Kult

Chapter 3:  Locks, Latches, and Late Fees.

“I am nothing now, And it's been so long, Since I've heard a sound The sound of my only hope…” My Heart- Paramore.

Andrew Cody hated the way Smurf looked at you.

It wasn’t obvious to anyone who didn’t know her—didn’t know the difference between a smile and a snare. From the outside, she could pass for any other middle-aged woman who refused to age quietly. Hair done, face on, teeth bright, tan like she’d been kissed by the sun instead of cooked by it. She moved through the house like it belonged to her in the normal way, not the way it actually belonged to her—paid for in cash and fear and men who didn’t ask too many questions.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think Smurf was the kind of woman who saw a struggling single mum and went soft. The kind who offered babysitting the way other women offered sugar. The kind who showed up at your door with a casserole and a smile and a Honey, you look exhausted, like Martha fucking Stewart with better jewellery.

But Pope knew better.

Smurf didn’t help. She invested.

Smurf didn’t give anything away unless she got to own the gratitude afterward—unless she got to use it as some sort of leverage later when you were tired or desperate or scared enough to say yes to something you’d normally run the other way from. He’d watched her do it to everyone. Not just strangers. Not just men she slept with. To her own kids. To people who should’ve been safe from her.

Smurf’s love was never love. It was a business model. A condition.

She started with softness because softness was easy. Softness was what made people let their usually guarded walls crack—touch, praise, a hand on your arm like she was steadying you from yourself. And if softness didn’t work the first few times, she switched to hunger. To punishment. To that cold withdrawal that made you feel like the world would swallow you without her. She’d cut you off—money, affection, the illusion of family—until you crawled back for a crumb of whatever lifeline she took. She did it to all of them when they pushed her too hard: shut them out, made them panic, then opened the door again just enough that they’d rush back in like starving dogs called to eat.

She pitted them against each other like it was her own personal entertainment. Baz got special treatment. Craig got indulged. Deran got watched. Pope got used. And J—J got groomed, pulled in close, taught the books and the guns and the rules, because Smurf didn’t just want loyalty. She wanted a successor she could shape.

And Julia… Smurf couldn’t stand Julia being good for anyone. Couldn’t stand Julia being gentle, being kind, being a light that didn’t come from her. So she did what she always did to anything she couldn’t control: she broke it. She shoved Julia out, let her rot, and forced Pope to choose. That was the kind of mother Smurf was—making love a knife and acting surprised when everyone bled.

She did it to Pope more than anyone, because Pope was the easiest to bend when you pressed on the right bruises.

Smurf knew exactly where they were.

She’d spent his whole life mapping him—cataloguing every flaw, every fear, every soft spot he tried to bury. She knew how to make him feel like a good son and a monster in the same breath, and he’d still come running when she snapped her fingers because that was the trick: she made sure the only way to feel good again was to come back to her.

Praise from Smurf wasn’t affection. It was a leash. Disappointment from Smurf wasn’t anger. It was exile. And Pope—raised on the idea that love meant obedience—always chose the leash over the wilderness.

So when he stood there that morning, watching her move through the kitchen like she was some normal mother on a cooking show, he felt it in his bones before he even saw it clearly: Smurf was doing it again.

Different target. Same method.

Smurf had spent the morning in the kitchen with an apron tied neat at her waist, hair pinned just right, humming under her breath like she wasn’t a criminal queen with blood on her hands. The radio was on low—some bright old song that belonged in a grocery store aisle, not in a house where guns lived in drawers and cash lived in walls and men bled out on tile floors when business went wrong.

She measured and stirred and tasted with calm confidence, like nothing in her life had ever been frantic. Like she didn’t have a list of names in her head at all times. Like she didn’t know exactly who owed her and how much.

Pope watched from the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder against the frame. He stayed there because he couldn’t leave. Leaving meant giving her space to do whatever she wanted without his eyes on it. And watching Smurf do anything normal made his skin crawl.

It was a performance. Always a performance.

“I heard her last night,” Smurf said casually as she scraped batter into a pan, smoothing it down. Her tone was light. Amused. “With her son,” she continued, eyes still on the pan. “Poor thing. Can’t be easy having a kid that won’t sleep.”

Pope didn’t answer.

He didn’t trust his mouth around her when she was like this—soft voice, domestic hands, predator brain. If he spoke, he’d give something away. A reaction. A tell. Smurf collected tells the way she collected jewellery: quietly, greedily, for later.

Her eyes flicked to him—quick and sharp, a blade of a glance.

Pope felt it like a hook catching the inside of his ribs.

She wasn’t checking if he heard her.

She was checking him.

Checking whether he cared. Checking whether he’d noticed you. Checking whether you mattered enough to him for her to use.

Because Smurf didn’t just meddle for fun. Smurf meddled for leverage. And Pope was leverage she’d been using since he was a kid.

She’d noticed everything.

The way you waved at him when you saw him out front, small and polite like you were trying to be normal about living next door to the Cody house. The way you talked over fences when you crossed paths, updates he never asked for: Henry’s sleep being sporadic, Henry’s new Lego obsession, the neighbour’s cat that kept coming into your yard and meowing like you were planning to feed it. You talked because nervous silence felt like a blade, and Pope didn’t stop you because he didn’t know how to stop people without being cruel.

Smurf had noticed that too—the way he listened.

Pope didn’t listen to people. Not like that. Not the way he listened to you. He tolerated them. He endured them. But you somehow got more than tolerance, and Smurf’s instincts snapped toward it like a shark tasting blood in the water.

