JUST A PEDRO LOVING GIRL

He could stop it. He’s your superior, he could just tell you to assist him with a patient, he’d even take the scraps of your attention if it was just to discuss something medical. All he’d have to do is say your name in that tone and you’d come over, all professional and tight around the edges, and help him like you’re supposed to. 

He doesn’t, though.

Which is its own kind of pathetic.

Because apparently the possibility of you looking at him like he’s something you’d rather not touch is enough to keep him quiet. Enough to have him standing there, fully aware of what’s happening, and letting it happen anyway.

He knows why you’re doing it. There’s no mystery there, no confusion or theories he could hide behind. He crossed a line. A very clear, very avoidable line, and he crossed it like he wasn’t thinking. 

His hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs. 

For a lot of reasons. One, because he’s had the temptation for months and somehow managed to keep it under control until now, which makes this feel less like a mistake and more like a failure of character. And two, because he knew—knew—it was never going to be a one-off for him, no matter what the two of you said at the time.

You’re not the kind of girl who should settle for something casual, and he’s too damn old to be the kind of man who makes you come and sends you on your way, like that’s all there is to it. He’d want to make you breakfast, take you out to dinner, make space for you. Literally. A drawer at the very least. 

Which, when he actually thinks about it, is a problem in itself.

The whole thing was a bad idea from the start.

And judging by the way you’ve been treating him since, you’ve come to your own conclusion about it. Pretend it didn’t happen, and hope it quietly dies if you starve it of attention. 

And it pains him that you seem to be doing that so effortlessly. 

Because he can’t get away from it. Not at work, especially not at home, not even in the stupid in between moments where his brain should be empty for once. 

His kitchen, for example, is now completely unusable in any normal, mentally stable way. Even when he’s making his coffee, all he can seem to hear are the breaths and whimpers of you coming on his fingers, and not at all the beans being ground.

His shower is something else entirely. He can’t even wash in peace anymore, which feels like a new low. All it takes is one stray thought and he’s right back there, stuck on you admitting  that you touched yourself in there. 

He can’t even pretend these thoughts are occasional either. They’re constant. Always there. Even when he tries his hardest to drown them out. Which, again, is not ideal, given his job requires a baseline level of focus he is currently failing to maintain.

“Earth to Abbot. What do you want to do?” Shen asks, eyebrows raised, elbows and gown smeared with blood. “You’ve just completely dissociated on me, man.”

Abbot blinks. “Right,” he clears his throat. “Okay—no, we’re not happy with that. Suction.”

Shen passes it without comment, though there’s a look there. Curiosity? Mild concern? 

“BP?” Abbot asks.

“Eighty-five systolic and dropping.”

He exhales through his nose, refocusing. “We’ve still got a slow bleed somewhere. Pack that for a second—no, properly, you’re not putting enough pressure on it. There.” He adjusts Shen’s hand without thinking. “Hold it like you mean it.”

Abbot was getting increasingly irritated as the night dragged on. 

Usually that irritation worked in his favour, making him quicker and more precise, less tolerant of mistakes, including his own. It was useful. 

Not tonight though. 

Tonight that irritation sat under his skin, and refused to morph into anything productive. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but nothing felt right either. And on top of that, there was an endless stream of patients, the usual rotation of problems that should be routine by now, but somehow tonight they felt entirely foreign. His hands didn’t even feel like they were attached to him properly. 

And his thoughts, all they seemed to do was circle back to you. 

The worst part of it all was that you were the one who said it was a one-off, implying you could both return to some sense of normalcy after that night, but you were doing everything that made him feel the opposite.

“Come get me if anything changes,” he says, voice clipped enough that Diaz doesn’t even try to say anything back, just nods like he knows better. 

His gown comes off in a rough pull, fabric sticking slightly before it gives, not even close to white anymore. Gloves go next, snapped off quick, dropped wherever.

He doesn’t even really think about where he’s going until he spots you. Your back’s turned, which means you haven’t had the chance to clock him and disappear yet. There’s a second where he considers leaving it. Just walking the other way. But he’s never really been particularly good at making sensible decisions when it comes to you. 

“You got a sec?” he calls out. 

You turn, distracted at first, and then do a double take when it clicks that, yes, he’s actually talking to you. “Me?” you ask, pointing at yourself. “Surgery has already been paged twice for my patient in bay one.”

He almost sighs at that. Not because it’s wrong, but because of course it’s something that’s already spiralled into multiple specialties and escalating calls and everyone pretending they’re not responsible for it.

“Yeah,” he says anyway, stepping closer before he can overthink it, then lowers his voice. “Not about that.”

“Right,” you drag out slowly, like you’re trying to decide whether that’s better or worse. 

A trolley clatters somewhere behind you, someone swears, an alarm rings before it’s quickly switched off. The department keeps on moving like it always does, indifferent to anything happening between the two of you. 

Abbot looks down the corridor, exhales through his nose and looks back at you. “Just—five minutes. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

You nod, fingers drifting up without thinking, fidgeting with a necklace tucked under your scrubs. You’re wearing a yellow undershirt today. He tries not to think about that too much.

“Bathroom?” 

You nod again. “Yeah, okay. Lead the way.”

He does just that, hoping you don’t vanish the second he turns his back to you.

You don’t.

That alone feels like a small victory. 

He pushes the door open, holds it long enough for you to slip in first, then follows after you, turning the lock. 

Suddenly it feels a lot more intimate than Abbot intended, especially considering what happened the last time the two of you were left to your own devices. You’re leaning against the sink and counter, thighs shifting slightly from the pressure of it, filling out your scrubs in a way that makes his mouth go dry for a second before he can stop it.

He drags his eyes back up to your face, hand scratching at his stubble. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s meant to sound like an accusation, but it doesn’t land as one. Instead it sounds like something he’s been holding in his mouth too long, wrong shaped and stripped of any pride. 

“I—not intentionally. It’s just been a busy week.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

You break eye contact, hand falling from your necklace as you let out a small sigh. 

“Okay,” you admit eventually, softer. “Maybe I have been.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He nods, swallowing. “Do you regret what happened that night?” he asks and you still can’t quite meet his gaze. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“Do you?” he presses, a little quicker now, like if he doesn’t keep moving the question forward it’ll get stuck in him. “Because that’s the only reason I can think of you going out of your way to avoid me. We can’t even act professional at work?”

“I have been professional,” you argue reflexively. 

“Are you going to answer my first question?”

He watches your face like he can find the answer there before you say it, like he’s already halfway convinced he’s not going to like it but needs you to say it anyway.

“Because if you do,” he adds reluctantly, “then I need to know. So I can stop making it worse for you.”

“Of course I don’t regret it,” you answer like it’s the most obvious thing and he feels his chest loosen. “We said it’d be a one-off and I’m just trying to find the best way to work around that.”

“And you think this is the best solution?”

“Obviously not if you’re cornering me in the bathroom.”

It’s meant to be a joke but neither of you laugh. 

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I crossed a line that night and I shouldn’t have done it and it’s completely my fault for even putting us in this position, I—”

“Don’t do that,” you cut him off and he raises his brow at the interruption. “Don’t make this out to be something it’s not. It wasn’t just you that crossed a line, I did too, more than you. Please stop making it sound like something I was forced into.” You pause, taking in a breath, wiping your palms on your thighs. “I don’t regret what happened. The only regret I have is that it clearly can’t happen again. And I'm sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. It's obviously not working in the way I intended.”

Clearly can’t happen again.

You’re not wrong. You’re not. It can’t happen, there are actual rules about this, policies written in language so dry it makes your eyes glaze over but still very real, still very much enforceable, and it would completely jeopardise your future if anyone got wind of the two of you. Whether it turned into something serious or stayed exactly what it was that night in his kitchen two weeks ago, it wouldn’t matter. It would still be a problem. A big one.

He knows that. Of course he knows that.

Yet his brain doesn’t quite…stop there. Doesn’t neatly file it under sensible and move on like it should. Instead it lingers on the wording, on the way you said it.

Can’t.

Not don’t want to. Not even shouldn’t.

Your only regret is that you can’t do it again. 

Which might actually make him go clinically insane. Manic. Deranged. Because it’s clear now, isn’t it—the both of you want this, but can’t have it without consequences that would only land on you. 

“Yeah…you’re right.” Is all he manages at first, then scratches the back of his neck, and when he looks back up you’re actually meeting his gaze and holding it properly. Longer than you have in the past two weeks.  “Can we find a way to move past it without you ignoring me?”

Your face warps slightly, an immediate telltale thing you do when you’re trying to bite back a smile.

“What is it?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. 

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

You shrug. “If I’d known giving you the silent treatment was this effective, I would’ve enforced it months ago.”

“Good to see you’re back to making jokes at my expense again.”

“Clearly you missed it.”

There’s silence again, and if he’s serious about getting the two of you back to something resembling normal, he’s going to have to stop doing that—letting every word you say lodge somewhere in his head and sit there, overanalysed to death. Because he did miss it, and he needs to stop acting so…weird about it. 

“Maybe.”

You smile at him, pushing yourself off the sink. “You going to Ellis’s housewarming this weekend?”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Why not?”

He pulls a face, turning towards the door. “Not really my thing.”

“Well why don’t you come,” you press lightly, “we could hang. Be normal about things.”

His head tilts a fraction, like he’s checking he heard you right and also like he’s trying not to read into it at the same time. “Hang?” 

“Yes. Hang. That’s what friends slash work colleagues do. Hang out socially with other people.”

He nods, fingers finding the lock. “I’ll try and stop by.” 

Even as he says it, there’s still a brief sliver of doubt, because it’s probably not wise, but then again, what could possibly go wrong this time? What line could the two of you cross in a house full of people, full of noise and movement, nowhere private, nowhere for anything to accidentally tip into something else?

When Saturday finally came, Abbot didn’t really get a chance to second-guess going because Shen was already outside his place, leaning on the horn like he couldn’t cope with even a second of silence. Which would make sense if they were running late. They weren’t…Shen just got the time wrong. 

Ellis didn’t seem to mind when the two of them turned up an hour before everyone else was meant to arrive though, not with how quickly she put both men to work helping her set up.

In fact, when people did start showing up, it sort of worked in Abbot’s favour. He could stay long enough for you to see he’d made an appearance, then slip out early with a perfectly reasonable excuse of being there early and helping set up. 

It’s a win-win, all thanks to Shen’s poor time management for once lining up in his favour. 

He’s halfway through nursing a lukewarm beer that’s gone as flat as a puncture by the time you show up, a large basket balanced in your hands.

Everyone else had brought the usual, bottles and more bottles, nothing you have to think about too hard. But from where Abbot’s standing your basket was filled to the brim with actual things you’d need when moving into a new place. Blanket, food, cleaning supplies, probably an overpriced scented candle nestled somewhere in there. 

He’s not surprised. You’re always showing up over-prepared for even the smallest of things. He takes another sip of the beer and quickly regrets it, eyes drifting back to you before he can stop them.

You don’t notice him straight away, too busy unpacking the basket and explaining everything you brought to Ellis. She looks genuinely grateful, keeps nodding along, but about halfway through she cuts you off, takes the basket from you and dumps it on the counter, then grabs your wrist and drags you towards the drinks like she’s saving you from yourself.

And he just…watches. 

Not in a weird way. He tells himself that at record speed. He just can’t seem to help the habit that’s formed of tracking you in every room. 

Ellis pours you a glass of whatever Shen’s attempted to pass off as sangria, watching you take a sip, face scrunching up almost immediately. 

He huffs quietly to himself, shifting his weight, fully aware of how this must look from the outside. Him standing off to the side, completely blanking Robby who’s right there, still talking, mouth moving, hands doing something vaguely animated, and Abbot hasn’t caught a single word of it. Not one. 

“We don’t sleep with the residents, man.” 

Abbot does a double take, like he’s been caught mid-thought and dragged back too fast. “What?”

Robby doesn’t even look at him, just tips his beer in your direction. “You’re practically fucking her with your eyes and she hasn’t even put her bag down.”

He scoffs, taking a sip of beer to buy him some time. 

“I’ve already got Gloria breathing down my neck about budgets and patient satisfaction,” Robby goes on, “I don’t need her adding fraternisation to the list.”

“Nothing’s happening.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Shame,” Robby adds, almost idly. “Because if this is you not doing anything, I’d hate to see what it looks like when you actually are.”

“What, now you’re encouraging me?” 

Robby snorts, shaking his head. “No. I’m just saying—if there is anything happening, keep it the hell out of the ER.”

“There’s nothing going on, man. You can drop it,” he mutters, knocking back the rest of his beer as he spots you walking over, unsure whether that’s the best decision with what Robby’s currently insinuating. 

“Okay, well, I don’t need to be privy to this conversation,” Robby sighs, noticing you heading their way. “I’d like some plausible deniability.”

Robby gives you a quick nod as you pass him, then veers off towards Dana without another word, leaving Abbot standing there with absolutely nothing to hide behind, nowhere to look except you. 

You’re wearing a sundress again. 

And his brain just…malfunctions for a second. There’s a slight lag when his eyes fixate on the way the material sits against your hips, the neckline lower, the hem shorter than the one he’s seen you in before. It’s stupid how quickly he notices it, how it registers before he can even think to stop it.

This is exactly what Robby was talking about, and he’s stood here proving him right, fully incapable of acting like a normal person for five seconds when you’re in front of him.

“Ellis said you helped set up,” you say, coming up beside him. “That was nice of you.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, she had us working the second we stepped through the front door. Didn’t even get a tour or anything.”

“Is that why you decided to give everyone alcohol poisoning with the sangria?”

Abbot laughs, setting his drink down on the fireplace. “That was all Shen.”

There’s a stench of silence and it makes him realise how bad the two of you are now at this whole normalcy thing. There never used to be silences like this, not ones that felt like either person was thinking about something else. The obvious elephant in the room, even to Robby apparently.

“We’re setting up a round of beer pong,” Shen announces, appearing out of nowhere with a red cup filled to the brim with his sangria. “Next round is me and Ellis against you two—” he points between you and Abbot. “Be there or be square.”

Abbot glances at the cup, then back at Shen. “How about you be sober since you’re my ride?”

“You can just catch a ride with Robby,” Shen shrugs. “He drove.”

He shakes his head because he knew this would happen. Shen is the least reliable method of transport known to man. Abbot’s half surprised he even makes it to his shifts on time.

“You playing?” you ask, glancing between him and Shen.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Shen groans. “You’re both playing. I’ve already decided.”

Abbot has come to realise that you’re actually really good at beer pong. Whether that’s down to your aim or just sheer desperation to avoid drinking whatever the hell Shen’s made, he’s not entirely sure. Either way, the two of you are winning.

Which should be what he’s focusing on.

It isn’t.

Because you keep leaning forward to line up your shots, bending over the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hovering with the ball, squinting like it’s a matter of life or death. And it’s endearing how focused you get, how your tongue presses against your teeth, how you don’t even seem aware of anything else when you’re aiming.

And he’s meant to be watching the cups. The game. Literally anything else. 

Instead his eyes keep catching on the same things. The way the hem of your dress shifts when you bend, the brief flash of skin at the back of your thighs when you straighten and then lean again, the way your legs move when you step forward to grab the ball. 

He drags his gaze back to the table just as you release the ball. It arcs cleanly and drops straight into one of Shen’s cups with a splash. 

“No fucking way,” Shen scoffs. “We need to step our game up.” He nudges Ellis like she’s personally responsible.

“You need to step your game up,” she shoots back, grabbing the cup. “I’ve been carrying you this whole time.”

Abbot can feel eyes burning into the side of his head. He turns enough to see Robby watching him with a smirk, shaking his head, as though Abbot’s hitting every milestone on a very predictable recovery plan, like a patient progressing exactly as expected. Which is irritating, because Abbot is not, in fact, improving.

He rolls his eyes at him and turns back to face you. “Nice shot.”

“Yeah?” You glance over at him, mouth tipping at the corner. “You sure you saw it? You seem a little distracted.”

“Distracted? No, not at all,” he manages, which makes him sound like he was, indeed, distracted. 

You don’t comment though, just take a small step back so you’re beside him, shoulder brushing his as the two of you watch Ellis down the drink with visible regret before she’s reaches for another ball. 

“Jesus,” you mumble under your breath. “She’s going to hate us in the morning.”

“I already hate you,” she calls back, giving herself a dramatic shake like that might undo the damage. Ellis aims her ball like she’s about to shoot, but Abbot sees you stepping to the side. 

“El, your foot’s over the line,” you call out, all sweet and helpful.

She freezes mid-aim. “What?”

“Your foot,” you repeat, pointing vaguely. “You’re fully cheating.”

“I am not—” Ellis glances down, shifting her stance to check.

The second she looks away from the cups, you go still beside him, lips pressing together like you’re trying not to laugh.

“Just shoot,” Shen groans. “I’m ageing.”

“I was about to—” Ellis snaps, readjusting, rushing it now. She throws the ball too quickly. It hits the rim and bounces straight off the table.

“You’re full of shit,” Abbot mutters, just to you, eyes still on the table. “Her foot was not over the line.”

“I’m driving tonight.” You shrug, giving him a smile. “A girl’s got to do what she has to do.”

Ellis and Shen argue in front of you two, voices overlapping, something about angles, and you rushed me and you distracted me. 

Abbot scoffs, looking at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cheat at beer pong.”

“It’s okay to say you’re impressed. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I prefer to win fairly.”

“Oh yeah,” you hum tauntingly. “I forgot you’re such a rule stickler. Always doing the right thing. Never crossing any lines.”

“Ouch,” he clicks his tongue. “You always get like this when you’re caught cheating at frat boy games?”

“Like what?”

He tilts his head, crossing his arms as he studies you. “I think there’s a vein of rage popping on your forehead.”

“Yeah? Nice of you to notice instead of trying to look up my dress all evening.” You give him a bratty smile, grabbing a ball and pressing it to his chest. 

“There she is,” Abbot hums, satisfied, because this version of you is exactly what he was waiting for. With this version there’s no awkward push to get back to normal, no weird pauses where it feels like one of you should say something just to prove everything’s fine. This is easier. You push, he pushes back. You get sharp, he gets worse.

