JUST A PEDRO LOVING GIRL

The grocery store was two blocks away from the hospital and the only place within walking distance that carried the sauce you liked, which was the only reason you were here and not horizontal in your apartment already.

You were almost at the door when you heard him.

"Hey."

You stopped. 

Marcus, your manager at the club, was leaning against the wall beside the entrance in a grey tracksuit, six pack under one arm, with the particular ease of a man who had never once considered that his presence might not be welcome. Like he'd been waiting. Maybe he had.

"Funny," he said, pushing off the wall. "You work two jobs and I still always manage to find you."

"Marcus." You kept your voice flat. "It's six in the morning."

"I know." He fell into step beside you before you could move toward the door, cutting the angle just slightly, enough to slow you down without being obvious about it.

"Just came from the club actually. Long night."

You said nothing.

"You weren't on." His eyes moved over you in the way they always did, slow and proprietary, like he was checking inventory. "Shame."

"I had a shift." you replied dry, trying to push past him but he didn't bother to let you.

"Right, right. The doctor thing." He said it the way he always said it, with that particular smile that meant he thought one job made the other smaller. "You know most girls don't bother with all that, two jobs and stuff.”

"Marcus." You stopped and turned to face him, because moving hadn't worked and neither had silence. "I'm tired. I've been on my feet for twelve hours. I want to get my groceries and go home."

"Sure, sure." He didn't move. "Just wanted to check in. See how you're doing." His hand found your elbow, fingers wrapping around it with the easy confidence of someone who'd never had a grip shaken off and had it stick. "You've been a little cold lately. At work."

"Let go of my arm."

"Relax."

"Marcus-"

"You know the slow season's coming." His voice dropped, low and pleasant and horrible. "Schedule's going to get tight. I'm just thinking about you, sweetheart. Making sure we're good."

"We are not anything," you said quietly. "Let go."

He didn't. His grip shifted instead, and before you registered it moving, his hand was at your throat, fingers curling against your pulse point with the slow deliberateness of someone making a point. His thumb pressed in, just slightly, just enough.

"Don't," he said softly, "make this difficult."

The pressure increased for three seconds. Maybe four or however long it took to leave slight bruising on your skin.

Long enough that your vision swam at the edges and your hands came up on instinct and then he stepped back like nothing had happened, adjusting the six pack under his arm, smoothing the front of his tracksuit.

"Think about it. You could be much more than a wanna be doctor." he said pleasantly, throwing you a wink before walking off like this was the most normal conversation in the entire world.

You stood on the pavement and breathed. Trying not to break into tears.

Your next and last nightshift for the month came two days later. Your throat was hurting, the bruises clearly visible and the scarf around your neck made you look ridiculous. So you wore a hoodie, hoping Santos wouldn't throw stupid comments your way.

“I see, you're running extra cold today. Getting sick?” she bumped into you with a smile.

“Please, Santos, I'm not in the mood”

“Oh c'mon girl, can't make jokes around you anymore?” she bumped her elbow slightly into your side and gained a small laugh from you.

“Just a rough couple of days is all, I'm tired. That's all” you mumbled and reciprocated her incoming hug. You bit your lower lip when she wrapped her arms around your neck and prayed for her to not notice.

She was about to say something, when Robby yelled out her name from across the room.

“God damn, can't catch a break around here, can you” she rolled her eyes and gave you another smile before heading into Robbie's direction.

Good. You're good. All good. No one knows. No one will know.

But it was the supply corridor that did it. You'd ducked in to grab a kit and hadn't heard him follow. When you turned around, Jack was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked on your neck. The expression on his face was one you'd never seen before. Raw and more than the attending mask, something sharp and laced with curiosity.

"What happened to your neck?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing." you replied, trying to push past him.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"Jack, im just wearing a scarf, please leave it alone, please " you almost whimpered, his name slipped off your lips and tears were pooling in your eyes by the sudden confrontation of the inevitable.

"Don't lie to me, kid.” he answered more quietly.

“Marcus, my manager at the club” you whispered, your eyes dropping to his feet.

He was trying to be soft and gentle but underneath his words, you could feel that there was no room for argument.

“Let me see. Please” he slightly tilted his head, smiling softly.

You crossed the small space with a shaky sigh and stood in front of him. For a moment he just looked at you, his jaw was tight and his arms still crossed in front of his chest. Like a protective barrier that he put up to stay away from danger as far as possible.

Then his hand came up slowly, unraveling your scarf. His fingers curved under your jaw, tilting your head into the light.

“Sorry” he murmured and went quiet for a moment, studying the bruising.

The air between you felt thinner than it ever had. You could smell the faint trace of his soap, feel the warmth radiating from him. He had never been this close before. Not like this.

The marks had worsened overnight, purpling along the left side of your throat in clear finger shapes.

"Sit down," he commands.

"I'm fine standing."

"You've been on your feet for six hours. Sit." He pulled the supply cart out and waited for you to move close enough to it, before lifting you up onto it.

He stepped into the space between your legs, and you hoped that he didn't feel the heat radiating off of you.

"Has it been difficult to swallow?" he asked, brushing his fingers over your skin.

"A little. Better than yesterday. Feels better today."

“It happened yesterday?”

“Two days ago”

"Breathe for me."

You did. He watched your throat move, eyes dark and focused. Then, with deliberate care, his hand shifted. His fingers slid lightly around the side of your neck, not squeezing, gently testing the bruised areas while his thumb rested just under your jaw.

"Tender here?" His voice was low, professional, but there was a clear roughness underneath it.

"Yeah." you whimpered and his eyes met yours in that very moment. You should be in pain, not turned on by the way he touched you.

He pressed a fraction firmer, hiding it behind clinical interest, but the possessiveness flickered behind his eyes for a split second, like some darker part of him wanted to cover Marcus’s marks with his own. He caught himself immediately, easing the pressure.

"Sorry. What about here?"

"Nothing"

He nodded once, but didn’t pull his hand away right away. His thumb traced the outer edge of the bruising, barely touching, so careful it made your chest ache with something far more dangerous than pain. You wanted to lean into it.

You wanted to close the last inch between you and feel what it would be like if he stopped holding himself back.

You tried for lightness, desperate to cut the tension. "Y-You know… I usually don’t mind getting choked, but this wasn’t exactly the fun kind."

The joke landed flat. Jack’s eyes darkened a little more. He leaned in a fraction closer, lips hovering near your ear, voice dropping low.

"Don’t." The single word was quiet, but it drowned out everything else. "That's not turning me on. Not when his hands did this to you."

His breath brushed warm against your skin. "No one gets to put their hands on you like that. Not him. Not anyone."

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, the two versions of him warring openly now. On one side he was the controlled attending and on the other side was something far more possessive underneath.

“This shouldn't have happened to you. You shouldn't have been alone.”

His hand stayed gentle on your throat for another heartbeat before he finally let go.

"I know," you whispered.

"Good." His thumb carefully brushed one last time along the edge of the bruising.

“Because this is never happening again. Not while I can do something about it."

The silence stretched, thick and heavy between you. Jack straightened slowly, but he didn’t step back as far as he usually would. His gaze lingered on your throat, then dropped to your mouth for half a second before he caught himself and looked away.

He cleared his throat. “I’m pulling you from the floor for the next hour. No arguments.”

“Jack, I can still-”

"Don't," he said.

"Don't what?!” you blurted out unintentionally.

"Don't tell me you're fine." The corner of his mouth moved and for the first time that night, he looked a little tired.

"You're sitting on a supply cart in a corridor because someone put his hands on your throat. You don't have to be fine right now."

Your throat tightened. You knew he was right.

"I really hate it when you're right,"

"I know, terrible, right? I heard It's a consistent problem”

“God you're annoying” you sigh and rub the corner of your eye.

"I'm your attending." he smiled but got that one squared away quickly. "Occasionally that works in your favor.”

“Listen, I can work-”

“Oh i know you can, but you won’t.” His voice was firm, final and the way he said it felt heavier now, like the words carried more than just an order. He reached out one more time, fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder as he helped you off the cart. The touch was brief. Professional. Or at least he fucking acted like it was, because it still sent shivers down your spine.

You followed him out of the corridor on unsteady legs. He walked you to the small staff lounge at the end of the hall, the one hardly anyone used during shift. Jack held the door open, then stepped inside after you, closing it behind him with a soft click.

“Sit,” he said again, softer this time. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and set it in front of you before leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Watching you.

The silence wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. It was just..charged. You could still feel the ghost of his fingers on your throat, the warmth of his breath against your ear. Every time you swallowed, you were aware of it and aware that he was too.

“You’ve really never said anything,” you said quietly. “About any of this. About the club. The dance. Afterwards, i mean”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “It wasn’t my place. You’re a grown woman. You handle your own life.” He paused, shrugging his shoulders.

“But seeing those marks on you… it changes things. For me. I can't watch you getting mistreated like this, and especially not in a place i go to regularly”

Your breath caught. The way he was suddenly looking at you said enough like he was fighting every instinct that told him to pull you closer, to put himself between you and the rest of the world. When did that version of Jack surface? When did he learn to pull that stick out of his own ass?

“Jack-”

“Try again, Kid”

“Sir.” you whispered, slightly testing the waters. You didn't know what gave you the confidence all of the sudden, but you had to try.

He stopped and it looked like he was thinking for a moment.

“I accept that.” he pushed himself off the counter and came to stand in front of you again. Closer than necessary. Not touching, but near enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes.

Jack lingered there a moment longer, the restraint in his posture visible. Then he stepped back, putting that professional distance between you once more.

“Drink your water. Rest. I’ll check on you before I leave the floor.” At the door he paused, hand on the frame. “And if you need me… you come find me. Immediately. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” you replied immediately.

The corner of his mouth twitched, it was almost a smile.

“Good girl.”

He left before you could react to the words, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sat there in the quiet lounge, heart hammering, skin still tingling where he’d touched you. The ache in your throat was nothing compared to the new, far more dangerous ache he’d left behind.

“Andrew…” Your quiet voice got his attention. You didn’t know what he was glaring at of course but Andrew just glared a lot of the time. It didn’t phase you anymore. You’d never suspect it was that. 

“N…nothing.” He says, just as quietly as he turned to face you. His gaze raging like the storm outside.

He had come. Like he always did as soon as the storm started, climbed up the side of your house and through your bedroom window. This time though he didn’t get into bed with you. Just sat on edge of the bed by your legs. 

You wished for storms so you could be huddled under the covers in his arms, your favourite place. 

It was always innocent. You needed him and he was there. 

Seventeen and still slightly nervous around this suddenly very adult version of Andrew you assumed it was just a new boundary he was putting in place. All you could do was try not to stare at the way his wet t shirt stuck to him or his damp curls on the back of his neck. Not think about how much you wanted to touch them. 

You would usually. Making some kind of an excuse or reason to touch each other was already a well rehearsed dance between the two of you at this point. 

His rough voice cracked as he asked you a question.

“Who was he?”

“What?” Your hands are playing with the blanket that’s over your lap. The oversized band t shirt you’d ‘stolen’ from him hanging off one shoulder where you’d gone at it with scissors wanting to look like Julia. 

“At the beach today.” He was still glaring at the wall and if you didn’t know his face so well you might not have caught the slight pout he adorned. Clearly unhappy. 

You couldn’t help the jolt of satisfaction that ran through you. Whether he cared because he was protective or because he was jealous you still couldn’t help it. The ideal would obviously be both. 

“Why?” 

“Because I need to know who I need to beat the shit out of if he does anything to you.” His eyes meet yours but only briefly before turning back away. He looks mad but there’s something else there that doesn’t make sense to you.

It took away the satisfaction slightly. But not all of it. 

At seventeen you’d never been kissed. Never done anything more than hug a guy that wasn’t Andrew. That was the only reason you’d gone to the beach with this guy in the first place. You wanted to experience what everyone else your age seemed so crazy about. 

“He’s not gonna do anything to me.” 

“He’s a guy.” He says, his voice flat. That new rasp you loved so much really coming out. “He’s eventually gonna want something.” His face darkens as he looks at you again, his face tilted down slightly. “You think too highly of people.” 

“Well he’s not gonna get anything.” You tell him, looking him dead in the eye. “He tried to kiss me…” 

Andrew unconsciously leans forward. He smells like rain and thunder. “And…” 

Your stomach flips. 

“An…and I dodged it.” You tell him quietly. A slow almost predatory smile spreads on his lips, you can tell it’s just a natural response. Everything he did was. He was the most honestly himself of anyone you knew. He did nothing unless he meant it. That’s one of the things you love about him. “Then he called me weird and left.” 

You scoff and the smile drops off his face as he sees the look on yours. You can’t help but be a little embarrassed. Andrew was older. He had also had sex before. You had cried yourself to sleep the night you heard about it at a party. 

Courtesy of Baz announcing Pope had finally ‘had sex with an actual girl.’ 

Because of course it was Baz who made sure you knew. 

Sobbing in bed with your window locked you were confused as to why it had made you feel like something inside you had cracked and wouldn’t repair. Why you felt physically sick. 

Julia had come to you the next day having seen your abrupt exit and wrapped an arm around your shoulders as she told you the truth. That Smurf had paid some random girl to do it to get back at Julia and probably you in some way.

Two birds with one stone. You’d both agreed to keep it to yourself and not tell Andrew. He found out anyway and admitted it when you were both older. You’d added it to the long list of reasons you hated Smurf. She really couldn’t let him have anything. 

Julia had said that even though he was our Andrew he was still just a boy and it won’t have meant anything to him. It’s just what they did. Couldn’t resist.

It still didn’t make sense to you then. It had eased off over the last couple of years but you’d been right. For some reason whatever cracked hadn’t repaired but that piece of advice from Julia had helped you in the future, when things got more complicated. 

“Name?” He pulled you from the memory of it but it still sat uncomfortably on your chest. 

“It’s just a new kid.” You say it dismissively, annoyed and Andrew knows not to push. He can easily find out who he was. Pretty sure his brothers had probably already asked around for him. 

“You didn’t want to kiss him?” 

“I dunno.” You say with a shrug and hate the way his face drops. “No. I just feel stupid that I’ve never…” A blush spreads over your face as you stare at your hands. 

He turns to face you now, lifting one leg onto the bed so it’s touching your own crossed legs. “Hey… look at me. You’re not stupid. You’re not stupid at all. You’re amazing.” His voice is soft and you do look up at him. 

The look in his eyes is one your recognise. The one that makes you feel adored and safe. “You will say that. You’ve been kissed.” 

His runs a hand through his hair as he looks away and when he looks back there’s a serious look on his face. “It wasn’t… I felt gross afterwards.” He says not meeting your gaze. He would never tell anyone else that. “I wouldn’t count it. That was just… lips touching.” 

You wish it made the pit in your stomach go away but it doesn’t, you just sigh heavily and shake your head trying to get the thought of it out of there. 

“Still more than me. It’s getting tragic.” 

The storm is raging louder outside and the dangerous look in his eyes grows. He swallow like he’s fighting something. 

“You want to be kissed?” His voice rougher than he intended and your heart rate picks up as you nod slowly, not trusting your voice. 

His gaze drops to your lips. He’s trying to play it cool but you see the slight shake of his hands before he clenches his fists. “I can kiss you.”

You literally go dizzy. He says it so casually, so Andrew that you couldn’t tell that he wanted to kiss you more than he’s ever wanted anything his whole life. 

He watches you closely. 

“I don’t want you to kiss me cos you feel bad for me.” You say trying to keep the sadness out of your voice but failing. 

“I don’t.”

It shouldn't reassure you as much as it does.

But Andrew has always had a way of saying things like they're facts rather than opinions, leaving no room for you to not believe him. Like he sensed that there was this part of you that needed a little more and matched it without hesitation. 

“Okay.” You say and he immediately leans in. 

“Are you sure?” He asks because what could he have possibly done to deserve this? He shouldn’t have offered. Should have told you the right guy would come along but he couldn’t. The need to kiss you overwhelmed any guilt. 

“Yes…” You whisper, your voice shaking with nerves. You remind yourself that this is Andrew. You’d known him almost a decade, he held you, looked after you. Your bond transcending anything people talk about or recognise. 

He can tell you’re nervous and he instinctively cups your jaw, just as he’d done countless times before because he needed you to be okay. He tilts your head up, thumb brushing you cheek bone  as he looks you in the eyes waiting for any sign you don’t want this. That you’ve remembered who he is. 

He’s giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Then his lips are on yours. Soft, warm and tentative like he’s cherishing you. Which he is. He wants to remember this. Sure it will be his only shot. You let out a soft moan before you feel like you lose the ability to breathe all together. The sound goes straight to his head, and cock. He still makes sure to pace himself. He doesn’t use tongue, just kisses you slowly, lips pressing and sliding against yours again and again like he’s learning the shape of you. 

Your hands go to his neck as you uncross your legs, pull him towards you. The branches from the tree outside your bedroom crash against your window and his groan is covered but the thunder and rain lashing onto the house. 

He’s still cradling your face as his other hand goes to your hip, keeping you upright. Not sure how he would handle you pulling him down on top of you. His kisses become more confident and your tongue slides against his lips experimentally. His own meets yours and you learn together. 

When his hand leaves your face moving down to slip under your t shirt you whimper. His hands on your lower stomach, stroking and sliding up until his big hand holds your waist. Fingers grazing your ribcage. You break the kiss as your mouth falls open with a desperate moan. His eyes are wide as he pulls back. He had not been expecting that. 

You were enjoying it. Just as much as he was. 

“You okay?” He asked breathlessly. He doesn’t pull back, lips brushing yours as he speaks as though he thinks it’s somewhere he can’t return to once he’s left. “I can stop if you…”

“Please don’t.” You practically beg and it switches something in him. There’s a confident look in his eyes you only usually ever see when he’s fighting someone or stealing something. 

“I won’t.” He whispers against your mouth, his tongue tracing your bottom lip. “I’ve got you.” As if to prove the point his other hand goes under your shirt to your waist, hands spread wide and he pulls you closer to him before kissing you again. Deeper. He’s pulling you into him, his hands stroking over you, to you back as he pulls you flush against his chest. 

He thinks the fact that you’re braless may actually kill him but when feels your hard nipples against his chest he realises he can’t die yet. He can’t because he wants to rip every scrap of clothing off you. 

He’s trying his best to hold back but it’s getting harder and harder. He pushes you gently onto your back, never breaking the kiss. You’re both moaning now, thankful that the storm was so loud. And for the chair that Andrew always propped under your door handle to stop your parents getting in. 

He freezes when you grab one of his hands, guiding it to your breast. 

“Andrew…” Your voice is needy and your hips rock up to him unconsciously. 

He reacts the only way he knows how who when it’s you. 

“What do you need?” His breath is ragged as he pulls back and looks at you. A picture he promises himself he will remember forever. Your hair splayed on the pillow, flushed cheeks and lips swollen. “Just tell me. I’ll give you whatever you need.” 

“I don’t… I don’t know.” You whine. You’re not an idiot. You know you need him to touch you and you know where. You’d touched yourself there many times but your inexperience stopped you from being able to ask. 

When he shifts slightly to rest on his forearms he notices the way your hips lift off the bed, he realises you’re just going off feeling, instinct. He knows exactly what you need. His hand cups your breast and he lets and a shaky breath as his thumb brushes your nipple. 

“Does this feel good?” He says in a soft yet wrecked voice you’d never heard before but you decided was your new favourite. 

You can only nod. 

“Yeah?” He grinds his hips against you and your back arches, a small smile of relief on your lips as the ache changes to a more pleasurable one. 

“Oh…” You moan.

“Like that?” 

“Mmmm.” You’re writhing under him and he starts to wonder if this is a dream. When you pull off your t shirt leaving yourself completely bare except your for your little sleep shorts he’s sure of it. But no matter what it is he’s going to make the most of it. 

He mesmerised by you, flushed and breathing hard from his touch. The most beautiful version of you he thinks he may have ever seen. He lifts his arms for you, in a daze when you pull his shirt off and your hands stroke over his chest, shoulders and arms. You’re looking at him like he’s attractive. Not weird. Not scary. 

He says your name, voice rough and you bite your lip a little shy all of a sudden. Nobody had ever seen you like this. And of course he understands. That you’re giving him something you’ve never given anyone and it hits him so hard he swears he leaves his own body for a moment. You’re trusting him with this. He is worthy. You think he is worthy. 

“You’re beautiful…” He murmurs and he lowers himself back on top of you. “So beautiful. You’re everything.” 

You struggle to differentiate between the memory and a dream as you’re woken by the same strong hands sliding over your waist and hips. His large body pressed into your back and the arm you’d fallen asleep on reaching to stroke your hair. His face is pressed into you beck as he pants. His hard cock, big and heavy as he ruts into your ass. 

“Please…” 

You moan sleepily and push back into him. You had both gotten in bed after the reunion. He wouldn’t leave your side. Wouldn’t even let you pee alone and you’d eventually fallen asleep together with him spooning you. Whispering apologies into your hair. 

He takes your movement as a yes and pulls your sleep shorts down over your ass, just enough so that he can sink into you. 

And when he does he sighs with a heavy relief, his hand cradling and squeezing your ass. He doesn’t even move. Just positions himself back to lay down behind you, sliding his muscular arm under your head again and you place a kiss there. Your hand finding his to lace your fingers together. So happy to be completely wrapped up by him again. 

When he starts to rock into you, you moan his name and he pushes the covers off you both. He grabs your leg, lifting it slightly to get deeper.

“You’re mine. No matter what.” He growls in your ear as the arm you’re lying on slips down to bend and lock around your throat forcing your head up due to the size of him. 