She’d noticed the way Pope’s eyes tracked Henry in the front yard. Not in a creepy way. In a way an adult tracks a child that could cause harm to himself given half a chance. Henry’s small body moving in quick bursts, unpredictable, drawn to openings. Pope’s gaze followed automatically—street, gate, driveway, street. He caught himself doing it once and suddenly he couldn’t stop. He’d watched Henry like he watched the ocean: like something pretty that could kill you if you got careless.

Smurf had watched Pope do it from behind her curtains, sipping coffee like she was watching television.

And later she’d tossed out the proof like a joke; Look at you,” she’d murmured, eyes glittering. “All protective.”

That was Smurf’s favourite kind of cruelty—making your softness sound like stupidity.

This morning, as chocolate scent thickened the air, Smurf’s attention stayed light on the surface. Neighbour. Concerned mother. Woman-to-woman kindness. But underneath, Pope could feel the machinery turning.

She wasn’t building brownies.

She was building a bridge.

A reason to cross into your life that looked harmless enough you couldn’t refuse without feeling like an asshole. A way to insert herself without asking permission. A way to make you accept her presence one small, sweet bite at a time until you forgot you had a choice.

When the brownies cooled, Smurf cut perfect squares—precise, even, no crumbs out of place. Slice, lift, slide. Slice, lift, slide. Like she was carving out a plan.

She packed them into a cheap plastic container with a bright lid. The kind normal people used for bake sales and school lunches.

She snapped the lid shut and suddenly the whole thing looked innocent.

Domestic. Sweet. Neighbourly.

A middle-aged woman bringing brownies over at 11am because she heard a kid crying in the night.

Like Martha fucking Stewart.

Pope stared at the container and felt his stomach drop, because he knew exactly what came next.

“You coming?” Smurf asked, light and easy, already moving.

Pope followed because if he didn’t, she’d ask why. And if she asked why, she’d already know the answer.

Resistance in small ways meant punishment in bigger ones later. Smurf took whatever you needed most and held it just out of reach until you crawled back. So Pope stayed close because close meant he could watch. Close meant he could track her tone, her angles, her hands. Close meant he could see where she was aiming her claws instead of guessing after the damage was done.

They crossed the yard past the pool and the patio furniture lined up too neatly, through the side gate towards the front yard where the cars were lined up neatly, towards the front side fence line, Pope’s eyes flicked automatically to the short wooden fence. Built on your side, which meant Henry had little steps to climb up if no one was careful.

Then he looked up and saw you.

You were out the front  with Henry—kid in his own world—moving with that restless, purposeful energy. Hands busy. Mouth busy. Eyes scanning like he was mapping the yard in real time. He hopped up onto one of your steps, then jumped down again like gravity was a game. His voice rose and fell in a sing-song rhythm, but the words weren’t quite right. His own version of a story, stitched together from memory and sound.

“Humpty Dumpty sat on a… wall,” Henry sang, paused, then started again, looped, determined. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall…”

You tracked him with practiced vigilance that never left your body even when you tried to look relaxed. Your shoulders stayed a fraction too tight. Your hands hovered in that ready position—close enough to catch, far enough not to crowd. Your gaze kept bouncing: Henry, steps, gate, Henry, steps, fence, Henry.

Pope recognised it immediately.

Hypervigilance wasn’t just for criminals.

It lived in parents, too, when their kid could disappear in a heartbeat.

And you looked tired.

Not rough-night tired. Not unpacking tired.

Deep tired. The kind that lived in the slump of your shoulders and the shadows under your eyes. The kind that said you were running on broken sleep and adrenaline and love.

Smurf saw it too. Of course she did.

Her smile brightened—warm and friendly and just a little too wide—like she’d stepped into a role she liked. The Helper. The Neighbour. The Mother.

“Morning!” Smurf called, voice sweet as sugar. “Hope we’re not interrupting.”

Pope didn’t speak. He stood half a step behind her, a silent shadow, watching you watch her. Watching the polite mask slide into place on your face. Watching the caution settle in your posture—someone who’d learned people didn’t offer things without wanting something.

Smurf lifted the container like she was presenting evidence, “I heard you last night,” she said again, softer now, sympathetic. “With your little one. Honey… you must be exhausted.”

She said it like she cared.

But Pope heard the truth underneath it:

I heard you. I’m close enough to hear you. Your walls are thin. I know your weakness now.

You hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to Pope, like you were checking whether he was part of this or just… there.

Smurf leaned forward, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret between women, “So I made you something,” she said, holding the container out over the fence like a peace offering. “Brownies. Fresh this morning.”

Pope watched your hands. Watched your fingers twitch like you didn’t know whether to accept.

Refusing felt rude.

Accepting felt dangerous.

That was Smurf’s favourite corner to back people into—make no feel impolite, make yes feel inevitable.

You tried to dodge it at first with a joke, voice light, polite smile strapped tight; “Oh— that’s really lovely,” you said, glancing back at Henry, who was still singing and bouncing. “But Henry only eats like three things and all of them come frozen from the supermarket.” You laughed—small, self-deprecating. “And I’m not really a sweet tooth. But the gesture is lovely. I really, really appreciate it.”

Pope saw the lie in the way your body held itself. Not because you were a bad liar.

Because you were tired. Your words were perfect, but your shoulders were tight, chin lifted just a fraction too high. You were trying to protect yourself without making Smurf feel challenged.

Pope felt something sharp and dangerous in his chest—approval that came too fast, too instinctive.

Good.

Good for making it harder.

Good for not letting Smurf insert herself just yet.

But Smurf adjusted immediately, pivoting like she always did when the first hook didn’t land.

