Introverted$$

The Goat House was a war zone. Bass rattled the cheap drywall so hard that empty beer cans were vibrating off the kitchen counters. Somewhere in the backyard, a freshman was screaming because he’d just been tackled into a inflatable pool full of lime Jell-O. It was a standard Friday night, completely unhinged and completely loud.

You stood near the bar, looking entirely detached from the absolute chaos around you. Your gorgeous complexion that sat perfectly in that middle ground radiant, glowing under the strobe lights, with your hair styled in neat, bouncing curls that framed your face. You were also tiny. Petite. Barely cracking five-foot-two on a good day, with a small frame that made you look like a literal doll compared to the absolute monsters that made up the Blue Mountain State football roster.

You were just trying to take a sip of your drink when the front door didn't just open it practically flew off its hinges.

"THE GOATS ARE HUNGRY TONIGHT!"

Thad Castle stormed into the living room. He wasn't wearing a shirt. He was wearing his football pants, his cleats clacking loudly on the ruined hardwood floor, and a captain's C written directly onto his bare chest in thick, black sharpie. He looked entirely insane. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth were practically grinding into dust, and his eyes swept the room like a silverback gorilla looking for a fight.

Then, his eyes locked onto you.

The terrifying, psychotic look on his face instantly vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated, manic glee.

"MY LITTLE POCKET PRINCESS!" Thad bellowed, his voice easily booming over the 120-decibel trap music blasting from the speakers.

Before you could even set your drink down, six-foot-three and two hundred and forty pounds of pure, terrifying muscle sprinted across the living room. The crowd of freshmen parted like the Red Sea, terrified of being trampled by the star linebacker. You didn't even have time to brace yourself before Thad’s massive, tree-trunk arms wrapped completely around your waist.

With a loud, guttural grunt, Thad hoisted you straight up into the air.

He didn't just pick you up; he lifted you like a trophy, your feet dangling a good three feet off the ground. Your small hands immediately grabbed onto his broad, sweaty shoulders for balance, your fingers sinking into the hard muscle of his back.

"Thad! Put me down, you absolute psycho!" you laughed, though you weren't actually mad. This was just what happened whenever you were within a ten-foot radius of him. The man was completely, utterly obsessed with your size.

"NEVER!" Thad screamed back, burying his face directly into the crook of your neck. He nuzzled his face against your skin aggressively, like a giant, over-enthusiastic golden retriever, his sharp jawline scraping against your collarbone. "You are too small! You're like a little teacup! If I put you down on the floor, some idiot freshman is going to step on you and crush you, and then I’ll have to murder their entire family!"

"I can walk perfectly fine, Thad," you said, winding your fingers through his messy blonde hair as he carried you across the kitchen. He was holding you effortlessly against his chest, one massive forearm locked under your thighs to keep you secure, while his other hand splayed flat against your back, pulling your small frame completely flush against his heated skin.

"No! The floor is for plebeians!" Thad declared, walking straight over to the kitchen island. He didn't put you down on a chair. Instead, he carefully set you down on top of the counter, keeping his hands firmly clamped on your hips so you wouldn't move. Even sitting on the counter, you were barely eye-level with him.

Thad leaned his weight forward, trapping you between his massive arms. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his blue eyes entirely dilated as he stared down at you. He reached up, his thick, calloused thumb gently brushing against your cheekbone. The contrast was ridiculous his hand was practically the size of your entire face, his pale skin contrasting beautifully against your smooth complexion.

"Look at you," Thad muttered, his voice dropping from a scream to a intense, vibrating whisper. "You’re so tiny. Your wrists are like toothpicks. I could snap you in half. It makes me want to protect you. It makes me want to rip someone's throat out."

"Please don't rip anyone's throat out," you smiled, reaching out to cup his jaw. You ran your fingers over his jawline, completely amused by how intense he was. "Are you going to get me a drink, or are you just gonna stand here and squeeze me all night?"

"Both!" Thad yelled, turning around and grabbing a giant plastic pitcher filled with a neon-green liquid. "I made mojitos! With real mint! I hand-crushed the mint with my own knuckles to extract the maximum amount of flavor and aggression!"

He poured some into a red solo cup and handed it to you. You took a sip it was actually surprisingly good, sweet and heavily alcoholic. "Wow. Good job, Thad."

Thad’s chest puffed out so hard you thought he was going to split his sharpie captain's C in half. "Of course it's good! I don't half-ass anything! Especially not for my girl!"

Before you could even finish your second sip, Thad’s hands were back on you. He couldn't help himself. He was completely addicted to the physical sensation of handling you. He grabbed your waist again, easily sliding you off the counter and wrapping your legs around his waist. You let out a small gasp, holding your coffee-cup tight so it wouldn't spill as he carried you back out into the living room, completely unbothered by the hundred people watching.

Alex Moran walked past, holding a beer, and stopped to look at the two of you. "Thad, seriously? Are you ever gonna let her walk on her own two feet?"

"Shut up, Moran!" Thad snapped, glare-bombing him. "She doesn't need to walk! Walking is a waste of energy! I am her chariot! Go back to being a backup quarterback and letting everyone down!"

Alex just rolled his eyes and walked away, completely used to the madness.

Thad carried you over to the dirty leather couch in the corner of the room. He sat down heavily, but he didn't put you next to him. He pulled you right onto his lap. Because of your petite frame, you basically disappeared against him. You sat sideways across his massive thighs, your head resting against his chest, right over his pounding heartbeat.

This was where the heavy petting started. Thad had absolutely no chill, and when he was in "affection mode," it was a full-body experience.

His huge, heavy hands started running up and down your bare legs, his palms warm against your skin. He traced the curve of your calf, his long fingers easily wrapping all the way around your ankle with room to spare. "Look at this," he whispered loudly into your ear, his breath hot. "My thumb and my middle finger touch. I can lock my hands around your leg. You're like a little doll."

"You've told me that like fifty times tonight, Thad," you giggled, leaning back against his shoulder.

"Because it’s a miracle!" Thad insisted, his hand moving up to grip your thigh, squeezing the soft flesh firmly but carefully. He was hyper-aware of his own strength, always balancing his psychotic football energy with a weirdly gentle caution whenever he was touching you. He ran his hand up your torso, his palm flattening against your stomach, feeling the contrast of your soft skin against his rock-hard, athletic build.

He leaned down, burying his face in your curls again, inhaling deeply. "You smell like cocoa butter and vanilla. It’s driving me crazy. It makes me want to do ten thousand squats."

"Go do them later," you murmured, tilting your head back to give him better access.

Thad didn't hesitate. He started pressing heavy, unhurried kisses along your jawline, his lips surprisingly soft for a guy who spent four hours a day smashing his face into plastic helmets. He kissed his way down to your collarbone, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you even tighter against his lap. His hands moved under the hem of your shirt, his large palms dragging up your ribs, mapping out every inch of your small frame. He was completely entranced by the sheer daintiness of you.

"You're mine," Thad growled softly against your skin, his hands moving up to cup your shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tension out of your neck. "If any of these regular-sized losers even look at you wrong, I'm going to throw them into the sun. I mean it. I’ll clear the whole room."

"I know you will, big guy," you said, reaching up to pull his face down to yours.

When Thad kissed you, it wasn't a gentle, polite affair. It was intense, possessive, and full of teeth, his massive frame completely enveloping yours. He cupped the back of your head with his giant hand, his fingers tangling in your curls, holding you perfectly still as he deeply tasted you. His other hand stayed locked onto your waist, his fingers digging into your hip bones, anchoring you to him like you were the only stable thing in his chaotic, drug-fueled, football-obsessed universe.

The heavy petting continued for twenty minutes right there on the couch. Thad’s hands never stopped moving tracing your spine, running down your arms, marveling at how small your hands looked resting against his massive chest. He was completely obsessed with the physical proof that he was bigger, stronger, and completely capable of carrying you away from the rest of the world whenever he felt like it.

Suddenly, Sammy Cacciatore ran past the couch wearing a full pirate outfit, being chased by Craig Shilo holding a fire extinguisher.

The shift in the Cody house was subtle at first, but if you knew where to look, the fractures were everywhere. Following the tense standoff in the kitchen where you had firmly corrected Janine about her comment regarding your skateboard, the domestic warfare shifted into the shadows. You were still coming around to see Julia, but you were acutely aware of the freezing temperature whenever Smurf entered a room.

The mid-90s alternative scene suited you perfectly, acting as a visual armor against the family's toxic weight. Walking across the Cody driveway on a heavy, humid afternoon, you adjusted the strap of your black crossbody utility bag. You wore a sleeveless black tee knotted tightly at your waist, a fading gold-and-orange tribal design stretched across the chest, and loose, light grey cargo shorts that hung comfortably on your hips, held up by a heavy black double-grommet belt. A thick silver chain necklace caught the harsh Oceanside sun, your split-dyed sunset orange and fiery red curls bouncing with every step.

You were looking for Julia, but the main house was strangely empty. Tracking the rhythmic, metallic sound of a wrench hitting concrete, you redirected your steps toward the open garage.

Andrew was there, hunched over his dirt bike, the grease on his hands matching the dark, brooding cloud that seemed to follow him everywhere. Even as a teenager, his broad shoulders were massive, but he carried himself with a permanent, anxious hunch, his pale blue eyes wide and darting nervously the second your heavy boots stepped onto the concrete floor. The memory of you catching him outside the bedroom window, followed by the intense silent treatment Smurf had forced on him after your kitchen defiance, hung thick and suffocating in the air. He hadn't dared look you in the eye since.

"Hey there, Andrew," you purred, stepping directly into his line of sight and breaking the heavy silence.

Andrew’s breath hitched audibly. A sudden, bright crimson flush crept up his neck, rapidly flooding his cheeks. He tried to focus on the bolts of his bike, his large hands trembling slightly as he avoided your gaze. "Hey."

"You look tired," you teased, leaning your hip against his workbench, deliberately cornering him in the small, enclosed space. "Didn't sleep well? Must have been some really intense yard work you've been doing lately."

Andrew looked like he was about to faint. His unblinking blue eyes finally flew to yours, filled with a volatile mix of absolute panic, mortification, and the raw, unyielding crush he was harboring. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"You know," you whispered, leaning in closer until he could smell the sweet, smoky scent of your perfume, completely capturing his attention. "If you want a private show, you just have to ask nicely. Don't be a peeping tom, Andrew. I dare you to actually do something about your little crush instead of just hiding in the dark."

Before he could pull himself together to answer, a cold, smooth voice cut through the garage like a razor blade.

"Andrew. Go inside and get your brothers."

Smurf stood at the entrance of the garage, a pitcher of sweet tea in her hand, her eyes narrowed into dangerous, icy slits. She had dropped her signature sweet mother act entirely. Andrew didn't hesitate; he dropped his tools, kept his head down, and practically fled past you into the house, his chest heaving as he left you alone with the matriarch.

Once he was gone, Smurf stepped closer, her face a mask of terrifying, quiet hostility. "I've been very patient with you, sweetie," she hissed, her voice dropping into a venomous, quiet register. "But you're a distraction. Andrew belongs to this family. Keep your hands off my son, and stay away from my house, or I will make sure you regret it."

You didn't flinch. You didn't take a single step back from her imposing glare. Instead, you let out a soft, dry chuckle, looking Smurf dead in the eyes with absolute, unbothered confidence.

"I'm not scared of you, Janine," you replied smoothly, adjusting the strap of your bag. "And I go where I want. See you around."

Late that night at your house you sat at your vanity putting your hair up for bed, the ocean breeze pushed your bedroom curtains open, letting in the cool midnight air. You were wearing a soft, light blue babydoll nightgown with delicate lace trimming the straps, V-neckline, and hem, a long black ribbon bow tied at the center of the chest. The quiet of your room was suddenly shattered by a sharp, scraping sound against the window frame.

The screen was pushed open, and Andrew scrambled through, his massive frame awkward as he tumbled onto your bedroom floor. He was breathing hard, his hair disheveled, his eyes wide and completely frantic. He had snuck out past Smurf for the first time in his life.

"Andrew?" you gasped, stepping toward him in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"She... she talked to you," he stammered, his hands reaching out and gripping your upper arms, his touch heavy, trembling, and desperate. "Smurf. I heard what she said to you in the driveway before you left. I thought... I thought she scared you off. I thought you wouldn't look at me again."

"Hey," you said softly, placing your hands against his broad chest, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart. "Look at me. I told her, and I'm telling you—Janine doesn't scare me at all. I'm not going anywhere."

The sheer, overwhelming relief completely broke Andrew's restraint. The constant, chaotic noise in his anxious head froze. The teasing stopped, the tension snapped, and Andrew finally cracked. He leaned down and crashed his mouth against yours.

It was an intense, heavy, breathless makeout session. Andrew groaned, his large hands sliding down to grip your waist tightly over the soft blue fabric of your nightgown, lifting you slightly as he pressed your back firmly against your bedroom wall. He kissed you with a desperate, all-consuming hunger, his lips bruising yours as if he were trying to anchor himself to your very soul. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, completely matching his sudden, explosive intensity.

Just as the kiss deepened, the distant, unmistakable sound of a car engine revving down the street echoed through the quiet night.

Andrew pulled away instantly, his chest heaving, his pale blue eyes wide with a sudden, violent spike of paranoia. His severe anxiety kicked in, the reality of his mother's control crashing back over him. He realized how exposed he was. If Smurf found out he was gone, if she followed him here, she would destroy everything.

"I have to go," he whispered frantically, his lips still wet from yours, his face torn with agony. He pressed his forehead against yours for one brief, desperate second, his hands lingering on your waist. "I'll come back. I promise. You're mine. Don't let her near you."

Before you could even catch your breath, Andrew scrambled back out the window, disappearing into the pitch-black shadows of the night, leaving the air in your bedroom buzzing with a heavy, dangerous consequence.

But the temporary escapes through bedroom windows couldn't outrun the rot growing inside the Cody Compound. By 1992, the dynamic had turned completely toxic. Julia now had three more brothers, but it was cynically clear to everyone that she was Smurf’s least favorite child. In fact, Smurf practically hated her, constantly finding malicious ways to ruin anything that brought Julia a shred of joy. Smurf actively tried to turn her siblings against her, but Julia still fiercely cared about them. She was especially drawn to her older, adopted brother, Baz, and an intimate relationship had launched between them a relationship you absolutely despised, knowing Baz was just as manipulative and self-serving as the matriarch herself.

Julia had become more involved in the family heists, but she was smart; she started a secret stash of hidden money to build a life away from her mother's thumb. Then, the secret got out.

You arrived at the Cody house unannounced, your skateboard under your arm, when you heard the horrific, echoing screams vibrating from the living room. You burst through the front door and froze. Smurf was in a blind, possessive rage, verbally abusing Julia, her voice shrieking insults as she physically attacked her daughter, throwing her against the furniture. Julia was sobbing, trying to protect her face. Andrew stood in the corner, paralyzed by fear, completely frozen under his mother's terrifying authority.

"You ungrateful, thieving little bitch!" Smurf screamed, raising her hand to strike Julia across the face again.

Something inside you snapped. You dropped your skateboard with a loud crash and sprinted across the room. Before Smurf’s hand could land on Julia, you stepped in, intercepted her arm, and threw a hard, closed-fist smack right across Smurf's jaw.

The crack echoed loudly through the house.

Smurf stumbled back against the kitchen counter, a bright line of crimson blood instantly leaking from her nose. She looked up, her eyes wide with a low-key, utter shock. No one had ever touched her. No one had ever fought back. In the corner, Andrew’s jaw dropped, his pale eyes bulging in absolute horror and awe at what you had just done.

"Touch her again and I'll kill you, Janine," you spat, your voice deadly calm as you grabbed Julia by the arm, pulling her off the floor.

Smurf wiped the blood from her nose, her shock quickly hardening into an icy, venomous hatred. "Get out," Smurf hissed, her body trembling with rage. "Get out of my house. You leave with nothing, Julia. You're dead to this family. You have nothing!"

"She has me," you growled.

You and Julia left the house together, walking down the driveway without looking back. But despite your begging, Julia was too broken, too deeply entwined in the chaos of her upbringing. Instead of coming to stay safely at your house, she insisted on going to stay with one of Baz’s friends. It was at that friend's house, completely isolated and abandoned by her family, where Julia tried heroin for the first time.

You never did drugs. You stayed clean, your alternative edge remaining strictly visual, but you never, ever abandoned Julia. As the months turned into years, you watched in heartbreak as the addiction took hold. But you stayed her friend. You bought them food, made them meals, and did everything in your power to keep her and her growing burdens afloat, even when she completely lost herself to the dark.

By 1999, the tragedy had reached its absolute peak. Julia was heavily addicted, living a fractured, painful existence, and she was pregnant with her son, J. Desperate for money to survive, Julia had broken into Smurf's house to steal whatever she could find, but she had been caught by Andrew. Paralyzed by his mother's rules but wanting to hide her, Andrew had locked his twin sister in the bathroom for several hours, forcing her to undergo a brutal, agonizing detox on the cold tile floor. He genuinely thought she should go to rehab, but when he brought it up, Smurf dismissed it immediately, calling it a complete waste of money because it hadn't worked the last time.

The cruelty reached its absolute limit when Andrew and Smurf put Julia into the car. They drove her out to a desolate, trash-strewn underpass camp and forced her out onto the dirt. Julia, shivering and crying, had begged her twin brother to come with her, to help her, but Andrew sat in the backseat, staring straight ahead, too absolutely terrified of Smurf to agree. They drove away, leaving her in the dirt.

An hour later, you found out what happened. You drove straight to the Cody house, the engine of your car cutting out in the driveway. Smurf’s car was gone she had left to run errands leaving Andrew entirely alone in the quiet, suffocating house.

You walked through the front door without knocking. Andrew was sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his massive hands, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. When he looked up and saw you, his eyes were bloodshot, hollowed out by a deep, pathetic misery.

"Where is she, Andrew?" you demanded, your voice cracking with an intense, furious grief.

"Smurf... we had to drop her off," Andrew whispered, his voice trembling, unable to look you in the eye. "She's at the underpass. She can't be here. She's sick. Smurf said—"

"I don't give a shit what Smurf said!" you shouted, stepping up to the table. You grabbed his wrists, forcing his hands away from his face. "Andrew, look at me! She is your twin sister! She is your blood! If anyone in this world should have stuck by her side, it was supposed to be you!"

Andrew looked up at you, tears finally spilling over his pale blue eyes. But the terror in his expression was absolute. Smurf’s claws were dug so deeply into his mind, into his bones, that he was entirely paralyzed. He was a grown man, but under his mother’s roof, he was still just a scared, broken child.

"I can't," Andrew choked out, his voice a broken, ragged sob. "I can't leave. I can't cross her. Please... please just tell Julia I'm sorry. Tell her I'm so sorry."

You let go of his wrists, taking a slow step back as a cold, heavy realization settled into your chest. You looked at the man you had loved, the boy who used to climb through your window, and felt a profound, devastating pity.

"I'll tell her," you said, your voice dropping into a quiet, solemn whisper. "But you need to understand something, Andrew. One day, she's going to be gone. And you might never get the chance to make it right to her. You're going to have to live with that."

Andrew didn't answer, his head bowing back into his hands as he wept silently, the weight of his choices crushing him.

"Julia is my friend," you continued, your eyes burning with tears as you adjusted your bag. "She has a baby on the way, and she has no one. I have to be there for her. Which means... I won't be able to see you as much anymore. I can't keep coming to this house."

Andrew’s head snapped up, a look of pure, agonizing panic flooding his face at the thought of losing you completely. "No... please, don't leave."

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you stepped closer, leaning down over the table. You gently placed your hands on his flushed, tear-stained cheeks. You leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering, heartbreaking kiss against his lips a final, tragic goodbye to the boy in the garage, a farewell to the heavy makeouts by the window light.

The late-afternoon California sun hit the concrete of the Cody backyard pool deck, baking the scent of chlorine, sunscreen, and cheap weed into the air. In the mid-90s, the Cody house was already a revolving door of chaotic energy, entirely anchored by Janine "Smurf" Cody’s suffocating, calculated grip. Most kids in Oceanside knew better than to cross Smurf, intuitively understanding that her sweet, motherly smiles masked a terrifyingly cold predator.

But you weren't most kids. As Julia’s closest friend, you spent half your life occupying their space, and Smurf didn't scare you in the slightest.

You kicked your skateboard up with a sharp *clack*, catching the tail smoothly in your palm as you walked out of the house. Your outfit perfectly captured your bold, alternative edge. You wore high-waisted, dark gray denim shorts with frayed edges, paired with a black lace corset top layered under a cropped, short-sleeved white graphic tee that read *'my lower back hurts'* in bold black lettering. Heavy black utility boots and crew socks anchored your feet, a thick black canvas messenger bag slung across your shoulder, and a chunky silver chain necklace glinting around your throat. Your hair was styled beautifully, your natural curls dyed a vibrant, head-turning split of bright sunset orange and fiery red.