“Yours.” Your choke out and you feel every inch of him sliding in and out of your exposed hole as he spreads you open, still holding your leg up by your thigh.

“I’m so sorry…” He says his voice cracking. He had already apologised so many times but the thing he seemed to not be able to get over is the way he took you at Deran’s bar and then left. You know that’s what he’s apologising for in that moment. 

“It’s o… okay.” You reassure as your pussy clenches around him. 

“Gonna make it up to you, sweetheart.” He says as he hits the spot he knows makes your eyes roll back into your head. “Everyday. Every.” He speeds up and grits out the words with each thrust. “Fucking. Day.”

“I know… yeah…” Your gripping at his large forearm. “Im so close, handsome.” 

“That’s my girl…” His praise does exactly what he means it to and you come with a shout. Not caring who hears in the house. Hoping they do, if anything. 

When you come down from your orgasm he’s kissing your back and shoulder as he pulls out of you slowly to lay you down before crawling on top of you. 

It’s late at night. Like he’s woken up with you in his arms and had to wake you. The moonlight means you can make out his broad shoulders as he settles between your legs like he’s making a home there. 

And he does. 

You loose count of how many times he makes you come. All you know is that at some point you notice the sun starting to come up. 

He’s laid flat on his front with one of your legs over his shoulder, his head leant against the soft part of your thigh as he licks and sucks at you leisurely. He’s apologising. He’s showing you how he thinks you should always be treated. How he would always treat you from now on. 

You have to grab his head and pull him up to you to get him to stop and when you look down, thanks to the morning light you see his thick cock, painfully hard and dripping. It’s obvious he hadn’t been allowing himself any kind of relief. 

“Come here…” You coo as he finally hovers over you. You kiss every bruise and mark on his face as he ruts against your wet, swollen pussy. Not allowing himself entry. He’s panting pathetically in your ear and despite how many times you’ve come you need him inside you. Need to make him come.

Reaching down you grab his ass and tilt your hips just right making him whimper as the tip enters. You gasp as he sinks into you, sliding in easily due to how wet you are but your swollen walls convulse around him. Sucking him in. 

He moans your name almost sounding in pain. “So tight… fuck.” 

“Andrew…” You whine, so sensitive and just like always he knows. Senses you’re on the aching edge of overwhelmed. 

“You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart.” For a second his grip on you tightens, his face burying itself against your neck as a rough sound leaves him.

Not pleasure.

Relief.

Like something he'd been holding together for months has finally cracked as he rocks into you. 

You feel him press a kiss beneath your ear, then another against your jaw.

"Sweetheart..." he breathes. The word is shaky around the edges.

When he lifts his head, he doesn't look away. Just stares at you for a moment, like he's trying to memorise the fact that you're here.

That you're real.

That he found his way back to you.

He comes deep inside of you with whispered apologies. You shush him as your legs wrap around his waist. Cradling him between your thighs as you both moan and sigh at the aftershocks. 

“I love you.” Is the last thing he whispers as he turns you both onto your sides, facing each other this time, still inside of you with your leg hooked over his hip. His grip on your thigh doesn’t loosen even as he falls asleep. 

The days after he barely left your side. Even when you were at work he would drop you off and pick you up when he could. 

There was a job coming up you could tell. All you really knew was that J was the one to bring it to the table. 

J who had come to you the day after Angela had finally left. Something he had apparently been trying to make happen the whole time. He knew her true colours better than anyone. Even you. 

“Thank you.” He said simply as he walked into the kitchen. You hadn’t had much interaction with him over the last year or so. He seemed to have his own things going on and other than a quick chat it was clear that he still saw you as one of the people who abandoned his Mom. “For getting rid of Angela.” 

You just shook your head with an awkward smile as you wait for your toast to cook. “I just… made him see what was obvious to everyone else. 

“My Mom. When she was… herself. The rare times she wasn’t completely out of it. She used to say you were the only other person who understood him.” You didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. “I see that.”

Julia and you had always had an understanding. That one of you would always be there for him, always make sure he wasn’t consumed by Smurf. You’d always thought she’d come back. That you would’t ever actually have to do it alone. A heavy wave of grief hits you as they often do, out of nowhere. 

“Everything I ever learn about who Andrew is… your Mom already knew.” You smile sadly. “I try.” You shrug not wanting to start talking about his Mom. Not feeling worthy of it. You jump slightly as the toast pops up and clear your throat. “Want a piece?” 

“Sure.” He nods, a softer look in his eyes than you’d seen aimed at you before. 

“You want diagonal or horizontal?” You ask as you pick up the knife. You only hear him scoff and when you look at him he’s trying not to laugh. 

“What?” You ask confused. 

“Whatever. You choose.” Is all he says. 

You furrow your brow at him before buttering the toast and cutting it diagonally. He nods in thanks, smirking as he takes it before walking away. 

As confused as the interaction leaves you it’s also the lightest you and he had ever had. You’d take it. 

You walk out bare foot, eating your own piece as you walk towards the sound of Andrew’s grunts and the thuds of his gloves against the punch bag. He turns as soon as he hears the gate open. 

“Watch your feet.” He says seriously, zoning in on them straight away as you walk over to him. Like he’s not covered in cuts and bruises. 

The concrete is hot but you know he means because you’re out front near the garage and cars. It had been drilled into you by the endless times he’s lectured you about the risk that nails and tools and ‘god knows what else’ could be on the ground out here. 

“You look good.” Grinning as you say it, before taking another bite. “Real good,” He just scoffs and dips his head before striking the bag once, his torso twisting with it. You forget about your toast. He hits hard like he’s getting out a wave of aggression but you know it’s not that. 

The look in his eyes tells you everything. It’s the one that makes you flutter from top to bottom. He hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you since he first held up last night and you had no complaints. 

“What times the fight?” The disapproving tone in your voice makes him turn his attention fully back to the bag. 

It was one last fight. That was the compromise you’d both come to. Your argument that he got hurt enough as it was with the job he did went completely over his head but the slight pout and those eyes you make at him didn’t. 

You didn’t use them often. But they were very effective.

Slowly but surely his edges were beginning to soften around you again. His confidence slowly following. 

“Soon.” Is all he says in a grunt. 

Smurf walks out the gate behind you. She’s wearing her sunglasses so you can’t gauge her mood as easily as usual but when she simply says your name you nod back as you finish eating. Glad your mouth is full. 

“Morning baby.” She says to Andrew as she walks past. He doesn’t say anything back. 

You walk to his side instinctually as she gets in her car and drives away. He needs you. Especially since you had by some weird turn of events ended up the only other person who knew Smurf had cancer. 

You’d discussed it that first night back in his arms. 

It was tearing him up, you could tell. He had wished death upon her more than he’d ever admit recently but you knew he couldn’t help but love her in some messed up way. A bond forged in trauma, blood and manipulation. So very different to the one he shared with you but even more part of him than himself. Not something he could ever escape. 

Even in death.

“You good?” You ask, placing one hand flat on his chest and the other on his arm. He steps into you, taking steadying breaths. His glove covered hand resting above your head on the punch bag. 

He crowds you, surrounds you, just walks until there’s nowhere else to go and his body, damp from his training sticks to you. His mouth finds yours but it’s more like he’s borrowing some of your steadiness than a kiss. You give it of course. 

As much as he needs. 

Smurf, in what you decided was the most Smurf move of all time said fuck chemo. Because if she could find a way to make this anymore traumatic for Andrew and the boys then of course she would. 

The thought of Smurf with a death wish terrified you. 

The day of the J job came around quick and you could barely sit still in work. In a way you preferred it when you didn’t know the jobs were happening. 

You went straight to Smurfs after work pacing, cleaning… wondering where Smurf was. Trying not to let that make you more nervous. The second Andrew walks in, staggering slightly and holding his side you rush over to him. His other arm is covered in cuts and blood and his face has yet more bruises and cuts on top of healing ones. 

“Why are you always covered in fucking blood?” You curse as you rush over to him but it’s not through anger. Just frustration and worry. 

“Bathroom.” Is all he rasps out and you wrap your arm around his waist knowing it’s not really helping much as he leans heavily on the wall too. 

You can tell he’s in a lot of pain by the way he is breathing heavily as he lowers himself onto side of the bath. He lifts his shirt and you both look at the deep cuts in his side. 

“I think there’s some broken glass.” He say’s it like it’s just another day at the office because for him it is. 

“God damn it.” You go to the counter where you know they keep the medical supplies. Not your first rodeo after being around the Cody’s so long but your hands are still shaking. It’s never easy to see any of the boys hurt but when it’s Andrew you can’t bare it. 

You sit beside him and you really don’t like the way he sways, your stomach twists as your shaking hands clutch the tweezers.

His ruff, pained voice saying your name stops you. His free hand steadying yours but the blood makes it slippy. 

“…the job went bad.” 

“No shit.” You say seriously but your eyes are reassuring. “Is everyone okay?” It’s a stupid question because you know he wouldn’t be here letting you care for him if anyone wasn’t. But it was a way to distract him from the pain you were about to cause him. 

It works and he seems to become more aware letting out deep breaths as the tweezers grip the first piece of glass. 

“Nothing serious.” He grits. 

“I’m sorry…” you whisper gritting your own teeth. 

“It’s okay sweetheart… I’m okay.” His hand stayed over yours for a second longer than necessary.

Not restraining you. Just steadying you. Still putting you first even like this. 

You swallowed hard and carefully pulled the first shard free. Andrew hissed through his teeth, his shoulders tightening, but he didn't pull away. You knew if it were you, you’d be half way passed out by now. 

”There," you murmured. "Got it.”

A bead of fresh blood welled up immediately.

"Just eight more to go," he said stiffly.

Despite yourself, you laughed.

His mouth twitched and he leant down to kiss your forehead.

The tension in your chest loosened slightly. Not enough. It never would until he was patched up and sleeping beside you.

Once he was patched up you grab a beer for each of you before walking over to him where he sat on the couch. Putting them down on the table you sit beside him, his eyes following you as they always do. 

You saw it then. The exhaustion. Not the physical kind.

The kind that Andrew carried all his life. As the eldest. The one everyone counted on to fix everything. When he looked at you with those sad eyes you wanted more than anything in the world to be able to fix everything. 

He looked at you like he believed you could. 

Like you were the answer somehow. 

“Andrew." You sigh, voice thick with tears you won’t dare let fall. 

You brush a curl from his forehead. Your fingers stroking against his temple and tracing around his injuries gently. He leans into your touch. 

"You don't have to pretend with me. You know that.”

Something in his expression cracked.

Not completely. Just enough. Enough for you to see the fear he'd been carrying since he walked through the door. The fear he didn’t understand since he’d found out Smurf was dying. 

You lean against his good side so gently he truly believes you’re some kind of angel as you take his face in your hands. 

"Everyone got home.” You tell him softly. 

For the first time since he'd arrived, some of the tension bled from his shoulders.

“Yeah." His voice was rough.

You pressed your forehead against his.

"Because of you.” Your lips brush against his cheek as you speak and Andrew let out a shaky breath.

“No."

“Yes."

For once, he didn't argue. You kissed him gently.

Not passionate or desperate as a lot of them had been since you reunited.

Just there.

A reminder. A promise.

When you pulled back, his forehead stays resting against yours until he pulls away and pushes you to lay down gently. You know exactly what he wants and so you lay back against the pillows opening your arms to him. He crawls to you wincing ever so sightly before settling down on your chest, his strong arm banding around your middle. 

He nuzzles into your chest as you stroke his head and back, fingers running through his thick hair. 

And for a moment, the weight he carried didn't seem quite so heavy whilst he was leaning into you. 

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calliesblooms

🎵 dandelion - ariana grande

liked by denwhitaker, trinisantos, vic_jav, and 7k others

calliesblooms It’s officially spring which means it’s officially my favorite season. Thank you Mr & Mrs. Joseph for allowing me to create such a beautiful floral wonderland for your very very special day ❀˖°

→ denwhitaker i see the bouquet i made on that table 👀

↳ calliesblooms i gave it some extra love and it was perfect

→ vic_jav soooo talented

↳ calliesblooms ily vicki

→ trinisantos not to be weird on the biz account but I think i’m in love with you… let’s have a colorful floral wedding pls

↳ calliesblooms i am no longer looking for a suitor, please email all inquiries to my business email!

calisnotok

🎵 black haired madonna - nessa barrett

liked by yologarcia, dr_mrobby, jabbot and 357 others

📸 tagged trinisantos, vic_jav, samiramohan

calisnotok somebody’s daughter (me) has got your daddy tonight

→ trinisantos single cal really said ‘ur playing checkers, i’m fucking ur dad’ and i’m here for it!

↳ calisnotok I like em the same age as my own father

→ samiramohan i will share endless cigs with u baby <3

↳ calisnotok sami can we shotgun kiss next time pls & thx

↳ samiramohan so polite i shall do as you wish ;)

→ denwhitaker covering for ur sorry asses at work and you post these… fake asf

↳ calisnotok i not doctor

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↳ vic_jav ooooooo cal’s in trouble

↳ calisnotok robby get the fuck out of my comment section

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You sat in the passenger seat with your hands twisted tightly in the fabric of your shirt, staring straight ahead while Trinity drove. The sky was still that muted early morning gray where the sun hadn’t fully committed to rising yet, and the streets were mostly empty except for the occasional car heading toward the city for work. The quiet inside the car stretched on for long stretches at a time. Trinity had turned the radio off at some point without either of you acknowledging it, and now the only sounds were the steady hum of the engine and the soft clicking of the turn signal whenever she changed lanes.

Every now and then your brain tried to catch up with what had happened.

The fight.

The screaming.

The way the two of you had said things that felt too sharp and too final to take back.

Your throat still burned faintly. You’d screamed so hard at one point that your voice cracked, but neither of you had stopped. It’d been like watching something spiral out of control while still standing right in the middle of it.

You blinked hard and stared out the window at the passing streetlights.

Your reflection in the glass looked pale and hollow, the faint shadows under your eyes deeper than usual. Your hair was messy from the night before, and you were still wearing one of Jack’s shirts because you had grabbed the first thing you started packing.

Your chest tightened slightly when you noticed it.

You hadn’t even thought about that until now.

Your fingers curled weakly into the fabric before you forced your hands to relax again.

Beside you, Trinity glanced over for a brief moment before returning her eyes to the road. She hadn’t asked questions yet. She seemed to understand that if she pushed too soon, everything inside you might break open all at once.

You were grateful for that.

The apartment building came into view a few minutes later, familiar and comforting in a way that made your throat tighten unexpectedly. You’d been here so many times before. Movie nights where the three of you stayed up far too late arguing about stupid things. Takeout dinners on the couch. Nights where you fell asleep halfway through whatever show Dennis insisted everyone watch.

But walking in now felt different.

This time you weren’t just visiting.

This time you had nowhere else to go.

Trinity pulled into the parking lot and turned the engine off.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Then she looked at you gently.

“You ready?”

The question felt heavier than it should’ve.

You nodded anyway.

“Yeah.” Your voice sounded thin and fragile.

The walk up the stairs felt longer than usual. Your suitcase bumped against each step as Trinity helped drag it behind you, the hollow sound echoing softly in the stairwell. Your legs felt slightly weak, like the adrenaline that had kept you moving all night was finally beginning to wear off.

By the time you reached the door your chest felt tight again.

Trinity unlocked it and pushed the door open.

Dennis was already awake.

You could hear him in the kitchen before you even stepped inside, the faint clink of a spoon tapping against the inside of a mug followed by the quiet hum of someone half talking to themselves while making coffee.

He looked up the moment the door opened.

For a second his expression was just mild surprise. Then he saw your face and his eyebrows immediately pulled together.

“Oh.”

That single word held more concern than anything else he could’ve said.

Trinity set your suitcase down beside the couch and shut the door behind you.

Dennis stepped away from the counter slowly, still holding his mug like he’d forgotten what he was doing.

“You… uh,” he started awkwardly. “You good?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Your eyes filled with tears so suddenly it startled you.

You’d kept yourself together through the car ride but the moment Dennis asked that simple question, something inside you cracked.

Your shoulders shook once.

Then again.

And suddenly you were crying.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped between breaths. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Hey, no, no,” Dennis said quickly, setting his mug down on the counter with a small clatter. “It’s okay. Uh…”

He looked helplessly at Trinity.

She was already moving.

In two quick steps she was beside you, pulling you into a tight hug before your knees could give out completely.

You buried your face in her shoulder and sobbed.

Your whole body shook.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated weakly.

“Stop apologizing,” Trinity murmured softly, rubbing your back. “You’re allowed to cry.”

Dennis hovered nearby, clearly unsure what the correct move was but unwilling to walk away either.

He grabbed a box of tissues from the kitchen counter and held it out awkwardly.

“Here,” he said gently.

You took one with trembling fingers, trying to catch your breath.

For several minutes nobody said anything.

Eventually Trinity guided you over to the couch.

“Sit,” she said softly.

You collapsed into it heavily, wiping your face with the sleeve of the shirt you were still wearing.

Dennis perched nervously on the armchair across from you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“What happened?” he asked carefully.

You stared down at your hands.

For a second you considered brushing it off. Saying it was just another argument. Something that would blow over.

But the words that came out instead were quiet and broken.

“We had a really bad fight.”

Trinity stayed beside you, her arm resting around your shoulders.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Tell us.”

You swallowed hard. “He told me he wished he’d never met me,” you said quietly.

Dennis blinked.

“He what?”

“He told me he wished he’d never met me,” you repeated, your voice small. “Because it would’ve been easier.”

Your fingers twisted together in your lap.

“He called me naive and a child.”

Dennis frowned slightly.

“Like… actually said that?”

You nodded slowly.

“He said I was being ridiculous,” you murmured. “And I asked him if he liked feeling like he owned me, and then I told him to say he wished he’d never met me again and he wouldn’t.”

Your throat tightened.

“So I went into the bathroom and locked the door.”

You could still picture it clearly. The sound of the lock clicking. The way your hands had been shaking as you leaned against the sink trying to breathe.

“He started knocking,” you continued quietly. “Telling me to open the door.”

Dennis listened silently.

“And I told him no.” you said. “Then he told me not to shut him out.”

Your voice wavered with a pathetic laugh.

“But then he got frustrated.”

You looked down at the floor.

“And he told me he’d wished he’d never met me again.”

Trinity’s hand stilled slightly on your shoulder.

“I lost it after that,” you admitted.

You could still feel the rush of anger that had taken over the moment you unlocked the door and stormed back into the bedroom.

“I started yelling at him,” you said. “I told him my friends were right about him. That he was going to ruin my life.”

Your chest tightened.

“He kept telling me I was young and naive,” you continued. “That I didn’t understand what it meant to grow up and deal with real things.”

Dennis shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“I told him he made me sick,” you said quietly. “That looking at him in the morning made my stomach turn.”

The room stayed very still.

“And he told me to shut the fuck up.”

You rubbed your hands together nervously.

“I started throwing his clothes at him,” you said. “Just grabbing things from the closet and tossing them across the room. Shirts, jeans, whatever I could reach.”

Dennis’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“I told him he ruined me. That he took everything good about me and turned it into something miserable.”

Your eyes filled again.

Dennis exhaled slowly.

“Oh.”

You wiped your face again.

“I wanted him to leave,” you said. “I started packing his things and throwing them at him. I told him to take them and leave.”

Your chest rose and fell unevenly.

“But he didn’t.”

You looked up weakly.

“He just stood there.”

Trinity squeezed your shoulder gently.

“So I told him fine,” you whispered. “If he wouldn’t leave, I would.”

You swallowed hard.

“I said fine, I’ll fucking leave.”

Your hands trembled again at the memory.

“I grabbed my duffel bag and started throwing my clothes into it,” you continued. “Like actually throwing them. I was so angry I couldn’t even fold anything.”

You could still picture Jack standing there in the doorway.

Watching you.

“I told him I was done,” you said softly.

Your voice dropped.

“And he grabbed me.”

Dennis sat up slightly.

“Grabbed you?”

You shook your head quickly.

“Not like that,” you said. “He just… stopped me from leaving.”

Your throat tightened.

“He kept saying I wasn’t going anywhere.”

You looked down again.

“And then this morning I woke up and realized I couldn’t stay there.”

The words felt heavy and exhausted.

“I can’t keep doing that.”

Silence settled over the room.

“But he’s been through so much,” you added quickly, almost defensively. “Everything he’s dealt with. His wife. His leg. The stuff he sees at work. It messes with him.”

Trinity listened quietly.

“He’s not a bad person,” you insisted softly.

Dennis rubbed the back of his neck but didn’t interrupt.

“He’s just… hurting.”

Trinity gently took your hands in hers.

“Listen to me,” she said softly.

You looked up.

“His trauma might explain why he acts the way he does sometimes,” she continued. “But it doesn’t make it okay for him to treat you like that.”

Your throat tightened again.

You stared down at your hands.

“I still love him,” you whispered.

Trinity nodded.

“I know.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

Dennis spoke carefully from across the room.

“Well… uh… right now you’re supposed to sit here,” he said awkwardly. “And… breathe.”

You let out a weak laugh.

He shrugged slightly.

“That’s kind of step one.”

Trinity squeezed your shoulder again.

“You’re safe here,” she said gently.

The words settled over you slowly. For the first time since the fight, your body finally began to relax slightly against the couch.

Jack surfaced from sleep slowly, dragged upward through layers of thick, restless dreams that clung stubbornly to him even as consciousness began to creep back in.

The sleep he’d gotten wasn’t real rest so much as his body eventually shutting down after hours of tension and anger, and it left him feeling heavy and dull when he woke.

