don’t deserve you… You’re so beautiful.” 

“I’m yours, handsome. Always yours.” 

Something about that confirmation flicks a switch in him and no sooner has he pulled his hands out of your panties you hear the cling of his belt. His zip lowering before he pushed the skirt of your dress up your back, gently guiding you to bend over slightly. 

You’re shaking with need when he pushes into you in one long stroke, knowing you can take him. 

“I’m sorry…” He whispers but his voice isn’t as tortured as before.

His pace is fast, frenzied as he fucks into you hard, the new muscle and weight of him behind you, the shelving unit rattling in front of you. You feel him gather the material of your dress, twisting it. Feel it tighten as he wraps it around his wrist and knuckles, using it to pull you back into him. 

You can only moan imagining how his hand and arm looks doing it. 

He’s whispering incoherent things that you can’t make out, no matter how hard you try to quieten your little gasps every time his hips push against your ass. 

“You’re mine. No matter what. You’re mine.” He growls in your ear as he bends over you fisting your ponytail in his hand before straightening back up.

He pulls gently on your ponytail again, drawing you back against his chest until there’s not an inch of space left between you. The sudden closeness punches a helpless sound from your throat. You feel yourself tighten around him instantly.

Even in the dark he knows you’re close. 

His hand stays wrapped loosely in your hair, patient, guiding, until your neck arches back fully against him, the crown of your head settling between his broad pecs. You can feel the weight and warmth of him everywhere now. His chest rising behind you with heavy breaths.

If it wasn’t pitch black you know he would be looking down at you, eyes dark and fill of lust.

Then his mouth brushes softly against your forehead.

A kiss so gentle whilst he pounds into you it undoes you completely.

You come with a broken cry, body trembling against his, and he groans quietly at the feeling of it, pulling you even tighter against him like instinct.

“Yeah… that’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your ear, rough voice shaking. “Fuck, you feel so good for me.”

His hand slips from your ponytail only to wrap around you again, secure and heavy, holding you through it while his breathing turns uneven against your skin. You feel yourself getting wetter, gushing as you come around him, milking his cock so well that he can’t help but come inside you. 

His cock is pulsing inside you and you whine as you both feel the aftershocks. 

He’s collapsed against you, breathing heavily against the nape of your neck leaving kisses wherever he can reach. Allowing himself this time to pretend that nothing else outside of you exists.

“Shit… I’m s…sorry.” You hear him from behind you before he pulls out of you, putting your dress and panties back into place. It feels so unlike what you’re used to from him afterwards. You tense, not even turning, steeling yourself for what you know is coming. The moment he leaves again. 

“It’s okay…” You whisper as he fixes himself.

“Im so sorry.” He says softly. He’s just stood there behind you and you spin so quick your weakened legs almost falter but he steadies you. His large hands strong and painfully familiar. You tilt your head up and his lowers, his forehead finding yours like he couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. And when you both exhale, softly, pure relief he presses his face against yours. 

Cheek to cheek like you fit into the indents of him and him to you. His grip tightens on your waist as his lips brush the corner of your mouth ever so slightly but then he pulls away. Abruptly with gritted teeth like it’s painful not to kiss you. 

And then he’s gone. He knows he has to before he forgets why he has to. 

You stand in the dark hearing him shouting, hear a loud crash from the kitchen and open the door to peek out. 

“You don’t get it Deran! She…I CAN’T let anything happen to her. Not because of me.” You hear Andrew shouting before everything goes too quiet for you to hear anything and you use the moment to slip out of the bar. 

You don’t cry. 

You think about how he’s still there. Still orbiting you in all the ways that matter. Her claws weren’t as deep as you thought. 

And for the first time in months, the ache inside you feels a little close to hope.

A lot of surprising things had happened to you in your life. It was anything but boring being so heavily involved with a Cody. But nothing. And you mean nothing had ever surprised you as much as seeing Smurf at your door a few days later. 

She’s in a casual grey hoodie. Very unlike herself. She looks worn out. 

“How do you know where I live?” Is the only thing you can think of to say. 

“Baby I’ve always known where you live.” She scoffs and you can tell she’s a little drunk. Great. She walks into your home like she owns the place in true Smurf fashion. Just side steps past you into your apartment. 

What’s Andrews is hers, you suppose. 

She looks around before heading to the kitchen and the way she looks around before doing so at least gives you some security that she hadn’t been inside before. 

“You win.” She sighs as she drops into one of your dining chairs, the same one Baz had been in. The memory felt like an ice cold rod down your spine. 

“What the fuck are you talking about.” You ask you sit across from her. Not wanting her shit. It had been a hard three months. 

“He needs you. Not me.” She leans back in her chair before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.  “He’s been a wreck without you. You might think I’m a selfish bitch but I love my sons. I can’t watch my baby boy like this anymore.”

You study her. The silence long enough for her to need to flick ash into your houseplant twice. The one Andrew had paid special attention to keeping alive you. One thing you had learnt during your time with this family was to never take anything this woman said with face value. 

Something had happened. Something that Smurf couldn’t control. Smurf would not be admitting this if not. 

“What did you say to him? To make him stay away?” You say it with such certainty that that is the only reason he would have that she rolls her eyes. 

She looks mad but there’s something else in her eyes that looks a lot like shame. She just shrugs like she wants it to be known she doesn’t care. That what she’s about to say doesn’t affect her. 

“Told him he was going to get you hurt… or killed.”  You’d suspected something along those lines. “Told him I’d forget that Lena and you existed if he didn’t see you again and moved back home.” 

“Fuck Smurf you never fail to amaze me with how astoundingly fucked up you are.” You knew it was something. But hearing what had made all the progress you’d made crash down broke your heart. 

“I have cancer.” She says it like she’s telling you she has a nail appointment. 

You freeze. Not sure what to say.

“We might not see eye to eye but Andrew’s gonna need you when I’m gone.” The look in her eye, not vulnerable but as close as she got made you see her in a way you hadn’t for a very long time. A mother. “Sure as hell not leaving him with that junkie Angela.” 

“What?” Your heart stutters. 

Angela. 

You probably hated her only a little less than Smurf. Her and Julia had become friends around the same time you first met Andrew before you’d even met his family. Even from a young age you could read her. Always out for what she could gain. Whether it was Andrew’s violence or Julia’s generosity. The Cody reputation. 

She’d kissed Andrew when they were younger since they were the same age. You remembered fully hating her from the second Julia told you about it. She hated you back because Andrew never left your side and that’s what she wanted. She was poison just like Smurf. Just a different strain. Not as potent but still something to avoid.

 It didn’t stay a childish hatred though. 

She eventually was the reason Julia’s addiction spiralled. She was one of the people who poisoned Julia against you when you were the only one she let help her. 

The thought of her around Andrew. Around J made your blood boil. 

The glint in Smurfs eyes made it all clear. 

“Don’t worry, baby there’s nothing going on there. He’s only ever had eyes for you. She’s just hanging around him, using him for a place to stay. She hasn’t changed. But he’s vulnerable so he can’t see it.” 

“That bitch has always been able to smell any vulnerability a mile off.” 

Smurf smirks around her cigarette as she nods. As if she’s not exactly the same. Just better at it. 

“He’s probably just trying to help her… like he didn’t Julia.” 

Smurf smiles. “You’ve always known my Andrew. Only other person besides me who knows what’s going on inside that head of his.”  You want to argue. 

You don’t. 

She can tell you have so much you want to say and aren’t. She laughs again. 

“You’re smart. You weren’t like all the other floozies the boys brought home. I liked that.” She stubs out the cigarette in the soil and you immediately pull it out and stand to throw it through the window. 

You snort as you sit back down. “You never liked me.” 

She just shrugs slightly with a smirk. “And you never liked me.”

“We agree on something then.” 

She laughs before she stands up. You had never heard this woman laugh as much in your entire life. 

Your eyes meet hers, and something settles between you both. Not a truce exactly. Just an understanding that he was the most important thing.

“Come on. I want that conniving bitch out of my house.”  

“I can’t just turn up.” You say. Part of you is worried he will still turn you away through fear. 

“Sure you can.” She turns to look at you. Straight faced and serious. “You’re family.” There’s something about the way she says it. Like it’s just a statement or order maybe? To look after him. As if she had ever had to tell you to do that. “I’ll wait in the car.”

“What the fuck.” You whisper as she leaves. 

That was never something you thought you’d hear from that woman’s mouth. 

“She’ll be in the kitchen making a god damn mess.” Smurf tells you as enter the house. “I’ll be by the pool if you need me.” She says sarcastically. You knew her and you would be business as usual now. 

Your heart is racing when you walk into the kitchen. Not sure how the sight of Andrew and Angela would feel. The small insecurity, that what if… what if he didn’t choose you. 

The other reason your heart was racing was the fact that you might have Andrew back in your arms tonight. Finally. 

The second you saw her, alone, thankfully all you saw was red. She was making herself at home like she always had.

When she spotted you her face fell and you couldn’t help but smirk. 

“Miss me?” You say sarcastically. 

“Should have known you wouldn’t be gone for long.” She sighs like she’s extremely put out by your appearance. Good.

“Should have known you’d come try to leach of the Cody’s some more.” 

“I came to find Julia.”

“Cut the shit. You expect me to believe you didn’t know she was dead?” 

“I was in jail.” Her mannerisms were still that of a moody teenage girl and you knew for certain she hadn’t changed. 