You’re too nice at work. Too polite. Too put together, all neat edges and carefully chosen words and that calm voice you use with patients that makes everything sound under control even when it’s not. And he likes that, he does, but this…this is better. This is you slipping a little, dropping it, letting him see the part that doesn’t behave, doesn’t follow the rules you keep going on about. 

“Your turn,” you say, pressing the ball into his chest again. “Try not to miss.”

He takes it from you, hand covering yours before the ball settles in his grip. “Lots of attitude for someone who needed to cheat two minutes ago.”

“I didn’t need to,” you correct promptly, following him as he steps up to the table. “I just wanted to.”

“Right. That definitely makes it better.” 

“My eyes are up here,” you remind him, tapping two fingers from your chest up to your face.

He wasn’t actually gawking this time, but that’s a weak defence considering every other time he has been, so he doesn’t bother arguing with you.

“Wouldn’t want you getting distracted and making us lose.”

Several hours later, you’re pulling into Abbot’s driveway, the solar lights along the path flicking on like they’ve been waiting for him specifically. The engine idles for a second before you switch it off. 

“There you go.”

He unclips his seatbelt, keeping a hold of it as it slides back into the mechanism, his thumb pressing into the fabric. “Thanks,” he says, glancing at you. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well it would’ve been rude not to. Shen’s asleep on Ellis’s kitchen floor and Robby disappeared without saying goodbye.”

“Yeah. Hope Ellis doesn’t trip over him in the morning.”

It was meant to be quick. In and out. Show face, have a drink and leave early. But the opposite of that ended up happening, the majority of the night crew sticking around longer than the day shift. Now it’s later than he planned, and you’re here, in his driveway, with neither of you moving.

He should get out.

But you’re genuinely smiling at him, and he’s not sure he has the willpower to leave. 

“You had fun,” he notes, quieter than before.

“I did,” you confirm blithely. “You?”

“Mm.” He nods once, like that’s enough of an answer. He glances down without meaning to, tracking the line of your milkmaid neckline where it dips as you move in your seat, and that’s when he catches it. 

A black card with a white outline peeking above the fabric. Something that looks suspiciously like one of the UNO cards Whitaker had insisted everyone play with. A game you somehow won three times in a row. 

He huffs out a breath, not sure whether to be amused or surprised that you’d go that far to win a cards game meant for eight year olds. “You’re unbelievable.”

 “What?”

“You’re absolutely unbelievable,” he laughs dryly, turning towards you in the passenger seat. “You cheated.”

You raise your brows, and he watches you physically fight the grin trying to break through. “At beer pong?”

“Yes, that too.” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I don’t quite know what you mean.”

He gestures vaguely towards you, unsure how to phrase it without sounding insane. “You’ve got a card tucked in your—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You know what I mean.”

“Bra?” you supply for him.

“Yes.”

“Funny, I don't seem to be wearing one.”

“Jesus Christ you need to stop doing that,” he hisses, words coming out harsher than he intends. You have to be doing it on purpose at this point, there’s no way you’re not aware of what you’re saying, what that does to him, how it lands and then just sits there in his head, repeating, expanding, getting worse the more he tries to ignore it.

Because now that’s all he can think about, not the card, not the game, not anything remotely normal, just that. The fact you said it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t drag his attention right back down again, like he hasn’t already had to physically pull his eyes back up to your face several times tonight.

“You’re accusing me of hiding cards in a piece of clothing I’m not wearing.”

“I saw it. Don’t try and twist it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you reply, but there’s that look again that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And, frankly, it's cruel. 

“You cheated,” he repeats, leaning in. “Everyone thinks you’re all nice and polite and—” he lets out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “You’re a cheater. A serial cheater.”

Your brows lift, but instead of being offended, there’s something else there, something that almost looks like interest. You undo your seatbelt, tilting your head. “Yeah? What else?”

“You’re manipulative.”

“What are you going to do? Pull my dress down and check?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t think that’s a normal activity friends slash work colleagues do—”

“You know damn well nothing’s been normal between us since that night. You’re the one who said it was a one-off,” he goes on, because it’s been sitting there waiting to come out. “But then you look at me like this and say things like that and expect me to just—what, ignore it?”

Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip and his hand tightens where it’s resting against his leg, fingers pressing into his own palm. “I didn’t say ignore it.”

“Then what did you say?”

“That it couldn’t happen again.”

“Right. And this is you… sticking to that?”

You don’t answer him, but you’re breathing has picked up. 

“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “Thought so.”

And then he just moves, like a car running every red light. His hand comes up, fingers firm at your jaw as he pulls you in, rougher than he means to be. The kiss lands messily, noses knocking, teeth catching because neither of you slow down enough to make it neat. It starts all wrong, rushed and badly aimed, with no patience from either of you to do it properly.

There’s a moment where he registers what he’s doing, where his brain catches up enough to go this is a bad idea, but then you’re kissing him back, deepening it, and that thought doesn’t stand a chance. 

He exhales against your mouth, thumb pressing into your jaw as he pulls you closer, like the extra inch matters, and it does, because the angle changes and your mouths fit better this time. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, one hand sliding from your jaw to your neck while the other drops to your waist as he shifts, pulling you towards him. You let him, moving over the console, the whole thing awkward and uncoordinated, things getting knocked in the process, your knee bumping into him, his elbow catching against the door.

He makes a frustrated sound when you finally settle into his lap, like the movement wasn’t fast enough, like even now he’s impatient, still pulling you closer once you’re there, his cock aching for friction. 

“Still think this is a one-off?” he mumbles, words uneven, breaking between kisses as they drop from your mouth to your jaw, then lower.

Your fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt, tugging it up, chasing the heat of his skin. You pull it over his head, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders as his dig into your hips.

“You’re not very good at sticking to your own rules,” he adds, leaning in to press another wet kiss beneath your jaw. He sucks at the delicate skin before swiping his tongue over it to soothe. 

“We—we both—” you start, breath catching when his hand comes to palm your breast, “—agreed it’d be a one off.”

“Nu-uh,” he tuts. “You said you’d be able to move past it. I told you I couldn’t.” His fingers hook into your dress, tugging it down, the off-the-shoulder sleeves giving just enough for the fabric to slip, exposing your chest to him.

He’s imagined you like this more times than he’d ever admit, and he’s almost surprised he even registers the small cascade of UNO cards slipping free. The cards hit him, light taps against his stomach before they’re sliding down between the both of you. 

“You’re fucking joking.” 

You just shrug, like it’s nothing, like you’re not currently straddling him with evidence of your cheating scattered in his lap. You shift to reposition yourself, and he feels it immediately, his cock aching to be inside of you.

“Unbelievable.” His hand lifts, coming up to your chest, fingers closing around your nipple as he pinches it between his thumb and index finger, his eyes dragging over you, taking you in like he doesn’t know where to look first, like he wants all of it at once. “You cheat, you lie, and then you just—what—sit here like this?”

You tip your head back at the feeling, and he follows, bringing his mouth closer, tongue swiping over the nub as he watches you through his lashes.

“You don’t seem that upset,” you slur, hand digging into his shoulder as you roll your hips against him.

“Baby, with the view I have right now, I don’t think I’d notice if someone dropped dead in front of me.”

A soft sound slips out of you, half laugh, half moan, and it only makes his jeans tighten. He swears under his breath, pressing his forehead against your shoulder like that might help. He needs to control himself. He has to. He’s already finished in his pants prematurely like some horny teenager once before, and he really doesn’t fancy doing it again unless it’s inside you.

“Need your jeans off,” you mumble, hands reaching for his waistband, fingers deftly working the buttons. 

“Yeah? Think we might struggle in here.”

You shake your head, lifting yourself, balancing on your knees, the absence hitting him, a brief void he feels but doesn’t dwell on, not when your hands are right there, working each button open one by one.

Without warning, your hand dips under the denim, and Abbot inhales sharply as you palm him through his boxers.

“Huh,” you breathe, a smug edge to it, and he already knows what you’re about to say, can feel it in the way his precum has soaked through the fabric. “Have you been this worked up the whole night?”

He lets out a strained laugh because he’s been caught out and doesn’t have the energy or focus to deny it. His head tips back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut before he looks back at you. 

“Answer the question,” you press, your hand slipping underneath his boxers. There’s not much room for you to move, but the second your hand wraps around his cock, his breathing turns frantic, his hands digging harder into your hips.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Been like this since you walked in.”

Your brows lift, impressed, like you weren’t expecting him to actually say it. “Good.” 

You lean in to kiss him, and he tries his best to reciprocate, but all he manages are sloppy pants because your hand is still doing its best to pump him and he can’t concentrate.

“Help me out,” you murmur, biting his lip as you pull away. Your hands move to the waistband at his hips as you tug, and Abbot pushes himself up, giving you just enough space to drag his jeans and boxers down halfway to his thighs.

Your hand grips him properly now, sliding up and down his length, your thumb brushing over the tip. Your mouth parts as you do it, like you’re getting drunk on the sight of it, on getting him off. He finds himself thinking—briefly, unhelpfully—about what it would feel like to have your mouth on him instead. Whether you’d look the same. Whether you’d get that same faraway, intent expression.

But there’s no space for that in your cramped car.

And he’d rather feel your pussy swallowing his cock instead. 

His hand closes around your wrist, stopping your ministrations in one decisive move. “Wait,” he says, though he doesn’t actually give you time to respond.

Because then his mouth is on you instead.

Your dress is already pushed up, bunched carelessly at your waist, and his hands follow without needing to think about it, sliding underneath the fabric, mapping their way upward along your thighs with a familiarity that feels…earned.

He finds what he’s looking for.

Hooks his fingers into it.

Then pulls.

It gives immediately, the rip louder than it should be in the enclosed space. 

“Abbot!” you gasp. “What the hell?”

“They were in my way. Sorry, baby.”

You blink at him, still catching up. “They were expensive.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“How am I meant to drive home?”

That—apparently—is the wrong question.

He pulls back to look at you, and then he scoffs, quiet and disbelieving, like you’ve said something so wildly off-base it doesn’t even deserve a serious response.

“Drive home?” he repeats.

There’s a beat.

“You think you get to just leave?” The question isn’t really a question. “Not a chance.” His thumb finds your clit, applying light, deliberate pressure. His mouth follows, pressing a tender kiss to your neck. “You’re spending the night,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve got plenty of boxers.”

Another kiss. Slower this time.

“Or,” he adds, like he’s genuinely considering alternatives, “you can walk around without anything at all.” His thumb circles your clit again. “I don’t mind.”

You wither against him, your body registering the touch before your brain has had a chance to catch up. “Jack,” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, the rest of it never quite assembling into anything usable.

He hums delicately against your neck, like he’s listening, like he might even care.

He doesn’t stop, his thumb moving in an achingly slow rhythm. “You’re thinking too much.”

“M’not—”

“You are.”

You shake your head anyway and he doesn’t accept that. His free hand comes up to your face, settling at your jaw, thumb just beneath your cheekbone. Not rough but not optional either. “Look at me.”

You do. A little slower than usual. A little softer around the edges. Like you’re already halfway gone somewhere else and he’s pulling you back just enough to see it.

“You are,” he repeats, nodding once like that settles it. As though it’s something observable, not arguable. His thumb picks up the pace and he watches the moment it lands. The way your expression shifts around it. The delay. The way your focus slips, then tries to come back.

Interesting. 

There’s something almost clinical in the way he tracks it, the small details, the cause and effect. Detached, if it weren’t for the fact that his own breathing has started to change, slower but heavier, like he’s not as removed from it as he’d maybe prefer to be.

“That feel good?”

You nod. 

“See?” he says, voice dropping. His other thumb drags slowly across your lips, catching on the slight part of them. He stops there, just for a second, feeling the warmth of your breath, the softness of it, like he’s deciding something.

“Stop arguing with me.”

There’s a pause.

Then he presses his thumb into your mouth.

He feels the moment you take it, the way your lips close around it, the faint pressure of your teeth as you bite down.

“Sit up for me, baby.” He reluctantly pulls his hand away from your warmth, only for it to settle on your hip instead, guiding you up gently. You meet him halfway, lifting yourself and grabbing him again, both of you glancing down as you line him up.

You press the head of his cock against your clit, rocking yourself against it. 

“Jesus,” he bites out, his thumb slipping out from your mouth with a thin string of drool stretching between. “Slowly—go slow.”

You nod, as you ease down, taking him in bit by bit.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath, and for a second he thinks about telling you to keep going until you draw blood but he’s not sure that’s wise in your dazed state. 

“Fuck,” you grit, stopping yourself before you’re even halfway down him.

“Too much?”

“Mhm.”

“S’okay,” he slurs, focusing on your puffy clit again, drawing slow circles, helping you take all of him. “You can do it.”

His grip tightens at your hip, thumb pressing in harder as he watches you, completely locked in, like if he looks away for even a second he might miss something important. The way your face pinches. The way your breathing shifts. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer now, coaxing more than anything. “You’ve got it.” He watches every inch of it, the slow give, the way your body takes him, the hesitation that never quite turns into stopping.

“Yeah… there you go.”

You’ve bottomed out now, all of him deep inside you, gripping him so tight he’s not even sure how much longer he can last, and you haven’t even started moving yet. He goes still, in an attempt to chase composure.

“Don’t—” he starts when he feels you shift,  then stops, jaw tightening as he recalibrates. “Just—stay there a second.”

His forehead dips forward, almost brushing yours, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to steady himself through it.

“Tell me when,” you whisper. 

That nearly undoes him more than anything else.

There’s something about the way you say it. Gentle. Willing. Like you’re handing the control back to him without even thinking about it. Trusting him with it. 

He leans in for a kiss, and it’s slower than the ones before. Thought-out. Intentional. All that earlier hunger still there, but pulled tight beneath the surface now, tempered by the fact that he’s already inside you.

It changes things.

Makes it heavier.

He presses in deeper, tongue sliding against yours, and you let out a broken whimper into his mouth. “Go ahead,” he says, pulling back enough to take in the way you’re looking at him now. 

You lift your hips, then lower yourself again, and he can feel the way your body adjusts around him—your walls clinging to his cock as you start to find a pace that works for you. 

Abbot searches for your hips, guiding you, pushing you down onto him when you reach the base again, the curls there brushing against your clit. 

Your eyes are screwed shut and he takes this time to watch you shamelessly, The sheen of sweat starting to gather along your forehead, the way your breath hitches every time he pushes you down just a bit further.

It’s fucking euphoric. 

You keep moving, whining—half-words, curses, his name slipping in and out—as you pick up the pace, losing whatever rhythm you started with in favour of something needier.

“Such a greedy girl,” he mutters, watching the way a slick ring of wetness gathers and drags along his cock as you bounce up and down, your cunt squeezing him so tight he’s grasping at straws to make sure you finish before him.

His thumb finds that sweet spot, making you go limp against him, your forehead sprawling against his shoulder.

“Yes—keep doing that,” you mewl, and he’s the kind of man who follows orders, even when he’s not sure he’s got anything left to give.

Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and it pulls a husked sound out of him.

“Yeah? That’s what you do?” His hips meet yours, as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your thighs tighten and shake around him. “Didn’t take you for a biter,” he mocks, but there’s no surprise in it, in fact he sounds pleased. 

You say something incoherent back and he just laughs. “Go on,” he encourages, tilting his head to the side to give you better access. “If you’re going to do it, don’t half—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale when you do, the pressure of it shutting him up completely.

“Christ—”

“M’close, Jack—so close.”

His head drops again, eyes finding you like he needs to see it, needs to confirm it’s actually happening and not something he’s made up to torture himself with later. “You like that? That’s what gets you going?”

“Yes—fuck, yes.” 

Abbot feels you tense around him, your movements losing whatever shape they had, turning messy as the two of you dissolve into nothing but a tangle of limbs and half-formed sentences. Fragments of words, sounds that don’t even belong to language anymore.

You come undone with a cry, muffled against his skin that’s probably raw and marked now, something he’ll notice later. Your whole body tightens, then gives, your grip on him turning desperate while it rushes through you. 

It hardly takes Abbot a minute before he follows, the sight of you—like this, because of him—pushing him past whatever control he thought he still had. His hips jerk with a force that pulls a string of curses from him that are grunted into your hair, his cock twitching inside you as he thrusts into you one last time.

There’s no other sound for a few minutes, other than the two of you trying to catch your breath. Abbot can hear your heartbeat where you’re pressed against him, feel his own still thudding hard in his chest.

He leans back, resting his head against the seat, eyes closing.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes open immediately at that because you sound horrified, like something’s gone wrong, and his stomach drops at the off chance you’re regretting all of this already.

“What?” he starts, already bracing for the worst. 

He then follows your line of sight, your gaze fixed on his shoulder and immediately relaxes. “...That?” he asks, glancing back at you. 

You wince, reaching up like you’re not sure whether to touch it or not. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”

“Hey—it’s fine.”

You look unconvinced.

“It’s not fine, I—Jack, I think I actually made you bleed—”

“I know. I was there.”

That earns him an embarrassed huff. “I didn’t even realise I was doing it.”

“I did,” he replies smugly. “Didn’t hate it either.”

There’s a pause as you study him, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s serious or just trying to make you feel better. “...You’re weird.”

“Yeah, says the one who was doing all the chomping.”

Your mouth drops open. “Okay. I’m leaving.” You pull your dress back up over your chest and try to shift up, since he’s still inside you, but Abbot’s hands clamp around your hips, holding you in place.

“Not a chance. I already told you you’re spending the night.”

You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m still not changing my mind.” He leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder. “Plus you’re not exactly in a state to go anywhere.”

“I could,” you mutter.

He raises a brow.

“…I could try.”

He shakes his head, an amused exhale leaving him “Stay. Just for tonight. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

Your body sags against him, the fight easing out of you as your fingers brush lightly over the his raw skin. “Just for tonight,” you repeat.

Though neither of you can really pretend this is just a one-off anymore.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡

......fancy fussing over a different old man?

He liked it there despite everything, the calm, the sound of the waves crashing against the damp wood of the aged pier, the seagulls in the distance gurgling and the wind howling as if whispering secrets along the beach. For a brief moment Andrew closed his eyes, moving his always restless fingers on the wooden edge that protected whoever it might be, sighing audibly.

