oh, how I love being a woman

It didn’t take much to convince her. She’d been getting bored with you, anyway. You suppose you should just be happy that Deran got to you first, that you didn’t die with a needle in your arm like so many other girls before you who had “lost their touch.”

You never questioned why her rotation of women was so quick, why their employment was so short-lived. But you all knew. Smurf didn’t make mistakes; she didn’t leave behind messes, and she had no room in her life for other women. Especially not when it came to her sons. 

Her fragile hold over Deran is already tumultuous, though. She knows it's not you that poses a threat to that tether. It’s the fact that her emotionally fucking her sons’ heads when they were kids didn’t stick with him. His pendulum swings the other way. 

It always brings a little smile to your face in those rare moments you catch him and Adrian together. Just one instance where Smurf hadn’t gotten what she wanted. You’re sure that's why she never bothers coming by the bar. She doesn’t like the reminder of her failure. 

And you certainly appreciate having one aspect of your life free from that woman. 

Letting out a low sigh, you bend down and grab a rag to wipe down the bar. The little bell above the door chimes as someone walks in. “We’re closing,” you call out. Bootsteps still come closer, and you frown, glancing over your shoulder. “I said– oh.”

Pope pauses for a moment, surveying you. “Deran’s in the back,” you tell him, offering a strained smile. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, rounding the bar and making his way through the kitchen to the back office. You continue with your closing duties, gnawing your lip as you think. 

You’re not scared of Pope, not really. You know what he’s capable of, but it’s Smurf that calls the shots. It’s always her that you have to look out for. The old lady’s a lot smarter than people want to give her credit for. 

You never knew why she didn’t let you have Pope. You’re certain you would have enjoyed it. There’s something about that intense look in his eyes– emotions so shadowed over, his gaze is almost empty. 

But Smurf never offered you up, always kept you hidden away. She knows how easy it is for you to get attached; maybe that’s why. You always struggled separating the act and the paycheck. 

In the back of the bar, you can hear Deran and Pope’s voices growing louder. Your head shoots up as the kitchen door swings open, banging off the wall. Pope storms through, jaw clenched as he stalks past you, muttering something to himself. 

You tilt your head as you consider him. The broad line of his shoulders, the strength of his body you can make out even under his loose shirt. He lets out a short huff, storming out of the bar. Yeah, you could definitely see yourself getting attached to that one in all the wrong ways. 

Deran comes out of the kitchen, and you jump, ripping your eyes away from the door. “Don’t let any more of my family come through,” he barks out. 

“You guys fight?”

He shoots you a sharp look that has you biting back a smile. “What the fuck do you think?”

“You know I don’t like your family, anyway,” you defend, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the counter. Deran goes quiet, and you roll your eyes, glancing back over at him. He’s giving you a knowing look that has you huffing. 

“I don’t like most of your family,” you amend. Throwing his hands up, he shakes his head, storming back to his office. You glance back at the door, almost wishing Pope would walk through again. He’s certainly more intriguing than the other Codys. 

Parties at Smurf’s place only have two directions they can go. High and low. High, of course, is when she brings out the good stuff, and everyone’s floating two feet above their bodies. Head lost somewhere in the clouds of smoke. Low is when some asshole, usually one of her sons, gets too drunk and starts a fight. 

It seems to be going high, this time, a good sign for you, considering you want nothing more than to relax tonight. Deran had been kind enough to get you a job at his bar. A handout, honestly, considering how much he already helps you out with. Turns out, the opening week of a new bar is hell on your back. 

You’re lounging back on one of Smurf’s pool chairs, lazily smoking a blunt Deran had handed you, as some girls flock around him. You’re certain they’re aware he doesn’t swing that way, but he's the tamer boy of the Codys. They probably just hope he might cut them a deal on whatever little baggies Smurf has him handing out. 

You don’t blame the girls. You’d rather take something from Deran than his brother Craig. You wouldn’t trust Craig as far as you can throw him. Especially not with that sleazy grin he always shoots you. 

A shadow falls over you, and the low tittering of the women goes quiet. You frown, lifting your sunglasses and glancing over at them. But the throng of women have scattered. Glancing up, you let out a little laugh, finding the reason standing over you. 

Pope has emerged from the house, arms crossed as he hovers at your side. You doubt he even realizes you’re beside him, or the effect he’s had on the partygoers. Honestly, you appreciate his presence for the quiet it provides. He’s got a good dampener effect on the rowdy parties that go on around here. 

“Having fun?” you try, not expecting much back from him. He glances down at you, brows raising. He probably just realized you’re there. 

“No,” he tells you bluntly, eyes narrowing on the blunt in your hand. You tap the tip of it, shaking some ash off by his feet. He lets out a little sigh that almost makes you feel bad for teasing him. 

“Really? You seem like the life of the party.” You shift higher up on the chair, back bowing slightly as you try to get comfortable. His gaze lingers on the top of your bikini before he looks away. His shoulders stiffen, arms tightening as he glares out at the rest of the party. 

“You’re too easy,” you mutter, flicking your glasses down and closing your eyes. 

The skin of his hand is rough, but his touch is barely there as he snatches the blunt from between your fingers. Your eyes shoot open as he gives you a sharp look. “Don’t fall asleep with this in your hand. You’ll burn the chair,” Pope quietly chides. 

You snort as he storms off, tossing the blunt into the trash as he goes. You wonder if he knows how often your stare lingers on him. How easy it is for you to seek him out in every room you walk into. You doubt it. And you really doubt he’d ever want used goods, as Craig so often calls you. 

You sink back into the chair, trying to get comfortable again. 

The universe seems to be flipping you one giant middle finger today. 

“Comfortable?” a rasping voice asks. 

You suck in a deep breath, mentally prepping yourself. “Yep,” you grit out, flicking your sunglasses up and offering a smile to Smurf. You’re certain it comes off more as a grimace than anything else. 

She offers something sickly sweet in return. It’s meant to come off as motherly or nurturing in some way. It does nothing more than set your nerves on edge. You don’t know why she tries any of her tricks with you. You know her intimately and have already seen past her many masks to the bitch below. 

She hums, laughing slightly to herself as she perches on the chair beside you. “Talking to Pope?”

“No,” you answer quickly. God forbid she think you’re trying to steal one of her precious boys out from under her. 

“Really?” She hums, sucking her teeth as she surveys the rest of the party. “Looked like you were the only girl who could stand being near him.”

You consider your response, wondering what constitutes her thinking you’re a threat. “He’s not so bad,” you finally settle on. 

Smurf says nothing for a while, and you begin to worry you’ve messed up. She knows that you're Deran’s friend. And, in no way, are you a threat to her already fragile claim over him. But Pope’s different than the others; she’s much more unpredictable when it comes to keeping her guard dog close. 

“Pope’s been having a hard time lately,” she finally tells you. “His mind isn’t where I need it to be.” 

Is it ever? You just nod, not voicing your skepticism aloud. 

“You know how it works with him. Usually, the girls I send in help soothe those fragile nerves.” Smurf lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. 

You tense up, muscles locking as you suck in a fragile breath. Yeah, you know how it works with him. You know all about the girls she sends to him. But there’s no reason for her to be bringing any of this up to you. Not now. 

“Pope…” she lets out a low breath, shrugging. “Pope’s different, you know that.” Everyone knows that. “It doesn’t work for him when he knows the girls are being paid.”

You hum, lips pursed tight as you struggle to think of a way out of this. “Interesting,” you whisper. 

Smurf lets out a little laugh, shooting you a sharp smirk. “Interesting,” she mocks, her tone cruel in its intentions. “You know what I want, don’t you, kid?”

You suck your teeth, arms winding tight around your stomach. You feel too exposed now. Body on display just like she wants. “I don’t do that anymore,” you bite out, forcing some sort of strength into your voice. 

“Please,” Smurf barks out a laugh, sitting back up and leaning in toward you. You can’t find the strength to meet her eye. But her stare is branding into your skin. “I know women like you. You’ll do anything if the price is right. Besides… don’t forget what I know about you.”

For a moment, the world goes quiet. There’s no party, no throng of people getting high and drunk in front of you. It’s just you, small as you’ve ever been, and Smurf. With that god damn smirk on her face, always one step ahead of everyone else. 

“You said you were done with me,” you whisper, tears clawing at the edge of your voice. 

Smurf shakes her head. “No, I said I was done for now. And now, I need you again. I’ll even be nice and pay you, sweetheart. Four hundred a session, not hourly.”

Your eyes fall shut, nails digging into your arms as you realize you have no choice. You can keep fighting her, but all that’ll do is take away your pay. You’ll be forced to do what she wants, and you won’t even make anything off it. “What am I doing?”

“Just… entertainment.” She reaches forward, touch cold as she slides the falling strap of your top up. “And Pope doesn’t know about our little arrangement.”

It’s Smurf. You don’t have a choice. Not with the dirt she’s got on you. At the very least, it’s Pope, not someone like Craig or Baz she’s asking you to sell yourself out for. 

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes watering as you stare down at your lap. 

Smurf gets up and pats your head. “Good girl,” she mutters, laughing as she walks away. One day… She’ll be dead. Buried somewhere six feet deep, and you’ll be there. 

Dancing on her fucking grave. 

You let yourself in with the key Smurf had given you. Just like she used to, she sent you a time to show up. Normally, that was accompanied by a name and place. But you already knew who she wanted you to take care of. And since they’d sold his house, there was only one place for him to be. 

Heading into the kitchen, you drop your purse on one of the chairs. There’s a low murmur in the living room, something playing softly on the TV. Sucking in a sharp breath, you fix your shirt and adjust your hair. 

It’s not typical of you to be nervous before one of these appointments. But you haven’t done this in a long time. And you already know none of your old tricks are going to work here. Pope isn’t anything like the clients Smurf used to toss you to. 

They had been looking for something carnal. Something quick that they could wrench pleasure from and then toss aside. Pope’s already a hundred times different from them just for not wanting his girls to be paid to be with him. 

There’s another factor you’re worried about. At least, when Smurf pays the girls, Pope knows they’re coming. He knows what’s coming and how he’s expected to perform. He’s not been briefed for you, and you’re barely ready for him. You’re not sure you want to know what it would feel like to be rejected by him if this goes wrong. 

Rolling back your shoulders, you force yourself to move. Rounding the corner into the living room, you stop short. “Oh.” The plan was to feign surprise, pretend you had been looking for someone else. But you don’t really have to feign anything right now. Not with Pope sitting on the couch in nothing but his boxers, watching… a bird documentary?

Clearing your throat, you blink a few times, trying to recover from the sight of him being half-naked. He seems just as taken aback, clearly expecting to have the house to himself today. His brows furrow as he watches you, hand twitching on his lap. 

“Sorry. Is Deran here?”

“No,” his voice cracks slightly as he shifts against the cushions. You feel a little bad. You don’t think you’re making him nervous, but he certainly isn’t confident. “He’s at the bar,” he explains, jaw clenching. 

“Oh,” you wave your hand and step into the living room. “My mistake,” you dismiss airily, shrugging. “Mind if I wait for him here? He shouldn’t be long.” Pope doesn’t say much or invite you closer. But you move forward anyway, not like you have much choice here. He drags a pillow over his lap as you take a seat beside him.

You’re decent enough to give him a few inches of space between you both, though you doubt that helps much. 

You can’t confidently say that Pope is nervous. But he certainly seems affected right now. Your eyes narrow on the way his leg bounces slightly, the wrinkles at the hem of his boxers. Smurf left, the house is empty, and he’s been on edge lately. Maybe he’d been expecting one of Smurf’s girls. 

He was right, in a way. But he didn’t get to know that. 

Your skirt hitches as you tuck your legs under yourself. You shuffle for a moment, trying to get comfortable and “accidentally” slipping too close to Pope. He jerks away from your touch, not hastily, but carefully. You catch a sidelong look from him before he redirects his attention to the TV. 

It’s easy to tell, just from the tautness of his shoulders, that he’s not hearing a damn word Attenborough is saying. 

You settle back against the cushions and let out a little sigh, thighs flexing as you slip just a bit closer to him. It’s harder with Pope. You can’t get this started the way you would with old clients. They had been expecting you, and in turn, they’d been expecting a quick release. 

Smurf made it clear that Pope isn’t allowed to know a damn thing about this arrangement. You’re terrified of what she would do if you messed this up in the first session. 

You’ll have to ease him into this. 

Sadly, that means suffering through an hour of a documentary that has you biting your tongue to keep from passing out from boredom. You spend the time creeping ever closer to Pope. Letting your thigh accidentally brush against his and pulling back quickly. Watching the sharp intake of breath in his chest from the contact. 

Having your fingers graze the back of his hand as you stretch. You watch these little reactions flash across his face, making you wish you had a better understanding of his body language. You keep up this little game until he stops flinching from your touch and starts leaning into it instead. 

You move closer, thigh brushing his leg, arm nearly pressed to his. He doesn’t move, just sinks a little deeper into the sofa. Your arm stretches along the cushions as you let out a low sigh. 

“Pope?” you mutter, voice low as you lean in closer toward him. 

“What are you doing?” He tilts his head toward you, eyes narrowed, a little quirk to his lips as his gaze drops to your mouth. 

You’re slightly taken aback and resist the urge to pull away. “What do you mean?” you whisper, trying not to break the tentative bubble around you. He doesn’t answer, just watches you, eyes running along your form as you stretch closer. “I mean, I thought I was being kind of obvious.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you let out a breathy laugh. “I like you, Pope. But you know… I just can’t tell with you.”

He grabs the remote, turning off the documentary before tilting his body toward you. The pillow shifts slightly off his lap and you inch closer. “Can’t tell what?”

“Well…” the arm draped behind him shifts, and you let your fingers brush against the nape of his neck, teasing into his hair. “I’m usually much better at reading people. But I just don’t know with you. Do you like me, Pope?”

His voice is rough as he speaks, and you don’t miss the way his gaze drops to your lips. “Why do you care?”

You let out a little laugh, “I just said–”

His hand comes up, taking your wrist in his grasp. It’s not rough, but you can’t slip away. Your eyes widen slightly as you back up. “Did Smurf put you up to this?” His expression hardens; whatever reaction you might have been eliciting out of him is gone. 

“What?” Your lips part as you shake your head. You let your eyes go wide with surprise, faux hurt, leaving them open until a little bit of water builds at the edges of your lashes. “No, I just–” You cut yourself off, putting on a proper show as you try to move away from him. “I’m sorry, this was so stupid,” your voice cracks around the words. 

Maybe you’re laying it on a little thick. But Pope is sharp, sharper than you’re comfortable with. He couldn’t have caught onto you that quick… could he? 

Maybe you’ve lost your touch. 

“I’ll just leave.” You get on your knees, trying to pull away. His hand tightens imperceptibly around your wrist, and you lift your eyes, meeting his gaze once more. “Pope?” you whisper, leaning just a little closer to him. 

He lifts off the cushions slightly, and you almost smile. You’ve still got it.

Tilting your head, you let your lips brush against his. Just barely, at first, hesitant like you really are nervous. And maybe, you are, just a bit. He pulls back for a moment, eyes darting along your face, gauging your honesty. 

After a moment, he tilts his head, nose brushing yours as he presses his lips to yours. There’s more force behind the kiss than you’d like. His body is stiff beneath you as you slide your leg over his lap, straddling him. There’s too much teeth in the kiss; it’s aggressive in a way that reminds you of your old clients.

But there’s something else that’s off. It’s like he’s simply not used to this. To something that hasn’t been paid for and wasn’t premeditated. His hands hover over you, uncertain. 

You let your palms drag along his broad shoulders, cupping his neck as you pull back. He stares up at you, lips parted and expression vulnerable in a way that makes guilt itch in your throat. 

He’s used to fucking and being done with it. He doesn’t understand intimacy like a man his age should. That’s no fault of his own, not really. 

“Slow,” you whisper down at him, waiting until he nods to kiss him again. His hands drop to your hips, squeezing once before settling there. You do your best to guide him into something soft, slow in a way that lets him follow your lead. He’s a quick learner, pulling you closer to him as he finds his own footing. 

You get more comfortable, settling in his lap as you kiss him. Something begins to press up between your thighs, his boxers growing tight as you let your fingers tangle in his curls. His hips buck, and you let out a little gasp at the bold move. His tongue darts across the seam of your lips, and you tilt your head, letting him deepen the kiss. 

His arms shift, wrapping tighter around your back as he tugs you closer. Your knee slips along the cushions, bumping into the remote. You both jump apart as a loud infomercial suddenly comes alive on the TV. “Shit,” you mutter, laughing as your forehead falls against his. 

He lets out a rough sigh as your thumb lightly traces his bottom lip. Pulling back, he leans further into your touch, following you. He’s staring up at you, waiting for… something. 

“Maybe we should take this to the bedroom,” you suggest quietly. The magic words, apparently, as he gets up from the couch. His arms are thick, secure around you as he carries you over to his bedroom. 

You lean down, pressing soft kisses to his jaw, trailing down his neck as he walks. You’re easing him into the idea of you. But you’re also trying to placate yourself. It’s a poor attempt to calm the racing beast in your chest. 

Your heart has been pounding against your ribs for the past few minutes. You know, in his own way, he’s not really a client. Certainly not like any you’ve ever done business with before. But your last experience…

Well, it had been your last for a reason. 

It’s hard to forget the kind of pain you’ve gone through, shoved into similar situations like this before. Always at the hand of the same woman. But it doesn’t have to be like that again. Not with Pope. 

He kicks the door shut behind him, turning and pressing you up against it. Your nails bite into his shoulders as he presses his nose to the crook of your jaw. He rests there a moment before slowly making his way back to your lips, just waiting. His shallow breaths fan across your face as you move forward, just enough to finally connect with him. 

Rough hands flex around your thighs before he turns you around, walking you both back to the bed. Your legs slip from around his waist as he lays you down. Your hand trails up into his curls, tugging as his touch skates down your body. Pulling at the zipper of your skirt. You break apart, just long enough for you to peel your shirt off. 

His fingers drag up along your bare skin. Goosebumps break out at the soft touch as he pulls back enough to get a good look at you. You would laugh if it weren’t for that look in his eye, slightly panicked and overwhelmed. 

You’d made the choice to forgo a bra, knowing what you were getting up to today. His attention is unmoving on your breasts, and you let out a little huff. “I don’t bite,” you tease, taking his hands in yours and guiding them up to your chest. “Usually.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, barely even moves. His gaze drags back up to yours, and you give him a little nod. Slowly, he cups your breasts, cold hands making you shiver. It’s been a lot longer than you’d ever tell anyone since you’ve been intimate. 

But… you’re liking this with Pope. For once, you’re not at the mercy of someone else. If anything, it feels like you’re holding the power here. His pleasure is only given if you will it. It’s certainly a feeling you could get used to. 

Your hands drag up his arms, resisting the urge to squeeze those thick biceps, and you draw him back down into another kiss. He’s already learning, softer with his approach, less aggressive. His palms skate down your body until he’s squeezing your waist. You try to pull him closer, legs closing around his hips, and his hands fall to the sheets. 

They flex at your sides as his body tenses. Pulling back, he won’t meet your eye, and you frown at the way his jaw clenches. There’s something sharp in his gaze that has your breath stuttering. You’ve seen the look before. In exes who knew what you used to be. 

That niggling question of whether you were clean? If you were still seeing your ‘clients’? You can’t blame him for thinking it, especially knowing his inclination toward cleanliness. But the hurt never lessens. That slight edge of rejection never gets any smoother. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, slowly releasing him. He says nothing, and you sit up on your elbows. “Pope,” you tell him, voice firm. “We don’t have to do this.”

