leo

Doting on you is one thing. A welcome aid in helping you flourish beneath his tutelage. But the growing attraction he's garnering toward you—someone young enough to have come from him—is a problem.

It is the aforementioned distraction.

Instead of studying charts or emptying the board over the nurses station, he chooses to stare at you. Instead of tugging on gloves during a trauma case, he takes an extra millisecond to brush a palm along your arm or back just to make physical contact. And instead of listening to the more solid differential diagnoses of his fellow attendings or senior residents, he asks for your train of thought just to hear your voice.

His own personal spot of sunshine.

You've slowly become his religion.

He'd be a better physician and teacher for it if he finally managed to create a bit of needed distance and reign in his adulation, but that idea goes right out the window the day you call him an unintended name, and your dynamic soon thereafter shifts entirely.

Treating a UTI is something Robby should've delegated to someone below him so that he could otherwise assist on a trauma case next door, but when he saw you wander into South 10 to aid, he couldn't help himself.

Now that the room is empty, save for the pair of you, you're enmeshed in silence while you each put various packaged supplies away before jumping onto the next case.

"Dad, can you—" Suddenly, and with quiet alarm, you go entirely still.

With shoulders now drawn tightly together, you blink dewy eyes in silent panic.

Oh God. What did you do?

His head snaps back in your direction and Robby studies you with a look of surprise. "What do you need, sweetheart?" he asks quietly while leaning back on his heel. Standing across the room, he attempts to glimpse your face, but you're turned too far away for him to see it.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just came out." Wiping away unexpected tears, you shake your head then continue on.

Robby slowly rounds a gurney and takes calm, measured steps toward you. "It's alright," he reassures soothingly. "I didn't mind."

He's just trying to minimize your mortification, you think. Somehow, though, it just makes you want to call him as much yet again.

"Is that how you think of me sometimes?" Robby asks while sliding a hand down your back.

You shrug.

"Talk to me, honey," he insists.

"Around here," you begin while swallowing down the lump in your throat. "Everybody does, I think. And... I can't imagine how much that must weigh on you. How heavy it is to carry all of us; this hospital. So, I don't mean to make it worse—"

"You didn't," he interjects with a shake of his head. "It means something to me that you see me as that: a father figure. Someone to be trusted in that capacity."

You can't keep talking about this.

"It won't happen again," you assure while stuffing sterile gauze back into a supply cart.

Robby's hand retreats into a pocket. "I'm not saying that you can't. At least when we're alone together."

Your brows knit together and you turn to him. "What?"

Robby's head tilts and he studies you with a fond smile. "I haven't always done the best job at hiding my favoritism of you." He ghosts the back of his index finger down your soft cheek. "Means you get preferential treatment."

He shrugs casually. "So, if calling me that puts you at ease when you're here, you can." Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, he shuts the drawer you've now finished with. "I'd prefer it."

It's been three days and you haven't done it again. If anything, it seems like you're avoiding him now. Every effort Robby makes to reach out to you is met with resistance when you slip from his grasp to instead work with McKay, Langdon, or even Dana.

He's chomping at the bit to pull you back to his side where you belong.

"How's my girl?" Robby asks with a playful smile while rounding on you.

Glancing up from the glossy iPad you're currently getting a quick bit of charting accomplished on, you blink up at him. "Oh. I'm okay. You?"

Robby bobs his head from side to side. "Be better if I understood why you seem to be avoiding me all of a sudden." He slides the least bit closer while resting a forearm atop the counter in front of you. "This behavior have anything to do with what happened the other day?"

Returning to the tablet, you try to flit through the thoughts in your mind like organized folders, but ultimately come up blank in terms of a reply.

Pressing the wealth of his broad chest against your side, Robby leans in closer. "I told you I was okay with it, sweetheart." Cupping your opposite shoulder in his hand, he brings his lips close to your ear. "I keep hoping you'll say it again." He shrugs. "Just to see how it feels."

"I-I already did," you stammer.

"It'd be intentional this time," he mutters. Robby watches you type for a moment. "Can you try for me? If you feel comfortable with that?"

Your fingers halt atop the digital keyboard. This seems rather important to him, but the potential of calling Dr. Michael Robinavitch a paternal name... The butterflies in your stomach are now fluttering so hard that you fear you may be sick from nerves.

"D—" you pause and swallow thickly.

"Go on, honey," he encourages. "It's just you and me."

"Dad," you whisper.

A smile tugs at his bearded lips. "Thank you," he rumbles with renewed relief blooming in his chest. "Remember, anytime we're alone. Alright?"

You tilt your head to look at him and your nose nearly brushes against Robby's because of how close he's standing. "Okay... Daddy."

You figured you'd try it. Maybe it'd feel less strange and cringe-worthy than the more formal 'dad'.

He cocks his head and squints an eye in silent debate. "Much prefer the other one," he states with a peck on your forehead.

In the last handful of weeks, you've become rather accustomed to your new... Well, you don't know what other word to use for it, other than arrangement. It took a bit more incentive on Robby's end to keep the momentum going at the beginning due to your hesitation, as well as laughing from nerves every time he tried to lay down some fatherly conviction initially, but now it's become a daily custom.

Hourly, really.

He's unaware, but his ordering you lunch a few times and offering to buy whatever it was that he glimpsed in your Amazon cart when he spied over your shoulder to see what you were window-shopping for one afternoon weren't the reasons you kept doing it. It was because of how happy it seemed to make him—how he'd beam each time you gently gripped the sleeve of his hoody with a playfully murmured 'Hi, dada' during slower moments in the ED. Robby doesn't seem to mind that one either, so you fluctuate between it and Dad.

Like this morning, when you were hopping up and down in the staff lounge, trying quite poorly to knock down a coffee cup so that you could have a bit of caffeine before your day officially began. You were just considering dragging a chair over to stand on when Robby swung inside. "Somethin' you need help with, sweetheart?"

Shrinking in embarrassment, you eye a stack of paperboard cups that're mocking you from the top shelf. "They're supposed to be kept on the counter next to the coffee pot," you complain.

He chuckles. "Honey, if you wanted coffee, you could've just called or texted me. I would've picked you up some on the way in."

With ease, he grabs the desired items and sets them down in their rightful place. "Have you ate yet?" he questions with crossed arms.

Tugging a cup free from plastic wrap, you pull out the coffee pot and begin to carefully pour. "Well... No. Not yet."

You nearly wince when he sighs.

Time for a lecture.

"Sweetheart, how many times do I have to tell you to stop leaving the house on an empty stomach? Every time you do, it's only two hours into your shift before you start shaking from low blood sugar."

You frown, then turn toward the fridge and roll your eyes while searching for creamer.

If Robby saw you do that, there'd be hell to pay for it later. He dislikes when you get bratty, even minimally. You've gathered that he prefers you sweet.

"It's a choice between breakfast, or another half hour of sleep." You unscrew the cap of caramel creamer and begin to pour. "I choose sleep," you mumble.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "God forbid you do what your father asks you to."

Tucking the bottle back away in the shared fridge, you almost burst into laughter.

Sometimes this still feels like a bizarre form of roleplay to you. Maybe if you were closer in age, or he wasn't the chief attending of the ED and so incredibly intimidating to top it all off, then you wouldn't find it hysterical.

"Not trying to make you mad," you say quietly while sipping your steaming drink. "It's not your job to worry about me. Especially when there are people coming in with heart attacks, strokes, and—"

"As my daughter, yes, it is," he states firmly with hands planted on hips.

You sip again, but very slowly to hide your smirk.

You're mostly amused because he's taking this whole thing so very seriously.

"I'll eat a bagel on my next break, ok? Or a candy bar."

He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "This fuckin' kid," he murmurs. Lowering his chin again, he glares daggers at you through narrowed eyes. "Candy bar. So pure sugar."

You sigh, then go to step past him, until Robby grabs you by the forearm. "I will get you something from the lunch cart when they bring it around. And whatever I put in front of you, I expect you to eat. Understand?"

"Yes, dad."

He runs his thumb along the soft skin of your inner arm while silently considering. "Come back to my place with me tonight so I can make you dinner," he says with a much softer tone.

You glance up to him.

Releasing you, he cups your cheek instead. "As my..." he sighs. "I want my little girl to feel just as comfortable at her dad's place as she does at her own. And if the only way I can get you to eat something decent is by making you, then so be it."

You smile up at him while batting your lashes. "Chicken nuggets for dinner?"

His smile instantly fades while a brow is raised instead.

You snort, then take another sip of your coffee. "I'm kidding," you explain. Standing on tiptoes, you kiss his stubbled cheek. "Whatever dada wants, he gets."

On the dot two hours later, a wrapped sandwich is tossed down in front of where you sit at your work station. "Eat up," Robby barks. "Dad's orders."

Walking over to a computer cart with long, steady strides, he retrieves his readers from his scrub pocket and slides them over the wide bridge of his nose before watching you from a distance.

You look at him out of the corner of your eye and note how he only turns to the monitor in front of him once your meal is halfway gone.

Once naught is left but plastic wrap, you swivel in his direction, ball it up, then toss it into a trash can.

He nods while mouthing 'good girl' before heading into an exam room.

Your tummy squeezes excitedly when you watch him go.

Kneeling beside you, Robby rests a forearm atop the counter you're seated at charting. "You got much left to do?"

You shake your head and pluck the dictation device from your lap again. "Just the rest of this chart."

He slides a palm over your knee before giving it a solid pat. "I'll wait 'til you're done, then."

Watching as he leans back before fishing his phone out of his pocket, you nod with a grateful smile. "Ok, dada."

Slipping his glasses onto his nose, Robby slides his legs under yours.

"Oh, shoot," you hiss. There's a particular remark you meant to make on your last patient, but neglected to. God forbid you forget it again while finishing up with your current chart.

It never ends.

Swiping a stack of sticky notes from the edge of the desk, you glance around in search of an ink pen. "Could you hand me that, Robby?" you ask while nodding to a ballpoint resting next to his elbow.

He continues studying his cell, so you wait a second. Reading something, perhaps?

"Robby," you exclaim with a raised brow.

Is he ignoring you?

"Hellooo?" you drawl.

You could swear a smirk just ghosted across his lips... And with his legs beneath you, you can't just roll over there.

A figurative lightbulb dings to life then. "Dad?" you bark with growing irritation.

Locking his phone, he grants you his full attention. "Yes, honey?"

You shake your head with a sigh. "Pen."

Plucking it from the desktop, he hands it to you with a smile, accompanied by a mischievous wink.

Now being within the confines of his home, you'd think Robby would feel far more at ease. Instead, watching as you stare up at him waiting for direction, he feels suddenly out of his depth.

He doesn't want to squander this moment.

"Would you like to take a shower while I get started on dinner?" he asks with a thin smile.

"Oh," you say with a start. "Well, besides a change of scrubs in my bag—"

"You can wear something of mine," Robby suggests while pulling you along toward his bedroom.

"It'll be more like a nightgown," he remarks while holding up a dark blue t-shirt. "But at least you'll be comfortable."

You gingerly take the soft cotton garment from him and clutch it happily to your chest. "Thank you, dada."

His eyes shimmer in the low light the moon provides through the bedroom window that stands at his back, and he cups the base of your scalp. "You're welcome, sweetheart."

He dithers for a moment, then with the quiet scuffle of socked feet on hardwood floors, turns you around to lead you toward an awaiting shower.

Dining on a heaping plate of saucy, seasoned spaghetti—he made more than he should've in an effort to impress—and buttery slices of garlic toast, Robby watches from beneath his lashes and in-between bites of his meal as you gradually clean your plate.

He can't help the sense of satisfaction that settles upon him at the sight of you so safe and content in his home; at his table. Washed in his soaps, wearing his clothes, eating food he prepared for you.

He wants to ask if he's a good enough dad to you, but feels strange about it. Is he being ridiculous? Somehow immature? A man his age playing surrogate father to his work subordinate because he's that fucking desperate for a family...

It's not your problem to solve.

What if you've only kept on with this whole ruse because you're afraid of displeasing him?

Pushing the dish away, he finds that he's suddenly lost his appetite.

God, he's fucking sick.

"You okay?" you ask after a swift slurp of spaghetti, followed up by a generous sip of tinkling ice water.

Crossing his arms, you feel the energy of the room shift suddenly into that of tightened tension.

"Just lost my appetite," he rumbles.

You drop your fork and it clatters against the edge of your porcelain plate. "Did I...do something?"

He lowers his chin and shakes his head infinitesimally. "It's not you."

Your chin wobbles. "Do you want me to leave?"

Robby's eyes of darkened brown flit to yours. "No. No," he replies while leaning across the table toward you. "I'm just...getting in my head. I'm sorry, baby."

"About?" you ask warily.

"Are we—" he sighs and scrubs a calloused hand down his tired face. "Are we being foolish here? Playing at daddy-daughter like we have some right, or even valid reason to?" His eyes search yours for an answer. "You're not just going along with it to stroke my ego, right? Because it'd gut me to find out that the only reason you've let it ride like you have is to benefit me."

"Oh, Robby," you sigh dolefully.

Prying his strong arms apart, you lace your fingers between his and hold fast to him. "No. Not at all. I know sometimes it's been for the sake of playfulness. At first, did it feel a bit absurd? Sure. But not now. Now, just like you wanted, it brings me comfort and makes me feel...special. That you see me in such a way in return, I mean; want me to be that for you."

He rolls his head to the side and studies you. "Are you sure?"

Lifting his hand to your lips, you press a tender kiss to the back of it. "Yes, dad, I am."

Now consoled, his lip twitches in contentment. "C'mere," he commands with a slight jerk of his head and wave of his hand while pushing his seat back.

Rising from your own, you settle yourself sideways in his lap and circle his neck with your arms.

Sliding a palm between your legs, he encourages them apart with a careful push. "Spread your legs for me, baby."

Plopping one foot on the floor, you grant him requested access to what lies between your thighs. Pressing two fingers against already slick folds, he prods gently against your fluttering entrance.

Lying your head on his shoulder, your eyes gently close when Robby swipes a lubricated fingertip across your clit, followed by easing a single digit inside you. "That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs.

You card your fingers in his hair while clutching at the neck of his shirt with your other palm. "Y-yes, dada," you whimper.

"Good girl," Robby utters with a kiss.

Apparently work isn't the only place Robby sees fit to teach you at.

You feel like you're learning new things about your body right now. Like how if someone pushes down on the lower portion of your belly—right above your pubic mound—while fingering you with rapid abandon, it feels even more pleasurable than ordinary masturbation.

Interrupted only by the occasional swipe of his tongue across your swollen clit, you clutch helplessly at smooth sheets of dark grey which smell satisfyingly of Robby. His cologne: hints of pine and fresh rain, and soap: a hint of masculine musk.

His personal aroma is like that of the color evergreen. Homey, verdant, and wild.

Lifting your hips slightly, Robby pushes them back down while hammering his fingers away between your slick, stretchy walls.

"Ooooh my fucking God," you cry while letting your legs fall apart again.

"Hey," Robby pants while staring at you from beneath hooded lids. "Look at me, young lady."

Lifting your head, you force yourself up onto your forearms. "W-What?"

"I don't wanna hear foul language like that ever again. If you do say it again, I'm washing that mouth out with soap," he spits.

You throw your head back down against a fluffy pillow. "S-sorry, dada," you whine.

"It's alright, sweetheart," he coos. "Just know..." he says while swallowing the saliva that's pooling in his mouth. "That you're never too old for me to put you over my knee."

Your eyes roll back in your head. "Ah... Okay."

Pulling his fingers from your cunt, he snaps his hand, then flexes it while you start to whimper from the loss of sexual stimulation.

"Please," you blubber while digging your nails into your scalp.

"Fuckin' hand is cramping," he mutters. Easing his index and middle fingers from his non-dominant hand between your pulsing walls, he gets back to work.

"Y-You just cursed," you complain.

"Dad gets to set the rules," he states before kissing your clit with a loud smack. "Doesn't mean he's obligated to follow them."

Your head lulls to the side. "No fair," you whisper.

He chuckles. "Think you'll forgive me when you finally cum all over dada's fingers."

Cuddled against Robby's soft chest, you snuggle against warm, doughy skin that's smattered with curls of dark hair.

You love it here.

"There's something I've been thinking about," he mutters before pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

You hum in interest.

"I worry about you and burnout," he elaborates. "Some days I can tell are better than others, but... The ED is the one place where I feel like I have use; purpose. After, I come back here—to a silent, empty house where the only person I have to look after is myself."

You slide a leg between his and curl it around his calf.

"I wouldn't mind having someone to take care of. I mean, do you like living alone? Having everything resting squarely on your shoulders?" Robby questions while stroking your arm.

You yawn and plant a palm against his pec. "Are you...asking me to—"

"Move in," he interrupts. "At least temporarily to see how it works out." He lovingly kisses your brow. "I always assumed I'd have a wife one day. Kids. Maybe one of which would be a daughter." He tightens his arms around you like vines. "Seems those things found me in the end."

He chuckles darkly. "Two for one, apparently."

You smoosh your face against his chest. "Whatever dada wants," you say while readying yourself for sleep. "Dad gets."

He splays his palm against your naked back. "Thank you, honey."

When his exhausted eyes return to yours, you swiftly lock your phone and tuck it away to grant him your undivided attention.

Is he about to lay into you now as well?

Oh boy...

"I'm all ears," you assure softly. Cautiously.

"While I'm gone, I'd like to have someone housesit for me," he explains. "Just to keep an eye on things. Bring in the mail, make sure nothing stops running in my absence or shorts out. I was hoping maybe that could be you."

At least he isn't ripping into you the way he has so many others tonight. Such as Dana, Abbot, and poor Samira. You caught him glaring at Frank on more than once occasion as well, and on the poor man's first day back, no less.

You still have yet to learn the full story there of what exactly happened ten months ago which sent him on a long vacation from the ED, but maybe it's best you not know; it's none of your concern. He's back to treating patients, and that's what matters.

"Oh," you say in quiet surprise. "Are... Are you sure you wouldn't rather it be Abbot or Noelle?"

His brows furrow and he steps closer. "Noelle?" Robby asks with a slightly quirked head.

"I just thought that the two of you..." Situationship sounds inappropriate, so it's best you not use that adjective, probably. "Seem to have something—"

"Noelle and I are not together," he deadpans. "She's not the one I—" he huffs, shakes his head tiredly while gazing across the empty lot while running a nervous hand down the back of his neck, then returns his attentions to you. "There's nothing there."

You wonder if she knows that.

You'd hoped it would work out for him, in truth—that they'd make a charming couple who'd understand one another's struggles here at work. But wishes hardly ever come true, it seems.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make assumptions," you state with regret.

Robby shakes his head dismissively to intimate that it's alright; no harm done. "It's fine." Contemplating the color of your lips, he continues. "I'd just feel better knowing you're there looking after things for me. It'd help you save on rent for a few months. And if I don't come back, you've got yourself a brand new home."

Your brows knit together. "If you don't come back?" you question with worry.

He purses his lips and shrugs yet again. "Never know. Trying to keep my plans open." Rocking back on his heels, he studies the asphalt beneath his shoes, then steadies while looking at you once again from beneath his lashes. "So, we got a deal?"

He's due to leave very soon. So there's little opportunity for him to make other arrangements if you decline. It's not great that he waited until the literal last minute to begin with, because it indicates—at least to you—that he's not thinking clearly.

You want to ask him to wait until the morning before he takes off—go home, take a shower, make sure you're indeed who he wants to fill this responsibility, and tend to any other loose ends he's yet to tie up before taking such a prolonged sabbatical—but know such pleas would ultimately fall upon deaf ears.

You nod. "We do. It's no problem."

He sighs, and his shoulders loosen when the anxiety of a potential rejection alleviates. "You can follow me over there after our shift ends. I'll give you a tour, list a few rules, and..." his head bobs in an indifferent nod. "We'll talk then."