“Exactly.” You say. It was all the same people, all the same circles of course she heard about her best friend dying. You were livid. “Pack your shit.” You cant deny you have more confidence knowing Smurf agreed.

“No. Pope wants me here.” 

You grit your teeth and let out an exhale, trying to stay calm. 

“Andrew is trying to be nice to his dead twin sister’s best friend. You know why? Cos he’s actually a good person.” 

Angela scoffs. 

“Don’t fucking laugh.” You spit. “You don’t know him. You see a place to stay and an easy way to score.” 

“I’m sober.” You don’t believe her. You shrug your shoulders and shake your head. 

“I honestly don’t give a fuck.” You walk up to her slowly until you’re right in front of her “You’re done using this family.” 

“You always thought you were better than us all. You stuck up bitch. Mommy and daddy paid for everything. You’ve no idea what a hard life is. I understand him in a way you never could.”

Angela’s getting angry now and it’s because she knows, she remembers that Andrew has always and will always choose you. 

You just shake your head. “You know nothing about me.” Your family were by no means rich, it was always pay check to pay check which is why they couldn’t help you when pope was in prison. You didn’t want them worrying. “It’s actually Andrew that pays for everything. Won’t take no for an answer.” You grin as she looks at you like she wants to claw at you. 

He doesn’t. Not everything but she doesn’t need to know that and you just want to make her mad.

“Pack. Your. Shit.” You growl, a glare Andrew would be proud of. “Or I’ll do it.” 

“You’re a fucking bitch. Julia always hated you.”

“No she didn’t.” You laugh in her face because you know it’s not true. You loved Julia. And she had loved you. 

Andrew and Julia’s bond went beyond anybodies, you’d always known that. Never tried to touch it. She was just happy to have someone else who cared about him. 

“You better get out of my face, sweetie you’ve no idea what I’ve had to do to survive in the last two years.” Angela says.

“Make me.” You say and just as Angela pulls back her arm Andrew’s large figure appears behind her grabbing her arm with a grip that makes her cry out. 

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He growls. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen him in three months and instantly you notice how sad he looks. How the scowl that he wore around everyone else had deepened. Noticed the faded bruise on his cheekbone and the healing cut above his eyebrow.  

You were right. He is bigger. More solid. He uses that strength as he drags Angela into one of the bedrooms you assume she’d been staying in and pushes her in so hard she bounces off the wall. “You heard her… pack your shit.” He slams the door behind her so hard you feel the floor shake. 

And then he walks back over to you looking you up and down. Making sure you’re okay. Making sure you’re real after aching for you every second you were apart. You close the gap between you both, reaching out for him.

You feel like you’re back where you both started as he looks at you with those sad eyes like he’s expecting you to laugh and tell him you’re joking. He looks every bit the kicked puppy backed into a corner unsure if the hand reaching was to harm or to heal. 

You could tell the last few months, loosing Lena, loosing you, Smurfs manipulation back tenfold only to find out she had cancer had splintered his mind in some way. 

The confidence you’d helped him build piece by piece gone and all you could think was where to start. How to build him back up like you had done time and time again. His eyes fall shut as he pushes his face into your palm. 

“I thought you said she doesn’t get to say how things are supposed to be, huh?” Angela’s agitating voice comes from behind him and he tenses. His hands going to your waist, he doesn’t even turn to acknowledge her, just makes sure he’s blocking you. “But she is?” 

“I think you already got your answer.” Smurf says from the open door. You can only imagine how pleased with herself she looks. Andrew does move then, turns instinctively to face her not letting you move beside him when you try. 

“You guys are still just as fuckin’ weird.” Angela shouts, defeated. You watch her leave, glaring back her. 

The front door slams. 

“Hallelujah.” Smurf sighs. “Well done, baby.” Only then does Andrew let you step out beside him. A confused look on his face. You look down at the floor suddenly feeling like you had betrayed him in some way by helping Smurf. But you would explain. 

“You don’t need to worry, okay baby?” She’s talking to Andrew now. “Our deal still stands.” She looks over at me. “But me and her have our own now.” 

You nod slowly. Unsure if you’d done the right thing. 

When she leaves you turn to him wringing your hands. “I’m sorry.” You say. “I know this must look…”

“I heard everything you said to Angela.” He says simply. His mouth pinches up in one corner, his eyes worried. “You aint got to be sorry… I do…” 

You shake your head pulling him into you, hands stroking through his hair and rubbing his back comfortingly. 

“Shhh… it’s okay, handsome.” You shush him. His arms just hang by his sides but not in a way that he doesn’t want to hold you. Just that he doesn’t feel like he deserves to and you realise you’ve really got your work cut out for you this time. “She told me everything.” 

He cries as his arms finally wrap around you so tightly that momentarily the air pushes out of you but you say nothing. Just hold him. 

As you turn your head in the embrace you see Smurf outside laid on her sun lounger, bathed in darkness. Her face remains unreadable, but the resignation in her eyes is impossible to miss. The kind that comes from realizing some things were decided long before you ever tried to stop them.

You and Andrew had woven yourselves too tightly into each other to ever come apart cleanly.

He looked more haggard today. Instead of his normal shit-eating, sardonic smile, the grin on his face was thinner and seemed almost fragile. You didn’t like it when Jack seemed fragile. He must have caught your study because he batted away your attention.

“I called you down here to evaluate a patient, not me,” he said.

“You paged infectious disease, actually, not me. Did you know I’m not even on call? But you insulted Yasmine so much that she refused to come down here.” You asked.

“I’ve said worse to you than anything I’ve said to her,” Jack replied.

“I seem to recall punching you the first time we met,” you pointed out.

“I also seem to recall you broke your hand because you had such shit form,” he replied.

“Shit form,” you repeated under your breath. He was right, but rude to bring it up—even if you brought it up first. “Stop bullying my doctors. I’m tired of coming in on my day off.”

“Tell your doctors to be less sensitive.”

“We’re infectious disease, Jack. We’re going to be slow and methodical. Page someone else if you want speedy results. Hell don’t page us at all. It fucks up our metrics.”

“I don’t care about metrics. I care about patients,” he said sharply.

“In what world did I say I didn’t care about patients?” You asked exasperated. “This is why people find you difficult, you know.”

“And yet it hasn’t scared you away, yet.”

“It would be a real feat if you managed it now. You were like this when we met and back then you carried a gun,” you said. Jack snorted.

“Feels like a lifetime ago.”

“It was a lifetime ago. Our friendship has its learner’s permit.”

“So we became friends when you punched me in the face?”

“Nah. We became friends when you patched me up and taught me how to punch someone without breaking my hand. Was useful a few times after that.”

“Well, glad I was good for something back then,” he said.

-- -- --

A decade and a half ago you were starting your first placement with MSF, stationed on the outskirts of Syria. The civil war had decimated the country and the humanitarian need was substantial. The heat was comparable to growing up in the southern United States, so it was not the shock to your system that it was to others on your team.

No, what rattled you was the destruction of a place that was once so beautiful. There were pieces of history and culture lost to ravages of human hatred and greed. Families were forced out of their ancestral homes and yet were grateful to be alive. The grief of your surroundings settled in between your bones. Sometimes, on bad days—days where you lost and lost and lost—the grief that lived amongst the rubble threatened to swallow you. You would bury your head in your thread bare bedding, attempting to stifle any emotion that might escape.

It was on one of these bad days that the US military swaned in and tried to take over your camp. By no means were you in charge of the camp. As an infectious disease doctor, you were in charge of a lot of logistics—more than other doctors—but nowhere close to an authority figure.

When a bright eyed Seargant and his platoon (gaggle? cadre? you still were unclear what the terms were) of half a dozen 20-somethings traipsed into your camp telling you to move for “your own good”, well you lost it a little.

“Fuck off, Uncle Sam,” you snapped as you and your fellow workers went about disinfecting materials.

Along with ensuring cholera and diphtheria didn’t rear their ugly heads—you were also in charge of ensuring proper disinfectants were used on equipment. Two nurses, one from Lagos and one from Burmuda, were helping you.

“Ma’am,” the auburn haired man started.

“It’s doctor, actually,” you snapped.

“Doctor,” he said. You could hear the patience thinning in his voice. Good, yours was thinning, too. “We have the authority to ask you to move.”

“No, you don’t,” you said. You had no idea if they did or not. But fuck the colonizing, imperialist US military if they thought moving doctors was going to be easy.

“Doctor, it isn’t safe,” the man said.

“We’re well aware our job isn’t safe thanks.”

“There has been insurgent fire nearby,” he snapped.

He was about your height. He looked bulky with all the gear strapped to his person. He also looked sweaty. There was a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and neck. You wondered if he knew that just today you had tried and failed to treat sepsis, or had to deal with such a bad case of gangrene the surgeons ampuated, you wondered if this fresh faced military yes-man had an inkling of the grief his presence had caused in the region.

Perhaps it wasn’t fair to blame one person for centuries of violence and unrest, but you were getting tired and losing the optimism that had sent you across the globe in the first place.

“Oh no,” you said mockingly. You looked at your nurses, your friends. “Did you guys realize what we heard last night was gun shots and not fireworks?”

They stifled their laughter and took the sonogram wand out of your hand while you focused on your stand off with the military man in front of you. His uniform read “Abbot”.

“Look, lady,” he started. “My job is to secure the area. You aren’t in charge. So take me to whoever is.”