Smurf was sitting at the patio table, sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose as she counted a stack of cash from one of Baz’s recent runs.

"Heading out so soon, baby?" Smurf asked, her voice dripping with that signature, overly sweet syrup that usually made people bend to her will.

"Yeah, Julia and I are hitting the boardwalk," you replied easily, tossing your skateboard onto the concrete and stepping onto it. You balanced effortlessly on one foot, looking completely unbothered by her presence.

Just then, the sliding glass door creaked open, and Andrew stepped out onto the patio. As a teenager, Andrew was already a massive, looming presence, his broad shoulders hunched forward as if he were trying to shrink himself away from the world. His pale blue eyes were wide, intense, and constantly darting around the yard, carrying that volatile, anxious energy he couldn't ever seem to shake.

The moment his eyes landed on you specifically taking in the tight black lace corset and the frayed shorts; he froze completely. His chest rose and fell in a sharp, shallow breath, a sudden, bright flush of crimson creeping up his neck and flooding his cheeks. He had a massive, completely consuming crush on you, an obsession that actively kept him awake at night, though he would rather die than admit it out loud.

You noticed his reaction instantly, a slow, deeply amused smirk spreading across your face. You loved flirting with him. Part of it was because you found his wide-eyed, flustered reactions absolutely adorable, but a major part of it was because you knew exactly how much it enraged Smurf to lose control over her golden boy.

"Hi there, Andrew," you purred, deliberately dropping your voice into a slow, playful register. You rolled your skateboard a few inches closer to the table, leaning your forearms on your knees as you looked up at him through your eyelashes. "Love the shirt. Looks really good on you♥︎"

Andrew’s breath hitched audibly. He pulled the collar of his oversized grey t-shirt up, his unblinking blue eyes widening to the size of saucers as he stared down at you, completely paralyzed by your attention. "U-Uh. Thanks. It's... it's just a shirt."

From the patio table, the rhythmic rustle of Smurf counting bills stopped entirely.

Smurf’s sunglasses slowly slid down her nose, her sharp, calculating eyes narrowing to dangerous slits as she glared at the side of your head. She hated you. She hated that she couldn't scare you, she hated that you gave Julia a sense of independence, but most of all, she absolutely loathed the way her quiet, fiercely loyal son completely lost his mind whenever you walked into a room. You were a threat to her control over him.

"Andrew has chores to finish inside, baby," Smurf interrupted, her voice losing a bit of its warmth, turning sharp and cold. "He doesn't have time to stand around talking."

You didn't even look back at Smurf, entirely ignoring her command. Instead, you kept your eyes locked on Andrew, your smirk widening as you saw the veins in his neck pulse with his racing heartbeat. You raised your hand to your lips, blowing him a slow, dramatic kiss.

"Don't work too hard, handsome," you teased, pivoting on your back wheels.

Right on cue, the sliding door clicked again, and Julia finally stepped out onto the patio, sling bag over her shoulder and an annoyed expression on her face from dealing with her mother all morning. "Alright, let's go before she finds something else for me to do," Julia muttered, bypassing the table completely.

With a powerful push of your boot against the concrete, you and Julia sped down the side driveway together, your sunset-colored curls catching the wind as you both skateboarded out of the yard and headed down the street.

Andrew stood rooted to the spot on the patio, his wide eyes tracking the exact line of your departure until you both disappeared around the corner of the house. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal.

"Andrew," Smurf’s voice snapped, sharp as a whip, breaking his trance. He turned back toward his mother, his face still burning red. Smurf was staring at him, her jaw tight and her eyes burning with a possessive, toxic jealousy. "Go inside. Now."

Andrew didn't say a word, keeping his head down as he quickly retreated into the house, his mind completely consumed by the girl with the red-and-orange hair.

Later that night, the Cody house had finally quieted down. Julia was asleep at a friend's house across town, and Smurf was out at a local lounge with one of her fences.

You were staying in Julia’s bedroom, which was located on the ground floor of the house, its large window looking directly out into the dense, shadowed foliage of the side yard. The night air was warm, and you had left the window open a few inches to let in the ocean breeze, the thin white curtains fluttering gently.

You walked into the bedroom, completely exhausted from a long day of skating. You tossed your messenger bag onto Julia's desk and reached up, unbuttoning the cropped white graphic tee and pulling it over your head, leaving you standing in just the black lace corset and your dark gray denim shorts.

Outside, hidden deep within the pitch-black shadows of the hibiscus bushes, a figure stood entirely motionless.

It was Andrew.

He knew it was wrong. He knew it was dangerous. But the absolute, torturous gravity of his crush on you pulled him toward that window like a magnet every single time you stayed over. He stood in the dark, his large hands resting against the stucco wall of the house, his unblinking, pale blue eyes wide and blown out as he watched you through the gap in the curtains.

His breath left his body in a shaky, silent gasp. In the soft, amber light of the bedroom lamp, your rich brown skin looked flawless. He watched the elegant line of your spine as you turned, his gaze tracking the exact contour of your waist and the tight lace of the corset accentuating your frame. He was completely under your spell, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged pants. To Andrew, you weren't just a girl he liked; you were an absolute, terrifying force of nature that made the constant, chaotic noise in his head completely freeze. He watched you move with a reverence that bordered on religious, his knuckles turning white against the wall.

Inside the room, you stepped over to the desk to grab an oversized pajama shirt. But as you reached for it, you caught a subtle, sudden movement through the dark glass of the window the slight rustle of a leaf that didn't match the rhythm of the wind.

You paused, your fingers hovering over the fabric. You didn't scare easily, and you knew the Cody house inside out. You knew Baz was out, Julia was gone, and Smurf’s car wasn't in the driveway.

A slow, knowing smile crept onto your face. *Andrew.*

Instead of pulling the oversized shirt on immediately, you deliberately took your time. You stood right in the center of the lamplight’s glow, slowly reaching back to unhook the top portion of the black lace corset, letting the fabric loosen just enough to expose a bit more skin. You casually shook out your sunset-colored curls, letting them tumble around your shoulders, entirely aware of the intense, burning pair of eyes watching your every single move from the darkness. You loved knowing the power you held over him; you loved knowing that with just a single movement, you could completely unhinge the most dangerous boy in Oceanside.

After a few agonizingly slow minutes, you finally slid the oversized pajama shirt over your head, completely covering yourself. You walked over to the window, sliding the glass open all the way and leaning your forearms on the sill, looking directly into the dark bushes.

"You know, Andrew," you whispered into the quiet night air, your voice dripping with a lazy, teasing amusement. "If you wanted a private show, all you had to do was ask nicely."

A violent, frantic rustle of leaves instantly erupted from the bushes.

Andrew stumbled backward out of the foliage, his face completely pale before turning a dangerous, explosive shade of dark purple. He looked like a deer caught in high-beam headlights, his wide blue eyes terrified, embarrassed, and completely exposed. He gripped the hem of his shirt, his chest heaving as he stared at you, completely frozen.

You didn't yell at him. You didn't threaten to tell Smurf. Instead, you just let out a soft, melodic laugh, resting your chin in your palm. "Goodnight, handsome. Try to get some sleep."

You slid the window shut and pulled the blinds down, leaving Andrew standing alone in the dark yard, his heart beating so hard he could feel it in his teeth, completely and utterly trapped in your web.

The following afternoon, the tension inside the Cody house was thick enough to cut with a knife. You were sitting on the living room couch, lazily spinning one of the wheels on your skateboard with your thumb.

Smurf was standing by the kitchen counter, fixing a pitcher of sweet tea. Her sharp eyes kept flicking over to you, her jaw tight with a cold, calculated fury. She had noticed the subtle change in Andrew all morning he was even more distracted than usual, his eyes constantly darting toward the front door as if he were waiting for something. She knew it was because of you.

The front door groaned open, and Andrew walked in, carrying a heavy box of tools from the garage. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes deeper than usual from a night spent completely awake.

The moment he saw you sitting on the couch, he physically stumbled, nearly dropping the heavy box. The dark red flush immediately took over his face, his eyes shifting frantically between you and his mother.

"Hi, Andrew," you greeted smoothly, stopping the spinning wheel of your skateboard. You slid off the couch, walking over toward the kitchen counter with a loose, confident stride. You stopped just a foot away from him, deliberately leaning your hip against the counter, right in Smurf’s direct line of sight. "You look tired. Didn't sleep well last night?"

Andrew’s breath hitched. He set the tool box down with a loud, clattering crash, his hands trembling slightly as he avoided your gaze. "I... I had stuff to do. In the yard."

"Oh, really?" you teased, a wicked, brilliant spark in your dark eyes as you reached out, your fingers gently brushing against his forearm. You felt the muscles beneath his denim jacket instantly lock up, turning hard as stone at your touch. "Must have been some really interesting yard work. You should invite me to help next time."

Andrew looked like he was about to faint. His mouth opened and closed, his wide blue eyes staring down at you with a mix of absolute devotion and sheer panic.

Beside you, the sound of Smurf stirring the pitcher of sweet tea became dangerously loud, the spoon clinking violently against the glass. Smurf stepped around the counter, her face a mask of terrifying, icy hostility. She set the pitcher down with a hard, echoing thud.

"That's enough," Smurf hissed, her voice dropping into a venomous, quiet register that usually made her boys instantly drop to their knees. She stepped directly between you and Andrew, forcing her way into his line of sight, her eyes glaring into yours with a pure, possessive hatred. "I told you yesterday, baby. Andrew doesn't have time for your little games. He belongs to this family, and he has work to do. You need to take that plastic toy of yours and get out of my house."

The room went dead silent. Andrew stood behind his mother, his eyes wide with a sudden, volatile flash of anxiety, his gaze moving between the two women who held entire control over his mind.

You didn't flinch. You didn't take a single step back from Smurf's imposing, icy glare. Instead, you just let out a soft, dry chuckle, looking Smurf dead in the eyes with absolute, unbothered confidence.

"It's a skateboard, Janine. Not a toy," you corrected smoothly, your voice perfectly calm. You deliberately leaned around Smurf's shoulder, locking your eyes back onto Andrew’s panicked ones. You gave him a slow, incredibly sweet wink, completely undermining his mother's authority right in front of her face. "See you around, Andrew. Don't forget about that yard work."

You walked back over to the couch, picking up your skateboard and sliding the strap of your messenger bag over your shoulder. You walked toward the front door with a slow, confident saunter, entirely unfazed by the toxic energy vibrating through the room.

As the front door clicked shut behind you, Smurf turned slowly to face her son, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Andrew. Look at me."

The line outside the venue stretched a full block down the sunset-stripped avenue, a crowded sea of people desperate to catch the eye of the selective door hosts. The club was a new, ultra-exclusive spot that hadn't even opened to the general public yet, running a private, invite-only preview night for high-profile clients, influencers, and local players.

You hadn’t spent a single minute waiting in that line.

Your promoter friend, Marcus, had texted you the VIP entry codes and table confirmation numbers three days prior, completely bypassing the security chaos at the front ropes. When you arrived, you pulled up with a literal entourage, joking to the boys on the ride over that they were finally going to be useful as your personal bodyguards. Baz had laughed it off with a smirk, Craig was entirely energized by the prospect of free high-end liquor, and Deran was just trying to see how an upscale club ran their floor layout.

Andrew, however, hadn't laughed. He had taken the "bodyguard" title entirely too literally.

As Marcus ushered your group past the velvet ropes and into the sprawling, dimly lit lounge, Andrew stayed exactly half a step behind you. He was wearing a dark, crisp button-down shirt that stretched tightly across his massive shoulders, his sharp blue eyes scanning the flashing strobe lights, the hidden exits, and every single face that lingered too close to you. His large, calloused hand was resting heavily against the small of your back, his touch a constant, grounding heat through the fabric of your dress.

You looked completely in your element, styled to perfection in a sleek, jaw-dropping outfit that turned heads the second you stepped into the VIP tier. Your silver jewelry caught the shifting neon purple lights of the club, and your hair bounced flawlessly with every step of your high heels.

Marcus led the group to a prime booth situated in the elevated mezzanine, overlooking the main dance floor. The table was already stocked with premium bottles of champagne and vodka chilling in heavy silver ice buckets.

"Anything you need, just text me, girl," Marcus shouted over the pulsing bass, giving you a quick hug before disappearing back into the crowd to manage the door.

"Damn, Y/N," Craig yelled, immediately dropping onto the plush leather curved sofa and reaching for a bottle of vodka. "Your boy Marcus doesn't play around. This place is insane."

"It's alright," Deran muttered, though his eyes were wide as he took in the massive LED ceiling displays.

Baz slid into the opposite side of the booth, a slow, deeply impressed smile playing on his lips as he poured himself a drink. "Yeah, I gotta admit. You came through tonight. Nice to know your standards actually pay off sometimes."

You let out a soft, amused chuckle, sliding into the center of the booth. Andrew immediately dropped down right beside you, his massive frame effectively blocking you off from the rest of the club. He didn't touch his glass. Instead, he rested his arm along the back of the leather sofa right behind your head, his fingers mindlessly playing with a strand of your hair, his intense gaze fixed entirely on your profile while the music thudded below.

For the first hour, the vibe was perfect. You leaned back against Andrew's chest, sipping your champagne and laughing as Craig tried to convince a bottle waitress to give him her phone number, while Baz and Deran quietly pointed out the local Oceanside trust-fund kids hanging out in the lower tiers. Every time a guy at a neighboring table tried to look your way, Andrew’s unblinking, lethal glare would snap toward them, instantly causing them to look at the floor. You loved it. It was the perfect balance of high-end luxury and raw, protective energy.

Then, across the VIP tier, you spotted a well-known local designer you’d been trying to network with for weeks. He was standing by the glass railing, talking to a small group of people.

"I'll be right back," you murmured to Andrew, setting your champagne flute down on the table. "I see someone I need to speak to about a collaboration I want to do."

Andrew’s hand instantly tightened in your hair before he let go, his face darkening with a sudden flare of restlessness. "I'll go with you."

"No, stay here, relax," you smiled, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his tense jawline, feeling the hard muscle twitch under your lips. "It's a professional conversation. I'll be five minutes. Watch my seat."

Andrew swallowed hard, his blue eyes tracking you with an intense, suffocating focus as you slid out of the booth. He didn't sit back; he shifted to the very edge of the cushion, his entire body coiling like a predator watching its mate walk through a field of wolves. Baz watched him with a faint, amused smirk, while Craig was too busy pouring another shot to notice.

The conversation with the designer went flawlessly. You used your natural charm, your sharp wit, and your effortless confidence to secure a private meeting at his studio the following Monday. You were practically glowing with satisfaction as you excused yourself, smoothing down your dress as you turned back toward the VIP mezzanine.

But as you approached your booth, your eyes narrowed, and the pleasant smile vanished from your face.

A random, heavily made-up girl in a tight bandage dress had slid right into your section. Not only had she invaded your table, but she had sat directly in your seat pressed entirely flush against Andrew’s side. She had one manicured hand resting on the leather right next to his thigh, leaning in so close her perfume was practically suffocating him, her lips moving rapidly as she tried to flirt with him.

Andrew looked like he was about to murder her.

He was sitting completely rigid, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on his knees, his jaw set so hard it looked like granite. He wasn't looking at her; his eyes were locked onto you as you walked back, his chest heaving with a dark, violent irritation. He hadn't said a word to the girl, completely ignoring her existence, but she was too drunk or too desperate to notice the lethal aura radiating off him.

Baz was watching the scene unfold with a thoroughly entertained expression, taking a slow sip of his drink, while Deran looked slightly uncomfortable.

You walked straight up to the booth, your high heels clicking sharply against the floorboards, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the lounge. You stopped right at the edge of the table, towering over the girl as you crossed your arms, your dark eyes turning incredibly cold.

"Excuse me," you said, your voice calm, polite, and completely even, though the underlying sharpness was unmistakable.

The girl paused her giggling, slowly tilting her head up to look at you. She swept her eyes over your outfit, letting out a dismissive, passive-aggressive sniff as she adjusted her hair. "What?"

"You're sitting in my seat," you informed her, keeping your composure effortlessly, giving her one chance to fix her mistake. "And you're crowding my boyfriend. If you could get up."

The girl let out a sharp, breathless laugh, rolling her eyes as she turned back to Andrew, entirely ignoring you. She reached out her hand, her long fake nails actually brushing against the fabric of Andrew's sleeve. "Ugh, whatever. He wasn't talking to anyone anyway. Why don't you go find another table, sweetie? We're busy."

Andrew’s blue eyes flared with a sudden, unhinged violence the moment her fingers touched his shirt. He started to launch himself forward, his massive frame shifting to physically throw the girl out of the booth—

But you were faster.

The utter disrespect, the casual dismissiveness, and the fact that she had actually laid a hand on your man snapped something inside you. The high-end, polite princess vanished, replaced entirely by a fierce, ruthless energy that didn't tolerate games.

*Crack.*

Before anyone in the booth could even register the movement of your arm, your right hand whipped forward, delivering a devastating, resounding slap directly across the left side of the girl’s face. The force of the impact was so loud it echoed over the bass of the music, instantly snapping the girl’s head to the side.

"Oh, shit!" Craig yelled, dropping his glass onto the table.

The girl let out a shocked, strangled gasp, her hand flying up to cup her stinging, rapidly reddening cheek. Her eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated terror as she looked up at you, her mouth hanging open.

But you weren't done.

*Crack.*

Before she could even form a syllable to protest, your right hand swung back in a flawless, lightning-fast backhand, delivering a second, equally violent slap across her other cheek. The double-strike was so precise, so clean, and so completely aggressive that the girl’s designer purse slipped right off her lap, clattering loudly against the floor.

"I told you to get out of my seat," you whispered, your voice dropping into a dark, terrifyingly quiet register that cut through the club air like glass. You stepped closer, crowding her space, your eyes blazing with an absolute authority that left no room for debate. "Get your trashy ass away from my table, and if you ever look in his direction again, I will drag you down those stairs by your hair. Move."

The girl completely disintegrated. The smug, flirting confidence she had two seconds ago vanished, replaced by a frantic, sobbing panic. Tears immediately spilled over her heavy mascara, smudging her makeup as she scrambled out of the booth so fast she nearly tripped over her own platform heels. She didn't say a word, she didn't grab her bag she just turned and ran away from the VIP tier, sobbing hysterically into her hands as she fled toward the restrooms.

The neighboring tables went completely quiet, a few onlookers staring at your booth in absolute shock.

You didn't even look at them. You calmly reached down, picked up your champagne flute from the table, and smoothed the front of your dress with a single, elegant sweep of your hand. You slid right back into your vacant seat, crossing your legs with a thoroughly smug, completely unbothered grace.

"Now," you said smoothly, taking a slow sip of your drink as if nothing had happened. "What were we talking about?"

Craig was staring at you with his jaw practically resting on the table, a wild, ecstatic grin spreading across his face. "Holy shit, Y/N! Two slaps?! Clean across the face! Man, you didn't even give her a chance to breathe! That was awesome!"

Deran let out a low, breathy chuckle, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. "Remind me never to get on your bad side. Damn."

Baz was looking at you with a newfound, deeply respectful intensity, a slow nod passing over his features as he raised his glass to you. He had always known you were high-maintenance, but seeing that raw, unbothered execution the absolute lack of hesitation when someone crossed your boundary made him realize exactly why Andrew was so far gone over you. You belonged in this world.

But nobody in the room was reacting more violently than the man sitting right next to you.

Andrew was staring down at you, his chest rising and falling with heavy, ragged breaths. The moment your hand had connected with that girl’s face, a chaotic, blinding rush of pure heat had hit him straight in the veins. Seeing you claim him like that watching your fierce, protective, and entirely lethal possessiveness trigger a physical execution in front of his family had completely unhinged him. His blue eyes were dark, dilated, and absolutely burning with a heavy, suffocating obsession.

He didn't care about the club. He didn't care about his brothers.

Andrew reached out, his massive, scarred hand wrapping firmly around your waist, his fingers digging into your hip through the fabric of your dress as he violently pulled your body flush against his side. He leaned down, his face burying right into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your bare dark skin.

"You're mine," he growled low, his voice a rough, gravelly rumble that vibrated straight through your collarbone. His grip on your hip was near bruising, his large body trembling slightly from the sheer intensity of his desire to consume you right there in the booth. "You're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours, Andrew," you whispered smoothly, a beautiful, devastatingly smug smile playing on your lips as your hand came up to rest against his jaw, your fingers tracing the hard line of his cheek. You looked over at Baz and Craig, completely running the table while your boyfriend practically worshipped the skin of your throat. "I told you boys you were just my bodyguards tonight. However it seems, I can handle the heavy lifting myself."