You rub nervously at your arm. "Alright."

Following along behind Robby's Bonneville, as the miles pass between work and home, a feeling of unexpected dread settles into the pit of your belly.

You know Abbot talked to him shortly before dayshift finally came to a close, and from what you could see from afar, he managed to finally chip past his stony exterior, but it obviously wasn't enough.

You want to make a genuine attempt at getting through to him yourself, but you honestly have no idea what to say to do so. What can you tell him that will convince him to stay his hand, even just a bit longer, which Jack—someone he's known far longer, and is much closer to—hasn't already?

You wouldn't be so worried if he didn't seem like such an utter wreck today. He doesn't even look well. His face is pale, his cheeks appear hollow in just the right light, and his eyes are so...dark and empty.

It scares you.

As you pull up next to Robby's motorcycle, you switch off the engine to your vehicle and watch as he knocks the kickstand of his ride into place before swinging a leg over the side of the stupid deathtrap before waving for you to follow him to the door of his condominium.

You'd assumed that he was a homeowner. Perhaps he still is, though, even if it's a condo that he's residing in. You're not sure how it works, exactly. Not your living situation, though, so you suppose it ultimately doesn't matter.

Popping open the driver's side door, you maneuver yourself out of the vehicle.

You're quiet as Robby leads you from room to room in his spacious abode while he shows you how to work the dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, and even the shower.

You simply nod along because you know that you'll most likely be coming by every other day at best for a handful of minutes to do a quick walkthrough before heading back to yours and Samira's shared apartment. The thought of spending enough time here to require use of a washing machine is unimaginable.

You still fail to understand why you're the chosen person for the job, but nevertheless feel flattered that he hand-picked you for it.

You humor yourself with the thought that it's because you're so very reliable and organized. Robby has always had a bit of a soft-spot for you—favoritism which seemed to increase in fervor as time went on—but you assume it's only because he sees your promising potential as a healthcare provider.

Once he's led you back toward the foyer where the front door lies, he shoves his hands into his pockets and you bristle as he lets his eyes roam freely across you.

"I'll come by at least every other day and bring your mail in for you. And I'll do a walkthrough of the—"

Robby frows and your words drift into silence.

"I want you here," he states softly, but with conviction. "It'll give me peace of mind. So just...live here while I'm away. Since I never set up any of the other rooms for guests, just sleep in my bed," he remarks while nodding behind you, toward the direction where the bedroom lies.

"Wear my clothes if you want, if...if they're more comfortable to for you to lounge around in," Robby mutters with a shrug. "Make yourself at home. Eat what's in the fridge, and contact the building manager if anything needs fixed. As for bills, everything comes out of my checking account automatically. The mortgage, electricity, sewage, trash disposal, water, wi-fi and cable... It's all taken care of."

Samira won't be happy about losing her roommate, but you'll still see each other at work. And you can always come over to visit.

You wonder if he would mind if she did the same here.

Sleeping on the same mattress as him is a surreal thought, but you've never owned a king-size bed before. Might be nice to be able to roll this way and that without fear of falling onto the floor. You'd rather not think of other things he's done in it, though, with... Well, others. Feels wrong to imagine him that way.

So you choose not to.

"Rules?" you ask, since he mentioned such a thing previously.

"No parties, pets, kids... Other men—"

You shake your head. "No worries there, about any of it. It's your home and I fully intend to respect the space you're letting me stay in temporarily."

Robby purses his lips and contemplates for a moment to ensure he's left no stone unturned before he steps out. "Do you have any questions for me?"

You think. "What if something breaks? I can contact the building manager, and I assume they'll have a repairman come, but what if they tell me it needs replaced entirely? Like...the fridge or dryer? Unlikely, I know, but—"

Robby reaches around to his back pocket and unfolds a leather wallet. "Here, take this," he says while holding out a credit card between his index and middle finger. "It's not one I ever use anymore, but if something like that happens, just charge it to it. I'll keep an eye on the account and pay off anything that pops up."

You shuffle forward and slip the thin plastic card from his grasp. "I doubt I'll need it, but I'll put it in my wallet for safekeeping just incase."

"If you need it for gas or groceries, that's fine, too."

You shake your head. "No, Robby, I can—"

"It's the least I can do," he interrupts while glancing to the right, toward a curtained window. "Since you're doing me a favor by keeping an eye on things. It'll give me peace of mind while I'm on the road: knowing you're here, living in my home; sleeping in my bed."

He seems oddly adamant about the last part...

You should analyze that, as well as him telling you to wear his clothes. Perhaps he's just trying to be a good host by ensuring you feel comfortable here, and not like you have to be conscious of so much as moving a dishtowel or salt shaker out of place?

You choose to go with that theory.

"Okay." You'll only use it to restock anything of his that you run out of and need to replenish. Wouldn't feel right to use it for something as simple as a few gallons of gas, which you can afford.

"Make sure to enjoy yourself," Robby murmurs with a forced smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but does make his crow's feet wrinkle.

"You too," you whisper. "Drive safe, wear your helmet, and pull into a motel or hotel if you start to get tired. Get plenty of rest. And eat—I'm sure there's lots of good diners and food trucks along the way," you say with a soft, reassuring grin. "If you need anything, call Abbot. Or...me. I'll do what I can," you finish with a nod.

You're not sure what exactly, but you figure that you'll cross that bridge if and when you come to it.

Robby's eyes flit between your own, and your heart squeezes with the thought that he's maybe changed his mind. Taking time off from the ED is essential right now, but an almost four thousand mile round trip certainly isn't, in your opinion.

Maybe he can—

Robby advances forward while his footsteps sound across hardwood floors, then suddenly cups the back of your head and presses his lips firmly to your forehead while pulling the rest of you flush against himself.

His grip is iron-tight, and you register the soft swell of his belly that melds against your abdomen, his palm that's splayed across your back, his other which twitches against the base of your skull, and his wiry beard that softly scratches against your skin.

You slide your own arms around his middle after a beat, and gradually tighten your hold after a handful of seconds so the embrace isn't quite so one-sided.

In the ED, Robby's touched you an innumerable amount of times—your shoulders, back, hands, even your cheek once or twice—but you've not deigned to think too much on it, because you always assumed it was just his way of bestowing silent reassurance or praise in way of encouragement.

You're sure that's all it ever was, and that this is just...thanks.

You don't see it, but he squeezes his eyes shut to battle away stinging tears before suddenly releasing you and turning on his heel. "Take care of yourself," he mutters before grabbing his bag and swinging the front door open.

"Y-You too," you squeak before he shuts it behind him.

A moment later, his motorcycle revs to life outside and its headlight casts itself across the living room walls before disappearing entirely.

You don't move until the sound of its purring engine has morphed into silence.

You swallow thickly and shift on your feet while sniffling.

You've never thought of Robby as anything more than a mentor, so you find yourself at a loss when you try to explain the hollow feeling in your chest that his absence has left behind.

"I'm sort of glad he's gone," Samira mumbles from where she's sitting cross-legged on your bed. "Is that bad of me?" she asks while glancing up to where you stand plucking various clothing items from your closet.

"No," you reply while folding and tossing them into your bag. "Of course not. I know he'd been riding you for awhile, and there's no excuse for it. But..." you sigh.

"If you can, try not to take it personally. It was just him lashing out, I think. Samira, you're one of the best doctors I know—not to mention people. Calling you slow? What? Because you bother taking your time, actually listen to your patients, and are diligent in your diagnoses and treatment—unlike most, who've otherwise sold themselves for and to corporate greed, whether they're aware of it or not, by double-booking or rushing through patients? Not that you plan to go into it, but if you were a PCP, I'd want you as mine. And I'm not just saying that because we're best friends and live together."

She's practically beaming by the end of your heartfelt speech.

"Don't take the crap he's said to you to heart. Collins believed in you, Al-Hashimi does, too, as well as Abbot it seems, and so do I. Robby needs to sort out his own issues before he starts harping on anyone else's."

She flops back onto your bed. "What did he say to you exactly before taking off?" she inquires while rolling her head in your direction. "Just curious, since you were the last one to see him."

You shrug. "Not much. Showed me around, laid some ground rules, told me what to do if I had any issues..." You chew your lip for a moment. "He... He told me to make myself at home, obviously, and it's not like there's another one there for me to occupy... He told me more than once: sleep in my bed. Even mentioned something about wearing his clothes so I could be comfortable."

She bolts upright. "I'm sorry, what?"

You consider a thin sweater, then shake your head. It's hot as hell out right now, so you don't imagine you'll be needing it anytime soon. "He might've given me a credit card, too. But only for emergencies. Like if the washer breaks and can't be repaired and a new one has to be delivered instead. That sort of thing."

She bobs her head from side to side in understanding. "I guess I can get that. But... Wearing his clothes?" she asks incredulously.

You opt not to mention the part about him telling you to also use it for gas and groceries. The latter is sort of understandable, but the former not so much, at least in your opinion.

He's just not himself right now, right? Makes sense that on top of acting out of sorts, he's also saying some off-the-wall stuff.

You ball up a ratty old t-shirt and stuff it in your luggage bag. "I won't be."

"It's the fact he said that to begin with," she presses while scooting closer. "It's inappropriate."

You snort. "And me staying in his house isn't?" You raise a brow while refolding a pair of jeans. "Still don't understand why he didn't ask Jack or Noelle instead. Because even if she and him aren't in an established relationship, they had something going on between them. You'd think he'd be begging her to take up space in his home and bed and clothes instead."

"Oh my God," Samira whispers, like realization of something shocking has just overcome her.

"What?" you asked with a raised brow.

Her brown eyes flit to yours. "How do you... You don't even see it, do you?"

You blink absentmindedly. "No, but I assume you're about to tell me whatever it is that I'm apparently blind to."

"He's in love with you," she expresses doubtlessly.

Unable to help yourself, you bark a laugh. "You can't be serious right now. I'm a resident. And he's—"

"Telling you to make yourself at home, giving you his credit card, telling you to bathe in his shower, eat his food, lie in his bed, put on his clothes," she counts off across two hands. "I always sort of questioned all the extra attention he gave you at work, but I guess I get it now."

You shift uncertainly on your feet. "He's just...being a good host."

"But he's not really hosting you if he isn't there, is he?"

Turning your back to her to begin emptying your underthings from your dresser, you shake your head. "I'm sure he'll rekindle things with Noelle once he gets back. It's not like that."

She shakes her head. "Never took you for the clueless type."

You sigh while tucking a bra away into a mesh pocket. "We should've all taken bets on what he'll get up to while away. I say that wherever he's headed, it's to see someone that he's perhaps fallen for."

Or to check out a new job opportunity...

You start in on socks next.

After only two weeks on the road, Robby already feels beat. Then again, he did before he ever planted two wheels upon it.

Lying in a strange motel room in a strange town far from home, he's unable to control the tempest of thoughts that rage in his tired head in the unwelcome silence that encapsulates him. All the patients that died beneath his hands, all the people he loved whom he failed, all the students he should've done better by.

It all started with the first who failed him, he thinks. The catalyst for why his life has fallen apart, or never had a proper chance to become what it should've to begin with.

But he can't think on that right now or he'll...

As always, his thoughts instead drift toward another.

One who's currently warming his bed that he's at least a thousand miles from at present. She's all feminine curves, sweet smiles, and warmth in every spoken word.

It's easier to lose himself in delusional daydreams with her instead of facing the harsh, ugly reality that's collapsing all around him.

It's become prevalent, this habit: when he's driving, eating, taking a piss, even when he's supposed to be sleeping, his mind instead chooses to paint a false picture that's becoming increasingly harder to pull himself out of day-by-day, like quicksand.

He's losing hours to it, but it's so much more soothing than addressing his own self-made problems.

He worries that if he ever finds the strength to go home, that he'll struggle with being able to tell the difference between what's real and what he's willingly imagined as he trails across the Badlands.

If he'd done things differently—been braver and spoken up—perhaps he'd be there with her now. Lying beside her, holding her close to keep her safe and warm while she dreams peacefully in his arms and against his chest... But his time has come and gone for such fanciful romances. He's too old, broken down, and hollowed out now.

He'd be no good for someone like her.

It's why he settles for fantasy instead. It's the closest he'll ever come to actually having her the way he means to.

The reveries can vary. He's become quite adept at storytelling, in truth. In some, he's beside her in the ED, coaching her through every move, every incision, every decision, and the patient never dies. Others—his favored ones—she's at home with him. She greets him at the door with an adoring smile and an affectionate kiss before pulling him inside so that they can have dinner while she listens about his day. Sometimes she works in it, others, she's a quaint housewife with a swollen belly who lives for her husband, and he for her.

And then there are the darker ones where he's buried inside of her—right between her legs—and he loses himself to the feeling of her soft, trembling body lying beneath his own, where she clutches at his chest and arms while whimpering wantonly against his lips. He always finishes inside of her, and she promises him a baby in return.

He's projected so many idealized archetypes and scenarios onto her that when the time finally came to reluctantly say goodbye, he'd been a bit taken aback when she didn't beg him to stay while throwing herself at him with reckless abandon.

She was supposed to react differently. Not bring up another woman that he only half considers an ex. Robby made things clear to Noelle at the beginning that whatever they were doing would be casual—no strings attached or grand expectations had.

She would find no commitment on his end, because he knew that he wanted another, and as long as his heart was held in her unwitting hands, he couldn't give anyone else 100% of himself. So, after almost a couple months, when Noelle started dropping hints that she was desiring more, he broke it off entirely.

Live in my home, sleep in my bed. Why couldn't he have just told her what he really meant?

I love you, I love you, I love you and you alone.

Pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, he groans in frustration. Did she really have no idea? Why didn't she question further as to why she was his chosen candidate for house sitting? If she had, though, would he have told her?

He's not sure.

He truly is a fool.

Can't have the fairytale—kids and all—if you can't even achieve an erection anymore. Happened once or twice with Noelle, actually.

He preferred to keep his eyes shut during at times because it made imagining easier, but the truth was always right there beneath his hands.

He knows it hurt her feelings; that she blamed herself when he failed to properly perform. Bless her, she even tried to help him, but it somehow made it all the worse instead. Just gave him one more reason to cut it off clean. If you can't please a woman, what's the point?

Rolling onto his side, he tries to sleep.

"Have you heard from him?"

Tucking your stethoscope into your bag, you shake your head and click your locker shut. "I haven't. I'm sorry, Jack. Guessing it's the same for you?"

He shrugs and shakes his head. "I check the fuckin' thing about a dozen times a day, always expecting something. Think after over a half a month I'd get the hint that he doesn't want to reach out or be reached out to, but I clearly haven't."

You slide your backpack onto your shoulders. "You're a worried friend. Nothing wrong with that."

He doesn't tell you about how he keeps Googling 'Buffalo Jump Albany deaths'.

He should've done more to keep Robby in Pittsburgh.

Wrapping his arms around you, he pulls you into a tight hug and gives you a firm squeeze. "Let me know if you do."

You nod. "I will."

It takes about two and a half weeks before you even think to snoop around a bit. Between work, errands, taking care of Robby's space by regularly cleaning and tidying up after yourself, and trying to tend to your own health, the thought of rifling through his sock drawer just didn't register.

After fixing yourself a stir-fry dinner with a small glass of red wine, you had sat on the couch for awhile watching Netflix before you finally got bored with some poorly scripted period drama and switched the TV off in favor of exploring.

You begin where many do: the medicine cabinet. Your hand hovers over the small silver knob which will reveal to you some of Robby's medicinal secrets, and frown slightly. You'd dislike if someone did such a thing to you, but... What he doesn't know also won't hurt him. Just might cause you to see him in a bit of a different light is all.

Pulling the small door with a gleaming mirrored front open, you trail your eyes over mostly predictable finds: shaving cream, a razor, as well as clippers, an assorted box of Band-Aids, triple antibiotic, ibuprofen, a glass bottle of half-empty cologne with a gold cap, wet wipes, and a couple prescriptions are amongst the items within.

Plucking the first orange bottle from the middle shelf, you turn it over to study the label. Buspar 10 MG. You slide the pad of your thumb over his printed name, Michael Robinavitch, and your brows knit together in sympathy.

"Oh, Robby," you whisper before returning it to its rightful place. A pretty basic medication for anxiety, yes, but it nevertheless tugs at your heart to see. Especially since it's here, and not with him like it should instead be.

Grabbing the next one, blood immediately rushes to your cheeks and you nearly toss it back inside with a quiet squeal. Viagra.

Slamming the door back closed, you thoroughly wash your hands, then exit the bathroom and head for the bedroom instead.

Flipping through the clothing that hangs in Robby's closet, you find yourself underwhelmed. Scrubs, scrubs, and more scrubs. Along with a couple three-piece suits which you deign he must look rather sharp in. At the back, though, is a collection of t-shirts. Half of which are just basic, solid colors—black, blue, forest green, grey—but there's also surprisingly some graphic tees, too. You grin as you swipe your fingers over a decal of Led Zeppelin's untitled album. The 4th one which included Stairway to Heaven.

Nearly pulling it from the hanger, you bunch the hem up beneath your nose and inhale, but are met only with hints of detergent instead of him.

You click the door back shut and pad over to the chest of drawers that stands across from the foot of the bed—which doubles as an entertainment center, since he has a small flatscreen on top—and you grip a wooden picture frame and slide it toward you.

Inside is a photo that was taken approximately a year ago in the ED around Christmas. No one is dressed up for it, but you remember that afternoon and how a fresh box of cookies from a local bakery was delivered—their tops complete with designs of Santa, Rudolph, Christmas trees, and snowflakes.

You'd rolled your eyes, then looked at Robby and muttered how you were sorry that there wasn't one with a menorah on it. He'd stared at you, and the look was so intense that your mind short-circuited for a moment as you actually doubted whether you remembered his heritage correctly. He was Jewish, right?

And then he kissed your forehead before biting through a Christmas tree and saying sarcastically that he hoped he wasn't being sacrilegious somehow.

You'd not entirely understood the joke, but laughed anyway.

Studying the photo, you examine all the familiar faces included. Dana, McKay, Langdon, Trinity, Mel, Samira, and many more. But only now do you notice that only one wasn't smiling at the camera lens, but instead was gazing at you with a toothy grin.

Robby.

Pulled flush against his side you'd been, and his hand was wrapped around the crown of your shoulder to keep you close.

Was Samira right after all?

Letting go of the frame, you plop down on the bed and begin to think.

You've known him for a long time now, as you've been at PTMC since you were but a med student. You'd initially tried to get yourself on night shift after your first couple weeks there so that you could have your days to accomplish everything else you were overwhelmed with, but Robby was insistent that you stick with him and that he'd 'see you through thick and thin'. So you did, and to be fair, he hasn't steered you wrong.

His teachings have been invaluable, which you're thankful for, but now you wonder when the relationship shifted from mentor and mentee to something more affectionate—at least on his end.

You want to tell yourself that you're reading too much into it, but all you have to do is look around to know that that's a lie.

With a sigh, you slide over to the head of the bed and pull the top drawer of his nightstand open. A Roku remote greets you, as well as an issue of The New England Journal of Medicine, a small flashlight, and an open box of Trojan condoms.

Size?

Large.

You shove it back closed and stare ahead at the open doorway.

Before tonight, you never imagined him that way: naked and sweaty and writhing on top of a woman.

Now, you can't stop.

With a huff, you begin readying yourself for bed.

It's been an hour and rest still has yet to find you. Counting sheep is fruitless, as is mentally singing yourself old childhood lullabies.

It's because you can't stop the racing thoughts now that you've been bombarded by silence. Thoughts...of just how lonely you truly are. Living with Samira, it was easy to ignore. At work, there was no time to think of anything but the medicine, and at home, you had a friend to always talk to and share things with. But here, in a house too big for just one person to occupy, you're left to take stock of how outside of your roommate, you really don't have anyone else.

So you ponder whether Robby's feelings are returned.

