It was truly an accident.

Matt was just trying to teach you some self-defence moves, like the caring, over-protective boyfriend that he is, and in doing so, had told you to “hit me how you would if I was a stranger trying to hurt you, don’t hold back, I’ll be fine” in an unwaveringly confident, almost cocky tone.

So you did as he asked.

Except he hadn’t been expecting your lower half to move that much, focusing his attention on your upper body, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting you to knee him in the balls.

The impact was brutal, a perfectly aimed strike that had his fragile external organs crushed against his own body and the hard bone of your kneecap. The loose black sweatpants he was wearing doing absolutely nothing to cushion the blow.

Your vigilante, who’d broken more bones than you can even count, made a wheezing, rough pained sound like nothing you’ve heard him make before, as all the air was pushed out of his lungs in a single second.

“Oh my god, Matty I’m so sorry! I thought you’d block me!” You apologise quickly, hands over your mouth as you realise what you’ve just done.

His hands flew down to his crotch, and as he fell to his knees with a choking noise, curling in on himself so his forehead was pressed against the hard wood of your bedroom floor, your eyes widened in shock, any amusement you had in your face is wiped away.

The radar of his senses flickered and short-circuited from how intense the pain was, unable to focus on anything other than that anymore.

You went down with him, rubbing his back as you apologised with “I’m so sorry baby” over and over, while his body locked up from the deep, nauseating pain, unable to even draw in a breath for a good couple of seconds.

Even with his general extreme hypersensitivity, he thinks this might be the worst kind of pain he’s ever felt. It’s blinding, white hot waves of agony, able to feel it all the way up in his stomach.

“That’s… good” he grunts out, trying to calm you down a bit, but he’s still wheezing, and his voice is an octave or two higher than it usually is, “effective.”

“Matty… god I’m so sorry honey” you apologise again for the hundredth time.

There’s sweat beginning to bead on his skin while all the colour drains from his face, and he starts trembling under your hand, his eyes squeezed shut tightly, his jaw locked, teeth clenched in pain as intense autonomic shock set in, his blood pressure plummeting.

“I- I think I’m… gonna be sick” he groans out, the deep pain making his stomach lurch before he dry heaves into the floor, all his muscles in his abdomen tensing, causing the recent trauma to his testicles to reignite with vigour from the way they’re connected internally.

The pain causes another wave of nausea through him, a sob like sound tearing from his throat, and he gets stuck in a horrible cycle of trying to repress his gagging, only to fail, causing all his muscles to tense and cramp, which causes more pain. He couldn’t move, and for a worrying second, he thinks he might pass out.

Beside him, you kneel there helpless, stroking his back or running your hand through his hair, tears in your eyes from how badly you’d hurt him. You can’t imagine how bad this must be for his already overly sensitive body.

Long minutes pass as he tries to stop his body from its involuntary actions, until eventually he takes a shuddering breath, the deepest he’s been able to draw for a while now.

He’s still cradling his hands to his crotch, he hasn’t changed his position at all this whole time, still exactly where he fell, forehead to the floor.

“Are you okay?” You ask tentatively once he’d stopped nearly throwing up.

“Yeah, sweetheart, just peachy” he rasps out, sarcasm dripping heavy in his tone, grinding his jaw.

As he slowly tries to sit up, the muscles in his abdomen pull again, causing a fresh wave of pain, and his head span.

“Fuck, nope” he groans, his head going back down to the ground, residing to sit there on his knees for a while longer curled up.

It’s about half a hour from the impact by the time he manages to sit up without feeling like he’s going to pass out, and you slowly help him shuffle over to the bed.

He falls back into the bed once he’s situated on the edge, immediately curling up on his side into the fetal position on the sheets with his hands still in between his legs, as you go to get him an ice pack from the fridge, brushing the tears away from your cheeks rom how bad you felt.

Matt can tell his sensitive skin is bruising already, aware of the individual burst capillaries under his skin.

When you come back with the ice pack, you ever so carefully help him out of the jogging bottoms his wearing, pulling them down his muscular legs.

“Do- do you want me to check?” You ask carefully, aware of his fragile state right now.

With a rough swallow, he nods.

“I can feel them bruising already” he admits, his thumbs going to the waist band of his boxers to carefully pulls them down too before he adds “do not touch” when you lean forwards.

He leaves them around his thighs, spreading his legs slightly and the gasp you let out has him panicking a little.

“Oh god Matty I’m so sorry” you apologise for the nth time, tearing up again as you look at your poor boyfriend’s bruised balls, already swollen and there’s blood pooling darkly beneath the skin.

One of his hands comes down to touch himself, feel the damage, but he barely makes contact before pulling back with a hiss.

“It’s not your fault baby” he breathes roughly, “I wasn’t paying enough attention to your legs. You just surprised me.”

With the same amount of care, Matt pulls his boxers back up before taking the ice pack from you and gently resting it against his crotch, groaning again in pain as his eyes scrunched shut while he got used to the added pressure. It would be too cold for him to do it without something in between.

The sight of him makes your eyes sting again, and the tears fall once more when you blink, guilt still consuming you for doing this to him.

“Hey, come on, don’t cry, I’m fine” he says weakly, his free hand cupping your cheeks and wiping the new tears away with his thumb.

“I didn’t mean to” you mutter, and he wants to comfort you properly but he really can’t move.

“I know you didn’t sweetheart, it’s okay” he soothes, still stroking your cheeks with his thumb, “come here” he invites, his voice still rough, lifting the arm not holding the ice pack so you could come and lay on his chest.

Carefully, making sure not to jostle him, you rest your head on his chest and he wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer.

“Single handedly took down Daredevil, huh?” He jokes, swallowing the way this entire event absolutely, brutally, stung his pride, in favour of comforting you, kissing the top of your head, “not many people can say they’ve done that.”

That makes you huff out a small laugh despite yourself.

As he shifts the ice pack, he lets out another high pained whimper before adding “I hope you weren’t planning on getting laid any time soon though baby.”

Or should I say single-kneededly… Idek guys I just had this idea stuck in my head I guess lmao, anyway poor Matty lol <\3

Slumped over the opposite side of the table, your chin rested in the palm of your hand as you absently watched a droplet of condensation run down the side of your iced coffee. A wet ring had formed beneath it on the wooden table as the pair of you sat at a coffee shop on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen. You'd intentionally gone out of your way to stay outside of Matt's hearing range for these meet ups discussing Katy’s article with her, though you were actively being eaten alive with the guilt.