“Find them yourself, fucker,” you snapped. “Some of us have a job that isn’t destabilizing a region.”

“Watch your mouth,” one of the young men behind Abbot said looming closer.

“You’re a child,” you said to him. And he was. He couldn’t have been older than 19. When you were 19 you were getting blind drunk at frat parties conning men out of alcohol and loose change for fun.

“Doctor,” Abbot said, he sounded exasperated. “I don’t have time for this. Your camp is in our way.”

“Our humanitarian camp is in your way? Oh no! Poor US Military.”

For some reason, out of the many jabs you’d thrown at him in those few minutes, that was the one that made him step into your personal space. You felt, more than saw the large automatic weapon he held.

“I’m sure you’re thrilled with your position on your high horse but incredibly enough the world isn’t black and white. You’ve seen nothing. You’ve not seen the fear in people’s eyes when they’re being shot at. You haven’t seen the carnage that an IED does to a human body. You don’t know anything. You’re helping pregnant ladies and that’s great, but some of us are doing real medical work.”

You noticed two things. The insignia on his uniform that marked him as a doctor, too. And that his jaw was much, much harder than the punch you threw with your fist.

“Fuck!” You said at the same time he said,

“Did you just fucking punch me?”

You heard your friends, Sunday and Patricia, shouting as one of the children that followed Abbot began manhandling you to the ground. One moment you were standing clutching your injured hand and the next you were on the ground. The man yanked your arms behind your back. You were a lot of things, stubborn—sure, but you were definitely smart, which is why the feeling of a gun’s muzzle against the small of your back made you freeze.

“Get off of her!”

“That is a violation of our UN Charter!”

At the same time you heard the thunder of footsteps approaching from your camp, a pair of ziptie handcuffs were being placed around your wrists and you faintly heard someone say your were being arrested. You were pretty sure that was illegal—but there wasn’t much you could do with a giant weapon pointed at you. The pain in your hand was taking up a lot of your brain space, so it was hard to keep track of the other happenings across the camp.

You were shoved in the humvee while Abbot apparently went to talk to the camp facilitators about moving the location. You fumed. The fury sat heavy in your chest as you glowered at the two young men who put you in the car, one of which wouldn’t even make eye contact with you.

You flexed your hands against your bonds and shifted so they wouldn’t press so intently against your radial nerve. You continue to stare daggers at the boys until the door next to you opened as Sergeant Abbot got in the car.

“You’ll be released tomorrow morning,” he said. “We’ll have to take you to our base and process you before we can officially release you.”

“Suck my dick,” you snapped.

“Right,” he said signing. He ran a hand over his face, “Did you hurt your hand?”

You went silent. Your hand was throbbing and you suspected it was broken, but you weren’t going to tell him that. If you were being released tomorrow you’d have Sunday patch you up when you got back. Hell, you’d do it yourself to avoid talking to these men any longer than you had to.

“Your camp director was a lot kinder than you.”

You said nothing.

“Still said no to moving the camp.”

You did your best not to smile, but you suspected everyone knew.

“Tough break for the most powerful military in the world,” you said. Abbot just snorted.

“Where did you go to medical school?”

“UNC Chapel Hill,” you said clipped.

“UPenn myself,” he said.

“An Ivy League medical school and you’re out here instead of making millions of dollars?”

“Same could be said for you.”

“UNC isn’t an ivy,” you snorted.

“Sure, but it’s prestigious,” Abbot pressed.

“What can I say? The MSF recruiter had really good pens,” you replied blithely.

To your surprise Abbot laughed.

The rest of the short ride passed in relative silence. Although you caught a sharp glance Abbot threw at the man who’d arrested you. There seemed to be a unique tension in the humvee you knew you were not responsible for. You suspected your arrest was made more out of emotion than anything else.

When the vehicle arrived at the small base, you were processed and briefly interrogated about any terrorist connections you might. Honestly, it didn’t seem like their heart was in it. The questions weren’t particularly difficult and the interrogator seemed bored more than anything.

By the time you were given a shitty cot in the medical tent, your hand was discolored and the throbbing was beyond painful. Unfortunately, that’s when Abbot found you.

He wasn’t in his whole uniform anymore but was wearing a sand brown T-shirt with sweat stains and patches, with his fatigue pants. You couldn’t help but appreciate the way his shoulders filled out the shirt and the confidence with which he walked through the tent.

More than that, you noticed the kindness he doled out without reservation. He spoke to each person, patient or military personnel. He spoke to people who were clearly native Syrians in badly accent Arabic. You knew it was badly accented, because it sounded a lot like yours.

His smile lit up the whole tent and you hated it. You hated that you found him hot. You really hated that you wanted to see him without his shirt on. More than that you hated that he was going to notice your hand when he came over. You weren’t sure you could handle him touching you. This man is the reason you were detained and half-assedly interrogated by the US Military.

And yet.

And yet when he realized that you broke your hand he reset the dislocation carefully and wrapped your dominant hand delicately. He made a joke about how all good doctors need to be ambidextrous anyways and you laughed. You noticed he had a light bruise on his cheek but nothing compared to your broken hand. It was embarrassing.

“You don’t punch well,” he said after he had brought you dinner. It was about as good as what you would have gotten back at the MSF camp.

“I noticed,” you replied ruefully. The acidity in your tone had worn off throughout the day.

“Did you tuck your thumb?”

“What?”

“Did your tuck your thumb in your fist?”

“Maybe?”

“Well that’s why. Here stand up,” he said.

You were both in the medical tent. There were a couple men in the back corner already asleep so for all intents and purposes it felt like you both were alone. He showed you how to wrap your fist and hold your body so the next time you threw a punch it wouldn’t end with broken bones, at least not yours.

The feeling of his calloused hands on your skin sent tingles up your spine. You allowed him to maneuver your hands, shoulders, and hips at his whims. There was a traitorous part of you that wished he would bend you over the desk he was working at and fuck you senseless. It had been a good two years since anyone had fucked you well and you knew in your bones the grief that lived ever present in your body might abate for just a second if you let this man put his hands on you.

Then you saw the black band on his finger.

“You’re a good teacher,” you said instead of voicing any of your less than professional thoughts.

“No shortage of idiots to teach in this place,” he said chuckling. He had sat back down in the office chair and you leaned back on the cot.

“I think we both know my opinion on that,” you replied. He smiled and said,

“Well, I appreciate you letting me teach without telling me to “suck your dick” this time,” he said.

“Night is still young, Abbot,” you replied laughing. You crossed your legs and looked at him. “How’d you end up here?”

“I was poor and wanted to go to medical school,” he said simply. “Serving my country was a plus. What about you?”

“I already told you about the pens.”

“I’m being serious.”

You took a deep breath. What was the harm in a hint about your traumatic back story? It wasn’t like you’d see him again after this. People knowing too much about you always made you feel exposed.

“My fiancé cheated on me and we had matched to the same hospital. Different residencies, but same place. I’ve always been a bit…rash, but as soon as I sat through the presentation for MSF I knew that I couldn’t do anything else. Did my infectious disease/emergency medicine residency in Antwerp and then they sent me here,” you said.

“This is your first placement?” He asked.

“Yeah, I’m on month five. I’ll go on break in a few weeks,” you said.

“How are you finding it?”

You hesitated.

“Sad,” you finally said.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

You couldn’t help but think maybe your experiences were more aligned than previously assumed.

The military returned you to your camp the next morning. Despite thinking you wouldn’t see Jack Abbot again, every so often the two medical teams would trade for materials. During the hand offs, you and Abbot would chat and joke. You grew to look forward to the weeks the military stopped by, well you began looking forward Jack, at least.

His group was only in the area for a couple months before moving on, but it was enough time for you both to become good friends. He told you about his wife and even you fell a little in love with her. He told you about his life in Pittsburgh and how he didn’t think he was going to reenlist. Over the past few weeks, you realized the two of you had become real friends.

The last night before his crew shipped out to a new location he handed you a piece of paper. It had his email, domestic phone number and address on it.

“Don’t be a stranger. My wife couldn’t believe I made a friend halfway across the world,” he said.

“Honestly, I’m only friends with you to steal your wife,” you told him.

“I can’t blame you. Although, now I’m less than thrilled I’ve been teaching you to fight,” he sighed.

You laughed and knocked your shoulder against his. “You’re a good friend, Jack. Stay safe, okay?”

“You too, Rocky,” he replied.

“I hate that nickname,” you sighed.

“And that’s why I’ll never let it go.”

-- -- --

“Why did you teach me to fight all those years ago?” You asked the man in front of you.

This seemed a better direction for the conversation than badgering him about what triggered his melancholy. The lines on his face spoke to age, but it was his eyes that held the grief which had been such a consistent companion of his.

“Because your punch was pathetic,” he replied.

“Fair,” you agreed. “But for the rest our overlap those next few months you taught me how to protect myself and make sure that any future punches weren’t pathetic.”

Jack sighed and ran a hand over his face. It was the same thing he did all those years ago, he was just…grayer now. “You were the first person I’d met since my wife that hated the US military. It was before I was ready to hate them and…”

“You needed people in your corner not theirs,” you said realizing.

“I knew that my required service was almost up. Darcy and I had talked about joining up with MSF. She was a fantastic anesthesiologist. But Robby recruited me before MSF could and so, we stayed stateside. You told me I was a good teacher and I guess I wanted to prove you right,” Jack told you.