The sun burned intensely, but Andrew didn't mind, his golden skin absorbed the heat as if it could, for a brief moment, push away the cold that had settled in his bones since childhood. He could hear in the distance the laughter of Craig and Deran, given over to the euphoria of the waves and completely oblivious to the storm that always haunted the older brother. They had the lightness that Andrew had never known, the ability to shake off the weight that Smurf had placed on each of their shoulders, but in Andrew it had settled like an anchor, like a blind knot he had never known how to undo.

With his eyes still closed, he tilted his head back slightly, the smell of salt mixed with the pungent odor of diesel from the anchored boats composed the essence of his existence, of all his days. Andrew Cody, the firstborn, the protector, the executor, the son that Smurf had molded to be her extension, her tool and shield. And yet, in that moment of stillness, he was just a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders and the emptiness of a life that had never belonged to him.

It was then that he felt a presence, something that altered the density of the air around him, a subtle displacement that made every muscle in his body contract in alert. His jaw, already tense, hardened even more, and his eyes opened with the slowness of someone who had learned not to show surprise. He didn't turn around immediately, instead, he allowed his gaze to scan the horizon line, the infinite blue where the sea kissed the sky, as if he could find there the explanation for the sudden acceleration of his heart.

When he finally turned his head, you were there and the world suddenly seemed to slow down.

Andrew didn't know what was more overwhelming: the way the sunlight danced in your hair, creating a golden halo that reminded him of the images of saints he had seen during the period he attended church, or the way your eyes met his with a frankness he had never learned to endure. People always looked away from Pope Cody, whether out of fear, respect, or survival instinct. But you didn't. You stared at him as if he weren't a predator, as if he weren't the monster Smurf had created, as if he were just... Andrew.

His body went rigid and his heart beating wildly against his ribs, like a caged bird. The older man's mouth went dry, and he had to swallow hard before he could articulate any word, any sound that wouldn't betray the turmoil that had settled in his chest.

"What are you doing here?" The question came out harsher than he intended, a defense mechanism as automatic as breathing itself. His tone was a wall, a barricade erected by years of distrust and pain.

But you didn't back down. Instead, a shy and almost hesitant smile curved your lips, making Andrew feel as if he had taken a direct blow to the stomach.

"Deran said you'd be here" you replied, your voice softer than the wind that howled around. "And I thought... well, I thought someone should keep you company."

You were a ray of sunshine, a saintly divinity that settled on the refined street of the coastal city of Oceanside. You were kind to everyone in the neighborhood, never even complained about the party messes that Andrew's younger brothers made. Always compassionate and won the admiration of the Cody men, but of course you couldn't captivate the family matriarch. Annoyed by your natural way of altering the environment to something bittersweet and soft. You had become a constant shadow in the Codys' lives, gradually present for each one. Pope, in contrast, only observed from afar and dodged your approaches, but of course that didn't last long, you already had him in the palm of your hand.

Andrew frowned, confused. Company. The word echoed in his mind as something supernatural, a concept so distant from his reality that he almost laughed. Company was for ordinary people, for those who didn't carry the burden of being a Cody, for those whose hands weren't stained with blood and whose souls hadn't been sold to the devil in exchange for survival.

"I don't need company" he replied warily, but his voice faltered, betraying him.

You took a step to the side, getting closer, and Andrew smelled your perfume mingling with the sea salt, something sweet and floral, like the promise of a spring he had never experienced. His heart tightened as a dull, familiar pain grew inside him, now impossible to ignore.

"I know" you said, and there was an understanding in your eyes that completely disarmed him. "But I wanted to be here. With you."

The words fell like stones in a still pond, creating ripples that spread throughout Andrew's entire being. He didn't know how to process that, how to accept that someone, someone so pure and luminous, could desire his presence. For years, Smurf had taught him that he was unworthy of love, that his only use was to serve, protect, execute. That any true affection would be a weakness, a vulnerable point that enemies could exploit.

But you were there, defying everything he knew, everything he was.

"You shouldn't be near me" Andrew murmured, finally looking away to the sea, unable to sustain the weight of your sincerity. "It's not safe. I'm not... I'm not good for you."

The soft laugh that escaped your lips was like music to his ears, a melody he didn't know he longed to hear.

"Who decided that, Andrew?" you asked, and there was a challenge in your words, a courage he rarely found. "You? Your mother? Because, from what I see, you're just a man who never had the chance to be who he really is."

Andrew felt the air escape his lungs as if he had been struck. His hand, still resting on the pier's wood, had clenched into such a tight fist that his nails dug into his palm, surely marking it. Your words pierced the rigid man's defenses with surgical precision, finding the fissure in his armor that he had spent his entire life trying to hide.

"You don't know me" he whispered, and there was a desperation in his voice that he hated, a vulnerability he had sworn never to expose again.

"But I'm trying" you replied, your head tilting to the side without ever looking away from him as you took another step, now so close he could feel the heat radiating from your body, warmer than the coastal heat. "I'm trying to know you, Andrew. The real you. Not Smurf's son, the older brother, or the man everyone fears... I want to know you."

The final word hung in the air between them, charged with possibilities. Andrew felt his eyes burn, a sensation he hadn't experienced since childhood, since the last time he cried before learning that tears were a weakness Smurf would not tolerate. He blinked rapidly, forcing the moisture to recede, and when he opened his eyes again, you were there, so close he could count the lashes that framed your bright eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" the question escaped as a hoarse whisper. "Why waste your time with someone like me?"

You raised your hand then, a gesture so slow and deliberate, afraid he would recoil like a frightened animal, that Andrew could have pulled away, could have raised his defenses and put distance between you. But he didn't move, just stood paralyzed, watching as your fingers approached his face with a tenderness he had never known.

The touch of your digits against Andrew's rough, freckled skin was like an electric shock, a spark that ran through his entire body and ignited something he had long believed extinct. Your fingers slid along his tense jaw, tracing the line of his jawline with a lightness that contrasted with all the brutality his life had been.

"Because I see you, Andrew" you said, and your words were as soft as your touch. "I see beyond everything you've done, beyond everything they've done to you. And... I believe you deserve to be loved."

The world seemed to stop. The sound of the waves, the seagulls, the distant shouts of his brothers, everything faded into a muffled buzz. Andrew felt the tears he had sworn never to shed again begin to form in the corners of his eyes, and he squeezed his eyelids shut, fighting the tide that threatened to overflow.

"You don't know what you're saying," he managed to articulate, but his voice was broken like the shards of glass he had already picked up so many times after Smurf's and his own outbursts of anger.

"I know enough," you insisted, and in an act of courage, you pushed your body up and toward the taller one, then your lips touched his cheek, a kiss so light and pure that Andrew felt as if a piece of his soul, long asleep, had finally awakened.

It was the first time someone kissed him with love, even if it wasn't on the lips. After all, the kisses Andrew had known until then always carried intentions, manipulation, negotiation, desire, and transaction. But your kiss was different, like an offering, a gift, something that demanded nothing in return. And he, who had never known what it was like to receive something without a price to pay, felt himself crumbling inside.

His body moved, turning toward your smaller one, and his strong arms, driven by an instinct he didn't recognize, rose and wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him with a desperate urgency. Andrew buried his face in your hair, inhaling your perfume as if it were the air he needed to survive, and for the first time in his life, Andrew Cody allowed himself to cry.

The tears came in a silent stream, warm against your skin, and the big, strong man felt your arms tighten around him, offering the comfort he never knew he needed. His body trembled with contained sobs, with years of pain and loneliness finally finding a release valve.

"I don't want to hurt you" Andrew murmured against your hair, his voice choked. "I don't want you to become part of this life. This hell."

"You won't hurt me" you replied, and there was so much conviction in your words that Andrew almost believed it. "You protect me, huh? That's what you always do, isn't it? Protect the people you love. Even if it means sacrificing yourself."

Andrew pulled back enough to look into your bright irises, and what he saw there completely disarmed him. There was no fear, no judgment, no pity, there was only love, a love so vast and unconditional that he couldn't understand how he deserved it or when it arose from you to him.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, his hand rising to touch your face, tracing the curve of your cheek with a tenderness that rivaled yours. "How can you believe in me when even I don't believe in myself?"

You tilted your head, pressing your face against his warm palm, and smiled, a smile that illuminated your entire face and made Andrew's heart race.

"Because I chose to believe" you said, simply. "And because, when I look at you, I don't see the monster you insist you are. I see a man who deserves to be saved, and I'm here to show you that, Andrew. If you'll let me."

The promise hung in the air, fragile and precious as a soap bubble. Andrew felt his heart open, the defenses he had spent a lifetime building crumbling before your determination. He didn't know if he deserved that, didn't know if he could truly accept the love you offered, but in that moment, in that instant of vulnerability and truth, he decided to try.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender, a silent promise that he would try, that he would fight against all the demons that haunted him to be worthy of the love you offered him. Andrew's hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer as if he feared you might disappear if he relaxed his embrace.

The kiss deepened, charged with all the years of loneliness and longing he had repressed. You responded with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his brown, curly hair, pulling him closer as if you too feared losing him, and in that moment, on that forgotten pier with the setting sun painting the sky orange and pink, Andrew felt for the first time complete.

"I... I love you" he whispered against your lips, the words escaping before he could contain them, a confession laid bare for you and the sea, while Andrew felt his own heart race upon realizing what he had just confessed, closing his eyes with his forehead pressed against yours while shaking his head vehemently, an internal battle. "I shouldn't... I can't... but I love you."

You pulled back just enough to face him, your noses brushing, and Andrew saw the tears shining in your eyes, tears of joy that mirrored the ones still wetting his own face.

"Hey... I love you too, Andrew" you replied, and the words were like a blessing, like the absolution he had spent his entire life seeking. "Since the moment I saw you, and I'll keep loving you, no matter what happens."

Andrew pulled you against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart against his, and in that instant he allowed himself to believe that he could be saved, that he could escape the hell Smurf had created, that he could build a different life, a life where love wasn't a weakness, but a strength.

The following months were the happiest of Andrew's life. Every moment by your side was a gift, a small death of the man he had been and the birth of someone new. He had learned to truly smile, to laugh at silly things, to sleep with the tranquility of someone who knew he wasn't alone. You had taught him to trust, to lower his guard, to believe that there could be more to life than pain and survival. The older man would abandon the life he led, renouncing his mother's plans and following his own heart with you.

Meanwhile Andrew remembered the afternoons on the beach, when you would lie on the sand and count the stars that began to appear in the twilight sky. Andrew traced imaginary constellations on your skin, his fingers drawing paths only he knew, and you would laugh softly and comfortably against him, a sound so pure and joyful that he felt his chest overflow.

He remembered the nights he cooked for you, learning simple recipes that Smurf had never taught him because cooking was "women's work" or "a waste of time." He tried his best, always asking if you preferred your sandwich cut diagonally or horizontally, and you loved that care.

Andrew also remembered the times you would wake him in the middle of the night, startled by a nightmare, and instead of asking what happened, you would simply hug him and whisper that everything was okay, that he was safe, and that you were there for him. Andrew learned to believe those words, to allow them to envelop him like a warm blanket against the cold of his soul.

Smurf, however, never approved. From the first moment she learned of the involvement between you both, Andrew saw the dangerous glint in his mother's eyes, the same expression she used when planning to destroy something that threatened her control. He tried to keep you a secret, to protect your relationship from Smurf's claws, but she always found out. She always knew.

"She's going to destroy you" Smurf told her son one night, her voice soft as poison. "You think she loves you, Pope? She loves the idea of saving you, but when she finds out who you really are, when she sees the blood on your hands, she'll run. Like with Cath, with Julia, with Amy, like all of them."

Andrew clenched his fists, feeling the rage bubble in his veins like the most dangerous acid in the world.

"She's not like the others" the brown haired man replied, spitting the words like an insult. "She never will be."

Smurf laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the hallways of the house.

"Poor Pope..." the matriarch crooned, shaking her head with false pity. "You really believe that, don't you? But don't worry, my son. I'll show you, I'll show you who she really is."

Andrew should have heeded the warning. Should have seen the threat hidden behind Smurf's words, but he was so blinded by love, so drunk on the happiness he had found, that he chose to ignore it. He chose to believe he could win, that he could protect you, that he could finally escape.

But then the night everything ended began like any other. You were in the small apartment Andrew had rented, a modest space he called home because it was where you were. The yellowish light danced on the walls, creating shadows that seemed to dance to the music playing softly on the speaker you turned on as soon as you entered the house.

Every now and then I get a little bit terrified, but then I see the look in your eyes...

"I'll never get tired of this song" you said, nestled against his chest, embraced in the living room just enjoying each other's warmth.

Every now and then I fall apart...

Andrew smiled, tilting his head to kiss your hair. "Neither will I" he murmured. "It reminds me of you."

And I need you now, tonight...

You laughed, lifting your face to look at him. "Hmm, are you flattering me, Andy?"

And I need you more than ever...

He was going to answer, was going to say something about how you deserved all the flattery in the world, but he couldn't when he heard the noise. A door opening, and he was sure he had locked the lock when you both entered. Then footsteps in the hallway. The unmistakable sound of Smurf's voice echoing through the apartment.

Andrew's blood ran cold.

"What is she doing here?" he whispered, pulling away from you with a sharp movement. His body went into alert mode, every instinct screaming danger.

You frowned in confusion, reaching out your arm and pausing the music, and before you could ask, Smurf appeared in the room. She was impeccable, as always, her smile sharp as a blade.

"What a pleasant surprise" she said, her eyes scanning the apartment with disdain. "Pope, darling, you didn't tell me you were in such a... picturesque place."

Andrew positioned himself between you and Smurf, his body a protective barrier. Ignoring the false sympathy in the voice of the woman who had conceived him.

"What do you want?" His voice was low, controlled, but he could feel the tremor of rage running through his limbs. Smurf tilted her head, pretending to consider the question.

"Just a visit" the older woman in the room replied, adjusting her blonde hair in a snobbish way, her predatory and dangerous eyes fixed on you behind him. "I wanted to see the little girl who stole my son from me."

"She didn't steal anything from you" Andrew retorted, his teeth grinding. "You never really had me, Smurf, you're nothing but a manipulator."

Smurf's smile widened upon hearing that, and Andrew felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Oh, Pope... Always so dramatic." Smurf took a step forward, making the couple instinctively step back, but Andrew always staying between her and you. "No need to be so aggressive, it hurts mommy," she finished cynically, placing her aged palm above her chest in false upset.

"Get out of here" Andrew ordered, his voice a low growl. "Now."

Smurf laughed, a sound that seemed to tear the air, putting her sunglasses on her face, the noise of her bracelets being an omen sound.

"So protective. So passionate. It's almost cute" the Cody mother shook her head, her expression shifting to something darker even covered by the dark glasses. "But you know this won't last, don't you? She's going to leave you. As soon as she finds out what you did. What you are."

"Enough!" Andrew shouted, the anger finally exploding. His fist rose, but before he could take a step forward, you placed your hand on his arm, restraining him.

"Andy, honey, stop" you said, your voice calm despite the chaos. "Don't let her do this to you."

He looked at you and saw the trust in your eyes, the certainty that he was better than the anger Smurf provoked. Slowly, he lowered his fist, forcing himself to breathe.

Smurf watched the interaction with a satisfied smile.

"How beautiful" the blonde said. "The two of you against the world. But the world is a cruel place, and you know that better than anyone." She turned, walking toward the door. "I just came to warn you."

And so, Smurf left, leaving a heavy silence behind her. Andrew felt his heart race, the adrenaline still running through his veins. He turned to you, his eyes searching for signs of fear, of hesitation.

"Are you okay?" he asked hoarsely, both trembling hands rising to hold the sides of your face. You nodded, but Andrew saw the shadow that passed through your eyes.

"She's trying to scare you" you said, controlling the tremor that wanted to escape you. Not wanting to leave your Andy anxious, but deep in your core something alarming ignited like gunpowder in dry brush. "Don't let her win."

Andrew pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. Breathing and feeling you. You extended your arms, wrapping around his robust back and pressing Andrew's large body against yours.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you" he whispered. "Never." And he believed it, clung to it with all his being.

But Smurf was cunning. Smurf always won.

And I need you now, tonight...

And I need you more than ever...

Two weeks later, Andrew arrived at the apartment and immediately felt something was wrong. The silence was too heavy, the absence of light in the windows a sentence. He ran, his footsteps echoing through the hallways, and when he opened the door, his heart stopped.

And if you only hold me tight...

We'll be holding on forever...

And we'll only be making it right...

You were on the floor, motionless. Your skin, once golden from the California sun, looked so opaque and cold. Andrew screamed, the sound that escaped his lips was primal, a cry of pain so deep it seemed to come from someone else.

'Cause we'll never be wrong

Together, we can take it to the end of the line...

He fell to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he touched your face, searching for a sign of life he knew he wouldn't find. You were so cold.

"No" Andrew whispered, his voice broken. "No, no, no. Please, baby, no..."

Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time...

But you didn't respond. Your eyes were open, without that sparkle the older man loved, now fallen on that floor as cold as your skin, your inert irises were fixed on some distant point, and the lack of life in them was an accusation. Andrew took your body in his arms, pulling it close and hugging it tight against his own chest.

I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark...

We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks...

Andrew rocked himself and your dead body, both abandoned in the middle of the apartment. He knew, knew who had done it, but his mind and body found the situation unreal, so he cried. Cried as he hadn't cried since childhood, with uncontrolled sobs that shook his entire body.

I really need you tonight...

Forever's gonna start tonight...

"I love you..." he murmured against your hair, repeating the words like a prayer, as if God or any deity could have mercy on this poor suffering man. "I love you so much. Please, don't leave me. Don't leave me alone..."

But you were already gone, and nothing he said or did could bring you back.

The following days were a blur. Andrew buried you with his own hands, choosing a spot by the sea, where the waves sang a melody you loved. He spent hours sitting by your grave, talking to you as if you could still hear.

"You saved me" Andrew said, his voice hoarse from crying, drying his tear-wet cheeks. "You showed me I could be more. I couldn't protect you..."