Incident I: The Backyard

The sun was beating down hard on the concrete of Smurf’s backyard, turning the pool into a blinding sheet of blue. J was by the toolshed, quietly rinsing off a surfboard, while Craig and Deran argued over something on the patio.

Inside the house, you were sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through your phone with a cold glass of iced coffee in hand. You were styled effortlessly oversized designer sunglasses resting on your head, a vibrant crop top, and sharp jewelry that clicked softly every time you moved. You had that unbothered, energy that naturally made the air in the house shift the moment you walked through the door. Smurf was at the stove, humming to herself as she puttered around, pretending she wasn’t tracking your presence like a hawk.

Andrew was sitting on the stool right next to you, perfectly rigid, his blue eyes fixed entirely on you as you showed him a video on your screen. The tight, defensive edge he usually carried around his family softened whenever he was close enough to feel the warmth of your skin. His large, calloused hand rested heavily on your thigh, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles.

The screen door slid open, and Smurf stepped inside from the back patio, wiping her hands on a dishtowel after checking on the boys outside. Her sharp, calculating eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on her oldest son.

"Pope, baby," Smurf said, her voice dripping with that sweet, manipulative warmth she used like a weapon as she walked over to the stove to putter with a kettle. "The garage is a total mess, and Craig brought back more gear that needs to be sorted through and logged. I need you to go down there and handle it for me before dinner, okay?"

It wasn't an urgent job. It was a chore meant to keep Andrew busy, to keep him under her thumb, and more importantly, to assert her dominance while you were sitting right there.

Andrew’s shoulders went tight. His thumb paused against your leg. He hated the garage, and he hated being managed, but the lifelong conditioning to obey his mother was already pulling at his posture. He started to shift, preparing to stand up. "Yeah, Smurf. I'll—"

"Oh, wait, Andrew," you interrupted smoothly, your voice a cool, melodic purr that cut right through Smurf’s instructions. You didn't look up from your phone immediately, playing with one of your large gold hoops. "Didn't you say you were taking me shopping this afternoon? You promised we’d go down to that boutique in San Diego before they close early today."

The entire kitchen went dead silent. Even Deran and Craig’s arguing outside seemed to dim.

Smurf’s smile didn't drop, but her eyes hardened into two freezing chips of ice. She turned her gaze to you, her voice dropping a fraction of its sweetness. "Pope is busy right now, sweetheart. The garage needs to be done. It's family business."

You finally looked up, tilting your head with a calm, completely secure smile that told Smurf exactly how unbothered you were by her passive-aggressive tone. "I'm sure the gear isn't going anywhere, Smurf. Andrew promised me three days ago." You turned your face slightly toward Andrew, your eyes locked onto his, a playful but demanding spark in your gaze. "Right, baby? You're not going to make me go all the way down there by myself, are you?"

Andrew looked at you, and the heavy, conflicted look in his eyes dissolved instantly. When it came to a choice between his mother's endless, suffocating demands and the fierce, magnetic security he felt whenever he was with you, there was no contest. You were his peace, and he wasn't going to let anyone, not even Smurf, disrupt that.

"The garage can wait," Andrew said flatly, his gravelly voice leaving absolutely no room for debate. He didn't even look at his mother. His eyes stayed locked on yours as his hand tightened possessively around your thigh. "Ask Deran to do it. Or J. We're leaving."

You let out a soft, pleased hum, sliding off the barstool with a deliberate, slow grace. As you reached for your designer handbag on the counter, you cast a quick, sideways glance at Smurf.

Smurf was standing perfectly still by the counter, her knuckles white as she gripped the dishtowel, a tight, strained smile plastered onto her face. The irritation radiating off her was palpable. You met her gaze for a split second, flashing a thoroughly smug, victorious smirk before turning on your heel.

"Let's go, Andrew," you purred.

Andrew was already on his feet, towering over the kitchen as he followed a half-step behind you, his hand dropping down to rest heavily against the small of your back as he ushered you out the front door, leaving his mother alone in the quiet kitchen.

Incident II: The Living Room

Two days later, the atmosphere at Smurf’s house was thick with the scent of takeout and cheap beer. Craig and Deran were splayed out on the living room couches, half-watching a game on TV, while J sat quietly in the armchair, working on his laptop.

You were curled up on the matching love seat, your legs draped over Andrew’s lap. He was sitting back, a rare expression of complete calm on his face as his large hands lazily massaged your calves. You were looking at your phone, humming along to a song playing quietly from your speakers, completely in your own world.

Smurf walked into the room from the hallway, holding a stack of manila folders. She didn't like how relaxed Andrew looked. She didn't like how his attention was completely consumed by you, leaving her with zero leverage over him.

She walked right up to the coffee table, tossing one of the folders down right over the magazine Andrew had been looking at earlier.

"Pope," Smurf said, her voice sharp and authoritative this time, signaling that she wanted immediate compliance. "The truck needs an oil change, and the brakes have been squeaking. Take it down to the shop on 5th. Tell Manny I sent you, and stay there until he finishes it. I want it done tonight."

Deran glanced up from the TV, sensing the shift in the room, while Craig took a slow sip of his beer, waiting to see what would happen.

Andrew sighed, a low, irritated sound vibrating in his chest. He started to shift his legs to sit up, his heavy boots thumping against the floorboards. "Manny closes at six, Smurf. If I go now—"

"Andrew," you said, your voice cutting through his explanation like a knife through butter. You sat up slowly, stretching your arms with an effortless, bored elegance. "You're taking me to the movies tonight. The new thriller starts at 6:30, and you already said we were going to get those good reclining seats."

Smurf let out a sharp, breathless laugh that was entirely forced. She turned her full, suffocating focus on you, her hands coming to rest on her hips. "The truck is a safety issue, Y/N. A movie can wait until tomorrow. My boys need to keep the vehicles running."

You didn't flinch. You didn't even look intimidated. Instead, you let out a soft, amused chuckle, leaning back against the cushions of the love seat and crossing your arms. "The truck has been squeaking for a week, Smurf. A couple more hours isn't going to make the wheels fall off."

You shifted your gaze to Andrew, tilting your chin up with that sharp, magnetic confidence. "And besides, Andrew hates the waiting room at Manny's. Don't you, baby?"

Andrew didn't hesitate. The moment you spoke, his allegiance was already decided. He looked at the folder on the table, then looked back at his mother, his blue eyes turning cold and entirely unyielding.

"Take it yourself, Smurf," Andrew muttered, his voice rough and dismissive. "Or give it to Craig. He’s just sitting there."

"Hey!" Craig protested from the couch, but a sharp glare from Andrew silenced him instantly.

Andrew turned his back on his mother, his large hands reaching down to gently pull your legs back onto his lap, pinning you to him with total finality. "We're going to the 6:30 showing. Go get your jacket."

You bit your inner lip to keep from laughing out loud at the absolute look of fury that flashed across Smurf’s face. Her eyes widened slightly, her jaw tightening so hard the muscles in her neck stood out. She stood there for a long, humiliating moment, completely undermined in front of three of her sons, before she snatched the folder off the table and marched back into the back room, slamming the door behind her.

Craig let out a low whistle, while Deran just shook his head. You looked down at Andrew, a thoroughly smug, self-satisfied smile playing on your lips as you ran your fingers through his short curly hair.

"Good boy," you whispered playfully.

Andrew’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk, his eyes dark and intensely focused on you. "Get your bag."

Incident III: The Lanai

By the end of the week, Smurf was visibly on edge whenever you were around. The subtle power struggle wasn't loud, but it was there, and she was losing. Every time she tried to pull Andrew into her orbit, you smoothly cut the line, and Andrew followed you every single time without a second thought.

It was a late Friday afternoon, and everyone was gathered on the covered lanai by the pool. Smurf was mixing drinks at the outdoor bar, her movements tense and sharp. You were sitting on one of the lounge chairs, your skin glowing under the late afternoon sun, wearing a pair of luxury sunglasses and a sleek outfit that made you look entirely out of place in the gritty, sun-bleached backyard.

Andrew was standing right beside your chair, leaning against the railing, his eyes never leaving you. He was like a massive, protective shadow, entirely content just to exist in your perimeter.

Smurf set a glass down on the counter with a loud *clink*, drawing everyone's attention.

"Pope," she called out, her voice tight, the artificial sweetness completely stripped away now. "The distributor called. There's a drop off down at the docks that needs to be picked up and brought to the storage unit. It's small, but I want you to handle it. Now."

This was it. It wasn't a major job, but it was an official Cody family task. Smurf was testing the waters, trying to see if she could still command her oldest son when it mattered. Deran and J both went quiet, watching the interaction with intense focus.

Andrew’s jaw clenched. The word *distributor* carried weight, and his primal instinct to protect the family's income stream flared up. He took a step away from the railing, his boots clicking against the concrete. "Where's the—?"

"Andrew, no," you said simply.

Your voice wasn't loud, but it carried an absolute, unwavering authority that stopped Andrew dead in his tracks. You slowly slid your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose, looking up at him with a calm, unbothered stare.

"We have dinner reservations at that steakhouse by the water in forty minutes," you reminded him, your tone smooth and completely secure. "I spent an hour getting ready, and I'm not sitting in that restaurant alone while you're smelling like the docks."

Smurf stepped out from behind the bar, her face pale with suppressed rage. She walked right up to the edge of the patio, pointing a finger toward the driveway. "This is a job, Y/N. He is doing the run. He can eat a steak tomorrow."

You didn't even look at her. You kept your eyes fixed entirely on Andrew, matching his raw intensity step for step. You knew exactly how much power you had over him, and you weren't afraid to use it to completely dismantle his mother's control.

"Andrew," you murmured, your voice dropping into that private, sultry register that belonged only to him. "Tell her no."

The tension on the lanai was suffocating. Smurf was staring at Andrew, her chest rising and falling with sharp breaths, waiting for her son to obey. You were looking at him with absolute confidence, entirely secure in your hold over him.

Andrew didn't even hesitate. He didn't look at Smurf. He didn't look at his brothers. He looked down at you, his blue eyes softening into a fierce, consuming loyalty that belonged entirely to you.

"Call J," Andrew said flatly, his voice echoing in the quiet backyard as he reached down, his large hand wrapping firmly around yours and pulling you up from the lounge chair. "He can handle the drop. We're going to dinner."

"Pope!" Smurf hissed, her voice cracking with pure irritation.

Andrew ignored her entirely, his fingers locking securely with yours as he started walking toward the side gate. You allowed him to lead you, your heels clicking against the concrete with a slow, triumphant rhythm.

Before you passed through the gate, you paused, turning your head back to look at the patio. Smurf was standing there, her hands shaking slightly with rage, her face twisted into a mask of pure bitter defeat as her other sons looked away in embarrassment.

You raised your free hand, adjusting your sunglasses back up the bridge of your nose, and flashed her a devastatingly smug, victorious smile.

"Have a good night, Smurf," you called out smoothly.

The living room of Andrew’s house was completely dark, save for the blue tint of the television screen playing a nature documentary he wasn't actually watching. He was sitting perfectly rigid on the worn sofa, a sweating bottle of water resting on the coffee table.

He had spent the last three hours pretending he wasn't checking his phone every five minutes.

Every time the screen lit up with a notification, his thumb was on the home button before the lock screen could even fade in. He knew you were out with your roommates for a girls' night. He knew you were safe, that you had your own money, and that you didn't need a bodyguard. But the heavy, coiling restlessness in his chest didn't care about that. To Andrew, the world outside his door was chaotic and predatory, and you were currently moving through it in a loud, beautiful outfit that was undoubtedly drawing every eye in the room. He didn't like the thought of other men breathing the same air as you, let alone watching you move to a bassline.

At exactly 1:15 AM, his phone didn't just light up; it vibrated violently in his palm, your contact photo flashing across the screen.

Andrew answered it on the first ring, pulling the device to his ear with a tight, tense grip. "Y/N?"

"Annn-drew!" your voice came through the speaker, incredibly loud, heavily slurred, and backed by the deafening, muffled thud of a club's sound system. You let out a bright, breathless giggle that told him exactly how many drinks you’d had. "Andrew, baby. You gotta come get us. The... the man at the bar, the bartender guy? He’s being mean. He won’t give me my keys back."

Andrew was already on his feet, his dark denim jacket grabbed from the back of the chair before you even finished your sentence. "Where are you?"

"The... the one with the pink lights by the pier. The Arena? No, El Rey!" a voice shouted in the background, one of your roommates correcting you. You giggled again, the sound fuzzy against the microphone. "El Rey, Andrew! Come get us. I miss you."

"Stay inside. Don't go anywhere," Andrew ordered, his voice rough and dead serious as he kicked his front door open, the keys already jangling in his hand. "I'm coming."

The drive down to the neon-lit strip of Oceanside took less than ten minutes, Andrew weaving his truck through the late-night traffic with a hurried, aggressive precision. He parked illegally right in the red zone outside the club, ignoring the shouting bouncer as he pushed his way through the heavy velvet ropes and into the sweaty, pulsing heat of the venue.

His blue eyes scanned the crowded dance floor like a predator, his massive frame cutting through the throngs of people who naturally parted to avoid his intense, unblinking glare. He headed straight for the main bar, but as he approached, a sudden roar of cheers from the elevated VIP stage area pulled his attention upward.

Andrew froze, his jaw locking instantly.

There you were, right in the center of the small club stage with your two roommates, completely running the show. The DJ had dropped a heavy hip-hop track, and you were holding a wireless microphone you had somehow acquired, singing along to the lyrics at the top of your lungs while your hips moved in a slow, perfectly rhythmic roll.

You looked completely radiant, entirely secure, and utterly wasted. The rhinestones on your red, cropped "Angel" tube top caught the strobing pink lights of the club with every breath you took, and the heavy silver chain link belt slung low around the waist of your fitted denim capris swung to the beat as you moved. Your hair, pinned back with sharp streaks of bright red framing your face, bounced perfectly, and the large silver hoops in your ears caught the glare of a dozen phone cameras. A crowd of guys at the edge of the stage were cheering, their eyes locked onto the flash of your midriff and the sparkly silver platform heels keeping you poised high above them.

A dark, violent heat flared up in Andrew's chest. He didn't look at the crowd; he didn't look at the DJ. He walked straight up the side steps of the stage, his boots thumping heavily against the wood.

"Y/N," he growled, reaching you in three long strides.

"Andrew!" you shrieked with delight, dropping the microphone onto a nearby speaker without a care. You immediately threw your arms around his neck, your heavy, warm body collapsing against his chest with absolute certainty. You smelled like sweet perfume, sweat, and expensive tequila. "You came! Look, I told you he’d come!"

Your roommates cheered, stumbling over to join the huddle. Andrew didn't waste a second. He kept one powerful arm locked securely around your waist, gathering your roommates by their elbows with his other hand, and effectively pushed the entire giggling, stumbling group off the stage and toward the exit. He made sure to snatch up the pink, camo-printed handbag you'd left near the DJ booth before guiding everyone out. The bouncers took one look at the sheer, unhinged authority in Andrew’s face and decided to mind their own business, handing over your keys from the manager's desk without a word.

Getting them into the truck was like trying to corral a pack of hyperactive puppies. Andrew practically had to lift you and your roommates into the high cab, crowding all three of you into the bench seat.

The moment the doors slammed shut, the quiet of the night air was completely shattered. One of your roommates immediately hit the power button on his radio, cranking the volume to the max as a loud pop song started playing.

"Turn it up! Andrew, turn it up!" you yelled, your hands coming up to cup his face as he put the truck in reverse. You were sitting right against his hip, your body completely pressed into his side, the cold metal of your silver chain belt pressing through his jeans as your lips brassed against his jawline. "We're going to the after-hours spot! Down on 5th! Let's go, let's go!"

"No," Andrew said flatly, his voice a low rumble beneath the blaring music. "We're going home."

"Boo! Andrew is a party pooper!" your roommate groaned from the passenger window, while you just leaned heavily into his shoulder, your fingers tugging at the collar of his jacket.

"Please, Andrew? Just one more club? I'm not even tired, see?" You tried to open your eyes wide to prove your point, but your eyelids were heavy, a sloppy, beautiful smile plastered across your face. You began to sing along to the radio, your voice completely out of tune but full of pure joy, your hands waving in the air while your roommates hyped you up from the other side of the seat.

Andrew kept one hand firmly on the steering wheel, his other hand coming down to rest heavily on your denim-clad thigh, holding you steady against him as the truck bounced over the asphalt. He didn't say another word, his expression fixed on the road ahead, but the tight, suffocating knot that had been in his chest all night had completely vanished. You were in his truck. You were safe.

He drove straight to your apartment first, killing the engine outside the complex. Leaving you safely inside the cab, he got out of the truck and walked around to the passenger side. He helped your two roommates out, but his protective instincts wouldn't let him just leave them at the curb in their state.

"Stay right here. I'll be right back," Andrew muttered to you through the open door, his blue eyes holding yours for a second to ensure you wouldn't move. You just nodded sleepily, slumping down comfortably into the warm cloth of his seat.

Andrew locked the truck doors with his key fob, ensuring you were completely secure inside, before escorting your roommates up the stairs. They were still giggling and stumbling over their own feet on the dark walkway, but he patiently guided them until they unlocked the front door. He ushered them safely inside the apartment. ​"She's staying here?" one of them questioned right before he could close the door and make sure it was locked.

"No, she's coming with me," Andrew muttered softly, closing the door and locking it. He didn't want you staying in a house full of drunk girls where nobody could watch over you.

When he climbed back into the driver's seat, the chaotic energy of the night had finally caught up to you. The alcohol had turned heavy in your system, transforming you from a loud, dancing force into an incredibly clingy, defenseless weight. You immediately slid across the bench seat, burying your face right into his side the second he closed his door.

By the time he pulled into his own driveway, you were completely out of it.

Andrew opened the passenger door, reaching in to lift you out of the seat effortlessly. The moment your feet touched the ground, your silver platform sandals slipped a little, your knees buckling as your arms immediately locked around his neck like a vice.

"Don't put me down," you mumbled into his chest, your voice muffled by his denim jacket. "Andrew. Hold me. Don't let go."

"I've got you," he whispered, his rough voice softening to a register only you ever heard. He hooked his arms under your thighs, carrying you up the steps and into the dark quiet of his house, kicking the heavy door shut behind him.

He carried you straight into his bedroom, setting you down carefully on the edge of the mattress. The moment his hands left your waist, you let out a soft whine, reaching out to grab the hem of his shirt. "Where are you going? Stay."

"I'm right here," he murmured, gently prying your fingers away so he could work on your clothes. He unclipped the heavy silver chain belt, setting it loudly on the dresser, and carefully helped you slip out of the red tube top and tight capris. He reached for the fresh, oversized cotton t-shirt he kept in his drawer for you, sliding the soft, clean fabric over your head. You were completely pliant in his hands, your eyes half-closed as you leaned your forehead against his chest while he worked.

"Makeup," you mumbled, your fingers weakly patting your own cheek. "Gotta take it off. My skin..."

"I know. Sit still." Andrew walked into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a bottle of your micellar water and a handful of cotton pads he had learned to keep stocked in his cabinet. He sat down on the bed directly in front of you, his massive, calloused hands incredibly gentle as he held your chin, lifting your face toward the dim light of the bedside lamp.

He wiped the cotton pad across your skin with meticulous, slow strokes, carefully removing the dark eyeliner, the lip gloss, and the foundation until your smooth, rich skin was completely clean. You kept your eyes closed, a soft, content sigh escaping your lips every time the cool liquid touched your face.

Once your skin was bare, Andrew reached onto the nightstand, picking up the silk bonnet you always left behind. He knew the routine by heart now. He carefully gathered your full curls, smoothing them back away from your face with his large palms before gently sliding the elastic band of the bonnet over your head, making sure every strand was tucked in safely.

"All done," he whispered.

The moment he stood up to take the trash to the bathroom, you lunged forward, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. "No. Don't leave. Sleep now, Andrew."

Andrew let out a low, rough chuckle, the sound vibrating through his back against your cheek. He turned around in your embrace, lifting you easily into the center of the bed and sliding under the heavy blankets beside you. The instant he lay down, you crawled right on top of him, anchoring your chin on his chest, your arms and legs completely tangling with his like a koala. You were heavy, warm, and entirely unbothered by how tight your grip was.

Andrew wrapped his large arms around your back, his hand resting securely at the base of your neck, his blue eyes staring down at you in the dark. He loved you like this completely dependent on him, stripped of your usual sharp wit, leaving only the raw, unfiltered need to be close to him. He didn't close his eyes for a long time, just listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of your breathing against his skin.

The next morning, the bright Oceanside sun poured through the cracks in the blinds, hitting the bed with a sharp, unforgiving light.

You let out a miserable groan, burying your face deeper into Andrew’s chest as a pounding, throbbing ache echoed behind your eyes. Your throat felt like sandpaper, and your stomach turned with a slow, sickening roll the moment you tried to shift your weight.

"Andrew," you whined, your voice cracked and tiny. "My head."