An attraction you've always had towards him, sure, but something even bordering on love? He's...him. Doctor Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch. Chief of the ED at PTMC and a whole lot of man, to boot. He's worldly and wise and steady and capable.

Meanwhile, you're more like a wobbly newborn chick fresh out the egg that has no idea how to even walk some days, let alone carry on with a damn rooster.

Ok, so the analogy is getting a little weird.

Point being that he's lived a life, whereas yours has yet to even form its first greatest hit.

Turning onto your side, you slide your hand across a half empty mattress and fantasize about it being occupied, and what such a thing might entail. What has he considered, you wonder? Shared meals, movie nights on the sofa, and sex right where you lay? Bills and correspondences with both your names printed on the envelope? Matching his and hers coffee mugs hanging from Command hooks in the kitchen?

Just when you think to close your eyes again, your phone lights up, so you grab it from atop the nightstand and check what's just come through.

You sigh with relief when you see that it's the very man occupying your current deliberations.

Everything going ok?

"Thank God," you whisper while making a mental note to text Abbot that Robby has reached out.

It is! Been taking care of the house. I've sorted your mail, too, by the way. Junk mail is set aside incase something piques your interest.

You debated whether to toss fliers for cheaper internet and brochures for a new car wash that just opened up down the street, but figured that was his decision to ultimately make. Perhaps you'll use a Pizza Hut coupon one of these nights.

Thanks.

You raise a brow and begin rethinking everything you were only just ruminating over. Like imagined fondness. Short, straight, and to the—

I meant with you.

Talk about whiplash.

I'm doing okay. Thinking about adopting a cactus. Figured you could use the company once you get back.

Not really a lie, since the lack of any other living thing here sort of depressed you to see after first moving in, so to speak. Not having pets you get for numerous reasons, but even just an air plant could be nice.

Had one before. Overwatered and killed it, but thanks.

How the hell do you overwater a cactus? Something that literally thrives in the desert. Too much of a good thing, you suppose.

Air plant, then.

typing...

Work going alright for you with me gone?

No more talk of flora, apparently.

It is. You're still very missed, though.

typing...

Miss you, too.

Your heart somersaults in your chest. What do you say now?

Thanks? Come back soon? Want a selfie of me in your bed so your replies might become a bit more lively?

Your fingers hover above the keyboard, but before you get a chance to attempt a reply, another message comes buzzing through.

Going to sleep. Talk later.

You reply with a simple Goodnight before doing the same.

It's too fucking ridiculous to ever admit, but the sign for him to finally turn back came in the form of a country song playing on an overhead speaker in a small roadside diner. He forgets the name of the artist, but he sang of being on the road more than home, and how leaving the woman he loved all alone was killing him. How only if he returned could he feel, see, touch, and kiss her anytime he wished. Could place hands upon her bare skin as they slept together.

Robby paid his tab and turned his ass back in the other direction without a second thought.

With him being so far gone, it taking an almost thirty-year-old tune to change his mind about whatever the hell he was doing tracked.

So, here he stands, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom sipping on a cold bottle of Budweiser he found in the fridge while watching you sleep.

A small twinge of disappointment had settled in his chest when he trailed his eyes along one of your bare arms that's thrown across a pillow when he caught sight of the thin strap on your shoulder. Certainly not something of his.

You never bothered using the credit card, either, turns out. Not even for a quick snack at work.

He dislikes the fact.

You stir, then promptly calm and return to breathing evenly.

With a sigh, he turns and heads for the bathroom to take a quick shower.

At least you're in his bed.

Small blessings.

You're groggy and initially unsure of what you think you just felt.

When you slide a hand over to the left side of the bed and your palm meets with that of a soft belly smattered with hair, you jerk your head and hand both back and open your mouth to scream, until Robby swiftly cups your cheek in his hand. "It's me. You're safe. It's just me."

You bury your face in a pillow and groan. "You scared the daylights out of me," you mumble sleepily.

He runs a comforting hand along the curve of your spine. "Sorry. I was trying not to wake you."

This feels natural to him: the two of you in bed in the middle of the night with only a simple exchange of words between you. Like it's habit, almost. Being near you has always came as easy as breathing to him, though.

Just something about your nature.

Resting your cheek back atop the pillow, you gaze at him from beneath drooping lids. "You're back early," you whisper.

He considers for a moment, then slips his hand beneath the hem of the thin camisole you wear and he begins massaging your naked skin.

Something a husband would do for a wife.

"I am."

"Everything go okay?" you ask with a yawn. "Did you make it to the site in Albany?"

He shouldn't really be touching you like this, but his callouses gently scratching against your soft skin feels kind of nice. And you're too tired to tell him to stop.

It's sort of soothing.

Robby nods.

"Everything you hoped it would be?"

He shrugs. "Just a cliff."

You're grateful he chose not to drive off of it. Means he found a reason after all.

"I picked you up a few things," he murmurs. "They're in my bag. I'll give them to you in the morning."

You smile lazily—a sight which causes his cock to twitch unexpectedly. Then again, he was already sporting a semi in the shower due to standing there naked while holding a pink bottle of soap that belonged to you in his hand.

"Is it a keychain or magnet?" you ask with a soft giggle.

He shakes his head and his lip barely twitches into a smile in response. "No. I think more of you than cheap, tacky gifts."

You're certainly intrigued now.

Removing his hand from beneath your top, he cups the back of your head and tenderly strokes the side of your scalp with the pad of his thumb. "Did you miss me?"

You nod. "We all did. Just glad you're back in one piece."

His eyes flit to where the comforter has been pushed down to your hips. "But did you?" he presses.

Your brows merge together. "Of course."

His darkened eyes roam upwards again and settle on your face.

Robby leans in toward you while his large, calloused hand ghosts across your waist before gently gripping your hip and tugging you against his chest.

When his lips meet with yours, his eyes flutter closed and yours widen.

It's almost comical that this moment finally confirms for you that he does indeed have feelings. You would think someone with a degree in medicine would be a bit more perceptive, but apparently not.

When he runs the speared tip of his tongue along your bottom lip, you gently pry your lips apart to grant him entry to your mouth. With patience, Robby savors this first kiss he's desired for so long. His tongue greets your own with quiet passion—first sliding along the slick underside before twisting to meld it against your own.

Lifting his right leg, he plants it over your opposite side, then rolls himself atop you.

With Robby's full weight settled across your body, and his forearms bracketed on either side of your head, it leaves you securely covered in him. Raising an uncertain hand, you cup his cheek and curl your fingertips against his unkempt beard while your other toys with the gold chain that hangs around his neck—its charm of the Star of David resting between your breasts.

It almost feels like something this monumental should've been proceeded by a lengthy conversation first—just out of respect for the weight of this moment—but now isn't the time for talking.

Slipping a hand beneath your top, Robby eases the material past your belly and breasts, and ultimately over your head before he balls it up and tosses it across the room to rid himself of any hindrances toward having you entirely.

Dipping his head, he sucks a nipple into his mouth and groans.

Your back arches off the bed, and Robby plants a palm against the curve of it to keep you impossibly close while switching sides. Dragging the pad of his tongue over your pebbled nipple, he laps at the smooth skin which surrounds it before dragging it between his teeth.

"God, Robby," you sigh while carding your fingers in his tousled brown hair.

"Michael," he mutters with a lift of his head. "Call me Michael when we're like this."

Nibbling his way toward your throat, his hand crests its way past the waist of your panties and he swipes a finger through your slick folds, followed by a rasped 'fuck' uttered from his lips. Shoving off of you, he rests back on his haunches and hooks his fingers under their waistband and tugs. "Lift your hips, sweetheart," he instructs.

You do.

Once you're lain wholly bare before him, you watch as his eyes trail over your every feature and asset with lustful abandon.

"I've wanted this for years," he whispers while kneading your breasts in his hands. "You don't know how long I've waited for you."

Caressing your cheek, Robby grips the side of his briefs and pulls the elastic band below his hip. "Do you want me inside of you?"

Your head is absolutely spinning, and as you survey the generous swell of his belly that now hangs over the waistband of his underwear, you swallow thickly and nod.

A gesture he returns before pushing them down to his knees and removing them.

With his cock only semi-erect, he fists it in his hand while pressing the index and middle fingers of his other against your dripping entrance. Easing them both inside, your knees fall apart in quiet welcome.

Robby doesn't want to bother with a little blue pill tonight. No performance enhancers. Not with you.

Slowly easing his digits between your fluttering walls, he swipes his thumb over your clit and you gasp in response.

He eyes his bedside table fleetingly, but decides against it.

Unless you ask him to use protection, he won't offer. Bare is the way he's always wished for it to be between you.

"Did you ever touch yourself?" he asks. "Here?"

Your eyes slowly open and you grip the pillow beneath your head in either of your hands. "I did."

It had felt wrong with it being his place of rest, but you figured there would be no way for him to know in the end, so it was fine.

He lines himself up against your cunt and swipes the weeping tip of his cock against it, leaving it shimmering and wet from your arousal. "Did you think of me?"

Yes and no.

You found it invigorating that it was Robby's bed you were lying upon and playing with yourself in, but you didn't imagine anything particular while doing so. You just enjoyed the sounds of your own breathy moans and whimpers to get you to your finish.

"Yes."

His cheek twitches and he eases inside of you inch by inch. Slow is his descent as he allows you to adjust to his size. Your walls stretch to accommodate his girth, and he mutters quiet, affectionate praises all the while of how well you're taking him; that he's almost there.

Once he's bottomed out, Robby leans forward and rests his right forearm next to your head while his opposite hand grips your chin, tilts your head to the left, and he plants featherlight kisses along your jawline. "That feel good, sweetheart?" he rumbles while rocking his hips against yours.

You draw in a ragged breath. "Y-yes," you stutter while running your hands up his warm back.

"It's only ever been you," he rasps while running the tip of his nose along your pounding carotid. "You're why I came back."

Turning your face toward him, he grants many slow, open-mouthed kisses which break the silence of night. "Couldn't stand the thought of you here alone," Robby whispers before kissing your cheek.

He draws out his cock until only the tip remains, then eases back in. But gently, for your sake.

You shudder beneath him. "Glad you're home," you whimper.

As is he, because look at what he had waiting.

Perfection.

His forever, if you let yourself be.

He tilts his head back to watch you for awhile as he makes love to your body. Your every mannerism endears him to you even more—something he hadn't thought possible. The way a tiny crease forms between your brows every time his cock fills you, your parted lips which tiny puffs of breath escape from, quiet whines that get caught in your throat, and the way he's so completely surrounded you.

Rolling his hips, you tremulate and sink your nails into his shoulder blades. "Oh, Michael," you mewl against his pec.

His cock quivers inside of you and his breath shudders in his chest.

Robby runs a palm under your thigh and lifts it over his hip. "Tell me," he rustles against your ear. "You're mine."

You're so, so close. Just a little more.

"I am," you sigh.

"Please," he pleads with a wet kiss before twining his fingers between your own and sliding your conjoined hands across smooth white sheets.

You lift your hips and they buck when the coarse patch of hair that rests above his cock brushes against your swollen clit. "I'm yours, Michael," you assure.

His eyes fill with tears, so he buries his face in the curve of your shoulder and groans from behind clenched teeth as his cock spasms between the intimate safety your slick walls provide him with. Spurts of semen coat—he presumes, or, rather, prays—fertile walls, as he empties a part of himself inside of you; all for you to have.

A broken sob breaks on his lips, so he clutches you close to him to try and calm his pattering heart.

Due to his cock spilling against your core, and the feeling of it still continuously twitching, you throw your head back and snap your hips upwards while biting your lower lip in a race toward your own orgasm.

Squeezing your ass cheek in his palm, Robby guides you toward where you want to go and reels back to watch as it happens.

Your lip is drawn between your teeth before you release it entirely in favor of your mouth quirking into a perfect 'O'. Your body gyrates beneath his as your warm walls pulsate around his softening member and you quake beneath his touch. Quiet "Oh, oh, oh My God"s vocalize as soft bursts of light paint themselves across your eyelids.

When you finally calm, Robby doesn't pull out, but instead remains lying on top of you as his cock softens and his cum dribbles out of your pussy and onto what were previously clean sheets.

The two of you stay like that for awhile: him planting kiss after kiss against your damp cheek and you lying still—apart from your right hand running soothingly up and down his left forearm, because the rest of you feels depleted, and like your limbs are now made of wobbly jelly.

When your lids begin to grow heavy and your heart starts to slow is when you blink yourself back awake. "I'm gonna use the bathroom," you whisper while manuevering a leg out from under him.

He grunts quietly in response. "Just come right back to me," Robby murmurs while squeezing your hand.

You nod with a tight-lipped smile before sliding off the bed and padding into the other room.

Once you've peed, squatted in the shower and washed yourself thoroughly between your legs, and panicked for just a moment as to how you could've been stupid enough to have unprotected sex—not to mention allowing him to finish inside of you—you exit the bathroom and watch as Robby throws back the covers for you to rejoin him.

Your mouth waters at the sight of him like this. Naked, his long legs extended toward the foot of the bed, his belly that's covered in dark hair lying against the mattress, and his strong chest which you were nuzzled against only moments ago.

Could he truly be all yours?

You hold up a towel and nod sheepishly toward the mattress. "Should probably put this down. Sheets are kinda...damp."

He scooches to the side and you fan it out across the middle where the two of you will lay, then climb back in beside him again.

Robby doesn't spare a moment before he pulls you flush against his abdomen and throws his limbs back over your own to make sure you don't go anywhere during the night.

Once your mind has calmed again and you're at the pleasant, humming in-between of waking and sleeping, you hear a muttered 'I love you' before drifting off.

When you wake, it's to an empty bed. Something you're actually rather grateful for, since it grants you a bit of time to catch your bearings before you start your day. Splaying your fingers across the mattress, you play and replay every moment from last night in your head.

It all happened so fast, didn't it? One minute, you were asleep, and the next, Robby's cock was buried inside of you without even an ultra-thin condom to keep you safe from any unwanted consequences his semen may bring about.

You should run out and pick up a box of Plan B today.

Last night he'd seemed... Not himself. Somehow worse than when he left. More emotional, maybe? Or detached? Then again, he was utterly exhausted, you're sure. Which is why you're the least bit surprised that he's already up.

You wonder when he'll return to work.

With a sigh, you rise and wince as your muscles strain. Ones you're not exactly used to utilizing were certainly given a bit of a workout not too many hours ago.

Perhaps you'll try and work on doing some squats and lunges today to loosen them up.

When you pad into the kitchen, you're greeted by the sight of Robby leaned back in a chair with a steaming mug of coffee sat before him and a newspaper spread open on the table.

He turns and smiles softly at the vision of you clad in an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt of his that falls to your knees. "Mornin'."

"Morning," you reply shyly.

"Looks good on you," he remarks. "You wear a lot of my stuff while I was gone?"

This makes a first, but you fear that he'd be disappointed to hear as much. "I did. I sort of favored this one," you lie while fingering the soft, cotton hem of it.

He nods. "That makes me happy to hear." He tilts his head back toward the counter behind him. "There's coffee."

You walk over to pour yourself a cup. "Thanks."

Once you've a mug in hand that's drowned in cream and sugar, you pull out a chair and sit to Robby's left while taking idle sips of your caffeinated drink.

Folding the paper back up, he rests an arm atop the table and his other in his lap. "How d'you feel?" he inquires with a slightly tilted head.

Crossing your legs at the ankles, you study him from beneath your lashes. "Good. A little sore," you say with a quiet laugh. "Just...muscles I'm not used to working."

"But a good kind of sore," he replies while searching your eyes with his own. "Right? Sort of," he shrugs, "Reminder of me."

You nod silently and take another sip after blowing on it to cool it down.

"So, should we go ahead and address the elephant in the room?" Robby asks warily.

Your eyes flit to him. "We can."

He scoots his chair closer to you—the legs quietly scraping against polished hardwood—and loosely hangs an arm off the table while folding his hands. "I thought it was perfect; everything I hoped it would be."

You wonder if he's thought about it a great deal.

"It felt like..." he purses his lips and glances away, toward the living room. "Something finally falling into place." Looking at you again, he listens earnestly. "Did you feel it, too?"

It'd felt wonderful, of course. Robby had taken his time in being slow and sensual so that he could savor every moment, thrust, and kiss, but you're not sure that you felt some magical awakening when he sank between your thighs.

It takes a handful seconds for Robby's features to gradually shift into that of unease and worry, though, so you swiftly reach forward and pry his hands apart so that you can squeeze his fingertips reassuringly. "I did feel it. I wasn't...sure if you did."

He exhales in relief and you feel a twinge of guilt for giving him false sentiments.

"It seemed right somehow: having you in my bed. Being inside of you." He leans back again and your muscles suddenly loosen. "It's why I returned a month early."

He shakes his head. "Thinking of you here all alone got to me." Shifting in his seat, he sucks on his teeth. "I didn't like it. But now that I'm back..." Robby reaches forward and cups your cheek. "You don't need to worry about leaving. I mean, you're half moved in already. So just stay here for awhile longer. And if things progress the way I hope they will, then it can become a permanent thing."

Your brows furrow and you open your mouth to question him, but your words fizzle into silence when he stands. "I'll go get your gifts."

A couple paper bags are set on the table before you, which you slowly rifle through. Truth is, you want to rip them open like an excited kid on Christmas Day, but are trying to be an adult about it.

Your first find is a plush stuffed buffalo with fluffy brown fur and glass eyes, which causes you to grin and giggle. "He's very handsome," you state before setting him to the side with an affectionate pat on the head.

Robby smiles softly and cups the back of your head which he gently kneads with his fingertips as you go through the rest of it. Next is a snow globe which you turn back to him for explanation over.

"It's the heritage site," Robby clarifies with a nod toward it.

"Oh," you chirp with surprise. You shake the glass bulb and watch as white flakes swirl around. "Now I get to see it in winter."

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

Next is a non-fiction book titled Ancient Alberta.

"Figured we could put it on the bookshelf in the living room," Robby states. "I wasn't sure if you much cared for history."

"I do," you reply in confirmation.

Lastly is a long black box that's not quite the length of your forearm. Prying is carefully open, you gasp at what lies inside: a beautiful necklace comprised of brilliant white and brown beads. "Oh, Robby, this is lovely," you murmur while tracing it with your fingertips.

"So you like all of it?" he inquires warily.

Rising from your chair, you wrap your arms around his neck and stand on tiptoes. "I do," you say with a kiss.

That night as you make dinner, you study Robby from afar. You've done a lot of that today: staring. More so because he somehow seems worse than when he left. His face is more gaunt, but at least he seems to have gotten some sun on the road, and now has a healthy golden tan going for him. His belly has receded just a little, but since he's asked you to continue staying here, you'll have him fattened back up in no time.

After all, when you cooked him breakfast, he cleaned every bite of syrupy pancake from his plate.

That made you happy to see.

He's not as chatty as he once was some time ago—his words are more measured and to the point now—but maybe he's just tired.

Lounged back on the far end of the sectional, Robby is currently thumbing through the book he purchased at the heritage site's gift shop. You admire the glasses perched upon his long nose and smirk. You feel quite domesticated today playing house with him.

You haven't done much digging into the things he said, however. Like about things 'falling into place', and his 'hopes for the future', or how you're fairly sure he uttered those three little words last night as you were just drifting off to sleep.

You care for Robby—deeply—but you don't know that it's love, exactly.

You're afraid that if he says it again, however, you'll return the sentiment because the last thing you want to do is make him unhappy. Not after all he's been through.

It's why you've tried to make the house a peaceful environment for him today. You took the liberty of changing the bed sheets and doing a couple loads of laundry, as well as unpacking his things for him. It kept you busy at least. Folding his underwear and hanging his belts back up in the closet had caused your cheeks to warm, but if you didn't, he probably wouldn't have himself.