The wind howled, and Andrew heard the echo of your voice in every gust, the sound of your laughter in every wave. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he almost managed to feel you beside him, almost managed to hear the music you used to listen to together. Andrew almost managed to believe that love could defeat hate.

But the truth was cruel. Smurf won. She tore from him the only thing he truly loved, the only light in his darkness, and Andrew knew he would never be the same again.

He stood up, his shadow stretching across the sand like a black stain, and walked toward the sea. The waves kissed his feet, he felt the cold of the water rise up his legs, an invitation to surrender, to finally find the peace that life had denied him. But Andrew didn't surrender. He couldn't. You would have wanted him to continue, would have wanted him to fight, to honor the memory of the love you shared. And for you, he would fight. Even if it meant living with a broken heart for the rest of his days.

Once upon a time, I was falling in love...

But now I'm only falling apart...

"I will love you forever" Andrew whispered to the radiant horizon. "And I will live. For you. For us."

There's nothing I can do...

A total eclipse of the heart...

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

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

You also knew better than to risk not answering.

“Yes?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

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

“Not at work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The show’s inside.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Half hour? Or a full hour?”

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

“Full hour.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the men from the alley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You instantly regret saying anything at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“You’re joking, right?”

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

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

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

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

“It was technically Deran’s idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All three voices erupt at once.

“You told her what?”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“Dude, are you insane?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only you’ll be willing to take it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyebrows twitch in curiosity. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, most of the time?”

Pope shrugs. “Most of the time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It isn’t posed as a question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of information do you need?”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

You answer just after the first ring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Easier said than done.”

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

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

“You like the beach?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You ever been to Oceanside?”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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

You almost turn around at least a dozen times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t disagree with that.

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

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

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

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deran snorts. “I told you she does.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gregory.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s do this, then.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“You nervous about tomorrow?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s your phone?” Craig demands.

“Back - back pocket,” Gregory pants.

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

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

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

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

“What?” Silas barks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

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

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

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

“Why don’t we take a little walk?” Silas says, low enough for only you to hear. “There’s some things that we need to talk about.”

Your knees buckle and the room around you begins to spin. “I…have a private room in a few minutes. Can’t it wait?”

That’s a lie, but you’re trying to do whatever it takes to do what Andrew had asked of you. Stay upstairs.

“Nah, it can’t.” Silas glances around briefly before sliding a hand into his coat pocket. The movement looks innocent enough but then the unmistakable outline of a gun straining against the material catches your eye. You look back up, your blood running cold, and he’s smirking at you. “And I’m not asking.”

He doesn’t give you the chance to object before he grabs you by the arm and starts hauling you across the overcrowded dance floor, everyone too drunk and distracted to pay any mind to either of you.

“Where are we going?” You ask, trying to play dumb. You say the words loudly enough that Andrew, or anyone listening downstairs, will be able to hear.

He vibrates with low, chesty laughter. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

It takes every ounce of concentration just to put one foot in front of the other and keep yourself upright. Your thoughts are reeling with worst case scenarios. What will you find when you enter the basement? Did Andrew and the others get caught? Did Gregory have a gun on him? Is someone hurt? Once you walk down these stairs, will you ever walk back up?

Neither of you speak again until Silas opens the stairwell door, pushes you inside, and pulls it closed behind him.

“I’ve always known that you’re a flight risk,” Silas grumbles, steering you down the stairs with one hand gripping you by the shoulder and the barrel of his gun now pressed to the small of your back. You couldn’t escape even if you tried. “You really think I wouldn’t notice if you left town for four days? To fuck off to Oceanside?”

You don’t answer. His grip on your shoulder tightens enough that you’ll still feel the imprint of his hand hours later.

“The tracker that I put on your car sure came in handy,” he chuckles low, the sound sending chills down your spine. “Led me right to the Cody residence. I had to do a little digging after that, but imagine my surprise to learn that the Codys have quite the reputation.”

You reach the bottom of the stairs, and he shoves you up against the concrete wall and brings the gun to the side of your temple. You can’t stop the whimper that escapes your lips.

“I just didn’t think you would risk your dad’s life trying to pull some bullshit like this. Clearly I underestimated just how stupid and naive you really fuckin’ are.” He’s close enough that spit sprays across your face with nearly every word that he says.

“So this is what you are going to do if you want your sweet old daddy to live to see another day,” he murmurs, voice lethally calm in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.

Your dad’s face the night Silas first showed up at his house to collect flashes through your mind. The night that would eventually butterfly effect into you standing right here, right now.

“We’re going to walk in there exactly like this.” He presses the gun harder against your temple for emphasis. “And you’re going to tell whoever is in that room to put my money back where they found it. After they’ve done that, you’re going to tell them to get the fuck out of here unless they want to clean your brains off of my floor. And then I’ll deal with you after.”

He pulls the gun away, and the small device in your left ear suddenly feels impossibly loud despite the silence on the other end.

You can only hope that Andrew has heard every word and knows what is coming.

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

The door to the safe room is wide open, and you see Gregory’s motionless body crumpled on the floor before you even step foot inside, a bullet wound dead-center of his forehead.

The second thing you notice is that Craig and Deran begin to lower their weapons as soon as you, and Silas directly behind you with his gun still aimed at your head, come into view.

The third, and most concerning thing? Andrew is nowhere to be seen.

After you get over the initial shock of realizing that Gregory is dead, presumably killed by one of the boys after saying whatever the hell he said that made it click in Silas’ head that you have very much played a part in all of this, the realization that you have no idea where Andrew is and that Craig and Deran are surrendering their weapons hits you like a brick.

You were so, so stupid to have ever thought this would work. To have actually believed that things wouldn’t go to shit, that everything would go according to plan, that this would end in your freedom. Now it’ll be a miracle if you and every member of the Cody family makes it out of this building alive.

Where the hell is Andrew?

He wouldn’t leave his brothers behind. He wouldn’t leave you behind. You’re sure enough of that. Not if there were any other way.

“Well?” Silas barks, pressing the muzzle of the gun into your temple. “Tell them.”

But your mouth has gone bone dry. Andrew. Andrew. Where is Andrew—

Craig and Deran exchange a look that lasts a mere second before Craig opens his mouth to speak. “Look, man, we don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Let her go and we’ll leave. Just take it easy.”

“Easy?” Silas repeats incredulously. “You conspire against me, break into my club, kill one of my employees…” He tips his head in the direction of Gregory’s lifeless body. “…and you want me to take it easy?”

Craig and Deran are both silent.

“Kick the bags over,” Silas sighs, his patience already wearing thin.

“Do what he asks, guys,” you manage to force out. “He’ll let you go. Just give back the money.”

Another second of hesitation, another glance between themselves, and then they nudge the backpacks across the floor.

Silas laughs quietly from behind you. “Smart choice.”

It’s then that you notice Craig’s eyes shift past Silas, the movement too quick and minute for Silas to even register as he starts to reach down for one of the backpacks.

Then all hell breaks loose, and the following thirty seconds feel like something out of a fever dream.

One second, Silas’ gun is pressed against your head, and the next, it’s flying across the room with a shot that goes right through the wall. Your body gets propelled forward by a blunt force from behind you, and you go tumbling to the floor with a sharp cry.

When you look up, there’s chaos all around you, but most importantly, there’s Andrew.

The door to the safe room, which had been wide open just seconds ago, is now nearly shut. He had been here the whole damn time, just waiting for the perfect moment to pop out and strike Silas from behind.

Andrew drives into him like a freight train, wrapping both arms around Silas’ torso and carrying him into a metal shelving unit. The entire thing rattles violently on impact, random boxes and loose paperwork falling from the shelves and scattering across the floor. Silas lets out a startled, animalistic grunt, but he recovers surprisingly fast for a man pushing sixty.

Then Craig and Deran jump in, and the four men crash together in an aggressive tangle of limbs and curses. It all happens so fast that it’s impossible to tell who throws which punch and whose blood is dripping onto the concrete.

All you know is that you’re the reason that they called Silas down here in the first place, and you see someone’s gun on the ground, no more than an arm’s length away from you.

Before you can give it a second thought, you grab the gun and force yourself to your feet.

Your hands are shaking so hard that it looks as if you have Parkinson’s disease, and you’re terrified to take the shot for fear that you’ll hit anyone other than Silas, but every horrible thing he has said and done in the last three years is suddenly replaying in your mind as your finger dances over the trigger and you know without a doubt that you have to do what you’re most scared to do.

You yell. A deep, guttural sound that tears through you, loud enough to get the attention of all four men in front of you. Deran, who’s positioned slightly in front of a beaten and bloodied Silas, instantly moves out of the way, giving you a clear shot.

You hear Andrew say your name, you see Silas start to attempt to lunge towards you, but you don’t let either of those things stop you from squeezing the trigger.

Time slows down. Despite the fact that the gunshot hadn’t been very loud thanks to the suppressor attached to it, there’s still a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears.

For only a fraction of a second, you wonder if you hit him at all. Then, your question is answered when dark crimson begins blooming across the fabric of his cream colored button-down, just over his heart.

Silas opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out, and then he falls forward, collapsing on the ground beside Gregory.

You’re still aiming the gun right where Silas had been standing with shaking hands when Andrew takes a tentative step towards you.

“I killed him,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I killed him.”

Andrew slowly and carefully peels your hands away from the gun and takes it from you. You’re still glued to the spot, both your mind and body in shock from what just happened. From what you just did.

You killed him. You killed Silas. You killed someone. Murdered them. And yes, they deserved it, but you still fucking pulled the trigger and shot them in the chest.

“No, you didn’t,” Andrew murmurs, giving Silas a kick to the shoulder with his foot. Silas lets out a weak groan that makes you instinctively jump back. “He’s still alive.” Then, before you can spiral any further, Andrew aims the gun directly at the man lying on the floor and fires it again, hitting Silas in the head.

He turns to face you, holstering the gun. “See? You didn’t kill him. I killed him.”

“So much for not shooting him in front of her,” Deran grumbles as he picks up one of the backpacks and slides it on. Him and Craig begin to move around the room, but you aren’t paying attention to what they are doing, because your eyes are locked on the body on the floor in front of you.

Bodies. Plural. Two of them. Silas, and Gregory. And blood. A lot of it.

Andrew steps in front of you, blocking your view of it all.

“We need to clean all of this up now,” Andrew tells you gently. He raises his hands as if he’s going to place them on your shoulders, but stops himself at the last second, his hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. “I need you to do one last thing for me, and then this will all be okay. Okay?”

His voice is steady and calm, but his hazel eyes are serious and pleading, like it’s taking every ounce of his willpower to maintain composure for your sake.

You give him a shaky nod to confirm that you heard him.

“I need you to go back upstairs. I need you to keep watch and make sure that no one tries to come down here, and warn us if they do.”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking. “What? No, no. I can’t go back up there. I can’t. I won’t be able to keep it together. I can’t pretend like—”

“You can,” Andrew interjects, voice firm. “It’s for your own safety, too. People will be suspicious if you disappear at the same time as Silas. You need an alibi. Go upstairs, show your face, book a private room or two, and pretend like everything is normal. Just for a few more hours.”

You swallow, inhaling and exhaling. What he says makes sense. All of the individual words make sense. But how the fuck are you supposed to walk back upstairs and act like everything is normal when you just killed a man?

Okay, Andrew technically killed him. But you still shot him in the lung. He would have eventually died from that alone even if Andrew hadn’t taken the gun from you and put a bullet in his brain.

“Just stay until the end of your shift to cover your own ass. Do you know if anyone noticed you come down here?”

“Uh—” you stutter, trying to remember everything that led up to this moment. “Uh, no. I don’t think so. The club’s really crowded tonight, everyone seemed busy and distracted.”

“Good,” Andrew nods. “You were never down here, okay? The cameras are offline, so you were never here.”

You nod, still unsure of how you’re going to will your legs to carry you back up those stairs, or how you’re going to keep the utter shock of what has transpired in this basement off of your face for the next few hours.

“What - what about you guys?” You ask him. “How are you going to get rid of all of this?”

Andrew shakes his head in dismissal. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. We’ll handle it. The bodies, the blood, the money, we’ll take care of all of it. Just go upstairs and keep an eye out for us.” He pauses, his eyes scanning your face. “You’ve trusted me so far, yeah? I just need you to trust me again for a few more hours.”

You have. You do. You don’t know if you trust yourself to not have a full blown panic attack in the middle of the club, but you do know that you trust Andrew.

You can’t quite bring yourself to verbally agree, but you nod.

Andrew takes a step closer and raises a tentative hand to your face, gently tilting your head to the side. “Earpiece is still in place,” he murmurs.

You expect him to pull away once he’s satisfied with his inspection, but he doesn’t. Instead, the soft pad of his thumb sweeps beneath your eye, wiping away a streak of smudged mascara. The touch is so tender that under different circumstances, you might have leaned into it. Might have closed the distance between you entirely. But right now, with blood still drying on the floor, all you can do is stand there and let him.

It gives you the much needed inspiration to get through the next few hours without completely falling apart, at least.

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

It takes every single last ounce of Pope’s self-restraint to not abandon Craig, Deran, and Jay to deal with the aftermath of the heist by themselves while he whisks you far the hell away from the city of Los Angeles in the middle of the night.

Truthfully, the only reason he doesn't do just that is because he doesn’t want it to come back to bite you in the ass.

He has to make sure everything is cleaned up. Everything. Every last drop of blood, every fingerprint, every strand of hair that could have fallen from your person to the floor of that safe room has to be eradicated before he feels comfortable leaving the club’s premises, and he sure as fuck doesn’t trust Craig or Deran to be as thorough as him. Deran lets his dish sponges get filthy and he doesn’t trust Craig to properly wash his own ass.

Finally, in the early hours of morning just before dawn, Pope can confidently say that the job is finished. Through the combined efforts of Craig, Deran, Jay, and himself, the safe room is cleaned spotless, the bodies of Silas and Gregory are disposed of, and the haul of cash makes it back to Oceanside.

Getting both bodies out wasn’t exactly easy, but Pope had planned for shit to go sideways. Jay was on standby in the getaway truck with an appliance dolly in case they were unable to retrieve the money from the safe while inside the club.

It was Craig’s idea, actually, to cram both bodies inside the safe and haul the entire thing offsite…to the middle of the fucking desert where all four men spent several hours digging a hole big enough for a six hundred pound safe.

No, things didn’t go according to plan, but they rarely do. It all proved to be worth it when the cash count ended up being just shy of half a million.

And if Pope’s share of more than a hundred grand wasn't enough to make the entire ordeal feel worthwhile, the relief on your face and the way you fling your arms around his neck when he shows up at your apartment later that day sure as hell does.

Maybe it’s a combination of everything that has happened in the last twelve hours and sleep deprivation, but it takes Pope a moment to register that you’re hugging him in your doorway. When he does, he wraps his arms around your torso and hugs you back, pulling you tight against his chest without a word.

“Sorry,” you breathe when you pull back, just far enough to look up at him. “I’m sorry, I…I’ve been so worried.”

He instantly feels guilty. He had sent you a singular text to let you know that they had left the city when they were on their way to the desert, but after that, he had been so preoccupied with disposing of Silas and Gregory’s corpses that he hadn’t provided you any further updates. He had been operating on autopilot, going through the motions of shoveling dirt, driving his brothers and nephew back to Oceanside, and then driving all the way back to Los Angeles after only a shower and two shots of espresso.

“No, I’m sorry,” Pope murmurs, reluctantly dropping his arms back down to his sides. “I should’ve texted, or called, I just…” He glances around to make sure that none of your neighbors are lingering around outside. You notice his hesitation and move to motion him into your apartment. He steps inside, only continuing once you pull the door closed behind him. “Just wanted to make sure everything was taken care of.”

“And?” You ask, biting your bottom lip in the way Pope has noticed that you tend to do when you are especially nervous about something. “Is it? Taken care of?” You add in a smaller voice.

Pope nods. “Yeah. Everything has been taken care of. There’s nothing that you need to worry about now. No one will ever find them.”

You audibly exhale in relief, your shoulders visibly relaxing as you lean against your kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. “Andrew, I…I don’t even know how to say thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me at all,” he says simply.

He’s told you already, but he’ll tell you again, he did this because he wanted to.

He saw you in that alleyway and knew you didn’t belong in that place. He saw you dance on that stage and knew that he had to talk to you. He had one conversation with you and knew that he would be willing to kill for you.

And he would do it all over again, even if he didn’t gain a penny from it all.

Which reminds him…

He pulls out a large, thick envelope tucked beneath the waistband of his jeans and holds it out to you. “Actually,” he clears his throat, “you can thank me by taking this.”

Your eyebrows scrunch together as you accept it from him. “What’s this?”

“It’s your cut.”

You pause before starting to open it. “My cut?”

“Yeah,” Pope shrugs. “Your cut from the money we pulled last night.”

You don’t even look inside before you’re trying to hand it back to him. “Andrew, no. I can’t take this. You killed a man - two men - for me, and then cleaned up the mess and dumped their bodies in the middle of the ocean—”

“Desert, actually,” he corrects softly, and your mouth snaps shut into a tight line, but he can tell by your eyes that you’re fighting a smirk.

“Still,” you implore. “You have done more than enough for me. Taking your money wouldn’t feel right. Not when you’ve already given me a second chance at life. That’s worth more than any amount of money ever could be, Andrew.”

God, he needs to go to sleep, because the last thing he should be thinking about right now is how much he likes to hear you call him by his name.

He hums a laugh, reluctantly accepting the envelope that you’re practically shoving against his chest, then takes a slow step towards you that leaves very little space between you. You’re slotted between him in front of you and your kitchen counter behind you, but you don’t appear the least bit put off by the tight space.

“Thought you said that you wanna get out of LA?” He murmurs. He reaches beside you, placing the envelope on the counter behind you. Then, instead of dropping his hand back to his side, it hovers for an awkward moment before falling to the edge of the counter, right next to your hip. He isn’t quite touching you, but if he moved his hand over a quarter of an inch, he would be. “Go back to school eventually? Start a new life?”

You’re smirking up at him now. “I did say that.”