It felt wrong lying to Matt. You didn't like it. And not just about the story Katy was working on that you'd spent the past nearly two weeks helping her with in your downtime, but you'd also had a couple of self-defense training sessions with Karen and Frank already. Training sessions that you’d still not mentioned to him because you knew how Matt would react to learning that you were spending time with Frank Castle and having him teach you how to shoot a gun. 

Keeping the secrets hadn’t been difficult, though. Matt was rarely in the apartment lately, spending more time than usual out at the office to work. Even his usual off hours when you'd usually get to see him were now spent at Nelson, Murdock and Page if he wasn't out as Daredevil solely so that he could get away from the stench of skunk still lingering at home. Because while the scent had significantly faded for you, it hadn’t quite faded for Matt and his bloodhound nose. 

But with Matt not being around as much, it made avoiding telling him what you were doing far too easy. There was no need to hide why you came home covered in sweat and smelling like gun powder from a shooting range, because a simple shower while he was out washed away the evidence. Any residual scent lingering in the air was either masked by the skunk or you figured that he assumed it was from his own suit. Because not once had Matt suspected anything.

And not once had he inquired about all the extra time you'd been spending with Katy at The Bulletin, which only made the pit in your stomach grow into a gaping blackhole of guilt. Matt trusted you to be forthright and honest with him, to tell him if you ever found yourself chasing after a story that would put you in danger after what had happened the last time you did. Yet here you were keeping secrets from him once again, and it made you feel sick to your stomach. 

But the secrecy was only temporary, and it was just to keep him safe. You didn't plan to keep the story about an escaped prisoner from The Raft from him for too much longer, but that didn't alleviate the sinking feeling you carried around on a daily basis. 

Not that Matt noticed anything off with you. He hadn’t been around you long enough for that. 

Katy's fingers snapped twice in front of your face, and your head swiftly raised from your palm at the sound. You blinked back at her across the table as you were drawn from your thoughts, noticing the frown deepening on her lips.

“Are you overthinking on me again?” she asked. 

“Sorry,” you apologized. “Just got lost in my thoughts. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that digging through the old, physical copies of past papers isn't exactly cutting it,” Katy told you. “We don't even know what we're looking for besides some sort of big, publicized arrest. But with all the crazy shit that occurs in New York City, it's almost impossible to remember every out of the ordinary thing that’s happened here.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, trying to focus on the conversation and not your spiraling thoughts. “Especially when you work in the news and you're surrounded by it every day. It all starts to blur together.”

Katy’s eyes narrowed back at you from across the table as she raised the ceramic mug to her lips. She stared at you beneath the blunt cut of her dark bangs as she drank her coffee, the corners of her eyes creasing. You knew that look well, it was the look she always gave you when she was seeing straight through you. A unique skill of hers that was useful for journalism and frustrating when it came to your personal life.

Sighing heavily, you sat back in your chair, gaze dropping back down to the ice melting in your coffee. “I just feel guilty,” you confessed. “It doesn’t feel right not telling him what we're doing. Especially not with who he is.”

“You’re thinking about Matt again, aren’t you?” she pressed, lowering her cup to the table. “At some point during these meetups, you always get this broody, distant look on your face. You look like someone forced the bacteria-ridden tap water from Josie’s down your throat.”

“Look, I get it,” Katy soothed. “But you're only doing it so that he doesn't go running out into the streets at night and just jump headfirst into danger. Especially when it’s danger that we still know nothing about.” 

“I know,” you mumbled.

Katy leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table as she lowered her voice. This was not a conversation the rest of Black Out Coffee needed to eavesdrop on.

“What if the person we're looking for can raise the dead or control lightning?” Katy speculated. “Or shoot fireballs from their hands? Or, I don't fucking know, turn random objects into crazy explosives? Wouldn't you rather hand this over to Matt with something more for him to go on than the fact that they're enhanced? For all we know, this escaped prisoner could be Avenger-level scary. You want Matt running into that without–”

“I know,” you repeated more firmly. Eyes raising from the iced coffee in front of you, you met her stare. “I get it, Katy. That's why I haven't said anything. I'm scared for Matt. I'd rather risk his anger and ask for forgiveness later than have him just gone because something awful happened to him. But that doesn't mean I don't feel incredibly shitty hiding this from him.” 

A frown settled onto your face as you ran your index finger along the condensation of your cup, the pad of your fingertip growing damp. It was only months ago that you'd made that pinky promise with Matt about using your words and communicating with each other, and now here you were breaking it shortly after he finally proposed to you. 

“That's not what we're supposed to do,” you mumbled.

“You two are disgustingly perfect for each other,” Katy said, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “He'll get over it. You both already had your big breakup, there's no way he'd be stupid enough to end things a second time.”

Looking up from your coffee, you shot Katy a flat look. While you admired how much faith she had in yours and Matt's relationship, you didn't fully believe it had already been fully tested to its limits, especially considering that Matt was Daredevil. His life was wrought with danger, and navigating it together as a couple wouldn't always be easy. Especially since there was no instruction manual on how to date a masked vigilante.

Bringing your coffee to your lips, you sipped the cold liquid through the straw as you glanced around the coffee shop. It was late afternoon now, and the sun shone through all the large windows lining the shop as it started inching towards the skyline. But as you absentmindedly looked around, you found yourself doing a double take back towards a man standing near the counter. He looked out of place in the shop with how well-dressed he was for a Saturday afternoon, wearing what looked like a designer suit in an uncommon color that you didn't see often–dark purple. 

A crease formed between your brows as you sat there staring at him, something strange scratching in the back of your mind as if you recognized him from somewhere. You watched as he spoke to the barista behind the counter making his drink, trying to place why he'd caught your attention.

“What?” Katy asked. She turned her head over her shoulder, her eyes openly following where your attention had gone. “You're looking at purple man?”

“Yeah,” you answered.

“Why?” she asked curiously. “Do you know him?”

You shook your head lightly, brows creasing together as you continued studying the man at the counter. Something about him just seemed off. Everyone near him was smiling, but considering the late rush at the coffee shop now that it was so late in the afternoon, the broad smiles on their faces looked out of place. They hadn't been smiling that wide when you and Katy had ordered.