You had only met Darcy a handful of times before she passed away. Each time you liberally flirted with her just to watch Jack’s face go red with annoyance. She was everything Jack claimed her to be and more. She was charming, smart and beautiful. More than that, she was also funny and creative, perhaps a bit dorky.

One of the few nights that you had spent in Pittsburgh during your furlough from MSF had been spent wine drunk in their garage while badly throwing clay in her at-home pottery studio.

You still had the lumpy, misshapen mug sitting on your mantel.

A few months after that night, Darcy had been killed by a drunk driver and you worried Jack was going to follow her.

You wondered if Jack felt that way about you when your friend died. The reason you were no longer with MSF was two-fold: you had been in harm’s way one too many times (some people would say shot, but that felt dramatic, it was on a bit of a wound in your thigh) and your best friend had contracted a particularly aggressive cancer. You had volunteered to help care for her while she was in treatment.

For a year and a half, most of your life was consumed by ensuring Farah was going to chemo, taking her medication, eating, had someone nearby to comfort her when she inevitably threw up what she ate. You also made sure to do your own physical therapy and recovery, but Farah was the priority.

You watched your best friend, the platonic love of your life wither away and die.

Grief had followed both you and Jack. But perhaps that was life. Grief was part of living. It was the contrast that ensured joy was felt and appreciated.

That is what you tried to tell yourself at least.

“What happened tonight, Jack? That consult was basic and not something you’d normally page us for.”

You had noticed he had seemed fragile earlier, but at your soft tone, the one dedicated for moments like this—moments when the world seemed to be too much—you saw the facade Jack had so painstakingly built begin to crumble. Instead of pressing again, you squeezed his arm and stood.

“Follow me,” you said closing your laptop and leading him through the ebbing chaos of the ER. A few nurses and residents appeared before the two of you, but you redirected them before Jack could get distracted.

“The roof is closed,” he mumbled when you both got into the elevator.

“Not going to the roof. I’m fucking normal,” you said.

“And scared of heights.”

“That too,” you agreed.

The doors dinged opened to the infectious disease floor. In between your offices and the medical library was a small alcove that overlooked the river. There were two armchairs and you were pretty certain you were the only person that used them. At this time of night they were certainly deserted.

You sat Jack in one and took the other. Just barely, you could make out the reflection of Jack in the glass. He was sitting with his shoulders straight and near his ears. You relaxed back into the chair until your head was resting on the top and you were looking at the ceiling.

“It’ll be nine years next week,” Jack replied quietly.

“An annoyingly big yet unsatisfactory number,” you replied.

You both were staring out the window but through the reflection you watched Jack toy with the ring on his finger.

“I felt like I missed her less this year.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that.

“I don’t think she would be upset.”

“It certainly feels weird,” he replied.

“Hmm,” you replied, but you knew.

You had this great bright ball of golden sunlight that light in your heart when you were surrounded by your friends. And when Farah died that sunlight dimmed. You could go days without thinking about her, but then sometimes your fingers would itch to call or text her and you’d remember again.

She was dead.

Her phone number belonged to someone else.

There were no more inside joke or jabs.

There were no more impromptu phone calls or rants.

There was just no more.

The woman who had been most constant relationship in your adult life was dead and sometimes, you missed her so much it felt easier to join her than to wait it out.

“I lost a woman, victim of a hit and run tonight. Just a little too similar and a little too close to home,” he finally said after a bout of silence.

That you definitely understood. Farah had died nearly three years ago and working with cancer patients still made you jumpy. You’d take all the ER pages if it meant your colleagues would cover the oncology ward.

“That must have sucked,” you told him. “What a bitch.”

“What a bitch, indeed. Makes you question the point of it all.”

“What do you mean?”

“All of the things we’ve seen, all the things that have happened. How can people carry on? The only thing keeping me going is this fucking job—but half the reason I’m depressed is this fucking job.”

“I dunno,” you sighed. “Maybe for those moments of joy. The ones that fill your chest and you remember why life is so beautiful. And sure; they leave, but they always come back again.”

“I can’t remember the last time I had those moments,” Jack sighed.

“I write mine down,” you told him fishing a small notebook out of your bag. It was the size of your palm.

Inside was a simple numbered list. Jack flipped to a random page and saw:

76. A cat fell asleep on my lap purring. (6/8/2021)

77. Farah ate a full lunch and did not vomit! (6/9/2021) (I wish you would stop celebrating when I don’t vomit) (make me bitch)

78. Farah’s parents dropped by and weren’t passive aggressive (6/9/2021)

Jack smiled at the interplay between you both. He had not had the chance to meet Farah before she passed and you hadn’t taken him up on his offer to accompany you to the funeral. You watched as he flipped through the pages.

134. Mr. K finished antibiotics and his white blood cell count is rebounding. No one thought he was going to make it. (5/18/2023)

He flipped a few more pages.

179. Jack bought me coffee. I love having a beverage. (8/26/2023)

He laughed at that one. He remembered that day. It was a particularly rough night at the ER. Multiple patients came in with some kind of obscure parasite and it had taken you the bulk of the night to figure out what it was and where it came from. Jack was positive he was going to watch your normally cool demeanor finally combust.

He closed the notebook and before handing it back to you saw inscribed in the corner: it is what could be.

“It is what it could be?” He asked.

“What about it?”

“Isn’t the saying “it is what it is” something about radical acceptance?” Jack snorted handing you back the notebook.

“Sure, but sometimes radical acceptance means missing the opportunity for change,” you replied.

“There are things you just can’t change, Rocky,” he sighed.

“Sure, you, Jack Abbot, can’t single-handedly fix the healthcare woes in our country. But you can change how you teach the up and coming doctors—you have changed how you teach them. You are kinder, more empathetic, and far more thorough than anyone who taught us. I’ve seen too much to sit back and take it on the chin.”

He scoffed. “You’re an optimist.”

You shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve spent most of my career in war zones and instead of giving up, I figured out what I could do and then did it. I can’t change geopolitics—and the people that can certain have no intention to—but I can make sure my patients have clean equipment and bedding. I can make sure they’re treated with kindness and care. I can fight for them tooth and nail. I’m under no illusion as to what the world is like, but I refuse to be cowed by it. It’s easy to know the world is shit, but it’s harder to do something.”

“And what, you think I’m not doing enough?” He asked, his tone more acerbic than before. You sighed and thought for a moment before replying.

“I’m asking if maybe you’ve lived with your grief for so long that you’ve forgotten what it came from. Grief is love. It’s the remnants of what could have been. Love isn’t a feeling, Jack. It’s action. It buying your wife flowers when she had a bad day, or advocating for better hours because she’s always tired. Love isn’t passive, it’s active.”

He was scoffed. “No offense, Rocky. But you lost a friend. I lost my wife and my leg. Your grief ain’t got nothing on me.”

He said it in a light tone but you heard the edge to the comment. Suddenly, you were back in the Syrian rubble fifteen years ago, staring down a head strong sergeant. The anger and rage at being belittled reared up through your chest and settled in your throat.

You had matured over the years. Your first instinct was no longer to throw a wild haymaker. Instead you clenched your jaw, released it and said.

“I’m sorry you’ve had such shit friends, then Jack. Next time, text me when you’re having a bad day. Don’t have the hospital call me in on my day off. And be nicer to my doctors. I think I’ve hit my threshold of Dr. Jack Abbot for awhile,” you said simply.

You stood and walked a few steps to your office. You heard Jack say your name and stand after you. You badged into your department offices and let the door shut behind you. You turned the corner, opened your office door and sat down. Distantly, you could hear knocking on the offices.

Your office was an homage to your loved ones. Photos and Knick-knacks from friend and family filled the space. Photos of you and Farah from high school and college were appropriately cringey but the love and care was evident in the way you both held onto each other.

Angrily, you wiped away an errant tear and gathered your bag. Instead of walking out the front where you suspected Jack likely still was, you headed out the back through the medical library into the back stairwell and eventually the cold night air.

-- -- --

Your weekend plans were hospital free, thank god. You didn't have to think about patients or Jack or anyone for a blessed two whole days. Instead you spent Saturday cleaning your house top to bottom, blasting music far too loud for the size of house you lived in.

You took your dog to the dog park. You went to your favorite book store. You filled your day with things you loved.

And that night, when there weren't chores to do or errands to run or books to read, and you were laying in bed you couldn't help but think about the words Jack said to you the night previous.

"Your grief ain't got nothing on me."

It was something that had been a subtle constant in your friendship. Jack always seemed to hold your respective experiences against each other, measuring to see which of you was allowed to be sad and depressed. More accurately, measuring when you were and were not allowed to tell him he was being a depressed, defeatist asshole.

He was not always like that, it came in waves. Most days, he would grab the day by the throat, and force it to bend to his will. His iron will was one of your favorite and least favorite parts of him. But sometimes he was under this insane assumption that just because you never held a gun during your time in a warzone, meant that you hadn't seen or experienced the same things he had.

You had seen the trauma IEDs, land mines, and automatic weapons caused to human flesh. You knew exactly what the anguished cries of a mother who lost her child to starvation sounded like. You knew what the tears of children orphaned by conflict looked like. There were parts of war you did not know. You didn't know what it was like to take another life, but you knew the cost of war far better than he did.

It wasn't anything you ever argued with him about it. You weren't exactly keen to relive those memories. Still, you wished you could shake him, or slap him, and remind him that his suffering--while great--was not winning any competition. There was no competition to win.