It's a dreamlike experience being here while he is. Two months ago, Robby was an attending you conversed with and aided on the daily, but aside from the occasional embrace, things never went further.

Now...

"Dinner's ready," you chime from the table you've just set respective steaming plates of steak upon.

Dog-earing the current page he's reading through, Robby rises with palms planted against old knees to join you.

He's surprisingly cuddly.

You're learning much about him today, turns out.

"Oh, shit," you hiss before snatching your phone from the back of the couch.

"Somethin' wrong?" he questions from where his head currently lies between your breasts.

"I forgot to run out and pick up Plan B today," you explain while bringing up the Postmates app.

He bristles. "Do you need it?"

Your eyes flit to the crown of his head, and he tightens his arms around your waist while staring ahead at the TV. "I mean, I'm on something, but I'd rather be safe than sorry."

His jaw ticks. This isn't how he imagined you would be—that you would want to prevent your womb from quickening. It's unwelcomely breaking the fantasy he's painted in his head.

He shrugs casually. "I always thought you were exceptionally maternal. Not saying you shouldn't order it, just an observation."

You want to tell him to just shoot where he's aiming, but don't think you're entirely keen on opening such a horrific can of worms after a long day such as this one. It'd be better for you if you did, but...

You lock your phone and tuck it back away, deigning that you'll do it tomorrow, either before or after work.

After a moment, Robby raises his head and kisses you softly while yanking at your hips to bring you beneath him.

When he shoves a hand beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, you also spread your legs, as if on instinct.

You once again don't mention a condom.

Stupid.

Robby plans to remain off work for a few more days, but insisted on driving you today. So much for a pharmacy run. Perhaps you'll venture up to obstetrics today and see if they can give you what you're looking for.

With your hand held tightly in his the whole way there, only the radio playing quietly in the background interrupts the hum of the engine and the wheels beneath you.

When a rather twangy tune enters the truck stereo, Robby smirks and turns the dial up a few notches. "Like fuckin' fate," he drawls. "This is the song that made me decide to head back. Heard it one morning and just," he shrugs a shoulder, "Made a choice."

It's a song you know—Gary Allan.

All this leavin' her alone is killin' me.

Your forehead creases and your nose stings.

I can feel her skin against me when I sleep.

You glance to Robby and admire the soft smile that's now spread across his lips.

Where I won't miss her, I can kiss her anytime that I want to.

You cup the back of his head.

'Cause I've finally got all my priorities in line, and I'm right where I need to be.

It's so incredibly silly because it's a little country song that came out at least twenty-something-years-ago, but it's like the singer is providing a voice for the thoughts in Robby's head. His feelings. He drove how many hundreds, if not thousands of miles to race back just to be with you?

"I want to stay," you state then, with certainty. "At home. With you."

Raising your hand toward his lips, he presses a firm kiss to the back of it before resting your entwined arms on the center console.

Your chin wobbles when you see him swipe an unbidden tear from his weathered, freckled cheek.

"I'll be here to pick you up after shift," Robby informs you as you gather your things.

"Alright. Thank you." You lean across the cabin and cup his cheek before planting a soft kiss upon his lips.

Once you've exited the truck and are standing between the driver's side door where Robby sits and the glass doors of the ED, he calls to you.

Turning back to him, you await with a raised brow to hear what he has to say. "Text me if shift runs over."

You nod. "I will."

He rests an arm upon the windowsill and plants the pad of his thumb against his chin while studying you with quiet adoration. "I love you."

Your stomach squeezes uncomfortably and you find yourself at a loss for words.

Why did he have to do this so soon?

He clears his throat and shifts in his seat while hanging a wrist over the wheel and glancing ahead, then back to you.

You allow a smile to bloom upon your lips, as if you're only just registering his romantic admittance. You take a couple small steps toward him. "I love you, too," you reply with a lilted tone of surprise.

Why're you doing this to yourself? Have you always been such a people-pleaser?

He chuckles and hangs his head with a happy grin. "Glad to hear it."

"Is he back?" Jack asks insistently while following you to your locker.

"As of a couple nights ago."

"You never texted me," he retorts with crossed arms.

"I know, I'm sorry." Popping open the small door in front of you, you hang your backpack from a silver hook. "I meant to, but got distracted."

"Well," he begins with a shrug. "How is he? He seem to be doing better?"

Clicking it shut, you wrap your stethoscope around your neck and hold fast to each end of it. Yes? No? "Too soon to tell."

Seems a safe enough answer.

He raises a brow and plants his feet in quiet expectance of elaboration.

"He's done a lot of driving, Jack. I think he just needs a few days to rest up from... Whatever the motorcycle equivalent is of jet lag. He needs to be able to catch his bearings, and Robby will be back here soon enough, I'm sure."

He sighs while scrubbing a hand down his face. "He say anything to you to let on how he's doing after his sabbatical?"

You mean while he was fucking me in his bed, or came inside me again on the couch last night? He's been communicating in other ways, Abbot.

You need to run up to OB before your shift starts to take a much needed pill.

"Well," you drawl while skirting past him. "He still has a month left technically, so it's not over yet."

"Just answer the damn question," he spits while trailing you to the elevator.

You huff in exasperation. "He hasn't really talked much about his state of mind, no."

"I mean, did you just take off back to your and Samira's once he got in, or did you have a chance to sort of—"

"Observe him?" you ask with a raised brow while pressing the button that will take you up.

He stays silent.

"I guess you'll just have to wait and ask him yourself how he's doing." Saved by the bell, stainless steel doors spread apart and a couple people exit before you step inside.

"Where're you headed?" Jack questions while crossing his arms.

"Just something I need to see to."

You watch him shake his head as they close.

Robby's return to the ED is two weeks later. You try to keep an eye on him, as does Jack—since he chooses to hang over for a couple hours so that he can try and get a conversation in with his friend—but he otherwise seems... Okay, you think.

Maybe not great, but functional. Better than he was a few nights ago when you awoke to the sight of him hunched over the side of the bed with his head held in his hands while he quietly wept.

You'd promptly crawled into his lap, wrapped yourself around him, held him incredibly close, and rocked him in your arms like a mother would her baby while showering him in soft kisses and comforting words of reassurance that everything would be okay.

He never did tell you what had him so tore up, but instead fell asleep with your breast in his mouth while you sang him a lullaby. You were just glad he managed to rest for the remainder of the night.

Robby starts off strong with a coding patient straight off an ambulance that he pulls you in for, to which Abbot accompanies, and he runs the entire trauma room operation from start to finish without impediment.

His keeping you close isn't just a one-time occurrence, though. It's every single case, much to the frustration of a few others when he barges into this exam room or that trauma bay to steal you away, saying he needs you more than they do.

You were elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity at one point and trying to keep a level tone while insisting that you cannot just come because he orders you to when he lost his temper and shouted that as your attending, he wasn't asking, but telling.

Jack thankfully barged in and pulled him out for a private conversation, while you returned to your patient.

"What's going on with you, man? First day back and you're acting like unless you have her strapped to your side that you can't function in there."

Back to the fucking ambulance bay again. Robby should've known he was in for another goddamn lecture the second Jack started leading him in this direction.

"Just trying to teach my resident," he replies with a shrug and hands slid into his back pockets.

"Is she..." He crosses his arms and takes a step forward. "Is she still living with you?"

Robby shakes his head dismissively. "Hardly see how that's of concern to anyone but us."

He wonders a bit more seriously now as to what that trip up to OB was all about a couple weeks past, and if it had anything to do with the man standing in front of him now. "So in other words: yes," he retorts.

Robby purses his lips and narrows his eyes while shrugging. "We done here?"

"What do you think, Robby? That keeping her around is going to solve whatever's gone wrong? The road trip clearly wasn't the solution. Brother, I'm—"

Folding his hands behind his head, he arches his back and groans. "Why don't you try minding your own fucking business?" he growls while leveling him with a malicious glare.

Abbot stumbles back a step and hurt flashes across his wounded features.

Robby sighs and runs his hands down his face while opening his mouth then shutting it again. "I'm sorry," he mutters in apology. "I just don't have time for this right now, alright? I need to get back in there."

"I'm concerned," he says, trying again. "The last couple weeks, I thought she seemed different—off somehow. If you lay all your baggage at her feet and expect her to unpack, or—or solve all your problems for you, or be some ultimate God-given solution... How long before she's exactly where you're standing?"

With brows drawn together and creases folded across his forehead, Robby's attention flits back to the ED. "We're fine. She's fine. Y/N is a big girl, and is more than capable of telling me how she feels." He takes a step back. "Listen, after..." he sighs. "Maybe while I was gone you got a little close to her. Thought something was there that wasn't. After losing your wife—"

"This has nothing to do with my wife," he spits while nervously twisting his wedding band.

Robby nods and half turns away. "She's with me now," he states. "So just... Keep that in mind going forward."

Jack watches him walk away.

Just across from the computer station, Robby observes Frank conversing with you.

He's in the middle of tugging off a pair of gloves when he feels his body grow cold all over at the sight of the pair of you looking at one another. It's just casual conversation, he's sure, but how can he be certain of it?

Somehow, the only place that Robby feels whatever bond he's forming with you is safe is when he's with you in bed. When his limbs are lying heavy atop your own and his cock is softening inside of you after finishing into a condom—no, he's not pleased that you insist on using them, but either he does, or you stop making love altogether—and for a fleeting moment, everything else fades away.

He can't be left again. He can't...lose you.

But you promised him, the day he divulged his mother's abandonment to you, that you were here to stay.

You'd pressed his head close to your heart and carded your fingers in his hair while he quietly cried, despite trying to choke it down for your benefit.

He exhales and throws the gloves away before seeing to another patient.

"You doing alright?" Robby asks while sidling up next to where you stand at a computer cart.

You nod while typing. "I am."

He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment. "Are we okay?" he questions hesitantly

You jerk your head to the side and gaze into Robby's troubled, glassy eyes. "Of course. Why would you ask that?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Saw you talking with Langdon earlier and I got worried. Been away from here for awhile, so—"

Your brows furrow. "He's married, Robby. With two little ones. We had a patient a couple hours ago that we worked on together, and since I was already at a computer, he asked if I could check on him in the system. He's upstairs and resting now," you finish with a small smile.

He sighs. "I'm sorry. Just me being—" Insecure in his old age? "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

You sign out of the desktop. "It's okay, sweetie."

You're unsure if you truly mean that.

"Knew you'd come back early," Noelle states with a laugh and slender, folded arms.

"Just two weeks," Robby replies while finishing up some charting at the same cart you made use of earlier in the day.

"Still," she states with a cocked head. "May I ask what brought you back before your sabbatical's end?"

He raises a shoulder. "Just had someone at home which I didn't like the idea of being there alone."

Her manicured brows furrow and she leans back to study him. "Last I checked, you were at least half single before you left. Don't remember you having any housemates."

Robby continues tapping away on the keyboard.

"May I ask whom?"

He considers for a moment.

He's already caught shit from Abbot, and with your shared shift nearly at its end, he just wants to walk out of here in half-decent shape. Not pissed off now that he's finally cooled down after twelve hours.

He glances toward the computer station where you're seated yet again and nods.

Noelle turns and almost snorts when she spots you. Turning back to him, it's with raised brows and wide eyes of incredulity. "Robby, you cannot be serious. She's a kid. Not to mention a resident."

He signs out of the desktop. "She's woman enough, trust me." Stepping past her, he mumbles "And all I need" before coming to join you.

Observing from afar, she watches as he seats himself next you and cups the back of your head while staring at you with unabashed adoration and warmth—like you hung the moon and dotted the sky with stars.

You giggle, say something she can't discern, and he grins while rolling his shoulders.

But she does make out his reply: I love you.

With a roll of her eyes, she makes a beeline for the elevators.

"I can't concentrate on charting if you're staring at me, Michael."

He grins. "Can't help it. Just hard to believe that you're real sometimes." Robby massages the back of your neck. "And finally mine."

He slides a hand between your thighs while mentally making plans for tonight once you're alone together. Perhaps a talk should be had soon about getting you off birth control so the two of you can start trying for the baby he's always wanted.

Maternal as you are with...patients, he knows you'd be an ideal mother.

"Don't know what I'd do without you now." He shrugs. "Don't like to think about it, anyway."

You give his hand a squeeze and shift in your seat. "I'm right here, Robby." You look at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

He kisses your cheek. "I know."

"I can carry that."

You slide the straps of your backpack onto your shoulders and shake your head. "It's okay, I got it. You already have one."

Robby extends his hand then, and you twine your fingers tightly between his and hold firmly to his arm. Navigating your way through Chairs always gives you anxiety, so now having him to shield you from impatiently waiting individuals who're likely to ambush you and demand an ETA on when they'll be seen is a relief.

Just as he opens the door that'll lead you toward the perpetually crowded space, you glance over your shoulder and still at the sight of Abbot watching the two of you leave.

When your eyes meets his, his face crumples at the sight of you so intimately attached to Robby's side, but the exchange is cut short when he pulls you along beside him to take you home.

"What's up?" you ask quietly before taking a bite out of your less than healthy snack. But after the day's whole back-to-the-Stone-Age fiasco, you can use the pick-me-up.

"I'm sorry that I'm asking so last minute, but I wasn't entirely sure about whether I'd be taking off tonight..." Robby shakes his head, then lifts his chin to meet your awaiting gaze. "I'd like for you to housesit for me while I'm away. If it wouldn't be an imposition."

You swallow a chocolatey bite rather thickly and run your thumbs nervously over smooth plastic wrapper. "Oh."

He tilts his head slightly. "Oh?"

"Sorry," you bleat suddenly. "You've just taken me by surprise, I guess. Would you not rather Abbot look after it for you? Or Noelle?"

His jaw feathers. "Abbot's got enough going on; wouldn't wanna put another thing on his plate. I want you to. I'm comfortable with my choice."

Robby doesn't bother acknowledging your Noelle comment. He scarcely managed to retain his focus when she came down earlier to talk to him—his sole concern being the act of catching up to you before the night was through and you headed home for the evening.

He couldn't lose this chance.

It would've been preferable for him to have asked this some weeks ago so you could make timely preparations to fulfill his request, but you suppose looking in on his abode every other day won't really be putting you out. You'll just swing by after work three or four times a week to ensure all is well before heading home. "Yeah, I can do that. It's no problem," you comply, coupled with a reassuring nod.

Robby sighs a breath of relief.

Settling a warm, heavy hand over your knee, he brushes his thumb over the cap of it. "Thank you. You're taking a weight off my shoulders with this."

Placing your half-eaten candy bar atop a loose napkin, you awkwardly pat the back of his hand. "Don't mention it."

Slipping his hand from beneath yours, Robby rests his palm atop the back of it before curling his fingers around the extremity. "You wanna follow me home after?" Overturning your hand, he traces the pad of his thumb along your heart line. "I'll give you a quick tour. Make sure you understand how everything works."

His eyes flit to yours in wait.

You smile. "Sounds good to me."

He isn't acting right... But he hasn't been for some time now. You and Jack have spoken about it, but only minimally since he didn't exactly seem too keen on acknowledging that his best friend is clearly going through a dire mental health crisis right now... Like he doesn't live in denial of his own problems.

He calls taking a bullet through the shoulder coping. You call it dancing with death.

When you saw the two of them speaking, followed by a tender embrace in one of the trauma bays not but a couple of hours ago, you had hoped that whatever Jack said to Robby finally managed to get through to him—that it would serve to halt his self-destructive plans—but with the pair of you now standing just outside his bedroom, with his back turned to the foyer, which leads to a front door he still means to walk out of, you fear that that isn't the case at all.

"When do you think you'll be back?" you ask quietly.

Robby swallows thickly and tightens the fist shoved in his pocket; the only thing left to keep him grounded. Because if he removes it—touches you the way he's always meant to—he'll never make it to the Badlands.

And then you'll be stuck.

Clearing his throat, he shrugs slumped shoulders. "Not sure yet. Awhile."

Rocking forward onto the balls of your feet, you nod halfheartedly. "Are you sure you've got everything? Long trip, just wanna make sure you're prepared for it."

The corner of his lip twitches. Always looking out for him. Always. It's no wonder as to how he fell so completely in love with you.

You've always been so selfless; loving; kind; purehearted.

"Think so. I've got my wallet if not. Buy it on the road if need be." Speaking of— Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a leather billfold and slips a rarely used credit card from it which he extends to you with slightly trembling fingers.

Don't let her see how scared I am to leave her behind.

"Incase anything goes out while I'm away and needs replaced. Just... Never know."

When your fingertips brush against his, he bites back a wince.

Pulling the small plastic card back to you, you study the Mastercard logo printed in the bottom corner before tucking it into your scrub pocket. "Ok, thank you. I'll put in my own wallet for safekeeping until you get back."

Glancing to the darkened bedroom, he blinks back brimming tears. "Use it for anything you need. Doesn't have to just be for an emergency here. I, uh—" he coughs to cover the sob crawling its way up his constricting throat. "I have no problem with—with knowing I'm helping to take care of you. Since you're doing this for me in return."

You don't bother arguing. You'd never dream of using his money, or anyone else's for that matter, on frivolous things like nail polish or iced coffee. It's his savings and should be used strictly on himself, or his belongings and home. "I appreciate that, Robby."

Dropping his chin to his chest, Robby tucks his hands into the pockets of his hoody and sniffles quietly. "Guess that's it then."

Your heart now hammering, you search your mind in a panic for an excuse to keep him here overnight. If he insists on leaving, fine, but why can't it at least wait until morning? During daylight, and after he's gotten a few hours of shuteye.

"Could always wait until tomorrow," you suggest cautiously. "Three months is plenty of time for a road trip. No reason you have to leave right this second. It's not like you're going to miss anything, Buffalo Jump isn't going anywhere."

His brows knit together. You're... You're asking him to stay? Now? After all this time?

Robby lifts his head, leaving his glassy eyes to flit between yours he's so many times over welcomely lost himself within the warm depths of.

Then again, until today, he was managing to hold himself together rather well. Or, he was able to portray himself as being such, anyway: relatively maintained and functional. Even if it was with liquid glue and cheap duct tape.

He swallows down the lump in his throat. "Do you want me to stay?"

Resting a steady palm atop his jacketed forearm, you give the limb a slight squeeze. "I think it'd be better to wait until morning, yeah."

All it takes is a brush of your shoulder against his in the ED, and his old knees nearly buckle beneath him every time contact is made between you. Now here you stand holding him to the Earth. You can't really expect him to tell you no in anything when you've got him like this, can you?

You're the only weakness he's got left.

Everything else he cares about just... Doesn't seem quite so important—pertinent, even—in this moment. Or as of late in general. Shaking his head, he exhales through his nose and a pained smile flashes across his features. "That's not what I'm asking."

You remain quiet, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Do you want me to stay?" he repeats.

You fail to understand why what you do or don't want matters to him insofar as the next choice he makes, but if it stays his hand just for tonight, then... "Yes. I want you to stay."

His world tilts on its axis, and in an instant, Robby sees clearly for the first time in years. Sees... That his missing piece has been right here in front of him the whole time. Had he not been so blind, so selfish, so self-centered, then all this pain and sorrow could've been prevented.

Not even his own, but yours from keeping the two of you apart the way he has. How could he have ever thought it was the better choice when your soul has been screaming for his own every fucking day in need; its other half?

"I'm so sorry, baby," he rasps before advancing on you.

Cradling your face between calloused palms, Robby handles you with utter gentility—like fine China—before pressing his lips to yours.

When your back bumps against the wall, you stare at his closed eyes with open ones of utter shock. He's kissing you. Robby—your superior and attending—is kissing you. Full-on, open-mouthed, passionately-searching-tongue kissing you. Was this some spur of the moment decision, or...? Why did he apologize before? Because he knows it's wrong, or some other reason you'll have to figure out later?

"I've waited for so long," Robby sighs—his warm breath that smells of peppermint fanning across the bridge of your nose, all the way to your cheeks. "No one else could ever compare to you."