Andrew was already awake, his body steady and cool beneath you. He didn't move right away, letting you hide from the light against his shirt for a few minutes before he gently slid out from under you, replacing his body with a soft pillow.

"Stay there," he muttered, his voice gravelly from sleep.

He walked out of the room, the soft thud of his boots the only sound in the quiet house. A few minutes later, he returned, carrying a tray he had put together with deliberate care. He set it on the nightstand, sitting on the edge of the mattress beside you.

"Sit up," he said softly, reaching behind your back to help lift you against the headboard.

You opened your eyes to a tiny squint, the light making you wince. On the tray was a large glass of ice water, two pain relievers, a bottle of sports drink with electrolytes, and a plate with two slices of dry, buttered toast and a small bowl of fresh fruit.

"Drink this first," he commanded gently, handing you the pills and the water glass.

You took them with trembling hands, swallowing the water greedily while he held the bottom of the glass to make sure you didn't spill it on yourself. The cool liquid felt like heaven against your raw throat. Once you set the glass down, you immediately leaned your heavy head against his shoulder, your eyes closing again.

"I feel like death," you mumbled, a dramatic pout on your lips. "I'm never drinking again."

"You said that last time," Andrew noted flatly, though there was a hidden, amused warmth in his blue eyes. He picked up a piece of the toast, holding it up to your lips. "Eat. It'll help your stomach."

You took a small, hesitant bite, chewing slowly while he patiently held the bread for you. He didn't rush you, and he didn't judge you for how sloppy the night had been. He just sat there, a massive, unyielding wall of comfort, letting you lean your entire weight against him while the hangover slowly ran its course.

"You were singing on the stage," Andrew said after a while, his voice dropping into that quiet, serious register.

You paused, a sudden flash of memory hitting your brain; the microphone, the pink lights, the crowd of guys cheering at the front of the stage at El Rey. You let out a weak, embarrassed laugh, burying your face in his neck. "Oh my god. Don't remind me. Was I terrible?"

"Everyone was looking at you," Andrew muttered, his fingers tightening slightly around your hip through the blankets, that dark, familiar current of possessiveness returning to his tone. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the edge of your silk bonnet. "But I brought you home."

Andrew didn’t bring people to Smurf’s house. He didn’t even like being there himself most days, let alone exposing someone he cared about to the suffocating, watchful atmosphere of his mother’s kitchen. But tonight, plans had shifted. Your roommate had texted you at the last minute, practically begging for the apartment for the night to handle some personal drama, leaving you temporarily displaced. Andrew had been planning to take you straight back to his quiet place, but Smurf had already caught wind that he was out, demanding he stop by the house to have dinner with the family.

"We don't have to stay long," Andrew muttered, his large hands gripping the steering wheel of his truck tightly as he pulled up to the curb outside the familiar Oceanside property. He cut the engine, turning his intense blue eyes toward you. "Just dinner. Then we go."

You smirked, completely unbothered by the tense set of his shoulders. You reached over, your warm fingers gently tracing the hard line of his jawline to ease his tension. "Andrew, relax. It’s just dinner. I can handle a family dinner."

Your outfit was loud, youthful, and completely secure in its style. You wore a tight, white short-sleeved top with thin red piping along the scooped neckline and sleeves, featuring a bold, retro-styled "Cherry Bomb" graphic printed across the chest above a pair of vibrant red cherries. The shirt was tied with a delicate red ribbon right at the collar, showing off a sliver of your midriff before meeting a matching white, ultra-low-rise eyelet mini skirt with a playful ruffled hem. On your feet, you wore towering, light pink platform sandals accented with a thick ankle strap, silver buckle, and a massive, fluffy explosion of soft pink faux fur across the toes. You looked expensive, entirely free, and completely distinct from anyone who usually crossed the Cody threshold.

Andrew opened the front door, guiding you inside with a firm, protective hand resting against the small of your back.

The house was already alive with the usual noise. The moment you stepped into the dining area, the conversation dropped. Craig was leaning against the counter with a beer, Deran was sitting near the edge of the table, and Baz was whispering something to J near the fridge. Having all been down at the beach the night you and Andrew left together, the brothers already knew exactly who you were. Only J was seeing you for the first time, his eyes briefly tracking your platform shoes before settling into his usual detached, unreadable expression.

Smurf stood by the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand, her sharp eyes instantly sliding over you, cataloging every detail of your appearance from your fluffy pink shoes to the secure smile on your face.

"Well, look what Andrew brought home," Smurf said, her voice dropping into that smooth, overly sweet register she used when she was analyzing a threat. She set the spoon down, wiping her hands on a towel as she walked over. "Andrew never tells me when he’s bringing a guest. I’m Smurf."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Y/N," you replied smoothly, your voice carrying an effortless confidence. You didn't shrink under her gaze. You stood tall on your platforms, your hand slipping into Andrew’s larger one, feeling his grip tighten instantly in a silent show of support.

"Told you he wasn't kidding around, Smurf," Baz muttered with a grin, leaning back against the counter and taking a sip of his beer. "Saw them take off from the jetty together."

Craig offered an easy, practiced smile, leaning his shoulder against the fridge. "Yeah, word travels fast when Andrew actually leaves a party with someone. Nice to officially meet you, Y/N."

Dinner was served quickly, a heavy spread that Smurf laid out with her usual performative hospitality. As everyone sat down, the dynamic was loud and chaotic. Craig kept complaining about some surf gear, Deran was mostly quiet, and J watched the room with his typical silence. Smurf sat at the head of the table, her eyes constantly drifting back to you, watching the way Andrew filled your water glass before his own, the way his eyes never truly left your face.

It didn't take long for Smurf to try and poke at you. She took a slow sip of her wine, leaning forward on her elbows, her gaze fixing tightly on your top.

"So, Y/N," Smurf began, her tone dripping with passive-aggressive curiosity. "Andrew tells me you just moved down here from LA. Oceanside can be an expensive place for a young girl starting out. What is it you do for work exactly? Must be hard finding something flexible enough to match... all of this." She gestured vaguely toward your outfit with a patronizing little smile.

Andrew stopped chewing entirely, his whole body going deadly still as he glared across the table at his mother. Before he could snap or make a scene, you just tilted your head back slightly, looking Smurf up and down with an expression of pure, unadulterated amusement.

"Work? Why would I do that? My father pays for everything," you said with a breezy, amused shrug, letting a soft laugh escape your lips. The sheer honesty of it completely bypassed the reaction Smurf was trying to bait out of you. You leaned back slightly, adjusting one of the gold chains around your neck. "But, I do have those little Business and Computer Science degrees my dad made me get back in LA. So, there's that if I ever get bored."

Craig let out a sudden, loud bark of laughter, nearly choking on his beer. "Computer science? Damn, Pope, she’s smarter than all of us combined."

Smurf’s smile didn't reach her eyes this time. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass, her lips pressing into a thin, tight line. She wasn't used to girls who couldn't be easily shamed or intimidated by her maternal authority. You weren't seeking her approval, and you clearly didn't need anything the Codys had to offer financially. You were entirely secure, and it drove her crazy.

"Degrees are nice," Smurf said coldly, her tone clipping short. "But LA money doesn't always buy common sense down here."

"Does just fine for me," you replied with a sweet, devastatingly calm smile, turning your attention right back to your plate.

Andrew finally took a slow sip of his drink, a heavy, dark satisfaction settling deep in his chest. His mother's usual routine wasn't working, and watching you completely shut down her passive-aggressive remarks without even raising your voice was the best thing he’d seen in years. You were totally out of Smurf's reach, and he was completely hooked.

Once dinner wrapped up, the tension in the dining room finally broke as the guys began to clear out. Craig and Deran headed out toward the garage to check on a bike, while Baz and J retreated to the back patio to talk about some upcoming logistics.

Andrew immediately guided you into the living room, wanting to distance you from Smurf’s sharp tongue. He sat down heavily on the deep leather sofa, letting out a long, exhausted breath. Without waiting for an invitation, you stepped out of your fluffy pink platform sandals, leaving them neatly by the rug, and slid right onto his lap.

Andrew’s arms wrapped around your waist instantly, his large hands anchoring firmly against the white fabric of your eyelet skirt. He buried his face into the side of your neck, inhaling the sweet blend of your coconut oil and perfume, letting the familiar scent ground him after the chaotic dinner.

"You did good," he muttered, his voice a rough, low rumble against your skin. "Smurf was trying to push you."

"She’s very predictable, Andrew," you murmured softly, your fingers threading through his short, curly hair as you leaned your head against his shoulder. "I've dealt with plenty of people like her back home. She doesn't scare me. Besides, I only care about what you think."

He groaned softly, tightening his grip on your waist, pulling you so close there was absolutely no space left between you. For a few minutes, the living room was quiet, the heavy thump of his heart steady against your chest.

"I need to use the bathroom," you whispered after a while, kissing his lips gently before sliding off his lap.

Andrew let his hands drop reluctantly, his eyes tracking you as you walked down the hallway, the tiny ruffles of your skirt shifting beautifully with every step. Only when the bathroom door clicked shut did he finally lean back against the cushions, closing his eyes.

"She’s certainly something else, isn't she?"

Smurf’s voice cut through the quiet room like a blade. She walked in from the kitchen, a fresh glass of wine in her hand, her expression completely wiped of the fake hospitality she’d maintained during dinner. She stood near the edge of the sofa, looking down at her oldest son with a look of intense, calculated pity.

Andrew didn’t open his eyes right away. "Leave it alone, Smurf."

"I'm just looking out for you, baby," Smurf sighed, stepping closer, her voice dropping into that soft, manipulative purr she used to break his confidence down. She sat on the arm of the couch, reaching out to stroke his hair, but Andrew pulled his head back slightly, avoiding the touch. Smurf’s eyes underestimated your impact, but her voice remained sweet. "Look at her, Andrew. Look at how she dresses. Look at how she talks. She’s a beautiful girl, sure, but she’s from a completely different world."

Andrew opened his eyes, his blue gaze cold and unblinking as he stared at his mother. "She likes me."

"Oh, sweetie," Smurf chuckled softly, shaking her head with a look of mock sadness. "She likes the "idea" of you. A girl like that, daddy paying for everything, degrees she doesn't even use... she’s bored, Andrew. She came down to Oceanside looking for a thrill, looking for a little danger to rebel against her perfect LA life. And you? You're exactly what she thinks danger looks like. She's just using you for the excitement."

Andrew’s jaw locked. The words hit exactly where Smurf knew he was vulnerable his deep-seated belief that he was too broken, too dark for anyone to actually want to keep.

"She's going to get bored, baby," Smurf whispered, leaning closer, her eyes boring into his. "Girls like that always do. They have their fun with the bad boy, and then they run right back to their daddy’s money when things get too real. She's going to hurt you, Andrew. She doesn't belong here. She's just playing a game."

The silence in the room stretched tense and heavy. For a second, Smurf looked triumphant, believing she had successfully planted the seed of doubt that would make him push you away before you could ever threaten her hold on him.

But Andrew wasn't the same man he was before he met you. He remembered the look in your eyes at the bonfire. He remembered how you looked right past the "Pope" persona, right past the prison rumors, and saw *him*. He remembered the absolute security in your voice when you told him you were his.

Andrew shifted, sitting up straight, completely pulling away from his mother’s presence. He looked her dead in the eye, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register that made even Smurf pause.

"I don't think she's like that," Andrew said flatly. His expression was completely unreadable, a wall of pure iron defiance. "And we'll see."

Smurf’s face hardened instantly. The fake maternal softness vanished, her eyes flashing with a sudden, violent flash of anger. She stood up from the arm of the couch, her breath coming a little faster as she realized her standard manipulation had completely failed to take root. Before she could say another word, the bathroom door clicked open down the hall.

You walked back into the living room, stepping effortlessly back into your pink platform sandals, the soft faux fur brushing against the top of your feet. You noticed the heavy atmosphere immediately Smurf standing rigid with her wine glass, and Andrew sitting tall, his eyes locked on you like a lifeline.

You walked straight over to Andrew, offering him your hand. "Ready to go, big guy?"

Andrew didn't hesitate. He stood up instantly, his massive frame towering over Smurf as he took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours with an unyielding, possessive grip. "Yeah. Let's go."

He didn't look back at his mother. He grabbed his keys from the coffee table and guided you directly toward the front door. You turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of Smurf standing in the center of the living room, her face twisted into a furious, fuming mask of resentment as she watched her oldest son walk away from her control without a single glance backward.

✨️Flashback✨️

The Oceanside shore was always colder at night than people expected, the Pacific breeze cutting sharp across the damp sand. But tonight, the heat radiating from the massive bonfire kept the chill at bay. Sparks danced up into the black sky, disappearing into the dark expanse of the ocean.

A heavy, portable speaker was propped up on a cooler, thumping out a steady rhythm that competed with the crashing waves. Around the fire, a typical mix of Oceanside locals, surfers, and others were drinking cheap beer & liquor out of red plastic cups.

Pope stood just on the outer ring of the firelight, his back to a jagged cluster of rocks. He preferred the dark. It let him watch without being seen, a habit he couldn't shake no matter how casual the setting was supposed to be. He had a beer in his hand, condensation slicking his palm, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. The noise of the crowd usually grated on him, a buzzing hum that made his chest tighten, but tonight his focus was violently pulled toward the center of the gathering.

You were standing right by the edge of the heat, laughing with a couple of girls, entirely unbothered by the cool ocean wind. Everyone else had thrown on hoodies or denim jackets as the sun went down, but you stood out like a flame yourself. You were wearing a striking, multi-colored striped two-piece set that caught every flicker of the bonfire. The earthy reds, oranges, and greens of the knit fabric complemented your rich, skin beautifully. The top featured a daring cutout design, framed by thin red straps that tied neatly at your waist, while the matching high-cut bottoms sat perfectly on your hips, accented by vibrant red side-ties.

Your curls bounced slightly as you tilted your head back, laughing at something a friend said, completely in your element. Pope’s chest felt tight. The sheer confidence vibrating off you was magnetic. You weren't trying to attract attention; you just naturally held it. His jaw shifted, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he tracked the way the firelight licked across your skin while you moved to the rhythm of the music, holding a red cup in one hand and gesturing animatedly with the other.

"Yo, Pope, man, look at that," Craig’s booming voice cut through his thoughts. Craig stumbled slightly as he slapped a heavy hand onto Pope’s shoulder, holding a half-empty bottle of tequila. He pointed across the flames, a massive grin on his face. "Now that is how you start a summer."

Pope didn’t blink. His blue eyes remained locked onto you.

Deran walked up to join them, a cooler balancing on his shoulder. He dropped it into the sand with a heavy thud, glancing over at the crowd, then noticed the rigid, unmoving posture his older brother had adopted. "Hey. Pope. You good, man?"

Pope didn’t answer.

"Leave him be, Deran," Baz’s smooth voice interrupted. Baz stepped into the light from the other side, a calculative, easy smirk on his face. He took a sip of his beer, his eyes scanning the crowd with a practiced, analyzing gaze. "She’s new around here. Heard she just moved down from LA. Handles her own business, doesn't mess with the beach bums. Smart."

Baz leaned slightly closer to Pope, his tone dropping to that quiet, suggestive murmur. "Want me to go introduce us? Get her over here?"

The suggestion hung in the air for a fraction of a second before Pope’s head snapped around. The glare he leveled at Baz was so sudden, so intensely cold, that Baz actually took a half-step back, his smirk faltering into a tense line.

"No," Pope growled, his voice rough and low, carrying a dangerous edge that made Craig’s drunken laughter immediately die down. "Don't talk to her."

Baz held up his hands defensively, a neutral expression quickly masking his surprise. "Alright, man. Just offering."

Across the fire, you were fully engaged in conversation, but your friends were starting to look past your shoulder.

"Hey, don't look now," one of your friends muttered, leaning in closer to you so her voice wouldn't carry over the music. "But that guy by the rocks has been staring at you for the last twenty minutes. Like, literally hasn't blinked."

You didn't look right away. Instead, you casually took a sip from your cup, shifting your weight from one hip to the other. "Which one?"

"The big one in the dark jacket. His family runs things around here. People call him Pope," she whispered, her eyes darting toward the shadows. "He's cute in a dark, quiet way, but... I don't know, he's heavy. My brother told me he just got out of prison a little while ago. Broke into a bank or robbed it, something crazy like that. Real hardcore."

You paused, your interest instantly piqued. You slowly turned your head, letting your eyes wander across the bonfire until they found the exact silhouette your friend was talking about.

Through the shifting amber flames, you caught his eye. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and standing completely still while the rest of the beach was in constant motion. There was an intensity in his gaze that would have made most girls nervous, but you just found it incredibly hot. A guy who didn't play games, who knew exactly what he was looking at. Prison didn't scare you; if anything, the raw, unfiltered edge he carried made him ten times more interesting than the soft, predictable surf boys lining the beach.

"Yeah," you murmured, a slow, knowing smirk creeping onto your lips as you held his unblinking stare across the smoke. "He's definitely cute."

A few minutes later, the group around Pope began to disperse. Craig wandered off toward the shoreline with his tequila, Baz found a group of girls closer to the speakers, and Deran headed back up toward the trucks. Pope didn't follow any of them. He stayed rooted to his spot, a solitary figure in the darkness, his blue eyes still fixed entirely on you.

Seeing him alone, you handed your cup to your friend. "Hold this. I'll be right back."

You walked directly toward the fire, cutting a path straight through the crowd. The sand shifted heavily under your bare feet, the earthy stripes of your outfit catching the light with every step you took.

Pope watched you approach, his breath hitching slightly in his throat as the distance between you closed. He didn't move an inch, his posture rigid, his knuckles white around his beer can as the scent of your coconut oil and sweet perfume began to override the smell of smoke and salt water.

You stopped just a couple of feet away, stepping right into his space. Up close, you had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes, taking in the sharp line of his jaw and the sheer mass of his frame.

"You know, people are going to start thinking you're plotting something if you keep staring like that, Pope," you said, your voice a smooth, confident purr that carried easily over the ambient noise of the beach.

Hearing the nickname out of your mouth made something shift inside him. His throat felt dry. He looked down at you, his eyes scanning your face, completely captivated by the total lack of fear in your expression.

"You shouldn't call me that," he muttered, his voice rough and gravelly from hours of silence.

You tilted your head, a playful spark in your dark eyes as you rested a hand on your hip, right over the red tie of your bottoms. "Oh yeah? What should I call you then?"

"Andrew," he said softly, the tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction. "My name is Andrew."

"Andrew," you repeated, letting the syllables roll slowly off your tongue. The smirk on your face deepened when you saw his jaw lock at the sound of his real name. "I like that better anyway. Fits you."

He shifted his weight, looking out over the dark ocean for a split second before his eyes snapped right back to yours. "You're not from around here."

"Just moved down from LA," you said, taking a small step closer, invading his space until the warmth of your skin was practically radiating against his jacket. "Oceanside's nice, but the people are a little boring. I was starting to think I wouldn't find anyone interesting tonight."

Andrew’s chest rose and fell in a heavy, deliberate breath. He wasn't good at small talk, and he didn't know how to play the standard bar-scene games, but the raw honesty in your eyes told him he didn't need to. "I'm not boring."

"No," you murmured, your eyes dipping down to his chest before locking back onto his blue gaze. "I can tell. Your friends went that way." You nodded slightly toward the crowd by the speakers. "You going to rejoin them?"

Andrew didn't even look in their direction. His focus was entirely, violently anchored on you. "No."

"Good," you said, a direct, unfiltered confidence shining in your eyes. You reached out, your warm fingers briefly brushing against the heavy fabric of his sleeve, sending a sharp jolt of adrenaline straight down his spine. "Because I was thinking about leaving. And I don't really feel like walking back alone."

The thread snapped. Andrew set his beer down on a flat rock behind him with a sharp *clack*, his hand immediately moving to guide you by the small of your back, his large palm steady and firm against your skin.

"We can go to my place," he said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument, thick with a sudden, dark intensity.

The bass didn’t just play; it vibrated through the floorboards of the Oceanside beach house, rattling the cheap beer bottles lined up on the outdoor bar. The party was a chaotic, sweating mass of locals, surfers, and stoners that the Cody brothers routinely tolerated to keep up appearances or to blow off steam.

Pope stood near the edge of the kitchen just inside the door, half-submerged in the shadows, where he usually kept himself. A sweating can of beer was gripped tightly in his hand, though he’d barely taken two sips from it all night. His eyes, intense and restless, scanned the backyard. He didn’t care for the noise, the reckless spilling of alcohol, or the high-pitched laughter cutting through the heavy air. But he did care about you.

You were currently a few feet away, laughing with a couple of girls from down the street, your skin catching the neon blue light pouring from the DJ’s makeshift booth. Pope’s gaze anchored on you, his posture rigid but his mind entirely focused.