His muscles were stiff in that deep, bone-level way that followed nights filled with shouting and pacing and adrenaline that never fully burned off. His leg throbbed faintly beneath the blankets, the familiar ache greeting him the same way it did every morning, a quiet but persistent reminder that no matter how much time passed it would never completely disappear. The pain wasn’t sharp enough to demand attention anymore, not like it had been in the early years, but it was constant enough that he noticed it before anything else when he woke.

He lay there for a moment with his eyes still closed, breathing slow and heavy as he hovered in that blurry space between sleep and wakefulness. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm while the last fragments of his dreams dissolved into nothing.

Normally when he woke up there was a certain sense of quiet comfort in the room, the subtle presence of another person nearby that he had grown used to without ever really acknowledging it out loud. But something about the silence around him this morning felt… off. The house was too still.

Normally by now there would be small sounds drifting through the room. The faint rustle of blankets shifting when you rolled over. The quiet creak of the mattress when you moved closer or farther away in your sleep.

Sometimes you woke before him and slipped out of bed carefully, thinking he wouldn’t notice, padding down the hallway in those soft steps that always gave you away anyway.

Occasionally he would hear cabinets opening in the kitchen or the soft hum of the coffee machine even though he had told you a hundred times you didn’t have to get up early to make it for him.

But this morning there was nothing.

Just silence.

Jack’s brow furrowed faintly before he opened his eyes, the unease settling into his chest without him fully realizing why yet. Still half asleep, he shifted slightly on the mattress and stretched one arm lazily across the bed the way he often did when he woke up, his hand sliding over the sheets beside him without really thinking about it.

Cold.

His eyes opened immediately.

The other side of the bed was empty.

The blankets there were rumpled and slightly twisted, like someone had gotten up not too long ago, but the warmth that should have lingered in the mattress had already started to fade. The pillow still held the faint impression of your head, strands of your hair caught in the fabric where you must have tossed during the night.

Jack stared at it for a long second, his mind still slow with sleep.

Then he pushed himself upright.

His leg protested the movement instantly, the dull ache sharpening for a moment when he shifted his weight forward to sit up on the edge of the bed. He ignored it automatically, running a hand down his face as he blinked hard a few times to clear the fog from his head.

You were probably just up already.

That was the most obvious explanation.

Maybe you were in the kitchen.

Or the bathroom.

Or sitting in the living room pretending to watch something on TV while you waited for him to wake up so the two of you could deal with the awkward aftermath of the fight.

The thought made his jaw tighten slightly.

Last night.

The memory didn’t come back all at once. It returned in jagged pieces, scattered images and sounds sliding into place slowly as his brain caught up with reality.

Jack’s expression hardened slightly as the memory pushed its way into the front of his mind.

He swung his leg over the side of the bed reaching out and grabbing his prosthetic to put it on and stood up slowly, gripping the edge of the bedside table briefly while his prosthetic adjusted to taking his weight. The bedroom still looked mostly the same as it had when he had finally collapsed into bed hours earlier, too tired and angry to deal with the mess left behind from the fight.

But now that he was fully awake, he started noticing things that hadn’t registered the night before.

The closet door was open.

Not just slightly open. Wide open.

One of the dresser drawers you had yanked out during the argument still hung crookedly on its rails, the corner of it tilted downward where it hadn’t been pushed back in properly.

And scattered across the floor near the wall were several pieces his clothing.

Jack stared down at them for a moment, his jaw slowly tightening. He inhaled slowly through his nose, his chest tightening slightly.

He bent down and picked one of the shirts up from the floor, tossing it carelessly back onto the bed before straightening again. His irritation was already building, simmering quietly beneath the surface as he turned toward the bedroom door.

You were probably still here somewhere.

Just avoiding him.

That seemed much more likely than anything else.

After the way the night ended, it wouldn’t be surprising if you were hiding out in another room waiting for him to wake up first so you wouldn’t have to deal with him immediately.

Jack stepped into the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked.

The house was still quiet.

“Hey.”

His voice sounded rough and low from sleep.

No answer.

He walked toward the bathroom first, pushing the door open with the back of his hand.

Empty.

Jack frowned slightly.

He checked the kitchen next, stepping into the doorway and glancing around.

The coffee machine was untouched.

No mugs on the counter.

No sign that anyone had been in there recently.

His irritation sharpened a little more.

Then he walked into the living room.

Nothing.

The couch was empty.

The television was off.

The entire house felt strangely still.

A strange feeling crept into his chest then, something he couldn’t quite identify yet. Not worry exactly. But something close enough to make his stomach tighten slightly.

Jack turned and walked back toward the bedroom again, his eyes scanning the room more carefully this time.

That was when he really noticed the closet.

It wasn’t just open.

It looked… wrong.

He stepped closer and pushed the door wider with one hand.

His eyes moved slowly across the hanging clothes.

Then stopped.

Your side of the closet looked half empty.

Several hangers were bare.

His gaze dropped to the floor.

Your suitcase was gone.

For a moment Jack just stood there staring at the empty space where it usually sat.

Then something hot and sharp flared in his chest.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” The words came out low and harsh.

He ran a hand through his hair roughly, pacing once across the room before turning back again.

You left.

The realization settled fully now.

You actually left.

After everything.

After the fight.

After the things you both said.

You packed your things and walked out.

Jack’s jaw tightened hard.

A memory from the night before flashed vividly through his mind.

You standing beside the bed with a duffle bag open, throwing clothes into it with angry, jerky movements while you tried to blink back tears.

Fine. I’ll fucking leave.

Your voice had been shaking when you said it the night before, trembling with a mixture of anger and something far more fragile underneath it, but you had still forced the words out anyway.

Jack could hear the exact sound of it in his head now as if it were echoing through the quiet house around him, the rawness of your voice when you said it, the way it had cracked slightly on the word leave like even speaking the possibility out loud had hurt you.

He remembered the way you had been standing in the middle of the bedroom with your bag half open on the bed, clothes scattered everywhere because you had been throwing them in without folding them, your hands shaking while you grabbed armfuls from the closet and dresser.

The whole room had looked like a storm had blown through it, drawers hanging open, fabric draped over the floor, the lamp lying shattered against the floor where you had hit it earlier in the argument. And he remembered how fast he moved when you said it. Before the words had even fully left your mouth he’d crossed the room and grabbed your arm, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist to stop you before you could shove another handful of clothes into the bag. He could still picture the way your body had gone rigid under his grip when he did it, the tension in your shoulders, the heat radiating off you from the fight.

He’d told you that you weren’t going anywhere.

He’d said it with that same stubborn certainty he always used when he thought he could control the direction of an argument simply by refusing to acknowledge the alternative, like if he said it firmly enough the possibility of you leaving would simply stop existing. And for a moment he had believed it too. Because the truth was that you had said things like that before during fights. Threats thrown out in the middle of yelling. Dramatic ultimatums that both of you took back later when the anger faded and the exhaustion settled in. But the look on your face when he grabbed you had been different from those other times.

That was the part that came back to him now, replaying in his mind whether he wanted it to or not. Your expression had flickered through several emotions so quickly it had been hard to catch them all at the time. First there had been anger, bright and sharp and familiar, the kind he knew how to fight against because it meant you were still engaging with him, still arguing, still pushing back instead of shutting down. Then there had been hurt, something deeper that had made your eyes glassy even though you were trying to hide it behind the fury. But there had been something else there too, something quieter and heavier that he hadn’t been able to name in the moment and still struggled to identify now as he stood there remembering it.

Jack let out a slow breath through his nose as the memory rolled through his mind again, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as if he could physically push the thought away. At the time he had dismissed it. He’d assumed it was just another flash of emotion in the middle of a fight that had already gone too far, another moment that would pass once the yelling stopped and both of you cooled down. He hadn’t believed, not truly, that you would actually follow through with the threat you had thrown at him. Not really. The two of you had said dramatic things to each other before.

Things that sounded permanent in the heat of the moment but never actually turned into anything real once the anger burned itself out. You’d both slammed doors, raised your voices, said you were done or that you couldn’t do this anymore. But somehow the next morning always came and neither of you had actually left. The idea that this time might be different hadn’t fully settled into his mind last night, even when he watched you throw clothes into the bag with shaking hands and a furious kind of determination.

But leaving like that. Actually packing a bag. Actually walking out.

That was something else entirely.

His hands slowly curled into fists at his sides as that realization settled deeper.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, the word coming out low and rough in the quiet room.

The anger that had been simmering in the background of his thoughts began to flare hotter almost immediately, rushing up to fill the space where anything softer might have tried to form.

You left.

That was the fact that kept repeating itself in his mind now like a refrain he couldn’t turn off. After everything he had done for you. After everything he had tolerated, everything he’d put up with from you during your worst moods and your sharpest comments and the way you could push his buttons like no one else sometimes.

After the way you had stood there last night screaming at him like he was some kind of monster, like he was the only one responsible for how ugly the argument had become. His mind latched onto that part quickly, grabbing onto the memory of your voice during the fight like it was evidence he could hold up to justify the anger boiling in his chest now.

Looking at you in the morning makes me sick.

The words replayed in his head with painful clarity, your voice cutting through the memory of the room just as sharply as it had the night before. Jack’s jaw tightened so hard it ached, the muscles in his face pulling taut as he remembered the way you had said it. Your eyes bright with tears you refused to let fall.

Jack began pacing across the room again without realizing it, the restless movement coming naturally as his mind spiraled faster and faster through the fragments of the night before. His leg felt stiff and sore as he moved, the old wound protesting the sudden activity after sleep, but he ignored it the same way he always did when his thoughts were racing too fast for physical discomfort to matter.

Where the hell did you go?

The question formed sharply in his mind as he crossed the room again, his gaze flicking back toward the empty side of the bed before drifting to the doorway like you might somehow appear there if he stared long enough. But even as the question surfaced, the answer followed close behind it without much effort.

Trinity.

Of course.

The name came to him immediately, settling into his thoughts with the kind of certainty that made him scoff quietly to himself.

You always ran to Trinity when things got bad between the two of you. It had been that way since the beginning of the relationship. She was the one you called when you were upset, the one you vented to when Jack did something that hurt your feelings or frustrated you or made you question whether the relationship was worth the effort anymore.

Jack could practically picture the scene in his mind now with frustrating clarity. You sitting on Trinity’s couch wrapped in one of her blankets with your eyes red from crying, your phone clutched tightly in your hands while you told her every terrible thing he had said during the fight. Trinity listening with that sympathetic expression she always wore when you talked about him, nodding along while she reassured you that you deserved better than the way he treated you. That you should leave him. That you should stop letting him drag you down with his problems.

His jaw flexed again at the thought, irritation sharpening the edges of his breathing.

You always made him the villain when you talked to your friends.

Always left out the parts where you pushed him too.

The parts where your words cut just as deep.

His cut deeper.

I wish I never met you.

He’d said it in anger.

Pure, blinding rage that made the words spill out before he could stop them.

But the memory of your face when he said it lingered in his mind now with uncomfortable clarity. The way your expression had changed instantly like something inside you had snapped under the weight of that sentence. Like whatever fragile thread had been holding the two of you together through the argument had finally broken. Jack shook his head sharply as the memory threatened to settle into something heavier, pushing the thought away before it could take root.

No. You didn’t get to run away after that and pretend he was the only one who crossed the line.

You said horrible things too.

You weren’t innocent in that fight.

His chest felt tight again as the anger surged back up to fill the space where doubt might have settled, hot and immediate and familiar.

You wanted to leave? Fine.

But disappearing without saying a word afterward? Ignoring him completely like he didn’t deserve an explanation for why you walked out of the life the two of you had built together? That was something else entirely.

Jack turned toward the nightstand and grabbed his phone, his movements sharp and impatient as he unlocked the screen. His thumb hovered over your contact for a brief second as if some small part of him hesitated before pressing it, but the pause lasted only a moment before he hit call.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then your voicemail picked up.

Jack ended the call immediately, his jaw clenching as irritation flared hotter in his chest. He dialed again without thinking, the motion automatic now as he lifted the phone back to his ear. This time it went straight to voicemail before the first ring even finished. His irritation spiked instantly. He called again. And again. And again. Each unanswered call made the anger coil tighter inside his chest, winding around his ribs like a tightening wire with every second that passed without your voice answering on the other end. By the sixth call he was pacing the room again, his steps restless and uneven as frustration built under his skin.

“You don’t just walk out,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and rough in the empty room.“You don’t get to just disappear like that.”

He hit call again even though he knew it would probably go unanswered like the others. Voicemail. Jack let out a sharp breath through his nose, lowering the phone slightly as something unfamiliar crept beneath the anger now. Not quite fear. But close enough that it made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t like acknowledging.

That realization sat heavily in his chest for a moment.

But instead of softening anything inside him, it only made the anger burn hotter.

You were being dramatic.

Running away instead of finishing the fight.

Instead of talking like adults.

Jack ran a hand through his hair again as he stared down at the phone in his hand, the screen glowing faintly in the quiet room.

No. You were just upset. You would cool down eventually like you always did. You would answer your phone once the emotions settled and you realized leaving like this was not actually the solution you thought it was in the heat of the moment. And when you did answer… his jaw tightened slightly at the thought. You were going to have a lot to explain.

He hit call again and lifted the phone to his ear once more, letting it ring longer this time while he stared blankly at the far wall of the bedroom. His heart thumped harder in his chest with every passing second, the silence stretching uncomfortably while the call continued.

Pick up.

Pick up the damn phone.

But it kept ringing.

Until it went to voicemail again.

Jack lowered the phone slowly after that one ended, the quiet house around him suddenly feeling far too large and far too empty. The silence pressed in from every direction, filling the spaces where your voice and your footsteps and the small everyday noises of another person used to exist. His gaze drifted back toward the bedroom doorway and then toward the closet beyond it, the half empty space inside catching his attention again like an accusation he did not want to examine too closely.

Something twisted uncomfortably in his chest then.

But the anger swallowed it before it could turn into anything else.

Fine.

If you wanted to run to Trinity and hide there.

Jack’s eyes hardened slightly as he stared down at the phone still in his hand.

He would find you.

And when he did…

You were going to talk about this.

One way or another.

Your throat hurt from crying and talking so much, the raw soreness sitting low in your chest every time you swallowed or tried to breathe too deeply, and now that everything had finally quieted down the exhaustion from the night before was beginning to creep into every corner of your body.

The adrenaline that had carried you through was slowly draining away now. What it left behind felt heavy and hollow at the same time, like your bones had been filled with sand and your mind had been scraped raw from the inside.

The apartment around you had gone quiet after, and now that there was nothing left to distract you from the weight of it all your body was beginning to sag under the exhaustion.

You sat curled into the corner of the couch with your knees drawn loosely toward your chest, a blanket Trinity had pulled from the back of the couch wrapped around your shoulders like a soft shield, the fabric still faintly warm from the dryer. Your eyes felt swollen and sore, the skin beneath them tight from the salt of dried tears, and every once in a while another quiet tear would slip free and slide down your cheek even though the worst of the sobbing had already passed.

You wiped them away automatically with the back of your hand, almost embarrassed by them even though there was no real reason to be, the habit of trying to hide how much something hurt was so deeply ingrained in you that you did it without thinking.

Across the room Trinity and Dennis were standing near the kitchen counter speaking quietly to each other, their voices low and careful in a way that suggested they were trying to give you some space while still keeping an eye on you at the same time.

They had clearly moved a little farther away after you finally stopped crying so hard, probably hoping the distance would make you feel less watched, less like the center of attention in a moment when everything already felt too exposed. But the apartment wasn’t big enough for their voices to disappear completely.

The soft murmur of their conversation drifted easily through the open space between the living room and kitchen, each word carrying faintly across the quiet room.

You weren’t really trying to listen. Your gaze stayed fixed on your hands resting in your lap, fingers twisting slowly in the edge of the blanket while your thoughts drifted in that strange, empty way that follows emotional exhaustion. But even without trying, you heard them anyway.

Dennis rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly as he glanced toward the hallway that led to the spare room, his shoulders slightly hunched in that familiar way whenever he was trying to bring up something he wasn’t entirely sure how to say out loud. “I mean… we don’t really have a guest room,” he murmured quietly, his voice hesitant as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Trinity was leaning against the counter with her arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching him with a calm, thoughtful expression that suggested she already knew exactly where he was going with this conversation. “I know,” she replied simply.

Dennis let out a small breath through his nose and glanced down the hallway again like he was picturing the clutter in his head. “The room’s basically just… storage right now,” he continued, his voice dipping slightly with embarrassment. “Like half my old boxes are still in there. And those shelves we never put up. And that stupid treadmill that neither of us actually uses.” There was a faint, sheepish quality in the way he said it, like he was apologizing for the state of the apartment even though none of it had anything to do with you being there.

Trinity exhaled quietly, pushing herself upright a little from where she leaned against the counter. “Yeah,” she said, glancing down the hallway herself now. “I know what’s in there.”

Dennis looked over toward the living room again, his gaze flicking briefly in your direction where you sat curled under the blanket like you were trying to make yourself smaller against the corner of the couch. You kept your head lowered, pretending you hadn’t noticed the glance even though you felt it. “Well,” he said slowly, dragging the word out as he thought through the idea forming in his mind, “I could clean it out.”

Trinity lifted one eyebrow slightly, her expression curious but not dismissive. “When?” she asked.

Dennis shrugged one shoulder in that awkward, uncertain way he had whenever he wasn’t completely confident in a plan but wanted to help anyway. “My next day off, I guess,” he replied, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway again. “It wouldn’t take that long if I just move everything down to the basement storage area. We could actually make it into a room. Like… a real room.”

The words drifted across the room toward you in a soft wave, and your chest tightened a little at the thought of what they were discussing so casually.

They were talking about rearranging their apartment for you.

The realization made something uncomfortable stir in your stomach. You shifted slightly where you sat, pulling the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders as if the extra layer might somehow make you less visible in the middle of their home. “I don’t need a room,” you said quietly before you could stop yourself, your voice hoarse from crying and softer than you intended.

Both of them turned toward you almost immediately, their conversation stopping mid-thought as they realized you had heard everything. You kept your gaze lowered, staring at your hands in your lap. “I can just sleep on the couch,” you added quickly, trying to make the offer sound casual even though the idea of sleeping out here alone made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

Trinity’s face shifted instantly into a small frown. “You’re not sleeping on the couch,” she said without hesitation.

“It’s fine,” you insisted gently, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself like it was armor. “Really. I don’t mind.”

Dennis shifted where he stood, his eyes flicking between you and the couch like he was mentally evaluating it. “It’s not really a great couch for sleeping,” he admitted awkwardly. “It’s kind of… lumpy.”

You gave a small shrug, trying to brush off the concern. “I’ve slept in worse places,” you murmured.

Trinity’s expression softened immediately in a way that made your chest ache a little more. “Yeah well you’re not sleeping in worse places,” she said gently, pushing herself off the counter and stepping a little closer to the living room. “You’re staying here.”

You looked down again, your fingers twisting together nervously in the blanket pooled in your lap. Even though you had known Trinity for practically your entire life, since the two of you were small enough to sit cross legged on the daycare floor sharing crayons and juice boxes, there was still a strange shyness creeping into your chest now that made it difficult to meet her eyes.

You felt like an intruder sitting here. Like you had dragged the wreckage of your relationship into their apartment and dropped it right in the middle of their quiet life. “I don’t want to inconvenience you guys,” you murmured softly.

Dennis blinked, clearly caught off guard by the idea. “You’re not-” he started, but Trinity cut him off before he could finish. “You’re not an inconvenience,” she said firmly, her voice steady and certain in a way that left very little room for argument. It wasn’t harsh. Just final.

You didn’t argue with her, but the feeling didn’t completely disappear. Dennis cleared his throat quietly and shifted his weight again, glancing toward the hallway like he was trying to steer the conversation somewhere practical. “Well… uh… the guest room thing is still a good idea,” he said carefully. “I mean, eventually. If you’re gonna be here for a bit.”

You glanced up slightly at that, the words settling into your chest in a strange way. “I don’t know how long I’ll stay,” you admitted quietly.

The sentence felt unfamiliar leaving your mouth. You hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Everything about the future still felt blurry and uncertain, like a fog you hadn’t stepped into yet.

Trinity pushed away from the counter and walked back over to the couch, sitting down beside you again with an easy familiarity that made the space feel warmer immediately. She nudged your shoulder gently with hers. “You can stay as long as you need,” she said. Your throat tightened again at the simple kindness in her voice, and you blinked hard as you fought the urge to start crying all over again.

Dennis watched the two of you for a moment before speaking again, his voice softer now. “Do you need to go back and grab anything else?” he asked. “Like… clothes or stuff?”

The thought hit you instantly, twisting your stomach into a tight knot. Going back there. Walking into the house again. Seeing Jack. Seeing the bedroom still torn apart from the fight, the broken lamp on the floor, the closet half emptied from the moment you started throwing his clothes across the room in anger. You shook your head quickly before the image could settle too deeply in your mind. “No,” you said quietly. Your voice came out smaller than you intended. “I grabbed enough.”

Dennis nodded slowly, accepting the answer even though he looked like he wanted to say something else. “Okay.”

Trinity studied your face carefully, her eyes narrowing slightly like she was trying to read the thoughts you weren’t saying out loud. “You sure?” she asked.

You nodded again. “I’m sure.” The idea of stepping foot in that house again right now made your chest feel tight and hollow at the same time. You weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

Trinity seemed to understand without you having to explain it. She reached over and brushed a piece of messy hair away from your face in the same gentle way she had done a thousand times growing up, the motion so familiar it made something warm stir faintly in your chest. “Alright,” she said softly.