“Well,” she said brightly, like she hadn’t just been refused. “No worries at all, honey. I’ll just leave them here then, and if you feel like a nibble later…” She lifted the container again, hovering it like she might set it down somewhere—on the top rail, on the post—anywhere that forced you to accept it without directly taking it.

Pope’s stomach dropped, he could see the next move forming on Smurf’s tongue.

I’ll bring it over anyway. You’ll owe me anyway. I’ll make you swallow kindness until you choke on it.

You swallowed. Pope watched your throat move. Watched the moment you did the math—conflict costs energy, and you didn’t have energy to spare. Not with Henry bouncing and singing and one wrong second turning into a disaster.

You nodded once, reached out, and took the container.

“Thank you,” you said low, like you hated yourself for not knowing how to say no. Like you hated yourself more for not being able to keep boundaries.

Smurf’s smile widened, satisfied in a way only Pope would catch.

“It’s really not a problem,” Smurf said smoothly. “We’re all neighbours.”

Neighbours, like it meant obligation; “And in this day and age,” Smurf continued, voice turning almost earnest, “we need all the community we can get.”

She reached back and placed her hand on Pope’s arm, fingers rubbing slow, casual ownership. A light squeeze. A leash tug disguised as affection.

“Isn’t that right, Andrew?” she offered.

The question was sugar-coated. The command underneath wasn’t.

Agree. Smile. Be good. Don’t ruin this.

Pope stared at your hands wrapped around the container—the bright lid, the cheap plastic, the absurd normalcy of it in a yard that felt like a trap. He wanted to tell you to give it back. Wanted to tell Smurf to get her claws off you. Wanted to take the container himself and throw it in the trash like it was poison.

But Smurf’s hand was on his arm, and that pressure carried years of training.

So Pope kept his face blank and said, “Yeah.”

Smurf’s smile brightened like he’d given her a gift.

Your eyes flicked to Pope for half a second, like you were checking him. Wondering if he believed what his mother was selling.

Pope held your gaze. He didn’t shake his head. Didn’t warn you outright. He didn’t know how without making it worse. But his eyes stayed hard. Watchful. Unamused.

This isn’t free. Be careful. Don’t let her in.

Henry’s voice rose again, off-key and determined: “Humpty Dumpty—sat on a—wall…”

You shifted the container in your hand like you needed to reclaim control of something.

“I um,” you started, polite smile back on. “I should go back inside— Henry decided to cannonball through his bed last night so I need to go spend my afternoon fixing it—”

Smurf cut in immediately, “Oh, no. Don’t be silly,” she said, laughing softly. “Andrew here is great at fixing things.”

Pope felt his jaw lock.

You tried to push back, quick and firm. “I can do it. He’ll just do it again by tomorrow so—”

Smurf turned to Pope like you weren’t part of the conversation anymore, “Andrew,” she said, voice sweet as frosting, “why don’t you go get the tools and go help fix Henry’s bed?”

It wasn’t a question.

It was an order wrapped in perfume.

Pope felt the old reflex—the flinch toward obedience before his brain could argue. Go. Fix. Be useful. Make me look good.

Your eyes met Pope’s and you gave him an out, trying to be kind, trying to keep control without making anyone angry.

“It’s fine, really,” you told him, glancing back at Henry as he bounced again. “I’m sure you have better things to do—”

Pope watched you swallow the discomfort. Watched you try to sound light when your body said I don’t want a strange man in my house and I don’t want to owe your mother anything.

Smurf’s smile sharpened a fraction. She’d found the lever—your exhaustion, your politeness, the way your attention was always split between Henry and the world.

Pope’s gaze locked onto Henry again.

He saw it, the thing Smurf didn’t see because she didn’t care about kids unless they were leverage: how fast Henry moved toward openings. How drawn he was to gates, latches, gaps. How your entire life was locks and latches and routines and still—still the danger found a way in.

Pope looked back at you.

He couldn’t stop Smurf from ordering him without making it worse, but he could offer you one small thing Smurf never offered anyone.

A choice.

“I can fix it fast,” Pope said, voice low, blunt, then he added, “If you want.”

You looked at Henry, then at Pope, then at Smurf—caught in the triangle of it.

Pope waited, jaw tight, hands still, trying not to look like a threat while his mother stood beside him smiling like a saint.

“Sure,” you said finally, and Pope heard the resignation under it. Not defeat—just the exhausted kind of fine that came from choosing the fight you could win later. “Okay. I’ll go unlock the gate.”

Smurf’s smile brightened, satisfied.

Pope didn’t look at her, instead he watched you.

And as you turned toward your gate—brownies tucked against your hip like a bribe you hadn’t wanted—Henry moved like he’d been waiting for it. Like the click of a latch was the loudest sound in his world. The moment your fingers touched the lock, Henry appeared in front of you, ready to slip through first.

Pope’s whole body tightened in reflex.

Because this—this was your life. You intercepted him fast, crouched, voice calm-firm. “Henry. Mum goes first.”

Henry chewed, blinked, echoed the key word. “First.”

“Yes,” you praised immediately. “First. Great job. Wait.”

Henry rocked on his heels, the stillness hard in his body, but he tried.

Pope watched your technique the way he watched a job—angles, timing, intercept points. You opened the gate just enough to slip through first, body making a barrier. Henry tried to dart past your hip; you redirected him gently, guiding him behind you.

“Behind me,” you instructed.

“Woah,” He screeched as he took a step back before going to move forward again.

“Behind,” you corrected softly, still smiling even though your eyes were tired.