Grief was ever present. It gnawed at your heart and lungs. Sometimes it kept you from breathing.

Tonight, you found yourself nearly swept under the high tide of grief. It was large and ominous. Overwhelming thoughts of anything else. All you could think about were the patients you had, the ones you lost, the ones who you saved but who weren't any better off, and even worse you kept thinking about Farah.

You knew what she would say to this: "Every experience reshapes and rebuilds you into something new. You're in charge of what that new things is. So make it great."

What you were feeling was more than just sadness at the dismissive nature of a friend, though. If you were honest with yourself--and in the dark of night, curled in the safety of your bed you could be--perhaps what you were feeling was more akin to heartbreak.

It's not like you held out hope that Jack was going to suddenly fall in love with you. In fact, you weren’t sure you would be able to handle that if he did. Because you knew Darcy, it felt messy in a way that was too uncomfortable to parse.

So you had kept your feelings to yourself.

It wasn't sad; there wasn't a perpetual ache in your chest because he didn't feel the same way. It was just the way life worked sometimes and Jack’s friendship was enough. The problem, however, came from how none of your romantic prospects held a candle to way that Jack made you feel.

When he spoke to you, his eyes never left your face. It was intense to get used to, but then it made you feel so seen. He never let you trail off in a story or get overshadowed in a conversation. In many ways, he knew you better than you knew yourself. He knew how to talk you down when someone at the hospital ignored your sepsis protocols, or how you carved out time each week to see your goddaughter, because you believed in the importance of having many adults in a child's rooting for them.

When you spent time together, it wasn't tedious or exhausting like it was with some people. Being around Jack added to that golden ball of sunlight in your chest, that held all the energy from your friendships. Being around him was energizing and exciting. Most of the time.

But every so often, it felt like he saw someone who wasn't you. Someone who was naive and unclear about the horrors of the world. As though you hadn't loved and lost. As though you hadn't seen the tragedies of war and destruction.

People were never just one thing, and Jack was not a perfect, idealized man that could do no wrong. He was human and had blind spots. Some of those blind spots hurt more than others.

Implying that your love for Farah was somehow less than his love for Darcy was not a hurt that would be easily healed.

Perhaps it felt like heartbreak because your love for your friend was so fundamental to how you viewed yourself. You gave up your MSF career to care for Farah as she went through cancer treatment. For nearly two years, each of your decisions had her in mind. Sometimes it was a terrible burden, but it was time you wouldn't trade for anything.

So to have Jack ignorant to the gravity of that friendship, maybe it meant he didn't know you as well as you thought--as well as you hoped.

And maybe that meant--maybe it confirmed--what you had always suspected:

Jack Abbot was not in love with you.

So the emotional balled up in you chest, battling against your ribcage felt like a reminder of all the grief that had long been present in your life, but this time it was the solidification of a grief that had been ignored. Your heart broke that night.

-- -- --

Sunday morning you were sitting on your front porch when you saw a familar truck circle the block. The first time, you thought you were seeing thing. But then your dog raised his head and began to wag his tail. Hank had always loved Jack. The third time you saw the truck, well, it was beginning to get old.

Finally, the fourth rotation of the truck resulted in him parking in front of your house. You could have gone inside, but there was a nosy part of you that was curious about what he was going to say.

He was stiff getting out of his truck and you suspected he came to your place straight from a night shift at the hospital. You stopped keep track of his shifts years ago--it was concerning how many hours each week he worked, better for you not to know.

He looked just as tired and haggard as he had on Friday night.

"Fourth time's the charm?" You asked as he limped up the steps to your porch.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied sitting down in the chair next to yours. He stretched his leg out stiffly and rubbed at the top of his thigh.

You didn't say anything and continued reading your book while sipping at your cooling cup of coffee. It didn’t taste like anything now. Hank, unaware of your inner turmoil at Jack's appearance, excitedly ambled over to him and sat in front of him expectantly.

"Well, at least someone is excited to see me," Jack said scratching the dog's ears.

"Fuck off," you snapped, angrier than even you had expected.

You refused to look at him, but out of the corner of your eye you saw Jack rear back in surprise. Most of the time you were the calm and collected one in the friendship; he was the the hotheaded. Slowly, Jack eased back to looking at Hank and eventually said,

"I'm sorry,” it sounded placating more than genuine.

"Thank you for that lackluster apology."

"Christ, Rocky, cut me some slack. It's the anniversary of my wife's sudden and tragic death."

"No," you replied simply.

"No?" he asked.

"You don't get to use Darcy as an excuse to be a dickhead. Unfortunately for you, I knew her too. So, try again."

He let out an angry huff and said, "You can be a real bitch, you know that right?"

"Not the first or last time I'll hear that," you said.

"What do you want me to say then?"

"I want an apology for assuming my love for my friends is somehow less than your love for your wife," you explained calmly.

“I spent almost twenty years with Darcy,” he said.

“I know, you were high school sweethearts. I’ve know Farah since freshmen year of college. She saw me through the same stages of life.”

“Darcy was my partner,” he snapped.

“And Farah was the one person who supported me no matter what. Just because I didn’t share a bank account and fuck her doesn’t mean I cared about her less.”

“It’s different!” He exclaimed.

“Sure, in the way we made decisions for most of our relationship, I agree. But for the last three years of her life, there was not a decision I made that didn’t consider her. She was deeply entangled with my life and when she died. It felt like someone had ripped out part of me.”

The conversation had started off angrily, but now you were tired. You wanted Jack off your porch and you wanted to get on with your peaceful Sunday. All of the emotion that had been building was released and you felt tears prick at your eyes.

Incredibly enough, you were an adult and didn't need to take out your emotions of the people close to you; instead you processed them and released them. The white hot anger and deep pit of despair had been felt and unfettered from your depths and now, all that remained was a weariness.

Jack's silence was stretching.

"I think we might just see the world in fundamentally different ways," you said standing.

"Rocky--" he started.

"Jack, don't," you said sharply. "I have spent the last nine years being a listening ear for your grief. I have been more than happy to do that. I knew how amazing Darcy was. Of course you'd grieve. But every time I bring up the things I've seen or expereinced, it's a competition I can't win. I don't really know how bad war is because I've never fired a gun, as though half the reason I left MSF wasn't because I was shot. Or I can't understand what it is like to lose someone important to you, because it wasn't my spouse. You don't own grief."

"You were shot?" He asked. The growing redness of his face was sudden pale.

"Yes? What are you talking about? I talked to you about it when I came back."

"No, you said you got hurt," he said angrily. The redness was back. "See, this is your problem. You keep all your thoughts and feelings inside and then get pissed when people don't read your mind."

"I do not," you scoffed.

"Really? I didn't even know Farah died until I saw the obituary. That was your best friend and you didn't tell anyone!"

"I wasn't exactly doing well that week, Jack," you said. "I held her hand as she died. I was having a hard time."

"This is the first time I've ever heard that! I had no idea you were there when she died! I had no idea you got shot! You don't tell anyone anything! Do you know how upsetting it is to never know what you're thinking or feeling? Friday was the closest you've ever gotten to telling me I've upset you. That's not fair. You talk about the importance of friendship all the time, but you're a shit friend sometimes."

It felt like he had slapped you. You were an open book. He could have asked you anything and you would have answered. It wasn't your fault he was perpetually uncurious.

Perhaps if you had more time to think or if you had been less upset, something less idiotic would have come out of your mouth next,

“Maybe you never showed an iota of curiosity about my life. I was convenient emotional replacement for someone you lost,” you said. You knew it wasn’t true as soon as you said it.

“Oh fuck you,” Jack nearly spit. “How dare you—“

“Deign to compare myself to her?”

“No, you asshole. Pretend like you aren’t important to me. Christ. You’re mean when you want to be,” he said almost ruefully.

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure what to say. But you both felt the angry energy dissipate from the porch. You snuck a peak at the man next to you. He was pinching the bridge of his nose. It was a common pose you saw him adopt with particularly dense residents and medical students. Rude.

Eventually Jack said, “Have you spent our whole friendship thinking I didn’t want to actually know you?”

“No?” Even to your ears it sounded like a question. “Jack, I—“

“Nope, it’s my turn to talk now,” he said cutting you off. “Why did you never offer the information? Why keep it to yourself?”

"I didn't think you wanted to know."

"What?"

And if you thought you were heartbroken before, it was nothing compared the way Jack's voice broke on your porch just now.

"I just figured if you didn't ask, it meant you didn't want to know," you said.

"That's what you thought? And you were still friends with me?" he asked. You shrugged.

He sagged back into the chair and you found yourself sitting down next to him.

“Jesus I’ve been a shit friend.”

“No, Jack,” you began but he held up a hand.

"Rocky, I..." he started. "I always want to know. I just thought you didn't want to share."

"Oh."

"Why in the world did you think that I wouldn't want to know about your life? You're my friend."

You just shrugged, suddenly feeling very small.

"Maybe your friends have failed you," Jack said. He was looking at you and even if your eyes were firmly in front of you, his gaze bore into the side of your face. "How someone so vibrant and interesting could remain convinced that people around her don't want to know her is astounding to me."

"No, it's not anyone's fault," you started.

"I'm serious, Rocky. You're amazing. Do you just think no one wants to see that?"

Christ, it was too early for this.