“No,” you said, “but something about him seems familiar, right?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Katy tip her head to the side as she observed the man. He grabbed his coffee from the young woman behind the counter before turning around, and that odd feeling grew even stronger as you saw his entire face. But his eyes met yours from across the shop and he hesitated, catching both you and Katy openly staring at him. 

“Shit,” Katy whispered, ducking her head away. “That's not awkward.”

A chill crept up your spine as he stood there staring back at you, your hand tightening around your coffee cup. Before you could break the uncomfortable eye contact, the man in the purple suit began making his way towards your table near the window. 

“And now he's coming over,” you whispered, finally tearing your attention from him. “Maybe it's nothing, but I just have this weird feeling like he looks familiar. I just can't place why–”

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

You stiffened at the cheerful, accented voice. The sound of it seeped into your skin, sparking an unexplainable fear that you couldn't quite pinpoint as it squeezed itself into your veins. Something felt inexplicably off as you hesitantly glanced up at him now standing beside the table, his coffee in one hand and his attention fixed on you.

“You know they say it's rude to stare,” he stated, undeterred by the looks on yours' and Katie's faces. “So go on. Introduce yourselves.”

Your name fell out of your mouth as if it was dragged out by a magnetic pull at the same time Katy gave him hers. Eyes shifting towards her, you caught Katy giving you the same confused look from the opposite side of the table. What the hell had that just been, you hadn’t–

“Eyes on me.”

His voice cut through your thoughts, and your eyes abruptly snapped back towards him. His smile widened, but something sinister lurked beneath it, causing the hair on the back of your neck to bristle.

“Now why don't you tell me what caught your attention and had you so rudely gawking at me?” he demanded. 

“You looked familiar,” you answered automatically. 

One of his dark brows lifted at the comment, his eyes narrowing suspiciously down at you. You wanted to look at Katy, to gauge how she felt about this odd encounter, but for some reason you couldn't seem to look away from him. 

“So you know who I am?” he pressed.

“No.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly content with that answer. “And who would you happen to be? What do you both do?”

“We're journalists,” you replied, the answer falling off your tongue “For The Bulletin.”

His smile spread even wider in delight as a gleeful noise slipped out of him, and that only made you grow increasingly uneasy. Yet for some reason, you still couldn't look away from him. You tried to turn your head, desperate to know if Katy seemed to be experiencing whatever you were, but you simply couldn’t control the muscles of your neck. Your head remained fixed straight forward, your eyes focused on the man in the dark purple suit.

“Lovely!” he exclaimed, beaming down at the both of you. “I've heard that Devil git prefers The Bulletin. Good to know I've made some friends there now myself, hmm?”

You swallowed hard, eyes still stuck to him. You had no idea what he meant by making friends because this entire interaction was making your skin crawl and you definitely never wanted to see him again. But the mention of the Devil had your mind instantly conjuring up Matt's smiling face, and your heart thundered in your chest. Was he talking about Daredevil? Because it was well-known that Daredevil often gave story leaks specifically to The Bulletin in order to out criminals. Mostly because Matt favored you. 

“But unfortunately I need to cut our introductions short. I have other issues to deal with this evening. Shame, really. I imagine this could’ve been much more fun if I’d had more time,” he mused to himself. “Obviously you’ll both need to forget about this meeting when I leave,” he continued. “But before I do, I have to say that those frowns on your faces are rather upsetting. You both should smile more, be more excited. Today is a very good day after all, don’t you think?”

The second his accented voice mentioned smiling, your mouth moved on its own, sweeping up into a bright smile that made your cheeks ache. Across the table, you heard Katy abruptly agree with him about what a good day it was, and for some reason that you couldn't understand, you felt compelled to agree with her. 

The man in the purple suit turned and left your table, heading for the exit of the coffee shop as he took a drink of his coffee. Whatever had been holding your head in place seemed to release it, and you finally switched your attention over towards Katy. But just as you’d opened your mouth to say something, you completely forgot what you’d been about to say. The thought abruptly slipped from your mind as if it'd never been there.

Blinking at Katy a handful of times, your smile continued to stretch wide across your lips. Slightly confused about what you’d been about to tell her, you shook your head and picked up your coffee, raising the straw to your lips and taking a drink. Almost simultaneously you were struck with a sudden burst of excitement, not really in the mood to sit and discuss the story you'd both been chasing after for weeks.

“Let's not worry about the massive backlog of newspapers anymore today,” you told Katy. “It'll be fine. We'll figure it out. Besides, it's too nice of a day to complain about the out of date way Ellison stores them. We should go do something else that’s actually fun. Like shopping!” You instantly perked up in your seat as the idea burst out of you. “Do you want to go shopping instead?"

“Ugh, yes!” Katy eagerly agreed, pushing her chair back and standing up. “We should go find some cute outfits, I have a date coming up anyway. Seems too nice of a day to just sit here, right?”

Matt pushed open the rooftop access door, his tired feet dragging his battered body inside the apartment. After he'd gotten sprayed by that skunk a couple of weeks ago, he hadn't managed to successfully wash the scent out of the material of his old suit enough for it to not constantly interfere with his senses, which meant he'd been forced to toss it. He’d returned to wearing his “original” suit that provided absolutely no protection while he waited for a new suit to be finished as yet another favor. 

His nose instantly burned as he stepped inside, the repulsive scent of skunk once again slipping into his nose as his own guilt steadily uncoiled in his gut. He’d barely been here all week. The last time he’d had much of a conversation with you was days ago because he was always running in to grab his Daredevil suit after work before disappearing again. Or he was peeling it off of himself before taking a shower and climbing into bed with you, burying his face against your neck in an attempt to block out the smell so that he could get a few hours of sleep.

You hadn’t commented on his constant disappearances, but Matt knew that you were upset with him. He’d been vanishing on you frequently, leaving you alone more often than not. Of course he knew that you’d never actually say anything about his absence because you were always so understanding when it came to him, which only made him feel worse. You knew that the smell in the apartment burned the inside of his nose and gave him excruciating headaches just from sleeping here at night, and you were far too selfless to ever complain or demand that he stayed home knowing that. But Matt was well aware that it bothered you that he was never around even if you didn’t say it.