Pope registered it all with the same seriousness he gave fence lines and exits. Because he’d seen what one gap could do.

You held the gate open for Pope.

He stepped into your yard and immediately felt the difference.

Smurf’s yard was curated—staged. Your yard was lived-in: a toy half-buried near the steps, a hose not quite coiled right, a plant that was half dying by the top of the steps. Normal life, messy and real, built on routine and exhaustion. The air smelled faintly like detergent and stale coffee and something microwaveable.

Inside, your house was half unpacked. A tub of Lego spilt on the floor like a thousand tiny landmines. A chair with folded laundry. A stack of mail on the table—too much mail, too many envelopes, one with a red stamp he caught a glimpse of before you shifted and blocked it with your body without meaning to.

PAST DUE.

Pope’s throat tightened.

Late fees weren’t just numbers. They were pressure. They were shame. They were the way the world punished you for being broke.

Henry grabbed a black-covered tablet off the table and bolted down the hallway. Pope tracked him instantly. You exhaled like it was routine.

“And there he goes.”

Then the springs started squeaking—fast, rhythmic—Henry launching himself onto his bed like the mattress was a trampoline.

You paused in the living room, Pope behind you, and rubbed your forehead like you were trying to press the stress out of your skull, “So full disclosure,” you said, voice deadpan, like you’d decided the only way through the awkwardness was to headbutt it.

Pope paused in your living room, half a step behind you the way he’d learned to stand behind people when he didn’t trust their space—close enough to react, far enough not to crowd. The house smelled like detergent and microwaved something and the faint, sweet edge of brownies you hadn’t asked for. There were photos half put up on the wall, a throw blanket slumped over the couch like it had been grabbed in the middle of a night, and on the coffee table a scatter of things that looked messy in a put together way: a small pack of wipes, a water bottle with bite marks on the lid, a set of keys on a lanyard, and—Pope’s eyes snagged—two extra little latch locks still in their packaging like you’d bought them on impulse because your brain never stopped thinking about weak points.

Locks. Latches. Things that clicked shut.

Pope lifted his brows a fraction, the closest he got to Go on.

“Henry’s bed doesn’t need fixing,” you admitted. Then you immediately corrected yourself, because you were the kind of honest that couldn’t let even a small lie sit unaddressed. “Well—it does, but it’s more like… the slats need to be put back on when he knocks them down from jumping on his bed, but I’ve done it a million times.” You huffed, rubbing your forehead like you were trying to scrub your own thoughts clean. “This was meant to be a clever lie to leave the conversation because I felt super awkward and your mom reminds me of my ex-husband.”

There was a beat of quiet where the only sound was Henry’s bed springs protesting down the hallway—squeak, squeak, squeak—like a warning and a laugh at the same time.

The honesty hit Pope like cold water.

Not because it was shocking, because you weren’t trying to charm him. You weren’t trying to pull him in with sweetness or flirtation. You weren’t even trying to pretend you weren’t scared of being pulled into the Cody orbit like everyone else that eventually got pulled in.

You just… told the truth.

And Pope—who lived in a world of lies and people speaking around what they meant—felt something in his chest twitch in a way that wasn’t comfortable.

He watched your hand still on your forehead, fingers splayed, the heel of your palm pressing hard like you could physically hold yourself together. He watched the way your shoulders rose as you inhaled, then dropped on the exhale like you’d been carrying too much weight for too long. He watched you look toward the hallway again—eyes checking Henry automatically, like your body didn’t know how to be present anywhere without also guarding.

Then you glanced back at Pope.

Just a quick look—measuring him, expecting judgment, bracing for a lecture, ready to apologise for the apology you hadn’t even said yet.

Pope didn’t give you any of that.

He couldn’t, because something about you—your exhaustion worn like armour, your humour sharp enough to cut through shame, your refusal to pretend life was easier than it was—made it hard to be cruel.

And Pope wasn’t gentle by nature.

He was just… careful with things that looked breakable. He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face—brief, crooked, real. It startled him as much as it would’ve startled anyone else. It felt wrong on him, like wearing someone else’s clothes. But it happened anyway.

Your eyes widened slightly at the sight of it, like you’d just seen a flicker of something human under all that stillness.

For half a second, you looked… lighter.

And that did something to Pope that he didn’t want to name.

“Yeah,” Pope said quietly, and he meant it. She does that. The way Smurf wore kindness like a mask. The way control hid behind help.

He nodded once toward the hallway where the springs squeaked again, faster, like Henry was trying to launch himself into orbit.

“Show me.”

Not an order. Not like Smurf.

An offer.

You hesitated—just a blink too long—then let out a breath that sounded like relief and defeat tangled together, “Okay,” you said, and your voice softened at the edges like you’d surprised yourself by saying yes.

You started down the hall, and Pope followed, his steps quiet by habit.

Your hallway was lined with small evidence of your life, the kind of things Pope noticed because his brain noticed everything: childproof locks on doors, a table that had even more Lego spread around it, a side table that had a row of large soft Pokemon plushies lined up. A small basket of fidgets on a low shelf. A laminated picture schedule half-taped to the wall, corners peeling already. Someone had stuck a bright sticker on it—dinosaurs—and Pope couldn’t tell if it was for Henry or for you.

Probably both.

You glanced back once, catching Pope looking. Your mouth twitched, embarrassed.

“Yeah,” you said under your breath, “I know it looks like I’m prepping for the apocalypse. Excuse the mess.”

Pope’s eyes moved to the latch on the cupboard at the end of the hall. To the lock on the front door that had been doubled up. To the chain latch above it—too high for a four-year-old; “Looks… fine,” he said instead.