“You want to,” he mutters, finally meeting your eye. Your lips purse as you fight back the ache in your chest. You know that look too. The sudden fear that if you don’t give this person what they want… they’ll leave too. 

You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he falls into the touch easily. “Come on,” you urge, moving up the bed and pulling the sheets back. 

He hesitates, hovering over you and still wondering if he should just do what you want. You pat the spot beside you, and he finally crawls under the sheets. You settle into the pillows, opening your arms to him. 

Pope watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed, before slowly sinking into your touch. Your hand settles in his curls as his head falls against your chest. It doesn’t take him much longer to melt completely against you, not as you play with his hair, nearly falling asleep yourself. 

It’s comforting, in an odd way. Being pressed into the sheets by someone’s weight– but, for the first time in a while, they’re not expecting anything else from you. It’s a man you actually want. Not one that’s paid to own you for a few hours. 

You lean back, drawing him closer as the sun sets through the window. 

Pope is long gone by the time the sun rises again. Letting out a low sigh, you get out of bed, pretending you don’t miss the warmth he’d provided. Your skin is more chilled than you care to admit as you get dressed. 

It’s not as if you’d expected him to stay. Smurf always has him out running errands for her or doing the odd jobs no one else will. For someone who wants her attack dog close, she sure hates having him in the house with her. 

As you slip out of his room, the rest of the house is quiet, save for some clinking coming from the kitchen. Walking in, you grab your purse off the counter. There’s an extra weight that hadn’t been there the night before. 

Smurf stands by the kitchen island, stirring her coffee with that smirk you’d love to carve off her face. “Fun night?”

Sucking your teeth, you straighten your skirt and nod. “It was nice,” you grit out. 

She shakes her head and nods at your purse. Looking inside, you see a thick wad of cash rolled up and tossed carelessly inside. “Good girl,” she mutters, brushing past you. She gives your ass a little pat as she heads toward the pool. 

You bite back something venomous, nails digging into the soft skin of your palms as you take in a fortifying breath. It’s not worth it. 

You storm toward the front door. The anger inside you begins to dull as you start heading back home. You feel dirty. It’s the first time you’ve left a job of hers without someone else's fluids drying between your thighs. Or new bruises on your body. 

Still, you feel cheaper than you have in a long time. 

You want to convince yourself that you needed to do this to survive. You can’t survive off the shitty tips you make at Deran’s bar. And she could ruin your life with the knowledge she holds over you. 

That doesn’t stop you from feeling like scum. 

You’ve gotten better at noticing him before he makes himself known. It’s his stare, you think. It’s so heavy, so intent, it’s almost impossible to miss the weight of it on your back. His gaze is still something predatory to you– not that you don’t enjoy it. But you know better than to think of it as something empty, or compare it to the blind hunger of a shark, like you used to. 

Lifting your head, you offer Pope a small smile as he stalks into the bar. There’s not really another word you can think of for that unique stride of his. 

He brushes brusquely past the customers who are leaving. It doesn’t take long for people to simply make room for him. It's incredibly impressive– and attractive– how he can take control of a room without ever saying anything. Maybe people are just scared of his general energy, but it works. 

He sits at the corner of the bar closest to you. “What can I get ya?” You toss your towel over your shoulder as you make your way toward him. 

Pope fishes out his wallet, tossing too much cash on the counter. “Just a beer,” he tells you, turning to survey the rest of the people here. 

He’s leaning against the bar, but his posture still remains stiff. His eyes never stop watching everyone around him, looking out for possible threats. It’s hard to tell if that’s a result of his time in prison or just a skill inherent to the Codys. 

His mannerisms make you think of a man who should hate eye contact. But talking to him is intense enough to make you short of breath, sometimes. He never takes his eyes off of you, as if he’s one slip up away from being stabbed in the back. You wonder who the last person he trusted was. His sister, probably. 

The longer you meet his eye, the more you see, the worse it gets. Those little flecks of emotion hidden among the hazel, it’s too much for a man who's meant to keep his cards close to his chest. You look away first, reaching for his cash and counting out his change. 

“Keep it,” he dismisses when you try to hand it back to him. 

Your eyes narrow, but you can’t afford to argue. Pocketing the cash, you nod, going to retrieve his beer. “Deran isn’t here,” you let him know, placing the bottle in front of him. 

He wipes at the condensation before fetching a napkin, slipping it under the bottle. “Did you want to leave a message for him?” you ask. 

Pope looks up from the beer and shakes his head. “No,” he tells you. “I didn’t come here to see Deran.”

A smile pulls at your lips despite yourself. “No?” you hum, pretending to wipe down the bar so he can’t catch that look in your eyes. The one that will give away too much, too soon. “Just came here for the shitty beer?”

“Exactly,” he mutters, taking a deep swig. Your eyes narrow as he plays along, a slight laugh huffing out of you. His idea of humor is so dry that it almost circles right back to not even being a joke anymore. 

Shaking your head, you move down the bar to top off some drinks. He lingers in that corner, nursing the beer. He owns that section of the bar, even as business picks up and more people shuffle in. They don’t take the stools on either side of him. 

There are these burdens, like shadows, ever present around him. It’s not something everyone can see, but they can feel the energy that radiates off him. That sort of ‘stay away’ warning that you’ve never been particularly good at following. 

It’s rare for you to get through a shift without at least one shitty pick-up line or a drunken slap on your ass. But, with Pope’s stare burning over your shoulder, you have a pretty good night. 

It’s interesting how quick he was to give in to your whims. How fast he now seeks out your company. You wonder: without Smurf’s prodding, would you have been able to lure him in like you had last night? Would he have given in to you the same way?

All this time you could have had him. But you’ve never been particularly good at taking what you want. 

Pope remains in his seat the rest of the night. It takes a herculean effort not to simply close the bar early, knowing what's waiting for you after your shift. His stare is heavy with intent. Still, you control yourself, letting the anticipation drag out for him too. 

“We’re closing,” you tell him, going around the bar and collecting the last of the beer bottles. Pope straighens up and slides from his stool. 

“I’ll wait,” he tells you simply. You linger by the kitchen door before shaking your head with a scoff. You carry the recycling to the back, and when you come back, he’s wiping down tables with the cleaning solution from behind the bar. You don’t object, getting your closing tasks done in half the time with him. 

“You know,” you start, as you count out the cash in the register. “If you wanted to spend time with me, you could have just asked.” He goes still where he’s standing. You offer him a wry grin. “I like being around you.”

He’s quiet for a moment before letting out a low huff. “Most people don’t.”

Your hands freeze as you shoot him a severe look. “Most people are idiots,” you tell him sharply. The corners of his lips twitch, and you sigh. Walking the envelope of cash to the back, you leave it in the safe under Deran’s desk. Out front, Pope waits for you by the door. 

Grabbing your purse from the bar, you catch up with him. He holds the door open for you as you step outside. “So,” you hum. “Your place or mine?”

Pope tenses up beside you as you lock up. “What?” he asks as you turn to face him. His eyes dart down to your lips and you grin. He’s not as subtle as he thinks. 

“Are we going to your place or mine?” you ask again, leaning against the door with your arms crossed. 

You almost expect him to back out or change his mind. He knows who you are, what you were. You haven’t forgotten that moment of hesitation from the other night. You’d be honestly surprised if he wanted anything to do with you. 

“Yours,” he tells you, voice so sure it takes you aback. 

“Alright,” you mutter, slipping past him with a surprised smile. 

Pope drives you to Deran’s place. You live in the apartment above his and Adrian’s home. A fact that you now realize you’ve never shared with Pope. But it’s not like you’ve ever had a reason to invite him over before. 

You lead him up the stairs, his hand in yours as you let him inside. He toes off his boots as you toss your purse on the entryway table. “Want a tour?” you ask, raising your brows. He nods, and you squeeze your hand around his, guiding him through the tiny apartment. 

It’s a decent enough place for somewhere that doesn’t charge rent. You’ve got your own little kitchenette and a depressingly small shower. It’s honestly not all that interesting. Lacking all of the personal touches that make a place home. You’ve learned to live small. 

You lead Pope past everything and take him straight to your bedroom. “Not much of a tour,” he tells you, rough voice teasing. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you really complaining?” You step closer, pressing your chest to his as you wind your arms around his neck. He shakes his head and you push up, lips just brushing against his. “Are you sure you don’t want a better tour?”

He cuts off your teasing with a kiss. For a moment, it’s too harsh. But then he’s remembering what you’d shown him. He backs off, grip loosening around your waist, his touch softening. You take his hands in yours, dragging them down your body and directing him to the button of your pants. He makes quick work of it, helping you out of them.

You’re pushed up against the doorway, his rough palms squeezing your hips while you work on the buckles of his belt. The second you’ve got it undone, he’s kicking off his jeans, pulling away from you to rip off his jacket. Your hands drag down his torso, greedy as your fingers find the hem of his shirt. Lifting it, you eagerly palm the soft muscles of his stomach. 

Pope shudders beneath your touch, and you grin, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. He searches for more, but you dart out of his reach, whipping off your shirt and flitting toward your bed. You beckon him forward with a small crook of your finger, and he follows obediently. 

You turn down your sheets, crawling onto your bed and waiting for him to do the same. He climbs over you, lips pressing against yours before drifting along your jaw, moving down your neck. He kneels before you, touch greedy as he palms your thighs. 

It feels like he’s teasing you as he moves lower between your legs. His eyes never leave yours. Your breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze. His fingers play with the band of your underwear before he slowly moves back up your body. 

You let out a soft breath, almost relieved he hadn’t traveled farther. You’re not sure how much of him you can handle at once. It’s been so long since you’ve let yourself be open with someone like this. And even now, you’re hiding things from him. 

You can only take so much at once. 

“Can we do what we did last night?” he whispers, tone hesitant. As if you would say no to that. 

You just nod, reaching up and letting your hand scratch through his curls. You sink back into the pillows, and he follows you. He seems more sure of himself as he sinks into your chest, arms winding around your torso as you both get settled. 

This seems to be becoming a tradition of sorts. You hold him until his breath settles and he falls asleep. Rolling over, you curl tighter around him, letting out a low, sated breath. 

The bed is cold when you wake up. There’s a dip where his body used to be, but he’s gone. Rolling over, you scrub a hand down your face, suddenly aware of how naked you are. Uncomfortable at the AC nipping at your bare skin, you tug the sheets up. 

Glancing over at your nightstand, you see a notification lighting up your phone. A part of you hopes it's Pope. But your heart sinks when you realize it’s a notification from Smurf. A wire transfer of $400 and a little ‘good girl’ memo, just so you don’t forget whose in charge. 

With a low huff, you sink back into your pillows, stomach twisting. How could Smurf possibly know what happened last night? Did Pope tell her? Had Smurf sent Pope to you?

You hadn’t gone home with him last night with a paycheck on your mind. You’d just wanted to be around him. 

Glancing back at your phone, you realize you finally have enough money to go grocery shopping for the first time in a while. 

No going back now. 

You have a tendency to follow Deran along wherever he leads you. Usually, you’re bored and looking for something interesting to occupy your time with. Most of the time, though, you have this feeling of obligation to him. For helping you more than he ever had to or even should have. 

Ultimately, that habit puts you right back at Smurf’s place. No matter how hard he tries–how hard any of them try–they always find their way back to her. There’s something magnetic about her that pulls the boys right into her orbit, even if they know they should have left years ago. 

Deran lounges by the pool while you get some water out of the fridge. You survey the area outside. The party is smaller this time. Likely thrown so Smurf could do business with someone, though you never have much clue what she gets up to. 

The sliding glass door opens, and you straighten up. The devil herself walks through, that familiar smirk on her face. “What’re you doing in here, baby?”

“Just getting something to drink,” you answer, moving out of her way as she gets some food she’d made out of the fridge. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Oh,” she hums, brows lifting as she motions you on. 

You lick your lips, swallowing roughly. It’s hard to string the right words together. To find that magical combination that will keep you looking like prey in her eyes, rather than another competitor. “You don’t–” Huffing, you start over, forcing yourself to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to keep paying me.” 

She shakes her head, feigning cluelessness and your nails bite into the plastic of your water bottle. “For Pope. I don’t mind keeping him entertained for you, but I don’t want you to keep paying me.”

“Now,” she chuckles, leaning against the counter. “Why would I stop? It’s not like you’re dating him, sweetheart. You’re just doing me a favor.”

Because it's wrong. Because every goddamn person in his life is using him in some way. And you can’t let yourself be someone like that to him. 

“Right, well, I don’t need to be paid for it.”

Smurf smiles, tilting her head as she swaggers up to you. She drapes her arm around your waist, leading you outside. “C’mon, I want you to meet someone.” You want to dig your heels into the floor and stop her, but you don’t have a choice. 

She leads you over to a balding man in an ill-fitting Speedo. There are already three girls surrounding him, each in skimpy bikinis with eager smiles. But that doesn’t stop him from turning his lecherous gaze onto you when Smurf brings you over. 

“Honey, this is Robert. We’re working out some business right now. But I thought I’d introduce him to the girls.” She sets her chin on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear. “Do I need to introduce you to him, too?”

You jerk out of her grip, stomach turning as you take in the other man. “I’ll take the money,” you hiss out, meeting her eye with a sharp glare. 

“That’s what I thought,” she grins. “Go on, enjoy the party,” she urges you along, and you run off to find Deran. You can hear that man objecting behind you. His arms are already full of beautiful women, but he’s still a greedy pig. 

Your throat tightens with nausea as you throw yourself down on the pool chair beside Deran. Why would you have ever thought that would work?

If Smurf stopped paying you, that would be like admitting defeat. She’d be accepting that Pope actually has someone stable in his life. Someone who wants to be with him and around him. It would be admitting that she made a mistake. She had given you permission to enter his life and had given him access to the affection and care she weaponizes against him. 

It’d be like his leash was switching hands. And she couldn’t have you cutting him free; of course she couldn’t. 

You can’t believe you were stupid enough to think she’d conceded so easily. 

“Everything okay?” You jump, the sound of Deran’s voice catching you off guard. 

You force a smile onto your face, shoving down your discomfort. “Yeah, of course.” You motion toward Robert and redirect the conversation. “So, what’s she got planned this time?”

“Fuck if I know,” Deran scoffs. He takes a hit from the blunt in his hand. “She doesn’t tell me shit until she wants something,” he mutters, smoke billowing out of his mouth. 

You hum, but you’re barely paying attention now. Something else has begun to occupy your thoughts. Well, someone else. Glancing over your shoulder, you see him. 

Pope is lingering. That feels like an ill-fitting word for him. Lurking, brooding, stalking, those all fit him much better. Lingering seems so meek for him. Still, you can’t deny, that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s standing just at the perimeter of your space. Not approaching, just quiet in the corner of your vision. As if you might wave him away if he gets too close or takes up too much space. 

It’s a silly worry, but you can see it clearly on his face as his gaze keeps darting back to you. He crosses his arms, pretending to be watching the rowdy partygoers. A smile pulls at your lips; you can’t judge him. You used to struggle keeping your eyes off of him, it’s easier now that you don’t have to pretend. 

Deran lets out a rough sigh, and you force your attention back to him. “What?” you chuckle at the aggrieved look on his face. 

He nods toward his brother. “What do you think? He’s weird but never this fucking weird.”

“Watch it,” you scold, shooting him a playful glare as you toss a sidelong glance at Pope. He’s only a few feet away; you’re sure he can hear his brother being a dick. It’s funny, though, how he acts like he hasn’t been waiting to talk to you since the moment you showed up. 

“Have you guys fucked yet?”

You jump, head whipping back toward your friend. “Jesus, Deran, you make me sound like some sort of whore.” He shoots you a look that makes you laugh. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, are you a lady now?”

“Thin ice,” you warn, shaking your head at him. He holds up his hands, but that shit-eating grin doesn’t leave his face. 

It’s dark by the time Deran passes out on the pool chair. The party has grown louder, and more people have shown up after sunset. You groan as you stand, shooting Deran an amused look as you leave him. He lets out a particularly loud snore as you brush past. 

You glance around the pool for your shadow. He hasn’t gone far. Just retreated into a quieter corner, eyes never leaving you as you approach. “It’s getting pretty rowdy out here,” you whisper conspiratorially as you move to stand beside him. 

He nods, eyeing the party before his gaze inevitably drifts back to you. “Are you not cold in that thing?” He nods toward your bikini, and you scoff. 

You place your hands on his bicep and prop your chin on his shoulder. “Maybe. Do you wanna help warm me up?” 

He swallows thickly, jaw clenching as he watches you. For a moment, you think you’ve finally got him. Then he looks away, rolling out his shoulders so you’re forced to let go. The rejection stings as you back up. “Don’t you have business to attend?”

Your brows furrow as you frown. “What?”

Pope just nods over toward the man Smurf had threatened you with earlier. You let out a disbelieving sigh, a stiff smile on your face as you shake your head. “Seriously?” you demand. Pope says nothing. “I’m not fucking him if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Before he can say anything else, you continue. “And I don’t do your mother’s business anymore. But you can go ahead and say what you’re thinking, Pope. I’m just another whore, right?”

Shaking your head, you move away from him and back toward the house. Somewhere inside, you know that this is irrational. Smurf is paying you. Not just that, but Pope is now your business. He wouldn’t be, if you had one fucking iota of control over your own life. 

But you’re certainly not leading him on with this idea that you’re exclusive just to be fucking someone else behind his back. It hurts that he would think that lowly of you. That after the time you’ve spent together, you’re still nothing more than a prostitute looking for a quick buck. 

You hear footsteps rushing up behind you before someone’s taking your wrist in their hand. Whipping around, you see Pope. He says nothing, just starts pulling you through the party. People part for him; they always do. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss, not making much of an effort to break free. 

He leads you to his bedroom, letting the door close behind him. You can see it, as the sounds of the party fade, his shoulders lose that stressed hunch. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, staring down at the ground, unable to meet your eye. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Crossing your arms, you shrug. “Whatever. I can’t exactly blame you for not wanting to be with me.”

His head lifts, and he frowns. “That’s not what I meant. I just–” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath. His shoulders roll back as he takes a step closer to you. “I want to be with you. But I don’t share.” 

It took him a second to find the right word before settling on share. You doubt there’s a word succinct enough to say he doesn’t like his women sleeping with other men for cash. “I can’t stand it when you’re around other men. I just–” his eyes are wide with this slightly panicked look, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of pissing you off and having you run, again. 

You surge forward, dragging him down into a kiss. You like this more than you should. That little bit of insecurity in his voice. The slight possessiveness as his hands squeeze around your waist. It’s nice to be wanted rather than scorned for situations far out of your control. 

Your back is pushed gently against his door, and his hands cup your cheeks. Your hands drop to his wrists, flexing around them as he pushes you higher up the door. His thigh slots between your legs as you throw your arms around his shoulders, desperate for some leverage. His leg flexes, and your hips grind down, a soft gasp escaping you as his grip flexes around your waist. 

This is different. More rushed than what you’ve done with him before. There’s intent behind this kiss, especially behind the way his palms drift. He cups your ass, lifting you until your legs are wrapping around his hips. He shuffles you higher up his body, dragging you away from the door. 

Your hands find their way into his hair, grip tightening around his curls, trying to anchor yourself in whatever way you can manage. He lets out a low groan that makes nerves spark beneath your skin. “Pope, what’s gotten into you?” 

You let out a low sigh as he bends, placing you carefully on the bed. He surveys you for a moment, jaw flexing as he debates answering. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs his shirt off, arms and stomach flexing as he does. You reach for the string of your bikini top, tugging it loose. 