"I think we've strayed too far from the topic at hand," you said, desperate to get him away from this topic. Jack

"That's fair. And you're right. I do hold my marriage above friendships. But I was thinking about it yesterday and I would be just as devastated if you or Robby died. As for the warzone shit...I still maintain not shooting a gun means you don't carry the same guilt I do, but maybe that's a good thing," Jack admitted.

"I'll agree about the guilt. I think we can share in the survivor's guilt, though."

“Fine, so glad we get to share something so special,” he grumbled.

You both lapsed into silence and eventually Jack said,

“What was it like?”

“What was what like?”

“Doing MSF?”

And so you told him. You told him about the constant battle against competing political groups, the fights for resources and the inability to get a good shower. But you also told him about all your friends around the globe. You told him about your travels during your furloughs—how Jordan was your favorite country you’ve ever visited.

You caught Jack watching you with something akin to awe. It made you uncomfortable.

“Stop that,” you grumbled.

“What?”

“Staring at me like that.”

“Sorry, Rocky, but unfortunately for you I kinda feel like I’m meeting a new person.”

“Fuck off,” you replied nudging him with your shoulder.

“Did Darcy know about any of this?”

“The blanket on your ottoman is from Jordan. I sent it to her,” you replied.

Jack snorted. “I can’t believe you told her and not me. I can’t believe I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you enough to try.”

“I dunno, it’s one of those things I think we learn as kids and we’re lucky if we figure it out by the time we die,” Jack replied sighing.

“I think you’re giving me too much grace,” you said.

“You’ve given me plenty over the years. I think you’re due some yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously, you told Darcy about Jordan and I’m just now learning about it?”

You laughed.

He sighed and leaned his head against your shoulder. “God I miss her.”

“I know,” you said grasping his hand in yours. “I doubt you’ll ever stop.”

“I wouldn’t get rid of this pain if it meant I didn’t know her. I imagine it’s the same with you?”

“For Farah and Darcy. I didn’t know her well, but she was magnetic.”

“She liked you a lot.”

“Feeling was mutual.”

“In another life, you probably could have stolen her.”

“In another life I would have tried.”

Jack hesitated, his thumb brushing absently across your knuckles. “Do you think…”

The bottom dropped out of your stomach. You panicked, desperate for him not to finish his sentence, for fear of what he might say, for fear of what it might do to the two of you. You’d made your peace with loving him this way quietly and distantly. The idea of him putting voice to it—acknowledging something you’d closed the book on years ago—felt like it could unmoor you.

But he let the silence collapse between you. “Nevermind, I think we’ve had enough emotions for one day.”

Relief hit you fast and sharp, “Thank god.”

-- -- --

another author's note: I've had this idea rattling around in my brain for awhile and I have no idea if people will like the same way I have, so thank you for reading if you got this far <3

-- -- --

part 2 || part 3 || part 4

-- -- --

Food!

Both men almost run that way, with stomachs squirming in hunger and sweat dripping down their backs. Nanami dreamed of sitting down with a drink and meat, while Suguru foolishly wished that the villagers would know something about their Marquis.

After all, the battle was not that far away from here, and there was a chance that someone might've seen a wounded soldier wandering around the meadows.

When their horses passed the small, wooden gate, the little child immediately ran up to them.

"Can I pet, can I pet?" his small hand reached out towards the raven horse, brushing its massive leg gently before Suguru could even nod.

He got off the mare, squatting down to be on the same level as a kid.

"Tell me, boy, do you have any nice restaurants here in the village?" he asked, and the child hummed.

"Of course we have! The best noodles in the whole region, pretty lady!" he chirped, oogling Suguru's long hair smooching his cheeks.

Nanami scoffed, while Suguru only smiled gently. "Well, could you maybe take us there? You see, these two soldiers are very, very hungry."

The boy didn't seem to care about Suguru's pressure on the soldiers and simply nodded. He left the horse and pointed a finger at the small, two-level house, with multiple people sitting outside on little stools and grey smoke twisting around its roof.

"Thank you, dearest," Suguru said warmly, placing a sliver coin in the boy's hand.

Well, it should help his family last for at least a month.

"Do you think someone may've seen him?" Nanami asked while tying the horses to the fence outside the small restaurant.

"I hope so. But firstly, let's eat. I'm ready to collapse any second," Suguru mumbled, passing the wide-open doors.

The inside was rather simple but homely, with multiple families chirping joyfully over their noodles. The delicious smell of spices immediately hit Suguru's stomach, and long-withheld hunger suddenly became even worse.

They sat at the small table near the open window, enjoying the serene view of the slowly running river, with a few children playing at its crystalline water. Their laughter filled the stuffy air, and the gentle wind brushed Suguru's tired cheeks, bringing him a slight comfort. Birds chirped sweetly, and passing girls giggled under their noses, seeing two handsome, strange soldiers sitting politely in the restaurant.

And while they were waiting, with minds enjoying the peacefulness of this place, someone's voice suddenly brought them back.

"What can I get for you, gentlemen?"

Suguru turned his head, ready to order a bowl of spicy noodles and–

Oh.

Oh!

His knees went weak, and if not for the stool, he would surely fall miserably on the wooden floor. Blood immediately rushed to his head, fingers started to tremble, and if Nanami didn't grab his hand, it would surely curl around Gojo Satoru's neck.

Because why, dear heavens, the Marquis himself was standing before him perfectly fit and cheeky, with healthy rosiness blooming on his face and muscular body dressed in simple, commoner robes?

"M-Mar–" he stood up, but Satoru quickly pushed him back down.

The smile wasn't coming off his face, but his voice rolled out low and irritated. "Why are you here?"

"Why are we here?" Suguru almost burst. "Marquis, what do you mean by why are we here?!"

He couldn't quite believe it – the Marquis, man announced by the ministers themselves as surely dead, was, in fact, looking as if resurrected. His eyes, usually hued in deep ocean colour, looked rather... alive. Light and shiny, resembling the cyan paint spread over the canvas, soft and wet, glimmering under the warm beams of sunshine. His always so pale skin brimmed with healthy rosiness, usually suitable for most dearest birdies. Wet forehead was tied with milky cloth, keeping the snowy hair away from the brazen eyes.

Creamy robes hugged him loosely, with a few chilli oil stains bussing its grainy material.

He looked so... not noble. Not Marquis-like.

But much happier.

"Marquis, if we could talk–" Nanami started, but before he managed to finish, another voice chipped in.

Loud and angry, with a tired sigh and in the company of a fat finger knocking on the wooden table. "Hey, pretty boy! I ordered seconds a while ago!"

Suguru straightened up, jaw visibly tensed. He was ready to pull out his long sword and cut the man on the spot. "How dare you to talk to Ma–"

But before it, Satoru quickly smacked the back of his head.

"Sure thing, just give me a minute," he chirped politely, and Suguru almost fainted.

Never in the thirty years of his life has he ever heard the Marquis being polite to... anyone. Truly.

And so obedient at that, with a gentle smile curving his lips and a little nod of his head. The man, however, didn't seem to be satisfied, rambling under his breath and throwing a few curses every few seconds.

Six months ago, Suguru would see his head rolling on the wooden floor, with a Marquis slashing it off in a single, clean cut.

But now? Now his massive hand was keeping Suguru in place, not allowing him to stir up any trouble.

"You both eat first. I'm sure you must be hungry," he said warmly, patting the shoulders of his most reliable commanders. "We'll discuss it later."

"Marquis, but–" and, once again, before Nanami could finish, the rude customer decided to strike again.

"Pretty boy, I don't see you walking back to the kitchen for my seconds!"

Satoru sighed. His palms squeezed their shoulders, long fingers digging deep into the armour. Suguru, for a fleet moment, saw this familiar frown and blue veins popping on the Marquis's forehead, as if ready to burst with a merciless fury.

He's going to strike, Suguru thought. He won't let that bastard trash his good name.

Satoru rolled up the wide sleeves of his creamy robes, tying them with a thin rope around the elbows. Bulging muscles of his forearms glistened in sweat, with the sun cruelly smooching his pale skin.

And when he thought that Marquis, finally, finally, will deal with a man, another voice filled the heavy restaurant's air.

"Hey! Stop being rude to my husband unless you want to deal with me!"

It drove Suguru into the wooden stool, with its honeyed sweetness marked by an authoritative tone. Not many people were able to put someone into their place solely with a voice, but a fragile woman who came out from the kitchen, with a heavy chopper in her hand – could.

Husband?

Suguru's head started to spin. He looked up, seeing Marquis's lips curving in a gentle smile. Eyes cheeky, like two pale moons, while glancing back at the woman storming through the small restaurant.

"Think you can bully my husband while I'm here?"

Man's cheeks washed in embarrassment before he coughed. "My apologies, miss. If I knew he was your husband–"

"Even if he wasn't, you shouldn't be rude! He's too polite and won't harm a soul, but me?" she took a step, but Satoru quickly grabbed her. "Try me!"

She surrounded herself with an imposing aura, although standing next to Satoru, her head barely brushed his chest. Hair curled around the hearty face, with a light robe and dirty aproan hugging warmly plush hips.

"What a menace," she scoffed loudly, cleaning the chopper with a cloth, before glancing up at the Marquis. "And you should get more assertive. Must you always be so obedient?"

Obedient?

"Stop acting like a pushover, what if someone attacks you, hm? We have lots of bandits these days, and I won't always be there to protect you."

Pushover?

Protect Marquis?

Suguru sighed, grabbing his head. It pulsed with a malicious headache, and the more you talked, the more he felt like fainting.