You blinked at that, like you weren’t used to people calling your house fine instead of ‘Messy but lived in’.

Henry’s door was half open. The squeaking was loud now, rhythmic and relentless—springs crying out like a cheap carnival ride. Pope stepped to the side of the doorway first, instinctively, so he wouldn’t startle Henry. He peered in.

Henry was on the bed, tablet in hand, bouncing in place with a joy so pure it almost hurt to watch. The slats—sure enough—had shifted. One was hanging loose at the edge, angled wrong, ready to drop again.

You hovered in the doorway, doing that careful thing where you didn’t storm in and yank him down, because yanking was a fight, “Henry,” you called gently, voice steady, “hop down.”

Henry didn’t stop immediately, but his bounce slowed, like the instruction needed time to travel. He chewed his tyre. Watched the tablet. Bounced once more.

“Hop down,” you repeated, firmer, still calm.

Henry echoed, distracted but obedient in his own way. “Down.”

Then he flopped onto his stomach with a dramatic sigh like he was the most put-upon person on earth, and the bed springs gave one final offended squeal before settling as he climbed off the bed and crouched on his green rug in the centre of the room.

You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole time.

Pope realised, abruptly, that he’d been holding his too.

Your eyes flicked to Pope again, checking him—maybe for annoyance, maybe for judgment.

Instead, Pope crouched automatically, gaze locking onto the slats, the frame.  A problem. A fix.

He didn’t touch anything yet. He waited for your cue, because he’d learned—watching you and the way you moved in your world—that permission mattered.

You noticed that, too. The restraint. The way he didn’t just push past you like he owned space.

Something in your expression softened.

“See?” you whispered, a little self-deprecating. “Told you. He’s a menace.”

Pope huffed something that was almost a laugh, “You want me to…?” he asked, nodding at the slat.

You nodded, and your voice came out quieter than before. “Yeah. If you want. I mean I am happy to do it.”

Pope set to work with his hands first—lifting the mattress, testing the slat, checking how it had shifted. He could fix it, but he was already thinking past the fix, because that’s what his brain did. He could go back, get screws and a drill, properly attach them so they wont move again.

You were watching him with a strange kind of stillness, like you’d expected him to be rougher. Like you’d expected him to take over and make you feel small. Pope didn’t rush it.

He could’ve—he’d fixed worse with less, in the dark, under pressure, hands shaking from adrenaline. He knew how to muscle through a problem and call it done. That’s what he was good at. Quick, clean, efficient. No feelings required.

But this wasn’t a job.

This was a kid’s bed. A few slats that had popped loose because a four-year-old had the kind of energy that didn’t come with an off switch. This was your house—small, messy, held together by routines and whatever you could do between one meltdown and the next.

So Pope moved carefully. Methodical. Like it mattered.

He felt along the frame first, fingertips tracing the groove where the slat should sit, the cheapness of the timber. He tested the slat with controlled pressure, easing it back into position instead of jamming it. His hands were steady, quiet—competent in a way that didn’t need to show off.

And then he glanced up.

Just once. Instinct.

And caught you looking at his hands.

Not in a flirty way. Not in that obvious, hungry way people sometimes looked when they wanted something.

In a tired, grateful way.

Like watching someone else handle one small piece of your life made your chest loosen for a second. Like it reminded you that you weren’t the only set of hands in the world capable of holding things together.

Pope’s stomach tightened.

Hot and unfamiliar.

He didn’t want to want that look from you—didn’t want it because wanting things made him stupid, and wanting things made him careless, and wanting things made him easy to hurt. He didn’t want it because he knew what he was. He knew the blood in his past, the violence in his bones, the way his name carried weight in this town for all the wrong reasons.

He didn’t deserve grateful.

He wanted it anyway.

Your gaze flicked up and met his, and for a moment neither of you moved.

Henry’s tablet kept playing in the background—tinny voices, bright music, some animated character squealing with joy. The sound felt wrong in Pope’s ears, too innocent for a house that still smelled faintly of stress. Ocean air pushed through a cracked window, bringing salt and distant traffic and the faint call of gulls. The whole place felt too small for the way Pope suddenly became aware of the space between you—how close you were standing, how quiet it was, how easily a breath could become a moment.

You broke eye contact first.

Of course you did.

You cleared your throat like you could cough the tension out of the room. Like you could shove it back into a corner behind a pile of unpacked boxes and pretend it wasn’t there.

“Okay,” you muttered, and your voice came out too loud and too fast, like you’d just remembered you were a person who had to speak and not a statue watching a stranger fix your life.

You did what exhausted people did when they didn’t know what else to do with silence.

You offered hospitality. But you offered it like you were trying to improvise your way through a scene you hadn’t rehearsed.

“I’m—uh—” you started, then stopped, then started again with a new sentence like you were flipping through mental index cards. “Did you want tea or coffee or…” your eyes flicked toward the hallway, then back to Pope, then down at Henry like he might provide an answer. “Water… I think I have juice?”

You sounded like you were listing items in a cupboard you hadn’t looked at in a while, “Maybe?” you added, eyebrows lifting in a helpless question. “I haven’t been to the supermarket today so…”

Your mouth pressed together at the end of the sentence, like you’d just realised you were rambling. Again. Like you’d just realised you were offering juice to a man who looked like he’d never had a juice box in his life. You laughed—small, awkward, self-deprecating. It wasn’t really funny. It was just the noise you made when you didn’t want to feel how exposed you suddenly felt.