Nipping his way down your chin, Robby peppers your neck in hot, wet kisses before trailing the speared tip of his tongue along your clavicle. Gripping the curve of your hips in either of his large hands, he pulls your rigid body flush against his own of sturdiness and languid warmth before continuing. "You set such impossibly high standards for me, sweetheart."

Easing a palm past the hem of your top, he circles around to your back and unclasps your bra in one fluid motion. "God," he groans against the swell of your breast which his coarse beard scratches against, leaving a feel of hot, crackling embers in its wake. "I can't believe this is finally happening between us."

Swiftly taking your hand in his, he guides you along into the bedroom. Kicking the door shut behind the pair of you, you're barely granted a moment to catch your breath—or your mind that's racing away from you, for that matter—before he shrugs off his hoody, followed by tugging off his scrub top and long-sleeve shirt under it, leaving them forgotten on the floor next to his socked feet.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Bare-chested, he's so much more this way.

Nearly stumbling over your own two feet while the thing between your legs takes the driver's seat, you stagger forward and back into his arms. Lifting each of your hands, you settle damp palms atop soft pecs smattered with thick, dark curls of hair. Sliding lower, you swallow down pooling saliva and carefully knead your fingers against the overhang of his gut. "Robby," you sigh, suddenly unsure of yourself—what the two of you are even doing here.

Cupping the base of your scalp, he tilts your head back. "Michael." He brushes a thumb over your bottom lip. "You're the only one I'll let call me that."

You pop open the button at the top of his Carhartts. "Michael," you utter; just to see how the foreign name tastes upon your tongue. Foreign, because you've never used it before. Not for him.

A watery laugh breaks past his lips. "Say that again."

Muttering the name while he carefully traces the bend of your cupid's bow with each of his thumbs, his crow's feet wrinkle when a smile bends his own lips upwards.

When he presses them to yours a second time, you welcome it. Opening your mouth with his own, he continues holding fast to you while his opposite hand works eagerly at his zipper as if he can't get inside of you fast enough.

He's so afraid that this is all just a dream and he'll wake up like he has a hundred times before, full of disappointment and acheful longing.

Clutching at wide shoulders, you card your fingers in unkempt hair and hold fast to the man before you.

Shoving his pants down his thighs until they finally pool around his ankles, Robby kicks them to the side along with the rest of his clothing and palms his developing erection over his briefs before guiding you back toward the bed.

When the backs of your knees knock against the edge of a king-sized mattress, reality bleeds sharply back into focus—slicing through the dark of Robby's disorderly bedroom like a flash of silver lightening.

What the hell are you doing?

Pulling at the tidy bow on the front of your pants with a frustrated grunt, Robby shoves the garment down to your ankles before practically yanking your top off over your head. Sliding your bra down your arms, he leaves it forgotten on the plush rug you stand atop before maneuvering his hand into your panties and circling your swollen clit with the pad of his middle finger.

Cursing quietly, he eases the digit between your fluttering walls. Curling it upward, you gasp quietly and he dips his head to suck a taught nipple into his mouth. Rolling it between his teeth, he slips a second finger inside before lapping at your breast and tracing your areola with the pad of his salivating tongue. "So perfect," he mutters. "For me. You always have been."

With a palm flat against the small of your back, Robby guides you slowly onto his bed. Falling back against it with a soft bounce, you watch him from between spread, quivering legs. With bated breath caught within your lungs, he encourages briefs that're now saturated with drops of precum past strong thighs, thus revealing the thick length of his veiny erection, complete with a healthy tuft of hair resting above the swollen shaft.

You've never seen such a masculine specimen in all your young life.

Fisting himself in his hand, his chest heaves with deep breaths of barely contained excitement.

Gripping your left knee, he slides his hand up your thigh and his chin wobbles. "You have no idea how long I've waited for you, sweetheart."

Nodding toward the headboard, Robby grants you instruction with affectionate, unguarded eyes. "Scoot back for me, baby."

Shoving against a mess of dark blue sheets and a wrinkled comforter that smells of his woodsy cologne—musky, with hints of sharp cedar—your head falls back against a pile of fluffy pillows, leaving you wholly at his mercy.

"Jesus Christ." Following the curve of your waist with his free hand, Robby licks his lips before dragging the bottom one between his teeth. "Better than I imagined."

Cupping your cheek, he brushes his thumb over your glistening lips. "I need to know what you taste like. I've wanted to so many times..." he huffs a laugh. "This almost doesn't seem real."

Slightly lifting your hips in response while he tugs off your panties with fingers hooked over the waistband, you remain quiet in response.

Lying down at the foot of the bed, Robby alternates between your right and left inner thighs—planting messy kisses upon each while slowly working his way closer and closer to the pot of honey that lies between. "You don't understand what you mean to me," he whispers. Dragging his index finger between your slick folds, he admires the color of you; the shape; the scent.

His, his, his.

Finally.

Dipping his head, he swipes an enthusiastic tongue through your slit. When your back arches off the bed, he dives deeper. Working at your perfect nub with careful nibbles, he wraps one arm around your thigh to keep you steady while his other goes searching for yours. Once he makes contact with a hand that has sheets tightly twisted within it, he pulls the fabric from your grip before repositioning it in his hair.

When your fingers tremble against his scalp, he moans wantonly against your opening. "S'fuckin' long," he drawls. Swirling his tongue along your labia, he drinks up your plentiful juices as if it's the finest wine.

If he could fucking bottle and drink you, he would.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you tangle your fingers in his soft hair and sink your nails into his scalp. When your hips buck before long, he withdraws.

You open your mouth to protest, but words fall away when he settles his weight atop you.

"Rob—"

Swiping his swollen tip against your engorged entrance, Robby lifts your leg over his hip and onto his back before sinking inside with painstaking tenderness.

You didn't get a chance ask him about protection.

He never wanted anything between the two of you. Not here. Not like this. Not ever.

You've never had unprotected sex before. You didn't mean to.

Robby can't believe how easily your bodies work in tandem—how you seem able to match his every move with no effort even needing to be applied. How you both want the exact same things.

Inch by inch, he eases between your thighs, cursing quietly at how well you're taking him. Nevertheless, he pauses once he's bottomed out to grant you a moment to adjust. But it hardly seems necessary—it's like you were made to fit him. Perfectly.

"I didn't believe in soulmates until you," he mumbles into the hollow of your neck.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye. This isn't the Robby you know who's always collected and able. The chief who all others look to for certainty and guidance.

Who... Always has his mind about him.

Rocking his hips against yours, Robby knocks your knee to the side before settling into a steady, pleasant rhythm. His hand moves up your arm that's thrown over a pillow above your head to twine your fingers together. Kissing you again with firm resolve, his tongue slides along the twist of yours, followed by diving deeper until you're both lost in a land of breathless passion.

Resting his forehead against yours, a tear slides down his cheek and dribbles onto yours. "Fifty-five years was more than worth the wait for you, sweetheart."

Puckered lips are pressed to your flushed cheek. "I'm sorry I wasted all those years that we otherwise could've spent together. I was just scared."

You want to ask him to slow down—it's too much at once—all the touching and kissing and confessions, but every time you think you've gathered the courage, he speaks again.

"Thank you for waiting for me so patiently." Circling his hips, your jaw falls open and you moan into his freckled shoulder.

"I love you," utters Robby. "The only woman I ever have. The others were just..."

"R-Robby—"

Caressing your chin, he tilts your head to the side until you're looking into his eyes. "Michael, sweetheart. Please. It's okay, I want you to."

Cupping his cheek that's wet with tears, you swallow down the protestations you meant to speak aloud. "Michael."

His cock squelches from how aroused you've become. With each plunge of his member that's so completely filled you, you find your orgasm growing closer.

"What is it, honey?" he swallows thickly; nervously. He needs to set your assumptions straight. "I want you to know that when I was with them—" he kisses the tip of your nose. "There was only one face I saw."

You shake your head—not wanting to hear this—then tug his lips back down to your own with fingers submerged in his beard. "Close," you whisper into his open mouth.

"Please," Robby begs quietly; his shoulder blades shifting from behind aged, tanned skin as he works at your body. "Tell me the same."

Your lashes flutter as you stare up at him through blurry eyes. "Wha—"

"I love you," he repeats.

But you don't. Not like that. Maybe as a friend, or—

"I love you," he presses. When your walls squeeze around him, he knows you feel the same. Your body can't lie; refuses to. Taking your hand again, he presses it overtop of his thundering heart. "Have since we first met. You're my other half, I know it now."

"I—"

He nods reassuringly, just once. Slowly, gently. "I'm right here, angel."

Just do it. "I love you."

Suddenly, his face crumples and he breaks into a fit of unexpected sobs. Burying himself between your breasts, Robby shudders and his heavy belly heaves as broken sobs wrack through his body.

Unsure of what else to do, you cradle the back of his head and quietly shoosh him.

This is well above your paygrade.

"I-It's okay, R—" you sigh, then start again. "You're safe, Michael. It's alright."

"Fuck." Nuzzling closer, Robby drags the bridge of his nose along your hammering carotid. "She left. I was just a kid."

Your brows bow together in confusion.

"But not you," he continues breathlessly with a suddenly stirring cock. "You're too maternal."

Moving your hand to the middle of his back, you begin considering how the hell you're going to get him off of you.

"Michael—"

"I know. We're both so close." He lifts his head, cups your cheek, and crushes his lips to yours. Snapping his hips, Robby grinds his pelvis against your own. "Come with me, baby."

Each time his pubic hair brushes against your exposed, sensitive clit, you've been curling your toes and tightening your muscles in preparation of an orgasm... Until he talks again.

Slinging your arms over his shoulders, you push his head down to your lips to keep his mouth otherwise occupied.

Racing toward your shared finished with gyrating hips and breathless abandon, only the sound of slapping skin, Robby's occasional cries, and a quietly knocking headboard interrupt an unreal silence you had never thought you would find yourself within.

Tossing your head back, a pretty whimper crawls past your lips before bubbling into existence.

Smoothing a hand across your brow, Robby watches with wide, vulnerable eyes as you come undone in his bed, his arms, his home, against his body while a part of him is buried inside you.

It's too much.

His dream come true.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groans from behind clenched teeth. His cock twitches and spurts, releasing hot cum inside of you.

God, let it take hold. Let me have her forever; give us a family. She deserves that.

Robby tremulates and his breath grows ragged. Collapsing atop you in a heap of sweaty limbs once he's emptied himself, he says it over and over again until it's a garbled mess that bleeds together—Iloveyou, Iloveyou, Iloveyou.

Clenching your jaw to keep from bawling due to a sense of panic, you shut your eyes and wait. For him to stop, or let you leave, or fall asleep, you... You don't know. He shouldn't be alone like this, though.

Curling an arm around your waist, in one smooth movement, Robby has turned you onto your side. When his cock slips out of you, cum dribbles out and over your thigh.

When he sucks a nipple into his mouth, your initial response is to assume that he's trying to make himself ready again... Until he starts to suckle.

Is he... Does he have a—a fetish?

Maybe—

"Can you rub my head, sweetheart?"

When you tilt your chin to study him, you find that his face has gone soft and his eyes droop sleepily.

"Relaxes me," he explains. "I'm fucking exhausted after today." Kissing your breast, he licks your opposite nipple. "Be nice to fall asleep in your arms."

Draping an arm around his shoulders, you slide your dominant hand into his hair and do as requested, and he promptly begins to favor your other nipple.

"Promise you'll stay," he mutters between wet, contented sucks.

You rest your cheek against the top of his head. Even if you wanted to leave, you're far too beat to feel safe behind the wheel. "Promise."

He hums happily.

It isn't even a handful of minutes later before quiet snores rumble through Robby's chest and past his parted lips. Staring at the window across the room clad with blackout curtains, you blink back pooling tears, unaware that the dying smartphone in your bag has an awaiting text from Jack.

Robby moved through the house on autopilot, all the years of sleep deprivation through college and twelve-hour shifts made him efficient even when he was half-awake. He stepped into Noa’s nursery, flipping on the lamp. She was working herself up in the crib, waving those little fists while her face scrunched in hunger. “Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, scooping her up immediately. “Daddy’s here. Let’s get you sorted.”

He laid her on the changing table and made quick work of the dirty diaper, cleaning her gently with wipes and sliding a fresh one on with the ease of someone who’d been doing this every day for two months now. “There we go, you’re all clean now. Yes, you are. Who’s a clean girl?” He cooed at her, and Noa’s cries eased a little at his voice and touch, blinking up at him with those big and round eyes.

Next, he warmed one of the bottles of your pumped milk in the small warmer on the dresser, testing the temperature carefully on his wrist the way you both always do. Back in the rocking chair, he settled Noa in the crook of his arm. She latched onto the bottle hungrily, resting her tiny hands on the bottle as she drank with contented gulps.

Robby watched her with pure adoration, rocking her slowly. “You’re adorable at everything you do, you know that?” he murmured, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “Look at you, you’re drinking like a champ. You need to be gentle with mommy, okay? She loves feeding you, but sometimes you hurt her. She’s giving you everything she’s got, we’ve gotta take care of her too, right?”

Noa paused drinking for a moment, locking her eyes onto his face as if she was truly listening to him. Robby smiled at the adorable sight. “That’s my girl. You’re so smart, just like your mom.”

When the bottle was nearly empty, he lifted her to his shoulder for burping, patting her back in steady circles. A good burp came, but as it did, she spat up a little of the milk she’d just drunk on his shoulder. “Ah, there it is,” he chuckled, not bothered in the slightest. He grabbed a clean burp cloth from the stack, wiped her mouth and chin tenderly, then cleaned himself up. “All better. Let’s get you back to sleep with that full belly.”

Robby spread the soft blanket out on the changing table. Noa’s arms flailed once, then twice, her face scrunching in that particular pre cry warning that meant she was about three seconds from protesting. “I know, I know,” he murmured. “Hold still for your old man.”

He laid her down in the center, gently guiding one arm against her side, then the other, and began the fold. One side of the blanket came across her body, tucking firmly under the opposite side. The bottom edge came up and over her legs, and the final flap wrapped around and under, snug but not too tight, until she was neatly packaged with her arms secured and her legs gently contained, the whole of her looking exactly like a tiny burrito.

For a second she went quiet, with her eyes wide with surprise, as if she couldn’t quite believe the sudden containment. Then a defeated little sigh left her. Robby grabbed her once again, holding her against his chest.

He rocked her for a few more minutes, humming a tune that came from a place buried inside of him. He had the faintest memory of hearing it once, long ago, in his mother’s voice. Or maybe it wasn’t a real memory at all, maybe his mind had simply invented the comfort, out of longing and the few soft fragments he still carried from a childhood that had never been particularly gentle. He couldn’t tell which it was, whether the memory was true or manufactured no longer seemed to matter as much as the simple fact that he was here now, holding his daughter, offering her the same soft sound that may or may not have once been offered to him. 

Robby continued rubbing her back until her eyelids grew heavy. With her belly full, Noa drifted off quickly, her body going limp and trusting in his arms. Robby held her a little longer than necessary, just savoring the weight of her, the way her head was tucked perfectly under his chin. “I love you so much, Noa,” he whispered to her. “More than anything. You and mommy… you two are my whole world.”

Carefully, he lowered her into the crib, adjusting the swaddle and making sure she was comfortable. Robby lingered by the railing for a moment, watching her sleep, wrapped like a little burrito in her swaddle, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. “Sleep well, baby girl. Daddy will be home before you know it.”

He still couldn’t believe this little miracle that was now sleeping in the crib. He had spent decades walking into rooms where people were dying, or already gone, or fighting for their lives. He knew the weight of failure, he knew how easily everything could be taken. And yet here she was, warm, breathing, utterly unaware of the improbable path that had led to this exact moment. He couldn’t understand it, lucky felt too small a word, it felt almost insulting. What had happened to him was closer to theft, someone or something had stolen the version of his life that was supposed to stay solitary and quietly exhausted, and replaced it with this brighter, terrifyingly fragile thing. He kept waiting for the correction, for the universe to notice the error and take her back.

But she stayed. Night after night, she stayed. And every time he looked down at her like this, he felt the same stunned ache in his chest. Not the kind that used to mean another loss, instead he felt the one that meant something had finally, against every expectation he had ever allowed himself, gone right.

The two of you had been together for exactly one year when it happened. A beautiful year of falling deeper in love than either of you expected. The pregnancy was an accident, you'd been violently ill for a week with a stomach virus, endless vomiting, dehydration, barely keeping anything down. Your birth control pill had failed in the midst of it all. When the two pink lines appeared on the test, you'd sat together on the edge of his bed, stunned into silence. "We don't have to do this if you're not ready," he'd said quietly, covering your hand with his hand. But you shook your head. "I love you. And... I've always wanted to be a mom. If you're in this with me..." Robby had pulled you close. "I'm all in. I’m so in. I’d given up on being a dad a long time ago, but with you? This feels like a second chance."

From that day forward, Robby became your rock, devoted in ways that still made your heart ache with tenderness. As a doctor, he was meticulous, scheduling every appointment around his shifts, reviewing ultrasounds, ensuring you took your prenatal vitamins religiously. As your partner, he was everything you needed. He’d satisfied every craving without complaint, driving across town at odd hours for specific street tacos or fresh strawberries. He’d massaged your aching back and swollen feet, held you through hormonal waves of emotion, and spoke to your growing belly every night in that low voice you loved. "You're going to be such a great mom," he'd whisper, kissing your forehead. "The best. Our girl is going to know nothing but love."

He spared no expense for the baby. The nursery was a dream, with high-quality furniture, the most beautiful crib, expensive onesies and blankets he couldn't resist buying, a top-tier stroller, everything chosen with care. Having a baby with you felt like a dream come true for him, a beacon pulling him away from the darkness of the pitt. You gave him purpose, a reason to be better, to leave the hospital behind each shift and step into the light.

The first month after bringing her home had been a beautiful whirlwind. Robby was utterly ensorcelled by your baby girl. He lived for those moments maybe other men dreaded, changing diapers at 3 a.m. without a hint of complaint, feeding her while you rested, simply watching her sleep in his arms with a wondering expression you'd never seen on his face before. He'd trace her tiny features, hum songs under his breath, and whisper promises about the world he'd help her explore. 

With one last glance, he slipped out of the nursery, pulled the door mostly closed, and headed to work.

The pitt was already a chaos when Robby walked through the doors. The automatic doors hadn’t even finished sliding shut behind him before the noise hit, the beeping monitors, hurried footsteps, and hum of conversations between staff welcomed him as he approached the nurse station. He was used to it, there was never a clean first hour, never a quiet stretch where a man could collect himself before the day started demanding pieces of him. The pitt didn’t offer that kind of courtesy, it only took from the moment you crossed the threshold and kept taking until the next set of doors opened and someone else walked in to take your place.

Jack was finishing up his night shift, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee.“Hey, daddy,” Jack called him out with a grin, using the nickname that’d become permanent since Noa’s arrival. “How’s my niece doing this morning?”

Robby chuckled, setting his bag down and clapping his friend on the shoulder. “She’s wrapped like a burrito and deep asleep,” he replied. “Five solid hours last night, she’s killing it.”

Jack laughed, shaking his head. “Living the good life. I wish I could swipe places with her. Burrito swaddle and zero responsibilities sounds better than this circus.” He took a sip of coffee, his eyes crinkling with genuine affection for his friend. “Seriously though, man. She’s got you wrapped around her tiny finger, and her godfather too.”

They moved into the handoff the way they always did. Robby stood with his arms crossed while Jack walked through the overnight cases one by one: the elderly woman with the troponin, the young guy with the syncope whose ct had finally cleared, the pending cultures that hadn’t resulted yet. He nodded and asked the questions that needed asking, keeping all the cases organized in his mind.