You’d been quieter than usual over the past couple of weeks. Your mood seemed off, as if that awkward brightness he loved so much had suddenly dimmed. He knew that it was solely his doing, and he’d been internally berating himself over it for the past few days, telling himself that he needed to make more time for you. Which was what he planned to do tonight, and it was why he’d come home a bit earlier from patrolling the city. He wanted to be more present, even if it meant enduring the rancid scent of skunk and the negative effects it’d leave him with. You at least deserved to be with someone who didn’t constantly leave you to yourself.

As he began descending the stairs to the living room, one hand removing the black mask from his sweaty head, his senses located you in the kitchen putting away clean dishes from the dishwasher. Matt made it only halfway down the stairs before he heard your high pitched voice squeal out an unexpected “Matty!” excitedly from across the room. Matt’s foot hesitated briefly on the next step, his head tipping slightly to the side as his dark brows pinched together. Seconds later, he caught the sound of your bare feet lightheartedly skipping across the apartment towards him.

That was…new.

“You’re home early!” you cheerfully trilled.

When he descended the last step, you didn't wait to check for injuries before flinging yourself forward at him. Encircling your arms around his neck, you latched onto him and abruptly planted three kisses to his cheek in quick succession. Matt’s hands hovered in the air at his sides in confusion, not entirely certain what was going on. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been happy to see him in the past when he came home, but he’d never experienced you quite so exuberant at his arrival before. And certainly not lately.

“I–yeah,” he replied. Recovering from the shock at your significantly altered mood, his arms finally wrapped around your waist, pulling you towards his chest for a hug. “I’m aware that I haven’t been around as much lately after the skunk incident, and I've been feeling guilty about it,” he admitted against the top of your head. “I missed you, sweetheart. Thought I'd come home earlier so we could actually spend some time together.”

“I missed you too, Matty,” you told him. “Which reminds me!”

You swiftly disentangled yourself from his embrace before quite literally hopping backwards two steps on your bare feet, the smile on your face apparent in your own voice. Though as Matt listened a little closer, he caught something peculiar about just how wide your smile actually sounded to his ears. The muscles of your face were strained, making a noise like that of sandpaper scratching against itself. Which meant you’d been doing a lot of smiling today, something Matt could only assume was an abnormal amount to cause that level of strain. He’d certainly never heard that from someone in all his years with his heightened senses. 

“I made you another batch of trail mix!” you excitedly relayed. “Or, well, like five batches, really. I know how much you’ve been going nonstop lately between work and Deviling. I figured it’d be a great way to make sure you’re keeping your body from depleting its energy levels. Can’t have the Devil going out on an empty stomach!”

The crease between Matt’s brows deepened further, his eyes fixing somewhere around your chest. Your heart rate was a little more elevated than usual, and your nervous system was in high gear, but not from anxiety. He could smell higher amounts of dopamine coming off of you, and Matt could guess that you had raised levels of serotonin and oxytocin in your bloodstream. Your body was reacting almost as similarly as it had done the night he’d proposed and you’d said yes, but why? What could have possibly occurred to make you quite this excited today?

“Sweetheart, did something happen today?” he asked hesitantly. “You seem…in a rather good mood tonight.”

You shrugged your shoulders, the smile still firmly planted on your lips despite how tired the rest of your body sounded. Something about it felt off to Matt, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The entirety of your body sounded like it usually did at the end of the day–tired and ready for sleep–yet you also seemed equally and uncharacteristically lively.

“Nope!” you chirped. “It’s just a very good day today, don’t you think, Matty?”

His senses snapped fully and completely onto your body, trying to search for a cause as to why you sounded so unlike yourself tonight. His gut was telling him something wasn't right, but he couldn’t seem to pinpoint anything being the cause of the strange juxtaposition occurring inside of you. You didn't sound sick or injured, and there weren't any signs leading him to think that Katy had gotten you high or that someone had unexpectedly drugged you with something. There was absolutely nothing noticeably wrong with you even if he could feel it. Maybe you really were just having an oddly good day? Still holding the mask in his left hand, Matt heard the air shift as you gestured a hand towards the bathroom down the short hallway. 

“Mhmm,” you hummed out, energetically nodding your head. “I’m perfectly fine. Great, actually.”

“Why don’t you go get showered and changed?” you suggested before tossing a thumb over your shoulder at the kitchen. “I can make you something for dinner, and then afterwards we can do whatever you want. Oh!” You exclaimed loudly, another burst of adrenaline shooting through you. “Do you want to go to that park nearby? It’s still open for a few more hours, and then we can get out of the house and away from the smell of skunk. We could go for a walk and you can–”

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Matt said, cutting you off as he raised a gloved hand to your shoulder. “You sound as if you’ve had fifteen coffees tonight, yet your body doesn’t seem to be matching up. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah?” he cautiously questioned.

You shrugged easily once more, the smile still drawn tight across your lips. “Yeah,” you agreed. “Today just feels like a very good day, don’t you think, Matty?”

Matt’s eyes narrowed back at you, catching the odd way you repeated yourself. It had that uncomfortable sensation in his gut screaming at him, something itching inside of him telling him that you weren’t acting like yourself. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find a reason for your unusualness this evening. 

With an abrupt shake of his head, he shifted his senses more outwards again, no longer focusing so intensely on just you. Maybe you really were just that excited to see him again with how he'd been neglecting you lately, and that thought had guilt and regret steadily filling him as he turned and headed towards the bathroom for a shower. He really had been a horrible fiancé lately, and he figured he’d try to make it up to you tonight. He wouldn't let himself destroy your good mood with his endless remorse.

When Matt comes home later than usual from patrol, to the sound of your pained whimpers, and the strong smell of iron in the air, his first instinct is to panic, still adrenalised from being out.

He can’t help it. He’s come to expect the worst and rushes towards the bedroom, still fully dressed as Daredevil.

“Sweetheart? You okay?” He calls out, his tone decidedly not like Daredevil, relaxing fractionally at the sound of your steady heartbeat coming inside from the small mountain of blankets piled up on the bed.

“No” you mumble, unable to give him anything else, which makes him all the more worried again.

As Matt steps closer, the fact that he’s an actually just an idiot slaps him in the face.

You’ve not been attacked, you got your period.

Not that you think there’s much difference, you’re in so much pain right now, you might as well have been attacked.

He literally warned you that you’d probably get it this morning, knowing when he woke up with his face buried in your neck. He’d smelt the change in your hormones as he guiltily took heavy inhales of your scent like he does every morning. Usually while you still slept, but you’ve caught him a few times.