The three of you sat quietly for a moment after that, the soft hum of the apartment settling around you again. You stared down at the blanket pooled in your lap, your fingers tracing the edge of the fabric absentmindedly as your thoughts drifted.

Then another thought slipped into your mind and your stomach twisted again. “He’s going to wake up soon,” you murmured quietly.

Trinity tilted her head slightly. “Jack?”

You nodded, your fingers tightening in the blanket. “He’s going to realize I’m gone.” Saying it out loud made the reality of it settle deeper in your chest.

Dennis shifted slightly in his chair. “You think he’ll come looking for you?” he asked.

You gave a small, helpless shrug. “I don’t know,” you admitted. But a part of you had a feeling.

You knew Jack.

He would check the house first. The bedroom. The bathroom. The kitchen. The living room. And then when he realized you weren’t there… your chest tightened again at the thought. “He might go to the shop,” you murmured.

Trinity frowned slightly. “The flower shop?”

You nodded slowly. “That’s the first place he’d look.” The idea of him standing there asking where you were, looking around the space you had built for yourself, made your stomach churn uneasily. “I don’t want him showing up there,” you admitted quietly.

Trinity’s voice softened immediately. “Hey.” You looked up at her. “You don’t have to go to work today,” she said gently.

Your head lifted quickly. “No.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I can’t not open because of this,” you said quickly.

“This is a really valid reason to close,” Trinity replied. “You’ve closed the store before.”

“But not for this.” Your voice stayed quiet but firm.

Dennis leaned back slightly. “I think you shouldn’t open the store today and you should just stay here and rest,” he offered.

You hesitated for a moment before nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Trinity studied your face carefully. “You sure you want to be alone? I can ca-”

“It’s okay,” you said softly, wiping at your eyes again as you cut her off. “I’ll just stay here today.” The apartment felt safe. Quiet. Far away from the mess of the night before. “I’ll sleep,” you added weakly.

Dennis nodded slowly. “That’s definitely a good idea.”

Trinity hesitated for another moment before sighing softly in agreement. “Alright.”

A small wave of guilt washed through you as the two of them began moving around the apartment again, falling into the familiar rhythm of getting ready for work.

Dennis disappeared into his bedroom to change while Trinity grabbed her bag from the counter and began packing a few things into it. The soft sounds of their morning routine slowly filled the apartment.

Running water in the bathroom sink. The rustle of clothes. The faint clink of dishes in the kitchen.

You stayed curled on the couch the entire time, wrapped in the blanket like it was the only thing holding you together.

At one point Trinity returned to the living room and looked down at you thoughtfully. “You’re not actually sleeping on the couch,” she said.

You blinked up at her in confusion. “What?”

“You can sleep in my bed.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Trin, no-”

“Yes.”

“But where will you-”

“We’ll both sleep there.”

You stared at her for a moment, caught between gratitude and disbelief. “That’s not necessary,” you murmured.

She shrugged casually. “It’s a big bed.”

Dennis’s voice drifted from the bedroom.

“It’s really not that big.”

Trinity shot an annoyed glare toward the hallway. “Quiet.”

Despite everything, a small tired smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

Trinity looked back down at you with a softer expression. “Until we clean out the guest room, you’re sleeping with me.”

You hesitated for a moment, the idea of not being alone tonight sending a quiet wave of relief through your chest even though you still felt strange accepting it. “You don’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I know,” she replied gently, squeezing your shoulder. “But I want to. Besides it’ll be like when we were little. Maybe I’ll braid your hair and you can tell me how badly you wanted to french Josh from year twelve.”

A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “I hate you… but okay.”

A few minutes later Dennis emerged from the bedroom tying his shoes, glancing over at you with quiet concern lingering in his expression. “You sure you’re good here by yourself?” he asked.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Trinity grabbed her jacket and slung her bag over her shoulder. “If you need anything, call me,” she said.

“I will.”

She hesitated for a moment, clearly debating something in her head, before leaning down and pulling you into another brief hug. It was quick but warm, the kind that made your chest ache in the best possible way. “You’re safe here,” she murmured softly. The same words she had said earlier.

Your throat tightened again. “Thank you.” A few minutes later the apartment door closed behind them with a quiet click, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room for the first time since the night before.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed sitting there after Trinity and Dennis left.

For a while you remained curled in the corner of the couch exactly the way they had left you, the blanket wrapped around your shoulders like armor while the quiet of the apartment settled slowly around you. The silence felt different from the silence in your house with Jack. There it had always felt tense, like something ugly was just waiting beneath the surface for the smallest thing to set it off again. Here the quiet was soft. Calm. The kind that allowed your shoulders to slowly drop as the tension that had been holding your body rigid for hours finally began to loosen a little.

But the exhaustion sitting inside you was heavy.

You stayed there staring down at the floor for a long time.

At some point your mind drifted back to what Trinity had said before she left.

You found yourself glancing down the quiet hallway that led toward her bedroom. For a moment you didn’t move. Even though she had insisted, stepping into her room without her still felt strangely intrusive, like you were crossing some invisible boundary in their apartment even though you had known Trinity for your entire life.

But the couch beneath you felt uncomfortable now that the adrenaline had worn off.

And your body was so tired it almost hurt.

Eventually you let out a slow breath and pushed the blanket off your shoulders, swinging your feet down onto the floor. The apartment was still and quiet as you stood, the only sound the soft creak of the floor under your weight as you slowly walked down the hallway.

Trinity’s bedroom door was slightly open.

You paused there for a second, your hand resting lightly against the doorframe while you looked inside.

The room was simple and lived in, the bed slightly messy from when she got up earlier that morning, the comforter half folded back and the pillows pushed into a soft pile at the headboard. A faint scent of her shampoo and laundry detergent hung in the air, something clean and familiar that made your chest tighten a little.

You had spent nights in this room before.

Sleepovers when you and Jack were fighting.

Late nights when one of you needed someone to talk to.

But stepping inside now felt different.

Now you were here because your life had cracked open.

Because you had finally walked away from Jack.

You swallowed slightly and stepped into the room.

The floor felt cool beneath your bare feet as you crossed toward the bed, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around you in a way that felt almost protective. You sat down carefully on the edge of the mattress first, like you needed to test the space before fully committing to it.

The bed dipped gently under your weight.

For a moment you just sat there staring down at your hands resting in your lap.

Then the exhaustion won.

You pulled the comforter back and climbed into the bed slowly, sliding beneath the blankets and curling onto your side almost immediately. The mattress felt softer than the couch had, the pillows warm where the sunlight coming through the window had touched them earlier.

You pulled the blanket Trinity had given you up around your shoulders again out of habit, even though you were already under the comforter, and tucked yourself into the bed like you were trying to disappear into it.

Your body relaxed almost instantly.

The quiet room.

The softness of the bed.

The safety of knowing Jack was nowhere near you.

All of it combined into something that finally allowed your muscles to let go.

Your eyes closed almost the moment your head touched the pillow.

You weren’t sure how long you slept.

It could have been an hour.

Maybe two.

Your sleep was deep and heavy, the kind that comes after emotional exhaustion when your mind finally shuts down because it has nothing left to give. The sunlight in the room shifted slowly while you slept, creeping further across the floor and climbing the edge of the bed where you lay curled beneath the blankets.

But eventually something pulled you back toward consciousness.

At first it was just a distant sound.

A faint buzzing.

Your brow furrowed slightly in your sleep as your body shifted deeper into the mattress, the noise tugging at the edges of your awareness.

The buzzing stopped.

Then started again.

Buzz.

Silence.

Buzz.

Your breathing changed slightly as your body began drifting upward from the heavy fog of sleep. The sound continued, persistent enough now that it finally dragged your mind fully awake.

Your eyes opened slowly.

The room was brighter now, warm sunlight spilling through the window and stretching across the bedspread.

The buzzing continued.

Confused, you pushed yourself up onto one elbow and looked around the room, your mind still thick with sleep as you tried to figure out where the sound was coming from.

Then you realized.

Your phone.

You’d left it in the living room.

The buzzing continued again from down the hallway, faint but unmistakable.

You pushed the blankets off and climbed out of Trinity’s bed slowly, your body still heavy and sluggish from sleep as you padded back down the hallway toward the living room.

The buzzing stopped for a second.

Then started again just as you reached the couch.

Your phone was lying on the coffee table exactly where you had left it earlier.

You picked it up.

The screen lit up in your hand.

And your stomach dropped.

Missed Call

Jack <3

Missed Call

Jack <3

Missed Call

Jack <3

Missed Call

Jack <3

Missed Call

Jack <3

Your phone vibrated again.

Jack <3 calling.

Your heart immediately started pounding harder in your chest as you stared down at the screen, the name glowing up at you like something dangerous.

The phone buzzed again in your hand.

And again.

Call after call.

Your phone was practically going insane.

Jack was awake.

And he knew you were gone.

You stood there in the middle of the living room for a long time after the phone finally stopped buzzing.

The silence that followed felt almost louder than the sound of the calls themselves. Your phone was still in your hand, the screen dark now, but your heart was beating so hard it felt like you could hear it echoing in the quiet apartment.

Jack’s name lingered in your mind like a bruise you kept accidentally pressing on. He’d called so many times in such a short span that it made your chest tighten in that familiar, anxious way your body had learned over the last year. The part of you that had been trained to respond immediately, to soothe the situation before it escalated into another argument, stirred instinctively. For a moment your thumb even hovered near the screen as if it might call him back before you could think better of it.

But you didn’t.

Instead you slowly lowered the phone and sat down on the couch again, the same spot you’d been sitting in earlier that morning when Trinity and Dennis left for work. The pillows were still pushed to the side, slightly twisted from when you had gotten up to move to Trinity’s room earlier.

The apartment felt different now that you were fully awake and completely alone inside it. Earlier the quiet had felt protective, like a shield that kept the chaos of the night before outside the walls. Now the silence felt larger. Wider. Like the world had suddenly opened up in front of you in a way you hadn’t expected.

Because now you were out.

The realization landed slowly in your chest as you stared down at your phone.

You had actually done it.

You left.

For months the idea had existed somewhere in the back of your mind like something theoretical, something you might do one day if things got bad enough. You had imagined it during quiet moments after arguments when Jack slammed doors or said something so cruel it stayed with you for days afterward. Sometimes you pictured packing a bag. One time you even wrote a letter that you’d planned to leave him when you left. Sometimes you pictured just walking out without anything at all. But those thoughts had always faded eventually because the next morning would come and things would be calmer and Jack would apologize or act like nothing had happened and somehow the days would keep moving forward.

But now you were here.

With your phone full of missed calls from the man you had lived with.

Your stomach twisted slightly.

You didn’t know what you were supposed to do now.

That part hadn’t really been planned.

Leaving had felt urgent and necessary in the moment, something your body had done almost instinctively after the argument broke something inside you. But now that the adrenaline had faded, you were left sitting in the quiet aftermath with an entire life suddenly stretched out in front of you that you hadn’t prepared for.

You shifted on the couch, your gaze moving around the room.

The small coffee table.

The half empty mug Trinity had left in the sink earlier.

The faint sunlight stretching across the living room floor.

Everything looked so normal.

And you had no idea what to do with yourself inside it.

For a while you just sat there holding your phone loosely in your hands while your thoughts moved slowly through possibilities. You could call someone. You could go somewhere. But each thought felt too big to actually act on right now. Your mind kept sliding off the future like it was too slippery to hold onto.

Eventually you did the only thing that felt manageable.

You opened your phone and texted Trinity.

think i’m going to call a therapists office

You stared at the message for a moment before hitting send, like even writing the words made the action feel more real than it had been a second ago.

A few minutes earlier you had been sitting on the couch scrolling quietly through your phone, not even entirely sure what you were looking for. At first you had typed things like “what to do after leaving toxic relationship” into the search bar without really thinking about it. The results were overwhelming. Articles and lists and advice from strangers that felt both helpful and completely impossible to process at the same time. But one thing kept appearing over and over again.

Talk to someone.

Find a therapist.

At first the idea made your stomach twist. You’d never actually gone to therapy before. But the more you sat there thinking about everything that had happened over the last year, the more the idea started to feel less intimidating and more like something practical. Something small you could do that wasn’t about Jack at all.

So you searched.

Local therapy offices.

Counselors near you.

Eventually you had found one that looked quiet and simple, a small practice only a few blocks away from the flower shop. Your hands had shaken slightly while you dialed the number earlier, your heart beating faster even though it was just a receptionist who answered.

You didn’t go into much detail.

You just asked if they were taking new patients.

They were.

They gave you an intake appointment later that week.

And now you were sitting on the couch staring at the confirmation email they sent afterward, feeling strangely proud of yourself for doing something so small.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

im proud of you

The message from trinity made your chest tighten a little, warmth spreading slowly through you in a way that felt unfamiliar after months of feeling like every decision you made had to be defended or explained. You typed another short message back before you could overthink it.

made an appointment

Three little dots appeared immediately as she started typing.

queen behavior

A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

For the first time all day the tightness in your chest loosened just a little.

The next few hours passed strangely.

Time moved both quickly and slowly at the same time while you stayed inside the apartment, drifting from one small task to another without any real plan. You made tea. You drank half of it before forgetting about the mug on the counter. You scrolled through your phone again, reading things about emotional recovery and boundaries and trauma bonding until the words started to blur together.

Every once in a while your phone buzzed again.

Jack <3 calling.

Jack <3 calling.

Jack <3 calling.

You didn’t answer any of them.

Each time the screen lit up your stomach twisted, but the longer the day went on the easier it became to let the calls ring out until they stopped.

Instead you started texting Trinity little updates like you were keeping a running list of small victories.

ate half a bagel

showered finally

Each one was short.

Simple.

But sending them made the day feel more structured somehow.

Like you were proving to yourself that time was still moving forward.

At some point Trinity stopped replying for a while.

You assumed she was busy with work.

You were sitting cross legged on the couch again scrolling through something on your phone when it buzzed suddenly.

A new notification appeared.

Dennis Whitaker added you to a group chat.

You blinked at the screen.

The chat title was simply:

and they were roommates

A message from Trinity appeared immediately underneath it.

dennis keeps asking me if you’re alive every ten minutes so now you both get updates

Dennis responded almost instantly.

she hasn’t been answering her phone i got worried

You stared at the messages for a second before typing slowly.

i’m alive

Dennis sent back a thumbs up.

followed by

good

Then another message from Trinity popped up.

did you eat anything besides half a bagel

You smiled faintly despite yourself.

working on it

Dennis responded again.

proud of you

Trinity added a heart.

You leaned back slightly against the couch cushions after that, staring down at the little conversation on your screen while a strange feeling settled quietly in your chest.

You still had no idea what your life looked like tomorrow.

You didn’t know what would happen when Jack finally stopped calling.

You didn’t know what you were going to do about the house or the shop or any of the complicated pieces of the life you had just walked away from.

But for the first time since last night, sitting there in Trinity and Dennis’s apartment with sunlight filling the room and your phone buzzing softly with messages from people who cared about you, the future didn’t feel quite as terrifying.

The emergency department was loud in the way it always was during shift change. The ambulance bay doors kept sliding open with mechanical sighs as paramedics wheeled stretchers inside. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee hung in the air. Nurses moved quickly between rooms while the day shift tried to finish their charting before the night shift fully took over.

Trinity sat at one of the central desks, her computer screen glowing faintly in front of her while she attempted to finish documenting the last few hours of her shift. Her fingers moved across the keyboard automatically, muscle memory guiding her through the routine process.

She’d been interrupted at least five times already.

First by a nurse asking for clarification on an order.

Then by Mel needing help tracking down a missing patient.

Then by a paramedic dropping off paperwork that needed to be signed immediately.

Each interruption pulled her focus away from the screen just long enough to irritate her before she forced herself back into the rhythm of charting again.

She was halfway through typing a note when the ambulance bay doors slid open again.

Jack walked in.

Trinity didn’t even realize she was staring until several seconds had passed.

He looked terrible. Tired.

Not the kind of tired that came from a rough shift. Not the normal exhaustion that every ER doctor carried after working twelve hours in chaos.

This was different.

His face looked drawn and hollow, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes like bruises that had been there for weeks. His jaw was tight, the muscles flexing slightly as he walked, and there was a constant tension in his shoulders that made it look like he had forgotten how to relax his body entirely.

He moved through the department with the heavy uneven rhythm Trinity recognized instantly from working beside him. Prosthetic leg striking the floor with a quiet mechanical thud followed by the softer step of his other foot.

But something about his posture was different now.

Angrier.

More rigid.

The expression on his face looked permanently locked somewhere between frustration and exhaustion.

For a brief moment Trinity felt a flicker of something that almost resembled sympathy.

Then she remembered the look on your face when she picked you up.

The way your voice shook when you asked if she could come get you.

And the sympathy disappeared.

“You see Dr. Abbot?”

Dennis’s voice came from behind her so suddenly that she nearly jumped out of her chair.

“Jesus, Huckleberry,” she breathed out, pressing a hand against her chest as she turned to glare at him. “You trying to give me a heart attack?”

Dennis leaned casually against the desk beside her, sipping from a paper cup of coffee.

His eyes flicked across the room toward Jack.

“So that’s a yes.”

Trinity followed his gaze again.

Jack was speaking with one of the triage nurses, his voice low but sharp enough that the nurse looked slightly nervous as she nodded quickly.

“Yeah,” Trinity said quietly after a moment. “He looks like shit.”

Dennis hummed thoughtfully.

Trinity scoffed under her breath.

“It’s what he deserves.”

Before Dennis could respond, the group gathering at central suddenly grew larger.

Robby approached with a tablet in his hands, clearly in the middle of giving the night shift the report. Mel and Samira trailed behind him, both looking equally exhausted after their shift.

Langdon appeared next, his usual easy grin already spreading across his face the moment he saw everyone gathered together.

“Hey, since we’re all here,” he said casually, leaning against the counter, “we should figure out when the next poker night is.”

Samira groaned softly.

“God.”

Langdon ignored her.

“Winner hosts, right? Who won last time?”

“Dennis,” Mel and Samira said simultaneously.

Trinity’s fingers tightened instinctively around the edge of the desk.

“Oh,” she said quickly. “Actually maybe we skip that rule this time.”

Several heads turned toward her.

She forced a smile.

“Maybe we do it at Robby’s instead?”

Langdon raised his eyebrows slowly, amusement flickering across his expression.

“What are you hiding, Santos?”

Trinity felt Jack’s eyes on her then.

Her brain scrambled for an answer.

Thankfully Dennis spoke before she could.

“It’s my fault actually,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck with exaggerated awkwardness. “One of my brothers is visiting.”

The group looked at him.

“He’s uh,” Dennis continued, clearing his throat. “Sleeping on our couch right now and the apartment is kind of a mess. Plus he’d be there which you guys really don’t want. Trust me.”

He gave a half hearted laugh.

“My brother is… a lot.”

Dennis completely missed the look that crossed Robby’s face.

A small frown.

A flicker of confusion.

Robby had known Dennis for awhile.

Long enough to know exactly how many siblings he had and where they lived.

And long enough to be informed when one was visiting.

“Yes,” Trinity jumped in immediately, clapping her hands together once. “His brother is a mess.”

She leaned forward dramatically.

“Brought a dog with him too. Apparently farm life never taught him how to function in an apartment. Huckleberry was exactly the same way when he first moved in. Remember how you tried to keep chickens on the balcony?”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I think they got the point,” Dennis muttered, scowling at her.

“Yeah,” Robby said slowly, clearly deciding not to push the subject further. “No problem. We can do it at my place.”

Langdon nodded.

“Works for me.”

The group gradually began to disperse again, drifting back toward their respective duties as the shift transition continued.

Trinity stood up from her chair and stretched her arms over her head, preparing to finally escape to the locker room and go home.

She had barely taken two steps when she heard his voice behind her.

“Dr. Santos.”

She turned slowly.

Jack was standing a few feet away.

Up close he looked even worse.

His eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them pale and tight. There was a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw that suggested he had not bothered shaving that morning.

“Yeah?” she said evenly.

Jack glanced around briefly to make sure no one else was close enough to hear.

Then he stepped closer.

“Where is she?”

The question came out quiet but sharp, each word precise.

Trinity felt something in her spine straighten automatically.

“I’m not sure who you’re talking about,” she said with a thin, polite smile.

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.

They stared at each other for several seconds.

Then Trinity’s smile disappeared as she took a step forward.

“But if I did know who you were talking about,” she continued calmly, her voice dropping just enough that only he could hear it, “I’d say it’s in your best interest to stay the hell away from her.”

Jack’s jaw flexed.

“And her store,” Trinity added.

She took a small step back.

“For the foreseeable future.”

His eyes darkened.

“Unless,” she said lightly, already turning away, “you want me to report your behavior to the medical board.”

Jack’s expression froze.

Trinity glanced back over her shoulder once.

“I’m sure they’d be thrilled to know what you’re like behind closed doors.”

Then she walked away without waiting for his response.

© 2026 all rights reserved - miasvelvetvoid. do not modify, plagiarize, feed my work to AI, repost or claim any of my work as your own without permission.

“It’s gotta be big,” Cath tells Andrew with her arms crossed over her chest.

Renn nods and agrees, “Huge. Like at a Padres game or something.”

Andrew's nose wrinkles and he shakes his head. “But she hates sports. And crowds. And being the center of attention in general.”

Andrew’s still turning the ring over in his hands, eyebrows pinched together, brain short-circuiting as he tries to parse the opinions of the council of women who gathered around him as soon as he mentioned wanting to propose.