You let it sit on your chest, beckoning him closer and guiding one of his hands to the thin fabric. His lips drag down your neck, calloused palm eagerly ripping away your top. He tosses it somewhere behind him, and you sink back onto the bed, letting him take the lead. 

He hasn’t seemed confident in initiating much with you; you don’t want to discourage him now. 

His rough palms travel down your body, lingering at the band of your bottoms. When his wide eyes meet yours, you give him a little nod. He pulls, slowly, until the flimsy fabric dangles  from one ankle, then he settles back over you. 

His fingers skate across your stomach, touch barely there, but just enough to leave goosebumps in his wake. His lips marks a slow, intentional path down your body. He lingers at your chest, careful as he slowly mouths at your breast. 

His eyes dart between yours, like he’s waiting for you to scold him, push him away. You thread your fingers through his hair, nodding. You’re afraid of saying anything, of spooking him out of the moment. 

He sucks once and you tug at his hair, letting out a low whimper as his free hand tweaks your other nipple. “Pope,” you gasp out, spine arching into his touch. 

It’s so faint, so hesitant, you can’t stand how much of a tease he is. His eyes close as his hand wanders, searching. He wants to know how much you want him. Wants to feel it. 

Slowly, he parts from you; you have to stop yourself from reaching for him. His mouth descends until  he’s lingering  between your thighs. You spread your legs wider, making room for his broad shoulders. 

Just like everything else he’s done tonight, he’s tentative at first. A shallow dip of his tongue has you holding back a groan of frustration. You’re not trying to rush him; you want this to be good for him. To feel real. 

But it’s hard. You’ve wanted him for so long, and he’s right there, kneeling between your thighs, and there’s nothing you can do but be at his mercy. 

You tighten your grip around his hair, inching your hips ever closer to his mouth. His large arms wrap around your legs, keeping your back pressed flush to the bed. The corded muscles of his shoulders flex as he finally leans forward. You’re struck by the sight of his thick body pinning you down, the sudden urge to sink your teeth into him overwhelming. 

Instead, you tilt your head back, resisting the need. Your heart thumps fast, anticipation pushing you closer toward the steep edge of desperation. 

Something is flickering inside you, smoldering. A small flame sparked alive by the heat of his breath, catching like wildfire when you finally feel his mouth on you. He doesn’t hold back, ravenous as his hands flex around your thighs. 

A rumbling groan tears from deep within his chest, low and desperate with every swipe of his tongue. The vibrations leave you keening; your hips twitch, but his heavy arms keep you in place. He pulls away, ignoring your wanton mewl.  His hand pinches at your thigh and you look up. The second your hazy eyes meet his, he’s dipping back down. 

You could swear there’s a smile on his lips as his tongue thrusts into you, mouth greedy as he devours you. 

You wonder what he’s like with the women Smurf hires. 

You shouldn’t be thinking about her, not right now. 

But… does he take what he wants? Shove into them and take them until he finds release? Or is he tender with them, too? Reaching hopelessly for some sort of connection, one they’ll give him right up until the cash is in hand. 

You don’t want to be that; you want this. Want him. Want that desperate edge in his eye as he eats you like all he’s ever felt is hunger. Your hand tightens in his hair, a broken moan crawls up your throat as something inside you burns. The heat pools low, spreading to your every limb. Your muscles jump and contract as you squirm beneath his iron grip. 

The jerk of your hips, the sounds that splinter then shatter the moment they touch your lips, the closeness you demand with your fingers threaded through his curls— it all seems to spur him on. He buries his face deeper, tongue relentless as he burrows inside you, and the only thought your mind can conjure is Pope Cody. 

“F-Fuck— Oh, God,” you let out a sharp gasp. Losing all manner of control, you begin to writhe, grinding down on him until the fire burns so hot, it becomes cold. Pleasure crests over your body in waves, leaving you shivering. Your legs twitch, thighs practically closing around his head as his fingers dig into you, ten crescent moons carved into your skin. He doesn’t stop until you tug weakly at his hair. 

He’s panting slightly as he finally lets you go. When he pulls back, loosening his grip, your slick shimmers on his chin, though he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are dark and dazed, but no less intense, as he watches you struggle to catch your breath. 

Following your gentle pull, he crawls up your body, letting his lips mark a trail as he goes. His rough hands knead and soothe your spasming muscles. 

You drag him into a lazy kiss, palms smoothing down his back as you wrap your legs around his waist. His length sits heavy in his boxers, you can feel it pressing against your hip, the wetness that grows as he flinches away from the pressure. 

Carefully, you push at his shoulders until he’s sitting on the bed. You follow once he’s settled, sliding into his lap.“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, hands hovering over your hips. Like he’s waiting for permission to touch you, despite the scent of you still on his breath or the messy sheen that’s drying on his chin.  

“I want to,” you promise, cupping his cheek and luring him into another soft kiss. Slowly, but surely, his palms find solace on your hips, and he nods into the affection. You rise on shaky legs and help him work his boxers down. 

He notices the slight quiver in your hands and guides them to rest on his shoulders as he lines himself up. You let out a shuddering sigh, lowering yourself onto him. Your breath catches as he fills you completely. He groans when you take a moment to adjust and it’s dizzying. All you want is to hear more. You want to know every pretty sound he can make, so you push him back, your hands sliding down to his chest as you lift your hips. 

It’s tentative and barely anything, you’re still slightly weak from before, but you can feel the anticipation tightening his grip into something almost painful. His fingers flex, like he’s trying to remind himself of control. 

“There we go,” you whisper, more to yourself as you find a steady rhythm. You peer down at him, noticing the clench of his jaw, the white knuckles of his hand. He won’t look at you. His gaze is far-out and set on the languid roll of your hips.

You let your nose trail along his flushed cheek as you wander lower,  pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. Your lips brush his ear, teeth just barely grazing. “You can touch me, Pope,” you promise. You settle back on his thighs, taking his heavy hands and dragging them to your breasts. “I’m all yours,” you whisper, enjoying the way his jaw loosens, wide eyes finding your own. “Only yours,” you swear.

That severe look softens as you slowly begin to circle your hips again, setting a steady pace. You let go of his hands, falling forward onto his chest as you brace yourself. Pleasure begins mounting again, the feeling of him inside you overwhelming as you pulse around him. 

Your body trembles as you begin to lose your rhythm, walls still fluttering from the feeling of his tongue. You’re too sensitive for this. It’s been so long since you’ve genuinely been with someone without performing that you’ve almost forgotten the right moves. 

Hesitantly, his hips buck, and you choke on your breath, sliding until your lips are pressed against his once more. Your hands drag up his chest, stroking his cheek as he winds his arms around your back. You set the pace, decide the rhythm, but his hips move in time, taking only as much control as you allow him. 

“There you go, just like that,” you pant, breathless as your stomach tightens. The encouragement seems to spur him on, his thrusts speeding up slightly. 

You pull back, biting your lip as you stare down at him. “God, that f-feels good.” His eyes light up, glimmering in a way you haven’t seen before. There’s a low, rumbling sound you quickly realize is coming from him, but it soon fractures into something softer, needier. “You’re doing so good,” you whisper, observing him intently. 

Your jaw drops open when you hear his voice, weak and wanton, stretching thin around a single word, over and over: “Yeah, y-yeah, yeah.” You gasp as he ruts up into you, reaching deeper than before. His movements are rushed, his brows furrowed; you can practically see his control fraying like old twine.  

He hits that spot inside you that has your vision going blurry and your nails biting into his chest as you cling to him. Your moans grow pitchy, drowning out his soft noises. Your attempt at keeping pace falls apart as you curl into him, your eyes shut so tight you begin to see spots whizzing around in the darkness. 

Despite the way you tighten and convulse around him, he keeps moving. Your spine arches, frozen and bowed in his unyielding grip. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple as his hips buck wildly. He’s speaking, you notice, muttering so quietly, your hazy mind can’t latch onto a single word. The only thing you can hear is the tide of raw desperation that rushes through and hollows out his tone. Then, his muscles pull taut; he holds you as close as he physically can, whining brokenly when he can’t drag you any closer. 

Chest-to-chest, you feel the heat of his breath rush over your face as his hips jerk, losing all coordination. Warmth. All you feel is his warmth as his head burrows into the crook of your neck and his length flexes helplessly inside you. 

With his heart thumping rapidly against yours, your fingers carding through his damp curls, you realize you broke your own rule. You hadn’t even thought about using a condom, let alone asking him to pull out. You wanted him. All of him. And now you have it. So you let him soften inside you as he carefully moves you under the sheets. 

You relish the ache in your body, succumb to the exhaustion in your bones. You’re pulled from a dreamless sleep when you feel the wet warmth of a washcloth between your thighs.

After a few moments, the bed dips beside you. Your hand wanders blindly, brow furrowing as you pat at the empty space. You don’t say a word as you grab his wrist, dragging him into your arms, closing the gap between you. He huffs softly—maybe a laugh, maybe a begrudging complaint, you’re not sure. It’s merely a rasp of breath, but it hitches, like it’s caught on something in his throat the second your fingers start to soothe the angry red marks on his freckled skin. Like a vow of surrender, he presses a kiss beneath your jaw, and you sigh. “Thank you,” he mutters, speaking the words into your skin, and you can only hum, pulling him closer. 

Your laughter wakes him up, echoing from the kitchen and just barely reaching his room. It’s a light sound, without the baggage that he’s grown so familiar with. Frowning, he scrubs his hand down his face and sits up. 

Sun spills in through the windows, marking the spot you’d been lying in the night before. His hand runs across the sheets. It’s cold enough that he knows you’ve been gone for a while. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that settles in his chest at the realization. 

It’s probably a sensation you’ve grown familiar with, considering how often he leaves you alone in bed. He hates that every time you’ve woken up and seen the indentation where his body was, he’s left you with this. But staying would be admitting to an attachment that’s dangerous for both of you. 

He throws the sheets back, getting up and dressing quickly. He’s interested in whatever's got you laughing so hard this early in the morning. When he steps out of his room, he shouldn’t be surprised to find his brother sitting with you. 

You and Deran are seated at the kitchen island, cereal shared between you as you laugh at something Deran’s said. His brother has that bored look on his face, unaware of how rare the sight of you smiling like that is. 

Pope’s never elicited a reaction like that from you. The thought makes something sharp and ugly curl in his gut. He grimaces, shaking his head. It’s not like he’s ever said anything worth laughing at. 

Humor’s never been his talent. Most people don’t recognize his attempts; they just stare at him with that look in their eyes. Like they’ve been waiting for him to leave since he walked up. 

You’ve never looked at him like that. 

Pope storms up to the kitchen, and your laughter slowly fades. Something in his chest tightens at that. Your eyes widen at the look on his face, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He snatches up the milk and shakes it at Deran. “Why don’t you learn how to put things back?” he snaps, glaring at his brother. 

Deran shoots him an offended look. The moment’s broken by your laughter. It’s the light kind of sound that usually only his brother earns. Your eyes narrow, and you give Pope a funny look. 

“Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” you tease. Pope lets out a huff, shaking his head as he puts the milk away. 

“Yeah, with you on the right side,” Deran mutters. Pope glances over his shoulder, whatever he was going to say gone as he realizes you’re dressed in nothing but his shirt. 

You kick Deran under the counter and scoff. “Fuck off,” laughter still lingers in your voice. Pope can appreciate the sight of you like this. Happy, uninhibited. Usually, when you’re over at the house, you always look like you’re one good scare away from running out the door. The work of Smurf, he’s sure. 

He wants to think he contributed to your mood in some way. But he’s never been good at improving moods, just learned not to make them worse. He likes the thought of one day being the reason you have a smile on your face, but he knows it’ll probably never happen. There’s a reason he’s got a poor track record with dating. 

You jump up from your seat, dropping your bowl in the sink. When Pope moves to put it in the dishwasher, you intercept. You throw your arms around his shoulders with a small smile. “Morning, you grump,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

His hands hover over your waist, nearly returning the hug, but you’re already moving away. It’s so simple with you, isn’t it? Holding and knowing how to be held. It’s not such a foreign idea to you as it is to Pope. 

He wants to be comfortable with it, with you. But it’s hard to get rid of that feeling, like he’s ready to strip off his skin anytime you touch him so softly. Rougher is easier; it’s familiar. This just doesn’t make sense to him. That you’re around him willingly, that Smurf isn’t just paying you off to keep his head on straight. 

Pope’s still not sure how much he trusts this whole arrangement with you. He knows what you said, about not working, about only being with him. But he’d seen how Smurf had taken you aside last night, that terrified look in your eyes when you’d run off. 

A part of him is worried about what he’ll find if he digs much deeper than the surface. 

Deran lets out a disgusted sigh at the affection and moves outside. He leaves his bowl at the counter for someone else to clean. Pope glares at his brother’s back as you jump onto the kitchen counter beside him. You steal his attention easily. 

Pope could certainly get used to this feeling of someone being so eager to be the center of his attention. 

“What do you want to do today?” you ask, a lazy smile on your face. He knows he's greedy when he wishes he could keep that smile just for himself. To have you in a way no one else does, not even Deran. 

A part of him resents his brother for getting to you first. For being your friend first and making that unofficial claim on your time and presence. 

“You wanted to go to the boardwalk,” he reminds you, even though the idea sets his teeth on edge. He’d hate to be out in the sun surrounded by rowdy tourists and louder locals. But he knows you’ve been wanting to go, and you’ve been doing too many things he’s wanted to do.

Besides, he wants to hear you laugh again. Or get a real, genuine smile out of you. Not that teasing look that's ever-present on your face. 

“Seriously?” you scoff, tilting your head. “Don’t you hate that kind of thing?”

Yes. Pope just shrugs, focusing on cleaning up the mess Deran left behind, hoping you don’t notice the stiff posture of his shoulders or tight look on his face. “How about,” you slip off the counter and sidle up behind him, hand resting lightly on his back. 

“We catch a movie? It’s too hot to be outside, anyway.”

The weather’s perfect for a day out on the boardwalk. But he knows you’re lying for his sake. He should make the sacrifice to make you happy. But it’s surprising how easily you’ll switch your plans to accommodate him. It’s hard to say no to that. 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees. You smile, turning off the sink and taking his hand in yours. You offer Deran an absentminded wave as you lead Pope outside. He relishes the eye roll his brother sends you. 

Maybe you’d had plans with Deran today. It didn’t really matter, though, because you’d chosen Pope. He’s almost tempted to gloat, but you’re still dragging him along behind you. 

Pope helps you up into his truck. Your phone lights up, and you glance down at it, the smile on your face fading. It looks like a notification that someone’s sent you money, but you’re closing the door before he can get a good look at it. 

He gets inside and watches you carefully. You bite at the skin around your thumb, leg bouncing as you type something out on your phone. His mind shouldn’t immediately go to the thought that it's a client paying you. 

You’d told him last night there wasn’t anyone else. And he knows Deran does his best to keep you away from all that, now. 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel as he backs out of the driveway. 

Pope has no claim to you; he knows that. Even after all the time you’ve spent together, you still aren’t technically anything. But that doesn’t chase away the barbed feeling of possessiveness in his chest. He told you he doesn’t share, and he meant that. 

He can’t stand the idea of someone else being with you the way he had been last night. It makes something hot burn up in his stomach. The corners of his vision go dark as he glances over at you. 

“Everything alright?” you ask, frowning at him. 

He just nods, sucking in a sharp breath as he turns back to the road. You haven’t given him a reason not to trust you. 

The bell above the door rings out, and you already know who it is without looking. Pope takes his usual seat at the bar, and you grab him a beer. Just like he has the past few weeks, he’ll wait out the last hour of your shift with you and drive you home. You’ll turn on a movie, and Deran will still complain he can hear what you’re getting up to with his brother tomorrow morning. 

You smile at the thought, leaning against the bar as Pope watches you. “No plans tonight?”

He shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “Smurf wanted me home for dinner.” He purses his lips, glaring down at the bar. “I don’t want to deal with that tonight,” he mutters, meeting your eye again. 

“I feel so special,” you tease, forcing the smile to stay on your face. 

But your heart is racing, adrenaline spiking in your blood. You do actually feel special that he would choose you over Smurf. But it’s worrying. You’ve never been a threat to her before, not really. 

All bets are off when it comes to Pope. She’s so terrified of what he could do if he stopped idealizing her in his head. If you begin posing a threat to her position with him, she won’t hesitate to take you out. 

Trying to distract yourself, you go back to topping off drinks and wiping down spills. You head into the kitchen to fetch a customer’s food. By the time you come back, there’s someone else waiting by the bar. 

It’s a tall man in a pressed suit with the posture of someone who holds themself in high esteem. Cop, you figure. Spend enough time with the Codys or working the jobs you used to, and you get good at sniffing them out. This one’s probably a detective based on that expensive watch he’s wearing. 

He’s eyeing Pope warily, probably well aware of his place in the Cody family. You’re sure they’re a hot topic at the station. “What can I get you?” you ask, walking back behind the bar.

A fool’s hope that he’s here for a shitty beer. He’s not even sitting down. Probably afraid to get a stain on his pants from Deran’s secondhand stools. The detective offers a smarmy grin and says your name. You hum, nodding. 

“I was wondering if you’ve seen this man?” He digs around in the inside of his blazer and pulls out a picture, sliding it across the bar. You bite your lip, innately aware of the stare burning into the side of your head. It takes all your self-control not to look over at Pope. 

Your stomach drops so violently that you worry you might throw up as you stare down at the picture. You recognize that face. Green eyes framed by wrinkles from a life filled with laughter. Blonde hair that had been going gray the last time you’d seen him. Tears line your eyes as you stare down at the image. 

You suck in a sharp breath, blinking a few times before looking back up at the detective. “Can’t say I have,” you tell him, plastering on a smile. “Should I be looking out for him? Did he do something?” You play the “concerned citizen” role well, but not well enough. 

He’d caught you off guard, sent you stumbling from that reminder of the past. 

The detective sucks his teeth, smile tightening at the edges as he shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. His name is Joseph Barker. He was murdered three years ago. The case has been closed, but some new evidence recently came to light that has us reopening it.”

“Oh,” you hum, eyes wide with naivety. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never seen him before.”

The detective pulls out his wallet, takes out a business card, and places it down. “I want you to keep that,” he tells you, nodding to the picture. “And call me if anything… jogs your memory.” His eyes cut toward Pope before he swiftly leaves the bar. 

You let out a low breath and lean against the counter, head falling between your shoulders. “What was that?” Pope asks, breaking through the quiet. 

You lick your lips, picking up the card and picture. “Nothing,” you mutter, throwing them both in the trash. You turn around to Pope with a tight smile on your face. Shrugging haplessly, you just tell him, “I have no idea who that is. Ever heard of him?”

Pope stares at you for a long while. Long enough to make your skin crawl with the paranoia that he sees right through your long list of lies. Finally, he shakes his head. “No. I haven’t.”

“Weird,” you mutter, voice cracking around the word. You have to turn away from him. Scrubbing a hand down your face, you suck in a deep breath, willing yourself to get it together. His stare feels like a judgment weighing heavily on you for the rest of your shift. 

Pope’s mind is usually filled with a dozen different thoughts. What Smurf wants from him, worrying about his brother’s fucking something up, reminders of past failures. Lately, the new addition to that has been you. He normally likes his thoughts of you. They break through the rest of the noise and give him a chance to breathe. 

But his mind is jumbled up around how you’ve been acting. You’re barely ever looking away from your phone. Teeth always tearing through the skin of your nail beds until they bleed, uncaring as you frantically message someone on the other side of the screen. 

You’re jumpy and less touchy with him than you typically are. He has a hard enough time initiating with you, but you’ve been making it even worse by flinching at anything and everything. 