"My dearest," Satoru smiled, looking down at your fuming cheeks. "Have I ever told you how beautiful you look with this little crease on your forehead?" he lifted up a thumb, placing it right between your eyebrows.

He started massaging it in gentle circles, rolling a sweet giggle out of your lips and finally getting rid of the frown.

"There she is," he whispered, cupping your cheeks stained in reddish oil. "My beautiful, ferocious wife. You need to stop threatening everyone with a chopper. What if one day you come upon imperial soldiers?"

You tsked, nuzzling into his warm hands. "I'll chop them too, if they try to bully you."

Suguru just couldn't listen to it anymore. Not only the intimate tension between Marquis and... you... was unbearable, but he also simply couldn't comprehend the sudden change that bloomed inside the most ruthless, powerful general of the empire.

He coughed quietly, finally getting your attention.

"Oh," rolled politely, before you quickly hid the chopper behind. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, too many people like to bully my husband and, well, you know how it is..." your hand unconsciously waved with a chopper again, and Suguru barely dodged its sharp steel. "Sometimes the wife needs to step in. You see, my husband is a scholar, so he's, hm, the more compliant one in this marriage."

Nanami laughed, but Suguru quickly threw him a cold stare.

He brought back a polite smile to his face, still slowly massaging the buzzing temple. "Miss, my friend and I have travelled a long way to meet with Mar– your husband. I hope you don't mind, we'll take him away just for a moment."

Your eyes bulged in surprise, looking up at Satoru's warm gaze.

"I didn't know Satoru had... friends," you giggled, hearing a soft scoff coming from your husband. "Of course you can, but eat first, please. You sure must be tired. If you wish, you can stay a few nights in our house too. Right, darling?"

Satoru grimaced when you looked back at Suguru, and his eyes narrowed. "Sure, baby. If that's what you want. But aren't you rather busy, my dear friends?"

It sounded like he was giving Suguru a choice, but the coldness of his gaze and slowly shaking head were enough to convey that both of them were forbidden from agreeing with his wife's idea.

Suguru, however, was furious as it was, and if staying a day or two meant taking Marquis down to size – he would be more than happy to do it.

Before Nanami murmured that they are, in fact, rather busy, the strategist quickly chirped in.

"My precious friend, I would be more than happy to stay under your roof," he said, standing up and bending down politely your way. "Miss, we're grateful for your priceless hospitality."

You giggled, waving gently with a chopper. "There's no need for courtesy. Stay as long as you want," your eyes moved back to Satoru, his arm curling around your waist. "Darling, just remember to pick up the vegetables from Fang's restaurant. Oh, and Miss Hua needs to write a letter to the magistrate, help her with that too, hm?"

You chirped while Satoru was looking down at your rosy face with a bizarre caress behind his serene eyes. As if gazing on the most precious, loveliest little nymph. In fact, he looked as though he wasn't listening at all, with fingers climbing up to your plush cheek, and a thumb brushing over the red, oil stain.

"Right, and come back before supper. You know that at that time I usually–"

"I know, the little brat makes her mommy nauseous," he smiled softly, and Suguru suddenly lost his appetite.

Wait a moment.

"Little brat?" Nanami chipped in first, with brows almost brushing his hairline. "Mar– Satoru, do you mean that your wife is..."

You looked at them, then at Satoru, then back at them, with a little tsk and hand patting his shoulder. "Truly! You didn't even tell them that you're going to be a father? What a good friend you are."

There was a second of silence, with Satoru trying to coo you sweetly and Nanami standing there like a log. With a slightly hazy gaze and mind trying to comprehend how a Marquis – the strongest man in the whole empire – got himself entangled not solely in a marriage with a commoner, but also in parenthood. His bloodline was precious, and his family would surely not accept the child whose mother was a simple noodle shop owner.

But then the three of them heard a loud thud, and a dark shadow of a man slowly hit the wooden floor.

Suguru, finally, fainted.

❀ ❀ ❀

He woke up a mere hour later, with a wet compress on his forehead and skull buzzing from the heat. The air felt sticky, like honey, sliding down his coarse throat and cumulating somewhere deep in chest. His head felt heavy, and warm beams of sun slipped through an open window, brushing his slightly wet forehead.

He noticed that heavy armour was removed from his body and replaced with thin, navy robes, with wide sleeves and a narrow, open collar.

The smell of boiled meat went straight to his stomach, although he wasn't in a restaurant anymore.

No, this room was neat and brimming with warmth, although rather small. The soft bed dipped under his weight as he slowly stood up. The wooden floor was cold against his feet, and he noticed a small table right in front of him, with a bowl of cold noodles and a cup. His knees hit the floor, and when eyes looked inside, he noticed a weird, lush mixture of herbs – probably something to help with overheating.

He inhaled noodles in a few seconds, with salty soy sauce dripping gently down his throat and into stomach, finally filling it with a delicious, homemade meal.

Suguru felt like crying, tasting something carried as if straight from the heavens. Something worthy of an emperor himself, with a perfect seasoning and spongy texture bouncing under his teeth.

The herbal mixture followed next, and he saw a small milky candy wrapped in paper, right next to the cup. When the bitterness of a drink struck his mind, he immediately took the candy and chewed on its creamy sweetness.

Although the meal made him a bit lazy and he wanted nothing more than to return to bed and sleep like a baby – the case of Marquis still hasn't been closed.

So he stood up, dusting off his knees and quietly went outside, covering eyes from the sun. It seemed that the restaurant was right below, with a few customers pottering around and your sweet laughter once again filling his mind. Going down the wooden stairs, he noticed your small figure through the window – with half-pinned-up hair brushing your cheeks and a warm smile, when another customer hummed deliciously over your noodles.

Your eyes met his lavender gaze, and you gasped, quickly going outside to meet his pale face. "Are you alright–"

"Suguru."

"Right," your hand landed on his cheeks, squeezing it softly as if kneading a bun. "You look much better now. The travel must've been tiring."

You took him by surprise, but something warm spread in his chest, feeling your gentle caress and thumb brushing over the rosy skin. Not many people treated him kindly, with care, and he tried to suppress an urge to nuzzle into your hand.

"If you're looking for Satoru, he went with your friend that way," you pointed a finger towards the small hut on the other side of the river. "This village is not big, so surely you'll find him somewhere."

Suguru nodded, still tracing the softness of your hearty face, with the kindest eyes he had ever seen. Truly, no noblewoman could be compared to the loveliness you carried like a second skin.

He strolled around the sandy paths, kicking the little stones that rolled under his feet. Curious villagers oogled him shyly, and each time he nodded politely, sending humble smiles and greeting a few children on the way. They followed him around the village, with little heads sweating under the sun and chubby hands reaching out for long, raven hair brushing his hips.

The smell of jasmine flowers filled the air when he crossed the small bridge, and a few petals slipped away from the fragile branches. A young girl laughed cheerfully in the house next door, and two old men sat calmly near the river's bank, trying to catch the splashing fish.

The village truly was... calm. Serene, almost idyllic, as if painted by the gods themselves, with the peaceful faces of the villagers and their cooing voices greeting Suguru on every corner.

He finally noticed a flash of snowy hair and quickly moved its way.

Satoru sat in the garden with a young woman and a little boy snuggling on her lap, while Nanami... dearest. Nanami was fixing the roof.

Never in his life would he have thought of seeing the first army general nailing the wooden planks with such a focus.

"I also want at least two taels of silver," the woman sighed, and Satoru politely wrote down her request. "But one is also enough. If that bastard decided to leave me, then let him pay."

"Two taels may be too much, but I'll try to bargain for you. Let's see," Satoru muttered, placing neat characters one under another. Little brush scrubbed slowly against the delicate surface, and only Suguru knew how skilled a calligrapher the Marquis was.

Truly taught by the best masters in the whole empire!

But the woman couldn't care less, for she never learnt how to read, and small characters reminded her of nothing but cute little bushes. Bending and curving under Satoru's steady hand, before he finished the letter and left it to dry under the sun.

His light eyes noticed Suguru's figure, and their cheerfulness was immediately replaced by a stroke of irritation.

What a bastard!

"Thank you, Satoru, I truly don't know how to repay you," the woman said shyly, gripping the letter in her hands.

The boy wriggled on her thighs, tugging on his mother's loose hair. Satoru lifted up a hand and pinched his chubby cheek, rolling a little giggle out of his lips.

"No worries, it's nothing. Just come to me when they reply, and I'll read it for you."

Nanami finished his little job too, and all three of them strolled outside through the wooden gate. Suguru didn't say anything for a while, taking in the rosy cheeks of his Marquis and oogling with curiosity all his exchanges with the villagers. They strolled around, picking up side jobs Satoru supposedly did every day – placing an order for vegetables and getting freshly delivered ones, checking the assortment for a little pharmacy, or giving short reading lessons to the local children.

People greeted him with this kind glimmer in their eyes, and kids hugged his legs, placing little stones, flowers and candies in his hands. He thanked them each time, ruffing silky hair, pinching their chubby faces and hiding every little, dirty stone in the sleeves of his robes.

On their way back to Satoru's house, Suguru finally managed to ask.

"Marquis, are we going to discuss it or just ignore the fact that you faked your death for six months?"

Satoru slowed his pace before finally stopping. Three men stood near the bridge, with light petals of the jasmine tree falling down on Satoru's milky hair. With no villagers around, he finally sighed.