Smurf huffs from the kitchen, “I don’t see why you’d marry someone who wouldn’t want a big flashy proposal; you need a woman who can-”

“Smurf,” Andrew says flatly, “I don’t like attention, either, and I absolutely hate the idea of a proposal at-” he practically shudders “-a baseball game. I know how stupid it sounds, but she's my other half.” Then he turns to his niece, who seems to be taking the whole thing the most seriously and, in his experience, is usually right. “Lena, what do you think?”

“Well,” she starts with an intense look on her sweet features, “she likes gardening and swimming and crafts and cooking. I think you should make her something. With glitter.” Then an idea dawns like a lightbulb over her head and she stands up, yanking her uncle’s hand. “I’ll help! Then she’ll say yes for sure.”

Andrew softens. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard so far.”

Four whole agonizing weeks later, it’s just the two of you on the back deck of the Cody house. Smurf and the boys are on a trip somewhere cold, so the pool is all yours as summer winds down. It’s been a glorious afternoon of swimming and fucking and laughing.

Now, you’re between Andrew’s legs on one of the oversized loungers, leaning your head back on his chest. His arms are wrapped around you and, every once in a while, his hands lazily caress your hips and arms and stomach through your sheer coverup. It’s quiet and perfectly peaceful, a cozy lull in the waning sunlight before he takes you out to dinner and a show for your weekly date night.

Andrew nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his curls tickling your cheek, and murmurs, “I want you to marry me.”

You flip around, sunglasses nearly flinging off your face. “What?”

Flirting with a smirk, Andrew repeats, “Marry me.”

“Is- is this a proposal?”

“Wait a second.”

While your head spins, Andrew stands up from behind you and slips through the sliding door to his bedroom. It’s not like you’ve never talked about getting married – you live together and you want a family with him, after all – but you’d figured his proposal would be some huge bash thrown together by Cath and Renn and Smurf, not a quiet moment between just the two of you.

But Andrew returns with a ring box. He doesn’t drop to one knee; he sits on the edge of the lounger and faces you. The little wooden box has clearly been decorated by Lena with glitter glue in your favorite colors and hearts painted around its perimeter.

Andrew pops the box open and says simply, “Now it’s a proposal.”

You have to clean your jaw up from the floor. The marquise-cut diamond has to be at least three carats, maybe four, absolutely brilliantly bright as it flings the early sunset’s colors around the charming box. It’s sitting in a subtle setting that really lets the stone sing. The band is delicate and floral, with other smaller diamonds like leaves branching off. It definitely screams ‘expensive,’ but it’s not gaudy. It’s unique and fun and personal.

Before you can manage to speak, to give him the obvious answer, Andrew nervously rattles off, “It’s, ah, it’s an ethically sourced diamond. I thought you’d like that. And I thought the pointy-ness was kind of badass, like you. Then with the leaves and everything it’s, um, it’s sort of all the different parts of you. That’s what I was thinking.”

“Oh, Andrew, this is…” The words die in your throat as you watch the ring catch the orange evening glow, imagining getting to wear it every day. “Jesus Christ.”

With a laugh, Andrew takes the ring from the box and toys with it in his fingers. “I was kinda hoping for a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer, angel.”

“Got distracted by this iceberg,” you tease lightly. Then you rip your eyes from the ring and train them on Andrew. On the way the sun is kissing his freckles and the way he’s looking at you like he actually doubts whether or not you’re going to say yes. “You’re really sure you want a wife and not a girlfriend? You want someone to make you take your vitamins and buy you clothes that aren’t black and insist you come home in time for our daughter’s ballet recital?”

“I don’t just want a wife.” He takes your hand in his and holds the ring at the end of your finger, waiting expectantly. “I want to be your husband. I want to mow the lawn on Saturday mornings and wake you up with sex and always sit in the middle seat on planes so you don’t have to and try really, really hard not to forget our wedding anniversary.”

Wiping a sudden tear from your cheek, you tell him in a wobbly, sincere, gentle voice, “You won’t forget our wedding anniversary. You don’t forget things.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Of course it is.”

As he slides it onto your finger, a perfect fit, Andrew makes sure, “So you like the ring?”

“It’s perfect.” You admire it breathlessly, trying to process how something so beautiful could sit on your skin. “Literally, completely, totally perfect. How did you know what I’d like?”

He shrugs modestly. “I took pictures of all your favorite jewelry and clothes and showed the designer.”

“Smart. Sneaky.” With a proud smile, you ask, “You didn’t get this on a job?”

“No, I knew you wouldn’t be happy with that.” He explains, “A lady at the shop designed it for me; I don’t exactly have an eye for this stuff.”

“What shop?”

“Cath gave me the address. Carter or something, I think?”

You swallow hard. “Cartier?”

“That’s the one.”

You pause for a beat. Despite what he says, Andrew knows plenty about jewelry from stealing so much of it through the years. He knows what designers are expensive. He’s trying to be modest. But, for once, you don’t want him to be, so you probe, “Be honest: How much did it cost?”

Andrew sets the box on the nearby side table and takes your hand in his, looking down like he can’t believe this is real. That you’re actually his and there's concrete proof of the fact. “Am I supposed to tell you? Or is that some fiancé taboo I don’t know about?”

You lean forward to kiss him and giggle, “If I’m going to brag about it to everyone I’ve ever met and ever will meet, I should know how much it was.”

“I don’t remember exactly,” he replies honestly. You know that means it has to be bad. “Sixty or so? I told her there wasn’t really a budget, but I couldn’t swing a hundred unless I had a few months; we have that job in-”

You cut him off with a hand to the middle of his chest. “Sixty…thousand dollars? American dollars?”

He blinks a few times. “Is that…not okay?”

You laugh and shake your head at how Andrew he’s being about all of this. “That’s just a lot of money to be wearing around on my finger all the time.”

He brings your fingers up to his lips, kissing each knuckle soft and slow. His hazel eyes meet yours and he reaches up to cup your cheek in his large hand.“ They don’t make a ring expensive enough to show how much you’re worth to me.”

With tears on your cheeks, you kiss him hard and reply, “When did you get so sappy?”

Andrew stands and guides you to your feet to join him. Leading you toward his bedroom with a cocky smile, he says, “Well, a gorgeous girl showed up on my doorstep with cookies a while back. I’ve been screwed ever since.”

Well, you and the men he brings home on occasion.

You spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What makes you think that?”

Deran shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was just talking to Adrian on the beach this afternoon and I noticed Craig looking at us like…I don’t even know. Just feel like he suspects something.”

You sigh, turning around to lean against the bathroom counter and crossing your arms over your chest. “Were you giving Adrian a handjob on the beach?”

“What the fuck?” He exclaims, face distorting in indignant horror. “No. Of course not. We were just talking.”

“Then Craig doesn’t know shit.” You shrug, bumping him with your shoulder as you move past him out of the small bathroom. “You’re being paranoid. Again.”

This is the third time he’s claimed that Craig is growing suspicious of his sexuality in the last month. Normally, you would have realized what he meant by Craig is onto me right away, but you’re practically brain dead after working back to back double shifts at the bar.

That’s the only logical explanation for why the following words leave your mouth.

“You should just tell Craig that we’re dating.”

You hear footsteps and laughter follow you down the hallway. “Us? Dating?” Deran snorts. “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”

“Why not?” You shrug, plopping down on the couch in the living room of your shared house to turn on the television. “We live together. Spend the vast majority of our free time together. We even work together, since you bought the bar. You’re single. I’m single. A lot of people already assume we’re together. It makes sense.”

“Well, yeah, but—” He comes to an abrupt pause, like he’s racking his brain for a reason why your idea might not work. He sits down on the ottoman in front of you, forearms braced on his thighs. “Huh,” he hums, clarity blooming across his face. “Maybe it isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Thanks.”

You definitely had not given it any real thought before making the suggestion, but he’s right - maybe it isn’t the worst idea. At least now you’ll have a somewhat kinda true excuse when rejecting the advances of all of your bar regulars that just can’t get the hint that you aren’t interested in them.

Deran clasps his hands together in front of him. “Okay, but seriously. How would this even work? What are the rules or whatever?”

You stare at him and try not to laugh. “You’re overthinking it. There doesn’t need to be rules. We just keep doing what we’re already doing. We go out to eat sometimes, yeah? Go to the beach and the movies? Run errands together? Friends do those things, but so do couples.” You shrug. “So we just keep doing those things, and when anyone asks, we call it dating.”

“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” he clarifies.

You nod. “Boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He squints, shaking his head. “We don’t really act like boyfriend and girlfriend, though. We would need to make it believable. At least around Craig and our other friends. You know, hold hands, cuddle, maybe kiss—”

You cut him off with an exaggerated gagging nose.

“That’s a little harsh.”

You toss a throw pillow at his head that he catches just in time. “I’m fucking with you,” you laugh. “You’re right. There does need to be a little physical affection to make it believable. There’s no reason to stick our tongues down each other’s throats in front of your brothers and our friends, though.” It’s his turn to grimace dramatically at the mental image of that. “Just keep it casual. Holding hands is good, an arm around my shoulder every now and then won’t hurt, and the occasional kiss on the cheek should suffice.”

He tilts his head in consideration. Your words seem to appease some of his uncertainty, though you still get the feeling that he isn’t completely sold on the idea.

“Look, if you aren’t on board, just say so. It was just a suggestion. You won’t hurt my feelings at all if—”

“No, no,” he interjects. “It isn’t that. It’s just…” He trails off, pursing his lips in contemplation. You wait for him to continue with raised brows. “What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

You don’t have a quick-witted response for that.

That hasn’t crossed your mind in ages. You’ve been single for so long that you don’t even remember how it feels to truly want to date someone. Your last boyfriend left you with quite the sour taste in your mouth for relationships that still lingers more than two years later.

You’ve gone on the occasional first date here and there, and had a few mostly unsatisfactory hook-ups over the last couple of years, but nothing has ever come from any of them. The thought of a real relationship is at the very bottom of your list of priorities, and you can’t see that changing anytime soon.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

Deran considers that for a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. If you’re good with it, I’m good with it.” His words try to play off how much it means that you’d be willing to do something like this, but you know him. His smile and his eyes say what his mouth won’t.

You nudge his thigh with your foot. “Then congratulations, dude. You officially have a girlfriend.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope doesn’t know all that much about romantic relationships.

Not healthy ones, anyway.

He can’t say that he’s ever even been in one. At least not anything serious - nothing that didn’t fizzle out after a couple months or end in some argument that he can’t remember now.

Everything he really knows about romantic relationships comes from movies and books and the toxicity that he’s witnessed in his personal life. His mother and her goddamn three baby daddies. Baz and Cath. Craig and his ever changing girls of the month.

He can admit that these aren’t the best examples of romantic love, and maybe that’s why he’s having a hard time understanding the dynamic between Deran and his girlfriend.

There’s no screaming. No cursing each other out on a regular basis. As far as Pope can tell, the two of you never even get into minor disagreements.

And there’s no cheating.

One morning, just a few days after Pope gets out of prison, he’s making himself breakfast when he overhears Craig trying to convince Deran to go with him to a party later that night.

“Come on, man,” Craig whines. “Just swing by for a couple hours. Renn’s cousin is going to be there. You know she has a thing for you.”

Pope looks up in time to catch the disgusted grimace on Deran’s face.

“I have a fucking girlfriend, dude. You know that.”

“I keep forgetting you two are serious now,” Craig sighs. “Bring her too, then.”

When Pope meets you the very next day, he understands why Deran had seemed so repulsed at the mere suggestion of going to a party to hang out with some girl who isn’t you.

He stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the backyard and finds you laying by the pool. Strappy bikini a size too small, perfectly polished toenails, and skin glistening in the sun - he can’t help but stare at you until you realize he is standing still as a statue just feet away, watching wordlessly. You didn’t even hear him come out, your eyes closed and music pouring softly from a Bluetooth speaker.

“Shit,” you hiss as soon as you notice his presence, taken off guard. “Uhm - hey,” you laugh awkwardly, sitting up from your position on the foldable lounge chair and pausing whatever upbeat song you’re listening to. “I take it that you’re Pope? Deran told me you might be around today.”

Pope is silent for a moment as he pieces together who you are. His gaze trails over your bare shoulders and down to your thighs before looking you in the eye again.

“You’re Deran’s girlfriend?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but he can’t hide the incredulity that slips through.

“That’s me.” Another awkward laugh, though you don’t seem offended by the question. You offer a soft smile, but he thinks something about it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Deran should be here pretty soon, but I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you…want a sandwich or something?”

He isn’t hungry. He already ate. But for some reason, he says yes anyway.

You yank on a pair of blue jean shorts over your bikini bottoms and he follows you into the house where you insist on making him a sandwich while he tries not to ogle you too hard.

(At the time, he told himself that he would have taken the opportunity to hang around any pretty girl because he had just spent three fucking years in prison. But that wasn’t it. It was you. He wanted to be around you, even after just meeting you).

“So,” you start, spreading mustard across a piece of bread with a butter knife, “Would you prefer if I called you Andrew or Pope? Deran always calls you Pope, but I guess that’s kind of a family nickname, right?”

The question takes him by surprise. He hasn’t heard anyone call him Pope much in years. It still sounds weird to hear the nickname again. It feels like it’s been forever since anyone has even called him Andrew, too - it’s mostly been “Cody” or “Inmate 87286-923” for the last three years.

He’d forgotten how his name - government name or otherwise - sounds when it isn’t being barked at him. Coming from you, both names sound like music.

You glance up when he doesn’t answer right away, your expression hesitant as if worried you said something wrong.

“Either is fine,” he answers when he remembers how to string two words together. “Call me whatever you want.”

And he meant that. He doesn’t really have a preference. He would be fine with you calling him anything, as long as you call him something - but he got the best of both worlds when you decided that you would call him Pope in the presence of his family but Andrew anytime the two of you find yourselves alone.

It isn’t the lack of fighting or infidelity that perplexes him the most, though. It’s the fact that in the now six months since he’s been back home, he’s never once seen Deran kiss you.

Only ever a peck on the cheek here and there. He’s seen his arm slung around your shoulder, and your feet propped up in his lap when the two of you lounge on the couch at Smurf’s. He’s seen you rub sunscreen on Deran’s shoulders and watched him swim around the pool with you on his back plenty of times.

But in the last half year, he’s never seen either of you kiss the other on the lips.

Not that Pope is complaining. The last thing he wants is to watch you kiss his brother. He experiences more than enough unwelcome thoughts anytime he sees the two of you so much as hold hands.

He just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how Deran doesn’t kiss you every chance he gets. You’re over at Smurf’s often enough that he should have witnessed it at least once by now.

He hates that he even pays attention to such a thing. It’s really not any of his business how you two choose to show your affection, but he can’t help the way he feels the slightest jolt of jealousy when you kiss Deran on the forehead anytime you’re leaving Smurf’s - and then relief that’s all it is. A kiss on the forehead and nothing more.

Because if you were his - and he’s painfully aware of the fact that you’re very much not - he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you as easily as Deran does.

It takes everything in him to stop himself as is.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“You look like you’re having a blast.”

The familiar voice pulls you out of your trance over the roar of rap music. You glance up from where you sit on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling over and into the lukewarm water. Pope stares down at you, his expression as neutral as ever and beer bottle in hand.

“And you look like you’re going to church instead of a pool party,” you snort. You aren’t surprised in the slightest that he’s wearing one of his typical short sleeve button-ups instead of swim trunks, but you are a little surprised that he’s here right now. Parties with dozens of half-naked shit-faced drunks aren’t really Pope’s thing.

Then again, they aren’t really your thing either, yet here you are - nursing the same piss flavored beer Deran had handed you over an hour ago as you watch him and Craig shotgun beers across the yard.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, patting the concrete beside you in invitation for him to sit down. “Where’s Lena? I thought she was with you tonight.”

“She’s at home. With the sitter.” He crouches down, albeit a little awkwardly due to the fact he’s wearing pants and shoes and can’t dip his feet into the pool like you. Even with his legs bent at the knees and his arms resting across them, he seems stiff. Uncomfortable. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. “I had a few things I needed to take care of before the job tomorrow.”

Ah, yes. The job. The job that you definitely don’t know anything about - as far as Smurf and the others are concerned, anyway.

You may not get involved, but you aren’t oblivious to what Pope and his family do to make money. Piecing it together hadn’t exactly been rocket science. Every time a major robbery, heist, or hit-and-run occurs within a fifty mile radius of Oceanside, Deran suddenly seems to have an abundance of cash.

What really made the pieces click into place was the time he asked you to cover his half of the rent and then mysteriously had the funds to completely pay your car off for you less than forty-eight hours later.

“Do I even wanna know where you got this money?” You ask when he hands you a thick envelope with over six thousand dollars in it. The exact amount you need to pay your car loan off.

Deran sighs. “No. You really don’t.”

The following morning, you turned on the news at work and watched coverage of a casino that got hit for over a half million just two towns over.

You aren’t a fucking idiot. His flesh and blood brother was in prison for a bank robbery at the time. Two plus two is four.

Pope’s not an idiot, either. He knows that you know. But you don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, and he doesn’t volunteer any information that could potentially put you in danger.

“And?” You ask, leaning back on the palms of your hands. You turn your head to look at him and find that he seems particularly interested in the beer bottle in his hand. “Did you get everything taken care of?”

A curt nod. “Everything should be good to go.”

And that’s that. You don’t pry any further.

“I would’ve watched Lena tonight if I had known,” you say lightly.

That gets him to look at you. “It’s your first night off in five days,” he says lowly, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips. “Didn’t wanna ask that of you.”

“I wouldn't mind,” you murmur, looking away to play off the heat rising on the back of your neck at the realization that he knew it was your first night off this week. “I like spending time with Lena.”

Pope hums, the corners of his lips quirking. “Yeah. She likes spending time with you, too.”

“And I’d much rather be hanging out with her than be…here right now,” you grumble as Deran and Craig emerge from the house with another keg.

“What?” Pope chirps. “You don’t think holding your boyfriend’s hair back as he pukes into Smurf’s three hundred dollar orchid is fun?”

You snort a laugh, but you can’t help the way your fingers clench around the neck of your beer bottle at the word boyfriend. “You saw that, huh?”

“At least a dozen people saw that.”

“Good,” you huff. “That’s what he gets for thinking he can drink all of that on an empty stomach.”

At that exact moment, one of Deran and Craig’s surfer buddies yells “CANNONBALL!” from the roof of the house a second before you and Pope both get drenched in pool water. You’re in a bathing suit, so no big deal - annoying, but not a big deal. Pope, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds away from jumping in the pool and drowning the guy for soaking his jeans and button-up.

“Jesus,” you grunt. “I’m over this. Wanna get out of here?”

Pope’s expression morphs from annoyance to surprise. He glances around like he isn’t one hundred percent sure you’re talking to him. Then, you stand and offer him a hand up. He hesitates a second longer, staring in Deran’s direction before accepting your hand and getting up.

“Where’re we going?” He asks, a step behind you.

“It’s a surprise.”

It’s not a surprise. You just didn’t think that far ahead before making the proposition - you just know that you want to be somewhere else. Somewhere that you aren’t surrounded by drunk, obnoxious assholes. Somewhere that you don’t look up and see a girl practically humping some douchebag’s leg. Somewhere that you can actually relax on your first Friday off in two months.

And, for reasons that you won’t let yourself dwell on right now, somewhere that you and Pope can be alone.

Somewhere you don’t have to worry that people are looking at you and wondering why is she spending so much time with her boyfriend’s brother while her boyfriend gets plastered twenty feet away?

The answer to that is quite simple, actually. Deran isn’t really your boyfriend. But no one knows that except for you and him. Not even Pope.

As far as he and everyone else knows, you and Deran have been in a committed relationship for well over half a year now.

“Don’t you want to let Deran know that you’re leaving?” He murmurs low enough that only you hear as the two of you make your way through a throng of people near the back door to the house. Deran stands several yards away with his back to you, talking animatedly with Craig and a few of their friends. “I’m sure he’ll worry if you dip without saying anything.”

You have to refrain from laughing at that. You stop to grab your tank top and shorts off the table by the back entrance, quickly cramming your feet into your sandals. “He looks a little occupied at the moment. I’ll send him a text and let him know I decided to head out early.”

You have no real intention of doing so, but Pope doesn’t need to worry about that.

He follows you to your car, gets in the passenger seat, and doesn’t question you any further until you park your car at the first somewhat calm, quiet place that comes to mind.

A quaint cliffside pull-off overlooking the ocean on the outskirts of town. It’s no more than a ten minute drive from the Cody house, but it’s so serene that it feels hundreds of miles away. You roll down both the driver and passenger side windows before turning your car off, and for a moment the only thing you can hear is the crashing of waves against the rocks below.

“Do you come up here often?” Pope murmurs, voice filling the silence.

You shake your head, not taking your eyes off of the moonlight that dances across the water. “I used to. A long time ago. Before Deran.”

From your peripheral vision, you can tell that he’s turned his head to look at you. “How did you two meet, anyway?” He asks after an extended silence.

You huff a humorless laugh. “It’s not exactly a cute story.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face you more fully. “Well, now I’m really curious.”

You finally look at him. He’s staring at you with that same look that you’ve been trying and failing to get a read on since the first time you met him six months ago. He looks at you now exactly how he looked at you then, that day by Smurf’s pool.

You exhale, looking back to the black horizon so you might stand a chance of regaining the ability to think clearly. “We met about three years ago. I was still dating my ex boyfriend at the time. I was working the bar one evening when my ex stumbled in drunk and decided to pick a fight with some poor guy he thought was hitting on me. I tried to intervene, and my ex shoved me so hard I fell backwards and hit my head on the counter…” You trail off, shaking your head at the memory. Pope waits silently for you to continue.