He was worried before; it’s only gotten worse since that detective stopped by the bar. You’ve withdrawn into yourself completely. You’re always quiet, with this look in your eyes that tells him you’re somewhere else completely. 

His worry is a poor excuse for what he’s doing right now. But there’s no one around to judge him but himself, and he’s never had particularly strong morals when it comes to protecting those he cares about.

Pope’s been following you all day. Trailing behind you in his truck, watching you run your errands and flit about town. You’ve never noticed him, not once. Which is worrying enough. He’s not been particularly subtle. Almost hoping that you’ll catch him so he can just confront you. 

He’s parked across the street from the gas station you’re at. Arm propped on his window as he watches you run inside. A sleek black car pulls up and parks beside yours. Pope frowns, shifting in his seat to get a better look as the detective from before gets out of the car. 

Detective Benson— he found out the name after he’d fished the man’s business card from the trash. He did a bit of digging into him. He typically handles the more Wall Street cases. Helps businessmen cover up their illicit affairs and bad investments. It makes sense that he’s got this Joseph guy's case. But Pope can’t figure out the connection back to you. 

He sits up as you come out of the gas station, reading your receipt and unaware of your surroundings. Benson walks up to you, cutting you off before you can get in your car. Pope can’t hear anything that’s being said, but he can see the shock on your face. How quickly it morphs into fear as you look around for an escape. 

You were lying to him. 

He knew that at the bar. You’d looked like you were on the verge of tears after the detective left. And he’s not blind. Pope knows you’d recognized the picture Benson had given you. But you weren’t willing to open up to him. 

You look flustered as Benson starts talking to you, holding up your hands and shaking your head. You try to escape back to your car, but he stops you, stepping in front of you and grabbing your shoulders. 

Pope shifts in his seat. He doesn’t appreciate just how comfortable this cop is getting with you. His hand is on the door handle, almost tempted to head out and help you. But you already look calmer, head hanging down as you nod. Benson backs off, pulling out his card again and handing it to you. 

You take it without objecting, lifting your head to watch as the detective drives off. Pope can see you thinking, your foot tapping as you stare down at the card. He’s willing you to turn around and throw it away. To just forget about the cop. 

Instead, you pinch your nose, shaking your head as you put the card in your purse and climb back into your car. 

Pope’s seen enough. He sucks in a sharp breath, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he pulls out and away. The information he needs, he isn’t going to get from you. 

He drives back to Smurf’s place. And he knows that he should have just come to her to begin with. But he’s cagey about you. She knows he’s spending his nights somewhere else now. Somewhere away from her. 

He hasn’t told her about you. Going to her, asking about this Joseph guy, he knows it’s going to point right back to you. But you’re not talking to him, and he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Pope lets out a rough sigh, scrubbing his hand down his face as he parks. He’s trying to think of anywhere else he could go. Anyone else he could talk to so he can figure out what your connection to a dead man is. But he knows what you used to do for his mother, who you were. She knows. He’s sure of it. 

He slams his truck door closed, storming up the front steps. He can hear her in the kitchen, making dinner. He’d forgotten she’d called a family dinner tonight. The last goddamn place he wants to be is surrounded by his family while he’s dealing with this shit with you. 

“Hey, baby,” she calls, glancing over her shoulder with a sharp smile. “Where you been?”

Pope leans against the counter, jaw flexing as he shakes his head. “Nowhere,” he mutters. She narrows her eyes but doesn’t question him further. “Do you know a Joseph Barker?”

Smurf frowns, tilting her head as she thinks. “Yeah,” she smiles at him and nods. “Yeah, I do.” She says your name, and the way her smile sharpens has his chest tightening. “He was her favorite. Something happened between them. Haven’t heard from him in years.”

Smurf shrugs with a helpless smile, but he knows she hasn’t been helpless a goddamn day in her life. “Not my business to tell, baby. Now, help me set the table.”

He takes the plates she hands him instinctively, going to arrange the table just like she asked. Her words ring through his head. Your favorite. He hadn’t realized escorts had favorite clients, but he guesses it makes sense. 

Doesn’t matter that the man’s been dead three years; something ugly and sharp still burns hot through his chest. He slams the plates down harder than necessary, thinking about you having a favorite anything. 

You’ve done everything she asked. 

And you did your job too damn well. That’s why she’s punishing you. It has to be. She wanted you to entertain Pope, keep him occupied, and stop him from spiraling. You did just what she asked. 

You entertained him, cared for him, provided him with the sort of affection she saves up until he’s desperate for any form of contact. Until he’s practically broken. You’ve done your best to stop him from breaking, and that’s exactly why she’s doing this now. 

Smurf is bringing ghosts back, sending the cops on your trail so you remember just why you’re so afraid of her. It’s what she has on you that has kept you so compliant for years. 

You were only meant to entertain Pope. Not become something to him that has him skipping family dinners and ignoring Smurf’s calls. You’ve created this gap between her and him that has her trying to scare you into submission now. You’re so certain she’s the reason “new evidence came to light” on Joseph’s case.

But you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. There’s nowhere you can run, not now. You’ve never been particularly good at covering your trail. She’s the one who’d taken care of everything. Sworn that it was over and done with. 

You pace your living room, biting at your lip and trying not to break down. What the fuck are you going to do now?

Someone knocks on your front door, and you nearly scream. Clutching your racing chest, you turn toward it, debating not answering. Maybe it’s that detective again. Coming by with more questions. 

He’d got you at the gas station today. Tricked you into admitting that you knew Joseph. He got in your head with all that soft bullshit about wanting to help you—– you just had to be honest with him. You’re fragile, and you’re fucking stupid, slipping up like that. 

“It’s me,” Pope calls from the other side. You can’t tell if it's relief or panic that has your stomach swooping. 

“One sec,” you call, voice cracking. Grimacing, you rush up to the door, opening it up for him. “Hey, thought you had a family dinner tonight?” Your smile is tight at the edges, crumbling under the weight of your panic. 

You know your eyes are wide, expression bordering on desperate. You just don’t know if you’re desperate for him to stay or leave. In some strange way, he terrifies you. He sees so easily through all your lies and defenses. He knows something is wrong with you, but he hasn’t probed. And that’s what's scary. 

Because if he hasn’t felt like digging deeper, then what does he already know?

“Left early,” he tells you, stepping inside. Your forehead falls to the door, and you suck in a trembling breath as you try to get your shit together. 

With a quiet exhale, you turn around. His back is to you as he takes in the mess of your living room. A result of your earlier breakdown this morning. “Did you need something—”

“Whose Joseph Barker?” His voice is rough, eyes sharp as he turns to face you. Your nails bite into your palms as your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You flounder, back pressed to the door as you shake your head helplessly. 

Pope huffs, crossing his arms as he glares at you. He’s not easing up in the slightest. “I talked to Smurf. I know he used to be one of your clients. You lied to me.”

“I—” your voice cracks, and you feel your chest heave as you drag in a breath. “I had to,” you mutter, pinching your eyes shut as you fight back tears. “Please, Pope, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Too bad,” he snaps, voice making you jump. 

Why is he here?

Did she send him?

“You lied to me. I want to know why.” He stalks closer, and you dart away from the door, trying to put as much space between you as you can. Your eyes flit over his body, the way he pauses as he watches you run. His hands— loose at his sides. 

You would be able to tell, wouldn’t you? If he was going to hurt you. You want to think you would know. But it’s Pope… As much as you think you mean something to him, you will never be Smurf. 

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, Pope, okay? I still can’t.” You want him to leave. But you’re too afraid to say that. Your hand shakes at your side as you watch the way he blocks your door. He’s probably not even doing it on purpose, but it feels like the goddamn walls are closing in on you. 

He looks away from you, lips pursing as he sucks in a sharp breath. “Smurf told me he was one of your clients. That something happened—”

“God,” you scoff, cutting him off. “Are you really gonna trust a goddamn thing that woman says?”

His eyes flit back to you, and he shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what to believe?” There is something so painfully broken open on his face. The sort of pain that’s only caused when someone you care about lies to you. And you’d done that. Repeatedly, you’ve lied to him about everything in your relationship. 

Your head drops as you rub your hand down your face. You can’t look into those hurt eyes of his for another second, or he’s going to break you open completely. “Okay,” you whisper, voice breaking around the word. 

He takes a step closer, but you can’t handle the proximity. Not while it feels like your ribs are seizing around your lungs. You shake your head, backing up and pacing away from him. “I knew him, okay? He was my client, you’re right.”

Pope watches as you pace, brows drawn in. Something guarded falls over his face. “She said he was your favorite.”

You pause, eyes lifting back to his. He can’t seriously be jealous of a dead man. “Yeah,” you scoff. “He was my favorite. That doesn’t mean a whole lot in my line of work. He didn’t hurt me, alright?” Not at first, anyway. “And I appreciated that.” Something flickers in his eyes, anger on your behalf that you’re not interested in. 

You look away from him, throat tightening as you try to find the right words to explain what happened. How it all went wrong. He takes a step closer, and your eyes dart warily to him. “Tell me,” his voice is softer now, a pleading edge to it. 

Sighing, you take a seat on your couch. He hovers beside you, waiting until you motion him over. He leaves some space between you, eyes intent on your face. “He was the first client Smurf ever assigned me to.” 

Licking your lips, you shake your head. “And the reason I needed Deran to get me out. It was… good, at first. I was still new, still fresh to the game. It was harder for me to remember that being with him was a paycheck. He made me laugh, and he never made me feel bad about who— about what I was.”

You finally look up; Pope hasn’t taken his eyes off you. His arm is draped over the couch behind you, his hand placed in his lap. But he’s tilted toward you, resisting the urge to touch you like you know he wants to. To try to ground you the way you do for him. 

“I killed him, Pope. What do you want me to say?”

You wait for it. The flicker in his eyes, the shock, maybe a little fear—though, you doubt he’s afraid of you. Something that registers just how despicable a creature you are. He tilts his head, “Is that it?”

You let out a sharp scoff, staring at him in disbelief. “Is that it?” You jump off the couch, whirling around on him. He remains seated, staring up at you with pensive eyes that make you so angry for some reason. “Pope, I thought I loved him, and then I fucking killed him. What do you mean, is that it?”

“Why?” He prods. 

“Why?” You let out take in a deep breath and forcing yourself to calm down. “Does that even matter?”

“Yeah,” he shoots you a sharp look, finally getting to his feet. “It matters. Tell me why.”

You can’t quite meet his eyes, staring down at your hands. It’s jarring, thinking about that night. You’ve done your very best to forget as much of it as you can. He finally reaches out, taking your hands in his own and stopping you from picking at any more of your skin. A little bit of blood blooms around the edges of your nail, and you grimace. 

“He wanted to play a game. I said I didn’t like it, but he insisted. And… He wouldn’t stop when I told him to. I got scared, really scared for the first time since I’d been with him. I forgot that he was paying for my time, that I really didn’t deserve a say. I grabbed whatever I could reach, a fucking pillow of all things, and I hit him.”

You clench your eyes shut as you think of it. “It caught him off guard, and he fell over. Knocked his head on the edge of the nightstand. I just watched as he spasmed on the floor, as blood started pooling under him. I didn’t know what to do, so I…”

You suck in a sharp breath, your confession a whisper. “I ran.”

What you don’t tell him is how you called Smurf, told her what happened. She’d told you to leave the key to the room under the motel’s mat. That she’d take care of it. You never knew what she did with the body. But you’d been so panicked, you didn’t question why she wanted to deal with it herself. Why didn’t she just tell you to deal with it? 

You still don’t know what it is she has over you. An admission of where you were that night? Pictures of you and him together? Or maybe, just your DNA on the body. Whatever it is, it’s had you on a tight leash, tethered to her for the past three years. And if Pope knows about that, you’re afraid of how deep he’ll dig into your relationship with him. Of what he’ll find out if he goes looking. 

“Do you think someone can be forgiven?” You ask, looking up at him. “For hurting someone they love?”

To your surprise, his eyes water slightly as he stares down at your hands. “Pope?” you question, dipping down to try and catch his eye. He blinks a few times and sniffles, looking away from you. “What happened?” you ask softly. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he tells you. 

Your eyes narrow as you glare at him. “You think I don’t know that look? What happened?”

He sucks in a shaky breath and purses his lips, finally meeting your eye. “I don’t think I can be forgiven,” his voice cracks around the words, and you tug him closer, dragging him down into a hug. 

He presses his cheek to your shoulder, arms tight around you as his shoulders shudder. “I killed Cath,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. Your eyes fly wide, and you struggle not to tense up beneath his touch. 

“Smurf had told me she was talking to the cops, and I— I killed her. I hurt her,” his voice is breaking down, and you can feel your heart pounding against your chest. You hold him tighter against you, a shield so he can’t pull back and see the terror in your eyes. 

You’ve always been afraid of what he’s capable of under Smurf’s command. But in some—ridiculously stupid—way, you’d thought there were exceptions to how far he would go for her. You should have known better. 

Pope never stood a chance against that woman. She’s had her nails dug in since he was a baby, promoting the idea that there was no room in his life for any other woman but her. You thought love, real love, would stop that, but you were wrong. 

He cries as you hold him, and you grimace. Would he do the same to you if she told him to?

This was a reach for normalcy, you’re sure. 

Things between you and Pope have been off ever since you told him about Joseph and he told you about Cath. The pair of you are practically perfect for each other: always hurting the people you love. 

Things with him feel more intense now. Like you’ve shared these secrets, and there’s no going back. You’re both stuck with each other. You wouldn’t mind it if you just didn’t know about Cath. More specifically, if you didn’t know that he had been in love with Cath when he killed her.

You don’t judge him for it, not in the way you should. You’ve seen how Smurf gets into her sons’ heads; you see how she used to hurt Deran with her expectations of him. 

But he knew how to break away from her, at least marginally. Pope never got that chance. At each and every opportunity for a positive influence in his life, she cut it off. Even if that meant being the reason her own daughter was dead. 

To try and settle yourselves from the tension and the perception shattering reveals… he’s taken you out to dinner. It’s a nice restaurant; you’ll give him that. Nicer than where you typically go. The menu isn’t cheap laminated plastic, and your elbows don’t stick to the table. 

You’re surrounded by happy couples. They’ve either got rings on their fingers, or that content look in their eye that they’ve found the right person to spend their life with. The place is perfect on paper. 

But you aren’t. 

You’re unsettled, scared, and incapable of sitting with your back to the door because you’re so afraid of who could come up behind you. Smurf has gotten into your head with all the investigation bullshit she’s been throwing at you. As much as you want to enjoy this with Pope, you can’t. 

You’re too busy thinking about whether or not she’s fuming that he’s not at home right now. Is tonight the night she turns you in? Or tells him to hurt you?

Sucking in a sharp breath, you force yourself to focus on the menu. You can feel Pope’s stare burning into you, but you can’t find the energy to meet his eye. 

“Do you like it?” He suddenly asks, probably about the restaurant. 

You force a stiff smile on your face and nod. “It’s nice,” you mutter, unable to come up with anything better. His expression tightens, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Really, Pope,” you let out a stiff laugh. “You did good.”

That’s not enough to make him feel better, but he accepts it, at least. The waitress comes up, and you don’t even know what you order, just blindly saying whatever Pope did. The table is quiet as you eat. You’re one of the only couples in the place not whispering to each other or getting lost in each other’s eyes. 

He doesn’t prod, which you appreciate. After dinner, you take his hand and lead him down from the restaurant to the beach outside. You sit down on the sand, enjoying the way the moon’s light reflects off the waves. 

He settles beside you, arm pressed to yours, and watches the water wash across the sand. “Can I ask you something?” You rest your chin on your knees, turning toward him. 

“What?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the water. 

You think of something Deran had once told you, about Pope being a nickname. “What’s your name?”

Pope lets out a little laugh, turning toward you. “You don’t know?”

You click your tongue with a disappointed sigh. “I thought it was Pope for a while, honestly.” 

He leans in close, tone almost teasing. “Why’re you asking now?”

“Because I want to know you, not…” Not the man Smurf made you into. “Humor me?”

The slight smile he’d had slips from his face as he turns back toward the waves. “Andrew,” he admits, his voice soft with what sounds like vulnerability. Something guarded falls over his face, and you look away. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, testing it out. He turns toward you, and you can tell he likes how it sounds on your tongue. “So… Where the hell did Pope come from?”

That earns a laugh from him. You grin, turning to catch his eye as he looks over at you. His smile fades slightly as his lips twitch, shoulders hunching up. “When I was younger, I started going to church. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, and I figured if anyone could help, it would be God.”

He sniffles and looks away from you, gaze distant as he stares out at the ocean. “I got close to one of the priests at the church. Smurf and Baz found out. They made me use that connection to rob the place.” His voice cracks slightly as he continues, but his expression remains guarded. He doesn’t want you to think it still affects him. 

“He tried to stop us, and I beat him with a fucking bible,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “They’d always called me Pope. For being… different. It just stuck after that.” 

Bile burns in your throat as you watch him, but he won’t look at you, not now. After everything he’s told you, does he really think that’s what's going to scare you off? It just makes you hate Smurf more. 

You wish you could have known him when he was younger. That you could have helped him in any way. But he never really stood a chance. 

“I like Andrew better,” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just presses his head to yours, taking in a deep breath as his body goes lax under you. 

You can’t keep this up much longer. 

Pope wakes up to a message from you, asking to talk. His chest tightens as he takes in a short breath. He hasn’t had a lot of normal relationships, but even he knows that’s never a good sign. 

Pocketing his phone, he pinches his eyes shut, shaking off the feeling and heading into the kitchen. Smurf stands by the oven, flipping pancakes. “Breakfast is almost ready, baby,” his lip curls at the pet name. 

He’s not particularly interested in spending the morning with her. It’s been harder to stomach being around her after he learned about what you’d done to Joseph. There are these questions bursting at the seams of his lips. 

The type of questions that would only lead to trouble for you and him. 

Smurf turns from the stove and offers him a saccharine smile. She says your name, catching him off guard. He turns toward her with narrowed eyes, and that smile grows cruel. “Have you seen her around lately, baby?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head as he reaches out to straighten the plates she’d put out. “Why?”

Smurf lets out a little laugh and shrugs, plating some fruit and pancakes, passing it off to him like he’s a child incapable of getting himself his own food. There’s such a confusing divide between how she treats him and what she expects from him. Infantilizing him while demanding perfection. 

“I, uh, I got a business associate I’d like her to meet.” She offers a conspiratorial wink that makes his stomach sour. “He’d have some fun with her,” she mutters. She glances up through her lashes at him, just waiting for him to take the bait. 

Pope’s hands tighten around the edge of the counter as he glares down at his plate. “Is she still working for you?” he asks, voice strained. 

Smurf tilts her head with an obviously forced look of confusion. “Didn’t she tell you? I’m sorry, baby, I thought you knew.” 

Pope knows better, at this point, than to blindly believe her. Smurf does this with anyone he starts to get too close to. He’d like to believe he’s been subtle about you, good at keeping you behind closed doors. But she knows. She always knows. 

And she always finds a way to make him start to doubt. To make him start questioning what he thought was real. He doesn’t want that to happen with you. Not like it did with Cath. Not like…

Not like Julia. 

“I’m not hungry,” he tells her, voice strained with barely restrained anger as he storms out of the house. Her smirk bores into his back as he goes. 

You weren’t still working with her; you’d told him that. And after finding out what happened with Joseph, he doubts that you would ever willingly go back to that life. You don’t need to, either. You have him now; if you were struggling, he’d take care of it. Take care of you. 

He gets into his truck, knee bouncing as he stares out the windshield. After debating for a moment, he pulls out his phone. He swipes to the location app he’d installed, the same one he’d added to your phone when you’d been in the bathroom the other night. 