“I swear I’m usually… less chaotic,” you said, which was obviously a lie because your house, your eyes, the way you moved around Henry—everything about you said chaos was the weather you lived in. “Or maybe this is my personality now. ‘Hi, welcome to my home. Would you like a beverage I cannot confirm exists?’”

You gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, then immediately dropped your hand as if the gesture itself had been too much.

Pope watched you try to find footing. Watched you fill the space with words because words were safer than the silence where feelings lived. Watched you flick your gaze to Henry every three seconds like you couldn’t fully relax even while you were trying to be normal.

Henry, for his part, didn’t care about any of it. He lay on his stomach on the bed, tablet propped in front of him, tyre still in his mouth. He kicked his feet softly in time with whatever was playing, content in his own bubble.

Pope’s eyes tracked Henry automatically—position, movement, risk—then returned to you.

You were still standing there, half hovering, half trapped by your own politeness.

Waiting for him to accept your offer so the moment could become normal.

Waiting for him to decline so you could stop talking.

Waiting for him to do something that would tell you what kind of man he was in your house.

Pope didn’t know how to be a guest. That role didn’t fit him. He didn’t drink tea. He didn’t want coffee. He didn’t want anything you had to fetch, because fetching meant turning your back, and turning your back meant giving him your trust.

And Pope—regardless of how he wanted that grateful look—didn’t take trust lightly.

He shook his head once, small, “No,” he said. Simple. Not harsh. Just honest. “I’m good.”

You blinked, like you hadn’t expected him to make it easy.

Then your shoulders loosened a fraction anyway, relief sneaking in under the embarrassment.

“Okay,” you said quickly, then immediately kept going because your brain didn’t know how to let the conversation die without replacing it with something else. “Okay, cool. Good. Great. Hydration is overrated anyway.”

You rubbed the side of your neck, eyes darting to the kitchen and back like you were trying to physically locate your dignity, “I’m sorry,” you added, quieter. “I’m… not great at having people in my space.”

The truth slipped out before you could stop it. It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t say it like a confession meant to earn sympathy. You said it like a fact you’d learned the hard way, the same way you’d learned which doors needed latches and which drawers needed locks and which sounds in the night meant you were about to be awake for the next four hours.

Pope’s hands paused briefly on the slat.

Fingertips still. Grip loosening for half a second like the sentence had reached under his ribs and caught on something sharp.

Because he understood that, too.

Space was safety. Space was control. Space was what you guarded when the world kept trying to take pieces of you.

Pope knew what it was to have people walk into your life like they owned it. Knew what it was to have someone decide your boundaries were optional. Knew what it was to keep your body tight and your eyes awake because relaxing meant getting hurt.

He didn’t have the words to say me either without it sounding like an invitation.

So he just went back to the bed, hands moving again—slow, careful—like if he focused on the slats he wouldn’t have to focus on the way your voice had softened on that sentence.

You swallowed, and Pope watched you do what you always did when something got too real.

You tried to cover it with humour because humour was armour.

“Also,” you said, nodding toward Henry, “this is the part where I’m supposed to warn you he might decide you’re furniture and climb you.”

Pope’s mouth twitched.

Not a smile, not quite—more like his face trying to remember how.

He kept his eyes on the slat as he eased it into place, but his voice came out low, steady.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he offered.

It was simple. It wasn’t dismissive. It was the closest thing to reassurance he knew how to give without making it sentimental.

You barked a tiny laugh, relief bleeding through it. “Okay, yep.”

Henry, as if he’d been waiting for his cue, sat up from where he was rewinding the same ten seconds of a video on his stomach, stood, then padded into the hallway without looking at either of you—quiet, purposeful, tyre still working in his mouth.

Pope’s gaze tracked him automatically.

You tracked him too, but yours came with that practiced overlay of what’s he heading toward, what’s within reach, what can he climb, what can he swallow.

A moment later; A screeching sound.

Then the unmistakable crash of a dozen tiny plastic pieces scattering across wood. Lego. A whole tub of it. Exploding like shrapnel.

You closed your eyes and let out a small, long-suffering sigh that sounded like you’d been negotiating with chaos for years and chaos still didn’t respect you.

“Okay,” you said, opening your eyes again with a look that was half apology, half resignation. “There’s that too.”

Pope’s hands paused again, but this time it was just so he could listen. He could hear Henry moving down the hall—little steps, a soft hum to himself, the occasional click of Lego pieces being nudged.

You rubbed the side of your face with your fingertips like you could wipe away the mental image of picking up tiny bricks off the floor at midnight, “I’m usually more on the ball with… you know.” You gestured vaguely toward the hallway like the entire concept of mess. “The mess.”

Pope looked up, finally, meeting your eyes.

He didn’t look annoyed. He didn’t look like the kind of man who expected a house to be quiet and tidy and convenient.

He looked like he’d seen worse. Like he understood that order was a privilege.

“Looks like life,” he said, and it came out rough, like the words weren’t practiced on his tongue.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, surprised by the lack of judgement.

“Yeah,” you breathed, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Life. With extra tripping hazards.”

Pope went back to the bed frame, tightening what needed tightening. He worked in silence for a moment, and the silence wasn’t awkward the way silence usually was with strangers. It felt… steady. Like you didn’t have to perform for it.

Pope could hear the distant hum of Henry’s tablet now muffled from where you both were in the bedroom. He could hear the ocean air moving through the cracked window, salt and traffic and a gull calling like the world outside your house was still insisting on existing.

He caught himself noticing the small details in Henry’s room—the things you’d put in place without thinking they’d ever be seen by someone like him.