He quirks a brow. “Then you’ll need money to do that.”

You’re silent for a moment, your eyes trailing over his face. You raise a tentative hand to his jaw, the soft pad of your thumb brushing a featherlight touch over a bruise that he had sustained in the brief but intense scuffle with Silas. Without thinking, he leans into the touch. The bruise is tender, but the feeling of your skin against his outweighs any discomfort.

“I thought you said that I’m always welcome at yours,” you hum. He opens his eyes to find you grinning slyly. It makes the back of his neck warm.

“You are,” he answers automatically. “Always. Is that…something you think you would want?”

You don’t answer with a yes, or a no, or even a nonchalant shrug. You just stare at him with that same soft, teasing expression as your eyes flicker between his eyes and his mouth, your hand still caressing his face.

There’s barely enough time for him to wonder if you’re thinking of doing what he has wanted but held back from doing since you pulled into his driveway in Oceanside before you lift onto your toes and press your lips to his.

His breath catches in his chest as your lips, tentative and impossibly soft, brush over his and every coherent thought leaves his mind at once. One moment, he’s standing in your kitchen trying to convince you to take sixty thousand dollars in cash, and the next he can’t remember how to breathe because the feel and smell and taste of you is overtaking his senses.

You linger just long enough for him to pull away if he wants to.

He does not. Of course he doesn’t.

His hand moves from the counter to your waist, and yours still resting on his jaw shifts to the back of his neck where your fingertips toy with the hair at the base of his skull. He leans down into the kiss, angling himself closer until there’s barely any space left between the two of you.

It’s soft, and hesitant, as if you’re both worried that if you move too fast, the moment will end all too soon. Warm lips move tenderly against his, your tongue sweeping lightly against his in permission that he eagerly grants.

It’s probably the last thing he should be thinking about in this particular moment, but he’s glad that he didn’t talk Craig out of his idea for a gentleman’s club based heist. Really, really fucking glad.

When you pull away, you release a small, breathless laugh that ghosts across his lips.

“Don’t worry,” you breathe, “that wasn’t me trying to say thank you or anything. I just wanted to do that.”

“Yeah?” He murmurs, brushing his lips over yours a final time. It isn’t quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps down his spine nonetheless. “I take that as a yes, then? You’ll come to Oceanside with me?”

You nod, the tip of your nose nudging his. “I think Oceanside with you is exactly where I need to be.”

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡ three months later ｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

“Are you sure you can’t see anything?”

Your eyes are wide open, and all you see is pitch darkness. Andrew is apparently as meticulous at securing bandannas around a person’s forehead as he is everything else he does in life.

No surprise there.

“Honey, I’m positive,” you laugh, repeating yourself for the third time since you got home from class no more than five minutes ago. Andrew had been waiting to greet you, as he usually is, with a blindfold in hand. That part was unexpected, but you have quickly learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to Andrew. He never disappoints.

He had asked if you trust him (he knows that you do) and proceeded to secure the black cloth around your eyes before guiding you down the hallway to the spare room of yours and his new place, which he recently set up as a study room for you.

“Ready?” He murmurs, one hand on your lower back as the door creaks open.

You step into the room. “I don’t know. Am I?”

He chuckles softly, bringing his hands to where the cloth is tied behind your head and then pauses. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take it down.”

“Take it down?” You echo, brows scrunching beneath the fabric.

He answers by letting the cloth fall away from eyes.

What you see is the very last thing you expect.

Right in the very center of the room, directly in front of where you stand, is a dance pole. Damn near identical to the one you had in your Los Angeles apartment. The one you hadn’t bothered to bring with you to Oceanside, because you had been so eager to leave everything about your life there behind. Everything.

Or so you had thought, until very recently when you began to find yourself missing one, and only one, thing. Dancing.

Not dancing for money, not dancing for men, but just dancing. By yourself, for yourself.

You had mentioned it to Andrew in passing only yesterday, that you wish you had kept your dance pole when you packed your entire life into your car and happily drove from Los Angeles to Oceanside to be with him.

Now, not even a full twenty-four hours later, he has both acquired and installed one since you left for class this morning.

You don’t even realize that you’re just staring at the pole, wordlessly, until Andrew clears his throat.

“Like I said, I can take it back down. It isn’t a big deal.”

“What?” Your gaze snaps to him. “No, it’s not…it’s perfect. I was just thinking,” you murmur.

His eyebrows lift slightly. “What are you thinking about?”

Since you came to Oceanside three months ago, you and Andrew have taken things relatively slow in your relationship, aside from the obvious of living under the same roof.

Things started in such an unexpected and unconventional way, but once you got here, your newfound dynamic was able to settle with a sense of normalcy. You may have met in a strip club, killed your boss together, and had your first kiss all in a week’s time, but Andrew still took you out on a proper first date and has been nothing but patient with letting the relationship progress at a pace that you’re comfortable with - physically, mentally, and emotionally - while processing everything that you’ve been through in the last few years and starting your life over at the same time.

Never, in a million years, would you have expected such beauty to come from such trauma, but it did. Because of him, it did. He was the light waiting for you on the other side of the darkness.

You shrug, grinning softly. “About how much I love you.”

Andrew’s hazel eyes widen in surprise. It’s the first time you have said those three words aloud. It’s not the first time you have thought them, but it is the first time you have verbalized them.

After the initial shock fades from his face, it’s replaced with the grin that you’ve fallen in love with waking up to every morning. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you by taking your face in his hands and slotting his lips against yours. Your arms instinctively wrap around his thick torso, melting into his embrace as he kisses you in a way that is both familiar and takes your breath away.

He murmurs the next words out of his mouth against yours in between kisses, his voice low and sincere.

“I love you very much.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

thank you SOOOO much if you read to the end of this!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated and will make me love you forever.

“It’s good you came in,” Robby could sense the hesitation in your voice. The kind of hesitation he hears in most unsure parents' voices when they think a trip to the emergency room is unwarranted or unjustified. “A mother's instinct is usually to be trusted.” He smiled softly as he stepped a little closer to the bedside where your six-year-old lay with teary, tired eyes, a clogged nose and some weird-looking skin irritation. 

Robby does a quick visual examination, noting quickly that your son seems to be having trouble breathing. He could practically hear the pneumonia in his little lungs. 

“What’s your name, mum?” Robby asked as he shone a small but bright white light into your son's eyes. He wasn’t perplexed about this ailment at all; it had to be pneumonia with a touch of contact dermatitis from something he’d come into contact with. A plant from school perhaps? or a cream you’d used. 

“Y/n.” You replied. The name rang through Robby’s ears like a beautiful bell bellowing at midnight. The kind of ring that makes little ideas appear out of thin air. If he were a cartoon character…Robby swore a little lightbulb appeared above his head. 

What are the odds? A beautiful woman with a young son who just so happened to have the very same name that not three nights ago, Robby had practically forced out of Jack Abbot's mouth with the threat of a new night shift resident. 

“You look a little worn out too? After we draw some blood and get this little guy sorted, I think there’s a cup of coffee with your name on it at the nurses' station.” He smiled, pocketing his pen light. 

“Oh,” You sighed out a small chuckle. “These bags are permanent, Dr Robinavitch—“ 

“Please, call me Robby.” He replied quickly as he walked around the examination room looking for all the bits he needed for a blood draw. “It’s my treat, there’s nothing I can do for the permanent lack of sleep, but a little caffeine is good for the body, brain and soul.” 

“That sounds great, thank you, Robby.” You shifted in your chair to move closer to your son's side. His little hand now safely placed in yours. 

“I’ll uh, I’ll be right back,” Robby caught the sight of his senior night shift attending heading out at the end of his shift. The very same night shift attending that Robby knew would want more than anything to be informed about this particular patient. “Excuse me.” He held up one finger and was gone before you could even say okay. 

“Abbot!” Robby bellowed as he did a hop, skip and jump action past the nurses' station, where Dana was getting caught up to speed for her shift. “Hey—Jack!” 

Jack sighed softly to himself before he stopped in his tracks. His old army bag was slung haphazardly over his left shoulder. 

“Brother, I am five feet from freedom here, don’t do this to me.” Jack turned with a growl. He was just trying to get home after a long ass night. “I leave this emergency department in your capable hands.” 

“Not so fast,” Robby cooed as he clamped his hand down on Jack's backpackless shoulder. “I need a consult, sick six-year-old presenting with possible pneumonia—“ 

“Nice one, sounds like you already have a clear diagnosis, what the fuck do you need me for, man, I’m off duty till seven!” Jack whisper-hissed through his teeth. His leg had been killing him since three, and Jack could practically smell the bacon and egg roll from Caramels calling his name. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s your Y/n and her son, Oliver? Yeah—yeah, I think I’ve diagnosed that too,” Robby spoke as he rubbed the back of his head casually, like he was still trying to fake like he didn’t know it was you from the second he heard your name. “But I thought maybe you’d wanna come suss it out for yourself in case I’m delusional and can’t put two and two together.” Robby smiled as he watched Jack's entire demeanour change. It softened at the mere thought of you. 

“You said pneumonia?” Jack followed up as he walked into Robby’s shoulder, making sure to make contact just to get back at the dick-like foolishness he had presented with. “And you're sure it’s Ollie?” 

“Oh, you’re already on a nickname basis with her kid?” Robby’s eyebrows raised as he followed his own emergency contact back to the exam room. “I’ll be damned, do I hear wedding bells?” 

Jack didn’t reply; all he did was make strides to where Robby had come from. Worry had already begun to take its rightful place inside his chest. Sure, Jack Abbot knew how to keep a calm and collected composure…but not when it had anything to do with the family he’d started to feel a part of. 

It was casual. Something new. It wasn’t something that you had considered becoming serious or anything more than just two people spending some casual alone time together. 

Casual. It was supposed to be a no-strings-attached thing. No feelings. No baggage. No attachments. 

That’s how it started anyway…it didn’t stay that way for very long. How could it when Jack was all in from day one. He made that decision on his own terms. All it took was one date with you to know he was in this for the rest of his overextended life. One leg down be damned. 

“Hey,” it was the softest hey Robby had ever heard. “What are you guys doin' here?” Jack asked as he walked in with a proud chest and enough confidence to tell Robby everything he needed to know and more. 

This was Jack Abbot's found family. A second chance at all the things he lost when he lost a physical part of himself. 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” You started in a near panic. “He’s been up all night. I made an appointment with our primary for Wednesday but—“ you didn’t get a chance to speak before Jack was dropping to his knees beside your chair. 

“I’m your damn primary now, alright?” 

You knew well enough that when Jack Abbot said something, he meant it with full conviction. All you could do was hold back a small quicker with pressed together lips as Jack placed a hand to the back of your head and drew your forehand to his lips. 

Robby was rendered speechless. He’d never seen this side of Jack before. 

“Uh, not to interfere, but I should probably continue my work up on Oliver here so we can get some sort of treatment plan in action.” 

“I can do that, you go ahead and annoy some other attending for the rest of your shift, I’ve got this handled now.” Jack didn’t let Robby finish, and Robby knew better than to argue. He threw his hand up in surrender as Jack stood and looked around at where Robby had organised the equipment needed for a blood draw. 

“How long did you say he’s been like this?” Jack asked as he looked down at the little boy, half asleep in the hospital bed that made him look ten times smaller. 

“He was fine yesterday, I thought it was just a cold he’d picked up at school a few days ago, but—“ You paused as panic threatened to burst out into tears; you felt like you’d failed as a mother. “But he just hasn’t been himself since yesterday afternoon; he’s been up all night.” 

“Yeah, he’s gonna be alright, I promise,” Jack cooed as he placed a comforting hand on Oliver’s forehead. “We’ll pump him up with some fluids, antibiotics, and we’ll go from there. Good call bringing him in, I just wish you would have called me.” 

“Jack—“ You sighed, it wasn’t that you didn’t want to…it was more like you were afraid if you did…he wouldn’t answer. 

“Anytime, anything, anywhere.” Is all Jack said as he worked on your son. He was locked in like a madman on a mission. Healing hands that worked miracles on patients all night now worked over your sons like he had something to prove. 

And he did have something to prove…he wanted to prove to you that he was head over fucking heals for you. Making sure Ollie got the best care he could was only the tip of the iceberg. 

“Alright, Bud, I’m gonna need you to make a tight fist for me so I can take some blood,” Jack told your son what he was doing. “But you’re gonna need to look over at mum while I do that, alright?” 

“Isn’t my blood supposed to stay inside me?” Ollie mumbled as he felt the man who’d made him feel safe enough to call family tied off his blood pressure. All Jack could do was laugh as a big grin took over his tired face. 

“Yeah, most of the time, but right now I gotta take some so we can run some tests to see what’s making you feel so miserable, alright?” 

“Will it hurt?” Ollie asked as he looked towards you. 

“A tiny little bee sting, but after that? Nope, plus I can do this with my eyes closed,” Jack looked up at you with a teasing wink of self-reassurance. “But maybe just one eye,” He caught himself flirting as he popped in the butterfly needle. “See? Bet you didn’t even feel that, huh?” 

“Nope.” 

“Good, now I need to talk to your mum outside in the hall for a few minutes, but Princess is gonna come in and get some fluids set up to make you feel better, sound alright with you?” Jack asked your son as if the kid had any say in the matter. 

“Is she a real princess?” Ollie asked as he looked over to where Jack was looking at the small vial of blood. 

“Yeah, Bud, only the real deal for you,” Jack replied as he gestured for you to follow him out. You did just that, but not without saying a loving bye to Oliver. 

It wasn’t long before the two of you felt the weight of the entire emergency department’s eyes on you. Jack's day shift peers, who saw him as something of a traumatised enigma, all looked over like a mythical creature had just appeared. A rarity that was someone on a personal level with Dr. Jack middle name unknown, Abbot. 

“He’s probably going to be admitted for a few days,” Jack started as he eyed down whoever he could lock eyes with. First it was Santos…then Dana. “I can assure you he’ll be fine, but I wanna keep an eye on him for at least twenty-four hours to make sure he’s reactive to treatment. 

“Oh,” Your heart sank into your stomach at the thought of your son needing to stay here in the sterile, fluorescent environment. “Um—am I able to stay with him?” You didn’t know how any of this worked. This was all new territory for you. Up until now, Oliver never needed to be hospitalised. Hell, he’d never broken a bone so much as caught a cold. 

“Absolutely,” Jack turned to you, recognising the guilt that plastered itself across your face. “But hey, on a more important note,” Jack tried to lighten the mood. “Who’s running the café this morning if you’re here?” 

“Adam,” You replied politely as Jack reached for his phone. You caught the background clear as day. You, Jack, and Oliver at the park. “Why? And how is that more important than anything that’s going on right now?” 

“Well, I need to know whose handwork I’m gonna fork out the Uber up charge for.” Jack doesn’t look up from his phone. He’s already got Caramels cafe, the cafe you owned, up on his phone. “Two bacon and egg bagels, an iced coffee and a long black coming right up.” 

“I guess you haven’t eaten, have you?” Neither had you. How could you possibly eat when all you’d been doing was worrying yourself sick over Oliver’s battle with whatever flu or cold or illness this was? 

“Honey, it feels like I haven’t eaten since March,” Jack teased as he walked with you over to the nurses' station. Dana, with all her bright joy and glee, waited patiently for Jack to introduce you. “Dana, this is—“ He paused for a moment, girlfriend never felt right. It felt like a title reserved for high school lovers. “Partner, my partner Y/n, her son is just about to start a round of fluids and antibiotics,” Jack updated the woman whose eyes never left you. “Make it known, VIP treatment for the kid in room three until peds has a bed.” 

“Consider it done,” Dana replied. “I wish I could say I’ve heard all about you,” she continued as she smiled your way. “But Abbot here has an issue with personal and professional.” 

“Yeah, I think we both share that same issue.” You replied as you looked around yourself at everyone staring your way. “Do I have something on my face?” 

“No, darlin',” Dana chuckled. “It’s just not every day this department gets to see into the private life of Private Ryan here.” 

“Oh, eat me,” Jack growled as he motioned the two of you back towards where your son's room was. “C’mon, I don’t want these pariahs giving you the creeps any longer.” 

By the time you got back to your son, Princess had started an IV bag of fluids. He looked so small. So tired. But there was a sense of calm that came over you, knowing Jack was taking care of him. 

“You guys hang tight, I’ll be back with our food in a moment.” The pain in his leg hadn’t gone away, not for a moment. But the pain didn’t come close to the sheer amount of love that was pumping through Jack's veins. 

Adrenaline itself couldn’t compare. 

“Hey, Jack?” You couldn’t let him go without a kiss. You reached for his cheeks and danced the pad of your thumb over his greying scruff. “I love you, thank you for being here.” 

Jack swore his heart had skipped a beat. It didn’t normally do that. But when he felt your lips on his in view of all the emergency department to see, he couldn’t help but blush. 

“I’m never gonna hear the end of this, you know that, right?” He whispered in your ear as he drew you in closer for a hug. One of the hugs he reserved just for you. “And this breaks like three code of conduct rules, fraternising with patients.” 

“I’m not the patient,” You clearly reminded him. “I’m your partner.”

others would think that after the accusations pope threw at you, the two of you would be at odds. but in reality, it was quite the opposite. you two were closer now than ever before. not that you took him back immediately. in fact, you made sure that he did some groveling. but he was willing and able to do anything that proved he wouldn't doubt you again. from flowers to home cooked meals. a completely new wardrobe, and new pairs of shoes. he was ready to give you whatever it is that you want. you had tried to tell him that he didn't need to buy all this stuff for you. but every time he remembered the sad look on your face when he yelled at you, he felt guilty all over again.

currently, pope had you bent over the tub, rinsing out the purple dye from your hair. he had insisted on doing it for you, despite the many times you've done it for yourself. not like you minded, though. his thick fingers are doing wonders as they massage the base of your skull. once done rinsing everything out, he grabs a nearby towel. wrapping it around your hair as he guides you to a standing position. one of his hands reaches out to your waist, stabilizing you as you sway from getting light-headed. he wrings out your hair with the towel before hanging it up to air dry. then, he begins brushing your hair, making sure to get all of the tangles out.