Your icon pops up… driving right toward some scummy motel off the highway. 

His chest seizes as he stares down at the address. Smurf’s words echo through his head. He knows she’s lying, that she’s just trying to get under his skin. But that doesn’t stop the images that start barraging his thoughts. 

Thinking of… someone else getting to touch you, to be with you. 

You choosing someone else… 

Something white-hot and furious floods him, has him peeling out of the driveway before he can really think about what he’s about to do. 

He follows the app’s directions toward you, not stopping until he’s parked at the far entrance of the motel. It doesn’t take him long to spot you. You’re still in your car, biting your nail as you stare down at your phone. 

Your eyes are frenzied in a way he’s never seen before on you. Everything about you seems off-kilter. This is a new low for you, he hasn’t ever seen you get to this point before. Not even when you were telling him about Joseph. You must be scared, then. You must know that this is wrong. 

And, still, he watches as you get out of the car, sucking in a deep breath before turning toward the stairs. Pope sits there. He should be getting out of the truck, dragging you back to your car, and demanding to know what you think you’re doing. 

But he doesn’t, because he’s willing you to turn back around. To change your mind and drive off. You don’t. 

He’s practically cucking himself as he watches you knock on one of the doors. A man opens it, close in age to you, and relatively good-looking. Not the type that should be in a scuzzy place like this. 

Pope opens up his glove compartment, pulls out the gun inside, and tucks it in the waistband of his jeans. He has no thoughts as he throws open the truck door, no plan for what he’s going to say to you to explain his presence. He’s not going to tell you he’s been tracking you. Clearly, you’re hiding things from him, too. 

Just as he gets out, the motel door closes. You move inside and stand in front of the open window. He waits a moment, but you take a seat at the table. The man sits across from you. Neither of you makes a move toward the bed. Instead, you seem to be talking amicably with him. 

Maybe this is another one of your “favorites.”

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The man you’re with slips something across the table to you. You grimace, glancing around. You seem to just be noticing the open curtains. Jumping up, you’re quick to pull them closed. Pope can just barely make out your silhouette behind them. 

He glances down at his watch with a sigh. You get two minutes, and then he’s coming in. Pope leans against his truck, eyes trained on the scummy door. The waiting is agonizing. Two minutes shouldn’t feel this long to him. 

You might not be meeting a client right now, but it’s clear that you’re still hiding something from him. He thought that after he’d told you about Cath, that would be it. You would realize you don’t have to hide anything from him anymore. He’d given you information that could end him if you wanted to. 

Checking his watch, he starts toward the stairs just as the door opens. “Shit,” he hisses, ducking back behind his truck. You walk out of the room with a little wave to the other man. You don’t look disheveled; your clothes don’t look like they’ve been put back in a rush. He lets out a sigh, but relief doesn’t lessen the pressure of his chest as he takes in the large yellow envelope in your hand.

Your head lifts, brows furrowing as you look around the parking lot. Pope ducks and moves behind his truck. He waits before popping his head back out. You’re already getting back into your car. 

He keeps his gaze intent on you as he pulls out his phone, dialing your number. He sees through your window as you jump, glancing down at your phone with a grimace. After too long hesitating, you answer. 

“Hey,” you offer awkwardly. He almost wants to smile at the way you shake your head at yourself. 

“Where are you?” He asks, getting into his truck as you start your car. 

He hears the way you swallow, fingers bouncing against your steering wheel as you sigh. “Grocery store, why?”

Why is it so easy for you to lie to him?

His jaw tenses as he works to control the tone of his voice. “You said you wanted to talk,” he grits out. 

“Uh, yeah. Not on the phone, it’s kind of a lot.” Your head falls back onto your seat as you let out a heavy breath. “Are you free tonight?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll see you later.” He hangs up before you can respond, tossing his phone into the other seat. You frown down at your phone for a second before pulling out of the parking lot. He starts his truck, intent on following you when someone messages him. 

His fingers drum against the steering wheel, staring after you, before he finally picks his phone back up. Smurf’s name is the last thing he wants to see. 

Come home. 

Now. 

Of course, she doesn’t tell him why. She calls, he comes. That’s just how it works. That’s just how it always works. 

Pope throws his phone back and turns in the opposite direction you went. Right back to Smurf, ever the obedient son. 

“I was in the middle of something,” he calls out as he storms into the house. He’s expecting Smurf as he heads into the kitchen. But J standing beside her is disconcerting. Especially that look he’s got on his normally stoic face. 

J meets Pope’s eyes, and he swears there’s an apology in them. The oddity of it tames some of the anger broiling inside him. 

“You’re going to want to hear this,” Smurf tells him, lacking that normal saccharine tone she lays on too thick. 

Pope freezes, eyes darting between the pair before slowly nodding. Smurf lets out a low sigh, though he truly doubts this is hurting her as much as she’s pretending. Slowly, she slides a piece of paper over to him. He’s annoyed by the drama of it all and glares over at J before flipping it. 

His nails dig into the counter as he looks down at a picture of you. You’re standing in front of the police station, hand on Detective Benson’s arm as he stares down at you. It certainly looks damning. 

“Are you following her?” He grits out, eyes flitting up to meet Smurf’s. 

Her expression hardens as she scoffs. She glances over to J, but he looks less than enthused about involving himself. “You’ve had bad taste in women before, but this is a new low, baby.” Pope shakes his head, passing the picture back to her. 

“You know why they’re looking into her. That doesn’t mean anything.” It feels petulant to argue about this with her. He always feels so childish butting up against her because she is so good at making everything he says small. 

“Michael, one of my old associates and one of her former clients, was arrested today. Someone sent in an anonymous tip about his more illicit business practices. His warehouse got raided. And I’m supposed to think it’s a coincidence your girlfriend just happens to be talking to cops, right now?”

“It wasn’t—”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her,” J interrupts. “She’s been around the cops, man. A lot for someone who seems so scared of them.”

Pope leans against the counter, letting out a low groan as his shoulders hunch over. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not like that.” But he doesn’t even know if that’s true. He doesn’t know if he can trust you not to hurt him. Not to hurt his family. 

You’re desperate, and you’re feeling cornered. People have done worse for lower stakes than avoiding a murder charge. 

“Why wouldn’t you come to me?” He asks Smurf, eyes cutting over harshly to J. A warning to keep his mouth shut if he doesn’t want it shut for him. 

Smurf takes a step closer, and Pope backs up, watching her warily. She tilts her head with a sympathetic sigh. “Has she not told you, baby?”

He sucks his teeth, shaking his head. “Told me what?”

Smurf makes a disparaging noise that sets his teeth on edge. “I’ve been paying her to keep you company.” His chest tightens, and he jerks back, wishing J weren’t here right now. It’s bad enough Smurf is saying this to him; he doesn’t need a goddamn audience. 

He wants to object; he knows that's not true, and she just keeps going. “She’s not your girlfriend, baby. She’s just another whore who will do anything for the right price. And now, she’s someone we need to take care of. I’m worried about you, Pope. You knew she was talking to the cops, and you didn’t come to me?”

Pope has nothing to defend himself with. He doesn’t even want to. He just stands there, lungs tightening with pain as he tries to catch his breath. She was paying you to be with him. 

Was anything with you real?

“Are you still with us?” Smurf asks, tone biting. 

“What?” Pope croaks out, ignoring the way his eyes have begun to burn. 

“You knew that someone close to you— close to me was going to the cops. And you didn’t say anything. Are you going to let this girl, a nobody, hurt your family? You’re going to let her get away with this?” 

Smurf and J both stare at him with these expressions of betrayal. It’s muted in J. The kid holds everything so close to his chest; it’s the exact opposite of how Julia had been. And Smurf… she’ll say anything, do anything to make him hurt. Because for once, he’d been paying someone else more attention. Giving you more priority. 

But you’d just been another one of her girls. Playing the long game to keep him docile. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. 

Smurf glances over at J before leaning in close to Pope. “Just like Cath, baby,” she mutters, and something inside him snaps. 

He lets himself in with the copy he’d made of your key. It’s better if he doesn’t give you a chance to prepare. There’s a shuffling in your room, the sound of frantic footsteps as you rush from one side of the room to the next. 

Pope slowly makes his way through the apartment as he takes in the wreck you’ve made of it. Drawers opened and emptied. Random pieces of paper scattered throughout, sheets and blankets tossed around the living room. It looks like someone came through and raided everything. 

He walks into your room and watches you rip out all the clothes from your closet. You turn away from it and catch sight of him standing in front of your door. “Jesus!” You shout, jumping back, clothes falling to the floor. 

Letting out a laugh, your eyes widen and dart toward your bed. He follows your gaze, sees a suitcase open on the floor. That yellow envelope you’d gotten from the motel right on top. He looks back at you as you rush over and kick it to the side. 

“I thought you’d call first,” you deflect, giving him a flustered smile. It’s strained, shadowed by the panic in your eyes. When he doesn’t say anything, the smile falls. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”

Pope takes another step into the room, and you eye him warily, but you don’t back away as he expects. You move closer, face creased with concern. He doesn’t know if you’re worried for him or about him. He thought he knew you, thought he could read you. 

You loved proving him wrong, apparently. 

His hands flex at his sides, the gun in his waistband a heavy weight on his back. He doesn’t know why he brought it. Probably because Smurf was watching him, expecting it. Pope knows he could never look in your eyes and pull the trigger, even with how much you’ve lied to him. He’s too weak. 

Too pathetic. 

“Have you been talking to the cops?”

Your brows furrow, and you nod. Easy admittance makes him doubt you. Everything you’ve done up to this point makes him doubt you. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get that detective off my ass.”

“Have you taken on other clients?” He demands, not letting you have a chance to tie your story together. 

“No,” you take a step forward, but the look on his face has you stopping short. “Andrew, why are you asking me that? You know you’re the only person I’m seeing.”

“Your only client,” he corrects, watching as your face falls, panic blanketing your features. “Smurf told me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He demands, stalking toward you. To your credit, you don’t back down. 

Your eyes crinkle like you want to cry, but you don’t run away. “You’re lying to me. Again!” He snaps, voice rough as he sucks in a shaky breath. 

You bite your lip, swallowing thickly as you shake your head. “Please, I am begging you to listen to me. I love you, Andrew,” he jerks away from you as you reach for him. But you don’t stop, rushing forward and taking his face in your hands. He could fight you, but he lets you redirect his gaze back to yours. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” your voice cracks as you grimace. “Smurf, she would have made me take on more clients if I didn’t take the money. She—” you bite your lip, and your voice softens into something painful. “She knows about Joseph, okay? She took care of the body. She’s the one sending the cops after me.”

His hands come up to cover yours, and you smile, but then he’s pulling away from you. Eyes narrowing as pain seizes his chest. “You lied about that, too?”

“No, I— Fuck,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. 

“How am I supposed to trust anything you say? I’ve followed you,” Pope admits. There’s no shame in him as you look at him in surprise. “I saw you at the motel today. Who were you meeting with if that wasn’t a client?”

“I can explain that,” you rush out, breathless as you turn toward your suitcase. You grab the yellow envelope, your hands fumbling as you pour the contents out on your bed. There’s a stack of cash, some cards, and two passports that scatter across your comforter. You pick up two of the cards and turn back to him. 

“Smurf isn’t just idly threatening me with this Joseph thing, alright? So I’ve been meeting up with old friends and contacts. Trying to put together enough to get out of here.” He looks at you with hurt in his eyes. 

You were running… 

He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“But,” you hold the cards out to him. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Glancing down, he sees they’re new IDs; one of them has his picture on it. “I thought we could go together,” you rush out, a manic smile on your face as you nod. 

“You weren’t going to leave me?”

You suck in a sharp breath and shake your head. “No, I swear. I know I haven’t given you a good reason to trust me, but I wouldn’t do that to you. Andrew, please, just look at me.”

He grits his teeth, finally meeting your eyes. A few tears run down your cheeks as you wait for him to say something. But he doesn’t know what he could say to you. He remembers when Smurf sent him after Cath. 

She’d told him that she’d been talking to the cops. That she was putting the family in danger. And he had done what she’d wanted. He’d killed Cath, the woman he was in love with. He can’t—

It makes him sick to think of pushing you down on the bed, to put a pillow over your face as he’d done to her. His hands twitch at his sides as you reach up, cupping his cheek. “I love you, Andrew. And you don’t have to believe me, okay? But I wouldn’t leave you, not without telling you first.”

There have been a lot of women in his life who have said they’d loved him. He used to believe Smurf when she said it, until it started to feel empty. Until it became something that hurt him. He’d believed Julia, and then he’d left her. Cath had never meant it. 

But you do. 

“I can’t,” he mutters, pushing away from you and shaking his head, dragging his hands through his hair. “No, I can’t.”

“Andrew, please.” He wishes you wouldn’t call him that. It’s too soft, too good for what he deserves. “What’s wrong?” Pope looks back over at you, that glint in your eye. You can’t be scared, can you? He wouldn’t hurt you. 

You reach out to him, and he falls into you easily, cheek pressed to your shoulder as he tries to get his breath under control. “I need to tell you something,” you whisper. 

“Don’t,” he mutters, turning, pressing his head into the nape of your neck. His arms squeeze tight around you, trying to keep himself grounded in your touch. Your arms drape low around his back, and he feels your fingers graze the handle of the gun in his waistband. 

He can feel the way your body tenses under him, breath stalling in your throat. The gun isn’t for you. Why did he bring it?

“I’m pregnant.” 

It’s his turn to go still. You hold your breath as he slowly pulls away, eyes watery as he glares at you. “Are you lying?” he chokes out, unable to take any more deceit from you. 

You shake your head, pulling away and running off to your bathroom. He’s left right where he’s standing, stunned and in disbelief. You can’t be. Can you?

It’s not as though either of you has ever been particularly picky about using protection. And he hadn’t ever bothered asking if you were taking anything. His stomach twists itself into knots as you walk back toward him. You hold something out, and suddenly he’s staring down at a positive pregnancy test. 

“Oh,” Pope lets out a rough breath, doubling over as he tries to get his head under control. There’s too much racing through it. Too many different commands urging for his attention. He drops to his knees, unable to meet your eye. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, taking a step closer and running your hand over his hair. His head falls onto your stomach, hands finding their way to your hips as he shakes his head. 

He can feel you trembling beneath his touch, breath shaking as you cup the back of his head. “Please,” you beg, “don’t do what Smurf wants you to.”

His head shoots up, but you’re not looking at him. Your face is pointed toward the ceiling like you’re trying not to cry. Getting to his feet, he cups your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. 

He knows what Smurf wants, what’s expected of him. You’re a threat. A threat to her. To the family, just for knowing what they do. He has failed so many people he loves, but he’s never failed her. 

Pope can’t do to you what he did to Cath…

To Julia. 

His head drops, forehead pressing to yours. You let your weight rest on him, taking in shaking breaths while his eyes drop to the new IDs on the bed. “I won’t,” he swears. 

You’re on a hotel bed, expression bored as you watch Andrew. He’s sitting at the table, knee bouncing slightly as he reads through a magazine he picked up at the grocery store. It’s clearly marketed toward women with its swooping, pink font. But the pregnant woman on the front, the 50 tips for an easier pregnancy! has completely stolen his attention. 

There’s a bottle of prenatal vitamins by his elbow, and the dingy hotel fridge has been stocked with food for the past few weeks. He’s settling into this lifestyle a lot faster than you are. You miss your apartment above Deran’s place. You miss your shower and your bed. 

But Andrew had told you it was too risky to stay there. So he’d taken your suitcase and brought you to a decent hotel with “luxury” accommodations. You’re financing the stay for now. Just while he works on compiling savings in an account not attached to Smurf’s name. 

Your phone was trashed. A burner shoved in your hand instead. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to say anything to Deran. Andrew thought it was too much of a risk. 

“Are you feeling sick?” he suddenly asks, looking up from the magazine, brows pinched. 

“Huh?” you mutter, turning away from the crappy soap you’d put on TV. 

He gets up from the table and moves to sit beside you on the bed. He’s closer than he typically would be, eyes roving your face like it’ll give him the answers he’s looking for. “Do you feel sick at all?”

You glance down at the page of the magazine he’s on, catch the words “morning sickness blues,” and grin. “I’m fine.” You promise, taking his hand in yours. He squeezes your palm, moving closer. “I don’t think I’m far enough along yet to be worrying about that.”

You actually don’t know how far along you are, period. Amongst the worry of running from the cops, escaping Andrew’s mother, and the general hell your life has turned into… 

You haven’t made the time for a gyno appointment. You’re sure that if Andrew weren’t so worried about Smurf discovering you, he would have already dragged you to one. 

Letting go of his hand, you get up to go to the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you the entire five feet it takes you to get there. You’re quick to push the door closed, back pressed against it as you suck in a deep breath. 

He’s doing his best, you know that. Every day, he tells you that this is all temporary. He just needs time. Time to make a plan for you both. Time to get the proper amount of funds for your escape. 

Time, time, time

There doesn’t seem to be enough of it lately. Each day grows shorter, the walls shrink around you, and it’s harder to catch your breath. He’s settling well, his toothbrush beside yours on the sink, spare clothes folded in the dresser. 

He’s adapted to this like he could live in this hotel forever with you. Always keeps your shoes by the door, complains when you move them, and he trips on them. Keeps food stocked in the room and bought sheets that are actually comfortable to sleep in. As if this is just the home you’re going to share with him now. 

But you’re cracking around the edges. Every day that you don’t have a deadline for when you get to leave pushes you one step closer to the edge. He says it’s temporary, but it’s getting harder to believe him. 

Scrubbing your hands down your face, you move toward the sink, splashing cold water over your cheeks. He’s been fussier since he learned you're pregnant. He always looks like he thinks you’re going to keel over. As if being pregnant makes you this new, breakable thing. It’s slightly aggravating, but you understand where he’s coming from. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, you find he’s right where you left him. Posture stiff as he continues flipping through that ridiculous magazine. You walk over, snatching it quickly from his lap and dropping it on the nightstand. “You know all of this is bullshit, right?” you tease. 

He only narrows his eyes at you, arms crossed as he huffs. “You should try reading some of it.”

You crawl into bed beside him, scoffing. “Are you calling me a bad pregnant lady?”

“No,” he mutters, immediately making room for you beside him. Even how he holds you at night is different, now. You’re not just you to him anymore. Suddenly, you’re carrying his child, too, even if you’re not showing. 

You settle with your back to his chest, his arms wrapping securely around your front. He sleeps on the side closest to the door. Always still slightly awake, just in case. 

Your hand drifts down, taking a hold of his and letting out a soft sigh. He shifts, pressing himself closer. “How much longer do you think we’ll be here?” you whisper, afraid to break the peaceful quiet. 

“Until I can get some things together.”

He’d said that last week, but you don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. Instead, you roll over, wrapping your arms around him as you let out a tired sigh. His arms tighten around you, cheek pressed to your head as you let the droning sounds of the TV put you to sleep. 

“What’s that?”

Andrew looks up from the groceries he’d been unloading. He shakes his head, and you point to the box on the table. “Cereal,” he tells you bluntly. 

“Yeah, some weird whole grain shit,” you sigh as you pick up the box. It proudly promotes whole grains, fiber in every bite, and absolutely no added sugar. Eating the box would taste better. 

Andrew stalks over with a sigh, taking the box from your hands. “It’s healthy. You need to eat more fiber.”

You shoot him an affronted glare. “You’re a doctor, now?”

He straightens up from the groceries with an aggrieved sigh. “Diet is important.” The stern look he shoots you goes unappreciated. 