The pain always radiates up and down your whole body, every cramp from your abdomen shoots pain up your back and down your legs as well. Your muscles feel weak, your stomach nauseous, and the only thing you can do it try to stay relaxed and breathe through it.

That’s easier said than done when every new wave has you letting out strained whimpers, teeth clenched as you squeeze your eyes shut when the pain takes you again.

“Oh sweetheart” Matt says as he drops to his knees beside the bed, taking the mask off and throwing it carelessly behind him, before pulling a glove off with his teeth to run his fingers through your hair, his thumb in your slightly sweaty forehead.

It wasn’t unusual for Matt to find you like this, it happened every month. Sometimes it was worse, sometimes it was a bit better, but it always sucked. He’d known you were due soon for the past few days, so he felt extra stupid for not realising straight away.

“Did you have any painkillers?” He asks softly, his large hand moving down to stroke along your cheekbone.

With a small shake of your head, you manage to whisper out “it only just started.”

Glad at least that you’ve not been like this by yourself for long, Matt gets off the floor and goes to gather your usual supplies for this time of the month.

First and foremost, he brings you a glass of water with two little pills, helping you sit up and holding the cup as well because he doesn’t trust the way your hands are shaking.

After you’ve taken a small sip and swallowed the pills, he sets the rest on the bedside table and starts taking the suit he still has on off, listening to the way you’re watching him undress even in your pained state.

Seeing his bruised, bare skin is a welcome distraction is what you think, the way his defined muscles ripple and tense as he moves briefly taking your mind of the cramping.

Picking up the suit as he goes to put it away, he stays in his boxers and starts grabbing the stuff you need.

Luckily, you already had your heating pad since you both just leave it near the bed now for this exact reason, so he goes to make your tea, bringing the steaming cup to the bedroom for you.

As much as he hates it, while you drink, he goes to take the quickest shower he’s ever had because he’s covered in grime, sweat and blood. Your eyes follow him when he comes out of the bathroom again, droplets of water running down his defined chest with a towel wrapped low round his waist.

What always helps the most though is when Matt finally slips into the bed beside you, and wraps his strong arms around your waist. You bury your face in his shower warmed chest, tangling your legs together and you get as close to him as you can.

The feeling of his bare skin against yours is heavenly, soothing some of that tightness in your body. Matt hadn’t bothered to get dressed again after his shower so he got into bed completely naked, and he was greeted with the feeling of your also mostly naked form, only a pair of cotton underwear and some old boxers of his adorning your body.

“Jesus baby, you’re going to burn yourself” Matt scolds gently, letting out a suprised gasp as the incredibly hot heating pad touches his skin from where you had it cradled to your stomach.

“It’s not helping anyway” you mumble dejectedly, flicking it off and moving it away in favour of using Matt’s body heat to soothe your ache instead.

Pressing a kiss to your temple, Matt listens to your body for a second. He can sense the pain you’re in. He can hear the way your inner muscles are tensing, contracting. He can smell the stress in your scent, the almost sweet iron scent that fills the air around you.

He hates when you’re suffering like this, he feels so helpless. He can’t protect you from your own body. He can’t solve this problem with his fists or his brain.

“Thank you” you whisper softly, letting out a little sigh as his calloused hands start to kneed your sore lower back.

“You don’t have to thank me angel” he says gently, “I just wish there was something else I could do.”

“This is already helping” you breathe, already feeling much more content wrapped up securely in Matt’s warm body, but realistically it doesn’t do much to actually help the pain, and he knows it. He’s all to aware of every time your muscles contract starting a new wave of misery for you.

“There’s… there is one thing we haven’t tried” Matt mutters lowly, his voice a little unsure at even suggesting it while you’re like this, but honestly you’ve tried everything else.

“Hm? What?” You hum, still buried in his chest.

“I heard that uh, orgasms can help” he continues, his voice still quiet.

“Matty” you sigh, “I don’t know… it hurts and it’s… messy, and with your senses it’s probably really gross” you mutter, honestly embarrassed by the idea of him touching you there right now.

“It’s not gross sweetheart” Matt placates, “you could never be gross to me, it’s natural, and it’s not like I’m a stranger to blood. Can I be honest?”

A small nod from you has him continuing, moving his head to speak lowly in your hear, “you smell… good baby.”

“Matt!” You gasp, embarrassed again at the idea he can already smell you. It’s one thing to hear that he could because you already knew that, but to hear him admit that he likes it, is another.

Matt chuckles softly at your reaction, holding you even tighter against him as he continues to speak, his head moving to the crook of your neck.

“You smell sweet, it’s not like normal blood, and god your pheromones are so strong right now” he nearly groans as you hear him take a deep inhale against your sweat dampened skin.

His words and actions have your face burning, and you mutter out a little “oh my god” from where you’re buried in his chest.

“So it’s up to you angel” Matt says softly, lifting his head again to clear his mind a little from where he’s drowning in you, “if you want to try it, we can, but if you don’t then I’ll shut up.”

At first, you feel strongly against the taboo idea, but as another violent wave of pain passes through you, it has you reconsidering.

“I just- everywhere really hurts” you point out, warming up the idea now but you’re still a little nervous that anything like that will just make it hurt more.

“I know it does sweetie, I’ll be so gentle. I promise. You trust me yeah?” Matt says softly, kissing your forehead.

“Of course I do” you say quietly, but there’s sincerity in your voice.

“Then let me try and help you, and if you change your mind, or it hurts or you just don’t like it then we stop” he suggests softly, makings sure you know this is on your terms.

“Only if you promise to say something too if it’s too gross or too much for you” you say in a small voice.

Honestly that’s the part you’re worried about the most, how aware he is of everything, but you can’t deny it isn’t temping to try. You’d be willing to try just about anything at this point.

“That’s not gonna happen sweetheart, but sure I promise if it’ll make you feel better” he states, before gently moving your head out of his chest so you look at him.

Dipping his head with his hand on your jaw, Matt places a gentle kiss on your lips. The small pained sound you make against his mouth when another cramp hits you tightens his chest.

“Let me take care of you angel, please let me try” he basically begs. He really doesn’t know what else to do. You always take away his pain, and he wants to do the same for you.

The nod of your head makes him release a little sigh of relief.

“Words baby” he encourages anyway.

“Please Matty” you whisper, your heart steady and sure, and then he’s kissing you again, so tenderly and soft that it makes your eyes sting.