"you know, you don't have to do all this. i can do my own hair, andy," you say for what feels like the umpteenth time. but pope just shakes his head, continuing to brush every section of your hair. you stare at him through the mirror, a soft smile on your face as you watch him. he's so gentle with you. it reminds you of when you got your first barbie at seven and didn't wanna ruin her. she was the first toy that you ever got that wasn't second-hand. so every time you did her hair, you brushed it with soft and slow strokes.

craig later broke her right arm and head off after using her in some dumbass experiment. but you also remember pope attempting to fix her with some super glue. she wasn't quite the same after that, but you appreciated the gesture from him.

"do you like it?" you ask. "my hair, i mean." pope nods. "it's pretty. reminds of that pony from lena's show," he replies. a soft snort escapes you. you know exactly what show and pony he's talking about. recently, lena had been obsessed with 'my little pony.' it was all she watched these past couple of weeks. "you mean twilight sparkle? she's lena's favorite. i'm more of a rainbow dash girl myself," you say with a simple shrug. that cracks a small smile out of him. it's there and then it's gone, but at least it was there in the first place. he likes to hear anything that involve his two girls. even if it's something miniscule like a children's show.

knowing your routine by heart, once pope's finished detangling your hair, he squeezes out a small amount of heat protectant in the palm of hand, massaging it into your hair. he then begins to blow dry your hair on the lowest heat setting, careful not to dry it out. and once that's all done, he sprays some leave in conditioner in your hair, since you hate how frizzy it gets after blow drying it. only then does he look at you. he rests his chin on your shoulder, meeting your eyes through the mirror. "you look pretty," he murmurs.

"yeah? thank you, baby." the tips of his ears turn a soft pink at the pet name. you've been calling him that recently. ever since the small fight you two had about two months ago. "your hair is getting longer. it's growing out from the buzz cut." one of your hands reaches behind you to touch his curls. he leans in your touch like a dog wanting to be pet. "do you think it's getting too long?" he questions. you shake your head. "no, not at all. i like your curls."

you turn around to look at him face to face. the small of your back pressed up against the edge of your bathroom counter. his hands come down to rest at your waist while yours wraps around his shoulders. "i gotta head out soon. i promised craig that i would help him set up for the party tonight." pope lets out a groan of annoyance. "why can't he and deran do it themselves?"

"because i promised craig that i would help him out at the next party after he changed one of the tires on my car for free the other day," you explain. "but you don't have to come if you don't want to. i can drive myself."

"no, it's okay, i wanna take you. what time do we leave?"

"uh, i don't know. he didn't tell me a specific time. maybe in an hour? that way i can finish getting ready." pope nods. "okay, sounds good." but he doesn't pull away. he just continues to stare at you and hold you. "baby, that means i need you to let me go," you say with a smile. he blinks once. "oh, right, sorry," he murmurs sheepishly, stepping back so you can leave the bathroom. "don't apologize." you brush off his apology with a kiss on the cheek before side stepping away from him so you can sit at your vanity.

just like you said, an hour later, you and pope leave the house and head towards smurf's. thank god that she left town for the weekend for whatever reason. you've seen her a few times since the little 'lying about you drugging pope' incident, but other than that, she's surprisingly left you alone. when you arrive at the cody household, jay is sitting at the bar doing homework. you greet him by ruffling his hair. he attempts to slap your hand away, a look of fake annoyance on his face. out of everyone in his family, he likes you the most. appreciating the fact that you've never treated him like an outsider. probably because you're technically one too.

baz sits on one of the pool chairs while on the phone. probably talking to one of cath's coworkers at the bar. after her recent disappearance, the man has been on edge. more agitated than usual. he'll go from one to a hundred if you're not careful. you hate it. he's barely been there for lena, rather choosing to drop her off at a sitter's house instead of watching her himself. you know, like a real dad. and when she is around, he's unnecessarily mean to her despite this being a rough time for them both.

craig and nicky are by the pool, snorting away at whatever coke he's recently bought. you walk over to the two of them, shoving craig in the shoulder. "yo, you ready to set up or what?" you ask. he gives you a thumbs up, plugging his nose so he can ingest all the coke he just snorted. then he stands and gestures for you to follow him. "where's deran?" he just shrugs. "shit if i know. probably with adrian or something," he replies. before you follow him all the way to the garage, you reach out a hand to brush pope's. "i'll be back, okay?" he nods, leaving to head into the kitchen and wash the pile of dishes he noticed when coming in.

once he knows his older brother is gone, craig looks at you and asks, "you two like, official yet?" you shake your head. "no, not yet."

"what's taking you so long, huh? you guys have basically been dating for years."

you scoff, helping him put some beers in an ice bucket. "please, that's not true and you know that."

"are we forgetting when he beat up that guy for trying to come over to the house after standing you up? and then he proceeded to take you out to cheer you up?"

"that doesn't make us a couple-" you try to argue.

"it doesn't make you guys 'just friends', either," craid retorts. "i'm serious, dude. why aren't you guys dating? you've already hooked up, you live with him. shit, you might as well be married at this point."

"since when do you care about me and my love life, craig? besides, it's just... i don't wanna ruin it. i like the way things are now, and i'm afraid that if i tell him how i really feel, everything will change."

"that's bullshit, you know. pope, he... he fucking loves you. adores you, even. if you're personality hasn't scared him away, then you telling him that you've been in love with him for forever definitely won't," craig jokes.

you toss a couple of ice cubes towards him. he jumps at the cold sensation. "you asshole," you say. "but, uh, i'll think about it. telling him, i mean."

"good. now, c'mon, i'm not carrying all this shit by myself," he states, gesturing to the large amount of grocery bags sitting in the garage.

the party is a total hit. craig and deran practically invited all of oceanside it seems like. people are hooking up in every room available. and if there's not any rooms, they're doing it on any counterspace they can find. not to mention the tons of people piled up in the pool, or in the backyard. there's probably even some stragglers in the garage.

you've stuck by pope's side for most of it, knowing how much he hates these parties. but he loves watching you during them. he admires how you are during said parties. you're loud and confident, but not obnoxiously so, like craig. you whisk through the large crowds like it's nothing. not having to ask people to move because they do it for you. it's not like with pope, when they're moving out of his way in fear. when people move out of your way, they're doing it out of respect. because these people, people you've barely interacted with, think you're cool. with your dyed hair and baggy clothes, people like you.

you and pope sit by the pool, sharing a lounge chair. neither of you mind being pressed shoulder to shoulder. he likes it. keeps him grounded. baz occupies the chair beside you, flirting with some random chick. just this morning, he was worried about cath, but now, it's as if that never happened. you can't believe him. you wouldn't be surprised if he's forcing lena to stay the night at her sitters. again. "i'm gonna get a drink. do you want anything?" you ask, looking over at pope. he shakes his head. "nah, 'm okay. thanks, though." you leave him with a soft pat on his thigh.

there's a few people crowding the kitchen. you stare at the open fridge for a few seconds. you're not really feeling alcohol tonight, but that seems to be all that craig bought. when you dig a little deeper, you find a single can of diet coke. you don't even know how old it is, but it'll do. on your walk back outside, some guy stops you. he looks to be about your age. around six feet, brown hair that falls just above his shoulders, and bright green eyes. he's handsome, sure, but not your type.

"hey, i'm doug," he greets, putting his hand out for you to shake. you give him your name, shaking his hand. "so, uh, you new around here?"

"no, i'm not. i'm a friend of the cody's. are you?"

"same as you. i sell to craig every now and then," he replies. you nod awkwardly, knowing what he's doing. he's trying to make himself look cool to you right now. key word trying. secretly letting you know that he sells, so he can hook you up with some shit. well, too bad you don't do coke. "that's cool. i'll, uh, see you around," you say, attempting to walk around him to leave. and you almost make it out, until his hand snaps forward and grabs your wrist. "hey, baby, where you going?" he questions sleazily, leaning up against the wall. conveniently blocking your way out of this conversation. "i'm leaving," you state.

"c'mon, you ain't gotta leave-"

"no, but i want to. listen, i got someone waiting for me, so i'd appreciate it if you let me go." the stern look in your eyes and your tone of voice leaves no room for arguments. he drops your wrist before putting his hands up on surrender. "my bad, girl. didn't know you were accounted for," he says, moving to the side. you don't say anything as you walk past him and back outside.

unbeknownst to you, pope had been watching that interaction the whole time. based on the rigid set of your shoulders and how tightly you're clenching your jaw, he can tell that it left you on edge. "who was that?" he asks once you return to his side. "just some guy. one of craig's friends, i guess," you reply. "want me to take care of him for you?" he offers.

"no, it's okay. i can handle him if i need to. i just want you to stay here with me." so he does.

even with all this noise, you must fall asleep on pope's shoulder. when you wake, most of the crowd is gone, but there's still a few people here and there. you rub the sleep away from your eyes. groaning softly as you sit up. he looks down at you. "you feeling okay?" he asks quietly. "yeah, i'm sorry. i didn't mean to fall asleep on you," you apologize, yawning. he's about to say something about you not needing to apologize, when a little voice cuts in.

lena and alison, her babysitter, enter through the side gate. you get up first, with pope following. the poor woman looks drained. you can't imagine what she's going through taking care of someone else's kid, on top of having two sons of her own. "i'm sorry to just drop by like this. i was gonna keep lena for the night, but i just got called in for a shift at the bar. and baz wasn't answering his phone. he wasn't at his house, so i figured he would be here," she explains, letting a short breath.

"don't even worry about it. i can take care of her, it's no worries," you assure. lena grabs your outstretched hand while you take her backpack from alison with the other. you sling it over your shoulder so you can free one of your hands. then you fish out some money out of your pocket to slyly hand it over. alison tries to push the money away, but you insist. she gives you a small of gratitude, which you return. "i'll see you tomorrow, okay, lena?" she says to the young girl. lena waves goodbye, and then alison leaves.

you turn your attention to her at your side. "you sleepy?" she nods. "alright, let's get you to bed." just before you leave, you look over at pope. "can you find baz for me? i wanna talk to him after." pope mutters a soft 'yeah', before going off to find said man. you carry lena inside the house, forcing her to rest her head on your shoulder and close her eyes so she doesn't hear or see anything she shouldn't. walking past smurf's room, you can hear the familiar sounds of someone having sex. ew. you know that craig's room will obviously be occupied, and you're not gonna take jay's room from him, so you end up at deran's. he told you he was staying at his own place anyways so he shouldn't need it.

once inside, you shut the door behind you. you lay lena down onto the bed, tucking her in. "where's grandma smurf?" she asks. "i don't know, baby. she left for the weekend. some people are in her room, so you're gonna stay in uncle deran's for tonight, yeah?" she nods. god bless this girl, so understanding and mature for her age. "i like your new hair," she compliments, which you smile at. "thanks. hey, if your dad's cool with it, maybe i can dye a strand of your hair. pink, purple, whatever color you want."

that gets her excited. "really?"

"yeah, i promise. now you get some sleep," you command gently. "and i'll make you pancakes in the morning."

"banana chocolate chip?"

"banana chocolate chip," you confirm. you smooth some of her hair back, kissing her forehead, before standing up. just as you get to the door, lena calls your name. "goodnight, love you," she whispers.

"love you too, baby."

you hear yelling coming from outside. must be baz and pope, you think to yourself. and much to no one's surprise, you were right. they're talking over each other so loudly you can't tell what they're saying. but the second pope's eyes land on you, he silences. he knows what you had him get baz for.

"are you fucking serious, man? you forgot about your own daughter?!" you snap at baz. "alison said she called you a bunch and you never answered. i had to pay her, because i sure as shit know you're not-"

"oh my god, i don't need to hear it from you! i just heard it from pope. i don't need another lecture," baz cuts you off, rubbing his hands over his face.

"i don't give a shit how many lectures you get. i don't care if this whole party hears it. you're being a shitty father right now. you should be at home with your her. but instead, you're here. flirting with some random chick. lena just lost her mom, she should have her dad around."

"do not tell me how to raise my own kid, berry. don't even."

"but you're barely even raising her!" you retort. "i know what it's like to lose your mother. and i sure as shit know how it feels to watch your dad get preoccupied with other things instead of their own daughter. you're hurting lena, baz! she feels scared and alone! you need to be there for her-"

baz cuts you off yet again. but this time, with a sadistic laugh. "right, i know what this is. you may think that you're looking after lena, but you're not. you know what you're doing? projecting. forcing me to be a father isn't gonna bring yours back. maybe focus on your own daddy issues before worrying about lena's."

you can't even find the right words to say anything. what he says hurts. because deep down, you know it's probably true. baz smirks at you like he's won. and maybe he has. you let out a quiet sigh. "i'm, uh, i'm gonna go take a smoke," you whisper to pope. he tears his angered gaze away from baz, softening it when he looks at you. "want me to come with?" you shake your head. "no, i-i wanna be alone," you reply shakily.

barely looking at the two men, you push anybody in your way to walk out of the gate. you lean against the brick wall, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. tears prick in the corner of your eyes, and you blink them away. fuck. you hate how much baz's words affected you. there's a single joint in your jean pocket, which you pull out and light almost immediately. the second the weed hits your system, you feel calmer. less tense.

you're so stuck inside of your own head that you don't hear the other people out here with you.

"dude, i'm telling you. this chick is a fine piece of ass. like, she's sexy as fuck. i tried hinting that i sell, chicks dig that shit. but she wasn't biting. no worries, though, i'm gonna get her to fuck one way or another." you recognize the voice belonging to doug. the weird guy from earlier.

the voice who responds you don't recognize. "i don't think you can, man. apparently, she's with one of the cody's. the oldest. pope, i think."

doug laughs. "pope? he was in prison a couple years back. he wouldn't know what to do with a girl like her after all those years. besides, he's a fucking freak. a weirdo. no one would wanna be around a guy like him."

you've heard enough.

you step out from the shadows, spooking the two guys. "hey, doug," you say condescendingly. "you remember me?" he nods slowly. "well, good, because i heard you talking earlier. and, uh, i don't really appreciate the things you said. you see, i don't take too kindly to people who say stupid shit about those i care about."

doug doesn't respond. hell, he barely breathes while looking at you.

"what? got nothing to say now? you were talking such big shit to your homeboy here just a minute ago. but now that i'm here you're suddenly speechless?"

his friend looks between you and doug, nervousness evident all over him. you hold out the joint to him, before nodding your head towards the house. a silent command to take it as payment and leave. which he does with almost no hesitation.

leaving you and doug alone.

you're not sure who throws the first punch. it must be him because you get knocked off your game for just a second. but you quickly recover. you throw a punch. then another. and this goes on for who knows how long.

someone stumbles upon the two of you fighting, now on the ground, hurrying back inside to gather a crowd. the sound of a fight is intriguing so everyone follows him. craig and deran push their way to the front to get the best view, but also just in case they need to stop shit before it gets too serious. the last thing they need is someone dying in a stupid fight right in the middle of their driveway. but what they see stops them in their tracks.

it's you. hair a mess, shirt torn, blood dripping from your nose. all while you're sitting on top of this guys chest bashing his face in. deran mutters an expletive, hurrying off to find pope. craig, on the other hand, starts taking bets on who's gonna win. he puts money on you, of course.

it's like you have tunnel vision. all you can focus on is this asshole. blood rushes loudly in your ears that you don't hear the cheers of everyone around you. nor do you hear pope's voice calling out your name. he runs up to you, pulling you off of doug and holding your thrashing body against his chest. only then do you notice everyone around you.

pope drags you away into the house to the nearest bathroom. he then shuts and locks the door behind you both. he sits you down on the toilet seat, kneeling down to meet your eyes. "what happened?" he questions softly.

"nothing," you murmur, dropping your head. you feel ashamed. you let your anger get the better of you, making you act irrationally. you've never been a fighter, not really. rather choosing to fight with words than throw fists. yet here you are.

pope's mouth twitches. he wants to say something else. anything that'll get you to talk about what caused you to act the way you did. but he doesn't push. so he grabs the first aid kit from under the sink and sets it open on the counter. he grabs a clean, nearby rag and runs it under cold water. using it to wipe away any dried blood from off your face. he's sure to be gentle with you, just in case you might have a slight concussion.

your injuries aren't too severe, thankfully. just a cut on your lip and right above your eyebrow. your nose might be fractured, but not broken. your knuckles are probably the worst injury of them all. he grabs some gauze to wrap around them. all that's left is to check for a concussion. he asks you a series of questions, like what day it is, what the year is. then he has you stand with your feet together while your eyes are shut. no concussion either. that's good. when you open them, pope is looking at you. there's no anger in his eyes. just worry.

"that guy... he said some mean shit about you. usually i wouldn't react. maybe just say some snarky comment and leave. but after that talk with baz i was on edge. so when i heard him talking about you, i just... i snapped," you murmur.

"i don't want you getting hurt because of me," pope replies.

"what was i supposed to do, andy? just let him talk shit about you?"

he shrugs as if it's no big deal. "it's not the first time, berry. it won't be the last."

"yeah, well, i'm not just gonna stand around and let some asshole talk bad about a guy i love-" the words escape you before you even realize what you're saying. but the second they do, you regret them instantly. not because it's not true, it is, but because pope is just staring at you. "can you say something? please?" you beg softly.

"you love me?" he whispers. his voice is so quiet that if it weren't for you standing right in front of him, you wouldn't hear him. and there's that little furrow of his eyebrows that he always wears when he's confused. he doesn't believe you.

"of course i do, andy. why wouldn't i? you've always been there for me. you take care of me."

"deran has done all those things," he retorts.

"yeah, but that's different. i love deran too, sure, but not like i love you. you've always been nice to me. like the time i was eighteen and this guy i was hooking up with promised to take me to prom, but instead went with another girl. i cried almost the whole night," you recall that memory with a soft laugh, "but then you felt bad so you bought me flowers and took me out to some crappy fast food place that was open so late. to everyone else, i was just 'deran's weird little friend' or whatever baz liked to call me when i was younger. but to you i was just berry. you didn't have to do all that for me. but you did. i think i fell in love with you that night."

pope remembers that night. he hated the sad look that you had in your eyes when coming home. "you looked beautiful in that dress. it matched your eyes," he recalls. "i... i love you too, you know. i just don't want you to get scared of me or my family and run. you're the only good thing i have, berry."

that nearly breaks your heart. you pull him into a tight hug, hiding your face in his neck. "you could never scare me, baby. and i've been around too long for something to freak me out. you're stuck with me forever."