"I didn't fake my death," he murmured, sitting near the riverbank.

The sun was slowly setting over the tall mountains surrounding the village, with tender hues of purple and pink and orange brushing the evening sky. Birds were slowly preparing for sleep, and villagers coming back from work in the fields. Big ox strolled behind them, tugging a little cart loaded with fresh fruits.

Satoru's eyes glanced up, reflecting the last rays of tangerine beams.

"After that battle, I fell into the river. The water must have thrown my body on the bank, because she saved me and took me back to her house. When I woke up, she was already there – tending my wounds and trying to stuff me full with noodles," he laughed warmly, as if remembering the first days spent in your presence. "I really wanted to heal up a bit and go back, but..."

Nanami and Suguru sat next to him, looking up at the fragrant jasmine branches hanging over the river.

"But I couldn't. You both know I never wanted to marry and have a family, but back there, after hearing her laugh the first time, something panged in my chest."

"Maybe your wound has opened," Nanami mumbled, and Suguru pinched his arm.

Satoru laughed, eyes still tracing the changing sky. "After meeting her, I finally understood what it truly means to be happy. To seek the next day and live in peacefulness, with nothing but her touch waking me every single morning."

Suguru hummed, remembering how warm you felt when your hand pinched his cheek. So kind and lovely, as if you honestly cared about this stranger you've met just an hour ago.

"She was constantly worried about people gossiping about her marriage, so I decided to use this chance and marry her. She wanted a husband, and I wished for nothing but to stay with her as long as I could," he continued, taking a white jasmine petal off his head. "But she was constantly afraid I would leave her one day, so to prove my devotion..."

Oh dearest god.

Suguru almost fainted again. "You decided to trap her with a baby? Are you crazy?"

He was crazy. So, so miserably crazy, and Suguru could see it in his eyes. In his hands, grabbing your waist in an almost possessive manner, and his always oh so gentle gaze, as if nothing else but his dear wife mattered in this world.

"I didn't trap her... well. At least she doesn't feel that way," he coughed, smiling like a fool. "She always wanted to have a family, so I decided to give it to her. What's wrong with it?"

"Marquis, are you hearing yourself?" Suguru almost hissed. "Just a year ago, you declined the most beautiful women offered to you by an emperor himself. And now you're telling me you decided to marry a simple commoner after knowing her for a month?"

"Well, he never offered me her," Satoru giggled. "And it was a week. She asked me to marry her after a week."

"She asked you?"

"Yes."

"And you agreed? Just like that?"

"Of course, it was love at first sight."

Suguru looked at Nanami, as if trying to make sure he wasn't the crazy one here. That Marquis truly went mad, and he lost all his senses.

Maybe while falling down, he hit his head? Maybe you bewitched him and forced a marriage?

But no one in this world could possibly force a tyrannical Marquis to do anything. Well, at least that's what Suguru have thought.

"Marquis, does it mean that... she doesn't know who you are?" Nanami asked, and everyone suddenly held their breath.

Including Satoru, who scratched his head sheepishly.

Oh.

Oh!

"She doesn't. You didn't tell her?!" Suguru once again almost shouted, and Satoru quickly shushed him.

"How could I? She thinks I'm a simple scholar who can do nothing but sweet-talk and read," he brushed another jasmine petal, and Suguru noticed a bit of worry behind his ocean eyes. "If she knew my real rank... There's a chance she would leave me. She's alone in this world – no parents, no family. If revealing my situation would mean losing her, I'd rather live as a commoner."

Suguru couldn't simply comprehend the weight of his words. For living as a commoner was everything people of their sort feared. To lose a status that could save your head in turmoil times such as this one was almost like a death sentence.

And Marquis was ready to do it solely for a fleeting tenderness.

"Does it mean you're not planning to go back?" Nanami asked quietly. "Do you want to stay announced as dead?"

Satoru was silent for a few minutes, with rays of sunshine slowly leaving his face. The moon lurked shyly from between jasmine branches, reflecting his wandering gaze. Suguru has never seen Marquis so quiet, so calm. As if his soul truly healed up from all the bestiality he needed to suffer just to float above anyone else.

The cold, sharp Marquis was no longer here, replaced by a man who tasted love for the first time. He was like a child learning how to walk, but at the same time, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure his mother was watching over him.

And for Satoru – it was you.

You showed him the kindness of this world, and life deprived of the wrath he has felt for such a long time.

Marquis didn't say anything, but stood up instead and laughed under his breath. "It's almost supper time, let's go back. My wife always gets nauseous around this time, so I'll be the one cooking."

Suguru and Nanami simply nodded, following the Marquis back to the warm house.

They found you in a kitchen, humming softly and cutting the vegetables. The restaurant was already closed, and nothing but a soft beam of candles and a little buzz of crickets filled the small room.

Suguru has only now noticed your little bump, and he smiled when Satoru hugged you from behind.

"Sorry we took so long," he murmured, placing a wet kiss on your cheek. "There was simply too much to talk about."

You hummed, nodding head softly, till a few strands slipped away from your pinup. "It's okay, Satoru. Spend as much time as you need," you said, before looking up towards two men standing in the doors. "The room for you is ready. The supper will be, as soon as Satoru starts cutting the meat."

Marquis laughed, taking a heavy chopper and a fat piece of flesh. Suguru has never seen him in the kitchen, so he looked with pure curiosity at the way the iron blade slashed the tender meat.

What a bizzare sight, truly!

The supper wasn't anything special, but sitting together, talking and drinking – well, aside from you, of course – was the first time Suguru saw Marquis so relaxed.

Cheerful, free, with his head lying softly on your thighs and smooth locks caressed by your fingers. He was getting drunk faster than usual, babbling carelessly under his breath and peppering your little swell with kisses, till you flushed like the sweetest cherry and pushed him away. He joked and laughed, reminiscent of the days spent in royal academia with Suguru and Nanami (apparently, all of them met there, absolutely not on the battlefield) and delighted himself in stories about your first meeting.

About the moment he opened his eyes and saw an angel itself, to which you flushed feverishly and mumbled oh stop. Drunk Satoru was like a teenage boy boasting about his first love, and Suguru couldn't help but feel warmth spreading all over his chest every time Marquis peeked up at your lovely face.

When the night came, and it was time to part your ways, Suguru...

Dear heavens.

Suguru wished for nothing more than to be anywhere but right next to your room. For he heard everything.

Every sloppy kiss, every giggle, every shuddered breath of yours and silent Satoru, we can't, they're going to hear us. But Marquis, who was nothing if not madly in love, promised that don't worry baby, they won't, it will be fine, just let me taste you.

Fortunately, it seemed that you slapped his nosy hands away, because for the rest of the night, Marquis stayed silent.

Suguru and Nanami decided to stay for a few more nights, enjoying the idyllic charm of the village. Nanami would help in fixing the houses after the recent flood, and Suguru devoted his time to helping Satoru teach local kids. Marquis was the only person in the whole village who could read and write, thus local folks gladly attended his short, daily classes.

When Suguru came, the kids took a deep breath as if charmed by the gentleness and vigilance of his face. Satoru liked to fool around with little brats, but Suguru immediately put them in place, imposing a harsh, hour-long lesson as worthy of the most prominent strategist in the whole empire.

They sat with focused foreheads and beams of sweat glistening on their temples, while chubby fingers tried to draw clean, straight strokes.

Later that evening, Satoru told him that children liked the new pretty lady teacher, and you burst out in the most melodic laughter he's ever heard.

During the days, they fooled around, helped at the restaurant and did odd jobs for villagers, but the nights...

The nights were always reserved for you and Satoru.

And Suguru never dared to impose this gentle time between the two spouses, closing himself and Nanami off in the bedroom.

But he heard every little word rolled intimately between the two tender souls.

He heard the soft creak of the mattress as Satoru shifted closer to you, as if even sleep demanded less distance between your bodies.

He heard your quiet laughter, muffled into pillows, as though you didn't wish to disturb your guests.

He heard of your simple dreams and plans and all the worries you seemed to always have at the back of your mind.

He heard your quiet I love you and his trust me I love you more, followed by a silent kiss.

He heard the gentle splash of water shifting in the tub, followed by your quiet hum, almost absent-minded, while Satoru moved around you with careful hands.

He heard the faint press of lips against your temple.

The whispered goodnights that always sounded like promises.

And sometimes, he heard nothing at all.

Just silence.

But he knew that even during the most hushed nights, Satoru was always keeping you close – to his heart and soul and eyes. For he has never seen anything more precious than the peacefulness haunting his wife's forehead. And if a little, worried crease would appear between your brows, his thumb would gently massage it away. Lips would kiss it off, and you would snuggle up even closer, as if your body unconsciously yearned for your husband's touch.

There was a special kind of intimacy between the two lovers, whose odd fates and minds mixed in one lifeline. A bond most could be jealous of – in the way Satoru seemed to have you at his fingertips and you somehow always curled around them, floating near like a little goddess.

If Satoru was a believer, he would pray to nothing but the giggling eyes of his wife.

A few days later, when they were getting ready for the road, Suguru would look back at the young couple with a swelling heart.

For Marquis, who suffered enough in his short life, deserved nothing more than to gleam under the warm sun like a fair child, with his bright laughter forever carried through the mountains and meadows of the great empire.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

I know, I know, I'll start writing the Alexander the Great Satosugu... just let me be happy for a moment before diving into the angst.

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