“And Deran,” you continue with a soft laugh, “was sitting just two stools down. He didn’t even hesitate. Just grabbed my ex and started beating the ever-loving fuck out of him right in the middle of the bar until he was unconscious. That wasn’t the first time my ex put hands on me but it was the last.”

You look back to Pope to find he’s still staring at you, his jaw clenched and hazel eyes sharp even in the dimly lit car. For once, you’re able to tell exactly what he’s thinking and it sends a shiver up your spine. Without even saying a word, you know that if Deran hadn’t already pulverized your ex, you’d have to stop Pope from going and doing the same.

“Anyway,” you shrug, trying to break the tension brewing in your passenger seat. “That’s how we met. Deran stayed even after the cops showed up to make sure I was okay, walked me to my car when I was leaving…and just kinda stuck around after that, I guess. Been best friends ever since.”

The last words slip out before you can stop them. Best friends. It isn’t a lie. You are best friends - have been ever since that night. But sitting here now, alone with his brother, it’s too easy for you to forget that you’re supposed to be more than just best friends.

If Pope thinks anything of your choice of words, he doesn’t point it out. “Sounds like it was a good thing he was there that night,” he says lowly, his voice clipped. “I’m glad you got away from that.”

You give a small nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And Deran…” He starts, trailing off until you glance at him. “He’s good to you?”

You blink, taken off guard by the question. “Deran?” You snort. “Yeah, he’s…I mean, he’s Deran.” You shrug. “He doesn’t show up shit-faced at my job and pick fights with random men, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You laugh, but Pope doesn’t. “No,” he says slowly. “I’m asking if he makes you happy.”

You swallow. The space inside your car suddenly seems infinitely smaller. Even with the windows rolled down, it feels suffocating.

It’s a simple question. It should have a simple answer.

“Yeah,” you breathe. You force a tightlipped smile that feels completely unnatural. “Of course. Like I said, he’s my best friend.”

Those fucking words again. It’s as if you physically can’t stop yourself from saying them. Best friend, best friend, best friend. Not partner, not boyfriend, not lover. Just best friend.

The most fucked up part is that if it were anyone else sitting here beside you, you know you could force yourself to spew some fabricated bullshit about how in love you are. About how Deran makes you the happiest girl in the world and you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together.

But not Pope. Pope, who you most wish you could blurt out the truth to. Pope, who looks at you so intensely that you have to wonder if he can read your mind and already knows.

“Best friend,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound like a question. “That’s sweet.”

The silence that follows is brief but heavy. Then, your phone chimes with a text message, and you’ve never felt more grateful for an interruption in your life.

“It’s Deran,” you mumble, typing back a quick reply. “Just making sure I’m alright.” You press send, then place your phone back in an empty cup holder. “I should probably get home,” you sigh before Pope has the chance to press the subject of you and Deran any further. “I’ve gotta open the bar in the morning.”

He nods, but there’s something about the look on his face that makes you hesitate. You squint at him. “What?”

Pope shakes his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nothing.”

It doesn’t hit you until later - when you’re lying in bed and failing miserably to keep your thoughts from wandering to Pope Cody - that Deran wouldn’t have texted to ask if you were alright if you had messaged him to let him know that you were leaving the party like you had told Pope you were going to.

That peculiar look on Pope’s face that you hadn’t understood at the time suddenly makes sense to you. He had realized, in that moment, that you never bothered to text Deran and tell him you were leaving.

And what kind of girlfriend doesn’t even take two seconds to let her boyfriend know she’s leaving a party they’re both at?

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope barely slept a wink last night.

He spent half the night going over the details for today’s heist, and the other half replaying and overanalyzing everything you had said during the short time spent together in your car.

One question. Pope had asked you one fucking question. How did you two meet, anyway?

And you had answered him - somehow leaving him with even more questions than before you whisked him away from the party and took him to some remote cliffside pull-off on the outskirts of town.

Questions he can’t ask quite so casually.

Why didn’t you say goodbye to Deran when we were leaving the party? Why do you seem so reluctant to call him your boyfriend? Why didn’t you text him like you said you were going to?

Add those to the list of questions he already had - the biggest of which being why doesn’t he ever kiss you like I fucking want to kiss you?

He may not have the answers to those questions, but he knows one thing: he’s not crazy.

Well, he supposes that’s debatable. A lot of people would argue otherwise. But he’s not imagining things. Not this time. It’s not just wishful thinking on his part. There’s more than meets the eye to your and Deran’s relationship.

Maybe you don’t feel for Pope what he feels for you. But he doesn’t think you feel it for Deran, either.

But he can’t dwell on that anymore right now. Not when Lena’s babysitter is texting him one hour before he’s supposed to leave for a huge job to tell him that she had something unexpected come up and can’t watch Lena tonight.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s got less than an hour to figure out somewhere safe for Lena to stay tonight.

The last thing he wants is to leave her with Smurf and give her the satisfaction of being needed for anything, and he wouldn’t trust Nicky or Renn either one to watch a fucking dog - so he packs Lena an overnight bag and heads to find one of the only people on the planet that he truly trusts with her.

He breathes a small sigh of relief when he pulls into the parking lot of the bar and sees your car.

“What are we doing here?” Lena asks from the backseat.

“I have to go to work,” he explains gently. “Allison is busy tonight so we’re here to see if you can hang out with uncle Deran’s girlfriend for a while.” He turns around to look at Lena - she’s staring at him with those wide doe eyes that Pope has gotten used to seeing filled with disappointment. “Is that okay with you?”

Lena nods, her face perking up a bit.

Pope had figured she wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t been lying when he told you that Lena enjoys spending time with you. Really, he’d far rather Lena spend time with you than her regular babysitter, but he knows that for whatever reason, you enjoy your job.

(He would be more than willing to pay you significantly more than what you make as a bartender, but that’s besides the point).

Lena practically runs towards you the second that she sees you wiping down a corner booth in the nearly empty bar. Pope trails a few feet behind, carrying her overnight bag on his shoulder. He watches as you glance up when Lena calls your name. You instantly open your arms to her, letting her jump into your embrace. The smile on your face when you realize it’s her lights up the whole damn dingy room, Pope thinks.

You and Pope lock eyes with Lena still in your arms. Your gaze lands on the bright pink bag hanging off of his shoulder, and he looks at you apologetically. Without him even saying a word, he can tell that you already know exactly why he and Lena are here.

“Hey, are you hungry?” You ask Lena, placing her back down on the floor. “You want some cheesy fries?” She nods, a somewhat shy but excited smile growing on her face. “I’ll get you cheesy fries and a lemonade. Just go sit in that little booth while I talk to your uncle Pope for a minute, okay?”

Pope waits until Lena is out of earshot before speaking lowly. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but you’re already shaking your head. “Her sitter canceled at the very last second. I’ve gotta meet Deran and Craig in less than an hour. I just don’t wanna leave her with Smurf—”

“Andrew,” you interrupt him, effectively ending his rambling by simply saying his first name. “It’s okay. Really. I’m only working opening shift today, so I get off soon. It isn’t a big deal.”

Pope glances to where Lena sits in the corner booth, watching something on her iPad, and then back to you. “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” you say, soft but sure. You hold out a hand to take Lena’s bag. “Do what you need to do. Me and Lena will find something fun to do this evening.”

He hesitates a second longer, then hands you the bag. “There’s some money in the side pocket for you two to get dinner.” Then, lowly so the few people sitting at the bar can’t hear, “I should be back no later than eleven o’clock, max. Her bedtime is usually eight but it’s Saturday, so she can stay up a little bit later, if she wants. It’s up to you.”

You smirk. “I’ll try not to keep her up too late.”

He can’t help but think that you look so fucking pretty right now. Even in a simple black t-shirt with the bar’s logo and a server’s apron on. He wonders if Deran has told you how pretty you look today.

Or if Deran has even seen you today. Knowing him, he likely crashed at Smurf’s after the party or stayed out until the sun came up and was too hungover to wake up when you left for work.

“She’ll be fine,” you assure him delicately, seemingly taking his silence for hesitation. “Take your time and just…be safe, okay?” You look like you want to say more, but you bite your bottom lip, crossing your arms over your chest.

Pope gives a brief nod. “I will.”

He starts to walk past you to say goodbye to Lena when you grab him by the forearm. His gaze drops to where your hand grips him and then back up to your worried eyes.

“Promise me,” you whisper. “You won’t take any unnecessary risks. You won’t do anything to get yourself locked back up. Or worse.”

There’s a small, petty part of him that wants to ask if you made Deran make you a similar promise. But he knows how mean that would sound, and he knows he would regret it as soon as the words left his lips.

He settles for a simple I promise instead.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Spending time with Lena doesn’t feel like spending time with a child. It’s more like spending time with an adult trapped in a child’s body.

She’s more reserved and guarded than any seven year old should ever have to be. Hesitant to get close to anyone for fear that they’ll be the next person that she loses.

It never takes you too long to bring her out of her shell, though. All you had to do was ask if she wanted to go get her nails done, and glimpses of the bright little girl beneath the trauma began to peek through.

Any color she wants, you had told her. Multiple colors. A different color for each finger and toenail. She had said that would look silly - ultimately choosing a bright yellow for her toes and a baby pink for her fingernails.

When you asked if she wanted to come back for another manicure in a few weeks, she looked like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be excited. She hesitated, asking “really?” in a tiny voice that broke your heart.

You had assured her you were confident that her uncle Pope wouldn’t mind.

Afterwards, it started to rain, so your original plan to take her to the beach got scrapped. You had been driving down the road, trying to brainstorm something else to do to pass the time for a couple hours, when you drove past an arcade that you hadn’t been to in years.

Lena hadn’t, either.

Air hockey, skee ball, Whac-A-Mole, pinball, and every claw machine in the building. With all of her tickets (and yours), she picked out a small stuffed bunny that she is now cuddling in your bed - fast asleep, with a belly full of the pizza that you picked up on your way home.

You tucked her into your bed hours ago and she fell asleep within minutes. You wish you could say the same for yourself.

Right now, it’s a quarter til midnight and you’re trying your hardest not to spiral - and the fact that Pope had said he would be back no later than eleven o'clock and you’ve yet to hear a word from him, Deran, or anyone else is only the second half of the reason why.

The first half is an innocent observation made by a seven year old.

“Why are you uncle Deran’s girlfriend and not uncle Pope’s girlfriend?”

You nearly spit out your drink at the question. It’s so random that at first, you think you must have heard her wrong. The two of you are sitting on your living room couch, eating dinner and watching some cute animated movie on Netflix that Lena chose.

“What - why do you ask that?” You laugh.

She isn’t even looking at you, her attention on the screen in front of her. She gives a small shrug and glances at you. “I don’t know,” she says in a small voice. “Sometimes I just wish you were uncle Pope’s girlfriend instead. Is that bad?”

What the hell are you supposed to say to that? Yeah kid, I wish that, too. All the time, actually. But your uncle Deran is actually gay and if I break up with him to get with his fucking brother then people are going to assume that Pope stole his girl and that I cheated on him. But I can’t say that I didn’t actually cheat on him, because then we’d have to admit to the fact that our relationship has been fake this entire time, and Deran would have to come out before he’s ready, and and and—-

Lena is staring at you.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think that’s bad. Sometimes we can’t help what we want. But…you don’t have to wish for your uncle Pope and I to be boyfriend and girlfriend. If you want the three of us to spend more time together, or if you want you and I to spend more time together, we can try to make that happen.”

“It’s not that,” she says meekly, looking down at her hands in her lap.

You tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Then what is it, kiddo?”

She hesitates for a moment. You’re going to drop the subject, because ultimately, it doesn’t really matter - what she wants or what you want - but then she opens her mouth.

“Uncle Deran doesn’t look at you the way uncle Pope does.” She looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes. It’s at this moment that you have to remind yourself that she has no true blood relation to Pope - because just like him, you think she can see right through you. “And you don’t look at uncle Deran the way you look at uncle Pope.”

“Wow,” you laugh, a little too quickly. “Remind me to never play poker with you.” She scrunches her brows together in confusion. Then, you scoot a bit closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Grown-ups are complicated sometimes. But I promise you don’t need to worry about me, or Uncle Pope, or uncle Deran. That’s between us. All that matters is that we all love you. Okay?”

She nods, accepting that answer far more easily than you expect. She doesn’t press, doesn’t question, just leans into your embrace and goes back to watching her movie.

But her words continue to echo in your mind hours after she has fallen asleep and the small house has gone quiet.

Are you really so transparent that a fucking seven year old can read you like that? And if she’s right about the way you look at Pope…could she be right about the way he looks at you, too?

You’ve never let yourself think about it long enough for it to matter. Pope has never been a possibility.

Even if you wish he was.

And then there’s the more obvious and pressing matter at hand - it’s nearly midnight and you have no idea if the boys are okay.

None of them are answering their phones. After Pope and Deran, you even try to call Craig. All go straight to voicemail. You even send Nicky a short, inconspicuous text - simply asking if she’s heard from J. She has not.

You force yourself to put your phone down after that. If their phones are turned off, there’s nothing else you can do for the time being except wait.

You don’t even realize you’ve dozed off until the sound of a car door slamming shut jolts you awake.

You practically sprint to the door, unlocking and opening it before they have a chance to wake Lena up. Your knees almost give out in relief when you see both Deran and Pope standing upright, walking up the front porch steps.

Then you see a cut across Deran’s cheekbone.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping outside. You reach out on instinct, your fingers hovering over the dried blood smeared across his skin. It’s not deep, but it’s ugly. “Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, brushing it off but letting you inspect the wound. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”

You can’t help but glance past him to where Pope still stands at the top of the porch steps a few feet away. Your eyes are instantly drawn to a large stain on the side of his shirt, just under his ribcage. Dark red and wet looking. Undeniably blood.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, already stepping past Deran without thinking. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

Before you can think twice, your hands are on him, tugging his shirt up. Your stomach drops when you see the bloody gash across his ribs.

“You got shot,” you hiss.

“I got grazed,” he corrects gently, watching you with an unreadable expression. “I promised you I wouldn’t do anything to get locked up or worse, right? I didn’t break that promise. This is just a flesh wound.”

Behind you, Deran clears his throat. “Don’t worry about me, babe. I’m totally fine. In case you were concerned.”

“I know you’re fine, Deran. You’re not the one bleeding onto our porch.”

Deran is silent for a moment as you crouch down to get a better look at the still-oozing wound on Pope’s side. Then, he sighs, muttering something about going to take a shower.

“Don’t wake Lena up,” you call over your shoulder in a whisper-shout as he disappears into the house without another word.

And then it’s just you and Pope. Pope, with his abdomen still halfway exposed and blood dripping down his side.

“Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s get you patched up.”

He follows you into the house without any protest.

“Shirt off,” you command without looking at him as you gather whatever you can find from around the kitchen and small hallway bathroom.

You’re a bartender - not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not even a CNA. But you have been best friends with Deran Cody for a couple years now, so this isn’t your first time having to patch up a gaping, bloody wound.

It is, however, your first time patching up Pope.

Urgent care or the ER is out of the question, so you have to make do with what you have. A clean washcloth, hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, gauze pads and tape.

Pope takes a silent seat on the couch and lets you examine the wound up close when you sit down beside him. You hear Deran turn on the shower from the master bathroom down the hallway as you begin wiping the mostly dried blood off of his skin with a damp washcloth.

“So,” you start, your face warming under his stare, “other than the obvious, did everything go okay? Are Craig and J alright?”

“Yeah,” Pope grunts. “They’re fine. Me and Deran got the worst of it.”

“Clearly,” you grumble. “Should’ve made you promise specifically to not get shot.” You glance up at him. “I’ll remember that next time.”

He looks down to where you carefully clean the skin of his abdomen. “How was Lena?” He murmurs. “Did she behave for you?”

“Of course,” you snort. “She always does. We had fun. Got our nails done, went to the arcade, got pizza for dinner, watched a movie about a fox and a bunny who are cops…”

“Wow. Sounds like your evening was far more relaxing than mine.” He pauses. “Did you use the money I put in Lena’s bag?”

You roll your eyes but don’t look away from the task at hand. “Yeah. Five hundred dollars was more than enough for dinner, you know.”

He lets out a low, rough laugh at that. You feel it more than you hear it. It rumbles through his chest beneath your hands, the muscles there jumping with the motion of it. Your eyes drift without meaning to, suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting to him and the steady rise and fall of his bare, bulky chest only inches away. You force your attention away from the thick muscles, grabbing the hydrogen peroxide.

“This will probably sting,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods, just visible enough to confirm he heard you before you carefully squirt the clear liquid over the gash.

“So, where’s she sleeping?” He asks, barely even wincing.

Your brows scrunch together. “In my bedroom?”

A pause. “And where were you sleeping?” You’re too distracted, and too tired, to pick up on the subtle, curious shift in his tone. With one hand, he pats one of your pillows that you had brought from your room along with a large throw blanket to assemble a makeshift bed on the couch. “Here?”

“Yeah?” You snort. “I let Lena sleep in my bedroom and I took the couch…”

“I thought this place had two bedrooms.”

You shake your head, still not entirely sure what he’s getting at. “It does. My room and Der…”

The words die in your throat. You completely freeze as you blot the clean wound dry with a paper towel.

Shit.

Your room…and Deran’s room.

“I mean—” You clear your throat, tossing the paper towel aside and grabbing the tube of Neosporin and a gauze pad to avoid looking him in the eye while your brain is scrambling to think of some excuse as to why a happy couple would be sleeping in separate bedrooms. You say the very first thing that comes to mind. “Deran snores. Like, really loud. And I’m a light sleeper, so…sometimes I crash in the guest room. It was my bedroom before we started dating.”

It’s a shit excuse. It doesn’t at all address why you didn’t just sleep in your and Deran’s shared bedroom tonight, but it’s the best you can come up with on the spot - with him staring at you like he can read your mind.

Pope doesn’t respond right away. You can practically feel his eyes on you, daring you to look up.

“I didn’t know that Deran snores,” he muses lowly.

Does Deran actually snore? Maybe? Sometimes?

You tear off a piece of cheap medical tape you found in the first aid kit. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one who shares a bed with him.”

The room feels impossibly small and suffocating. You hold the gauze pad up to the wound, your hands trembling more than you’d like as you try to make quick work of securing the bandage to his side.

You start to pull away, to tell him that should be good enough for now, to leave the room and attempt to regain your composure after all but blatantly admitting that your relationship is a sham, when Pope grabs your wrist.

At first, he says nothing. Just stares at you, as intense and unyielding as ever. His hand dwarfs your own, his skin like wildfire against yours.

You know you should pull away - should try your hardest to convince him that yes, of course your brother and I sleep in the same bed. Why wouldn’t we? We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. That’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do when they live together—

But all the words catch and pile up in your throat, making you feel like you’re going into anaphylactic shock.

“No, I don’t share a bed with him,” Pope drawls. “But you don’t share a bed with him, either. Do you?”

Your mouth goes dry. There’s no point in even trying to deny it. The truth may as well be written across your forehead.

Pope releases your wrist. You almost think he’s going to let it go - that he isn’t going to press this subject right here, right now, where Deran could so easily overhear. Instead, his hand settles on the exposed skin of your thigh, just above your knee. His calloused thumb applies just enough pressure to the flesh of your inner thigh to make your stomach knot.

“Not only do I think you don’t share a bed,” he murmurs, voice rough, “but I also think you don’t like calling him your boyfriend very much either, for some reason.”

Your heart is beating so hard you’re sure he can feel it through your skin. His hand slides the slightest bit higher.

“And I don’t think he kisses you,” he continues, leaning closer. “At least not the way I think about kissing you.”

Air leaves your lungs in a shaky breath. Your eyes drop to his lips before you can stop yourself.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.

Your hand moves before your brain can catch up, coming up to cup his jaw. The rough scrape of stubble against your palm sends a shiver down your spine as your lips hover no more than an inch away from his.

He’s shirtless and wounded. Lena’s sleeping in the next room and Deran is showering just down the hall. You’re supposed to be in a relationship with his brother, but right now you can’t remember why you ever thought that was a good idea.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about any of that because Pope is right. He’s right about it all. You and Deran don’t share a bed. You do struggle calling him your boyfriend. He doesn’t kiss you, and you don’t kiss him.

Never have. Not in the way that every fiber of your being screams to kiss Pope right now.

“No.”

You aren’t quite sure whether he kisses you or you kiss him. You just know within seconds of your lips touching his, the restraint that you’ve been fighting to maintain for months crumbles. His mouth moves against yours with the kind of urgency that both shows and tells just how much he’s been holding himself back all this time, too.

He exhales against your lips, one hand coming up instinctively to grip your waist while the other tightens on your thigh. The pull of it drags you closer to him on the couch and before you know it, you’re straddling his lap, your hands braced on his broad, freckled shoulders for balance. He fists the hem of your t-shirt, bunching the fabric at your waist just enough for his knuckles to graze the exposed skin of your sides.

The unmistakable flavor of menthol on his tongue from a cigarette he undoubtedly smoked on the drive home with Deran tells you that he couldn’t have predicted this happening right now anymore than you could have.

Your fingers glide over the planes of his shoulders and up the sides of his neck until they weave through his short brunet curls that you’ve longed to run your hands through for longer than you care to admit. You give a gentle tug to the hair at the base of his skull and the sound that vibrates from deep within his chest shoots straight to your core.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that your brain is somehow able to register that Deran has turned the shower off.

As much as it equally physically and emotionally pains you to do so, you scramble off of Pope’s lap, adjusting your t-shirt back into a proper position and wiping any evidence of his kiss from your mouth with the back of your hand. As you scoot to the opposite end of the couch from him, you can’t help but take in the current state of him - lips kiss swollen, chest and neck flushed pink, and clad only in the pair of jeans that he attempts to adjust to conceal the bulge you were able to feel through your sleep pants.