Once the essentials were covered and the board looked as controlled as it was going to get, Jack leaned in a little, dropping his just enough to make the shift from colleague to friend. “How are you both doing?” he asked. “You and your girl holding up okay with the new routine?”

Robby nodded, curving his lips into a wide smile, the same one that always appeared on instinct whenever he thought about you. “Surprisingly great. The nights are getting better. She’s a good sleeper, and we’re figuring it out together. It’s exhausting, but… it’s good. Really good.”

Jack landed his hand between his shoulder blades in a brief clap. “Glad to hear it. You deserve this, Robby. All of it.”

There was no teasing in it, just the certainty from a man who had watched him burn through too many years. Jack held his gaze a second longer, then turned and headed for the locker room and the much-needed rest waiting for him. Robby was left standing in the nurse station as the day crew filtered in.

Word had always traveled fast in the pitt. When you were pregnant, he’d kept it locked down tight. Not because the joy wasn’t there, God, it had been almost unbearable some days, the way it kept rising up in his chest at the most inconvenient moments, but because the idea of opening that part of his life to the entire department had felt like standing naked under the bright lights. His personal world was his, and yours, it wasn’t for public consumption.

Jack had been the first to know. It had happened one night over beers in the corner of a bar. Robby hadn’t planned on saying anything, but the words had simply slipped out somewhere between the second and third round. Jack had gone quiet, he sat there with the glass in his hand, and his eyes fixed on Robby’s face as they turned glassy. He shook his head as a disbelieving smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He was simply so glad that his friend had found this in life. After the years of watching Robby carry the weight of the department, Jack looked at him like he’d been waiting a long time to see something good finally stick.

Dana had been next. He’d told her he was taking the rest of the day off, muttering something about the twenty-week ultrasound appointment, and she’d looked at him for half a second before she started to silently cry. She’d pulled him into a fierce hug right there, saying, “About time, Robinavitch.” 

Still, somehow, the rest of the department found out weeks later. Someone caught a glimpse of his phone lock screen, the unmistakable curve of your belly under one of his old t-shirts. Someone else ran into the two of you outside the movie theater on a night off and saw the way your coat no longer closed properly over the growing evidence of what you carried. After that it was inevitable. Congratulatory claps on the back, knowing smiles, the occasional quiet “Sleep while you have the chance, dr. Robby.”

And now that everyone knew the baby had actually arrived, now that he had come back from leave, they asked every single day. Begged, really, to bring her in.

Donnie leaned against the counter, grinning like he’d been waiting all morning for the opening. “Hey Robby, you gotta bring Noa in one day, just for a little visit. We can arrange a playdate with my daughter.”

Princess didn’t even look up. “Yeah, call your girl and tell her to swing by with her. We promise we’ll be gentle. No crowd-surfing the newborn or anything.”

Dana, who’d been one of the view people who’d visited the three of you in your house, was passing when she caught the last of it. She slowed, a laugh escaping her as she turned toward them. “She is the sweetest baby. Those big brown eyes and those round cheeks? I’m telling you, she’s going to break hearts one day. You’ve got no idea what you’re missing.”

Robby felt the familiar heat climb the back of his neck. He laughed and rubbed at the spot with one hand, the other still holding a half-finished note. “I’ll talk to her,” he said. “Maybe on a slow day we can make it happen. But no promises on the timing, Noa’s still tiny, and we’re trying to keep things low-key for now.”

A collective groan rose from the group. Someone called him a party pooper, someone tossed a crumpled glove in his direction, but there was no real anger in any of it. On the inside they understood, there was no arguing with him. When it came to his daughter, Robby was as protective as they came.

Throughout the shift, the requests popped up again in quieter moments, Perlah and Princess cooed over the latest photo Robby reluctantly showed from his phone after begging him for hours, and García teased him about “the Robinavitch legacy” in the making.

Robby moved through the rest of his shift with a steadier mind than he had known in years. The old restlessness was still there sometimes, but it no longer felt like it owned him. Between patients, in the brief pockets of relative calm, his thoughts kept drifting home. He would picture you dozing somewhere, maybe with a book half-open on your chest, Noa nearby, either asleep in her bassinet or awake and occupied with the serious work of being two months old. 

He wanted to be there, twelve hours had never felt longer. He found himself calculating, almost without meaning to, how many more patients, how many more hours until he could walk through the door and find the two of you waiting on the other side of it.

Then, in one of those rare stretches when everything was temporarily under control, he stepped into the break room. He leaned against the counter, pulled his phone from the pocket of his cargo pants, and for the first time all day allowed himself the luxury of opening the message thread with you.

Robby: hey love, quick break here. how are my girls doing?

You were curled up on the couch with Noa nestled in your arms when your phone vibrated on the coffee table. It was Robby. The notification made you instantly smile, shifting Noa gently so you could snap a quick selfie. You were both looking soft and content, with your hair a little messy, and Noa’s big brown eyes half-open, fisting one tiny hand in your shirt. 

You: We’re good💕 Just taking it easy today

Sometimes when he saw you and Noa like that, a thought would come unbidden. What would it have been like, he wondered, to grow up with a mother who looked at him the way you looked at Noa? Not the keeping-alive kind of care he had known in fragments, but a mother who noticed when his voice went quiet, who sat on the edge of the bed instead of behind a closed door, who made the ordinary hours feel safe simply by being present in them. Someone who would have reached for him the way you reached for your daughter without thinking.

He tried to imagine it sometimes. A different house, a different childhood, where the question why wasn’t I enough? never had to form in the first place. He wondered whether he would have been softer, less braced for loss, whether the impulse that made him push people away before they could leave might have been sanded down by something as simple and profound as being wanted without condition. He would never know what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that kind of mothering. But he knew, with an almost painful certainty, that his daughter never would have to wonder the same thing. And somehow, that had to be enough.

Robby’s response came back a few minutes later.

Robby: Are you two angels that fell from the sky? my beautiful girls.  god, I miss you both already, that smile of yours and noa’s cheeks i’m the luckiest man alive

You laughed softly, typing back while Noa made a small contented noise against you.

You: We just had lunch and now we’re relaxing. Our bellies are too full to move. Noa demolished her bottle and I ate way too much pasta. How’s your shift?

Robby: Managing, nothing too crazy yet, thinking about you two makes it easier save some of that pasta for me? love you.

The conversation tapered off the way when a multiple-car pileup sent six patients inbound, two critical, the rest still being sorted. Robby was already moving, pulling on gloves and scanning the board. And yet, even as the ED filled with the chaos of shouted vitals and the smell of blood, the picture of the two of you stayed with him. You on the couch, Noa’s body curled against your chest. For the next hour, through the first wave of stabilizations, that single image kept finding him. 

A couple of hours later, you had Noa on her play mat for tummy time, the little one determined and doing so well, pushing up on those still pudgy arms, lifting her chin clear of the mat with a concentration that made her round cheeks puff out like she was holding her breath for the effort. A soft grunt escaped her, you watched her for a second longer, then lifted your phone and caught the exact moment she managed another small raise of her head. 

You sent the photo to Robby without overthinking.

You: Look who’s being a tummy time champion today

His reply came almost the second the message left your phone.

Robby: look at her go!  she’s lifting her chin from her chest so well, she’s so strong already.  i’m melting over here Tell her daddy’s proud

By the end of his shift, Jack clapped Robby on the back as they wrapped up handoff. “Go home to your girls, man. Don’t linger here, they need you more than we do tonight.”

Robby didn’t need telling twice, he pushed through the sliding glass doors, and the cool night air hit his face. His scrubs were rumpled and his hair looked disheveled from running his hands through it during the final hours of a brutal shift. A few years ago, he would’ve walked to his car with heavy steps, feeling the depression taking over his body, wondering what the point was, if there was any light left beyond the next shift, the next inevitable loss, the next person he couldn’t save. No one would be waiting for him at home, there was no reason to keep pushing forward.

But tonight, a smile curved his lips as he unlocked his car. He exhaled slowly, feeling the tension easing from his shoulders. He was going home to you, and to her. The pitt still demanded much of him, but coming home to both of you recharged him in ways nothing else did. The memory of your face during labor, the first time he held his daughter, the way you looked now as a mother… it all fueled him. And suddenly the depression that once had haunted him post-shift felt like nothing but a distant shadow. For the first time in years, the future felt bright and full of possibility.

You heard the familiar sound of the front door clicking open and then shutting softly, followed by the thud of Robby’s shoes being kicked off in the entryway. 

Robby appeared in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted for a moment before he stepped inside. His eyes found you immediately

He still hadn’t found the right words for what happened to him the second he stepped through the door and saw it. You were there, settled into the middle of the bed in your oversized sleep y shirt, with Noa cradled against your chest like she had been born knowing exactly where she belonged. One of your hands supported the curve of her back while the other traced absent circles between her shoulder blades. Her little face was turned into the hollow of your throat, her eyes half-lidded and her mouth working sleepily against your skin. 

The tired but genuine smile you loved so much spread across his face. He moved quietly, shedding his jacket and setting his bag down without a sound, then he approached the bed. “Hey,” he whispered, keeping his voice low so as not to startle Noa. “How are my girls doing?”

His breath brushed your cheek as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, then another, a softer one to your lips. He placed one of his big hands on your shoulder, resting it there, while he hovered the other tenderly over Noa’s back. Robby stroked the soft fabric of her onesie with the pad of his thumb, careful enough not to wake her. Noa made a small sigh in her sleep but didn’t stir. 

Something moved through him then, it started in his chest and spread outward until his throat tightened and his hands felt useless at his sides. He could have stood there forever just watching the two of you. The woman he loved more than he had ever allowed himself to love anyone, and the tiny person the two of you had made together. It was so quietly sweet it undid him.

You were effortless with her, so natural that it made him a little stunned still. The way you shifted her weight without thinking, the soft sounds you made under your breath, the absolute certainty in the way you held her. Noa trusted you with her whole body. Even at this age she seemed to know, the way animals sometimes knew, that you were her safe space, that you would never let anything touch her, that you loved her fiercely.

Part of him still flinched from it, the old voice that whispered he didn’t deserve this picture, that something this good couldn’t possibly be meant for a man like him. But he had learned not to feed it. Every time it rose, he heard your voice instead, you told him he deserved this, that he made you the happiest woman alive, that Noa was lucky, so lucky, to have a father who already loved her the way he did. And somehow, when it was your voice saying it, he could believe it.

He kicked off the rest of his clothes down to his boxers and slipped into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. Robby slid one arm around your shoulders, pulling you and Noa carefully against his chest as best he could without disturbing the baby. 

“How was your day?” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your temple, gently playing with the ends of your hair with his free hand. “Tell me everything, I want to hear it all.”

You shifted slightly, keeping Noa secure on your chest, and started recounting the day in a quiet voice. The morning walk around the block in the stroller when the sun was still gentle, the way Noa had stared wide-eyed at the leaves moving in the breeze. The feeding session that lasted nearly an hour around lunchtime, followed by a messy but successful attempt at tummy time where she’d managed to lift her head for a few seconds. Robby listened intently, asking gentle questions in between.

“She’s getting so good at tummy time, how long this time?” His thumb continued its soothing path along Noa’s back. “Did she fuss much when you tried the new bottle we got? Any spit-up today?”

You answered each one, smiling at his genuine interest. He wants the details, the small victories, the tiny struggles. After a while, he glanced down at Noa, then back at you. “Want me to put her in her crib so you can stretch out a little? You look like you could use the space.”

“Yes, please,” you whispered, and Robby nodded, carefully maneuvering himself into a sitting position. With infinitely gentle hands, he slid his arms under Noa and lifted her from your chest. 

She fussed for half a second at the transfer but settled quickly against his broad chest, instinctively turning her face into the crook of his neck. He stood there for a long moment, just holding her, rocking side to side with a natural rhythm.

You watched as he carried her to her nursery. From the monitor on your nightstand, you could hear everything. “Hey, my sweet girl,” he whispered to her. “Daddy’s home. I missed you so much today. You know that? I think about you and mommy every single second I’m away.” He cuddled her closer, pressing feather light kisses to the top of her head. “You are so beautiful. Look at you… those perfect little cheeks, that tiny nose. I still can’t believe we made you. Me and your mom… we created something this perfect. You’re half her and half me, and somehow you’re better than both of us combined.”

He took his time admiring her in the glow of the nursery lamp, tracing a finger along her eyebrows, marveling at the delicate curve of her ears, the way her fists stayed curled even in sleep. “My perfect Noa. I love you more than I ever thought possible. You and mommy… you saved me, baby. Gave me a reason to go on every single day.”

Eventually, he lowered her into the crib, carefully adjusting her clothes and swaddling her snugly in a fresh blanket, just the way she liked it, with her arms tucked in, secure and warm. He double-checked the swaddle, made sure the monitor camera was angled perfectly so you could check on her from your bedroom, and finally dimmed the light before whispering one last “Sweet dreams, baby girl. Your daddy loves you.”

A minute later he was back in your bedroom, closing the door behind him and climbing  into bed. Robby wrapped one arm around you immediately, pulling your body flush against his. As he tangled a leg with yours, he buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply.

“God, I hate being away from you two all day,” he murmured against your skin, his voice coming out muffled. “Coming home this late… it kills me. I miss so much.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, soothing him. “It’s okay, Michael. Noa and I keep each other company. We’re all right.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “I don’t like leaving you alone with everything. I wish I could be more present. Help you more with the chores, the nights, all of it. You’re doing so much.”

You cupped his cheek. “You have your job. Taking care of Noa is mine right now, and we’re managing, I promise.”

Robby sighed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You should reconsider hiring someone. Just for a few hours a day at first. We could find someone certified, with lots of experience and references. She could handle the chores, watch Noa so you can rest, shower, whatever you need. I want you to have some… room to breathe.”

“I’m fine,” you reassured him softly, smiling. “I promise I’ll tell you if it gets to be too much. But today we actually had a full one-hour nap, straight through, no crying, no fussing.”

Robby’s face lit up, and he let out a quiet laugh that vibrated through his chest and into yours. “Oh wow, a full hour? No interruptions? You lucky girls.” He grinned, pulling you even closer, sliding his hand down to rest it on your hip. “I’m proud of you both, seriously. You’re incredible.”

You turned in his embrace, capturing his mouth in a kiss. What started gentle quickly deepened as Robby groaned quietly against your lips. He was roaming his hands all over your body, keeping his touch gentle but undeniably hungry, sliding them down your sides, over your hips, and up your back, as if he was relearning every curve. He pulled you closer, kissing you harder, his tongue meeting yours in a familiar dance.

He broke the kiss just enough to murmur against your mouth. “We can stop whenever you want, baby. I’m just kissing you… we don’t have to go any further if you’re not ready yet.”

“It’s fine,” you whispered, threatening your fingers through his hair. “I’ll tell you if I want to stop.”

That seemed to be all the reassurance he needed. Robby shifted, settling his body on top of yours between your legs, careful not to put too much weight on you. The familiar press of him felt comforting and new all at once. His hands moved under your shirt, lifting it slowly.

Robby’s gaze darkened with desire as he looked at you, skimming his palms reverently over your breasts. He’d always loved them, loved sucking on your nipples until you squirmed, massaging the soft flesh, teasing until you were breathless. But he knew how sensitive they still were from breastfeeding, so his touch stayed feather-light tonight, brushing his thumbs softly over your nipples without pinching or pulling.

You froze for a moment as the insecurity took over. It came quietly at first, then all at once. The hunger that had been building under your skin suddenly was overtaken by the doubts creeping in.

You couldn’t help but notice the little changes, the faint lines that marked where your body had stretched to make room for Noa, the way your breasts felt different, no longer quite the same shape he had first mapped with his mouth months before she arrived. Nothing had fully returned to what it had been, and some part of you suspected it never would. This was not the same body Robby had first fallen in love with. This was not the same woman who had turned him on that first night, confident and untouched by the irreversible work of growing and delivering a child.

What if he didn’t find it appealing anymore? What if, when he finally touched you, it would feel obligatory, something he did because he loved you, not because he still wanted you with the same desire? You lay there with the questions pressing against your ribs.

Robby pulled back immediately, a look of concern replaced the previous heat in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently, cupping your cheek with one hand. “You want to stop?”

You shook your head, biting your lip as you looked away for a second. “I just… I feel weird about my body right now,” you admitted quietly, a little ashamed of expressing these feelings of insufficiency to him. Robby would want a confident woman, not someone afraid of taking her shirt off. “I’m… insecure, I guess. It’s changed so much, I keep thinking maybe you don’t like it anymore. That I look different… gross even. You know, with the stretch marks, and the softness, and everything. I don’t want you to think I’m gross now.”

Robby’s expression softened completely. He shifted his weight to lie beside you, pulling you close so you were facing him. He couldn’t believe you were saying something like this. You, the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen, were lying here looking at him like you somehow believed the changes in your body could make him look at you with different eyes.

He’d watched you grow Noa, had seen your body shift and soften and stretch into something stronger and more miraculous than anything he had ever put his hands on. None of it had lessened what he felt, if anything, it had made him want you even more. The idea that he could ever look at you and feel anything less than that same helpless pull was so far from reality it almost hurt. 

“Hey… look at me. I have seen you, all of you. Every day through the pregnancy, through the birth, through the recovery. And I think you are so fucking beautiful, so sexy. You look incredible to me. Your body carried our daughter, and I love it. I love every inch of you, exactly as you are right now.”

He leaned in and kissed you again, slowly, as if to drive the words home. When he pulled back, his hand continued its gentle exploration, over your stomach, your hips, your thighs. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this, never. I want you just as much as I did before, maybe more. You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. The way you look, the way you feel under my body… it drives me crazy in the best way. Nothing about you is gross. You’re perfect to me. My beautiful woman, my partner, the mother of my child.”

His words wrapped around you like a blanket, easing the anxious knot of insecurity. He kept kissing you, your lips, your jaw, your neck, while his hands caressed your body with admiration. “This body,” he murmured against your skin, squeezing your hip gently, “It's so soft… I love it. I love touching you, feeling you. You’re so damn sexy it’s hard to keep my hands off you.”

You relaxed into his touch, the earlier heat returning slowly but surely. Robby stayed patient, never pushing, just showering you with affection and reassurance until the doubts faded into the background of your mind. 

Robby helped you peel his shirt off when you reached for the hem of it, tugging it upwards. He glanced down at himself with a self-deprecating chuckle, patting the gentle curve. “Look at this,” he said with humor. “I look about three months pregnant myself, and you still love me anyway.”

You laughed, the sound coming out genuine instead of forced, and pulled him closer until there was no space left between you. Your hands moved freely over him, with greed, tracing the lines of his back, the solid planes of his chest, then lower, mapping the soft give of the belly that had always made your mouth go dry. You squeezed the warm flesh of his sides, sinking your fingers in just enough to feel him.

“I love your body too. It makes me so wet,” you whispered. “Feeling you like this. Fuck, Robby…”

He groaned, the sound was pleased, vibrating against your lips. “Yeah? I know exactly how wet you get for me, baby. God, I love when you touch me like that. Don’t stop.”

You didn’t, you kept kissing him, kept your bodies pressed tight, and your palms sliding over his warm skin while his own hands began their slow descent. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down in one motion, the fabric whispered along your thighs until it was gone. The cool air kissed your bare skin for only a second before the heat of his hand replaced it.

Robby parted your thighs with insistence and touched you, sliding his fingers through the slickness already gathered between your folds, spreading it, coating himself in how ready you were.

“So wet already,” he murmured to you. “This pretty pussy is so ready for me. Look at you… you’re dripping.”

His fingers found your clit with ease, rubbing slow circles that made your hips twitch helplessly against his hand. He worked your clit with that steady pressure that felt devastating, building the pleasure in rolling waves until soft moans spilled from your throat. Your nails scraped lightly down the length of his back, leaving faint red trails as sensation crashed through you, almost too much and nowhere near enough.