Thinking you’re tearing up from the pain, Matt pulls back to breathe “I know sweetheart, I know, I’m gonna help you, come here.”

His words are warm and a little urgent against your lips, as gentle fingertips graze down over your bare thigh, before he’s pressing his whole palm to your skin to pull your leg over his naked hip.

After getting a little too caught up in this idea, Matt quickly remembers that dispite him not minding, this would still be particularly messy.

“Shit wait, hold on a second, let me get a towel or something” he says with a quick kiss to your forehead before getting out of bed again, and you unashamedly look at his toned ass as he walks away.

The man quickly returns with two towels, holding them up to show you, asking “I can’t tell which one’s darker?”

Matt could tell these were towels that were deeper in colour than the rest by the very minimal difference in texture they had, probably caused by the dyeing process or something, but he couldn’t tell them apart anymore than that.

The only reason he even noted it at all was because you always handed him one of these when he was hurt, and you didn’t want his injuries to stain the lighter towels. It’s literally the blood towel.

“The left” you reply, your voice still weak due to pain and the mild embarrassment still running through you at what you’re about to let him do.

He slowly pulls the duvet and several blankets off of you, and lays the towel easily on the bedsheets, then he crawls towards you, helping you get situated on the fabric, the rough texture of it against your back.

Matt even adjusts the pillow behind your head, leaning down chest to chest between your legs to kiss you sweetly.

“Comfy?” He checks, his thumb brushing over your cheek. Your skin feels slightly warm and clammy under his touch, the pain from your cramping uterus still radiating through your body.

“Yes Matty” you say as you laugh lightly at his worried pampering. He smiles back at the sound of your laugh, even if it was small.

Slowly, he leans in to kiss you again, passionately because he’s unable to do it any other way, but he’s tender. Matt’s hand hold the side of your face as the other holds himself up over you, whereas usually one would be running up and down your body, grabbing needy handfuls of your skin.

As he kisses you, his breathing picks up with yours, his already hard cock pressing against your underwear and Matt quickly realises this might be his final test in restraint.

The way you’re heating up under his touch helps the sweeter smell of the microscopic change in your natural scent fill the room, and adding your growing arousal into the mix was a dangerous cocktail for him. Your body is already so swollen and sensitive, little hums escaping your lips from just his kiss alone.

As he presses tongued kisses down your neck, he can taste the way the light layer of sweat on your skin has changed too, every part of your body preparing for this one week that causes you agony.

“Gonna make you feel good baby” he reassures deeply against your skin.

Your hands thread through the still damp hair on the back of his head, cradling him to your chest as he kisses further down, his hand coming to hold your waist as he mouthes at your nipple softly.

Again, usually Matt would have no problems grabbing handfuls of your breasts, teasing you with his tongue and teeth in a way that makes you whine, but tonight he’s extra gentle with the tender mounds that he loves to bite on your chest.

As his stubble drags across your sternum, down your stomach, your brows furrow and you try to pull him back up by the grip you have on his hair.

“Matt… what are you doing?” You say hesitantly, lifting your head a little, scandalised at the idea of his head going even further down.

“What do you think dummy?” He mutters against your the skin of your abdomen sarcastically, seemingly unbothered by what he’s about to do. He goes down on you every chance he can, why would this be any different?

“Matthew Michael Murdock, you are not eating me out while I’m on my period” you hiss, your cheeks heating up, and the use of his full name has him freezing where he is for a second.

A disappointed sigh leaves his lips as he stops and rests his forehead on your stomach, but he relents, figuring he’s already asking a lot just trusting him with this. Maybe he’ll get his mouth on you next time though, if this works.

One of your legs lifts to press your foot against his shoulder, pushing his upper body away from inbetween your legs when he doesn’t move away fast enough for your liking, and he lets you.

“Okay, okay pretty, I won’t” he soothes your embarrassment as he shifts back a little, moving your leg back down gently after kissing your ankle while his fingertips run along your waistband.

You watch him on his knees between your legs, his cock standing at attention while he focuses all of his on you. The second he starts to slowly slip your underwear down, you let your head fall back against the silk pillow, unwilling to watch what he’s doing anymore.

You’re accustomed to your period of course, and realistically you know it’s natural and there’s nothing shameful about it, but you’re still convinced Matt’s just going to find it completely gross, especially with his heightened senses.

Unceremoniously pulling your legs free of your panties and his boxers, he lets them fall to the floor, pad included and then you’re completely bare before him.

The first time Matt inhales the raw, thick iron scent that mixes so heavily with the natural scent of you, and your arousal without that underlying sickly chemical smell from your pad, he has to fight back a groan.

Gentle, he reminds himself, but you can hear the way he’s breathing heavier.

Now you’re naked too, and since he’s been scolded for his original plan, Matt settles on his side next to you, coaxing to face him, and he guides your thigh over his hip again, and you can feel his hard arousal hot against your abdomen. He leans forward to kiss you again, and you sigh into him, relishing in how close he is.

Another cramp passes through you, and he holds you tightly, breaking the kiss to pull you into his chest till it passes, his other arm sneaking under you to stroke your back as your hands clench into fists against his stomach.

“I’ve got you baby” he whispers as you let out a small whimper of pain. It sobers him up a little, refocusing his attention back to the fact that he’s doing this to make hopefully give you some relief.

As you relax against him, your head falls back to look at him again, at the way his unfocused eyes rest on your collarbone, the new bruise forming on his cheek from when he went out tonight, the way he’s biting his lip as his fingers slowly wander down inbetween your bodies, coming into contact with the heat between your legs.

Matt audibly swallows at the sensation, at how much physically hotter you seem, how swollen and wet you are from both his touching and the blood. The arm under you curls around your waist, holding you tighter even against him.

His fingers locate your clit immediately, circling it with a delicate touch that has you moaning softly, and arching your back into him.

“That’s it sweetheart” Matt breathes out, pressing a little harder on your swollen bud, “gonna make you feel all better.”

He doesn’t tease you tonight, he needs you to come, the sooner the better. Keeping his pace, he plays with your clit till you’re whining in pleasure, and he can feel the way your legs start shaking as you get closer and closer to your finish.

“Matty” you gasp out as his middle finger dips to your bloodied entrance, before he gently sinks it into you, slowly enough for you to have time to say something if it hurts.