“I resent that,” you pick up the cereal and shake it at him,  “and I resent this.” He shakes his head, undeterred by your complaints, as he continues to display all the healthy options he picked up today. You’re really starting to miss sugar. 

You wonder what he would think if he knew you went down to the hotel lobby and loaded up on soda and junk while he was out. 

Moving toward the dresser, you’re digging around for a pair of socks when you notice something plastic rattling around. “What…” Moving aside some of Andrew’s pants, you see a pacifier and baby bottle hidden beneath his clothes. 

Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you pull them both out and turn toward him. “A little early for this, isn’t it?”

He straightens up, glancing over at you. His jaw tenses as he lets out a rough sigh. “They were on sale.” He tells you bluntly, striding over and taking them from you. You can’t help but snort as he carefully places them back in the drawer. 

“Anything else you’re hiding in there?”

He pauses, and you don’t really expect him to answer. But then he opens the top drawer and moves aside some shirts. Beneath are three parenting books. Each with stupider names than the last. “Wow,” you whistle. “You’re making me look bad.”

He’s quiet for a moment before frowning. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest tightens as you look him over, that slightly unsure tilt to his lips. “You won’t,” you tell him, squeezing his arm and offering a soft smile. He just nods; you’re not sure he actually believes you. Clearing your throat, you try to break up the tense moment. “Besides, you’re definitely taking this a lot more seriously than I am.”

The look he gives you is tired. You’re just pointing out what he’s already been nagging you about. “You’re pregnant.” As if you need reminding. 

With nothing to do in this tiny room, you walk over to the bed, throwing yourself on it and grabbing the remote. The magazine from the other night is still on the nightstand. You glance over at it, thinking about the baby bottle and whatever else he’s bought in the dresser. 

“You know, that said not to start buying anything until after the first trimester,” you tell him, nodding toward the magazine. “When the risk of a miscar—”

“I know what it said,” he interrupts, glancing over at you. “It was just… It was on sale,” he mutters, not meeting your eye. His shoulders hunch as he reorganizes the pantry area he’d created. 

Guilt sours in your stomach, and you shift uncomfortably on the bed. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to…” the words won’t come. He looks too uncomfortable for you to keep prodding at what you’re sure is one of his biggest worries right now. That anything might happen to you or the baby.

Your hand rests over your stomach, lips curling as you glance down at your complete absence of a bump. “It doesn’t feel real,” you muse. “I guess that’s why I’m not taking it more seriously.”

Andrew pauses what he’s doing, glancing over his shoulder at you. “I just keep thinking about when we’re going to get out of here.” He looks down at that, and you sigh. “Soon,” you mutter, before he can feed you the same empty promise he has been. 

“Look,” he gets to his feet, but his phone starts ringing on the table. You can see his name from where you’re sitting. Deran lights up the screen, and your stomach sinks with guilt. You wonder if he’s worried about you or if he just thinks you’re another unfortunate soul who slipped through the cracks. Andrew glances between you and his phone before picking it up and walking out of the room. You can hear him answer just as the door closes. 

Grabbing the TV remote, you spend a few minutes channel surfing before settling on an old sitcom. By the time you’re done, he’s coming back. He lets out a short sigh, jaw flexing as he tosses his phone on the table. 

“What was that?” you ask, motioning him over. He follows obediently, settling beside you on the bed. His back is stiffer than normal, shoulders tense as he stares blankly ahead at the TV. “Andrew?” you murmur, reaching up to run your hand through his hair. 

Andrew sinks easily into the touch, finally looking over at you. “Deran says he and Craig have a job. One Smurf’s not involved in.” Your heart rate picks up, and you try not to let your excitement show too much. “Could be enough,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. He doesn’t seem convinced. 

“That’s good,” you remind him, keeping your voice soft. He just nods, not seeming like he’s truly present with you. With a sigh, you tug on his shoulder slightly. He moves easily, sinking further onto the bed as he lowers his head on your lap. His hand comes up to wrap around your thigh, more grounding than possessive in his intent. 

You let your hand smooth over his curls as you sink back into the pillows. “This is good,” you remind him, ignoring the worry that tightens your gut when he says nothing in return. He just settles closer to you, and you have to let yourself be content with what you have.  

Waking up alone has become foreign to you. Andrew doesn’t like leaving without you waking up first. Which, you’re sure bugs him on the days you’re particularly slow getting out of bed. Today, the spot beside you is cold; the shape of his body is still indented on the sheets. 

It takes you a moment to remember the job he’d told you about with his brothers. He didn’t have time to wait for you today. You throw back the sheets and let out a low groan, rubbing your back as pain shoots up your spine. 

God, you miss your bed. 

These hotel slabs were just making you stiffer every day. Glancing over at the table, you see he’s quite pointedly left out the fibrous cereal for you. Scoffing, you slip on your shoes and run down to the lobby. 

They have a little store full of grab-and-go snacks. With your warden out today, you grab all the junk you can carry and take it back up to the room. There’s really nothing you can do to pass the time besides turn on the TV and stuff your face with as much processed sugar as you can handle. 

You just have to make sure to hide the wrappers before he gets back. 

You make sure to keep an eye on the clock all day. There’s never a guarantee how long a job will take. That’s dependent on the materials they need, the plans they lay out, and whether or not the job requires patience rather than rushing in for a quick cash grab. 

Andrew hadn’t deigned to share any of the details with you, so you're left in the dark. 

You toss away the wrapper to a honey bun—that may have been expired—and feel your eyes begin to burn from staring at the same screen for so long. There's a sharp pain in your stomach, and you let out a groan, doubling over as you press down on the ache. 

Spitefully consuming a bunch of processed junk might have been really stupid. 

Grimacing, you get up and head to the bathroom. There’s another sharp pinch, and you let out a low gasp, grimacing as a cold pain shoots through your body. “Jesus,” you hiss out. 

Approaching the toilet, you pull your pants down and pause. It’s hard to tell; your underwear is a dark blue. But…

Yeah, just there is a little bit of blood. 

Your stomach swoops as you jerk your pants back up and rush toward the bed. You rip the magazine off the nightstand and flip through until you find the pregnancy section. 

It takes a few minutes of scanning, your foot tapping restlessly as you do, before you find what you’re looking for. “Spotting is completely normal in your first trimester!”

Letting out a low breath of relief, you almost laugh at yourself. You wish you could, but then you see that little asterisk next to the sentence, and your eyes drop to the bottom of the page. 

*You should always consult your doctor if spotting is accompanied by any sharp pain or abdominal discomfort. 

The magazine slips from your hands as you grab your phone off the bed. A million thoughts race through your head before everything just comes to a stop. All you can think about is that stupid superstition of not buying anything until the second trimester. Because what if… 

What if you lose it?

A cold panic spikes through your blood; it chills you down to your toes. And it’s not even for you; it’s hardly for this baby. Because this still doesn’t feel real to you. It’s not something you’ve gotten to know or love. But suddenly it's something you could lose. 

And it’s Andrew you’re thinking about. His face as you tell him you lost the baby. 

Shaking the thoughts away, you dial his number on the burner he gave you and wait. It rings for a minute before you hang up and try again. Your foot taps impatiently against the floor; another sharp pain digs its nails into your stomach and rips. 

Letting out a groan, you clutch your gut, kneeling on the floor while you dial him again. Halfway through, you finally remember that he’s not going to answer. Not while he’s on a job. 

That’s probably why he’d been acting so off last night. He can’t afford any distractions during a job. Meaning no phone and no you. You bet he was thinking of a situation just like this one. Where you need him, and he can’t get to you. 

“Fuck,” you hiss. You throw your phone on the bed and turn toward the hotel’s landline. You jam your fingers into the numberpad, calling the front desk. It doesn’t take long to connect, but you can barely get the words out through the pain you’re struggling to breathe through. 

You ask them to order you a cab and force yourself off the bed. It’s a herculean effort to get downstairs and in the lobby. From there, it’s kind of a blur. It’s not until you’re in the waiting room at the hospital that you realize you left your phone in the hotel. 

“Shit,” you hiss, head falling back against the wall. 

“How are we feeling today?” 

You look up from your hands and glare over at the doctor who walks in. It’s rude, the look on your face. But how the fuck does he think you’re feeling?

“Not great,” you snap, eyes narrowing. He offers a polite smile and sits down on his little chair. He picks up a clipboard one of the nurses had left behind and scans over it, muttering to himself. 

“Um,” you clear your throat, trying to catch his attention. “Am I… okay?” 

It’s hard to get yourself to say the word miscarriage out loud, as if you’re going to manifest it into being somehow. Pursing your lips, you wait for him to respond. He holds one finger up with an impatient huff, and you scoff. 

With a sigh, he places the clipboard down and offers you a placating smile. “Good news is, everything’s a-okay with the baby!” 

“Thank god,” you mutter, curling into yourself as you let out a shaky breath. There’s another sharp pinch of pain in your stomach, but you ignore it for now. You’re not sure you would have been able to look Andrew in the eye and tell him–

You don’t have to worry about that now. 

Rubbing your eyes, you shake your head and look over at the doctor. “What’s wrong with me, then?”

He rubs his chin and considers you. “Pregnancy is always stressful, but would you say there’s anything that’s been making things harder for you?” You don’t even get to answer before he barrels on. “Is the father in the picture?”

“Yes,” you tell him, more defensive than you should be. Maybe because Andrew seems to care more about this kid than you do. When you can get out of that damn hotel room, that’s when you’ll let yourself believe this is real. 

“And, yeah, I would say I’m more stressed than normal.” Having your former pimp and the cops after you really isn’t great for your blood pressure. 

He purses his lips, “Spotting is normal in the first trimester. And I think you might be suffering a bit of indigestion, hence the stomach pain. But I want to be careful. I’m going to have you stay here overnight so we can monitor you.”

Panic spikes through you. As much as you hate the hotel room, being out in the open after spending so many nights sequestered inside is worrying. There’s no reason for Smurf to ever show up here, but paranoia isn’t logical. 

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“For the safety of you and your child, yes,” he tells you, that jovial tone leaving him as he gives you a stern stare. 

Letting out a rough sigh, you nod. “Alright. But is there a phone I could use? I need to call someone.”

He nods, getting up and holding the door for you. “There’s a payphone in the hall. I’ll have a nurse come and get you when a room opens up.”

You rush past him, heading toward the payphone. Rifling through your pockets, you manage to find enough change and push it into the slot. Picking up the phone, you bite your lip, trying to remember the number to Andrew’s burner. 

With a grimace, you type it in and pray you’re right. It rings for a while before you’re connected to his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me, um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–” the phone beeps before the line goes dead. 

“What the hell?” you mutter, trying to see if you have any more change. Fuck. You didn’t even get to tell him everything was fine. You let out a loud groan, leaning forward and letting your head thunk against the wall. 

He’s going to have a goddamn heart attack.  

Pope stands around a table with J and his brothers. There’s stacks and stacks of cash in front of them. More than J had even predicted. “Alright,” J has a smile on his face, relieved his plan actually worked out. It’s still odd to see the kid look anything but solemn. 

This newfound desire of his to start leading jobs, making plans, puts him on edge. There’s something off about it all. He’s been too busy with you to give that problem the attention it deserves. Something to be worried about later. 

“We’re taking a cut now,” J tells them, picking up a stack of cash and throwing it at Pope, then Deran and Craig. “I’m going to take the rest and…” he trails off, eyes cutting toward Craig. The one who could really screw this up for them all if he gets in the right mood. “I’ll take care of it,” he mutters. 

Pope counts through the cash quickly. A couple thousand, probably. It doesn’t feel like enough. Not if he wants to be able to find you both a place to stay, finance both of you completely starting new. And then he’ll need extra for the baby’s stuff in a few months. 

“I need more than this,” Pope tells J. 

Deran’s brows furrow as he shoots his brother a strange look. He says nothing, though. Instead, he nods, “I do too. I need to redo the kitchen at the bar.” He holds up the cash and shakes his head. “This isn’t going to cover it.”

J’s eyes narrow into slits, but he can’t object as his brothers start eagerly taking more money. When Pope’s satisfied with the amount, he nods at the kid. “Alright,” J snaps, stopping Craig from pocketing any more. “That’s enough.” he shoots Deran an aggrieved look. “Will that be enough?”

Deran cuts his eyes toward Pope before looking back at the kid. “Yeah, should be,” he tells him. J lets out a heavy sigh and starts bagging up the rest of the money. Pope takes his own cut and moves away from the table, pulling out his phone. He powers it back on as Deran moves toward him. 

“Hey,” Deran greets, eyeing him warily. Pope barely lifts his eyes to greet him. It’s only when Deran says your name that he catches Pope’s attention. He keeps his face carefully neutral. “I was wondering if you’ve seen her around? She just left the apartment a wreck a few weeks ago, and I haven’t seen her since.”

Pope’s about to answer that he cut you off once Smurf told him what you were doing for her. But his phone’s back on and the notifications he missed are popping up. His heart drops as he sees the missed calls from you. 

He walks away from Deran immediately, already heading toward his truck. Deran calls his name, but he isn’t listening. He tries dialing your number, but it just rings through until going to voicemail. Pick up, he thinks, gut twisting as he gets in his truck. 

He scrolls through the missed calls and sees an unknown number. Frowning, he clicks on the voicemail. “Hey, it’s me.”

His head falls against the steering wheel as he sucks in a deep breath. You sound fine, thank god. 

But then, you just have to keep talking. “Um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–”

Pope’s head whips up as the voicemail ends. His fingers are frantic as he replays the message. But there’s nothing more. Whatever you used to call him just cut out. His hands tighten around the steering wheel until he can hear the leather creak. 

He throws his phone in the seat and peels out of the driveway. It’s a blur as he drives to the hospital. There are so many thoughts swirling through his head, drowning out anything else, that he can barely breathe. 

He hadn’t wanted to go on the job today. He knew that he needed to. That this is more than enough for the two of you to get out of town and get somewhere safe. But he shouldn’t have left you alone. He knew that, and he still did it. 

He’s just incapable, isn’t he?

Incapable of becoming attached to anyone, of caring for anyone, without hurting them. 

He’d done everything right. He’d kept you safe and hidden. He found those prenatals at the store that the books all said were good for the baby. Smurf, for once, doesn’t know one of his secrets. And he still managed to fuck it up. 

Pope has to force himself to slow down as he pulls into the hospital parking lot. He doesn’t want to hear you finish your sentence when he sees you. Doesn’t want to know that superstition in the magazine is followed for a reason. 

At the very least, he can hold onto the fact that you sounded okay. You were still good. But he wouldn’t blame you if he was the last face you wanted to see right now. 

Striding into the hospital, he beelines straight for the front desk. The nurse behind the counter offers him a soft smile. “Can I help you?”

He gives her your name, “She called me from here earlier.” His nails bite into speckled linoleum as she types your name into the computer. “Is she okay?” he demands, unable to stop himself. 

Her eyes barely lift from her screen. “Give me a moment, sir.”

“I just need to know if she’s okay,” he repeats, trying to keep his voice steady. He’s been impatient before. When CPS first took Lena, he couldn’t cope. Had lost his shit at the office and had to rely on Smurf just to see her again. 

He can’t do that again. He can’t keep messing this up with you. 

The nurse offers a strained smile. “I understand, sir, but I don’t have that information right now. What’s your relationship to the patient?”

His mouth opens before he goes quiet. “Um,” he glares down at the floor. What are you? “She’s carrying my baby,” he settles on, nothing else fitting right next to the idea of you. 

The nurse nods, typing something before letting out a sigh. “Alright, looks like she should be okay for visitors. Just log in here, and you should be good to go back. It’ll be the third door on the left.”

Pope just scribbles on the paper she passes him, taking the visitor’s pass and racing off through the door to his left. He’s counting under his breath until he’s in front of the third door. It’s closed, and the blinds have been shut against any prying eyes. 

He sucks in a shaky breath, bracing himself for whatever he’s going to find on the other side. He’s never been lucky before. Baz always told him no one would ever want a baby with him. He had a point. Pope’s not… right. He’s not good for anyone, especially not for himself. Why would his luck suddenly change with you?

He has no other choice but to push the door open. 

Reruns of some old show are playing on the TV on the wall. And you—

You’re sitting on the bed with your legs folded, eagerly eating a pudding cup as you watch the show. Your head lifts as the door opens, a smile flitting across your face as you see him. It drops at whatever expression he’s wearing right now. 

“Hey,” you greet softly. “Stop lurking,” you tease, but it’s weak as your brows crease with worry. 

He takes one step inside, letting the door fall closed behind him. He can’t find the right words or the right questions. The magic words that will get you to tell him if everything’s okay. “Are you…” He trails off, coming to your side, hands flexing out toward you. He stops himself, checking over you, trying to find anything that’s visibly wrong. 

The possibilities of what could have happened to land you here are overwhelming in their intensity. Too many at once to possibly try and verbalize it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him, reaching out and lacing your fingers through his. You tug his arm until he’s sitting on the bed beside you. You put the pudding on your nightstand and take his other hand, pressing it to your stomach. “Everything is fine.”

The relief is so staggering he feels ill. You let out a quiet laugh as his eyes fall shut; he feels like he can breathe for the first time since he left this morning. “C’mere,” you mutter, tugging him forward until his cheek is pressed to your shoulder and he’s squeezing his arms around you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and he shakes his head, fingers flexing in the thin fabric of your hospital gown. “That stupid payphone cut me off. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Whoops! Don’t mean to interrupt.” Pope jerks back as the door to your room opens. You let out an annoyed huff, keeping your hand in his as he turns to see a doctor walking in. “The father, I presume?”

“What happened?” He demands, something about the doctor’s tone rubbing him the wrong way. 

“Well, I think a lot of the pain was caused by indigestion.” Pope frowns, glancing over at you, but you won’t meet his eye. “However, in your blood work I noticed a high level of cortisol and your blood pressure isn’t where I’d like it to be.”

Pope just stares at the man, waiting for him to continue. The doctor lets out an aggrieved sigh, but it's you he gives a sharp look. “You’re too stressed. Especially this early in the pregnancy.” Your hand tightens around Pope as you shift uncomfortably in the bed. “Some lifestyle changes will need to be made.” His eyes dart to Pope before he shakes his head. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

The door closes behind him, and you take in a heavy breath. Pope can’t think of anything to say, eyes cast down at the blanket. It’s his fault that you’re so stressed, that you’re even here. He knows that. He promised to get you out of that hotel room weeks ago. But he’s been stalling, selfish as he enjoys this time with you just to himself. No outside interference, no one to take away your attention. 

He got you here. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t know what else he can say. 

He waits for it, for you to take his hand, to tell him it's okay. You’ve done it so many times before. You’re so indulgent, so forgiving; he doesn’t deserve to expect it. But, God, he wants you to just tell him it's not his fault. 

“I can’t live like this anymore,” you tell him, and he can’t find it in himself to turn around and face the truth. Not right now. “Andrew,” you call, “look at me.” 

His hands dig into the blanket as he looks up at you. There’s nothing soft on your face, now. You seem severe; the circles beneath your eyes are darker than ever. You’re worn down in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

“I can fix this,” he promises, and if you didn’t believe him, he wouldn’t blame you. He’s so good at fixing problems for his family. At being the one they call to clean up their messes. But he’s always been horrible at fixing his own. 

Your eyes flit down, and you nod. Silence permeates the air between you. He hates it, but he doesn’t know how to fill it.  

The door to your room opens, and you know who it is before he walks in. Andrew hasn’t really left your side tonight. Despite your many assurances that you really are okay and you’ll be able to leave tomorrow. 

Luck was on your side, though. He stepped out to use the bathroom, and you had enough time to call someone. He’ll probably be back before Deran has a chance to leave, but it’ll be too late by then. And the both of you need Deran’s help. 