He didn’t understand how someone like you vibrant, effortlessly taking hold of every room you walked into had ended up tethered to him. You were a #youngho, a title your friends teased you with because of how fiercely you handled your business, your look, and your life. You didn’t need the Cody name for protection, and you certainly didn’t need their money. Yet, for the past few months, you had chosen to spend your nights locked in his quiet, claustrophobic apartment, grounding him when the noise in his own head got too loud.

"Yo, Pope, man, you look like you're about to murder someone," Deran muttered, passing by with a fresh case of beer. He paused, following his older brother’s intense stare across the living room to where you stood. Deran smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "Or just looking at her. Seriously, man, breathe. She’s not going anywhere."

Pope didn’t turn to look at his brother. His jaw shifted, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "I am breathing."

"Could’ve fooled me," Deran chuckled, shaking his head as he walked away further into the backyard.

Pope ignored him, his attention snapping back to you. The DJ, a local kid who knew exactly how to rile up a crowd, cut the previous track into a heavy, slow-rolling trap beat with a bassline so deep it made the glass windowpanes shudder.

The crowd erupted in shouts. Your eyes lit up instantly, recognition flashing across your face. You threw your head back, a wide, gorgeous laugh escaping you as your friends immediately grabbed your hands, pulling you into the center of the cleared-out living room floor.

Pope’s grip on his beer can tightened slightly. He hadn’t seen you dance like this before. Usually, your time together was quiet, hidden away from the chaos of his family. It was late-night drives, whispered conversations in the dark, and the soft, comforting weight of your head on his chest. This side of you free, loud, and entirely magnetic under the house lights was entirely new to him.

The circle of people widened, clapping to the rhythm of the heavy drums. You didn't hesitate. You stepped right into the center, your hips already moving smoothly to the beat.

Then, as the bass dropped with a deafening thud, you bent low.

Pope’s breath hitched in his throat.

You caught the rhythm perfectly, your body dropping effortlessly as you began to twerk, the sharp, rhythmic movement matching the heavy thumping of the speakers. The sheer control, the fluid, hypnotic roll of your hips, and the unbothered confidence radiating from you stopped Pope’s internal monologue dead in its tracks.

The room went wild. Guys were cheering, girls were hyping you up, shouting your name over the music, but you weren’t paying attention to any of them. Your focus was entirely on the music, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips as you kept perfectly to the beat, your braids swinging rhythmically over your shoulders.

Pope felt a sudden, heavy heat flare up in his chest, radiating straight down his spine. His vision narrowed until the rest of the crowded, smoky room blurred into insignificance. There was only you. The way the light hit the curve of your back, the effortless power in your movements, the absolute authority you held over every single pair of eyes in that room without even trying.

A guy standing near the couch, a surfer Craig had dragged along from the pier, took a step closer to the circle, his eyes glued to you, a low whistle escaping his teeth.

The muscle in Pope’s jaw locked. The sudden, violent urge to walk over and shove the guy through the drywall flared up instantly, hot and sharp. Pope didn't move, but his entire demeanor shifted from a quiet observer to a predator marking its territory. His blue eyes darkened, fixed entirely on the surfer until the guy accidentally caught Pope’s glare, paled, and took a deliberate step backward into the crowd.

As if sensing the shift in the room's energy, or perhaps just knowing exactly where he always stood, you turned your head slightly while still moving to the music.

Your eyes locked right onto his.

Through the haze of the party, across the crowded floor, your gaze held his. You didn’t stop dancing. Instead, the smirk on your lips deepened into something sharper, something meant entirely for him. You held his stare, your movements becoming slower, more deliberate, a direct challenge wrapped in complete confidence. You knew exactly what you were doing to him. You knew how high his walls were, and you knew exactly how to pull them down.

Pope felt like he couldn’t breathe. His heart hammered against his ribs, a heavy, rhythmic thud that drowned out the DJ’s speakers. He didn't smile; he couldn't. His expression was intensely serious, his gaze burning into yours with a raw, unfiltered hunger that would have terrified anyone else in the room. But you just laughed, a silent, breathless sound, before finally rising up out of the center of the circle as the song faded into the next track.

Your friends swarmed you, hugging you and yelling compliments, but you patted them on the arms, whispering something about needing a drink.

You turned and walked straight toward the edge of the kitchen. Straight toward him.

Pope didn't move an inch as you approached. The crowd parted for you naturally, your presence commanding space. When you finally stepped into the shadow of the kitchen doorway, the heat from your skin seemed to roll over him, smelling of sweet perfume, coconut oil, and clean sweat.

"You're staring, Andrew," you said, your voice a low, smooth purr that cut right through the ambient noise of the house. You used his real name, the name reserved only for when the two of you were completely alone, or when you wanted his undivided, serious attention.

"You never did that before," Pope said, his voice rough, gravelly from hours of silence. He still hadn't let go of the beer can, his knuckles white.

You stepped closer, invading his space until your front almost brushed against his chest. You had to look up to meet his eyes, but there was no submission in it. You looked at him like you owned him, and the terrifying part was, Pope knew you did.

"Did you like it?" you asked, tilting your head, a playful spark in your dark eyes. "You looked like you wanted to tear the house down."

"Everyone was looking at you," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a dark, possessive current. His eyes drifted down to your lips before snapping back up to yours. "I didn't like them looking at you."

You let out a soft chuckle, reaching out to rest your palm against his chest. Even through his heavy denim jacket, he could feel the warmth of your hand, steady and grounding. "They can look all they want, Andrew. But I'm going home with you. They don't get this." You slid your hand up to his collar, your fingers gently tugging at the fabric. "Unless you're too scared to handle it."

That was it. The thread snapped.

Pope set his beer down on the counter with a sharp *clack*, his hand immediately moving to grip your hip. His fingers dug into your skin through your clothes, his grip firm, unyielding, but careful not to hurt you. He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear.

"We’re leaving," he growled.

"The party’s still going," you teased, though your breathing had already hitched at the sudden, heavy pressure of his hand on your body.

"I don't care," Pope said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. He didn't look at his brothers, he didn't say goodbye to Smurf, who was undoubtedly watching from the back patio with a calculative look. He just kept his hand firmly on your hip, guiding you out of the side door and into the cool, salty night air of Oceanside.

The walk to his truck was silent, but the tension between you was thick enough to suffocate. Pope unlocked the passenger side, holding the door open for you. His eyes never left your face as you climbed in, a small, knowing smile on your lips. He slammed the door shut, walked around the hood with a tense, hurried stride, and slid into the driver's seat.

The engine roared to life, and he pulled away from the curb fast, the tires chirping against the asphalt.

During the short drive back to his place, Pope kept one hand firmly on the steering wheel, while his other hand found its place on your thigh, his large fingers spreading across to squeeze tightly. He didn't speak a word, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead, but his chest rose and fell in heavy, deliberate breaths.

When he finally pulled up to his house, he killed the engine, and the sudden silence of the night settled over them.

You didn't even have time to reach for the door handle. Pope was already out of the truck, walking around to your side, throwing the door open. He reached in, his hands wrapping around your waist, and lifted you out of the high seat effortlessly, setting your feet on the ground before immediately crowding you against the side of the truck.

The metal was cool against your back, but Pope was pure, radiating heat.

"Andrew," you breathed, your hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders.

"You're mine," he whispered, his voice thick, almost desperate as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled sharply, taking in the scent of you, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, lifting you slightly so you had to wrap your legs around his waist. "Tell me."

"I'm yours," you murmured, your fingers threading through his short, coarse hair, pulling him closer. "Always, Andrew. I'm yours."

He groaned, a low, primal sound from the back of his throat, and then his lips found yours.

The kiss wasn't gentle; it was hungry, possessive, a release of all the coiled tension that had been building inside him since the moment the bass dropped at that party. He tasted like beer and determination, his tongue tangling with yours with a desperate intensity. He carried you up the steps, his hands steady beneath you, never breaking the kiss even as he fumbled with the keys to unlock the front door.

#YoungHo 1

#YoungHo 2

#YoungHo 3

#YoungHo 4

#YoungHo 5

You and Andrew leave a trail of your clothes as you make your way into the bedroom, you can't think straight anymore when he pushes you onto the bed and closes the space between your lips.

You love the way his cock rests against your lower stomach, throbbing. You can't ignore the way andrew cups your face with his hands when he kisses you softly and passionately.

“Your lips are so soft.” He says, nipping at your bottom lip lightly with his teeth. “I could kiss you forever.” 

“Would you?” You look at his lips, reaching up to touch them. 

“Would you let me?” He leans in again, kissing you once more. Butterflies are dancing around in your stomach. 

“I would never stop you.” You say breathlessly, against his lips. His hands slide down to your waist, holding you down on the bed as his lips make their way down to your collarbone. He kisses along the length of it and the gentleness of it is driving you wild. 

Especially when his lips trail lower, hovering over your breasts. He just stares at them, refusing to touch them. He's purposefully avoiding the areas that make you feel good. 

Andrew likes the way you're squirming from his barley there touches. If he wants to use your body, you're ready and willing. You hope he actually start touching you soon, in fear you might combust from wanting him so much. But he keeps his hands away from anywhere sensitive. It's driving you crazy…

“Please touch me, Andrew.” You can't stand waiting any longer. 

“I am touching you.” He smiles, resting his hands on your stomach. “See?” 

“No! Not like that…” You gasp when his hands slide up to meet in the middle, closing around your neck. 

“Do you not like these touches?” His thumbs press down on the center of your throat. Any air you breathe in is trapped right there. Your body is trembling. 

Andrew gently spreads your legs apart with his thick thigh, pushing it right up against your pussy.

“Let me see you cum from this.” He tells you, gesturing to his thigh between your legs. “Grind your hips on me. Show me you belong to me.” 

You almost cum just from that. You don't hide anything anymore. You show him how needy you are, grinding against his thigh, desperate to cum. To show him. The friction against your clit is incredible. The way andrew is staring at you is electric.

You lift your hands up to wrap around his wrists and you pull him closer, wanting him to choke you harder. He's never wanted someone so badly before, his cock throbbing like crazy. 

Pope applies more pressure, forcing your eyes to roll back in your head. You can't breathe. You're still grinding against his thigh, getting closer and closer to your release. 

Then, he whispers in your ear, “cum right now or I'll stop and leave you wanting for more.” 

His hands squeeze your throat harder, his threat apparent. You cum all over his thigh in that instant, choking on your own moans. You ride his thigh through your orgasm, wanting it to last longer. 

All the while, andrew has the sweetest smile on his face. When you've come down from your high, he lets your neck go and returns to holding your face tenderly, kissing you with so much love.

“You did so good for me, baby.” He praises you, your heart skipping a beat in response. He finally cups your breasts with both of his hands, grasping them firmly. You let out a loud whimper when he rolls his thumbs over your nipples. A few more swipes and they're nice and hard for him, so he leans in and takes one in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. 

Then, he trails lower, kissing a line down your stomach until he's between your legs. His eyes are locked on yours when his tongue drags up along your folds until he reaches your clit. He flicks it with the tip of his tongue and you can't hold in your voice anymore. 

“Andrew.” His name comes out all raspy from your lips as your orgasm builds from him playing with your clit in his mouth. 

The expression on his face is pure delight. He loves how you say his name when you're about to cum. He needs to hear it more. So he takes his time, learning what makes you rasp out his name, not letting you cum. 

This is like torture for you. He keeps edging you, bringing you so close to cumming only to pull away at the last second. 

“Please, Andrew.” You can't take it any longer. “I need to cum.” 

He knows that. He can tell from how much slick is pouring out of your pussy. He can probably slide right into you right now. But he's not ready for that just yet.

“Why the rush, huh?” He says, placing a kiss on your inner thigh. “We have all night.” 

“Let me cum just once. Please?” You try because you can't handle getting to the edge and then not going over it. 

“You already came once. Did you forgot that, beautiful?” He smirks. 

You're so over it right now. His refusal is making you insatiable. You want to cum. You want to cum for him. But he won't let that happen. 

“Please let me cum. I'll do anything.” You whine because you have no other options. 

“Will you?” He says, his gaze shifting down to your core. “Then let's see how hard you can cum?"

You let out a loud moan the moment two of his fingers thrust inside of you without warning. You're not ready at all for the sudden burst of stimulation, his fingers curling inside of you until your body is shaking.

“Wait, wait, ple—” You try to move away, to try to stop yourself from bursting at the seams.

But then he locks his lips around your clit and starts to suck, pressing his fingers upwards inside of you right below it, and you cum hard. His fingers are relentless. He slips another one in, stretching you out, watching as your back arches in response. Your body wants more. 

But your mind is screaming for a break. The pleasure fogging all your senses. You can't stop cumming. 

“Andrew!” You plead for him to slow down a little. “Please, I can't keep—”

Andrew watches your body convulse from the small consecutive orgasms riddling your body. He just stares at you, at how utterly beautiful you look. Your pussy is squeezing his fingers so tightly, he can't possibly stop. 

“You want my cock?” 

You answer almost too fast, “Yes baby, please.” 

He pulls his fingers free then presses down on your lower stomach. He licks his lips when you cum again from the pressure, drenching the sheets beneath you. He can't help himself. He leans in, having a taste. 

You grab a hold of his curls and hold him there, angling yourself so he can give you another orgasm before he fucks you.

You rest your hands on his broad shoulders when he climbs back up over you, lining his cock up at your entrance. You spread your legs wider, so it's easier for him. 

“I'm the luckiest man alive.” Andrew says to you bluntly. “ The way you punched that guy, you're perfect.” 

You dig your nails into his skin when his cock pushes inside of you. You're so wet that he hilts with ease, your hips meeting his. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer to you. 

Andrew closes his eyes. As if he wants to etch this feeling into memory.

“Andrew?” You reach up to caress his face, running your fingers along his jaw. “Are you okay?” 

He opens his eyes, staring down at you. You've seen this look before. It's dark, more intense. 

Because the only thought in his mind right now is that he wants to make you feel good. You're his. 

All His. 

“How do you want it?” He asks, rolling his hips. “Nice and slow or do you want me to fuck your brains out?” 

You bite your lip, how do you want it? 

“Take me.” You tell him. “show me I'm yours, My Love.” 

And just like that, you show him again how perfect you are. You can't hold in your voice when he licks his fingers and presses them against your clit. Your whole body shivers in response at the sudden stimulation. 

When he starts pounding into you at the same time. You're moaning his name so loud you're sure it's filling the entire house. You hope nobody is home to hear you. You don't think you're able to resist letting out every sound andrew is forcing out your body. 

“Andrew, keep going...right there, I'm going to—” You pinch your eyes shut, tears dripping down your face as the next orgasm is drilled out of you with how hard he's thrusting. 

Andrew slams into you harder, your toes curling in response to him driving so deep into you, “Look at you. You're cumming so hard on my cock.” 

“Yeeees.” You drag your nails down his back, leaving red scratches behind. Andrew wants to make sure you never forget he can make you feel this way. That your body remembers the shape of his cock pounding into you.

He wants to make sure the only person that crosses your mind is his, no one else.

“Beg for it.” He's getting close but wants to hear you want him.

“Please cum inside of me, Andrew.” You're going to unravel completely when he does. You know it. “I want you to. I want cum with you." 

Your pussy squeezes him so good. You're holding it in. You won't cum until he does. 

The quiet, sun-drenched cottage at the end of the street was a stark contrast to the volatile chaos of the Cody Compound. When six-year-old Lena was placed in your care as a foster child, you welcomed her into a world built entirely on warmth, patience, love, and a deep connection to the earth. You were an earthy Black woman who wore loose, flowing linen dresses in rich terracotta and olive tones, your natural hair styled in beautiful, soft twists, and the gentle scent of lavender and vanilla permanently lingering in your wake.

Lena had arrived at your doorstep completely shattered. Her mother, Catherine, had vanished years ago, and her father, Baz, had recently been murdered, leaving her completely orphaned. But the Codys didn't tell her the truth. Instead, the family had fed the poor girl the same tired, cruel lie they used for everything: they told her that both of her parents had simply run off to Mexico, essentially abandoning her without looking back.

Because of that profound, deep-seated trauma of abandonment, Lena had been terrified and deeply withdrawn. But you didn't force her to adapt to you. Instead, you gave her space to get use to being with you, showing her everyday consistency that proved you weren't going to vanish out of nowhere.

Slowly, she opened up, and the bond between you became fiercely close. You took her to cute little free kids' activities in the local park, sitting on a patchwork blanket in the grass while she painted or listened to community storytellers. You took her shopping, letting her tiny fingers point out exactly what she wanted for her new bedroom, picking out soft pastel clothes, and choosing toys that actually made her laugh. On warm afternoons, the two of you would spread a quilt in the front yard for little picnics, eating fresh fruit and sandwiches while butterflies and bumblebees floated around you two. Together, you spent hours planting colorful wildflowers in the large wooden planter box right in front of your porch, getting your hands dirty in the soil. Afterward, you would wash up, curl up together on the woven hammock swinging on your porch, and read her your favorite childhood books until she fell asleep against your chest. For Lena, you weren't just a foster placement you were the only person who would stay and never leave her behind.

You didn't know it, but you always had an audience.

Andrew sat in his dark, unglamorous car parked down the block, his large hands gripping the steering wheel as his blue eyes watched you through the windshield. He was Lena’s uncle, permanently trapped under Janine’s suffocating thumb, but he was entirely transfixed by the life you were providing for his niece. He watched you read to her on the hammock, watched Lena’s genuine, unforced laughter during your front-yard picnics, and felt a profound, heavy ache in his chest. You were giving Lena the soft, peaceful childhood he had been brutally denied. But more than that, the sight of Lena thriving in your care was the only thing soothing his tortured conscience. Andrew carried the horrific, crushing secret that he was the one who had murdered Cath on Smurf's orders. Every time he looked at Lena, the guilt threatened to swallow him whole but seeing her safe, loved, and smiling in your arms made the guilt in his heart fall silent. He was fiercely drawn to your serene, grounded energy, watching from the background like a specter lingering on the edge of a paradise he didn’t deserve to touch.

But the peace couldn't last against the gravity of the Cody family.

Once Smurf was released from prison, she used her money, her connections, and her terrifyingly calculated legal leverage to win custody of Lena back, viewing the girl as Cody property. The day the social worker arrived to collect her was completely devastating. To Lena, this wasn't just a change of address or scenery it felt like the ultimate lost. The abandonment trauma flared up with a violent, agonizing intensity. She truly believed she was being thrown away again. Lena screamed, clutching desperately at your linen dress, her tiny fingers tangling in the fabric as tears streamed down her face, begging you not to send her away. You held her tight, your own heart breaking into a million pieces, weeping as you whispered grounding promises that you loved her, that you weren't abandoning her, and that she was so, so brave. When the car finally pulled away, you stood on your porch alone, looking down at the wooden planter box full of the flowers you had planted together, completely hollowed out by grief.

Back at the Cody Compound, the transition was an absolute disaster. Separated from the only real stability she had ever known, Lena shut down completely before turning her grief into a volatile weapon. She began to act out violently, throwing tantrums that left Smurf’s pristine house in disarray. She refused to eat anything Smurf made, screaming that she only wanted your food, cooked the way you did it. She refused to wear the clothes Smurf bought, demanding her old outfits, and tried to rearrange her new bedroom to mimic the cozy, earthy home you had helped her build and provided. To Lena, the Cody house was a prison of fake smiles and hidden secrets. She locked everyone out, her tiny heart completely hardened by the sudden loss of her foster mother.

The breaking point arrived on a Tuesday morning.

Andrew’s phone buzzed aggressively on the kitchen counter. It was Lena’s elementary school. The principal’s voice was strained and furious; Lena had gotten into very big trouble, escalating a behavioral outburst to the point where the administration had officially expelled her.

Andrew drove to the school in a tense, silent panic. After signing the paperwork and walking a fiercely stubborn, red-eyed Lena out to his car, the silence in the vehicle was suffocating. Andrew pulled out of the parking lot, his knuckles white against the steering wheel as he glanced at his niece in the rearview mirror.

"Lena," Andrew said, his low, monotone voice tight with a mixture of confusion and uncharacteristic gentleness. "Why are you doing this? Why are you acting out like this?"

Lena kicked the back of the passenger seat, her small face contorted in pure, agonizing frustration, the weight of losing her parents and her foster mother she wanted to be with finally bubbling over. "Because everybody leaves me!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice cracking as fresh tears spilled over her cheeks. "My mom left, my dad left, and you guys made her leave too! I want my foster mom! She didn't want to run away from me! I want to go home!"

The raw pain and the mention of her mother hit Andrew like a physical blow to the chest. The reality of what his family had stolen from this little girl and his own monstrous role in it nearly choked him. He kept his eyes on the road, his heart hammering against his ribs as they arrived back at the compound. The moment the car parked, Lena bolted inside, refusing to talk to Smurf, Baz, or anyone else, locking herself away in a silent, impenetrable fortress of grief.