"good. i don't want you leaving. ever."

neither of you need to hear or say anything more. just the presence of the other is enough. tomorrow will be a new day, with probably the same bullshit that comes with living a life like yours. but you'll have him. he'll have you. and that's enough for now.

If he wasn’t saving lives in the ER, he was risking his own. It doesn’t matter that you’ve knelt in front of him, the hardwood cool and unforgiving, as you pleaded for him to take a day off. Just one. 

There is always something. A colleague who has children and needs that day to take them to Disneyland. Or a patient who only trusts him. A shift he just has to cover.  

You’ve heard nearly every excuse possible and smiled like it didn’t matter, like you didn’t matter, because maybe you didn’t. 

When you and Jack first started dating, he warned you that surgeons are the worst kinds of doctors to date because of their pretentiousness. He seemed to have forgotten to mention that ER doctors came in second on that list. 

It wasn’t the desire for fame or hubris that made Jack so careless about your feelings. It was his devotion to everyone but you. 

Sure, he’d kiss you and make you feel special—on a day when he could afford it. When he wasn’t chasing the high of being needed by strangers who’d maybe not even remember his name once he had saved them. 

You know the placement of every freckle on his body, and still, it doesn’t change anything. 

The third glass of wine doesn’t taste as bitter as the first. You don’t particularly like this brand or year or anything about it—you just know that Jack had bought it for today, back when he was still telling himself that he’d be home to celebrate with you. 

As the cap of the bottle dances between your fingers, the metal now warm from your body heat, you glance at the clock. 

Three hours and twelve minutes.

God, you’re a fucking loser. 

Maybe it would be a different story if you were married. Maybe you could forgive yourself for your desperation, your constant attempts to convince yourself you mattered to him as much as he mattered to you. If there were a little bit of proof of his commitment, you’d be able to look into the mirror without feeling sick with shame. 

But there is no ring on your finger or the promise that one will come one day. Jack doesn’t want to get married again. He says you two don’t need that. 

Three hours, thirteen minutes. 

You slosh the wine in your mouth while the darkest of thoughts creep in. It’s just a little fantasy you’ve curated and perfected over the years, and it’s an insane one, but you love to lose yourself in it every now and then. 

Jack comes home. The house is quiet. Too quiet. Goosebumps creep up his arms and neck as he calls out your name. When no answer comes, he runs up the stairs and finds the bathroom door ajar. Light seeps out under it, along with a small pool of water tainted light pink. 

Fine. You’re a little melodramatic. Maybe Jack’s neglect has driven you to regress into your teenage self who also fantasized about this whenever her dad yelled at her. 

Once the fourth hour starts, the wine bottle is empty, and you’re so drunk it feels like time has stopped. The tears certainly have. They’ve been replaced by this hollow laugh that echoes through the house while you watch the trashiest TV show you could find. 

While the alcohol courses through your veins, your eyes zero in on the women’s lip and cheek fillers. It stands out to you like black ink on white paper. 

You wish Jack would’ve been a plastic surgeon instead. You wouldn’t care that he sees women’s naked breasts and gives BBLs on a daily basis if that meant that he was home in time for dinner. 

Once you stand up to get a new bottle, you feel all the blood rushing to your head. Your legs are unsteady, and your forehead and nose feel so heavy, like they’re pulling you forward. 

You find out just how firm the fridge is when you knock against it. 

It’s not like you feel it anyway. 

The next bottle of wine is closed with a cork stopper. You’ve seen Jack open this kind of bottle with that metal apparatus that looks like you could find it in a gynecologist’s office. You have no idea how to use it. So you take a knife and start hacking away. You only miss your fingers by pure, dumb luck. 

That luck runs out when you try to pop out the cork stopper by hitting the bottom of the wine against the kitchen counter. 

What used to be the bottle is now a bunch of shards and a cold, wet feeling seeping through your socks. 

You laugh hysterically and drop to your knees, not half as careful as you should be. Something pierces your big toe, but you don’t care. 

The front door opens. Jack steps inside. And his eyes widen. If anything, Jack has always had one hell of a timing.

You’re a fucking mess. 

“Jackie,” you slur. 

You try to get up, but your muscles protest. 

“Jesus, what the fuck?” he hisses. 

He is by your side in an instant, stepping over the glass carefully. It crunches underneath his boots when he picks you up by your underarms and puts you down on the counter. 

“Baby, what the fuck happened?”

You giggle. You fucking love it when he calls you baby. 

“Oopsie,” you whisper. 

Jack stares at you with disbelief. His fingers catch your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his.  For a second, his mouth opens, and you await the lecture that never comes. Instead, his eyes dart over your face, taking it all in—the smeared makeup, the heat radiating from your cheeks, the glassy, far-away look. 

“Are you drunk?” he asks, his voice trembling slightly. 

You try to bite back a smile as you reply, “As a skunk.”

He lets go of your chin and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair.  You let yourself slide off the counter, trying to close the distance again. 

“Stop,” Jack yells.  His arm snaps forward, pushing you back. For a moment, you stumble. Your back hits the counter, and you look up at Jack with a hurt expression. Then your eyes follow his, and you realize that you almost stepped into the glass. A stupid smile spreads over your face.

Jack’s expression falls. 

“Hey,” he says sharply. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you doing, huh?”

He grabs you by your biceps and pulls you away from the sharp mess on the floor. You only feel the closeness as his fingers dig into your skin. 

“I missed you today,” you murmur dreamily.  Even to you, your own voice sounds far away. Or maybe only to you? You can’t tell. 

Jack stares at you, his eyes searching for something. Anything. 

“Talk to me,” he demands. “What is going on? Why are you wasted on a fucking Thursday?”

Oh, that one blows.  On a Thursday. Yes, a random Thursday.

You giggle so hard your throat hurts. 

“You’re never gonna believe this, but—” As you pause dramatically, Jack’s eyebrow twitches, “—it’s kinda an important Thursday. Like… really important.”

It’s almost visible how the wheels in Jack’s head start turning. They spark, creak, and squeak as he searches for the answer that’s written all over your face in the runny mascara and that look bordering on insanity. 

 His face falls when the wheels come to a stop.

“Fuck,” he whispers. 

As his eyes dart to the calendar pinned to the fridge, you feel your stomach turning. 

“Yeah,” you say.  Your mouth feels dry now, and nothing’s quite as funny anymore.

Jack looks at you, but you don’t meet his eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” You believe him. That’s the worst part. But it doesn’t matter how sorry he is, because you’re sorrier. To the little girl you once were who thought she’d be happier than her parents ever got to be.

You shift your weight and wince softly. 

Jack’s eyes widen.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.  His voice comes out rough. 

“No,” you murmur. 

Jack pats you down anyway, his hands searching alongside his eyes as he inspects your legs. At the end, he finds a small shard of glass stuck in your big toe.  You're holding onto Jack’s head as he looks at your foot. His ears have grown red. 

“You are hurt,” he mumbles. “I—Lemme…”

Torn between another apology and his worry, Jack picks you up. His arms slide under your back and your knees. The room tilts dangerously—you had almost forgotten that the contents of an entire wine bottle were coursing through your veins. 

“Rollercoaster,” you whisper.

He shushes you as he carries you to the upstairs bathroom where you keep the first aid kit.  The bright, white light flickers to life and hurts your eyes, making you groan. Jack only glances at you with more concern before he sets you down on the bathroom counter. 

“Hold still,” he instructs.  His arms keep you in place for a few seconds, like he is trying to show your body how to keep balance. “Don’t fall, please,” he adds, a little gentler. 

Then he crouches down, grunting a little as his knee pops. Somewhere through the haze of the wine, you remember that he just worked for sixteen hours. But then again, it’s your anniversary, and your empathy for his exhaustion is outweighed by your own misery. By far.

 He finds the first aid kit and takes a pair of tweezers before he catches your foot with his other hand. 

“It’s not too deep,” he says quietly. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t feel it until you moved.”

Yeah, you think to yourself, that’s definitely why. 

“Spoken like the doctor you are,” you answer. 

Jack looks up at you for a second, his lips pressed together. He murmurs something you don’t quite catch and then pulls out the shard.

You gasp as the pain shoots from your toe to your knee and pulls up high into your hip. 

“Ow, what the—?” you hiss. 

Jack keeps your leg still and rubs your shin slightly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Not for that.”

The air in the room grows cold.  Jack straightens up, and his knee pops again. 

“I’m sorry for today, too,” he begins.  He doesn’t get very far because you immediately hold up your hand. 

“No,” you bite out sharply.

For a few seconds, you just sit on the counter, your legs swinging slightly. Jack watches, fumbling with his fingers as he searches your face. 

“Can I clean your cut, please?” he asks.  You shake your head vehemently. 

“It could get infected if I don’t,” he retorts.

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come out. Instead, a wave of nausea hits you. 

“’m gonna be sick,” you mumble. 

Jack’s eyes widen before his hands land on your waist.  He half-carries, half-drags you to the toilet and makes it just in time as the wine comes back up, tasting ten times as bad as it did when it went down. 

“Shit, baby,” Jack curses. He gathers as much of your hair as he can save and rubs your back as you throw up once, then twice. 

It’s all liquid, too, because you haven’t eaten in a few hours—you were planning on having a big dinner with your boyfriend after all, as one does on their anniversary.  As your stomach cramps, you think about the muffins that you ordered, lemon batter and raspberry icing. 

The third time your tummy revolts, it’s just dry-heaving. 

Spit dribbles down your chin, and your hands tremble. You’re somehow sweating and shaking simultaneously. Jack whispers and shushes, but you don’t want his comfort. You want to keep drinking until you pass out. 

“Leave me alone,” you murmur, your hands flailing weakly. 

“And let you knock yourself unconscious? No, thank you,” he replies. “You’re so fucking drunk, you’re lucky you haven’t given yourself alcohol poisoning.” It’s clear he’s aiming for dry and sarcastic, but you hear the fear in his voice. 

“Get out,” you rasp. Your throat might as well be on fire.

“No,” he snaps. 

“You don’t care if I crack my head open,” you accuse. 

His grip on your arm tightens. “Hey,” he says sharply, “That’s not true. I care very much.”

You groan and rest your chin on the toilet seat as your head begins to spin again. 

“Then why are you never here?”

The silence that follows is only broken by your renewed retching. 

Once you’ve emptied your stomach, Jack leaves you by yourself on the bathroom tiles for a few seconds. His eyes keep flickering back to you as he turns on the shower, testing its warmth with the tips of his fingers. 

He returns to your side and flushes the toilet for you. 

“Can you stand?” he asks.  You’re surprised at just how soft his voice is. 

You shake your head. He doesn’t sigh. 

Instead, he nods quietly and maneuvers you against the wall. 

“Put your arms up, baby,” he instructs quietly. 

Piece by piece, he removes your clothes. You feel how his fingers tremble as he unhooks the clasps of your new bra, all black lace and clearly bought for today.  Once you’re down to nothing, he starts undressing, too. He leans his prosthetic against the wall and then manages to get both of you in the shower. 

The tiles are cold underneath you, but the warm spray from above keeps you quiet. Jack doesn’t say anything as he sits next to you, his grey curls slowly growing darker as the water hits. He doesn’t reach for you either, but his knee presses against yours. 

“You love me?” you whisper. 

Jack braces next to you. You feel the tension travel up from where his leg touches yours. 

“I do,” he murmurs. 

You swallow hard. “Then why do you never choose me?”

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

“Motherfucker!”

You angrily hit the coffee maker that has been causing the entire emergency department trouble for the majority of today’s shift. Langdon had watched you struggle earlier this morning before swooping in to fix the problem with a swift hit to the side of the machine and an off hand comment about having the ‘magic touch’. So, you imitate his actions now — hoping another dose of caffeine will help get you through the last couple hours of your shift. The machine stops its incessant beeping just as it had hours ago, but instead of brewing a fresh cup of mediocre coffee, the interactive screen goes completely black. 

Great. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take in a deep breath. If Jack were here, he’d miraculously show up beside you with a latte in hand. You don’t know how he does it, but the man just knows exactly what you need and when you need it — you’ve taken to calling it his ‘sixth sense’. In reality, that’s Jack — observant and steadfast. 

You miss the night shift.

It’s not that you dislike the day shift. In fact, you happily accepted Dana’s request for your help covering for Donnie during his paternity leave. In Robby’s words: they needed another nurse practitioner on the day shift and there’s only one that he trusts. A part of you thinks that it was just flattery to get you to come to the light side, but deep down you know that Robby only knows how to speak honestly. Lena wasn’t necessarily happy to let her best help switch shifts for an extended period of time, but she also knows that the ED is a team — sure the staff is split between day shift and night shift, but things only run smoothly when the shifts help each other out. 

Jack wasn’t too keen on the idea. 

He couldn’t stop you of course — Lena is your supervisor, not him. But that didn’t stop him from voicing his concerns. Jack Abbot has always been protective of his nightcrawlers, but there was something verging on possessive in the way he told Robby that this is simply a temporary arrangement after he realized he couldn’t change your mind. 

“Should I call Ahmad to escort the caffeine criminal off the premises or do you have a handle on the situation?”

Robby’s voice breaks through your thoughts. You let out a sigh before turning to face the day shift’s senior attending. His expression, usually threaded with deep exhaustion and stoicism, is teetering on the edge of playfulness while a small smile tugs at his lips. 

“Y’know what, Robinavitch? We never had this problem when we had the old machine. Mr. Coffee only had three buttons and never betrayed me.”

Robby lets out a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh, but the closest he’ll get to one this late into his shift. Gloria had decided to get the department a fancy new coffee maker that makes individual cups instead of a full pot a few weeks ago to celebrate improved patient satisfaction scores. What was meant to be a gesture of goodwill from upstairs has become the staff’s worst nightmare.

“You sound like Jack.”

You roll your eyes, but you also know no one has been more upset about this change than the night shift’s senior attending. Robby has always brought his own coffee from home, but Jack has been relying on the emergency department’s supply of shitty coffee for the entirety of his career at PTMC. You’d asked him about it once when you first started working together and he’d revealed under fluorescent lights that there was something comforting about the way it reminded him of the coffee rations he’d receive during his deployments. 

“Have you talked to Jack recently?”

Robby attempts to sound nonchalant; however, you know him better than that. You’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s worse than the night shift nurses. Always needing to be in the know about everything and everyone. He swears that it’s because he’s the senior attending, so it’s his responsibility to keep an eye and ear on all of his staff. But Jack isn’t like that. He’s always been reserved and professional during shifts, always keeping his staff at a distance so he doesn’t get too attached — everyone except for you. In between cups of coffee and rooftop conversations, you managed to slip through the cracks of that cool, steely exterior.

“We talk during handover, but that’s not exactly the same as working a twelve hour shift with someone. Why? Anything I should be concerned about?”

Robby’s lips pull into a tight smile at your response, but anxiety finds its place in your chest. During handoff about a week ago, Mateo had pulled you aside to ask if you had any idea what was going on with Jack. Your brow furrowed as Mateo filled you in about Jack’s sudden change in demeanor with his staff — the once calm and collected attending has been increasingly impatient and scattered. You’d reassured Mateo that it was probably just stress related since Jack hadn’t had a day off in months — and even then he spent his rare off-call moments volunteering as a SWAT medic. You figured that Jack had finally hit a wall and was running on fumes, but Robby’s words were now making you second your assumptions.

“Nothing of concern, just looking out for you and Jack.”

Robby has this tone that makes it seem like he knows more about your relationship with Jack Abbot than you do. You know about his history with the night shift’s senior attending physician, but Robby hasn’t been there for the close calls at three o’clock in the morning when Jack puts his complete trust in your hands without a second thought. He hasn’t been there for the nights that seem to drag on for days when it seems like the sun will never rise again. He hasn’t been there for the hushed conversations in stairwells when the night feels darkest and the only comfort to be found in PTMC is in each other’s presence. 

It’s not a bond built on flirtation — God knows, Jack Abbot flirts with everyone. And does that make you a little jealous? Maybe. And were you hoping that the distance created due to being on day shift for a few weeks would help you create some boundaries with the man? Possibly. But here you are, still infuriatingly infatuated with a man you have absolutely no chance with. 

“I can assure you there’s no Jack and I.”

“Mhm.”

That damn tone again. You want to smack that smug look right off of his stupid face, but before you get the chance to fire back a commotion outside abruptly ends your conversation. The two of you move in tandem, Robby holding the door to the break room open as you duck under his arm before surveying the scene. Your eyes immediately widen as you spot Langdon attempting to keep two infuriated men on their separate gurneys as they yell over each other. He meets your eyes before moving his gaze to Robby, relief flooding his features.

“A little help here?”

You and Robby share a brief, knowing look before dividing and conquering the situation. Robby steps in, wheeling one of the men away while you follow after Landgon who is moving with the other. 

“What’s the story here?”

You have to shout over the man’s incessant yelling, but Langdon ducks his head down slightly as he navigates the gurney through the ED to hear you better in the chaos. From not too far away, you hear Robby yell for Whitaker to take over his unruly patient so he can go find Ahmad for back up. Langdon’s shoulder bumping into yours pulls your attention back to your own situation.

“Bar argument gone ugly.”

The man laying on the gurney is bleeding profusely from lacerations on his forehead, but is cognescent enough to keep loudly threatening the other patient that came in with him. You manage to get a closer look at his wounds once Langdon locks the gurney in place and through the deep crimson you see little, semi-translucent pieces of debris. Your brow furrows as the light catches one of the pieces.

“Is that glass?”

Langdon nods before meeting your eyes with a crooked smile plastered on his face. 

“Beer bottle to the head. Told you it got ugly.”

You let out a breath before gloving up with Langdon. As the two of you attempt to assess his injuries the man begins to fight you both off, pushing your hands away before either of you can start getting control of the bleeding. You pull back hoping to get the man’s attention so that Langdon can start giving him the care he needs. 