A nightlight plugged in near the baseboard, shaped like a little star. A stack of picture books with bent corners. A Super Mario blanket that had been folded half a dozen times and washed enough to fade some of the colour. A toy box in one corner. A set of toy drawers that had train tracks and little wooden puzzle shapes.

Pope’s chest tightened again, but softer this time—less panic, more… something else. Recognition, “You got everything you need?” he asked, voice low, like he was testing the water.

You blinked, then nodded immediately. “Yep. I had food and he has his toys and his tablet and he’s starting at a new Kindergarten next week.” You gave a humourless little huff. “Fingers crossed he doesn’t bite the teacher; he um, he’s going through a biting phase.”

Pope’s eyes flicked to the door where he could hear Henry talking to himself as he moved down the living room.

“You’re doing good,” he said before he could stop himself.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t romantic.

But it landed.

Your face went still for a second, like you weren’t used to people saying that without immediately following it with advice or criticism. Your shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Thanks,” you said softly, then cleared your throat like you didn’t want to feel the weight of it. “I—um. I try.”

Pope’s hands moved the last slat into place. He tested the slat once more—firm, stable, not going anywhere any time soon.  He was just about to shift back, to stand, to tell you that he’s got screws and a drill if you need him to come screw the slats into place; when a small voice drifted in from the other room.

“Oh no little baby, what happened?”

The tone was sing-song, dramatic, clearly rehearsed. Henry repeating your words like a script he’d memorised for when his body did something painful.

Pope froze.

You didn’t.

You smiled instantly toward the hallway, and the smile had that tender familiarity that made Pope’s throat tighten.

“It’s his way of telling someone he hurt himself,” you explained quietly, as if you were sharing a sweet secret instead of translating a need. “He doesn’t really—” you waved your hand gently, searching for a word that didn’t sound like pity—“he doesn’t really know how to tell you directly. But he knows that sentence gets a response.”

Pope nodded once, the information slotting into place in his head. A phrase. A signal. A safe way to ask for help.

Henry appeared in the doorway a moment later like he’d marched in with purpose.

“Oh no little baby, what happened?” he repeated, holding out his hand to you.

It wasn’t dramatic—no screaming, no tears. Just the ritual.

You crouched immediately, your whole body softening as you met him at eye level.

“Oh no little Henry,” you cooed back, mirroring his script with affection. “Look at your hand.”

You took his hand gently, turning it palm-up, inspecting it like it was a priceless artifact. A small red mark. Maybe a pinch from Lego. Maybe a bump against furniture.

You didn’t overreact. You didn’t dismiss it either. You leaned forward and kissed his hand.

Henry giggled—bright, sudden, delighted—as if the kiss had fixed the entire universe.

Then he took his hand back, satisfied, and wandered off again like the injury had been paid for in attention and now life could continue.

Pope watched him go with that quiet intensity of his, something tight and aching behind his ribs.

You stayed crouched for a beat, watching Henry disappear down the hall.

Then you stood slowly, turning back toward Pope. The room felt different now—softer around the edges.

You didn’t look embarrassed about Henry. You didn’t apologise for the script or the Lego explosion or the squeaky bed. You just looked… present.

“He’s happy,” you said softly, almost to yourself. Not bragging. Not pleading. Just stating it like it mattered more than anything else.

Pope’s gaze dropped to the now-stable bed slat, then lifted to you again. He didn’t know what to do with the fact that seeing your kid laugh had made something in him loosen and hurt.

It was the loosening that scared him most. The tiny unclench in his chest like a fist opening, the brief sense of relief that didn’t belong to him. Like his body had recognised joy as something safe… and then immediately followed it with grief because joy in the Cody house never stayed clean for long.

He didn’t know what to do with the fact that you looked at Henry like he was your entire world—like he was the sun you orbited, the reason you locked every door and paid every late fee and kept breathing even when you wanted to collapse and then you looked at Pope like he wasn’t a threat. Like he was just a man standing in your hallway, hands dusty from a bed frame, hearing laughter and feeling something unfamiliar and dangerous bloom in his chest.

Want. That was the word his brain avoided.

Wanting was how you got owned. Wanting was how Smurf got her hooks in. Wanting made you stupid.

So Pope did what he always did when he didn’t know how to hold a feeling.

He finished the job.

He pressed down on the slat one last time—tested it, listened for the creak that meant weak, didn’t hear it. He wiped his fingers on his jeans then he pushed himself to his feet, slow and controlled, and nodded once toward the bed like a man who only knew how to show care through outcomes.

“Won’t fall now,” he said.

And then—because Henry’s laugh still echoed faintly down the hall, because you were standing right there with that tired-soft expression on your face—Pope added, quieter, rougher, like the words had to scrape their way out of him.

“He’s… good.”

Your face warmed instantly, pride flaring bright through the exhaustion, “He’s the best,” you said without hesitation, like that was the easiest truth in your whole life.

Then you looked at Pope properly, and something about the way you did it—steady, grateful, not performing—made Pope’s stomach tighten again.

“Thank you,” you added, then huffed a laugh. “Again.” Your laugh went self-deprecating, almost defensive, like you couldn’t accept help without immediately balancing it with a disclaimer. “Still—I could have done it myself.”

Pope didn’t argue. He didn’t make you feel silly for saying it. He just gave you the blunt acknowledgement you clearly needed to hear to keep your dignity intact.

“I’m sure you could have,” he said.

And he meant it.

He’d watched you in ten minutes and seen more competence than most people had in their whole lives. You were running a system. A kid-proofing operation. A whole world built out of routines and sheer stubborn love. You weren’t helpless. You were just alone.