Andrew couldn't shake the sound of her scream. The heavy, suffocating guilt he had been carrying since the custody transition finally became too much to bear. He couldn't keep lying to her, and he couldn't let Smurf destroy her the way she had destroyed him. Without going inside or speaking to anyone, he pulled out the driveway and drove blindly toward the neighborhood he had spent months spying on.

He drove past your house, intending to just look, but the sight in your driveway made him slow the car to a halt.

You were standing by the open garage door, surrounded by cardboard boxes. You were slowly, meticulously organizing Lena’s leftover belongings a small pink sweater, a stuffed animal she had forgotten, a few books you used to read to her on the hammock. You picked up one of her small toys, holding it close to your chest, your head bowing as a quiet, profound sadness washed over your features. You looked so beautifully sorrowful, a striking, earthy figure mourning the child who had been ripped from her arms.

Andrew sat in his car, watching the heavy slump of your shoulders, and the realization hit him with the force of a tidal wave. Lena didn't belong in the toxic, criminal crossfires of the Cody Compound. She didn't deserve to grow up surrounded by the lies of Mexico and missing parents. She belonged here. She belonged with you.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Andrew opened his car door and stepped out onto the asphalt. His massive, towering frame cast a long shadow as he walked up your driveway, his heavy boots clicking against the concrete.

Hearing the footsteps, you wiped your face quickly, turning around with a tight but polite expression. Your eyes tracked the large, intense man approaching you, recognizing the troubled, blue eyes you had occasionally spotted in a parked car down the street.

"Can I help you?" you asked softly, your voice carrying that same grounded, soothing rhythm he had listened to from afar.

Andrew stopped a respectful few feet away, adjusting his jacket nervously, his eyes darting to the boxes of Lena's things before locking back onto yours. "I'm pope," he announced himself, his voice rough but laced with an undeniable vulnerability. "I'm... I'm Lena's uncle. Andrew."

Your breath caught slightly, your eyes widening as you looked at him. "Andrew. I know who you are. I've seen your car."

He swallowed hard, looking down at his boots for a brief second before looking back up, completely baring his guilt. "She's acting out," Andrew confessed, the words pouring out of him in a desperate rush. "She got expelled from school today. She won't eat. She won't talk to anyone. In the car... she screamed for you. She thinks everyone just abandons her." He paused, his chest heaving as he stared at you, the confession tearing at his throat. "I feel guilty. I knew she was happy here. I watched you guys... from the street. I saw the park, and the flowers, and the hammock. I knew she was safe. But I let my mother take her because... because I just wanted her to be with family. I thought it was the right thing. But it's not."

You listened in silence, your maternal heart aching fiercely for the little girl who was suffering miles away under the weight of her family's problems. You looked at this massive, visibly broken man, seeing the genuine, torturous remorse radiating from his eyes.

"I understand, Andrew," you said softly, taking a step closer to him, your earthy, calming aura instantly wrapping around his jagged edges. "I can see you love her, and I know you thought keeping her with blood was what was best. But Lena feels abandoned, and forcing her into a house full of tension is only making it worse. As the adults in her life, we always have to think of Lena's happiness first. The Cody house... it seems too much for a little girl. She needs peace. She needs stability. She needs to know she is wanted."

Andrew nodded slowly, your words settling into his soul like a heavy, undeniable truth. He looked at you one last time, a quiet, resolute spark igniting in his eyes. "Yeah. You're right."

Without another word, Andrew turned around and walked back to his car, leaving your driveway in a hurry. You watched him pull away, entirely unaware of what he was about to do.

Andrew drove back to the Cody Compound with an absolute, unyielding focus. He walked straight through the front door, ignoring Smurf’s voice calling out to him from the kitchen, and went straight to Lena’s room. He knocked softly, opening the door to find her curled up in a ball on the bed, staring blankly at the wall.

"Lena," Andrew said gently, walking over and kneeling by the mattress so he was at her eye level. "Get your shoes."

Lena glared at him through swollen, tear-stained eyelids. "No. Go away."

"I'm sorry," Andrew whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at his niece, his heart aching with the truth he could never tell her. "I'm sorry I let Smurf take you away from the place you loved. I was wrong. Nobody is abandoning you, Lena. Especially not her." He reached out, his large hand hovering over her small shoulder before she let him rest it there. "I'm taking you back to her. I'm taking you back to your foster mom."

Lena’s entire body went rigid. Her wide eyes locked onto Andrew’s face, searching for any sign of a lie. Seeing only absolute sincerity in his blue eyes, a sudden, bright gasp left her lips. She scrambled off the bed, grabbed her shoes, and practically threw herself into Andrew’s arms, clinging to his neck as he lifted her up.

Andrew carried her out of the house, bypassing a stunned, shouting Smurf without a single glance backward, and buckled Lena into the passenger seat of his car.

Back at your cottage, you were still in the garage, slowly taping up a box of Lena's toys when the sound of a car engine pulled your attention to the driveway. You stepped out into the warm afternoon air just as Andrew's car came to a stop.

The passenger door flew open before the engine could even cut out.

"Mama!" Lena’s high-pitched voice echoed across the yard.

Your heart violently hammered against your ribs as you saw the little girl sprint across the grass, her pastel skirt fluttering behind her. A gasp of pure, unadulterated joy left your lips as you dropped to your knees on the lawn, throwing your arms wide open.

Lena crashed into you like a meteor, her small arms wrapping fiercely around your neck as she buried her face into the crook of your shoulder, sobbing tears of pure relief. You pulled her impossibly close, your fingers tangling in her hair, burying your face in her neck as you rocked her back and forth on the grass.

"I've got you, baby, I've got you," you cried softly, your velvety voice thick with emotion as you kissed the side of her head over and over again. "You're home. You're safe. I'm right here. I'm never leaving you."

"I thoughto wouldn'tsee you again. " Lena sobbed into your shoulder, clutching your dress as if her life depended on it. "I knew you wouldn't leave me."

Andrew stepped out of the driver's side, shutting the door quietly. He stood by the hood of his car, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets as he watched the beautiful, chaotic reunion on the lawn. A profound, heavy sense of peace washed over him, the dark, anxious clouds in his mind parting for the first time in years. He had finally broken one of Smurf's rules for the right reasons. He had saved Cath's daughter from the same cycle that destroyed her mother.

After a few long minutes, you managed to calm Lena down, wiping her tears away and giving her a warm, reassuring smile. "Go look at the planter box, Lena. See how much the wildflowers have grown since you've been gone. They were waiting for you."

Lena’s face lit up, the heavy weight of her abandonment completely evaporating. She immediately ran up the porch steps, kneeling by the wooden box to inspect the vibrant petals you had tended to in her absence.

Standing up from the grass, you smoothed down your terracotta linen dress and walked over to where Andrew was standing. Your eyes were still damp with tears, but a brilliant, deeply grateful smile illuminated your face as you stopped in front of him.

"Thank you, Andrew," you whispered sincerely, looking up into his pale blue eyes. "You have no idea what this means. For her, and for me. You gave her her life back."

Andrew shifted his weight, a light, rare flush of pink touching his cheeks at your proximity, completely disarmed by the warmth radiating from you. "She belongs here," he said simply, his voice low, his eyes lingering on your soft twists. "She was dying over there. I couldn't watch it anymore."

You looked back at Lena, who was happily touching the petals of the flowers, before looking back at the massive man standing before you. You could see the lingering sadness in his eyes, the heavy weight of a man who loved his family but knew how destructive they were.

"You did the right thing for her," you said softly, reaching out and gently placing a hand on his forearm. Andrew’s muscles instantly locked up at the touch, but he didn't pull away, his eyes widening as he melted into the soothing warmth of your palm. "And listen to me... you don't have to be a stranger, Andrew. I know you love her, and she needs her uncle. I'm going to help you get official visitation rights with the state so Smurf can't twist this against you. And as far as I'm concerned, you can come see Lena whenever you want." You gave him a playful, gentle smile. "Always call first, though. Give us a little warning."

Andrew stared down at you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, peaceful rhythm. The offer of a safe, welcoming place in your world a place where he could see his niece thrive and be near the grounded, beautiful woman who had captured his attention felt like a lifeline out of the dark.

"Yeah," Andrew murmured, a genuine, ghost of a smile finally touching his lips as he looked from you to Lena. "I'll call first. Thank you."

The recording studio was supposed to be your big break. As an aspiring singer, the invitation to lay down tracks on a new project felt like the culmination of every late night and shattered dream. You had dressed for the occasion, choosing a beautiful, form-fitting sage green corset top and matching pencil skirt outfit, adorned with delicate white and yellow floral appliques along the neckline, straps, and seams. Your split-dyed sunset orange and fiery red curls were meticulously styled, a bold crown for a day that was supposed to change your life.

Instead, it became a living nightmare.

The three producers in the room didn't care about your voice. The moment the heavy, soundproof door clicked shut, the atmosphere shifted from professional to predatory. They trapped you. The assault was brutal, rough, and relentless, a terrifying blur of hands, muffled screams, and overwhelming force that completely shattered your reality.

When they finally threw you off, you lay gasping on the floor, your body throbbing with a sickening, localized agony. The delicate hook-and-eye closures of your sage green corset were violently torn open, the pale fabric ripped to shreds, stained with a horrifying smear of your own blood where they had dragged you across the rough floorboards. The pretty floral appliques were torn away, hanging by loose threads.

"Go to the bathroom and freshen up," the lead producer muttered casually, lighting a cigarette as if nothing had happened. "We still need to finish recording those vocals. Don't take all day."

You couldn't breathe. Every muscle in your body was shaking so violently you could barely stand. You just wanted to leave, your hands frantically trying to hold the ruined fabric of your outfit together over your chest. You stumbled toward the heavy exit door, but one of the engineers stepped directly in your path, a cold, mocking smirk on his face.

"You heard him. Bathroom's down the hall. You aren't going anywhere until we get what we paid for."

Realizing they wouldn't let you leave, grabbing your bag, you turned and bolted into the small, dimly lit studio bathroom, slamming the door shut and sliding the lock into place. The moment the lock clicked, you collapsed against the cold tile, your knees giving out entirely. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. Shaking, bleeding, and covered in deep, blossoming purple bruises, you fumbled inside your crossbody bag for your phone, your vision blurred by a flood of hot, desperate tears.

You called Deran.

He answered on the second ring, his usual laid-back tone instantly dropping when he heard the raw, agonizing sound of your weeping.

"Deran... please," you choked out, your voice a fractured, broken thread. "Please come get me. The recording studio... they—they wouldn't let me leave. They hurt me, Deran. They were so rough... I'm bleeding, I'm bruised... please, they won't let me out."

On the other end of the line, the silence lasted for a fraction of a second before a terrifying, protective fury erupted from Deran. "Where are you exactly? Give me the address right now." You sobbed out the name of the studio, your body trembling so hard the phone nearly slipped from your hand. "I'm on my way," Deran said, his voice deadly, dangerously calm. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me. I'm bringing Pope and Craig."

For twenty minutes, you sat huddled on the bathroom floor, clutching the shredded, bloody remnants of your green skirt and corset, flinching at every distant footstep in the hallway.

Then came the storm.

The soundproof walls of the studio couldn't mask the sudden, violent chaos that erupted outside. There was a loud crash of a door being kicked off its hinges, followed by immediate, panicked shouting. Craig's booming, feral roar echoed down the hall, followed by the sickening, heavy thud of fists meeting flesh and the sound of glass shattering. The men who had trapped you were suddenly screaming in terror.

Above the chaotic din of the beating, a heavy, authoritative hand knocked firmly on the bathroom door.

"It's me," Deran’s voice called out, uncharacteristically thick with emotion. "It's Deran. open the door, baby. You're safe."

With weak, trembling fingers, you unlocked the door and pulled it open. Deran stood there, his knuckles already split and dripping with blood, his chest heaving. When his eyes landed on your battered form; your torn, bloody outfit, the dark bruises forming on your neck, arms, and face his face contorted in pure heartbreak and rage. Behind him, you could see the main studio room. Craig was ruthlessly throwing one of the producers through a glass partition, while Andrew stood over the lead producer, his face an unblinking, terrifying mask of psychotic focus as he systematically broke the man's hands against the mixing console.

Deran didn't make you look at the carnage. He immediately stripped off his heavy flannel shirt and wrapped it gently around your shivering shoulders, shielding your ruined clothes from view.

"I've got you. I've got you," Deran murmured, scooping you up into his arms. You buried your face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably as he carried you out of the blood-splattered studio, past Craig and a heavily breathing Andrew, who watched you leave with a dark, simmering fire burning in his pale blue eyes.

Deran didn't take you to a hospital knowing the Codys avoided questions at all costs and he didn't take you back to your apartment where you would be alone. He drove straight to the Cody Compound, carrying you into the house and ignoring Smurf’s sharp, questioning look as he brought you straight into a spare bedroom down the hall.

"You're staying here," Deran insisted gently, sitting on the edge of the bed as you curled into a tight, defensive ball, still wrapped in his flannel. "Nobody will touche you here. I promise."

But the physical rescue couldn't stop the severe psychological consequences of the assault from taking root. In the days and weeks that followed, you became a ghost in the Cody house. The trauma completely rewired your nervous system. You didn't leave the spare bedroom, terrified of the open spaces of the house. You stopped eating, revulsion twisting your stomach whenever food was brought to you. Sleep became your enemy. You were so hyper-vigilant and jumpy that even the floorboards creaking outside your door made you gasp and cover your head.

Worst of all, you absolutely loathed being touched. If anyone came within arm's reach, your body locked up, a primal panic taking over your eyes.

When you did manage to fall asleep from sheer exhaustion, the nightmares took over. Nearly every night, the house would be jolted awake by the sound of your raw, guttural screams. You would kick, thrash, and fight against the sheets, desperately trying to fend off the phantom hands of the men from the studio in your sleep.

Deran tried his best to help, frequently checking on you, bringing clean water, and keeping the house quiet, but his busy lifestyle often pulled him away. Slowly, quietly, Andrew began to step into the void.

Andrew understood broken things. He lived in a state of permanent internal chaos, and seeing you shattered by the hands of cruel men triggered something deeply protective, almost sacred, within him. He made it his personal mission to help you survive the aftermath.

The first thing he changed was how he approached you. Knowing how jumpy you were, Andrew never simply walked into your room. He would stand at the threshold, knocking softly against the wood, and announce himself in a low, monotone, grounding voice.

"It's Andrew," he would say, waiting patiently at the door until you turned your hollow eyes toward him. "I'm coming in now."

He never stepped too close, always maintaining a respectful, safe distance that allowed you to breathe. He noticed you weren't eating, your skin growing pale and your frame thinning out. He began bringing small, simple meals up to the room himself. He would set the plate on a small table across from the bed, sitting quietly in a heavy wooden chair in the corner of the room.

"You have to eat a little bit," Andrew said softly one afternoon, his intense, pale blue eyes holding yours with an unblinking, sincere earnestness. "Just a bite. For me. To keep you strong."

Because it was Andrew because he never pushed, never crowded you, and treated you like something incredibly fragile and precious you actually picked up the fork. You ate three bites, and the small, rare ghost of a smile that touched Andrew's lips made something flutter faintly in your hollow chest.

When the night terrors came, Andrew was always the one who ran into the room. He didn't grab you to shake you awake, knowing that would trigger a violent panic attack. Instead, he would stand by the bedside, calling your name firmly and calmly until your eyes snapped open, your chest heaving as you sobbed your way out of the nightmare.

"You're in the house. You're safe," he would anchor you, his large hands resting flat on the mattress near your feet, never touching you without permission. "I'm right here. They're gone."

Once you calmed down, Andrew wouldn't leave. He would retreat back to the wooden chair in the corner of the room. He would sit there for hours in the dark, his massive silhouette a silent, unbreakable sentinel, watching over you while you slept to ensure the monsters stayed away. Seeing him there, unmoving and fiercely protective, became the only thing that allowed you to close your eyes.

As the weeks bled into two months, the deep, jagged wounds of the trauma began a slow, agonizing process of healing. Under Andrew’s meticulous, respectful care, you finally began to settle. You weren't as jumpy anymore. You started leaving the bed to sit by the window, watching the Oceanside sun filter through the glass.

One night, the air in the bedroom felt exceptionally heavy. A thunderstorm was rolling in off the coast, the low rumble of thunder mimicking the dark violence of your nightmares. You lay in bed, staring at Andrew as he sat in his usual spot in the wooden chair, his eyes fixed on the window.

Your aversion to touch began to soften, too but strictly with Andrew. You trusted him implicitly because he had earned it, second by grueling second. He would offer his hand to help you up, always waiting for you to place your palm in his first, letting you dictate the physical boundary. Whenever your skin brushed against his, a quiet, intense warmth would radiate through you. You found yourself looking forward to the sound of his heavy, rhythmic footsteps in the hallway. You were falling for him, deeply and irrevocably, captivated by the profound, gentle soul hidden beneath his intimidating exterior.

"Andrew?" you called out softly, your voice cutting through the shadows.

He turned his head instantly, his focus shifting entirely to you. "Yeah?"

"I don't... I don't want to have a nightmare tonight," you whispered, your fingers nervously clutching the edge of the blanket. You looked at the empty space on the mattress beside you. "Can you... would you sit on the bed tonight? Just while I try to sleep?"

Andrew froze. His pale eyes widened slightly, a rare look of vulnerability crossing his rough features. He hesitated, as if terrified that his presence might somehow bruise you, but the quiet plea in your eyes broke his hesitation. He stood up, walked over to the bed, and carefully sat down on the edge of the mattress, keeping his legs swung over the side, his back resting against the headboard.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely a murmur.

"Yeah," you breathed, moving slightly closer to him, letting your shoulder rest gently against his thigh. "It's perfect."

For the first time since the assault, you slept through the entire night without a single nightmare. There was no screaming, no thrashing, no terror. There was only peace.

When you woke up the next morning, Andrew was still there. He hadn't moved an inch, having stayed awake the entire night just to hold that safe space for you. Seeing the profound relief on your face when you opened your eyes changed something within him.

The next night, without you even having to ask, Andrew walked into the room, announced himself, and went straight to the bed instead of the chair. He sat against the headboard, and you crawled closer, eventually finding the courage to lay your head gently against his broad chest. Andrew’s breath hitched, a full, heavy shudder leaving his body as he cautiously wrapped one massive, protective arm around your shoulders, holding you securely against him.

Lying there, listening to the steady, calming beat of his heart, you fell fast asleep. And as the rhythm of your deep, peaceful breathing filled the quiet room, Andrew looked down at your face, your sunset and red curls splayed across his chest. The fierce, protective instinct in his chest melted into something incredibly profound, heavy, and tender. In the quiet sanctity of that room, safe from the toxic manipulation of Smurf and the violence of the outside world, Andrew fell completely, hopelessly in love with you.

Gradually, he began to sleep, too. The permanent, exhausted lines on his face softened as he slept with you wrapped in his arms, both of you finding a rare, healing sanctuary in each other's presence.

About four to five months passed in this quiet, beautiful routine. You were eating well, your laughter had slowly returned to the quiet corners of the room, and you were no longer afraid of the dark. Andrew had become your absolute anchor, and you had become his peace.

One evening, the house was entirely empty. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching Andrew compile a small plate of fruit for you. He handed it over, his fingers lingering against yours, a soft, intense electricity sparking between you.

You set the plate down on the living room table and looked up at him, your heart swelling with a brave, unyielding affection.

"Andrew," you said softly, taking his large, calloused hand in both of yours. "I need to tell you something."

He sat down on the couch next to you, his unblinking blue eyes fixed entirely on your face, hanging on your every word. "What is it?"

"I love you," you whispered, the words coming out steady, true, and entirely free of fear. "These past few months... you saved me, Andrew. You showed me what it feels like to be safe. I've completely fallen in love with you."

Andrew’s chest rose and fell in a sharp, shallow breath. A sudden, intense emotion flooded his eyes, the heavy, permanent shadow on his face completely lifting. His hand trembled within yours before he reached up, his large palm gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing softly over your skin with a reverence that made your breath catch.

"I love you too," Andrew choked out, his voice thick with a raw, honest devotion he had never expressed to anyone else in his entire life. "I’ve loved you for so long. You’re the only good thing I have. I’m never letting anyone hurt you again."

Leaning in, Andrew closed the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, deep, incredibly tender kiss. It wasn't full of the frantic, desperate hunger of the past; it was a promise. It was a declaration of a new beginning, born from the ashes of trauma and built on an unbreakable foundation of trust. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing in the shared air of a future you were going to build together, completely under the radar.

The thrum of the underground fight club felt identical to the last, but the venue had shifted to a damp, subterranean boiler room beneath an old cannery on the edge of the docks. Steam hissed from overhead pipes, mingling with the familiar stench of cheap liquor and sweat.