If it weren’t for the fact that you can hear Deran exiting the bathroom at this precise moment, you don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from taking him right here on this couch.

And that’s a very dangerous thought.

Deran enters the living room wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, sandy blond hair still dripping and his own skin flushed pink for reasons entirely different from Pope. Luckily, he barely spares a glance in your direction, walking past you and Pope to get to the kitchen.

“Bleed out on my couch yet? Or are you gonna make it?” Deran calls from where he rummages through an open fridge. You look to Pope, mentally urging him to play off what had just transpired not even ten seconds before Deran walked in the room.

He doesn’t. He stares at the back of Deran’s head, his jaw clenched so tight that you’re surprised he doesn’t break a tooth.

You answer before the silence can turn (more) weird.

“He’s patched up well enough for now,” you say, voice unnaturally high. Then, as casually as you can manage, “there’s leftover pizza from dinner in there, if you’re hungry.”

“Sick,” Deran grunts. “What about you, man? You hungry?”

You raise your brows at him, shooting him a look that clearly says fucking answer him, act normal, I swear to God if you don’t eat that leftover pizza—

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you when he answers with a singular, emotionless word. “Starving.”

Deran has no reaction, but something about the way he says it while looking at you makes it feel like the back of your neck is on fire.

You clear your throat. “Well, I have to open in the morning, so I should probably get some sleep…” You turn to Pope, trying not to completely melt under his stare. “Um - Lena can just sleep here tonight, if you don’t wanna wake her up this late. You can come back and get her in the morning, or you sleep here on the couch if you want—”

It won’t kill you to actually share a bed with Deran for one night. He is your best friend, after all.

“No, that’s okay.” He shakes his head and reaches for the blood soaked shirt on the coffee table. “It’s probably best if I come back in the morning.” He doesn’t elaborate as he starts to put the stained button-up back on.

“At least let me give you one of Deran’s t-shirts to wear for the time being. That thing is covered in blood.” You don’t wait for a response before you’re rising from the couch and walking down the hallway to Deran’s bedroom.

The second the door shuts behind you, you lean against it - fingertips touching your bottom lip that still tingles from where his mouth had moved so desperately with yours. You take a few deep, steadying breaths before you’re able to force yourself to look for a clean t-shirt in the absolute shit show that is Deran’s bedroom.

Part of you feels relieved that Pope is insisting on coming back to get Lena in the morning so that you won’t have to actually sleep in this mess. As much as you love Deran, you can’t say with confidence that he’s changed his bedsheets anytime in the last six months.

Another part of you is glad that Pope won’t be occupying your couch tonight because you know you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting a decent night’s sleep if he were a mere short walk down the hallway.

At least when Pope leaves you can take the couch and try to process the fact that you straddled his lap, stuck your tongue in his mouth and felt the very obvious evidence of his arousal with only walls separating the two of you from Deran and Lena.

You rummage through Deran’s closet until you find the first t-shirt that passes a sniff test while trying not to spiral until you’re fully alone.

“Here’s a t-shirt. If you want to leave your shirt I can try to get the blood out of it—”

You look around the small living room and kitchen to find that Pope is nowhere to be found. Deran leans against the counter, taking a bite of a slice of leftover pizza.

“Where’s Pope?”

Deran shrugs. “I heated a piece of pizza up for him but he muttered something about going home and dipped.”

“He’s the one wearing a bloody shirt, not me,” you sigh, tossing the t-shirt onto the couch and trying to play off the disappointment you feel at his sudden departure.

“Do you think he was acting kinda strange?”

Your stomach flip flops at the question. You can’t bring yourself to look Deran in the eye, so you take your place on the couch once more, your back turned to him. “I mean, he did technically get shot. I guess anyone would be a little on edge after that.”

The excuse feels sour on your tongue, but it’s all you’ve got.

“I guess,” he agrees with a mouthful of pizza. An awkward pause. “Seemed fine enough on the drive here, though.”

You shrug, grateful that Deran can’t see your face at the moment. “Probably just a combination of blood loss and an adrenaline crash after the job. How did that go, by the way?”

Much to your relief, Deran doesn’t press the subject of Pope any further before telling you he’s going to bed after he’s finished eating.

Unfortunately, that does very little to quiet the chaos in your mind.

When you finally turn off the lights and curl up under your blanket on the couch, you know that sleep won’t come easily. Not with the ghost of Pope’s hands still burning against the skin of your waist, not with the taste of a menthol cigarette still lingering on your tongue, and definitely not with the impossible to ignore realization that you have no earthly idea what the fuck you’re supposed to do now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has no issue being celibate. He got used to it during his three years in prison.

Then, almost immediately upon being released, his brothers all but forced him to go to a strip club for his birthday, where he ended up having the most unsatisfactory hook-up of his life. He’s sure the woman - whose name he doesn’t even remember - would say the same of the experience.

All it took was that one brief and underwhelming sexual encounter for him to decide that he would rather remain celibate than have sex that feels so…meaningless and unfulfilling.

Coincidentally or not, he had just met you when he came to that decision.

You, his baby brother’s girlfriend, who patched up his wound as if he’s made of glass one moment and then climbed onto his lap and kissed him breathless the next. You, whose lips taste so honey sweet that you got him hard with just one kiss. You, who whimpered as you broke away from him just seconds before Deran entered the room, leaving him desperate to do whatever necessary to keep drawing sounds like that from you.

It all replayed on a loop the entire drive back to his place.

The way you tasted, the feeling of your skin, and how it took every bit of his self restraint to resist laying you down just so he could feel you squirm beneath him.

He wishes he could say this is the first time that he’s thought of you as he gets himself off in the shower, but that would be a lie. It’s far from it, but it is the first time doing so knowing how it feels to have your hands in his hair and the weight of you grinding down right where he most wants you.

Tonight, it takes him no time at all - all he has to do is think of the sweet smell of your perfume and how good it felt to have your fingers in his hair while your lips moved in synchronicity with his own, and he’s finishing with a groan of your name as warm, white liquid follows the water down the drain.

When he lays down in his bed, he finds it difficult to feel guilty about any of it.

He knows that he should. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother. But he felt every ounce of how you had kissed him. There’s no doubt in his mind that you want him as bad as he wants you. That’s not something a person can fake.

Not you, anyway. Pope knows you. You aren’t a good liar.

If he believed that he was intruding on a happy, healthy relationship, he may feel a shred of remorse. But there’s no part of him that believes that to be the case.

You may care about Deran, but no part of Pope believes that you’ve ever kissed Deran the way you kissed him. You may spend most of your time with him, but Pope knows who’s really on your mind the whole time. And you may have love for his brother, but Pope is more sure than ever you aren’t in love with him.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

That morning, you wake far earlier than you need to.

Lena likes to sleep in on days she doesn’t have school, and you don’t have to be at the bar until eleven, but you still find yourself awake at the crack of dawn.

Busying yourself does little to keep your brain from wandering to Pope. You bake blueberry muffins for when Lena wakes up, start a load of laundry, and clean the kitchen and living room all while thinking about what the hell you’re going to say and do whenever he comes to get Lena.

Should you tell him that last night was a mistake and that it can’t happen again? Probably. That would make everything a lot fucking simpler. Nip it in the bud, before either of you get too invested, someone finds out, and people get hurt.

But you’re already invested. Your heart has been invested in Pope Cody since the day you met him by Smurf’s pool. Kissing him last night was just the dam finally breaking.

So what do you tell him, then? The truth? And completely betray Deran’s trust?

Other than Adrian, and a couple nameless men before him, you’re the only person he’s ever told the truth to. You are the only person he’s ever told who he hasn’t also slept with.

You’re the only person he’s ever told simply out of trust, and you won’t blatantly betray that.

You’re drinking coffee on the front porch when Pope parks in front of your house. Equal parts excitement and anticipation bloom in your gut the second that he gets out of his truck and begins walking in your direction.

He pauses when he reaches the top step. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to do anything other than look at you.

“Good morning,” you hum, coffee mug pressed against your lips. “How’s your side?”

“Sore. Fine,” he murmurs, hesitantly taking the seat on the opposite side of the small patio table. “I changed the bandage this morning. Lena sleep okay?”

“She’s still snoring,” you say fondly.

“She does that,” he sighs, looking around like he’s expecting to see someone else. “Where’s your boyfriend at?”

You roll your eyes. “Your brother,” you correct, placing your mug on the table but not taking your hands off the sides just so you have something to occupy them, “is out surfing. About that, though…” You trail off, going silent. Pope waits, patient but as expressionless as ever.

Not even ten minutes ago, you swore to yourself that you’d only kiss him again if you also give him some kind of explanation that assures him you’re not actually committing infidelity by doing so.

And fuck, you really want to kiss him again, so it’s now or never.

You nod your head in the direction of the front door. “Let’s go inside.”

He quirks a brow, but doesn’t question or object as he stands to follow you into the house. When he enters, you close the door quietly so as to not wake Lena - she’s a deep sleeper, but you really need her to stay asleep for a little bit longer. Just long enough for you to get this off your chest before you chicken out.

You hesitate in the kitchen. You consider sitting down on the couch, but one vivid flashback of what happened last time the two of you sat on that couch together makes you think twice about that, and you settle for leaning against the counter with your arms crossed over your chest instead.

You’re both silent for a moment, but Pope is the first to break.

“Look, I don’t regret last night,” he says, low. He takes a tentative step towards you. “Not at all. But if you do, it’s okay. We can pretend it never happened, if that’s what you—”

“You were right.”

He freezes. Then, takes another small step, leaving only a few inches of space between you. “About which part?”

You lift your shoulders in a half shrug. “All of it. Me and Deran. We don’t share a bed. We don’t kiss. Never have. Not like you and I did. Not even close.”

He doesn’t look surprised. You didn’t expect him to. He had already said it all himself. You’re only confirming what he already believes to be true.

“I’m not in love with Dean. And he isn’t in love with me, either.”

No, he doesn’t look surprised, but you can’t help but think he does look a little bit relieved - even just to hear you say it out loud. But that tiny smidge of relief written in his features is quickly replaced with confusion.

“Then why the hell are you guys together? What am I missing?”

You look down at the floor, your stare locking onto a blueberry you had dropped while making muffins. This is the part that you know you can’t answer honestly. At least not in a way that will make sense to him. He’s going to have questions…ones that you can’t answer in complete honesty without outing Deran.

“Hey,” Pope says, voice uncharacteristically soft. He closes the remaining bit of distance between you and places a tentative hand on your waist, causing you to look up at him. He braces his other hand against the ledge of the counter that you lean against, caging you between it and his body. His hazel eyes bore into yours, searching for whatever it is that you aren’t saying. “You can talk to me. I’m just…trying to understand.”

“I know,” you whisper. You uncross your arms, placing your palms against his chest. Your gaze drops to the chipped polish on one of your fingernails.

“I do love Deran. A lot. And he loves me, too. But we aren’t in love.” You take a breath. “Our relationship is fake.”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Fake.” He repeats the word, his voice unreadable.

“Mm-hm.” You nod, even though you can tell it wasn’t really a question. “Fake.”

“Why?”

You can’t help but snort a laugh at the bewilderment in his tone. You sigh, rubbing your thumb absentmindedly against the front of his shirt where your hand rests on his chest.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you admit. “But it made sense at the time.” Pope waits, silently giving you the opportunity to keep going. “It was my idea. As you know, I work at a busy bar. Men hit on me…pretty much constantly. Some don’t take no for an answer the first time. Or the second time.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“So being able to say that I have a boyfriend helps,” you continue with a shrug. “Most guys back off quicker if they believe there’s another man involved. And at the time…I wasn’t interested in being with anyone for real anyway. A lot of people already assumed me and Deran were together. I mean, we hang out all the time, we live together…it didn’t really come as a shock to most people.”

You pause, then add more firmly, “As for Deran…he has his own reasons for agreeing to the arrangement. But that’s for him to share, when and if he ever feels ready.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then a slow look of realization settles over his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Oh.”

He doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t push the boundary. But Pope’s smarter than most people give him credit for. You can see the gears turning behind those hazel eyes and you have no doubt he can read between the lines of what you are saying, and what you aren’t.

His grip on your waist tightens and his gaze intensifies. The air in the kitchen seems to grow heavier. “And what about now?”

Your words come out as a breathy whisper. “What do you mean?”

“You said you weren’t interested in being with anyone. What about now?”

You swallow. “Now…”

Now, you see the pretty hazel eyes that are staring at you in your dreams every night. Now, when the boys go out on jobs, you’re a mess until you know that not only Deran is okay, but Pope, too. Now, you struggle to call Deran your boyfriend when people ask, because you’re secretly wishing it was Pope you were calling your boyfriend instead. Now, you know how Pope tastes and you aren’t really sure how you managed to go so long not knowing how he tastes. Now, you’re staring at his lips and can’t remember how to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence.

So instead of answering him with words, you grab his face in your hands and pull his face to yours.

For a fraction of a second, he freezes. Then, when your tongue sweeps his bottom lip, a sound releases from deep in his chest and he’s kissing you back. He’s kissing you back like Deran won’t be home any given moment and Lena won’t be waking up any minute now.

His hands rub up and down your sides and yours go to his hair, subconsciously remembering how much he seemed to like your fingers tugging on his curls last night. His lips part for you, his tongue quick to dance with yours. He brings one hand to cup your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

Everything that follows happens fast. One second, you’re leaning against the counter kissing, and the next, he’s easing your sleep shorts and panties down your thighs and lifting you onto the edge of the counter before kneeling in front of you.

“Andrew,” you breathe. He takes a calf in each calloused hand, parting your legs just far enough to plant kisses on your inner thighs, the light stubble on his jaw tickling the sensitive skin. “We can’t—Lena’s right down the hallway—”

“It’s gonna be fine,” He murmurs the words against your skin in between trailing kisses up your thighs. He stops when his face is only a few inches from your exposed cunt, looking up at you in a way that makes you fight against the urge to clench your thighs around his head.

“Just stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

You nod. You nod because you know if you speak, you’ll sound every bit as eager and desperate as you are. Three damn years that you’ve been single, and the last time you even had so much as a disappointing one night stand was months before you and Deran began your fake relationship, so it goes without saying that…touch-starved is a bit of an understatement.

You could have fucked someone at any point if you had wanted to. God knows Deran has. But the truth is, you haven’t wanted to. The last few hook-ups you had prior to you and Deran getting “together” had been so underwhelming that you’ve been repulsed at the thought of sex for the longest time.

Then you met Pope. And now here you are, with his head between your legs in the middle of your kitchen.

He all but moans into you when his lips settle over the bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. You fight the urge to surge forward, bracing yourself on the countertop with one hand as the other shoots to his hair. You have to purse your lips tightly to keep from releasing the noises that threaten to pour from your throat as he tentatively explores you with his mouth.

Strong arms wrap around your thighs, supporting you from below. His fingers dig into the flesh with just enough pressure that you know you’ll later be able to feel tiny, tender bruises in the exact spots where his fingertips press into your skin.

You glance down at him. It’s the kind of sight that would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already perched on the edge of the countertop - the kind of sight that makes you grateful that he’s helping support your weight right now because it turns your legs to jelly.

His eyes are closed and he’s lost in you - alternating between soft strokes of his tongue up your center and sucking your clit between his pretty lips that are wet with you.

Heat rapidly pools low in your belly and your thighs flex around the sides of his head as you inch closer and closer to release. You croon his name, instantly slapping your own hand over your mouth as soon as the word slips out. He chuckles low against you, the vibration of it shooting through you.

The familiar feeling of a hot coil dangerously close to snapping begins to overtake your senses. Your eyes snap shut and your head rolls back, bracing for the climax that is seconds away from washing over you—

Deran’s voice. Craig’s obnoxious fucking laugh. Both coming from directly outside the house.

“Fuck,” you hiss, ignoring the screaming ache between your legs and practically pushing Pope off you. “Fuck, where’s my—”

Pope reacts even quicker than you. He’s grabbing your sleep shorts and panties from where they lay on the floor, shoving your feet into the holes of both at the same time. He stands, face flushed pink and glistening with your slick, and then darts down the hallway without a word, leaving you to pull your clothing into place just moments before Deran and Craig enter the house in their wetsuits.

You turn in the opposite direction of them, unable to look either one in the eye. You grab the hand towel in front of you and pretend to busy yourself with an imaginary spill on the counter.

“Morning,” Deran calls as he makes a beeline for the fridge. “Smells good in here.”

You clear your throat. “Oh, yeah. I made blueberry muffins. They’re on the dining table. Help yourselves.” Your voice comes out too high-pitched and you mentally recoil.

“Where’s Pope?” Craig asks. “I saw his truck out front.”

“Yeah, he’s here,” you say, forcefully casual. You turn to face them, leaning against the counter and hoping your face looks neutral. “He’s in the bathroom. Or…waking Lena up, maybe. Not sure.”

Really smooth, idiot.

Craig nods in response, seemingly oblivious as he grabs a muffin from the tin on the dining room table.

“What are you guys doing back so early?” Then, fearing the questions sounds more accusatory than curious, you add, “I figured you’d be in the water until lunch time.”

A…curious? Suspicious? Look comes over Deran’s face as he takes a step toward you, leaning in to place a hand on your waist and a kiss on your cheek. “We’re gonna go back out. Just wanted to grab a quick bite to eat.” He retreats, joining Craig at the table. “That okay with you?”

Your cheeks warm and you force a laugh. “Yeah, of course.”

For the next few minutes, you attempt to keep yourself busy by unloading clean dishes from the dishwasher. And by attempt to keep yourself busy, you actually mean try to ignore how uncomfortably sticky wet your underwear are.

After what feels like forever but in actuality was likely no more than ten minutes, Pope and Lena appear from the hallway.

“Hey Lena,” Craig greets her with a smile. Then, eyes trailing over Pope he adds, “How you feeling, man? Heard that bullet grazed you pretty damn good last night.”

Pope shrugs, face giving nothing away. “Never been better.”

The three of them converse while eating, but you can’t help but notice the way that Pope barely says a word to Deran. Hardly even looks at him, really. You try to tell yourself that he’s just being…well, Pope, but deep down you know it’s the fact that he had his fucking tongue buried inside you seconds before Deran got home.

And even though Pope knows that Deran isn’t actually your boyfriend, they’re still brothers. He’s still lying to his brother, and that can’t come easily.

It doesn’t come easily to you, either. Even just being here in this room with all of them right now, you feel like if you open your mouth, you’re surely going to blurt out the truth.

“Everything okay with you?” Deran asks, pulling you out of a trancelike state.

You had been staring at Pope’s side profile.

“Me? I’m fine,” you answer a bit too quickly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Not looking forward to this shift today.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, which Pope is the first to break. “Lena? Isn’t there something you wanted to ask?”

You glance from Pope to Lena. She’s staring at Pope with a shy smile on her face, like she isn’t totally sure if she wants to speak or not.

“Go on,” Pope encourages. “You can ask her.”

She looks at you…and then briefly at Deran before back to you once more. “Do you and uncle Deran want to come to my house for dinner tonight?”

You can’t stop your eyes from going wide at the question. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, but Pope encouraging Lena to ask you and Deran over for dinner wasn’t anywhere on the list of possibilities.

Your foot twitches with the urge to kick Pope from beneath the table.

“Oh—”

“Ah, I’m sorry, Lena,” Deran interrupts you. “I’d love to come over but I have to cover a shift at the bar tonight because we’re short staffed.” Deran looks at you, brows slightly raised. “But you’re more than welcome to go, if you want.”

Lena’s looking at you hopefully. “Uncle Pope’s going to make spaghetti.”

“Oh, is he?” You quip, glancing at Pope, who has been staring at you the whole time with an impassive expression. “Well, I do love spaghetti. Of course I’ll come.”

That earns a toothy grin from Lena, and something like a smirk from Pope.

Dinner. It’s just dinner. Lena will be there. And Deran knows about it, too. Even gave you his blessing to go, so it’s not like you’re being secretive.

Dinner is good. Dinner is fine. So why is your heart racing at the thought of it?

When Pope and Lena say their goodbyes and head out to his truck, you spot the small purple bunny that Lena had won at the arcade last night on the kitchen counter. You could just bring it with you to dinner tonight and give it back to her then, but you’re going to take this as an opportunity to interrogate Pope.

By the time you slip on your flip flops and run outside, Lena is already buckled into the backseat and Pope is opening the driver’s door.

“Wait a sec!” You call. He freezes, looking back over his shoulder. “She forgot this.” You toss him the bunny and he catches it. You wait for him to shut the door before you speak again. “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” He starts to take a step closer to you, but stops himself after a quick glance in the direction of the house.

“That,” you whisper-hiss. “Inviting me and Deran to dinner after eating me ou—” Now it’s your turn to stop yourself. You shake your head. “You’re lucky he’s busy at the bar tonight.”

Pope smirks, the apples of his cheeks turning pink as he appears to be fighting off laughter. “I already knew that Deran is busy tonight. He was complaining last night about being understaffed and having to work tonight.”

“Oh. That’s…oh. That makes sense.”

He shrugs. “Just figured it would be less weird if Lena invited both of you.”

You cock a brow. “So you put her up to that, then?”

“I needed an excuse to see you tonight,” he says simply, opening the door to his truck again. “Do you…actually like spaghetti?”

You laugh, your face warming at the hopefulness in his voice. “Yeah. Spaghetti’s good.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

The question Deran asked in response to you proposing a fake relationship nine months ago has echoed in your mind all day long. From the moment that Pope and Lena pulled out of your driveway this morning, throughout your shift at the bar, the entire time you’re getting ready to go over to their place for dinner, and with every bite of spaghetti, the question rings louder and louder.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

At the time, it did sound good. It sounded so simple. But you never could have predicted that the person you would meet, the person you would want to be with for real, would be his damn brother.