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to calm down so that we can take a look at your injuries. Can you tell me your name?”

Finally, the man’s eyes land on you but they are filled with nothing but unbridled fury. You fight off the urge to take a step back from the situation and, instead, stand your ground. 

“What I need is to get my hands on that son of a bitch who tried to fucking kill me. Can you help me with that?”

You raise both of your hands as the man fights off Langdon once again. He gives you an exasperated look as his shoulders slump in annoyance. 

“I can not, this is a hospital not a fighting ring. What I can help you with is getting your bleeding under control and taking that glass out of your head before you get a nasty infection. How’s that sound?”

Your tone is stern but gentle as you attempt to talk the patient down. For a moment, his face softens in understanding and you almost let out a sigh of relief after having gotten through to him, but then Whitaker’s voice tears through the moment.

“I’ve got a runner, incoming!”

“Oh, shit.”

Langdon’s tone makes your heart rate spike, but before you get a chance to turn towards the commotion Whitaker’s very angry patient shoves you into the wall.

“We need some help in here! You good?”

Langdon’s worried eyes are locked on you as he tries to keep the two patients from tearing each other apart. Your shoulder took the brunt of the impact, but you had managed to stay on your feet which saved you from any additional trauma. After catching your breath, you leap in to help restrain the patient who just assaulted you.

“Sir, please. We need you to calm down!”

Your words fall on deaf ears as he continues to lunge at your patient who is now being held back by Langdon. What a fucking mess. You haven’t had a situation like this since last year’s Fourth of July night shift when two drunken men came into the E.D. after one of them practically eviscerated his buddy’s legs after shooting off a firework directly at him. Your eyes desperately meet Langdon’s, hoping he’s in the same boat as you, and he gives you a similar look of bewilderment.

“Whitaker! Ahmad! Anyone!”

Langdon’s voice is strained as the man in his arms struggles against his hold. You’re using all of your strength to pull Whitaker’s patient away from your own, but he’s got at least a foot and a hundred pounds on you. Keeping him restrained is taking all of your strength. Finally, Whitaker’s shoes squeak as he slides into the room.

“Woah, what can I do?”

Langdon gives him a ludicrous look before his eyes land on you.

“Give them a hand, will ya?”

Whitaker immediately jumps in to help you. You were hoping the additional body could help even the odds with these men; however, they seem to be getting more violent by the minute. The man in your grasp reels back and shoves Whitaker, who stumbles back. Now with only you holding him back, he takes this as a chance to take a swing on Langdon. 

“Absolutely not!”

You grab his arm and pull back before he can land a punch. The man lets out a desperate, angry cry and swings his arm back hard. His elbow connects with your nose with a loud crack. The room explodes further than you thought was possible as you spit out the blood draining into your mouth due to the blow. The searing hot pain blooming across your face blinds your vision. 

Fuck, that hurt. 

You blink once, then twice — your eyes finally adjusting to the damage. Your patient has seemingly settled down enough to be left alone, while Langdon has your assailant in a chokehold as Whitaker tries to pin his arms behind his back. 

“What the hell is going on in h—?”

Robby’s words die in his throat once his eyes land on you. His face twists into concern for a brief, fleeting moment before a dangerous rage washes over his hardened features.

“Knock it off before I knock you out.”

Robby’s voice is ice cold and it suddenly pauses the entire room. The only noise filling your ears is everyone’s heavy breathing. Robby lets everyone cool down for a moment before barking out orders.

“Ahmad, get this man out of here. Whitaker, take over the patient who didn’t attack one of our nurses. Langdon, with me.”

Everyone complies instantly and you let out a relieved sigh as the tension in the room finally dissipates. Robby makes his way to you in two large strides with Langdon behind him. He drops his head to meet your eyes which have regained their comforting warmth.

“How you doing, Slugger?”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing, really.”

Robby raises a brow as you spit more blood on to the floor, narrowly missing his sneaker. Langdon gives you a similar incredulous look. Obviously, your attempts to brush off their concern have fallen on deaf ears. Great. Two hours from shift change and now you’re a patient. 

This day can’t get any worse. 

Robby takes another step forward and carefully places a hand on your chin and gently tilts your head up toward the ceiling. You grimace immediately at the bright, fluorescent lights above you.

“You’ve got two black eyes, a broken nose, and you’re bleeding all over the floor. This isn’t nothing.”

His voice is surprisingly gentle and his features soften into a look you can only describe as brotherly concern. You sigh defeatedly, squeezing your eyes shut as the adrenaline in your body begins to subside giving way to an invasive and persistent shooting pain in your head. Robby’s hands find your shoulders — you aren’t sure if the physical contact is meant to provide you comfort or a precaution in case you pass out. Either way, you appreciate the way his delicate hold grounds you back into this moment.

“I’m going to have Langdon take you to an empty room and do a full exam. Okay?”

You open your eyes again and nod at his question. Robby’s posture relaxes slightly, obviously relieved that you didn’t stubbornly push back against his orders. He rubs your shoulders reassuringly for a moment before speaking again.

“We’re going to have to document all of this. Dana is dealing with a situation in chairs, but I’ll have her come find you when she’s done.”

You nod again, pursing your lips together into a straight line. You don’t love the idea of making a big deal out of this, but you also know that violence against health care professionals is at an all time high. The last thing this department needs is you trying to push this under the rug. Finally, Robby releases his hold on your shoulders and allows Langdon to step in.

Robby runs both his hands through his hair as he watches Langdon lead you towards a room at the back of the ED. He moves towards the hub in the center of the large room, gripping the countertop as he allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts. This is a nightmare. He needs to call Gloria about the situation that just happened. There’s  a stack of paperwork that needs to be filled out. Someone has to alert the authorities. And worst of all, he needs to call Abbot.

Hopefully, the asshole that assaulted you will be off the premises before the night shift attending rips through the emergency department. Not because he cares for the wellbeing of your assailant — more so that he doesn’t necessarily want to bail his best friend out of jail tonight. Robby sighs as he digs his phone out of his pocket. He finds Jack’s contact easily in his favorites and presses the speaker to his ear. To his surprise, the call immediately goes to voicemail. Robby knows that Jack has the day off; however, he’s always easy to reach — especially if you’re on shift. So, he dials the number again and presses the phone to his ear. But just like before, he is once again met with Jack’s voice apologizing for missing the call. That’s odd. His brow furrows, but before he can think about his friend’s odd behavior further he’s distracted by a concerned voice behind him. 

“I heard about what happened. Dana’s almost done in chairs. How can I help?”

Robby turns to look at Perlah who is currently trying to catch her breath from her obvious sprint over to him.

“Do you know who their emergency contact is?”

If he can’t get ahold of Jack, he might as well let your other loved ones know what happened. Perlah side steps the attending and logs in to one of the computers on the other side of the counter. It only takes a couple seconds to pull up your digital file and a smile spreads across the nurse’s features as she spots the name listed.

“Abbot.”

Of course he is.

“I can’t get a hold of him.”

Perlah’s expression reflects his own confusion for a moment until she remembers a conversation she had with you in the break room earlier this morning. 

“He’s gone fishing.”

Robby’s eyes shoot to his hairline as a laugh bubbles in his chest. He attempts to picture his friend in a boat by himself on the river with a fishing rod in his hand, but his mind cannot seem to compute that absolutely ludicrous concept.

“Abbot is fishing?”

“Apparently they convinced Abbot to actually take a day off, put his phone on do not disturb, and find a hobby that doesn’t involve getting shot at.”

Robby’s eyes drift to the room he watched Langdon escort you to as he attempts to wrap his head around the information he was just given. Jack Abbot is fishing on his rare day off because you asked him to find a hobby that doesn’t involve putting himself in harm’s way — and he listened. He wants to be impressed, but instead he’s just annoyed at the two of you — he’s fucking tired of watching the two of you dance around your feelings for one another. He looks down at his phone again, still confused at how his paranoid best friend could actually relax when he’s unreachable while you’re still on the clock.

Oh. 

The realization hits him like a slap to the face and he looks up at Perlah who is still anxiously waiting for the attending to start barking out orders. 

“Do you think you can manage to get their phone?”

Perlah frowns for a moment, confused by his question. And then her face lights up as she comes to the same realization as the attending standing in front of her. A smile pulls at her lips as she nods at Robby’s request.

“I think I can manage that.”

Jack Abbot enters the emergency department like a hurricane — his presence immediately disrupting the fragile peace they’ve managed to establish since your assault. Robby meets him at the door, stopping him before he can cause any unnecessary damage. 

“Where is she?”

Robby frowns. Abbot’s voice is lacking its usual warmth — in its place is a fiery, impatient intensity. 

“Let’s just cool down for a second. She’s alright — getting checked out by Langdon as we speak. Okay, Jack?”

Abbot’s brown eyes darken at Robby’s words. His posture stiffens and he’s suddenly aware that he’s no longer looking at his best friend. No, the man standing before him is a devoted soldier with one mission and God help anyone who gets in his way — he certainly isn’t dumb enough to stand between the two of you. 

“Exam room 11.”

Abbot brushes past Robby without another word and marches toward the back of the emergency department. He finally feels like he can breathe again as he enters the doorway and watches Langdon press an icepack to your nose. You flinch away from him and Frank lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You are a horrible patient.”

“Well, you’re a horrible nurse. You have to be gentle.”

Abbot leans against the doorframe, his body relaxing now that he’s heard the sound of your voice. A smile pulls at the corners of his lips at your defiance. Eventually, Langdon pulls the icepack away from your face and his blood runs cold as he gets a look at your injuries. It takes every ounce of what’s left of his self control to stay put, instead of forcing Robby to let him know who did this to you.

“I’ve got it from here, Langdon. You can get back to work.”

Both of your heads snap towards the attending standing in the doorway, but Jack’s eyes never leave yours. He watches as your expression shifts from confusion to relief before taking a few steps into the small exam room.

“Hey, Abbot. I’m actually almost done here. The rest of the exam will only take a minute.”

Jack finally regards the other man in the room, but his demeanor shifts to annoyance as Langdon continues to occupy your personal space — as he watches another man’s fingers glide gently over your cheek while he’s standing right there. The sight makes him sick to his stomach as a pervasive, ugly feeling claws at his chest.

“Langdon. Out. Now.”

Langdon’s movements suddenly still and the room immediately feels too small for the three of you. Luckily, the resident does what Jack says and exits the room without sparing you a second glance. Jack’s cold demeanor melts as soon as he hears the door close behind Langdon. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Jack’s voice fills the room and you finally feel safe. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you hear his boots take careful, calculated footsteps move towards you. This is a dream — it must be. Jack’s fishing today, unreachable until after your shift ends. But then he’s standing in front of you, invading your personal space in a way that’s so undeniably him. You finally look up, meeting his piercing gaze and you swear his jaw ticks slightly as he takes in the full extent of your injuries. 

“It looks worse than it is.”

It’s a lie, but all you want is to smooth out the worried creases on his forehead. Jack tilts his head slightly at your words — considering them for a moment. His hands move slowly allowing you time to pull away, but you let him cradle your face with a tenderness that feels misplaced in this environment. His thumb gently brushes under your eye, where deep purple bruising has made its temporary home, and you flinch away from his touch before he even makes it to the worst of your injuries. Jack pulls his hands away from you and you involuntarily frown — a smirk plays at the corner of his lips as he watches the way you chase his touch. 

“Do me a favor?”

You nod at his question — not fully trusting your voice at this moment. Jack bows his head slightly, meeting you eye to eye. His gaze is a raging wildfire of emotions. It’s a stark contrast to his calm demeanor and steady hands.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You roll your eyes at this as he stands to his full height again. His hands find their way back to you again, settling on your knees as he begins assessing your injuries further. You lean in closer to him without even thinking about it — it’s like Jack Abbot is the sun and you’re simply a planet trapped in his orbit.  

“How are you here?”

Jack’s brows knit together at your question, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. His thumb absentmindedly rubs gentle, grounding circles against your scrubs as his gaze trails over every visible wound on your face. 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re supposed to be fishing.”

His face scrunches at your words, but he doesn’t stop his careful assessment of your condition.

“I got a call.”

“Your phone was on do not disturb — you were unreachable.”

“To everyone other than you.”

Your breath catches in your chest at his words. He says it nonchalantly, but the significance of that statement lands harder than the elbow you took to the face. You’re the only person that Jack would let interrupt his day off. Hell, you’re the only reason he took a day off to begin with. 

“But how… Perlah.”

Jack’s head tilts as he watches you put the pieces together. Not too long after Langdon got you into the exam room, Perlah found the two of you. She helped Langdon with the exam for a few minutes before cursing that her phone had died before she made an important call. You had offered her your own, thinking nothing of the interaction. But now you understand exactly what transpired when Perlah left with your cell. 

“Yeah, scared me half to death when it wasn’t your voice on the other end.”

Your frown deepens at that. You can only imagine the fear that clawed its way back into Jack’s chest — can only imagine the unwanted memories it brought up. Your eyes glance down at his left hand, where a silver wedding band permanently resides. You remember the morning on the roof when Jack finally told you about his late wife after a particularly difficult shift. The two of you had lost a young woman whose vehicle had been struck by a drunk driver. You watched Jack go above and beyond for the woman in a way you’d never seen before. And you noticed the way his entire demeanor shifted once he had to call it after an hour of compressions. Jack slipped out of the ED the moment that the day shift showed up and you followed after once you completed handoff. You found Jack on the edge of the roof — not surprising on any other day, but a concerning visual after what you just witnessed that night. He knew you’d find him — you always do. And as you took your usual place, leaning your elbows against the railing right behind him, he finally opened up about the worst day he’s ever experienced. You listened as he told you about how his wife was in an accident. How she was dead on impact and EMS found her phone on the scene. How Jack was her only emergency contact. How he despises that the last time his wife called him he never even got to hear her voice. How he knows he’s your emergency contact. How his heart can’t go through that again. 

“I’m sorry, Jack. The last thing I wanted was for you to worry about me on your day off.”

Jack’s brow furrows at your words.

“Sweetheart, all I do when I’m not with you is worry.”

You both let that sentence linger in the room for a few moments. Jack continues to trace shapes into your shrubs as you attempt to calm your nerves as you realize how intimate this conversation feels. Finally, Jack breaks the silence.

“Can you just come back to the night shift so I can stop freaking out every time my phone rings throughout the day?”

You almost smile at that.

“Donnie comes back in two weeks.”

You mean for that to be comforting; however, this only makes Jack’s body stiffen in response. His head drops as he lets out a long sigh.

“Two weeks is too long.”

“You’re not my boss, Jack.”

Jack pulls his hands away and you watch as he runs them through his short, grey curls. He looks exhausted — and you suddenly feel guilty that his relaxing day off has turned into this. 

“You’re right, but sweetheart, I can’t do this without you anymore.”

A part of you wants to throttle him because of that nickname and how easily it falls off his lips — how it’ll only feel right when it’s his voice saying it to you. 

“Do what?”

Jack looks at you and his face twists into confusion as he realizes your question is genuine.

“Get through the fucking night.”

A beat passes. You desperately want to just say yes. It’s what you want isn’t it? Returning to the night shift — returning to him. But that’s also the problem. What is this? You thought your switch to day shift would give you some sort of explanation, but your time away has only made you more confused. Would it actually just be easier if the two of you only saw each other during handoff? No domestic moments between cups of coffee, no more mornings spent side-by-side on the rooftop, no more stolen, fleeting touches as he passes you on your way to the hub. You know what you are to Robby — to everyone on day shift. It’s simple. But with Jack — it’s never been simple and maybe that’s the problem.

“What if I want to stay on the day shift?”

Jack recoils like you just threw a punch at him. Guilt claws up your throat as you watch his face fall. It’s a lie — you know that it is. You love everything about the night shift, but you also don’t know how much longer you can keep playing this game with Jack before you simply fall apart. 

“Why would you want that?”

“Because at least I know where I stand with everyone here.”

Jack’s brow furrows — you hate that it’s cute. That everything about him draws you in.

“You don’t know where you stand with me?”

You shake your head and he scoffs — the sound is surprisingly cold. He looks at you, brow pinched into a scowl. And then he realizes that you’re serious. Your expression is nothing but unashamed honesty and his head cocks to the side at that. Do you really think he’s been stringing you along this entire time? That this has all been meaningless flirtation? That you mean nothing to him?

He takes a step forward, slotting himself between your knees. Your breath catches as he reaches up and gently cradles your face. His touch is different than before — all professionalism has been cast aside and is now replaced with his overwhelming adoration. Without thinking your fingers grab the hem of his black t-shirt. He smiles as he feels you nervously pick at a loose stitch before he ducks his head and his lips finally meet your own. Your grip on his t-shirt tightens as he moves his hands through your hair. Now this is a dream. The kiss is soft and restrained — you know he’s holding back due to your injuries. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you. Jack pulls away too soon for your liking, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he places his forehead against yours. 

“Sweetheart, I’ve been yours since the minute you walked through the fucking door.”

You bite your lip as you attempt to hold back the giddy grin that begs to spread itself across your face. 

“You never said anything.”

Jack pulls away at that, not far — just enough to get a good look at you. The look on his face is incredulous — like it’s absurd you don’t know that his entire life revolves around you at this point.

“I thought I made myself abundantly clear.”

You laugh at that and Jack steals a kiss from your lips just because he can.

“I take it Robby gave you the rest of the day off?”

You nod, smiling as you feel Jack thread his fingers through yours.

“He told me to go home after Langdon finished my exam — who you should apologize to.”

Jack’s jaw clenches slightly as his brow furrows. 

“Him being here was unnecessary.”

You watch him for a moment, trying to understand what happened between the two men that never seemed to have any sort of animosity prior to today. And then your hand tightens around Jack’s as you realize what happened.

“You were jealous.”

Jack rolls his eyes.

“I have no reason to be jealous.”

You raise a brow at his statement. He’s not wrong — he has no reason to be jealous of Frank Langdon, but you know the resident somehow got under his skin. He may be able to maintain his facade of nonchalance to the rest of his staff, but you see right through him.

“What makes you so confident?”