You nodded like his agreement mattered more than the fix.

“Cool,” you said, as if you’d just checked a box in your own head. “Great. Awesome.”

Then you gestured down the hall with a small tilt of your head, the universal this way, and started walking him back toward the front of the house.

Pope followed.

He kept his hands loose at his sides. Kept his steps quiet. Kept his eyes scanning like he always did—automatic, constant—even inside your home where the only danger was Lego underfoot.

Your hallway opened back into the living room, and Pope’s gaze immediately caught Henry.

Henry was in the middle of the floor, spinning in tight circles like a tiny tornado—arms slightly out, face lit up, laughter bursting out of him in bright hiccups. The tyre was still in his mouth, cheeks puffing around it as he squealed with joy like the world had become weightless.

Pope stopped for half a second without meaning to.

Spinning.

Lena used to do that when she was little—before everything got complicated, before Smurf made the house feel like a trap. Lena would spin until she fell over laughing and Smurf would watch with a smile that looked maternal until you knew the difference between love and ownership.

Pope’s chest tightened hard enough to sting.

You noticed his pause and immediately shifted, gentle and practical.

“Hey buddy,” you said to Henry, voice warm. “Slow body.”

Henry slowed slightly, still giggling, still dizzy-happy, and then spun again anyway but smaller, like he was trying.

You glanced back at Pope with a look that said sorry, also not sorry—because Henry’s joy didn’t need apology.

Pope’s eyes flicked to you—caught on the way you smiled at your son. The way your whole face softened when you watched him. The way the exhaustion in you didn’t disappear, but the love cut through it like sunlight.

It was… too much. In a way Pope couldn’t explain.

You guided Pope around the edge of the living room toward the front door, stepping over a stray Lego piece with the kind of practiced caution that said your feet had learned pain.

Pope clocked the locks on the front door immediately.

Deadbolt. Chain latch up high. An extra sliding bolt lower down.

Not paranoia.

Strategy.

Pope respected strategy.

You stopped at the door and reached for the chain latch, fingers moving like it was a ritual. Like you did it without thinking. Like the click of a lock was the closest thing you got to peace.

Pope waited behind you, still and patient.

You turned back to him with that awkwardness creeping in again now that the moment was ending—like you didn’t know how to wrap it up without making it weird.

So you did what you’d done all day, you made a joke and offered something practical.

“If you need anything,” you said, leaning back against the door for half a second as if you needed it to hold you upright. “I can do the neighbour thing.”

You huffed, one corner of your mouth lifting. “I’ll—um—I’ll bring your mom’s container back.” You nodded toward the brownies like they were a bomb you were temporarily storing. “Clean. Promise.”

Pope’s mouth twitched again, almost a smile, almost real.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

Then—because he didn’t know how to do goodbye like a normal person, because his brain still ran on danger and obligation and worst-case—he added, low, “Make sure you lock the door.”

You blinked, then gave a small, genuine smile like you understood he wasn’t trying to control you.

“I always do,” you said quietly.

Pope held your gaze for a beat too long.

Henry’s laughter bubbled again behind you as he spun one more time, dizzy and delighted.

Pope’s chest tightened with that same unfamiliar ache.

Jack’s first love has always been the fax machine.

Elli, he called her because she was part of the Brother IntelliFax series, one of the most predominant brands throughout hospitals in the early 2000s.

High-capacity sheet feeder, auto dialling, 7 second transmission speed.

Elli was as reliable as they come, a workhorse just like him. They used to spend a lot of time together during his residency days, him listening to her beeps and chatter as he filled out his charts, her spitting out paper like it was no one’s business. She could get a little sassy when her toner was running out and he’d always be the one to calm her down, sort out the mess she got herself into whenever there was a paper jam.

He thinks that’s when it developed into more. That she liked the gentle way in which he opened her compartments, the soft caress of his fingers over her most intimate areas as he sought his prize. He’d come away with ink-stained fingertips, the glossy toner shining in the fluorescent lighting as he marvelled over how wet he could make her.  

He would spend his breaks sitting alongside her, sipping coffee as he listened to the dull thrum of her conversation. She was a reassuring constant in his life, one he came to miss on the days they spent apart.

It’s one year into his residency at PTMC that he’s forced to say goodbye. The agreement he signed when he joined the military states that he gets a first year civilian residency, then the rest have to undertaken in a military medical centre of their choosing. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, and he knows she feels it too from the way the paper starts to scrunch whenever someone else touches her.

“I’ll come back to you.” Jack promises her, his fingertips running over the blotty smears that mar her sleek grey plastic shell. “When I’ve finished up my service, I’ll get a job here and we can be together again.”

She doesn’t believe him, he can tell from the way she powers down in response to his words.

He intends to make good on that promise, it just takes him longer than he expects because he, himself becomes a casualty of war. The road to recovery with his amputation is long, hard and arduous, but Elli, she’s his light at the end of the tunnel, his beacon in the midst of the storm.

When he does make it back to PTMC as an attending, he’s devastated to find that things have moved on, that she has moved on.

Its to be expected he supposes, it was unfair to expect her to wait for him but it doesn’t stop the heartbreak he feels deep down in his chest. Whenever he looks at her spot, he sees her, chatting away to herself, spurting out scraps of paper, teasing him.

It’s over twenty years later that he lays eyes on her again. The worlds crashing down round them with this whole cyber-attack shutdown bullshit and there she is, his Elli sitting in the exact same spot he left her all those years ago.

“Hello old girl.” He says fondly, his fingertips chasing over her buttons once more as springs to life. “You won’t believe how much I’ve missed you.”