Craig was already hovering near the bookie’s table, practically vibrating with excitement. He had a fat stack of cash ready. "I'm telling you, Pope, if Marcus brings his sister back tonight, I’m putting down five grand. Minimum."

Andrew stood a step back, shadows cutting across his sharp jawline. He hadn't said a word since they arrived, but his unblinking blue eyes were glued to the entrance. For days, his mind had been uncharacteristically quiet, entirely replaced by the mental loop of those twin braids swinging and the precise, devastating rhythm of your movements. He didn't just want to watch you fight again; he needed to.

Right on cue, the heavy metal door groaned open. Marcus walked in, and half a step behind him was you.

Your hair was locked into those same neat twin braids, and you wore your black athletic sports bra and red-and-black satin boxing shorts. But your expression was, if possible, even more annoyed than last time.

"One fight, Marcus. That was the deal," you warned loudly over the rumble of the crowd, adjusting the black and gold wraps on your wrists. "You dragged me out of bed for this. I don't care what the payout is, if I have to throw more than three punches, I'm taking your car keys."

"One fight, I swear! Look at the board, sis, they think it was a fluke!" Marcus laughed, pointing toward the chalked betting odds.

Despite your absolute demolition of the circuit's regulars last time, the board still read 30/70 against you. The gritty, stubborn crowd of Oceanside brawlers simply couldn't accept it. "She’s a woman," the murmurs went through the room. "Last time was a fluke. Big Mike and The Anvil were just fucking sloppy."

Craig didn't care about the murmurs. The second he saw the odds, a massive grin split his face. He slammed his five grand onto the table. "All of it on the girl."

Andrew walked slowly toward the front row by the ropes, his broad shoulders dropping as his gaze locked onto you. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, the volatile edge in his posture completely smoothing out the moment you stepped into his field of vision.

Your opponent tonight was a seasoned street fighter named 'The Brick' a guy built like a concrete wall who relied on absorbing damage just to wear his opponents down. When the whistle blew, he advanced immediately, keeping a tight, heavy guard.

You didn't waste a single movement. As The Brick threw a heavy, lumbering left hook, you dipped underneath it with terrifying fluidity. Your twin braids whipped through the air as you cut a sharp angle to his blind side. He swung around wildly to catch you, but you were already gone, stepping entirely out of his range.

He lunged again, frustrated by the breeze he was punching. You read his weight distribution instantly. Slipping inside his extended right arm, you planted your foot and unleashed a lightning-fast combination with absolute, military precision. A sharp left jab snapped his head back, followed instantly by a thunderous right hook to his liver that made the massive man gasp, dropping his guard entirely. You finished it with a soaring, compact uppercut that caught him clean under the chin.

*CRACK.*

The Brick’s eyes went totally blank. His massive frame crumpled straight forward, crashing face-first onto the concrete floor. Knocked out cold.

The warehouse erupted, half the room groaning in financial ruin while Craig let out a loud, booming laugh, jumping up and down. You casually stepped over the unconscious brawler, hopped out of the ring without a single scratch on you, and looked at Marcus. "My keys. Now."

"Yeah, yeah, hold on, I gotta count the split!" Marcus grinned, grabbing the heavy bag of winnings from a miserable-looking bookie.

Instead of leaving immediately, Marcus slung a duffel bag over his shoulder, nodding toward the darker corners of the boiler room where a few local dealers were lingering. "Stick around for twenty minutes, sis. I gotta make a few quick sales while the crowd is distracted."

You rolled your eyes, leaning your back against a concrete pillar near the ring. "Fine. But I'm charging you interest."

"Alright, clear the ring! Next up, the main event!" the announcer shouted.

You crossed your arms, your eyes scanning the room until they landed on the man stepping into the ring. It was the intense, quiet guy who had been staring at you from the ropes. Pope.

He wore white wraps on his hands. He stepped into the square, his pale blue eyes wide, volatile, and entirely focused on the massive brawler standing opposite him. Intrigued, you walked over to the betting table, pulling two hundred dollars from Marcus's open duffel bag and tossing it down. " Two hundred on the quiet one," you told the bookie.

The fight started, and it was entirely different from your discipline. Andrew didn't dodge or slip. He fought with a raw, self-destructive fury, absorbing heavy punches to the ribs and jaw just to land his own. He was a force of pure, unadulterated anger, throwing brutal, heavy-handed strikes until he completely overwhelmed his opponent, leaving the guy bloody and broken on the canvas within two rounds.

The crowd roared as Andrew stepped out of the ring, his knuckles bloody, his chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly pumped through his veins.

"Yo, Marcus! See you in a second!" Craig called out, waving to your brother before jogging over toward you, with Andrew trailing silently half a step behind him. Craig was practically beaming, his pockets literally overflowing with cash.

"Hey! Outstanding job out there," Craig grinned, leaning against the pillar near you. "Two weeks in a row, you absolutely crushed it. I made a killing off you tonight. Name's Craig, by the way. This is my brother, Pope."

You gave Craig a amused, knowing smirk, your eyes shifting past him to lock onto Andrew. He was standing entirely rigid, his face smudged with a bit of sweat and blood, his wide blue eyes staring down at you with that same intense, mesmerizing fixation.

"Thanks, Craig," you said smoothly, pulling out the wad of cash the bookie had just handed you for Andrew's win. You began meticulously counting the bills. "Your brother knows how to take a hit. Glad I put my money on him."

Craig laughed, shaking his head. "Man, where did you even learn to move like that? These guys in Oceanside are tough, but you look like a goddamn assassin."

"Our dad was in the military," you replied simply, your twin braids shifting over your shoulder as you tucked the winnings into your sports bra. "He was stationed in Japan for a long time. Taught me and Marcus how to fight before we could even walk. Proper form, discipline, reading balance. It stays with you."

"Damn. Military discipline explains it," Craig said, nodding tightly. He flicked his eyes over his shoulder, noticing Marcus finishing up a deal across the room. "Hey, I'm gonna go grab some of that green from Marcus before he splits. Pope, stay here."

With a quick slap to Andrew's shoulder, Craig strolled away, leaving the narrow, dim hallway completely silent between the two of you.

The heavy, chaotic noise of the warehouse seemed to fade into the background. Andrew stood a mere two feet away, his broad frame casting a shadow over you. He looked volatile, raw, and dangerous, but you didn't shrink back at all. You just looked up at his sharp features, a genuine, soft smile touching your lips.

"Congratulations on the win," you murmured, nodding toward his bloody knuckles. "You fought like you were trying to kill the guy."

Andrew’s jaw worked, his blue eyes tracking the movement of your lips before rising back to your eyes. His voice was a rough, quiet rumble when he finally spoke. "Do you... do you actually like it?"

You tilted your head, surprised by the depth of the question. "Like fighting?" You let out a soft, thoughtful hum. "Of course. I didn't go through all that intense training for nothing. I did it so I'll never be the weakest person in the room. It gives me control."

You stepped a fraction closer, your eyes scanning the bruising already forming on his jawline. "What about you, pope? Why do you do it?"

Andrew froze for a second, his breath hitching slightly at the proximity. He wasn't used to anyone looking at him this closely without fear. "To get rid of the anger," he muttered, his voice dangerously low, almost raw. "The noise in my head. When I'm in there... it goes quiet."

You looked at him, really looked at him, understanding the dark weight he was carrying underneath all that muscle. You didn't find it terrifying; you found it deeply captivating and very arousing.

"Well," you said softly, a slow, confident smirk returning to your face as you looked back toward the crowded exit. "The noise in here is giving me a headache, and my brother is going to be talking about his "product" for the next two hours. I need to get out of here."

Andrew’s eyes widened slightly, a sudden, protective instinct flaring in his chest. "I can take you. Away from here."

You met his gaze, the intensity between you shifting into something heavy, magnetic, and completely undeniable. You reached out, your wrapped fingers gently brushing against his forearm, feeling the rigid tension in his muscles melt beneath your touch.

"Yeah?" you murmured, your voice dropping into a smooth, teasing register. "Alright, Pope. Let's go. Show me where it's quiet."

"Andrew" He said quickly, wanting to hear his name from your mouth, in your smooth voice.

"Okay, Andrew" you say in a teasing voice, a certain look in your eyes he couldn't place. "Let's go."

The air inside the abandoned warehouse off the industrial strip of Oceanside was thick with a chaotic, lawless energy: the metallic smell of blood, cheap beer, stale sweat, and the aggressive roar of a crowded room. Fighters come here to let out their worst impulses, using the unregulated, bare-knuckle fights to tear each other apart for quick cash.

Craig stood near the edge of the makeshift ring, a wad of bills in one hand and a half-empty beer in the other. He loved the pure chaos of the underground circuit, constantly tracking the biggest, meanest guys in the room to place his bets.

"Hey, look who just walked in," Craig said, barking a laugh as he nudged the shoulder of the pope who was beside him. He pointed toward the back entrance where the bookies were taking bets. "That's Marcus. The guy I buy that insane green from. What the hell is he doing here?"

Andrew didn't answer right away. His unblinking blue eyes slowly tracked Marcus, but his gaze instantly locked onto the girl walking half a step behind him.

It was you. You looked completely out of place, yet entirely lethal. Your hair was styled into two neat, sleek twin braids that hung over your shoulders, contrasting sharply with the sweaty, blood-stained crowd around you. You wore a fitted black athletic sports bra that accented your toned core, paired with loose black-and-red satin boxing shorts. Your hands were meticulously wrapped in black and gold hand-wraps, and your ankles were taped, ready for combat. But despite looking like a literal weapon, your face was a mask of pure, unbothered boredom.

"Man, I really rather be napping on my off day," you muttered loudly to Marcus, rolling your shoulders as you looked around the grimy warehouse with an annoyed sigh. "You owed me a spa day for this, Marcus. Seriously. If I get a single speck of this floor dirt on me, the split is seventy-thirty."

"Chill, sis, we're twins, we share everything," Marcus laughed, giving you a reassuring slap on the back before spotting Craig across the room. He walked over, leaving you to lean casually against a wooden support pillar, looking like you wanted to yawn.

"Craig! What's good, man?" Marcus greeted, shaking Craig's hand.

"What's up, bro? Didn't know you frequented the slums," Craig grinned, then leaned in, lowering his voice as his eyes flicked back to you. "Hey, who's the girl? She's gorgeous, man, but this isn't exactly a safe spot for a date."

"That's my twin sister," Marcus proud-smiled, tapping his chest. "And she's not a date. She's the main event. Listen to me, man. Take whatever cash you got in your pocket right now, and bet it all on her. Every single dime."

Craig blinked, looking from Marcus over to you. You were currently examining your fingernails, looking thoroughly unbothered by a massive, 230-pound tatted fighter who was aggressively staring you down from across the ring.

"Bro, are you crazy?" Craig hissed, genuinely skeptical. "She's fighting against guys, Marcus. Huge guys. She's gonna get killed in there. Look at her, she looks like an easy target for these roid-heads."

"I'm telling you, bet the house," Marcus insisted with a smirk. "Trust me."

Standing completely silent beside them, Andrew hadn't taken his eyes off you for a single fraction of a second. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. He knew violence inside and out. But when he looked at you, he didn't see the chaotic, sloppy rage of the usual underground fighters. He saw absolute, terrifying discipline. The way you stood, your center of gravity, the fluid ease of your movements it captivated him instantly. His jaw clenched, his broad shoulders dropping as a strange, overwhelming fixation settled deep in his chest.

"Alright! Next up!" the announcer shouted into a megaphone, the crowd roaring as the massive 230-pound fighter stepped over the ropes, flexing his muscles. "We got Big Mike! And opposing him... a new face!"

The crowd broke into a mix of jeers, laughs, and mocking whistles as you casually stepped into the cage. The bookies were instantly swamped with people betting heavily against you, the odds skyrocketing in Big Mike's favor. Marcus smirked, confidently dumping a massive stack of cash onto the betting table for you. Craig, sweating under the pressure but fueled by Marcus's confidence, nervously threw his entire wad of cash down too.

You stood in the center of the cage, bouncing slightly on your toes, your posture balanced and perfectly controlled. Your twin braids brushed against your collarbone as you looked at Big Mike like he was an annoying chore you had to finish before you could go home and get that spa day on your brothers dime.

"Don't cry when I break your pretty little face, sweetheart," Mike sneered, raising his bare fists.

You didn't even reply. You just brought your wrapped hands up, tucked your chin, and waited for the signal.

The moment the fight started, Mike lunged forward with a heavy, sloppy right cross.

You didn't flinch. With the blinding speed of a seasoned pro, you simply slipped the punch, your upper body moving a fraction of an inch as his fist sailed harmlessly past your ear. He threw a left hook; you rolled under it effortlessly, your twin braids catching the air.

"Holy shit," Craig breathed, his eyes widening as he leaned forward into the chainlink cage. "He's not even getting close to hitting her."

Mike grew furious, throwing a rapid barrage of wild, uncalculated punches. But you were completely a different breed. You moved like water, reading his weight distribution flawlessly. You never got hit. Not even once. You smoothly sidestepped every single clumsy attempt, looking completely bored as you dodged his attacks.

Then, you saw your opening.

As Mike overextended on a wild swing, leaving his left side completely exposed, you planted your foot and counter-punched with terrifying velocity. A lightning-fast left jab snapped his head back, followed instantly by a devastating, compact right hook that caught him clean on the chin.

*CRACK.*

The sound of your wrapped knuckles hitting his jaw was precise and brutal. Mike’s eyes rolled back instantly. His massive frame went completely limp, crashing face-first onto the canvas floor, knocked out cold in a single combination.

The warehouse went dead silent for a fraction of a second before Marcus erupted into cheers.

Craig’s jaw was literally on the floor. He stared at the unconscious giant, then up at you, completely stunned. "One combo... she didn't even get a scratch on her."

Andrew didn't make a sound. He stood frozen behind the wall of the cage, his hands gripping the groves so tightly his knuckles turned white. His unblinking blue eyes were wide, completely mesmerized. The sheer elegance of your dominance, the absolute grace of your violence it completely unhinged him. He had never seen anyone move like that. You didn't just win; you totally crushed him without even breaking a sweat. A heavy, possessive heat flared in his chest, his gaze locking onto the sharp line of your shoulders as you casually stepped over the unconscious brawler.

"Alright, hold on!" the announcer bellowed into the megaphone as the crowd started buzzing with high-stakes energy. The bookies were frantically shifting the numbers on the board, realizing they had completely misjudged you. "We got a double-header tonight! Since Big Mike couldn't last a single round, who wants a piece of the newcomer? We need a real challenger!"

From the dark corner of the warehouse, a notorious underground regular stepped forward. His name was 'The Anvil' a muscular, scarred kickboxer known for throwing brutal shin kicks and fighting incredibly dirty. He spit on the floor, ripping his shirt off as he glared at you, completely offended that a woman had just cleared the ring so easily.

"Put me in," The Anvil grunted, stepping into the cage. "I'll show her what an actual fight feels like."

Down at the betting table, Marcus didn't even hesitate. He took the fresh mountain of cash he had just won from the first match and shoved it right back onto the line. "Put it all on my sister again. Double or nothing."

Craig looked at Andrew, his heart racing from the adrenaline of the last knockout. "Pope, what do you think? You think she can do it twice? The Anvil fights dirty, man. He catches people with low blows all the time."

Andrew finally spoke, his voice incredibly deep, rough, and absolute. "She'll win."

Craig stared at him, surprised by the sheer certainty in his brother's tone. Andrew’s eyes hadn't strayed from you for a single second. He was tracking the tight, athletic coordination of your frame, completely under your spell.

Back in the ring, you let out a heavy, dramatic sigh, adjusting the black and gold wrap on your left wrist. "Seriously, Marcus? Another one? I am missing my favorite true crime documentary for this."

"Just one more, sis! Think about the spa package!" Marcus yelled back, grinning wildly.

The Anvil didn't wait for a formal countdown. The second the announcer raised his hand, he charged forward, immediately launching a vicious, heavy kick aimed directly at your lead leg to take out your balance.

The crowd gasped, expecting to hear bone snap, but you anticipated the move before he even lifted his foot. You checked the kick effortlessly, lifting your shin to absorb the minor impact with your taped ankle, instantly pivoting on your back foot.

The Anvil recovered quickly, throwing a dirty, aggressive elbow right toward your temple. You ducked underneath the strike with flawless precision, your twin braids whipping through the air as you cut a sharp angle to his blind side. He swung wildly around to find you, completely frustrated, exposing his throat and midsection.

You didn't give him another chance.

With blinding speed, you executed a brutal three-punch combination. A piercing straight right landed dead center on his nose, fracturing it instantly. As he stumbled backward, clutching his face, you stepped into his guard, delivering a punishing left hook to his ribs that made him gasp for air, followed instantly by a soaring, thunderous uppercut right under his chin.

*BAM.*

The Anvil’s feet literally left the ground for a split second before he collapsed backward, crashing heavily against the ropes and sliding down onto the canvas in a heap, completely unconscious.

The entire warehouse erupted into absolute madness. People were screaming, throwing their cups into the air, completely shocked by the utter destruction they had just witnessed. Two fights, two massive opponents, and you hadn't taken a single clean hit.

Craig was jumping up and down, completely losing his mind as Marcus wrapped him in a celebratory bear hug. "I won! Oh my god, she's a machine! Marcus, your sister is an absolute weapon!"

Andrew didn't join the cheering. He stood entirely still, his breathing shallow, his hands clenched into fists as he stared up at you. His dark blue eyes were wide, completely blown out with an intense, unadulterated fixation. The raw power, the effortless speed, the absolute dominance you displayed twice in a row had completely unhinged him. He found you entirely, undeniably captivating a force of nature standing in the middle of a gritty, broken world.

You walked out the cage, completely unfazed, wiping a nonexistent speck of dust off your shorts. "Alright, Marcus. Grab the cash. I'm going home to take that nap."

As Marcus gathered the heavy bags of money, you turned to leave, but stopped when you felt the sheer weight of a stare burning into the side of your face. You turned your head and met Andrew's eyes.

He was staring at you from the edge of the ring, his expression intense, wide, and entirely captivated, looking at you like you were a force of nature. You didn't shrink away from his dark gaze. Instead, you looked him up and down, a slow, intrigued smirk playing on your lips as you noted the raw, rugged intensity of his frame. You gave him a slow, knowing nod before turning on your heel, your twin braids swinging over your shoulders as you walked out into the night with your brother.

Craig stared at the exit, still shaking his head in disbelief, while Andrew remained rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the empty doorway, his mind completely consumed by the girl who was simply unmatched.

The bar at Deran’s pub was quiet, the midday sun filtering through the blinds and cutting dusty lines across the polished wood. You sat on a stool near the corner, a glass of water sweating between your hands. You didn’t come by often, but Deran was the only real bridge you had left to a life you had been forced to leave behind.

Andrew had broken things off with you nearly a year ago. There hadn't been a screaming match, no slamming doors, and certainly no lack of love. He had looked at you with those wide, tortured blue eyes and told you that Smurf was getting too close, that your life was in danger just by standing next to him. He left to protect you from his mother's suffocating grip, choosing to rip his own heart out to keep you breathing. But understanding his reasons didn't magically cure the ache. You were still entirely, hopelessly in love with him. You hadn't moved on. You couldn't.

Deran wiped down the counter, his eyes softening as he looked at your quiet posture. "You're doing that thing again," he murmured, tossing the rag aside. "Where you look like you're stuck in your head a million miles away."

You offered a weak, tight smile, tracing the rim of your glass. "Just thinking." You paused, swallowing the lump in your throat before asking the question that always burned in the back of your mind. "How is he, Deran? How's Andrew?"

Deran paused, his shoulders stiffening slightly. He sighed, leaning his forearms against the bar to get closer to you. He had stayed in touch with you because he genuinely cared, but watching you pine over his volatile older brother was getting harder to witness.

"He's... he's doing this church thing," Deran began carefully. You already knew exactly what the Codys did for a living; you were well aware of the heists, the setups, and the lawless reality of their family. "Smurf found a mark. A mega-church pool of cash. Andrew went in to scope it out. He met a woman there. Her name is Amy."

Your fingers tightened around the glass, but your expression remained perfectly still. "A mark. So he's working her."

"That was the plan," Deran said, his voice dropping into a gentle, heavy register. He looked directly into your eyes, hoping the truth would finally force you to cut the anchor dragging you down. "But somethings changed with him. He's getting serious with her. Like, really serious. He's spending all his free time up there, looking after her, listening to her."

On the outside, you didn't flinch. Your face was a mask of absolute calm, your breathing remaining steady as you slowly nodded. "I see. Good for him. I'm glad he's finding something."

"Hey," Deran muttered, reaching out to briefly touch your wrist. "I'm only telling you this because... you gotta let him go. He's seems deep in it. You deserve to move on."

"I know," you replied smoothly, setting a few bills on the counter and sliding off the stool. "Thanks for the drink, Deran."