“Does it feel good?” he asked with his eyes locked on your face, drinking in every reaction he managed to pull out of you.

“It feels amazing,” you gasped, your own breath hitching under the assault of his fingers. “I missed this so much… missed your hands on me, missed feeling like this.”

Robby’s touch stayed steady, still circling your clit with the pad of his thumb in those perfect strokes that had you slick and open for him. Your body was responding eagerly, your wetness coating his fingers, your inner walls fluttering with every pass… until he let those same fingers drift lower. He toyed gently at your entrance, resting the blunt tips of two fingers right there, teasing you without quite pushing in yet, spreading the slickness he’d already drawn from you.

You grabbed his wrist instinctively. The motion was sharp, almost involuntary. Suddenly a million doubts flooded your mind at once. Robby’s fingers were long and thick, you knew the exact stretch of them, the way they filled you when he was patient and when he wasn’t. You knew he’d be careful the first time after birth, you trusted him completely. But fuck, after everything your body had been through, the thought of anything inside you still felt scary. 

“Stop.” The word came out quiet but clear, your fingers locked around his wrist, holding him still.

He pulled his hand away immediately, watching you with a concerned expression across his face. “What’s wrong, love?”

You took a shaky breath, the anxiety surfacing once again. “I’m scared it’s gonna hurt… after everything. The tear, the birth… I just—”

Robby shifted once again so he was looking directly at you, resting his hand soothingly on your thigh. “The tear is fully healed. Your uterus is back to its normal size and back in place. Medically, it shouldn’t hurt. But we can stop right now if you need to wait. It’s okay. I can just keep rubbing your clit if you want, whatever feels good for you.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I want you… but it’s scary to think about something inside me again.”

He kissed you reassuringly. “I understand. You’re really wet already, which is perfect, but we can use some lube too. It’ll help everything slide in easier, make it more comfortable. Sound good?”

“Yes,” you whispered with relief. You trusted him so fully, you knew you were in the safest hands you had ever known. Robby would never push, he would never take more than you were ready to give. Your pleasure and your comfort mattered more to him than his own.

He pressed one more lingering kiss to your lips, the kind that said I’ve got you without needing the words. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you. “Don’t move.”

As he rolled onto his side, the mattress shifted under his weight, he reached toward the nightstand, rummaging through the clutter until his fingers closed around the bottle of lube you kept there. He settled between your legs again, kneeling on the mattress as he warmed the lube between his fingers before applying it generously to your pussy. “Tell me if anything hurts or if you need to stop,” he said. “No matter what. This is all about you feeling good.”

You nodded, and once you did, he started rubbing the slick lube over your folds. His touch was gentle, coating everything thoroughly. He teased your entrance with just the tip of one finger, circling it and pressing it barely inside. The cool glide of the lube mixed with your own wetness, making everything feel smooth. He watched your face the entire time, gauging every reaction.

Little by little, he pushed his finger deeper. Robby moved with patience, the length of it easing forward only when your body gave the smallest acceptance. You felt the stretch immediately, familiar after all the times he had been inside you, yet still careful, almost tentative. It wasn’t painful, the sensation was simply full, a pressure that made your breath catch and your inner walls flutter around the intrusion. Slightly foreign at first, like your body was relearning the shape of him all over again.

He didn’t rush, every fraction of an inch was measured, his eyes remained on your face the entire time, watching for any flicker of discomfort. When at last his finger was seated all the way inside you, knuckle-deep, he paused completely. His thumb stayed gentle against your clit, offering the smallest pressure, but the rest of him went still.

The fullness settled, and so your body adjusted around him in involuntary pulses. “How does it feel?” he asked softly, brushing his thumb lightly over your clit to keep the pleasure flowing.

“Fine,” you breathed the word out. “It’s okay… good, actually.”

Robby smiled and began to move his finger slowly, sliding it in and out with careful and shallow thrusts. He crooked it gently, searching for that sensitive spot inside you. “Still good? Any pain?”

You shook your head and a soft moan escaped your lips as he found the right angle. “No pain… feels nice.”

He kept going, building a steady rhythm, fucking you with one thick finger while his thumb continued circling your clit. The combination sent waves of pleasure through your core. You started moving your hips, almost on their own, seeking more of the pressure on your clit and the deepness of his fingers inside you. Soon your breaths turned into moans and whimpers, his name fell from your lips in broken gasps. “Michael… oh god…”

After a few more minutes, finally Robby leaned down and added his mouth. The first stroke of his tongue over your clit was slow, tasting how wet you already were for him. Then the flicks came faster while he began to pump the single finger deeper, matching the rhythm of his tongue to the thrust of his hand. The dual sensation crashed through you in the best way, the thick stretch inside and the wet heat of his mouth working your clit until your thighs trembled on either side of his head.

You threaded your fingers into his hair and pulled him closer, the initial fear had burned away under the rising pleasure. “More,” you begged him. “Please—another finger…”

Robby groaned against your pussy, he answered without hesitation, carefully working a second finger in alongside the first. The stretch was deeper, but the lube and your own slickness made the slide smooth. He gave you only a moment to adjust before he began to fuck you properly with both fingers in strokes that grew harder. Robby was crooking the tips perfectly against that swollen spot inside you until sparks burst behind your eyes.

His tongue never stopped moving, he licked and sucked your clit with almost ruthless focus, occasionally glancing up just enough to watch your face as he drove you higher. You were moaning loudly now, the sounds echoing in the bedroom walls. “Don’t stop! Fuck, Michael, it feels amazing… so good, please don’t stop…”

Your thighs were trembling around his head, and you pulled his hair harder, grinding your hips against his face and hand as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. Robby worked you relentlessly, thrusting his fingers deeper and faster, moving his tongue from side to side on your swollen clit.

The orgasm hit you hard, making your whole body seize on the bed, your back bowing as you came with a cry of his name. Your pussy squeezed his fingers rhythmically, pulsing with wave after wave of intense pleasure. Your own thighs squeezed his head and gripped his wrist, holding him exactly where you needed him as the climax ripped through you.

Robby kept going through it all, gentling his movements but not stopping until you started to come down, whimpering from how oversensitive you felt. Only then did he slowly withdraw his fingers and lift his head, looking at you with his lips shiny with your arousal befor kissing your thigh. “You did so good, baby. You look fucking beautiful when you cum for me.”

You just lay there panting, with your body limp, as Robby climbed up to hold you close, pressing tender kisses to your face and neck while you caught your breath. “I’d missed eating this pussy so much. Missed how sweet you are, how you soak my beard when you cum. Nothing in the world compares to that.”

Pressed against your body, you could feel how hard he still was, the thick length of him against your hip. When he spoke, his voice came out almost shy. “Could you… would you mind giving me some head for a bit?” He swallowed. “I’ve missed it so fucking much. Missed the way you look when you’re on your knees for me, how wet and hot it feels when you suck me. I keep thinking about it.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” you breathed against his lips. “I want to taste you.”

He rolled onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows so he could watch, you sat up and moved between his legs, sliding your palms over the warm skin of his thighs. The front of his boxers was tented, with a dark spot already dampening the fabric where the head of his cock pressed against it. You hooked your fingers into the waistband and dragged them down slowly, letting the elastic catch for a second under the curve of him before you pulled them the rest of the way off and tossed them aside.

His cock sprang free, leaking a clear bead of precum that slid down the underside. You wrapped one hand around the base and just looked at him for a second, then leaned in. You started slow, with open-mouthed kisses against the tip, letting your lips drag over the fat head, tasting the salty bead that kept forming there before licking it away with the flat of your tongue. Then you did it again, slower, circling the ridge, teasing the slit until his hips twitched. Another kiss, wetter this time, then a long lick from the base all the way up the underside, pausing to suck gently on the head while your eyes stayed locked on his.

“Fuck… baby…” Robby dropped his head back with a broken sound. “That’s it… look at you. So pretty with my cock on your tongue.”

You kept teasing him, kissing, licking, sucking just the tip into your mouth for a few seconds before pulling off with a soft pop and doing it all over again. Your tongue painted slow stripes up and down his shaft, getting him all shiny and slick. When you nosed lower, you mouthed at his balls, sucking one carefully into your mouth, rolling it with your tongue while your hand stroked him tight. The other ball got the same treatment, and Robby’s thighs tensed hard on either side of your head before a high, almost helpless whimper slipped out of him.

Only then did you finally take him properly. You sank down, stretching your lips wide around the girth, taking him halfway in one smooth slide. You worked your tongue on the underside as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks until the lewd wet sounds filled the quiet room. You bobbed slowly at first, getting used to the weight of him on your tongue again, then started taking him deeper, getting saliva dripping down his shaft and over your fingers. 

Every time you pulled up, you twisted your wrist just the way he liked, then sank back down with a little moan of your own. Robby was already falling apart. “Oh my god! Yes, just like that. Your mouth feels so fucking good. Missed this so much, baby, missed how good you suck cock.”

You pushed yourself further, relaxing your throat and taking him deeper until your nose was pressed against the hair at the base and his balls rested against your chin. You held him there, letting your throat flutter around the head, then pulled back just enough to breathe before doing it again. Spit ran down your chin, but you didn’t care, you just sucked him like you were starving for it, with deep strokes that made wet shuck shuck suck noises every time you took him to the root.

Robby’s moans were turning into something closer to continuous broken sounds. He whimpered when you hollowed your cheeks especially hard. He gasped your name when you focused on the head and sucked like you were trying to pull the orgasm out of him. He tangled one of his hands in your hair while his hips kept making tiny thrusts, like he was fighting the urge to fuck your throat properly.

“Shit! Look at you. You’re taking me so deep… your throat feels incredible. Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last if you keep—”

You only sucked harder and messier, letting him hear every wet slide and every soft gag when you pushed past your comfort zone. Drool coated his cock and dripped onto his balls. You pulled off just long enough to lick him clean again, to spit on the head and smear it around with your tongue, then swallowed him back down to the base with a hungry sound.

Robby’s whole body went tight. “Stop… fuck, stop. I’m close… I’m so fucking close—” His voice cracked into another whimper. “Your mouth is too good, I can’t… I don’t want to finish yet—”

He pulled you off with a filthy sound, his cock was flushed almost purple and shiny with your spit, a string of saliva still connected your bottom lip to the tip. He was clearly right on the edge, breathing hard. Robby tugged you up into his arms instead of finishing, burying his face against your neck with a shaky laugh.

“Not yet,” he rasped. “Wanted your mouth so bad. But now I want to fuck you.”

Robby hauled you up by the waist and flipped you onto your back against the mattress, the movement was urgent, like he’d been holding himself back for too long and the last thread had finally snapped. His cock, still shiny with your spit, dragged across your thigh as he settled between your legs. He shoved your knees wide with his own, spreading you open, and looked down at the mess he’d already made of you, your clit swollen, your pussy flushed and dripping, the stretch of your entrance still slightly open from his fingers.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” hesaid. “All wet and ready for me after all that. You still want it, baby? Want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, please,” you breathed, nodding desperately. “I want you inside me. I need it.”

Before getting inside you, he took his time .He gripped the base of his cock and dragged the head up and down the length of your pussy, spreading your folds open, smearing your wetness all over himself, then pushing up to rub circles over your swollen clit until it was shiny and throbbing. Every pass left another string of your slick connecting his cock to your cunt. He did it again and again, teasing the entrance without pushing in, watching the way your hole fluttered and tried to suck at him every time the head kissed it.

“Fuck, look at this messy little pussy,” he growled. “Already trying to pull me in. You’re so greedy.”

He finally lined up properly and pushed forward, just the broad tip forcing its way past your entrance. The stretch was intense, that first flare spreading you open after so long, but how soaked you were made it slide instead of burn. He stayed right there, only the head inside, and Robby started fucking you with it in short thrusts, popping just the tip in and out of you over and over, stretching your rim around the thickest part again and again while your juices coated him.

“How’s that feel?” he asked trying to hold himself back, locking his eyes on your face. “Any pain? Tell me.”

You moaned his name loud enough that it echoed off the walls, dropping your head back against the pillow. “Good! fuck, so good, Michael. Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

He kept those shallow thrusts going, watching every twitch of your face, every time your pussy clenched and tried to drag more of him inside. Your moans got louder as you arched hard off the bed, chasing the head that kept rubbing perfectly over the sensitive ring of muscle.

Robby groaned through gritted teeth. Gradually, he started giving you more, with every slow thrust he sank a little deeper, another inch, then another, until your pussy was visibly swallowing him, the stretched rim clinging to his shaft as he fed it to you. You wrapped your legs tight around his waist and dug your heels into the soft flesh of his ass, rolling your hips up hard. The movement forced the rest of him inside in one long slide. Robby bottomed out with a loud moan that cracked in the middle, pressing his balls flush against you, the entire thick length buried to the root.

“Fuck! Michael— fuck me,” you gasped.

He cursed loudly, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as his cock twitched deep inside you. “Jesus fucking… your pussy. You’re so goddamn perfect. It feels so tight, so hot. I missed this so much, baby. Missed being buried balls-deep in you.”

He stayed completely still for a long moment, letting you feel every pulse of him, every throb. “You feel incredible. This pussy was fucking made for my cock. So wet it’s dripping down my balls already. You’re fucking perfect, baby.”

Then you begged, your voice cracking with pure need. “Fuck me, Michael. Fuck me deep. Please… I need it.”

Robby pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in to the root in one strong stroke. He set a deep rhythm right away, snapping his hips forward hard enough that each time he bottomed out, his heavy balls smacked against you, and the head of his cock punched that spot inside until your vision went white at the edges.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled, voice already wrecked. “Take every fucking inch”

You clung to him like you were drowning, carving red lines down his back with your nails, locking your legs tighter around his waist so he had no choice but to stay buried deep. He gripped the backs of your thighs and shoved them wider, pinning them open against his body so he could watch every inch disappear inside you. 

“Michael… oh god, Michael, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

The sound of his cock plunging in and out of your soaked cunt filled the entire room. Robby leaned over you, his sweaty chest sliding against yours, and claimed your mouth in messy kisses between thrusts, fucking his tongue  past your lips the same way his cock was fucking your pussy.

“Fuck, baby,” he snarled against your mouth, sounding desperate. “I’m trying so hard not to cum yet but this pussy is squeezing me so goddamn tight.”

One hand stayed braced beside your head for leverage, while he shoved the other between your bodies without mercy. He found your throbbing clit and rubbed tight circles in perfect time with the snap of his hips. 

You were moaning his name like a prayer now, bucking your hips up to meet every brutal stroke. “Michael! Michael! yes! fuck! I’m gonna cum—” you gasped.

“That’s it. Cum for me,” he ordered. “Cum on my cock… let me feel this pussy milk me. Soak me. Do it.”

Your orgasm ripped through you like a wave, your cunt clamped down in pulses, squeezing and fluttering around every inch of him. Robby’s control shattered with a primal groan. “Fuck— I’m cumming. I’m cumming right now, baby—”

He slammed home as deep as he could go and stayed there, stuttering as he unloaded inside you. You felt every hot rope of cum flooding your cunt, painting your walls and overflowing around the tight seal of his cock. He kept thrusting through it, forcing more of his release deeper, groaning your name into the side of your neck like it was the only word he still knew.

For a long moment afterward, the only sounds were your heavy breathing and the faint hum of the baby monitor on the nighstand. Robby collapsed on top of you, careful not to crush you, with his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses to your damp skin. “You’re incredible. Thank you for trusting me with this… with you.”

“I love you too.” You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as your bodies stayed joined. The intimacy, the release, the love… it all settled warmly around you. Robby eventually pulled out gently, before pulling you into his arms. 

He held you tight, brushing a damp hair from your forehead with gentle fingers. “You good?” he asked softly. “Any discomfort? Did it hurt at all?”

You shook your head, a satisfied smile spread across your face. “God no. That was perfect. Even better than I remembered it. I feel… amazing.”

Robby’s face lit up with relief and pride. He leaned down to kiss you tenderly, lingering his lips there. “It was perfect,” he murmured against your lips. “You felt incredible. I missed being with you like this more than I can say.”

All of a sudden,  Noa’s cries start coming through the monitor, small at first, then building into a fussy wail. Robby stirred immediately, already moving to get up. “Stay here, baby. I’ll go.”

You sit up a little, shaking your head. “There’s no milk ready. I’ll go.”

He gently pushed you back down with a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll get Noa and bring her here. You rest.”

Robby slipped out of bed, pulling on his boxers and a pair of pajama pants before padding quietly down the hall to the nursery. You heard his soothing voice through the monitor as he lifted her. “Hey, sweetheart. Daddy’s got you. What’s all this fuss about?”

He checked her diaper quickly on the changing table, it was clean and dry, then scooped her up against his bare chest, rocking her as he carried her back to your bedroom. Noa’s cries eased slightly at his familiar scent and voice, but she was still hungry and fussy. Robby climbed back into bed carefully.

“Here she is,” he said, helping position her so you could nurse. You lifted your shirt and guided her to your breast. She latched on eagerly, the suckling sound filling the room. Her little hand rested on your chest as she drank, her eyes blinking slowly.

Robby lay on his side facing both of you, with one arm wrapped around your waist, hugging you close while you fed your daughter. “I feel so lucky,” Robby whispered after a while as he watched you. “I never thought I’d get this. Making love to the woman I love… then watching her feed our baby. It’s the most beautiful thing in the world… you’re the most beautiful thing.”

You smiled softly, reaching over to touch his cheek. Robby stayed right there with his arm around you, occasionally leaning in to kiss your shoulder or Noa’s head. When Noa was done, with her belly full and feeling drowsy, Robby gently took her to burp her, patting her back until a good burp came. 

“Hey, you want me to set up the side-car crib? We can put Noa next to us and co-sleep tonight.”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes in the dim light. “Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He carefully transferred her into your arms while he stood. The side-car crib was already in the room, leaning against the wall where you’d both kept it for nights like this. He moved it, unfolding the frame, locking the rails and adjusting the height so the mattress sat flush with your bed. 

When it was ready he took Noa from you with infinite care, and lowered her onto the small mattress. He adjusted the light blanket over her, made sure her head was turned just so, then stood there for a second watching the rise and fall of her chest before he finally climbed back into bed behind you.

You shifted onto your side, facing the side of the crib so you could watch her. Robby moved in close behind you, pressing his chest fully against your back and sliding one arm under your neck, the other wrapping around your waist. He pulled you flush against him until there was no space left, his knees tucked behind yours, the curve of his belly warm against your lower back. “There we go,” he murmured. “All three of us.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, you simply existed in the closeness. Robby’s voice finally broke the silence, coming out vulnerable. “There’s something about seeing you with Noa,” he whispered. “Watching how good of a mom you are… how much love you pour into her every single day. It heals something in me, deep down. Something I didn’t even know it needed healing until I saw you with her.”

You felt the slight tremble in his voice and squeezed his hand over your waist, turning your head to look at him. His eyes were glistening. “Because I know that you’d never… that you’d never leave her like… like my mother did,” he continued, and the wau his voice cracked on the last words almost undid you.

You knew the story, he’d told you once, late at night in the early days. His father had died when he was still a baby, too young for memory, only the absence left behind. After that, his mother had tried, for eight years she had tried, in the only way she knew how, which turned out not to be enough. Those years were not happy ones, the clearest pictures he carried were of a closed bedroom door and the silence behind it. Her depression had been a living thing that filled the house, keeping her in bed for days at a time, the curtains drawn, the world reduced to the small square of mattress she rarely left. A little boy learning too early that the person who was supposed to be his safe place could not even get up to meet him. He remembered standing outside that door sometimes, listening for any sign of life, and the stubborn hope that today she might open it. She never did, not really.

The night he found her on the bathroom floor stayed with him in fragments, the cold tile, the way her body looked smaller than it should have, the childish terror that something irreversible had already happened. He was eight, old enough to understand that she was gone. Losing her carved a particular kind of scar, the kind that never fully closed. He never spoke of it, but it lived in him all the same.