When he reaches his last knuckle, he pulls back and adds his ring finger with the next thrust, before he crooks them just right against that spot like it’s second nature and the action has you clawing at his broad shoulders.

“Come for me angel” Matt pants roughly, completely affected by your sounds, the way you feel under his hands. He presses his rough palm against your clit as he massages your g-spot, making you see stars.

The pleasure rises, and rises with every shift of his hand, until it finally breaks. A long drawn out moan leaves your lips, your nails digging into his skin as you come on his hand.

“Fuck, that’s it sweetheart, that’s it, come on my fingers, such a good girl for me.” He nearly moans, his voice deep and breathless. His words only heightening the pleasure, loving how soft he is for you right now.

Waves pass through you every time Matt presses his fingers into that spot deep inside, and he feels the way your walls flutter tight around him, the sensation bringing out a small groan from him too.

His hard cock jumps against your thigh with every clench of your cunt, and it’s dragging pre in a sticky trail over your skin as you move your hips, riding out your orgasm on his hand.

Only when you start to come down does he stop, slowing his movements gradually while he listens to your heart beat try to calm down, and catch your breath.

“You okay?” He checks in gently, his forehead resting on yours. He listens to your body for any sign that he just made things worse.

The small, sated hum that comes from your lips eases his anxiety, and as all your muscles slowly relax into the bed, you quickly realise your cramps aren’t quite as bad now either. They’re still there though.

“It worked a little” you sigh, honestly just happy even for a bit of relief, but that’s not good enough for Matt.

As he brings his hand away from in between your legs, you swallow anxiously before eventually opening your eyes to see the mess you’ve made on his hand.

What you weren’t expecting to see was Matt almost playing with it, rubbing his fingers together before he leans back and starts to bring them up to his mouth.

You try to catch his wrist with wide eyes, but he just evades your touch and you watch in horror as he licks his bloodied fingers.

“Matt!” You gasp, as he goes even further and starts to suck his fingers clean, a deep groan leaving his lips as his eyes slip shut at the strong, metallic taste mixed with your come that fills his mouth. He’s never tasted anything like it.

“So fucking good” he mumbles, sounding a little fucked out.

His fingers leave his mouth to travel between your bodies again, but this time his fingers wrap round his own throbbing cock, covering it in what’s left of your blood, squeezing hard to try and relieve some of the ache he’s feeling for you.

Watch the whole thing, you lay there with your mouth gaped as he touches himself somehow covered in your red liquid. There’s a trail of it up his chest like he purposefully dragged his hand along his body, there’s some remnants in his mouth you can see where he’s biting his lip, and now it’s all over his cock too, which looks so hard it must be painful.

This shouldn’t be so fucking hot.

Matt’s breathing heavy now as he slowly strokes himself, and you’re getting even more turned on watching him, your last orgasm already forgotten. Now you just want him, need him. Some primal desire sparking in you lower belly, like you’re claiming him with your own blood on his body.

As though your uterus could hear your thoughts, another wave of pain passes through you again, although it is slightly lessened but it’s still bad enough to have you curling in on yourself, and it snaps Matt out of his lust fuelled haze again.

“Shit I’m sorry angel” he apologises for getting distracted, struggling monumentally with how hot he finds this.

He pulls you tight against him again, keeping his blood covered hand away from you as he kisses your forehead.

Once it passes, he’s about to make you come again with his hand, but to his surprise, you shift even closer to him, the leg on his hip moving higher as you angle your bloodied core against his cock, making him gasp.

“Fuck, baby are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you” he breathes out, but his hips are already moving, creating delicious friction on your clit as his cock drags through your folds.

His original plan was just to finger you till you cried, if that’s what it takes, then go and have a wank in the bathroom after you all but pass out.

“Please Matty” you moan, too turned on to care, your hands tightening in his hair enough to make him hum, “make me feel good.” You angle your hips as you talk so he’s notched at your entrance, and Matt’s quickly losing all rational thought.

His still bloodied hand cups your ass, squeezing gently and leaving a red handprint on your skin, as he groans quietly while wrestling with his self control.

“Okay, okay baby but you gotta tell me if it hurts, yeah?” He says to you, not that you’d be able to hide it from him if it did. He’d be able to tell from your sounds alone.

“I will Matty, please just fuck me” you nearly whine, feeling him so close and your hips move to press the tip into you ever so slightly, making Matt let out a rough breath.

With the upmost care, Matt carefully rearranges you so you’re laid a littler further upwards, making it a better angle for him to fuck up into you, bringing your thigh over his waist then bending his own leg for better leverage against the bed. Neither of you are particularly aware of the red steaks he’s leaving all over your bodies.

“You ready?” He checks, and a frustrated little sound passes through your lips which he thinks is just adorable.

“Matthew I swear to God-” you huff out with clenched teeth, not in the mood to be teased, even though he’s not actually trying to tease you. He’s just overly worried, being exeedingly sweet and caring which isn’t helping how horny you’re feeling.

“Okay okay, you don’t have to bring him into this” he mutters, knowing he’s pushing his luck and takes his cock in his hand, moving his hips forward to press into your waiting core before you can finish your sentence.

The stretch makes you gasp, and Matt chokes on his breath a little at just how hot you seem from the inside, warmer than usual and so, so fucking wet.

“You feel so good baby, so good for me” he moans out lowly as he sinks further into you.

As he slowly bottoms out, taking his time so he doesn’t hurt you, he pulls you tight against him, before trying to kiss you again, but you move your head back with a small squeak and put your hand over his mouth.

He raises his eyebrows in surprise at your actions.

“You gave up your right to kiss me when you sucked your fingers clean” you explain shakily, breathless from his cock.

The length of him sits so deep inside you, and your pussy flutters around the intrusion as you adjust. You feel the ache at your cervix more prominently as the tip presses against it, and the tiny little pained sound you make that wouldn’t be audible to anyone else has Matt pulling his hips back, giving you immediate relief.

“You said you’d tell me” he mutters against your palm, his cock twitching inside you as you shift your hips to get more comfortable.

“You didn’t even give me a chance” you say lightly, taking your hand away, but your small smile is enough to soothe his worries for now, and he starts a shallow, gentle pace. A far cry from how he usually pounds into you.

“More Matty” you whine not long after he started moving, the ache inside you disappearing as your body loosens under his touch enough for you to want him to fuck you properly, and he groans deep, dipping his head to the crook of your neck.