“Good to know you’re alive,” Deran tells you, voice flat as his eyes narrow on you. 

You grimace, “I’m sorry, Deran, really.”

His eyes fall shut as he pinches at his nose. He stands at the end of your bed, refusing to come closer. Shrugging, he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “It was Smurf, wasn’t it?”

Your eyes fall to your lap, and you nod. “Why didn’t you just come to me in the first place?” he asks, taking a step closer. 

“It wasn’t that simple,” you mutter, looking up at him. His brows are pinched in concern. Deran’s done a lot for you since you’ve known him. He’s certainly been more selfless than his family ever expected him to be. 

You know you’ve been shitty, hiding everything from him. But it already feels like you’re wrecking Andrew’s life. You didn’t feel like you could drag Deran down with you both. Not when he had worked so hard to help you clean your life up. But you don’t have any other choice now. 

“Alright,” he shakes his head with a scoff. “Then make it simple. You move out, I don’t hear from you for weeks, and suddenly you call me up to tell me you’re in the hospital. You gotta give me something, here.”

You let out a bitter laugh, “How’s this?” He shakes his head, waiting. You force the words out, “I’m pregnant.” 

Deran’s face falls; he takes a staggered step toward you as the door opens behind him. His head whips around as Andrew walks through. Andrew’s expression goes tight when he sees someone else standing next to you. 

“There’s the dad,” you offer weakly, trying for a joke and failing miserably.

Andrew closes the door behind him, eyes narrowed on his brother. “Why is he here?” He demands, looking at you. You can tell he’s holding his temper back. But it’s been on a short leash, already. You don’t want to risk making things worse. 

“He can help–”

“You knew where she was?” Deran demands, taking an angry step forward. Andrew doesn’t back down, expression twitching as he straightens up. “I asked you, man.”

Cody anger is volatile. It’s quick to spark and worse to quell. You can see it, swelling between them. Deran doesn’t take much to get going, he reaches out, shoving Andrew back. You grimace as Andrew grapples with him, trying to get him to stop before you’re all kicked out of the hospital. 

“Deran!” You snap, eyes darting toward the windows and praying no one looks inside. 

“You lied to me,” he shouts at Andrew, face growing red. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Andrew barks back. 

Desperately glancing around the room for anything to stop them, your eyes land on the empty pudding cup. You snatch it up and throw it at the back of Deran’s head. He flinches at the impact, head whipping around to face you. 

“Enough! Jesus fuck, Deran, I’m in the hospital because I’m too stressed. This isn’t why I wanted you here!”

Andrew still has a hold on him. Deran glances between the pair of you, expression turning embarrassed. He shoves his brother’s arms off of him and reaches up, trying to smooth back the hair that's fallen in his eyes. 

“Then what the fuck do you want from me?” 

At the same time, Andrew asks, “Why is he here?”

They both shoot each other severe looks that have you grimacing. It would have worked out a hell of a lot better if Andrew had just stayed in the bathroom. You scrub your hands down your face and let out a rough exhale, shoulders hunching. 

“We’re staying in a hotel right now. But I can’t keep living like that,” Andrew says your name, but you stop him with a look. “Look where I’m at right now, Andrew. Can you honestly say that the way we’re living is healthy for me?”

You purse your lips. You know this is dirty; you’re using one of his deepest fears against him. And it’s awful; you’re a horrible person. But you’re human, and you physically cannot take another day living like a fugitive on the run. “Is it healthy for the baby?”

His hands go lax at his sides, eyes widening imperceptibly as he stares at you. Whatever argument he had ready is killed by your cutting words. You suck your teeth, shoving down the guilt burning in your throat. 

“So that’s what you want?” Deran asks, staring over at you with this strange look in his eyes. “Another place to stay?”

“I know that I shouldn’t ask you for anything–”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.” You bite your lip, sucking in a sharp breath. He rolls his eyes, glaring up at the ceiling. “But…” he lets out a sardonic laugh as he turns toward you. “I actually have a place.”

“Smurf,” he continues, “gave us properties.” he motions between himself and Andrew. Your brows turn in as you turn to him. Because he’d never told you about any sort of property. 

He can’t meet your eye, hand balling into a fist as he glares at the floor. “I couldn’t use any of them for you. She would have looked,” he doesn’t seem very defensive. And you’re sure he believes that excuse. But you’re stupid if you think he wasn’t also attracted to the idea of being so close to you, of having you all to himself. 

“Yeah, well she won’t go looking through any of mine,” Deran tells him. He turns back to you, “There’s a house by the beach you can stay in.” You want to get up and thank him, to hug him for the first time in weeks. But his expression is reserved as he moves toward the door. “I gotta go. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll figure it out.”

The door slams behind him, blinds rattling from the force. He’s still angry, then. You suppose you can’t blame him. Not with the way you just disappeared. Sighing, you lean forward, head falling into your hands. 

Andrew comes up beside you. “I would have taken care of it.”

“Would you?” you scoff, glancing over at him. You don’t mean it maliciously, but it’s been weeks. And he’s apparently had ‘property’ this whole time. Andrew was working off his own schedule, and that just wasn’t good enough for you.  

The house is a slightly run-down bungalow by the beach. But it’s good. Anything is in comparison to that hotel room. It’s woefully empty of any furniture or anything to actually make a house a home. You can work on that, though. 

Slowly, over the course of a few monthss—long enough for your stomach to start to swell—you begin collecting everything for the place. The couch that Deran was going to get rid of makes its way to you. Your dining table is something you found at an estate sale, oddly enough. 

Bits and pieces make their way to you. Some old, some new. But it’s a start. A start to something that belongs solely to you and Andrew. Smurf had sold his house when he was arrested. It left him with nowhere to go but back to her. 

The bungalow is a few hours outside of Oceanside. Which makes it a commute for Andrew anytime she calls him back home to deal with family business. You know she must be growing suspicious by now. Especially because Deran stops by a lot. 

Where could both of her sons be disappearing to?

You don’t know what Andrew is telling her to keep her off his back, or if he’s even trying. You try not to think about it a lot. The pregnancy has begun to feel real to you. Your stomach is swelling with life; you’re outside of her control. Worries about her serve only to make you more stressed than you need to be. 

So, you linger in ignorant bliss. Andrew lets you, though you can see his worries about the future eating away at him. There’s only so much you can do for a man who refuses to cut the last tether to the most agonizing aspect of his life. 

His mother. 

“The appointment is at two, right?” 

Andrew nods; he’s busy putting together the bedframe you just bought while you go through the notes from your last visit with the gynecologist. He’d missed it, Smurf calling him home for some job. A bad time to miss it, too, considering the doctor said she was worried you were showing early signs of gestational hypertension. 

It’s not anything life-threatening, but you know he’d been bothered that he wasn’t there when you heard the news. He’s insisting on attending this one. You don’t mind the company, that’s for sure. When the doctor asks what prenatals you’re taking and what your diet looks like, a lot of that knowledge lies with Andrew. He’ll have a better time processing and planning around the information than you will. 

His phone rings, breaking up the quiet of the moment. You glance up from your computer with interest. His entire demeanor changes as he looks at the name. It doesn’t take much guessing to know who it is. 

The way his shoulders hunch up, his lips pursing as he lets out a heavy sigh. “Smurf?” you ask.

He just nods; he gets up, moving out toward the porch as he answers. You glance toward the window, trying to decide whether or not you want to listen in. You sigh before deciding against it. He’ll tell you about it if he needs to. 

You continue looking through the notes from your last visit, making sure you didn’t forget to tell Andrew anything. The door slams closed as he comes back in, making you jump. Your brows furrow as you look over at him. He’s glaring down at the floor, phone tucked back in his pocket. 

You hesitate on saying anything.  “That was fast,” you land on.

“She wants my help on a job,” he tells you. Letting out a rough sigh, his shoulders sink as he looks up. “Today.”

“Ah,” you click your tongue. She seems to have a psychic link to him. Always knowing the worst time to steal him away from you. Looking back at the computer, you bite back whatever venom you want to spew. Instead, you try to keep your voice calm as you ask, “Are you going?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you don’t want to look over. You don’t want him to see the hurt on your face that you even have to ask that question. Guilt shouldn’t be what makes him stay. He should just want to. 

A soft touch lands on your shoulder and you sigh, sinking back into him. “I’m going with you,” he tells you, firm on the decision. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, reaching up to squeeze his hand as he goes back to putting the bed together. “Did she say what the job was?”

Andrew considers for a moment before shaking his head. “She said she’d be coming along on this one. Said it was important.”

Something gnawing stirs up in your stomach. You frown as you consider him. God, you can’t believe you’re about to ask this. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go?”

He pauses from where he was picking up his tools. You get a sidelong look as his voice quiets. “Do you not want me coming?”

Of course that’s how he took it; you feel like an idiot. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” You have a bad feeling about Smurf. But you have no evidence and no reason to voice aloud your doubt. “Of course I want you there, Andrew.”

He looks over you, eyes narrowing as he stares into your eyes, checking for any dishonesty. Slowly, he nods and resumes his task. You try to do the same, but your focus is anywhere but on your notes. 

You’d had Andrew’s hand in a death grip your entire appointment. You couldn’t tell him why or even explain to the doctor this sudden panic that’s come over you. She’s worried about it, telling you it’s important you lessen the stress in your life as much as possible to avoid any complications. 

If only it were that easy. But you hardly understood your worries before you were pregnant. It only got that much harder after. 

Luckily, everything looked fine with the baby. She couldn’t get a good look at it through the ultrasound, and she forgot her “readers” at home. So, instead, you have to wait a while longer while she runs a blood test to determine the gender of the baby. 

You don’t really care either way. But you think Andrew would make a good dad to a little girl. 

“You don’t want to do the whole gender reveal thing, do you?” You ask on the drive home. 

Andrew glances over at you and shrugs, hand flexing around the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Might not be so bad.”

Your eyes narrow. “Really? You want one of those stupid confetti things staining our backyard pink or blue?”

He lets out a scoff, smiling slightly as he looks over at you. “How ‘bout a cake?” he offers, and you think he might just be messing with you. 

“Considering the strict diet you’ve got me on, I’ll take a cake.” He huffs a little at the dig but doesn’t seem to mind too much when you grin over at him. You stretch, hand resting on the center console. He reaches down, taking it in his own as he pulls onto your street. 

You frown, sitting up when you see another car in your driveway. “Who’s that?” you wonder aloud. 

Andrew’s hand tightens around your own as he slows down. He comes to a stop in front of the house, letting out a low breath of relief when you both see it’s just Deran. But he doesn’t look good. He’s pacing on the porch, hands shoved in his pockets, and his face is strangely red. 

“Wait here,” Andrew mutters, getting out of the truck and stalking up the driveway. You let out an irritated huff, watching as he approaches his brother. Deran’s head whips up as he gets closer, and he stops his pacing completely. 

That unsettled feeling from before returns tenfold as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. You can’t hear what's being said, but you can see the way Deran’s face shifts from that usually untouchable look to something scarily vulnerable. Andrew runs up the steps to the porch, and Deran stops him, grabbing his shoulder and taking in a deep breath. 

You tilt yourself closer to the window, as if you might be able to hear something. Deran finally says whatever news it is he had to be in person to deliver. Your brows furrow as you watch it all play out on Andrew’s face. 

He tilts his head before shaking it, saying something. You can’t make out what he says, but you can hear his voice rise, see him shove Deran back as he continues to shake his head. His hands come up to his head, cupping it. 

You can’t take watching this anymore. Getting out of the truck, you make your way up the driveway just as Andrew sinks onto the porch steps. His head falls between his knees, shoulders beginning to shake. You run up to him, falling beside him. Deran stands behind you both, gaze vacant as he watches his brother. 

“What’s going on?” you snap at Deran, hands cupping Andrew’s cheeks. You try to get him to look at you, but he collapses into you instead. You let out a sharp gasp as his head falls in your lap, hands gripping desperately at your dress. You can feel him shaking, the sharp breaths he’s struggling to get in. 

“Deran!” You snap, hands desperately running over Andrew, trying anything to get him to calm down. 

Deran finally looks at you, but he doesn’t see you. “Smurf is dead.”

The fridge is open again. 

It’s happened over the past week. You’ll walk through the house, and there will be these little things that are wrong. The fridge is open because he forgot he was going to make dinner. The light to the hallway has been on all day because he never remembered to turn it off. There are dirty plates put away in the cabinets because he’d zoned out, unloaded a dirty dishwasher without even blinking. 

You walk over and close the fridge, letting your head fall against the cool metal with a shaky exhale. This is getting bad. You knew he wouldn’t be well immediately following his mother’s death. Who would?

But this is different than being lost in grief. He’s losing chunks of the day, leaving the house and not knowing where he’s going. You caught him standing in front of the nursery with a drill in his hand. He stood there for about ten minutes before you asked what he was doing. 

He didn’t remember. 

Moving away from the kitchen, you check your watch. He’s been gone for two hours already. You hadn’t wanted to let him leave the house on his own. He was meant to take you grocery shopping with him. But you had to run to the bathroom, and he just left. 

You move into your bedroom, intent on putting away some clothes. You’re trying to tidy the place up a bit before he gets back, so he doesn’t have to worry about it. 

Picking up a pile of clothes, you trudge into the closet. It’s stuffed full right now and barely organized. With an annoyed huff, you drop the clothes on the ground and reach for some shirts on an overstuffed bar. You tug at them a bit, grunting until the hangers finally come off. 

Something tumbles from the shelf above; it pops you perfectly in the toe before tumbling off into the shadows of the closet. “Ow,” you grumble, forgetting the clothes as you get on your knees. Your hands swipe across the closet floor, blindly groping until you feel your fingers brush against what fell. 

Pulling it out, you pause. This is…

This is one of the baby bottles he bought. “What the hell?” you mutter, looking up at the shelf it fell from. Getting to your feet, you rush off and drag the stepstool into the closet. Climbing up, you get a good look at the shelf. 

The parenting books, pacifiers, everything he bought too early has been shoved up here. Pulling it all out, you lay it out on the bed. Why the hell would he hide all this?

Sure, you noticed there was less baby stuff around the house. But you thought that was because he was putting it all away in the nursery. You haven’t been there in a while. The scattered parts of the crib he never built are too much of a tripping hazard. 

You never would have thought he was hiding it all away. 

Rubbing your head, you let out a low groan. You rack your brain, but you can’t find a reason he would do this. And with the state he’s in, you doubt Andrew even understands what he’s doing. 

The front door opens, and you run out of the bedroom. Andrew stands in the doorway, his head lifts, eyes still carrying that sad look they’ve had the past few days. “Andrew,” you whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, head lifting as he surveys you with narrowed eyes. But you’re not the problem here.

You purse your lips, struggling to maintain a kind smile. “Where are the groceries?”

His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “What?”

You let out a rough sigh, pinching your nose as you shake your head. “Never mind,” you tell him. Instead, you walk over to him, taking his hand in yours. He lets you lead him to the couch and sit him down. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, looking slightly dazed as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Nothing, just, maybe rest for a little while, alright?” You want to help him; you do. But he’s mourning. And you can’t relate to that pain. Smurf made your life hell. The only good she ever did anyone was giving birth to Deran and Andrew. You wanted to fucking leap for joy when you heard she was dead. 

But Andrew’s steadily devolving into a state that you don’t know how to get him out of. You doubt he’ll be himself for a long time. But this is different. This is wrong. Pulling out your phone, you call the only person you can think of. 

Pope is sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the porch. You’d deposited him there, the burden that’s only serving to make your life more difficult. He wonders if you’re watching him through the window to make sure he’s not going to wander off. He feels like he’s falling apart. 

And maybe he is. Pope’s not sure anyone would call hearing their dead mother’s voice stable. But he does hear her. And he sees her everywhere too. A phantom that he just can’t let go of. 

He hears a car pull up the driveway and frowns, lifting his head. They park and throw the door open. Deran stands there a minute, just watching Pope, before slowly making his way up the porch steps. 

Deran lets out a low groan as he sits in the chair beside Pope. His chest heaves as he exhales and rubs his hands down his face. Pope watches him warily, wondering why he bothered coming. 

Deran looks over at him and laughs. It’s not genuine. It’s bitter and filled with the same sort of reluctant grief plaguing Pope. “You look like shit, man,” he tells him. 

Pope scoffs, but he can’t disagree. He’s hardly keeping his head on straight right now. “What do you want?” he asks, wishing for some quiet for once. Away from all the noise in his head. 

“What do you think?” Deran huffs. He motions inside. “She called me,” he says your name, and Pope grimaces. You must really think he’s just a mess. 

Deran goes quiet for a moment, picking at a thread on his jeans. “How have you been doing?” He asks, his tone losing its abrasive quality this time around. 

“How do you think?” Pope scoffs, looking over at him. And something inside him breaks, seeing his little brother who is holding it together so much better than he is. “I keep seeing her man,” his voice cracks around the confession, and he looks away. “I’m— I’m fucking hearing her in the back of my head. Reminding me—”

Pope shakes his head, dragging his hand down his face as he tries to take in a steady breath. “Reminding me of how much I fucked up. I wasn’t there,” he admits. “I wasn’t there, and she’s dead.”

Deran stays quiet, just watching Pope. There’s nothing he could say that would absolve him of this guilt. He doesn’t deserve it. Not when this is all he’s done his entire life. He was put on a leash for a reason. Because every time he ever tried to break out of that control, the only thing he’s ever done is hurt someone. 

Something about the quiet softens something in him. “I hid all the baby stuff,” he admits. 

Deran lets out a confused noise and looks up. “What?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why?

Pope shrugs, looking down at the chair and digging his nail into a scratch. He picks at it, watching the wood splinter. “I can’t mess this up,” he admits, voice rough as he blinks away the burning in his eyes. “I hear Smurf. I hear Baz. And they’re both just telling me how much I fucked up. And I can hear Baz telling me that no one would ever want a kid with me. Because he was right,” he lets out a bitter sound, taking in a shaky breath. 

“She doesn’t want a kid with me. She just got stuck with me.”

Deran takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head. He laughs, but it's hollow. “Baz was wrong about a lot of things,” he says. He reaches over and takes his shoulder. Pope grimaces, but he doesn’t move away, looking over at Deran. 

“But Baz was always wrong about you, man.” He squeezes Pope’s shoulder before letting go. “Smurf fucked us all up. But,” Deran whistles and shakes his head. “She really did a number on you. Still, if any of us could actually give a kid a chance of survivin’ all the shit we went through…”

Deran offers a strained smile, “It’d be you.”

Pope can’t honestly say he believes him. Believe this is anything other than an attempt to bring him back from the edge. But he wants to. He wants to so badly think that he’s capable of doing something good. 

Neither of them says anything else, sitting in the quiet with one another. 

A while later, Deran gets up. He doesn’t say much, just that he has to head home. Pope nods, watching as Deran walks down the porch. The door opens behind him, the swell of your stomach clear in his peripheral. You call out a goodbye to his brother, walking toward him. He reaches up, hands brushing against your stomach as his head falls against you. You reach up, nails dragging through his curls. 

You’re real. You’re here. Not a voice in his head reminding him that everything falls apart under his touch. 

You kneel, pressing your forehead to his. Your lips brush against the corner of his mouth before you pull away. He holds onto your hand until you’re walking back into the house, and his hand falls back by his side. Deran pulls out of the driveway; he stops at the end for a moment before driving off. 

Pope gets to his feet; he follows the only noise in the house until he’s standing in front of the nursery. You’re kneeling in front of the disassembled crib. Without looking up, you silently hold out the instruction booklet. He walks forward, taking it from you and kneeling at your side. 