You walked out into the bright Oceanside sun, your posture perfectly straight. But beneath the calm exterior, the walls of your world had just completely collapsed.

Later that evening, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the Cody house cloaked in long, dark shadows. Andrew was sitting on the back patio, his knuckles wrapped tightly around a beer bottle as he stared blankly out at the pool. The noise in his head was loud tonight, a chaotic storm of guilt and Smurf’s constant manipulation.

The sliding glass door creaked open, and Deran stepped out, grabbing a beer from the cooler. He sat in the lounge chair next to pope, watching his rigid profile.

"Saw her today," Deran muttered quietly, not preamble.

Andrew didn't move a muscle, but his entire body went completely rigid at the mere mention of you. He didn't have to ask who 'she' was. There was only one person who could make him hold his breath like that.

"How is she?" Andrew’s voice was a rough, gravelly rasp, scraping out of his throat. He forced himself to keep staring at the pool, his heart hammering against his ribs. Every day away from you was a living hell, but he kept telling himself it was the only way Smurf wouldn't ruin you.

"She asked about you," Deran said, taking a sip of his beer. "I told her about the church. I told her about Amy."

Andrew’s head snapped around instantly. His eyes widened, a sudden, volatile flash of panic and anger darkening his features. "Why the hell would you do that?"

"Because she's drowning, Pope!" Deran snapped back, matching his intensity. "She's still completely in love with you, and she's waiting for nothing. She needed to know the truth so she can move on with her life."

Andrew clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He looked away, his chest heaving as a toxic mix of jealousy and agonizing guilt flooded his chest. "What did she say? How did she react?"

Deran let out a breath, a slight shiver running down his spine as he remembered the look on your face. "That's the thing. She looked completely calm. Didn't cry, didn't yell. But there was this look in her eyes, man... I can't even explain it. It was like the light just completely went out. It honestly freaked me out."

Andrew didn't reply. He just gripped his beer bottle until his knuckles turned a ghostly white, his heart breaking all over again in the quiet darkness.

The next afternoon, the local community church was quiet, the sound of a soft piano echoing faintly from the main chapel. Andrew was standing near the back entrance, helping Amy move several heavy boxes of donations. He was smiling a rare, genuine, soft expression that barely ever graced his rugged features. Amy laughed at something he said, reaching out to gently pat his arm, and Andrew leaned into the touch, looking entirely at peace.

From the shadow of a thick concrete pillar across the parking lot, you sat in your car, watching them through the tinted glass.

You had driven up there against your own better judgment, driven by a masochistic need to see it with your own eyes. Your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly your fingers numbed. You watched the way Andrew looked at Amy. He didn't look at her with the heavy, frantic paranoia he always carried around Smurf. He looked relaxed. He looked really happy.

A single, hot tear finally broke free, tracing a slow line down your cheek, followed by another. You realized right then that you were completely invisible to the life he was building. Seeing him truly happy with someone else, while you were entirely shattered in the dark, was a pain so sharp it felt like a physical blade in your chest. You started the engine, shifting into reverse, and drove away before they could ever look your way.

By midnight, the living room of your small apartment was a disaster. An empty bottle of tequila sat on the coffee table, and a second one was half-dead, gripped loosely in your hand.

You were sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the couch, tears streaming down your face in a messy, unstoppable torrent. Your hair was wild, your eyes bloodshot and swollen. Deran sat on the edge of the coffee table across from you, his face twisted in deep worry, while your closest friend sat on the floor right beside you, rubbing your back as you sobbed.

"He's happy, Deran," you choked out, your voice breaking violently as a fresh wave of tears hit you. You took a heavy swig straight from the bottle, the alcohol burning your throat, but doing nothing to numb the ache. "I saw them. I saw the way he looks at her. He never... he never looked that peaceful with me."

"Hey, don't do this to yourself," your friend murmured softly, trying to gently pull the bottle from your hand, but you gripped it tighter, shaking your head frantically.

"No, you don't get it!" you cried, your chest heaving as you looked at Deran. "Amy is giving him something I never could. She’s pure. She’s part of that whole... that whole clean world. He’s never going to choose me, Deran. He left me in the dirt, and he's never coming back. I’m never going to be enough for him."

Deran looked down at the floor, his heart aching for you. "You are enough. Pope is just... he's broken, alright? He doesn't think straight."

Your friend suddenly sighed, leaning forward and grabbing both of your hands, forcing you to look at her. "Listen to me," she said, her voice dropping into a firm, harsh reality. "You need to stop rewriting history. Andrew is not in love with who that woman is. He is attached to her because she is a Christian, because she represents a sanctuary. That church, that woman it offers him an escape from his own toxic reality. He’s using her to hide from his negative emotions, and he’s chasing her because he desperately wants forgiveness for all the illegal, horrible things he’s done for Smurf. It’s not about you not being enough. It’s about his own guilt."

The words hung heavy in the air, but the alcohol had already completely clouded your mind. You just shook your head, pulling your hands away and burying your face in your knees, your shoulders shaking violently as you wept into the dark. "It doesn't matter," you whispered against your skin. "It doesn't change how much it hurts."

Over the next three days, a suffocating silence fell over your apartment.

You dropped entirely off the grid. You didn't leave your house. The blinds remained tightly shut, blocking out every single ray of the California sun. Your phone sat on the kitchen counter, buzzing repeatedly with calls and texts from your friend and Deran, but you just ignored it from the bedroom, entirely devoid of the energy to move. You were deep in the throes of a severe, paralyzing depression, the weight of the rejection completely crushing your will to exist.

By the fourth afternoon, Deran was pacing the floor behind the bar at his pub, his anxiety spiking to an unbearable level. You hadn't answered a single text. You hadn't called back. It's been complete radio silence since that night at your apartment.

"Screw this," Deran muttered to his bartender, grabbing his jacket and his truck keys. "I’m checking on her."

He drove across town in a frantic rush, his stomach twisting into painful knots. When he arrived at your apartment complex, he bounded up the stairs and knocked heavily on your front door.

"Hey! Open up!" Deran yelled, banging his fist against the wood. Silence. He tried the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked.

He pushed the door open, stepping into the dim, stale air of the apartment. "Hello? You in here?"

He walked quickly down the narrow hallway, pushing your bedroom door open. The sight made his heart stop completely.

You were lying across the mattress, fully clothed, your skin dangerously pale and your lips tinged with a terrifying shade of blue. On the nightstand beside you sat an empty, prescription bottle of heavy-duty sleeping pills, completely cleared out.

"No, no, no," Deran panicked, rushing to the side of the bed. He pressed two trembling fingers against your neck, barely catching a faint, dangerously slow, and shallow pulse. "Hey! Wake up! Come on, breathe!"

You didn't move. Your body was entirely limp.

Deran didn't waste time calling an ambulance. He scooped your fragile, heavy form into his muscular arms, sprinting down the stairs to his truck. He threw you into the passenger seat, tearing down the Oceanside streets with his tires screeching, blowing through every single red light until he slid to a halt outside the emergency room entrance.

"Please, I need help! She took something!" Deran screamed as he carried you through the sliding glass doors. Medical staff rushed forward with a gurney, instantly tearing open your shirt to hook up monitors as they wheeled you away into the trauma bay, leaving Deran standing in the hallway, his hands covered in his own sweat, trembling violently.

Hours dragged by like centuries. Deran paced the waiting room floor, his phone clutched in his hand, until a tired-looking doctor finally stepped through the double doors.

"Are you family?" the doctor asked.

"Basically," Deran breathed, rushing forward. "Is she okay? Please tell me she's okay."

The doctor sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. "She had a massive amount of sedative toxins in her system. Her respiratory system was failing when she arrived. We managed to pump her stomach, but her brain was deprived of oxygen for a critical window. To protect her neurological functions and allow her organs to recover, we had to place her in a medically induced coma. She is barely surviving right now, son. The next twenty-four hours are entirely critical."

Deran stumbled back a step, his chest tightening so hard he could barely breathe. The guilt hit him like a physical blow. He had caused this. He had told you about Amy.

A dark, roaring fury suddenly ignited deep in his chest. He turned on his heel, racing out of the hospital toward his truck. He knew exactly who was actually responsible for this.

Andrew was at the church, standing in the quiet auxiliary garage, helping the pastor organize tools for an upcoming charity build. He looked calm, his mind relatively quiet.

Suddenly, the heavy metal side door was violently kicked open, slamming against the concrete wall with a thunderous echo.

Andrew snapped his head around, his blue eyes widening as Deran stormed into the garage. Deran’s face was bright red, his eyes wild with tears and unadulterated rage. Before Andrew could even utter a syllable, Deran closed the distance, grabbing Andrew by the collar of his shirt and violently shoving him back against a stack of wooden pallets.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Deran screamed, his voice cracking with pure emotion.

"Deran, get off me!" Andrew growled, his own defensive instincts flaring as he tried to push his younger brother away. "What are you doing here?"

"You are an idiot, Pope! A selfish, blind idiot!" Deran yelled right into his face, tears finally spilling over his eyelids. "You're getting all serious with this church girl? Playing house with Amy? You know damn well she’s a mark! You know we're trying to rob this place, and you're dragging it out because you want to feel good about yourself!"

"Shut up, Deran!" Andrew warned, his voice dropping into that dangerous, guttural register as his fists clenched. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"No, you don't know!" Deran roared, violently shaking Andrew's frame. "You broke her heart, Pope! You left her to protect her from Smurf, but you let her drown in the dark! I told her about Amy, and it completely destroyed her. She watched you here yesterday. She saw you happy with this clean little church chick while she was dying inside!"

Andrew froze entirely. The defensive rage vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, sickening dread. "What... what are you talking about?"

Deran let go of his shirt, stepping back, his chest heaving as he delivered the final, crushing blow. "She overdosed, Pope. I found her on her bed today surrounded by empty pill bottles. She’s at the county hospital right now. They have her in a medically induced coma on life support, and the doctor said she might not even make it through the night."

The world completely stopped spinning.

Andrew’s breath left his body in a sharp, agonizing gasp. The news hit him with the force of a tidal wave, completely fracturing his mind. The image of your pale, lifeless body flashed in his head, and a primal, terrifying panic clawed at his throat. He didn't say a single word to Deran. He didn't look back at the church. He turned and sprinted out of the garage, jumping into his car and tearing down the highway like a man possessed, his vision completely blurred by the sudden, violent onset of his own tears.

The intensive care unit was dead silent, save for the rhythmic, agonizing beep of the heart monitor and the mechanical whoosh of the ventilator keeping you alive.

Andrew burst through the door of your private room, his chest heaving, his face pale and tear-stained. He didn't care about the nurses yelling at him in the hallway. He didn't care about anything. All he saw was you.

You looked so small beneath the white hospital blankets. Your beautiful face was entirely devoid of color, your lips dry, and thick plastic tubes ran out of your mouth, connecting you to the machine breathing for you. Your braids lay motionless over your shoulders.

Andrew stumbled to the side of the bed, his knees completely giving out. He crashed to the floor beside your mattress, his large, scarred hands shaking violently as he reached out, gently cupping your cold, limp hand between both of his.

"No, no, no... please," Andrew wept, his voice breaking into a raw, pitiful sob that echoed against the sterile walls. He pressed your hand against his forehead, his tears wetting your knuckles. "Please, baby, don't do this. Don't leave me. I’m so sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry."

He looked up at your unmoving face, his blue eyes wide with an absolute, agonizing despair. The man who never showed vulnerability was completely broken, shattered into a million pieces at your bedside.

"I only left because of Smurf," he choked out, his throat tightening as he squeezed your hand. "I wanted to keep you safe from her. I thought... I thought if I stayed away, you’d be happy. You’d be clean. I never wanted this. I don't love Amy. I don't love anyone but you. She was just... she was just an escape, but she isn't you. Nobody is you."

He leaned up, gently pressing his trembling lips against your cold cheek, his stubble scratching against your skin as his tears pooled on your temple.

"You have to get better," Andrew begged, his voice dropping into a desperate, frantic whisper against your skin, his heart breaking with every slow beep of the monitor. "You have to wake up. I’ll kill Smurf. I’ll walk away from the family. I’ll do whatever you want, I swear to God. Just please don't leave me here alone. I love you. I love you so much. Please come back to me."

The Cody house was practically breathing. Bass from the massive speakers set up on the patio vibrated straight through the floorboards, matching the chaotic pulse of the Oceanside crowd packed into the backyard and spilling into the sunken living room. It was one of Smurf's typical, loosely planned summer rages bodies everywhere, solo cups littering the granite counters, and the smell of saltwater, cheap weed, and expensive tequila heavy in the warm night air.

Near the outdoor bar, away from the thick of the crowd, the Cody brothers stood in a loose circle. Baz was nurse-drinking a beer, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk, while Deran and Craig argued over who was supposed to go buy more beer for the party.

Andrew stood a little apart from them, his back pressed against the wooden siding of the house. He had a beer dangling loosely from his fingers, but he hadn't taken a sip in twenty minutes. He hated crowds. He hated the noise. The people leaving messes everywhere that he'd have to clean himself. Usually, he’d have retreated to his room by now, but tonight, his eyes were locked entirely onto the center of the patio floor.

"Yo, who is that?" Craig suddenly asked, his voice cutting through his own argument with Deran. He leaned over the wooden railing, pointing his beer bottle toward the edge of the pool. "The girl by the speakers. I haven't seen her around before. She definitely isn't one of the regular beach chicks."

Baz looked over, a slow, appreciative hum vibrating in his throat. "Yeah. She’s definitely not from around here."

You were standing right in the center of a small circle of your friends, entirely oblivious to the eyes on you. You looked like an absolute dream, embodying the exact high-glamour, early-2000s aesthetic. You wore low-rise, dark-wash denim jeans slung low on your hips, cinched with two thick, layered brown leather statement belts featuring massive ornate buckles. Your top was a matching dark denim cropped jacket, fastened tightly at the center to leave your midriff completely bare, showing off a delicate gold coin belly chain that wrapped around your waist. Your long hair cascaded down your shoulders from beneath a structured cherry-red leather newsboy cap, and oversized gold hoop earrings framed your face. As the heavy bass of a hip-hop track dropped, your hips moved with a fluid, mesmerizing rhythm that was entirely confident and utterly captivating. You weren't sloppy like the usual Oceanside crowd; you carried yourself with a sharp, magnetic grace.

Andrew didn't say a word to what his brothers said. He didn't even blink. The second his eyes had found you earlier in the night, the rest of the party had simply ceased to exist. His mind, usually a chaotic storm of noise and paranoia, went entirely quiet as he watched you move. The way you commanded the space without even trying, the contrast of your flawless style against the gritty backyard it completely unhinged him. His broad shoulders dropped out of their rigid posture, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as he tracked the slight tilt of your red leather cap, completely entranced.

"Pope’s glitching," Deran muttered under his breath, nudging Craig. "Look at him. He hasn't looked away for like 5 minutes."

"Can't blame him," Craig laughed, slapping Andrew on the shoulder. "Go get a drink with her, bro. Before Baz tries to slide in."

Andrew didn't acknowledge the joke. He just shifted his weight, his eyes darkening as a guy from the surf crowd tried to step closer to you on the dance floor. Andrew’s jaw clenched, a sudden spike of protective energy flaring in his chest, but he stayed rooted to his spot, simply watching from the shadows.

An hour later, the heat of the patio and party goers became a bit too much, and you excused yourself from your friends to head inside and use the restroom. The interior of the Cody house was slightly quieter, though people were still loitering on the long red sectional couch and near the kitchen island.

When you stepped out of the hallway bathroom, adjusting the heavy leather belts of your outfit and checking your gloss in the dim light, you turned the corner toward the quiet hallway leading to the side exit. You just wanted a breath of fresh air away from the bass.

"Hey. Wait up."

You paused, turning around to see a guy stepping into the hallway, completely blocking your path back to the living room. He was tall, heavily tanned, and clearly very drunk, his eyes glassy as they traveled uncomfortably down your exposed midriff and the gold chains at your waist.

"I saw you out there earlier," he slurred, taking a heavy step into your personal space. "You're bad as hell, you know that? What's your name?"

"I'm just trying to get back to my friends," you said, your voice perfectly calm but completely icy. You tried to step past him, but he shifted his weight, putting a hand flat against the wall next to your head.

"Come on, don't be like that," he laughed, his breath smelling heavily of beer. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers grabbing your waist right over the gold coin chain, trying to pull you closer. "Just give me a couple minutes baby. Let's go out to the truck."

"Take your hand off me," you warned, your fingers tightening into a fist as your survival instincts flared.

Before you could swing at him, and before the guy could even open his mouth to reply, a massive shadow completely eclipsed the hallway light.

Out of nowhere, Andrew appeared. He didn't make a sound as he approached, but his physical presence arrived like a freight train. Without a single word of warning, Andrew grabbed the guy by the collar of his shirt, his large, scarred hand bunching the fabric so tightly it cut off the man's breath. With a terrifying display of raw strength, Andrew slammed the guy backward against the opposite wall, the impact rattling the framed pictures hanging on the drywall.

The drunk guy choked out a gasp, his eyes widening in instant, sober terror as he looked up.

Andrew was hovering inches from his face. His unblinking eyes were wide, unhinged, and completely void of any humanity. He looked entirely like a predator ready to snap a neck.

"If you touch her again," Andrew whispered, his voice dangerously low, a guttural rumble that vibrated right through the narrow hallway, "I will throw you off the roof. Do you understand me?"

The guy couldn't even nod properly, his lips trembling as he raised his hands in surrender. "Yeah! yeah, man. My bad. My bad."

Andrew held him there for one more agonizing, silent second, letting the terror sink in, before violently shoving him toward the main exit. The guy didn't look back once, practically scrambling on the tile floor as he fled out the front door into the night.

The silence in the hallway was sudden and heavy. Andrew stood there, his chest heaving as he stared at the empty space where the guy had just been, his fists still clenched tight at his sides, his breath ragged as the adrenaline slowly pumped through his veins.

You watched him, your heart hammering against your ribs not from fear, but from the sheer, overwhelming power of how he had just handled the situation. You looked at his rigid profile, noticing the sharp line of his jaw and the intense, protective aura radiating off him. You weren't intimidated by him at all; you felt entirely safe.

"Hey," you said softly, stepping closer into his space.

Andrew’s head snapped toward you, his eyes still wide and volatile, as if expecting you to run away from him like everyone else did when he snapped.

Instead, you closed the distance between you. You reached up, your fingers gently brushing against the rough fabric of his shoulder to anchor yourself, and leaned in. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss right against his sun-warmed cheek, your lip gloss leaving a faint, shiny mark against his stubble.

"Thank you," you murmured, looking up into his eyes with a warm, genuine smile. "I appreciate you looking out."

Andrew froze entirely, his breath catching in his throat. The volatile energy in his body completely dissolved, replaced by a stunned, breathless silence. Nobody touched him like that. Nobody looked at him with that much warmth after seeing what he was capable of.

Before he could find his voice or react, you gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, turned on your heel, and walked smoothly back toward the bright lights of the living room, the gold chains at your waist jingling softly as you rejoined your friends. Andrew just stood in the dim hallway, his hand slowly rising to touch his cheek right where your lips had been, his eyes staring at the doorway where you had disappeared.

By two in the morning, the party was finally starting to thin out. The music had been turned down to a low thrum, and groups of tired, buzzed people were shuffling down the driveway toward their cars.

You stood near the front gate with your friends, laughing as they recounted the drama of the night. You were getting ready to leave, but your eyes kept scanning the property until you spotted him.

Andrew was sitting alone on the low stone wall near the driveway, a fresh, unopened beer in his hand. He looked isolated from the rest of the world, his eyes downcast, but the moment you stepped away from your group, his head snapped up. He tracked your movement instantly, his posture straightening as you walked across the gravel toward him.

"Leaving?" he asked as you stopped in front of him. His voice was rough, a little hesitant, completely different from the terrifying growl he had used in the hallway.

"Yeah, my friends are ready to head out," you said softly, leaning your weight onto one leg, looking down at him with an amused smirk. You reached into your pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper a receipt you had torn a corner off of inside, with your name and ten digits cleanly written in dark ink.

You stepped closer, reaching out and sliding the paper directly into the front pocket of his flannel shirt, your fingers brushing against his chest for a brief, intentional second.

"You should call me sometime." you said, your voice dropping into a smooth, confident register that made his breath hitch. "Let me buy you a drink to properly say thank you."

Andrew looked down at his pocket, then back up at you, his blue eyes intense, wide, and filled with a sudden, burning determination. He gripped the paper through the fabric of his shirt as if it were the most valuable thing he had ever held.

"I will," he muttered, his voice raw and completely certain. "I'll call."

You flashed him one last, dazzling smile, turning around to walk back to your friends who were waiting by the car. As you slid into the passenger seat and the car started rolling down the dark Oceanside street, you looked out the window.