“I’m trying to be gentle, this is supposed to help you” he nearly growls out, his restraint taking a brutal hit from your needy tone.

“You are helping baby, harder, please” you moan out, burying your face in his shoulder, pressing kisses to his neck and Matt’s helpless to do anything other than give you what you want.

He does exactly as you say, not going any faster, just harder. Hard enough to have the head of his cock hitting your g-spot with every roll of his hips. Your hands tighten even further into his hair, making him groan roughly as his hips stutter a little.

The scent of you, your arousal and the strong iron of your blood is invading his senses. All he can smell, hear, taste, feel is you around him. The grip your cunt has on his cock is like a vice, and as his hand moves down to explore the mess you’ve both made on his skin, he quickly realises he’s not going to last very long.

A high pitched moan leaves your lips as Matt finds your clit again, circling it in time with his thrusts and you whine out his name, feeling another orgasm getting that much closer.

“Fuck, you’re so wet baby” Matt grunts out, before saying “come for me, please sweetheart” in a much breathier tone, betraying to you how close he’s getting.

With the relentless pace of his hand and his cock working in tandem, hitting their mark every time, he makes you quickly unravel in his arms with a practiced ease, and you’re coming with a loud cry of his name.

The way your cunt clamps around his cock makes Matt’s thrusts speed up ever so slightly, the fluttering walls of you bringing him to the brink of orgasm, and when you pull his hair hard during your own climax, he comes with you with a deep rumbling groan.

His hips grind into you as deep as he can, his strong hands on your waist rocking you back and forth on his cock to drag out your finishes as much as he could, his hot come mixing with the blood inside you.

As he comes down, you’re still clenching rhythmically around him, forcing an overstimulated whimper out of his lips that just makes you clench even tighter around his sensitive cock, and he lets out a quiet little whine that you adore.

Eventually, both of your heart rates slowly return to normal with him still buried inside you, and the happy, sated, relaxed sigh you let out is music to Matt’s ears.

“How are you feeling? Are you okay?” He asks gently, although he swallows when he slowly starts to notice how covered you both he are as he runs his hand up your leg, over you hips.

“Much better” you sigh again, wallowing in the feeling of your traitorous uterus finally relaxing enough to give you relief from your pain, at least for now.

“Yeah?” Matt smiles, lifting his head, perking up a little and as you crack your eye open, you can’t help but smile too at the proud look he has on his face.

“Thank you Matty” you say, your voice full of affection as your hand stokes along his flushed, bruised cheek.

“You do not have to thank me for having sex with you” Matt chuckles, but the soft smile disappears when he hears your heartbeat start to pick up nervously when you finally look down between you both.

There’s blood everywhere, all over Matt’s stomach, his chest, your legs, his thighs, your stomach where you’d rubbed against each other, somehow even your hips and ass. It looks like a damn crime scene.

“Oh my god” you whisper, your previous embarrassment returning at the sight of how much of your period is on your boyfriend.

“Hey, hey, no” Matt soothes, drawing your attention back to his face, his eyes landing on your cheek, “don’t do that. We can get a shower, it’s okay. It helped right?”

Slowly you nod, and he brings his face closer to yours so your noses touch, his version of eye contact as he continues “then that’s good sweetheart. Fuck, I mean I’m definitely not complaining if this is what I have to do to get those damn cramps to stop. I don’t think you’re gross or that it’s disgusting, I mean it. I seriously found this so fucking hot.”

“Being covered in your blood? I mean, god baby” he finishes, his eyes slipping shut as he groans a little when his hips flex, creating a small amount of friction between you and the half hard cock still inside you. Maybe that primal feeling was mutual.

“You sound like a vampire” you laugh, but Matt has a worrying smile on his face.

“I’d love to go down on you angel, your blood tastes so good” he whispers lowly in your ear, and you swallow nervously at how much you don’t hate the thought anymore. You feel his cock stirring again inside you at the idea.

“Oh you like that?” He teases, his voice still unfairly deep as he listens to your heartbeat pick up.

“Don’t be gross” you say shakily, pushing his face away gently, trying to laugh it off but he knows.

“Next time then” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your palm before sitting up so you’re in his lap, then effortlessly standing and carrying you to the bathroom. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, used to being manhandled like this, especially after sex when he doesn’t let you walk on your shaky legs. You can’t say you mind today though, or ever.

In the shower, Matt gently washes the blood from you body with careful hands, using your favourite body wash that makes your skin nice and soft. He would press kisses to you as he went, before turning and hastily cleaning himself up too.

As he washed himself, you lean sleepily against his back, forehead between his shoulder blades, just letting the soothing water run down your face and body until he was done.

Matt wraps you in the fluffiest towel after you get out, pressing a quick kiss to your head again, before bringing you new underwear and a big shirt, handing you a new pad, then he gets out more painkillers for you to take as you get ready for bed, filling up the glass from earlier with fresh water. He leaves again for a minute to go and throw the bloodied towel in the washing machine.

“I got you that ice cream you like yesterday” he mentions when he’s back while he dries his hair, feeling your eyes on his naked body “and your favourite chocolate.”

“You’re the best” you smile, appreciating the way he always notices little things about you like how you always crave something sweet while you’re on your period.

“I gotta look after my girl” he winks as you stand up, and he turns towards you to press a sweet kiss to your lips, only to quickly lean back in again, kissing you deeper, his hands circling around your waist to hold you close to him like he’s been physically pained from briefly being banned from your mouth.

“I can walk you know” you laugh when Matt picks you up bridal style and takes you back to bed.

“I know” he says simply, laying you on the soft sheets and then he slips in still naked beside you, pulling you to lay on his chest as his hand massages soothing circles on your sore lower back.

The sleepy, relieved sigh you let out has Matt smiling softly into the darkness.

“I’m glad we’ve finally found something that helps” he says quietly, kissing your head.

“Yeah I’m sure you are” you giggle softly, and your head bounces a little as he chuckles.

“I love you” he sighs out, feeling how tired he actually is hit him all of a sudden.

“I love you too Matty” you mumble, already falling asleep against his chest.

“Goodnight sweetheart” he whispers, and you’re very nearly asleep before he quietly adds “wake me up if it gets bad again.”

This is completely and utterly self indulgent because I got my period and it always sucks so I want a big strong Matt to take care of me. I hope the other freaks like me enjoy this <3

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.