He was older now, and he knew better than to hate her for being ill. He’d stood in that same dark place himself more than once, close enough to the edge of death to understand how a mind could decide the world was no longer bearable. He could list the clinical reasons, the weight of grief and untreated depression and the impossible task of raising a child alone while drowning. 

He could be fair, but fairness never quite reached the part of him that was still that eight-year-old boy. That part still carried the furious question: why wasn’t I enough? Why didn’t the thought of me keep her here? If the one person meant to love him without condition could choose to leave him, what proof was there that anyone else would stay? The fear had settled deep, becoming a kind of muscle memory.

“Michael… baby,” you whispered, your heart aching a little for him. You shifted across the bed, moving to lie on top of him fully. Your body covered his, legs straddling his hips as you rested your head on his chest. You started giving him the soft little neck kisses he loved so much, gentle presses of your lips against the warm skin just below his ear, then trailing slowly down to his collarbone. Slow, loving, reassuring kisses that you knew soothed him like nothing else.

The contrast was almost painful enough, his own mother had been a closed door and a drawn curtain and the silence of a child who learned too early that love could be present in theory and still entirely out of reach. He had spent years telling himself he had made peace with that absence, but watching you with your daughter did something the years of rationalization never managed. It reached the place that still hurt and, gently, without asking permission, began to ease it.

Not all at once or dramatically. The knowledge that this little girl would never stand outside a locked bedroom door waiting for a mother who could not come, that she would grow up knowing the sound of a voice that answered when she cried, the presence of hands that reached for her without hesitation. That the woman he had somehow, impossibly, found was the kind of mother he had only ever been able to invent in the vaguest, most private corners of his mind.

It healed him, Robby would feel the old ache loosen its grip just enough to let gratitude settle in its place. He felt that in giving Noa a mother like you, the universe had, in some unexpected way, begun to give him back pieces of what had been taken before he even understood the loss.

He let out a shaky breath, wrapping his arms around you tightly, one hand stroking up and down your back. “I think it hurts a little, deep inside, when I see you taking care of her,” he admitted quietly. “It makes me wish I’d had a mom like you. What life would’ve been like if I had had that kind of love from the start. The consistency, the patience, the way you look at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world… it’s everything I missed.”

You kept kissing his neck, resting your hand over his heart. “I know. But you have me now,” you whispered between kisses. “As your partner, I’ll always love you unconditionally. I’ll look after you too, just like I look after her. You’re not alone anymore, Michael. You never have to carry that by yourself again. I’m here… we’re here.”

Robby’s arms pulled you impossibly closer. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for being so amazing with Noa, for loving her the way you do, for being such a great mom. You have no idea what it means to me… to see her safe and happy and loved every day. You’ve given me a family I never thought I’d have. You’ve given me healing I didn’t even know I needed.”

You continued the gentle kisses, moving across his neck and shoulder, occasionally nuzzling against his skin just to feel him. His hand never stopped its soothing strokes on your back. Eventually, you both drifted into a light doze, still tangled together.

He fell asleep knowing that tomorrow would be another day, another chance to do this all over again, and he couldn’t wait for the brand new morning to arrive.

A/N: If there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I love imagining Robby as a father, especially as a girl dad. You’ll never catch me writing a fanfic where that man has a son.

I’ve always found it so interesting to think about how he’d experience parenthood given his difficult childhood, and how becoming a father might change the way he sees himself and the world around him. And now, knowing that canonically his mother took his own life, I think those feelings become even more complex. I’m also really interested in the idea of what it would be like for him to watch his partner be a mother to their child. To see someone love, protect, and nurture his daughter in a way that he never got to experience himself. I imagine that would bring up a lot of emotions for him, some painful, but also some incredibly healing.

That’s something I wanted to explore in this fic.I don’t know if I did it enough justice. I don’t think writing about emotions, or trying to be profound, is my strongest skill. I think there are plenty of writers who could tackle those themes much better than I can. But they were thoughts I’ve had for a long time, and they felt important enough that I wanted to try putting them into words anyway.

I hope you enjoyed it🩷 I’d love to know what you think, and as always, your comments and reblogs are very appreciated!

He used to want to come home to the quiet of his house, to feed the stray cat outside and maybe read a little before bed. He used to like to sleep in on his off days, to spend the time couch rotting with a good book or some mind numbing TV. He used to like ordering takeout and never leaving the house unless he had to.

He saw enough action at work, anyway. no need for more of it.

But you are living life for the very first time and taking advantage of every second of it. Occasionally you'll sleep in until ten, if he's lucky. But you're out the door by eleven. Shopping or visiting museums or driving three hours to a store for some product that finally says it's back in stock.

And Robby—god. He loved to trail behind you the whole time.

He liked to carry your shopping bags and watch you try on clothes just to put them back. He liked to watch you order something new at a restaurant and see your reaction. He liked to watch as you take a hundred photos on your phone and even let you pose him so it turned out exactly like the vision in your head.

He liked hearing your giggle when you turned your phone to show him some silly TikTok he doesn't understand.

He even liked staying out late now, because you're always at a bar or a club. Always on the dance floor with a drink in your hand. Robby liked to watch you dance wildly, liked to watch the lights reflect in your eyes, liked to come home covered in your body glitter and your coconut perfume and your love.

In truth, Robby had been a little nervous thinking about the first time you'd sleep together. Worried he couldn't keep up with you, that you'd want him more often than his age would allow.

Cause, ya know—he's twice your age, and his stamina isn't what it used to be, and you're so alive and so bright and he's so…him. A little grumpy and a whole lot tired.

But what Robby discovered after some time is that his desire for you overshadowed all else.

He looked at your smiling face and all the nerves settled in his head, going from a raging storm to still waters in an instant.

He wanted your first time together to be romantic. Maybe he'd cook you some pasta and the two of you could get wine drunk and stumble up into his bedroom late one evening, and he'd be real sweet and soft. He wanted to make love to you. Wanted you to know just how much you brighten his life, wanted you to know just how cherished you really are.

But what actually happened is far from romantic.

It's not in his bed or even his house. It's in the back of his car, in broad daylight, on a random side street one rainy, Tuesday afternoon.

You'd asked him to stop and try that new coffee place downtown before you went to meet Trinity and Dennis for lunch. The downpour had intensified while you were inside ordering, and by the time you'd ran back to the car you'd both gotten drenched.

An event that would've irritated Robby before you, but how could he be upset about the rain and his wet hair and the droplets on his glasses when you were laughing about it? How could he be upset or irritated when you wore the sweetest smile?

You'd leaned across the center console, took his face in your cold hands, and pressed your mouth to his. you always tasted so sweet, and the combination of your warm tongue against his and the cool, wet slide of the rain on your lips—god. It had him weak in the knees.

Arousal pooled low in his gut instantaneously. He tried to think of other things. Gross things, terrifying things, of anything but you. None of it worked to erase the intensity of his desire.

He was ten minutes away from the diner when he pulled over and admitted what was going on. "Sweetheart, I'm…I'm really sorry, I know you were looking forward to this but I think we might have to cancel."

A crease formed between your brows, and it pained him to see it. "What? Why? What's going on, are you okay?"

Robby's face warmed, and he knew he should probably lie. Make up some fluke of an excuse as to why he'd suddenly had a change of heart and needed to return home at the very last second. But the look in your eyes was full of true concern, and Robby knew he'd never be able to lie. Not to you.

So, he took it on the chin. Swallowed down his embarrassment and said, "Yeah, yeah. But…uhm—when you…when you kissed me, it was really…" he laughed, fingers fidgeting. "It felt really nice. Too nice, actually, and—"

"Oh," you interrupted. "You're hard?"

The words are said so plainly, as if there's nothing wrong with the fact that he'd gotten this worked up over something as small as a kiss. Robby shook his head. "I've tried to get it to go away, but," he scoffed. "It's not—uh, not working, so—"

"Well, let me help you." Your lips turned up at the corners, a knowing smirk forming. you unbuckled your seatbelt and moved closer, leaning over the center console until your mouth is a breath away from his. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

Robby's head turned, glancing out of the rain-clouded windows. There was no one around, and he very much wanted you to touch him, but— "Are you sure? Here?"

Your nod is both certain and enthusiastic. "What better place than here and now?"

He laughed. "Anywhere would be better than here," he said. "My bed, your bed, the damn couch, for christ's sa—"

You palmed at his bulge through the too-thick fabric of his jeans. "Yeah? That's where you wanna fuck me, Mikey? The couch?" Your voice was low and teasing in his ear, sending shivers up his spine.

Robby swallowed, muscles slackening beneath your touch. You squeezed his length in your hand, stroking him with your thumb.

"Or…" you began. "Do you wanna fuck me here?" Your other hand joined the first, aiding so you could unbutton his jeans and slide your hand down the front of them.

He's not wearing boxers—Robby can't stand the extra fabric and the way it bunches—and suddenly your hand was wrapped tight around his aching cock. His head tilted back against the seat, eyes closed as you whispered against the shell of his ear.

"You're even bigger than I thought you'd be. Gonna feel so—so full, when you're inside me." you said, stroking his cock with the perfect amount of pressure. "I think about you fucking me a lot, Mikey. You're just so strong and so big and so fuckin' sexy. You remember when I asked you to send me those pictures when you were in the shower? I've touched myself to them so many times."

It killed him to hear it. To imagine you with your fingers on your clit or buried deep inside you while you're thinking about him. His cock pulsed, throbbing with desire. "This isn't—fuck—this isn't how it's supposed to be. I'm supposed to—to be sweet. Dinner and wine and rose—jesus—rose petals and—"

"I don't want rose petals today," you murmured. You licked at his neck, wet tongue sliding up over his pulse, over the stubble there that he's gone a day too long without shaving. "What I want is to suck your cock. Can I do that, Mikey?"

Robby was nodding before he could think any better of it. He lifts his hips just enough to pull his jeans down, cock springing free and resting against his belly, reaching just below his navel. It's thick and aching for you, resting just on top of the dark hair of his happy trail. "'Course you can, baby."

The smile you gave him in response is nothing short of earth-shattering.

Robby doesn't think anyone has ever seemed this eager for him. No one's been so desperate for it. The realization made him feel dizzy with affection for you and the way you worship him, the way you trust him.

You leaned over the center console, took his cock in one hand, and pressed a wet kiss to his tip. Your mouth is so soft and so sweet and so warm. Your tongue swirled around his length as you eased him into your mouth, tracing each vein over and over as if for memorization.

Robby didn't know where to put his hands. He wanted to touch you, to smooth your hair back away from your face. He wanted to reach over and squeeze the supple flesh of your ass through your leggings. He wanted to reach lower, to press his fingers against your folds through the cotton fabric until you moaned for him.

But he didn't know what was too much, or what wasn't enough, and—

You suddenly swallowed him down, taking all of him in your mouth, nose pressed to the thick hair at the base of his cock and it felt so fucking good that he nearly finishes right then and there.

And Robby, on instinct, grabbed the back of your neck to steady himself. "Oh fuck," he choked out. "Careful, pretty girl. Careful, careful—"

You slowly leaned back, mouth sealed tight around him, sucking hard until his cock pops out from between your lips. You turned your head to look up at him, slapping the underside of his length lewdly against your tongue. Spit bubbled at the corners of your mouth, sliding messily down your chin. "I love sucking your cock," you said.

A smile stretched across his face. Real and true and happy. "Yeah?"

You nodded in response, teary eyes alight with desire. "Mhm."

"Well, it's not fair for you to have all the fun now, is it?" Robby's fingers curled around the back of your neck, pulling you up and off of him. He guided your mouth to his, the kiss wet this time in a whole different way. His free hand found your neck, bracketing your throat completely between his big hands.

You moaned against his tongue and Robby smiled against your lips.

He pulled away only to instruct, "Why don't you go ahead an' get in the back seat for me, baby."

A grin formed on your face—pretty and submissive and alive with hunger. Robby could get real addicted to this, he thought. Real addicted to you.

He let go of your throat, and watched as you hurriedly did as told. Obedient little thing, so perfect.

Robby followed closely behind. He reached tbeneath the passenger seat to push it forward. The space is too small for him; cramped even when he bends on aching knees to the floor of the back seat.

Kneeling between your thighs, Robby hooked his fingers around the waistband of your leggings and pulled them down, over your high top sneakers. His hands come to feel the softness of your exposed skin, roaming up and beneath your shirt, feeling you this close for the very first time.

Robby palmed your breasts over the fabric of your bra, thumbs running over the subtle swells of your peaked nipples. "You're so pretty," he mused, leaning forward to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.

His mouth traveled downward, peppering kisses across your belly until his lips met the fabric of your panties. Robby delighted in the shiver you gave as the warmth of his breath fanned across your cunt. He pressed a kiss right over your clit and grinned to himself as your spine arched.

"Let's take these off, yeah?"

You nodded eagerly, and Robby didn't waste time before pulling your panties away.

"Oh, look at that," Robby muttered. He brought his hand between your legs and slid his fingers gently through your arousal. "So fuckin' wet, isn't she? This all for me, baby?"

"Yes," you breathed out. "Need you, Mikey. So bad."

"I know you do. S'alright, I've got you." Robby took his glasses off and set them on the leather seat beside you, before leaning forward and kissing you right where you needed him most. A shallow breath stuttered out of your chest, but he doesn't give you a moment to gather yourself. His tongue darts out, licking you from your entrance to your clit and then circling.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. Robby obliged your silent instruction, suckling your clit into his mouth and flicking his tongue over the pulsing nerves.

His heart was beating fast in his chest, his cock aching to be inside you. He had one hand on your breast, and brought the other to your cunt. Robby finds your opening with two gentle fingers and pushed them in.

"Oh god," you cried out. "That's so good. You feel so—fuck."

Robby curled his fingers inside of you, pushing hard against the softest spot."Talk to me, pretty girl," he urged. "Tell me what feels good."

"M-maybe a little…hmm—a little faster?"

He quickened the pace of his fingers and licked at your clit more feverishly, humming when you give a little gasp in response.

"Fuck—yes, yes. Like that. And—your fingers just a little deeper—just—"

Robby listened like a trained dog, heeding your every beck and call. He pressed deeper, thrusting his fingers upwards until—

"Ohmygod, yes—just like that, just like that please. Don't stop, don't stop—"

He doesn't. Robby licked and sucked at your clit until his spit dripped down onto the leather seat below you. He groaned low at the taste of your arousal, ambrosia made just for him. sweet and youthful and delectable.

He didn't deserve it, Robby knew. Your desire, your love, your light. But he'll eat it all up for as long as you continue to give it.

You clenched around his fingers and Robby pulled his mouth away, strings of saliva snapping against his chin. "You about to cum, baby?"

"Yes, yes, please, Mikey I need it—!"

"Nuh-uh," he said with a shake of his head. He pulled back fully, sliding his fingers out of you and rising to his full height. "M'gonna watch the first time you cum for me. Wanna see it on your face. Wanna feel you milk my cock 'til I fill up that sweet little pussy of yours."

A whimper left your mouth, and Robby could do nothing but smile cause he knew. He knew how needy you feel, how frantic that desire made you. He knew because it lived in him, too.

He pressed your legs upwards, setting the soles of your sneakers against the edge of the backseat. He grabbed at the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head before picking up his glasses and setting them back on his face. "Take it all off," Robby ordered. "Let me see you."

You do as told, quickly adding your hoodie and bra to the growing pile of discarded clothes.

Robby took a minute just to absorb it all; to memorize the way you looked, spread out for him in the backseat of his car, eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. You're the prettiest little thing. Half his age, half his heart.

That four letter L word flitted across his mind, but Robby doesn't give life to it.

Not yet, anyway.

He dragged his hand down the center of your chest instead, but thought you must be able to feel the love in it, manifesting at the very tips of his fingers.

"I want you inside me," you whispered, bringing your hand to his against your chest, holding tight to his knuckles.

Robby nodded and took his cock in his free hand, sliding it through the syrupy wetness between your legs before he lined himself up with your entrance. He pressed his cock in, just the head at first. Enough for him to notch himself there so he can wrap his hand around the back of your neck instead.

He forced you to look at him, eyes locked together as he slowly pushed all the way inside.

You breathed out synchronized sighs of relief the moment he's seated fully inside you, cock pressed right up against your womb.

You're so tight around him, so wet and warm and perfect. Robby began to gently rock his hips, keeping you steady with his heavy hands. One on your chest, the other at the back of your neck. He can feel your heart beating beneath his palm, pulse elevated in the way his likely is.

"God, Mikey—"

You don't need to ask him to quicken his pace, not this time. Robby heard it in your voice. And some old dogs could certainly learn new tricks.

He finds a rhythm that has your eyes threatening to roll back. The perfect tempo, filling you up and fucking you deep. "My girl," he muttered. "My pretty girl. So good to me. Fuck."

Your spine arched off the back of the leather seat, chest pressed more firmly against his hand. "That's so good, so'fucking—mmm."

"Touch yourself for me, baby," Robby said.

You find your clit and circle it with deft, practiced fingers. Robby took note of the direction you move, cataloging the information for later. "It's so—so big—"

"I know, sweet girl. But you can take it, hm? Can't you?"

"Yes, yes—don't stop, please don't stop I'm so close, I'm so—"

The words are broken in your mouth, overtaken by a wanton moan.

"I know you are," he whispered. "Can feel her squeezing me real tight. You gonna cum for me already?"

He'd said it as a taunt, but in truth Robby was no better. He'd been fighting off his own release from the very moment he'd slid his cock inside you.

"Look at me," he ordered, fingers flexed around the back of your neck. And once you do, a satisfied smile formed on his mouth. "Good. Good. Now cum for me, baby. Give it to me."

Your breath halted, the exhale stuck in your chest. And then Robby could feel your cunt pulse around him, and you let out a ragged whimper as your release rocked through you. "Cum with me, please," you cried. "Want you to cum inside, Mikey."

That's what did him in; the sound of your voice, whining out his name. A moniker he only ever allowed you to call him. So fitting, coming from the soft, bright thing you are. "Shit," he hissed, his own orgasm clouding the edges of his vision. "Takin' it all, huh? Yeah, that's it. That's my girl."

He didn't stop, not until he was well and truly spent. Until he'd fucked all of his release into your cunt, until his cock was sensitive and your breathing evened out beneath his palm.

Robby pressed his mouth to yours tenderly and could feel your smile as it formed. He pulled away, stuffed himself back into his jeans and asked, "What's so funny?"

You shook your head. "Nothing, just…I think Trin is calling me."

It's only when you say it that Robby finally heard the buzzing coming from the front seat. He reached towards it, taking your forgotten phone in his hand and examining the screen to find a photo of Trinity with her head in your lap.

Robby remembered the night he'd taken the photo, some third shift party at John's place you'd insisted on crashing. You'd made friends with Trinity in two seconds flat when she'd confessed her part in his Tinder profile to you, much to Robby's dismay.

He passed the device to you. "Wanna answer it?"

You took your phone, clicked the screen once, and pressed it to your ear. "We're late, I'm sorry, I know," you laughed. "We're on our way. Got stuck in traffic. Order me one of those strawberry lemonades."

Robby helped you find your clothes, tugging your panties back over your legs and righting them around your hips. Your leggings were next, and he tried not to think about his cum that slowly spilled out of you to avoid another stop on the way to the diner.

Robby couldn't fight his grin as he found his shirt to pull it back over his head.

"Trin, no. A shot? It's not even noon—well, yeah, now it is, but—!"

You both climbed to the front of his car, and Robby reached over to buckle you in.

"Well…I mean, if it's a mimosa…"

Robby laughed as he turned the key in the ignition. Knew right then and there he'd probably spend half the afternoon taking care of you, but knew good and well that he'd love every moment of it.

He promised himself he'd give you those rose petals later.

But for now, the vibrancy you've painted in his heart is enough.

The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.