What kind of luck is that? To genuinely fall for someone for the first time in years and it happens to be your best friend’s brother?

No harm done. You can only fucking hope - hope that Deran doesn’t feel betrayed, hope that he still wants to be your friend, and hope that he isn’t angry with Pope whenever you tell him.

Because you are going to tell him. Soon. You’re just still trying to figure out exactly what it is you’re going to tell him.

Pope’s mouth is on your throat.

Dinner was over a while ago, followed by several games of Connect 4 at Lena’s request. Then, you insisted on cleaning the kitchen while Pope helped her get ready for bed. Now, the house is quiet. The curtains are drawn, the doors are locked, the lights are low, and his mouth is on your throat.

An Animal Planet documentary playing on the TV illuminates the otherwise dark living room. You’re flat on your back on the couch with Pope above you, one arm braced next to your head and his other hand resting just under the hem of your shirt, fingers splayed across the skin of your stomach. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, keeping him pressed as closed as possible while still wearing clothes.

He alternates between peppering wet kisses and sucking tiny love bites along the column of your throat. You feel the hard press of him between your legs, unable to resist arching upwards in an attempt to relieve the rapidly growing ache in your core. He lets out a low, throaty groan at the movement, grinding down with enough pressure to make you gasp out in longing.

“Andrew,” you whisper, voice strained with arousal. Your hands shoot to the sides of his head, delicately urging him back. He pulls away instantly, just enough for his face to hover inches above yours.

“What is it?” He murmurs, worry on his face. He removes his hand from beneath your shirt, smoothing the fabric back into place. The simple gesture makes your stomach flutter. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, really. I love this. Being here with you. Spending time with you and Lena. This…” You trail off, breathless, glancing down at the very limited amount of space between his chest and yours. “I just can’t help but feel bad about keeping it from Deran. I know I’m not actually cheating on him…but he’s still my best friend. And your brother. I want to be honest with him before this…goes any further.”

His expression is soft as he nods. He maneuvers off of you, sitting up and helping you into a sitting position beside him, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as he pulls you into his side. “What are you gonna tell him, exactly?” He places a tentative hand on your thigh. “What is…this?”

A shaky laugh slips out. “I was hoping we could figure that out together,” you say, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your leg. “All I know is I don’t want it to end. I just want to tell him first.”

“There’s nothing for me to figure out. You’re it for me.”

Your eyes shoot back up to his. His thumb brushes over your skin in slow circles. He tilts his head, a faint smirk appearing on his lips. “But I’m not going anywhere. So you do whatever you need to do.”

You start to lean in, to kiss him once more, when the front door rattles sharply from a few feet away. The handle twists back and forth, like whoever is on the other side is fully expecting it to open. Pope goes rigid beside you. There’s a brief pause, then the handle jiggles again, followed by a light knock.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Deran’s voice calls from beyond the door. “You guys in there?”

You’re pulling out of Pope’s embrace in an instant, standing to open the door. “Just act casual,” you murmur low, too quiet for Deran to hear.

You unlock the knob and deadbolt with shaky hands, trying your hardest to erase any signs of unease from your face. You’re going to talk to Deran about all of this, and soon - but not in front of Pope.

Tonight. Once the two of you are back at your place, alone.

“Hey,” you greet him cheerfully when you open the door. “How’d you get off work so early? Thought we were short staffed tonight.” It’s only 8:30 - the bar doesn’t normally close until ten o’clock on Sunday nights.

“We were,” Deran huffs, walking past you to enter the house as you hold the door open for him. “But we were also dead tonight, so I decided to close. Let everyone go home a little early. I was driving home and saw that your car’s still here so I thought I’d stop by.”

Deran pauses next to the recliner, hesitating before sitting down - he glances around the room, seemingly noticing how it’s dark except for the muted under the cabinet lights in the kitchen and the TV playing in the small living room. His gaze lingers on the two half empty beer bottles on the coffee table, one directly in front of Pope and the other in front of where you had been sitting moments prior.

Deran gives an awkward clear of his throat when Pope only stares at him wordlessly. “So, where’s Lena?” He asks, looking around for any sign of the girl.

“Asleep,” Pope answers shortly. “She has school in the morning.”

“Right,” Deran says with a click of his tongue, though there’s something in his voice that makes your stomach twist.

You hover awkwardly by the recliner, not eager to reclaim your original seat next to Pope. “She just laid down a few minutes ago,” you add. “We had been playing Connect 4 and watching a show on Animal Planet.” You gesture vaguely to the television and the red and yellow checkers scattered across the coffee table, evidence of your post-dinner activities. “I was uh - I was just getting ready to leave, actually.”

Deran’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Pope before he responds. “Ah. I see.” He pushes himself off the arms of the recliner with his palms, standing back up. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at home then.”

And whether due it’s the look on his face or the tone of his voice, you have no doubt that he knows something is off.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Deran mumbles an emotionless see ya later to Pope, not waiting for a response before he’s opening the front door and stepping back outside. When the door closes behind him, it echoes in the otherwise quiet room.

“Shit,” you grumble under your breath, looking around for where you had put your shoes. “Well, if he wasn’t already suspicious, he definitely fucking is now. I’ve gotta get home and try to explain—”

You don’t even notice that Pope stands up and walks over to you until he’s taking your face in his hands, tilting your head to look at him.

“He may be upset at first,” he says with a half-shrug and sympathetic look. “Probably will be. I know I don’t know all of the details, but I know you love him. He loves you, too. Everything will be okay.”

You nod meekly, trying to believe his words, but your brain is spiraling with worst-case scenarios. You won’t actually believe that things will be okay until they are okay.

And you know there’s only one way to make that happen.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Deran’s not an idiot, and he sure as hell isn’t blind.

Pope may be a near decade older than him, and he may have spent a good portion of Deran’s twenties in prison, but Deran still knows his brother well.

And he knows you very well.

Well enough to know that in the three years that the two of you have been friends, he’s never seen you look at someone the way that you do Pope.

He doesn’t really understand why you look at Pope the way that you do, but then again, he doesn’t really understand why you’re best friends with him, either. He supposes you see the best in people, even if you could do better.

Whatever the hell is going on between you and his older brother, isn’t a new and shocking revelation to him. He’s noticed Pope staring at you on too many different occasions to count at this point, and he knows you’ve always had a soft spot for Pope.

But he’s noticed a shift over the last few days. Normally, he can ignore Pope’s staring, but it’s more than that now. It’s more than just stolen, longing looks when he thinks you aren’t watching.

Because now, you’re staring back. Maybe not in the exact same creepy, intense way that Pope does, but that’s besides the point.

He accepted that he can no longer play it off as a soft spot when he and Pope got home from their most recent job and you looked like you had seen a ghost when you realized that Pope was bleeding. The second that you noticed the red stain on Pope’s shirt, Deran was suddenly chopped liver.

Maybe he should feel relieved. If you’re going to fall for one of his brothers, at least it isn’t Craig. He loves the guy to death, but he doesn’t exactly have the best track record with women. He’d just cheat on you, or give you some unheard of and incurable STD, or pull a move like he did with Renn and leave you for dead the first chance he gets.

Still. He never expected it to be Pope.

But Deran knows better than most that the heart wants it wants. He can’t fault you for that. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.

He’s told you everything. Everything. Things he’s never told anyone else. You know about the family business - well, more or less. He doesn’t exactly try to hide it. You know the truth of what a monster Smurf is. You were the first person he told about his plans to buy the bar you’d been working at for years - the exact place the two of you met. You know he’s gay. He trusts you implicitly, but you’ve kept the fact that you’re seeing his brother from him?

He isn’t angry (he’s trying not to be, anyway) but more than anything else, he’s hurt.

His best friend. His brother. And neither told him.

When you get home less than five minutes after him, he’s nursing a beer on the couch, waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything at first. You enter the house, slowly, leaning against the door and not meeting his eye for a long moment before taking a deep breath in.

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Deran snorts a sarcastic laugh. “I’d say so.”

You look up. If you’re surprised by his response, you don’t let it show. You purse your lips, making your way to the living room the two of you have shared for the last few years now, taking a seat on the loveseat directly across from him.

“Listen,” you start, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I should’ve told you. I know that. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I had some perfect reason, because I didn’t. I was just scared. I didn’t know what this was, or where it was going, and I didn’t want you caught in the middle if it didn’t work out.” You pause, your voice softening. “But still. I’m sorry for not telling you from the start.”

Deran’s silent for a moment, letting your words sink in. The tension in his shoulders eases the slightest bit at the sincerity in your voice.

The two of you never fight. Bicker like children sometimes, sure. Like when he doesn’t rinse his dishes off before putting them in the sink or waits too long to switch the laundry over so it starts to smell musty and you have to restart the load, or when you eat his last protein bar or forget to put the trash on the curb on garbage day.

But you never fight. You’re the one person he never has to fight with. Even now, he doesn’t want to fight with you.

He nods, staring down at the amber colored glass in his hands instead of you. “How long has this been going on?”

You let out a quiet snort of a laugh. “Depends. If you’re asking when the first time we kissed was…not even twenty-four hours ago. If you’re asking how long I’ve had feelings for him, then…I don’t know, really. A while.”

“Not even twenty-four — last night? As in after we got back from the job last night? You mean you guys were sucking face while I was in the shower?”

“Yes,” you moan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my god, don’t call it that—”

“I knew it.” Deran shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “I fucking knew he was acting even more off putting than usual last night.”

You spread your fingers apart, peeking out from the cracks. “He is not off putting—”

“Holy shit. You are in love with him.”

You groan dramatically, throwing your head back and staring up at the ceiling. Deran tries not to laugh, but he can’t help it.

You sit up a little, expression completely serious now. “Just so you know, I didn’t…tell Pope. About you. He knows that our relationship is fake, but I only told him my reasons for agreeing to it. Not yours.”

He should feel relieved to hear that, but he doesn’t. He just feels guilt - guilt that you felt you couldn’t confide in him. Guilt that you’ve been in this fake relationship for him all this time while harboring feelings for his brother for “a while.” Guilt that you were willing to prioritize him over your own happiness. Guilt that you and Pope wouldn’t have had to sneak around at all if it weren’t for him.

“Well.” He lifts the beer bottle to his lips, taking one last sip before setting it down. “Guess there’s only one thing left to do.”

Your brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

You blink, and then your eyes go wide in surprise. “What? You’re…breaking up with me?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Consider yourself dumped.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t dump me. We weren’t really even together.”

He waves a hand at you in dismissal. “I think what you’re actually trying to say is thank you, Deran.”

“But—”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Will you just let me give you my blessing? You’re off the hook. We’re good. Go suck face with Pope or whatever nasty shit you two were probably doing before I showed up.”

You roll your eyes, but your expression softens. Then, you stand, walking over to where Deran sits on the couch to take the empty space beside him.

“You’re really not mad?” You ask in a small voice.

He exhales through his nose, grabbing your hand in his and giving it a firm squeeze. “No,” he says simply. “How could I be? I mean, I’m not thrilled that it’s Pope, but…” He shrugs. “You committed to a fake relationship for nearly a fucking year for me. You deserve to be happy. Even if it is with my brother,” he adds, a tad more dryly.

You nod slowly, your gaze locked on where his hand still holds yours. “People are gonna talk, you know.” You turn your head slightly to look at him. “About why we broke up. About how I’m with Pope now. They’ll think that I left you for him, or that he stole your girl, or that—”

“So?” He cuts you off. “If I hear anyone say anything about you, I’ll knock their teeth out. Pope would do worse than that.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you say gently. “I don’t care what people say about me. I know the truth. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to…explain. You know, admit that it was a fake relationship or come out before you’re ready to…”

He shakes his head, shushing you. He wraps his free arm around your shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m a big boy. You don’t need to worry about protecting me from rumors anymore. Let people think and say whatever they want. I’ll come out when I’m ready. Not because people are being nosey assholes.”

You seem to relax a bit at his reassurance. You lean into his embrace, resting your head against his shoulder.

“And not because you’re doing my brother, either.”

That gets a laugh from you. The kind of laugh that lets him know that nothing has really changed between the two of you.

Deran gives your hand another squeeze before letting go. “Go on,” he mutters, nodding towards the front door. “He’s probably pacing holes in the floor right now.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has typed and erased an embarrassing number of text messages in your chat thread since the moment that you pulled out of his driveway.

Let me know how it goes.

You can come back here for the night, if you need to. You can sleep in the bedroom and I’ll take the couch.

How pissed is he?

He doesn’t send any of them. Instead, he sits on the couch, stares at his phone, and hopes that you’ll text or call or magically reappear beside him.

It’s a good thing that he’s accustomed to running off of very little sleep, because he doubts he’ll be getting much at all tonight. He already knows that his mind will race with thoughts of you until he eventually collapses from exhaustion, and that it’ll probably finally happen just hours before he has to take Lena to school.

Pope tries to pay attention to the documentary about killer whales playing on the screen in front of him, but he can’t control how his thoughts keep drifting to you. He thinks of how badly he wishes to sleep with you curled into his chest.

Sleep. That’s all. You said you wanted to talk to Deran before things went any further between the two of you, and Pope doesn’t mind. He’d be content to hold you all night and nothing more. To be close to you, in any capacity, puts him at ease like nothing else. That’s been true since he first met you by Smurf’s pool the day after he got out of prison.

When you pull back into the driveway no more than an hour after leaving, he’s so zoned out that he doesn’t even hear you until you’re knocking softly on the door.

“Hey,” he greets you lowly, instantly relieved and a little taken aback by the cheeky smile on your face when he opens the door. “Is everything oh—”

But you’re stepping across the threshold and cutting him off by pressing your lips to his before he can get the question out.

He freezes for a split-second and then he’s kissing you back.

It feels familiar and new all at once. Familiar because Pope has already committed the taste and feel of you to memory in less than a full day’s time, and new because the way you’re moving your lips with his is unrestrained in a way that all of the previous kisses have not been. The truth of you and him is out there, now. There’s no second-guessing, no weight on your shoulders, no reason to hesitate, and he can feel the difference.

You urge him backwards with your hands planted on his waist. Without ever breaking the kiss, he pushes the door closed behind you and takes your face in his hands. You guide him backwards until his legs make contact with the couch and gently push him down. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands ghosting down your back as you settle over his thighs.

“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips, breathless as you caress his face in your hands. “Everything’s more than okay.”

“You sure?” He murmurs, looking up at you in the dim blue light of the television. You nod, your nose brushing against his and corners of your lips perking into a soft smile. “What did Deran say?”

“He’s thoroughly repulsed by the thought of us kissing,” you snort. A laugh rumbles deep in Pope’s chest. Your hands drop to his chest, where you smooth the fabric of his button-up before your fingers find the top button. “So we should probably do a lot of that in front of him. Just maybe not right away,” you hum, smirking.

You pop the button, and then move onto the next, and then the next, until each one is undone and you’re pushing the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms.

“He didn’t love the way that he found out,” you answer, more serious now. “But he understands. Just wants me to be happy. And you make me happy.”

His entire body goes warm at the sentiment. He pulls you flush against his chest, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to tease the skin of your back. He holds you, gazes up at you, like you’re worth more than gold to him.

And you are. You, and the little girl asleep in the other room, who will be tickled to wake up and learn that you’re still here. That you aren’t going anywhere, if Pope has any say in it.

He smiles at the thought before capturing your lips in his once more.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

{ Epilogue ~ 2 years later }

“This tie is too tight. It’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain.”

“Oh, come here,” you groan playfully. Pope leans in, letting you adjust the green tie that matches your dress (and complements his eyes) perfectly.

“You didn’t have to wear this, you know.” You give the length of the tie a gentle tug after loosening it. “The dress code is semi-formal. You could have gotten away with just a button-up.”

“I know,” he grumbles. “But I wanted to match you and Lena at least a little bit. And I figured I should probably get used to wearing one before our wedding.”

The response warms you as much as the Southern California summer sun.

A beachfront wedding. Small and intimate, with a total guest count of less than thirty people…you can’t think of anything more perfectly Deran and Adrian.

“You don’t have to wear one at our wedding either,” you snort, raising an arm to play with the curls at the base of his skull in the way that he likes. “If you don’t want to.”

He grabs your other hand in his, glancing down at the ring that glimmers in the midday sun. He’d put it on your finger only a few months ago, and in the general chaos of life - Lena’s spring soccer season and ballet recital, helping Deran plan his wedding, you and Pope closing on your new house and getting settled in - the two of you haven’t had much time to begin planning your own special day yet.

“Thought you said it looks good on me,” he hums low, unserious.

“Oh, it does,” you laugh. “Very much so. But I care that you’re comfortable at our wedding. You’d look good in anything.”

Soft instrumental music begins to pour from speakers at the edges of the makeshift ceremony setup and everyone goes quiet, turning to look down the aisle. Lena appears moments later, wearing a frilly flower girl dress that matches yours in color. She smiles nervously the entire time she walks down the aisle, small wicker basket in hand. Every few steps, she grabs a handful of pink and white petals, scattering them across the sandy path. As soon as she reaches the end of the aisle, she runs to where you and Pope sit in the front row and climbs onto his lap.

And then Deran and Adrian appear. Hand in hand, they walk down the aisle together until they come to where Craig - who became legally ordained in the state of California solely for this occasion - stands beneath the driftwood arch you helped decorate with flowers earlier.

They take turns exchanging handwritten vows. They cry, you cry, even Craig gets misty-eyed. And then they’re pronounced husbands in what you can only think to describe as the most endearingly Craig way possible, and everyone on the beach cheers.

Afterwards, everyone helps themselves to unlimited beer and the taco bar set up back at the bar, which Deran has closed to the public for the day. You’d done what you could to spruce the place up - miniature floral arrangements and tea lights candles on the tables - but it’s still a bar. Deran’s bar, broken surfboards and all.

Low music fills the room as guests mingle and drink into the evening. Pope surprises you when he offers you his hand and guides you to the very small, cramped space carved out in the middle of the room for a makeshift dance floor.

It’s more swaying than slow dancing, but you enjoy it all the same.

“I know you said that I don’t have to wear a tie to our wedding,” Pope murmurs low, “but what about dancing? Do we have to dance in front of everyone at our wedding?”

“We’re dancing in front of everyone right now,” you snort. “What’s the difference?”

He glances around the room. “Yeah, but no one is paying any attention to us right now. Everyone is too drunk and paying attention to Deran and Adrian. At our wedding, all eyes will be on us.”

“As they should be,” you hum. You bring a hand to the side of his face, steering his gaze back to you. “Yes, we’re going to dance at our wedding. But I’ll let you pick the song.”

He smirks, his grip on your waist tightening. “I guess I should take some lessons, then.”

The clinking of silverware against glass draws everyone’s attention to where Deran and Adrian stand side by side. You and Pope pause your swaying as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side.

“Alright,” Deran says, clearing his throat. “I’m supposed to say some heartfelt shit now, so bear with me.” Adrian laughs beside him, bumping their shoulders together.

“Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them. I probably would have tried to fight them.” That earns a few laughs, but you know better than anyone that he isn’t joking.

“I’m sure most of you know that I haven’t always been the easiest person to deal with,” he continues. “But Adrian—” Deran glances at his now husband with a kind of softness that he reserves only for him, “—Adrian never gave up on me. He stuck around when a lot of people would’ve dipped. And I can’t tell you all how glad I am for that.”

Then, his eyes find you. “And speaking of people who stick around…this one right here.” He points to you with his beer bottle. You suddenly feel every eye in the building on you. Pope gives your arm a comforting squeeze. “Best girlfriend I ever had.”

The small crowd laughs, and you cover your face with your hands, but he presses on. “I’m serious. She was the first person to ever tell me that it’s okay to be who I am. That there’s nothing wrong with me. And there’s no way that I would have gotten to this point without her. And now…I get a front row seat to watch her marry my brother.”

By the time he finishes, you’ve dropped your hands from your face. Now, you’re actively blinking back happy tears. You can’t find the words, so you hold up your hands to form a small heart and hope the simple gesture is worth a thousand words.

Later, after the crowd has thinned and the sun is setting, you and Pope head back down to the beach with a handful of others to gather the remaining chairs and decorations. Lena is supposed to be helping, but she has wandered to the shoreline, happily dipping her toes in the water.

You both pause at the same moment to watch her - her feet bare, her hair and flower girl dress both blowing in the slight breeze. You can only hope that feels as at peace as she looks right now.

“Seeing Deran and Adrian today…” Pope starts, then trails off like he’s searching for the right words.

You turn towards him. “What about it?” You ask gently.

He’s still staring out towards Lena. “Makes me excited for ours.”

“Yeah?” You hum. “Even if I make you slow dance in front of everyone?”

“Yeah.” He meets your eye, his normal intensity fully present. “Whenever you’re ready. Doesn’t matter when or where. I just want that with you.”

Deran’s toast echoes in your mind. Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them.

The words could have been taken from your own mouth. After everything the two of you have been through as individuals, and everything you’ve been through together, you’re marrying the love of your life and raising a beautiful little girl together. You’ve made the most of a tragic situation; turned it into something safe and secure for her - a forever home for the three of you. Maybe more, someday. You can’t help but picture Pope with a tiny baby all his own, soft curls and hazel eyes.

Only time will tell. And you have all the time in the world, now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

and that’s how the show ended….right?? RIGHT???

thank you so much if you read all 18.7k+ words of this. this fic is my baby. i worked on it for well over a month, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.