Your eyes dart to him for a moment. “It’s a girl,” you tell him. 

His stomach swoops as he looks over at you. You offer a small smile. “The doctor called this morning. I thought you would want to know.”

You reach over and take his hand in your own, lacing your fingers together. He leans over, pressing his forehead to the side of your head. You turn, lips brushing against his as you pull him into your embrace. He sinks easily, the world going quiet around him as you hold him. His hand falls from your side to the swell of your stomach. 

For now, there’s only one voice. 

Baz was always wrong about you. 

Internalized misogyny, as you mentioned, is so important not just to Smurf but the show as well. Consistently the women are treated as disposable and replaceable. It was a man’s world that Smurf carved a spot out for herself and no one else— even if that meant abandoning her own daughter.

To answer your thoughts about what would happen if she miscarried. In my own personal opinion, Pope would become even more protective of her. Not only did he lose the baby but she felt it happen. She’s weak and vulnerable and he is in love with her, he still sees her in that motherly glow and would watch out for her.

Girl dad pope agenda for life!! I’m glad you enjoyed his mental health depiction. I didn’t want to be heavy handed with it but he was GOING THROUGH IT in the show. I also think at that point— pregnant and vulnerable— the reader would already be too tired to constantly be coddling him.

Never apologize for long reblogs I appreciate them more than you know. Wishing you a good day and good health 🩵🩵

“The prince does not fight fair,” Lyonel had told you while you’d been preparing yourself for the joust. The one meant for high-borns, not some lowly scum like you. “You must prepare yourself for any dirty tricks he might throw at you. Ignore his title, ignore his blood. He is nothing more than another opponent to you.”

Nothing more than the man who thinks himself a dragon trapped within mortal flesh. Nothing more than a prince who could end your life with a flick of his hand if he so wished it. You let out a rough sigh, slamming the visor of your helm down. Your breath rattles through your armor, coaxes down your arms to that violent tremble in your hands. 

You want to pass it off as nothing more than pre-fight adrenaline. But you know yourself better than that. You’ve never been so nervous like this. But you’ve also never unseated any nobility except Lyonel himself. 

Why had he done this? Why had he moved your name up the lists, put you smack in the middle of nobility and royalty? A Fossoway should be jousting the Dragon Prince today, not you. That damnable Baratheon has left you with no other choice but to go forward. 

To forfeit now would be to prove every man who ever doubted you right. 

Your mare grows unsettled beneath you, hooves digging into the mud as she huffs impatiently. You push forward, stopping at the end of the fence. He sits across from you, lance perched on his hip, same as you. But you can feel that stare, like dragonfire; it melts through your armor, pierces through your body and soul. 

Whatever ill words you might have to spare about spoiled nobility, you would not dare say there is a Targaryen who does not fight like a dragon reborn. Well, except perhaps for that drunken one, Daeron. 

Your breath echoes through your helm, burns at your eyes as the horn sounds. Lyonel’s warning rings through your ears as your mare charges forth. Your gaze drops to the Prince’s lance, and you gasp, just barely jerking your steed out of the way before the tip of his weapon pierces through her neck. 

Your lance barely brushes against his shield as his passes along your leg. Fury rages hot under your skin, burns at you until you think it might heat the metal of your armor. You tug on the reins of your horse, quickly steering her back around. 

He does not wait for the horn to blow once more; he’s already charging forth, lance aimed straight for your chest. You squeeze your legs around your steed, urging her forward. The crowd’s roaring is drowned out by the pounding in your chest– raging like the drums of war in your ears. 

Your lance slams into his chest, splinters against his armor, and snaps in half. His own lands firmly against your side, ripping the air from your lungs. Your mare continues riding forth, but your legs fly up from her sides. Your body is in the air a moment before you’re slammed harshly into the mud. 

That was it. Two turns and he has already unseated you. 

Your fingers twitch at your sides, body prone as you try to earn your breath back. Through the din of your own surging blood, you hear it. A sharp voice, screaming over the roar of the crowd. It sounds like that little squire you had met only a day past. 

“Get up, Ser! Get up!”

Your eyes roll in your head as you jerk up, glaring through the thin slit of your visor. The prince is in the mud, his steed gone. You’d both unseated each other. Your feet slip against the mud as you rush to stand, reaching for the sword at your side. 

He comes to realize the same as you, just as you’re unsheathing your weapon. 

With both unseated, there is no choice but to brawl. In the mud, beneath this thick fog, with nothing but a screaming crowd all around you, shoving at the fence posts. You have no house name for them to shout, and your sigil is nothing more than a falcon you’d painted on your shield. 

But it is not the dragon they scream for, the man who would have killed your horse rather than offer a fair fight. 

He has gotten to his feet just as you launch yourself over the fencing, bearing down on him with whatever fury is left pumping through your veins. He barely has time to draw his sword– just managing to throw it up in time to deflect your blow. Sparks fly up from the clash of metal as he shoves you back. 

Your greaves slip along the mud as you shake your head, trying to clear the mud from your eyes that had slipped beneath your helm. With little other choice, you reach up, ripping it from your head. You can finally see more than just a foot in front of you. 

But the leather tie keeping your hair at bay has been lost somewhere during the joust. It spills freely in front of your face. The Prince does the same, ripping off his own helm. His eyes narrow, lips parting as the briefest display of shock shows on his face. 

You can hear the crowd react, their shouting dimming as they realize it is not a man who they had been cheering on. Now, here is the question: Do they cheer for a fellow small folk commoner? Or cheer their Dragon Prince on so he might show you what a real knight looks like?

You don’t allow him to process who– what he is fighting. You’re already charging forth, sword raised high. He ducks beneath your swing, quick as a viper as he whips around, sword scraping against the back of your armor. You grunt, jerking forward as you turn back around. 

He’s fast, lithe, and serpentine in his motions. Each of your blows is deflected or dodged, with one quickly returned to you. You barely have a moment to leap out of his reach, your armor weighing you down as the mud sucks you deeper into the earth. 

The clashing of your swords sings– echoing throughout the field as the people watch with rapt breaths and subdued cheers. They do not know who they wish to see win now. Too many in the crowd would feel themselves grow weaker if they watched you– a woman– defeat their prince. 

For once, though, you do not feel hesitation from your opponent. There is no poor attempt at chivalry that weakens their resolve and allows for an easier defeat for you. He is bearing down on you with lips pulled back, sharp teeth shown like a wild animal. 

Each blow is devastating. It dents your best armor. Metal that pales in comparison to his own because you can afford no better. His sword cuts close to your neck, and you have only a moment to dodge out of the way, planting your foot on his chest and shoving him back. 

His sword lifts, just enough to slice against the back of your hand. You let out a sharp hiss, weapon dropping to the mud as blood pools from the wound. That should be enough to have you disqualified. But his own sword has fallen from his hand, sliding into the mud. 

Your eyes widen, and you don’t allow him to retrieve it. You throw aside all dignity, all knightliness, and pounce on him. Your knees bracket his hips as you bring your hand down across his face. His hands skate down his body, and you don’t see the dagger he’s unsheathed until he’s stabbing it into the side of your armor. 

You nearly screech, breath ripped from your lungs as you feel the warmth of your blood pour from the wound. He bucks his hips up, flipping you over and ripping the dagger from your side. He bears down on you, arms raised high– and you are desperate. You punch forward, metal-cloaked hand slamming into his throat. 

He gasps, eyes bulging as he sucks in a rasping breath. You reach up, hands wrapping around his neck as you roll him onto his back. Your legs pin his arms down as you draw your fist back, slamming your gauntlet into the side of his face. 

“Yield,” you growl out, watching his skin split around the metal of your armor. 

His eyes are wild, Targaryen fire burning through the irises as he gives you a bloody grin. “No,” he hisses, back, reaching for that damnable dagger again. It is only adrenaline that keeps you going, you’re certain. It is the only reason you remain standing as your blood sinks into the mud below, forever a part of the Ashford grounds.  

You bring your fist down once more, hand still tight around his throat. There is a manic edge to the curl of his lips. Something desperate, something unsure because no one has ever dared to brawl with a prince in the mud. Not like this. But there’s something else. This wicked glint in his eyes that makes your stomach turn. 

As you split the skin of his cheek, teeth bared savagely, he almost seems to enjoy it. 

His flesh has grown bloodied and mottled; you draw your arm back once more, and then the horns are sounding. “Enough!” 

The crowd silences, and your head whips up. Mud has sunk into the strands of your hair, weighing them down as they hang matted around your eyes. You’re sure you look every bit the wild animal as you straddle the prince, covered in mud and your and his blood.  

Maekar stands from his chair, glaring down at the match. “Enough!” he calls again. Your arm drops to your side as you slowly release the prince. He jumps to his feet immediately, blade of his dagger shining at his side. 

You almost think he’s going to charge you again when Prince Baelor speaks. “Ser Wyght has been deemed the victor of this match,” he declares. Hesitant to let you both continue. Perhaps it’s for the best. You don’t need a Targaryen’s life on your hands. 

Aerion’s face falls, a quiet fury brewing beneath his expression as he turns toward his family. Betrayal lines every angry tremor of his shoulders and shuddering breath. Someone runs past him, grabs your hand and holds it in the air, displaying the victor for the smallfolk to see. A horn blows behind you, and the Dragon Prince storms off the field. 

It is only when he is gone from your sight that you feel yourself slump. The pain suddenly registers within your weakened body. You let out a low groan, ripping your hand from the grasp of the other man as you clutch the weeping wound at your side. You might have won, but Aerion certainly put up a better fight than any other man you’ve faced. 

He’d almost had you, with that dirty trick of his. He seemed unprepared for the raw, desperate urge of a woman fighting tooth and nail to survive. A Dragon he might be, but he does not know what it means to survive rather than live. 

“The knight who defeated a Targaryen!” Lyonel boasts loud and proud as you enter his pavilion that night. You grimace at the cheering that greets you, limping past his nobility and toward him. They offer you hearty slaps on the back, jolting the stitches the maester had fixed you with that afternoon. 

You suck in a sharp breath, bearing it with a grin, unwilling to show them how your head is thrumming with pain. It is evenfall now, long past the fight, but you still cannot catch your breath. Your sternum is bruised, the right side of your face mottled from Aerion’s blows. You are bandaged and bloody, but at least you have been cleaned of the mud from your fight. 

Lyonel greets you with a wide grin, passing you a large mug of ale. You take it gratefully, drinking down as much as you can in one gulp. It does little to ease the pain, but your mind fuzzes at the edges, making it easier for you to enjoy yourself. 

“I have something for you,” he goads. He waggles his brows, and you bite back a laugh. He goes behind his table and pulls something from beneath his cloak. You watch in confusion as he returns to you, bearing a shield. 

Not a wooden one like you currently have. A true shield. On it, that shoddy symbol you’d created for yourself. Except the falcon is not painted on by an amateur’s hands; a master at their craft embellished the wings and added that furious glint to its eyes. 

“Lyonel–” you breathe out, shaking your head as you take it from him. “It’s too much.”

“Nonsense,” he claps you on the shoulder, and you let out a pained groan as it jostles your body. “You beat a Targaryen for me today. You’ve earned this.” You open your mouth, but he holds his hands up. “I’ll hear nothing more from you.”

You nod, still holding it to your chest as he prances off to dance. You shake your head as you watch him, then glance toward the nobles surrounding him. 

You are underdressed compared to them. In nothing more than a simple shirt and trousers because you own nothing better. Lyonel has offered to sponsor you multiple times, to help you establish a real name for yourself. 

But you had not fought so hard to become someone he deemed worthy of knighting just for him to begin handing you your prizes. No, you would win your fancy clothes, same as any other knight without a house attached to their name. 

But you could certainly accept this shield. 

That giant he has grown fond of is present for the revelry once more. His squire is just behind him as they walk up to you. “That–” Dunk shakes his head, struggling for the right word. 

Egg bounces at his side, lips split with an eager grin. “That was amazing!” he shouts over the din of the crowd. Your brows raise with a bemused smile as you stare down at him. His little fists pump furiously through the air as he relives your fight with the Prince. 

“I’ve never seen someone best Aer– the prince like that before. It was incredible,” he gushes. 

Dunk flushes crimson and nods. “Incredible,” he settles on– the word he’d been trying to find, you suppose. 

“Thank you, though, I think that bastard rocked one of my teeth loose,” you complain, tongue poking at the loose molar in the back of your mouth. Dunk’s going to respond when the pavilion grows silent. 

All of your gazes turn toward the entrance. Your head tilts with interest as you peer around the crowd of bodies. Your heart stutters, breath seizing as you realize who has just walked in. 

Aerion Targaryen strolls through Lyonel’s pavilion as if he owns it. You suppose in his own way, he does. What part of Westeros does a Targaryen not have claim to? Even if it is a tent run by the man who hates Targaryen’s most. 

Lyonel’s easy-going grin fades as Aerion makes his target known. His eyes lock onto yours, and you stiffen, shoulders rolling back as you stand to your full height. Just enough to look down your nose at him. 

Dunk moves to shift in front of you, but you shoot him a sharp look. You’re injured and beaten down from this morning; you appreciate his intent, but this is not a man you can afford to look weak in front of. 

“A Targaryen in my tent,” Lyonel muses, body positioned before your own. You can see the tenseness in the line of his shoulder, the shock at Aerion’s audacity to breach this unspoken barrier. “How quaint,” he scoffs. 

Your eyes cut to Lyonel before you move in front of him. “Your grace,” you greet, praying that you can stop Lyonel from doing something ridiculously foolish. Like striking a Targaryen prince, as it looks like he wants to. 

“You are the knight who bested me?” Aerion questions, eyes dragging up and down your form. Chills break out along your skin as he surveys you. Like a viper, determining if a mouse is too big to unhinge his jaw for. 

“Aye,” you answer. His gaze drops to the shield you’re still holding, the falcon crest you created. 

“I was not aware any female knights were participating in the tourney. Or any tourney,” he adds, words barbed and smirk sharp. 

Your eyes narrow as you let out a scoff. “Not so many nobles are as open-minded as Lyonel. He is the one who knighted me… if you’re doubting my legitimacy,” you hiss, not missing his barely veiled jab. 

Aerion lets out a long sigh, nodding his head as if that answers all his questions. “Ah, so it is the Baratheon who trained you?” He asks, speaking as if Lyonel is not standing just beside you. 

“No,” you answer before anyone can try to speak for you. You can feel the barely contained rage wafting off Lyonel. “Life trained me, hardened me, in the way it does for anyone who is not born with a great house attached to their name,” you narrow your eyes with a cruel smile. “Not all of us are so fortunate to be trained by Kingsguards and seasoned warriors.”

“And not all of us need to be,” Lyonel adds, hand landing on your shoulder as he takes a step closer to Aerion. 

The insult does not go unnoticed by the prince. The barely hidden stab at his spoiled upbringing and the knighthood that could so easily be handed to him. It’s the reason you beat him today. He may be a skilled fighter, but he lacks the grit hedge knights and smallfolks rely on to survive living under the thumb of men like him. 

“What are you–” Aerion steps forward, and you brush by him. 

“Thank you, Lyonel, for the shield. I’m afraid it’s time for me to retire.” You interrupt, drawing Aerion’s attention back to you. Lyonel’s jaw grits as he stares you down. Tonight was meant to celebrate your achievement. Your victory over the royalty. But he knows as well as you that if Aerion stays in the tent much longer, blood will spill. 

Finally, Lyonel nods, dismissing you. Your eyes flit past him, to Dunk and Egg. But the young squire has disappeared. Offering a brief nod to Dunk, you step through the pavilion. You don’t have to turn to know you’re being followed. The band resuming behind you is revealing enough. 

“I was not done with you,” a cruel voice taunts. You cast your eyes to the sky, pray to the Mother for strength, and turn back to the prince. “I wanted to meet the knight who bested me,” he tells you. And the fact that he says knight, not woman, sparks something dangerous inside you. 

“Alright, my prince, we have met. We have fought. What more could you want?”

He lets out a sharp huff of something close to laughter. His eyes drop to the shield. “I thought House Arryn had claimed the falcon.”

You tilt your head with a sigh. “Only a noble would think that a House can simply claim an animal all for themselves. There are plenty of Hedge Knights bold enough to display the animals of higher houses.”

He shifts, coming to stand beside you as you linger before Lyonel’s tent. Your eyes drop to the dagger on his belt; Valyrian steel. You’re lucky that thing didn’t kill you earlier. “A falcon defeating a dragon is simply… wrong.”

His eyes cut to yours, and they linger on your own, heavy with something that makes you uncomfortable. “Impressive, though. Even I have to admit.”

“It’s not as though I walked away unscathed,” you remind him, a pointed stare directed to his dagger. 

That only makes his smile go lax, less of a show and more amusement. Perhaps at your audacity in the face of draconic royalty. “You loosened one of my teeth,” he tells you. “I ought to take all of yours.”

“You knocked one of mine free,” you snap, eyes narrowed as you glare down at him. “I think we’re even. I beat you, your grace, without having to rely on dirty tricks,” you hiss. “You almost killed my mare today.”

“Did I?” he hums, shrugging. “Had we–”

“Don’t,” you’re quick to interrupt. “Whatever you plan to say. Whether it be ‘if the weather were fairer,’ ‘if the grounds had not been muddy–’ Don’t say it. You are one of the few men that I have ever fought who has not held back. Who has not looked at me and seen nothing more than a girl playing pretend. You fought me today, as brutally and bloody as you would any man. I beg, your grace, that you do not taint such a good fight with promises of what might have been. I beat you, that is all.”

Aerion draws back, brows raising as he tilts his head. “Are you aware of who you’re speaking to so brazenly?”

“Incredibly,” you tell him, voice flat. 

Something flickers in his gaze, a flash of interest, a twitch of his lips as he scoffs. “You beat me, woman; I accept that. I was only going to ask who your sponsor is.”

“I have no sponsor,” you tell him. His eyes flit to the shield, and you roll your own. “‘Tis a gift from Lyonel, for besting a dragon. Had I been a man, it would have been just as impressive. You’re an incredibly skilled fighter; I cannot deny that. Even if you do not fight honorably.”

“I am not so sure I would count beating a man bloody with your bare hands honorable, either,” he goads. “Have you ever considered joining the royal guard?”

Your brows furrow as you shake your head. “That's for sons of nobility, not lowly knights like myself. Certainly not for women.”

He rolls his eyes, casting his gaze to the sky much the same way you did earlier. “I’m saying I want you on my guard, woman. If I cannot beat you, I would much rather have you fighting for me.”

You can see it in his eyes, the expectancy of acceptance. He is a prince, offering a hedge Knight with no sponsor – and no name of her own – a place on his royal guard. It is an opportunity from storybooks, not reality. But here he stands before you. 

You bested him, and in you he sees a skilled fighter. Someone worthy of his attention because you beat him, even when he fought unfairly. Of course, a dragon would lay claim to the shiny new thing that has captured his attention. 

“No.” You tell him, leaving no room for anything else. 

He blinks rapidly, face screwing up as he recalibrates his brain around such an answer. “Excuse me?” He glares up at you. 

“No,” you tell him. “I quite like my life. I like traveling with no expectations of where I might go or who I have to serve. I’m not interested in a white cloak or a vow of celibacy.”

“I never said anything about celibacy–”

“It does not matter, my prince. My answer is no.”

His gaze narrows, tongue licks across his teeth as he sucks in a sharp breath. “After the tourney, I invite you to travel with my family. I believe I might change your mind.”

He begins to walk away, and you glare at him. “I said–”

“That was not a request,” he shuts you down coldly, retreating to the warm halls of Ashford. Your breath dances through the cool night air as your head falls between your shoulders. 

What the hell have you gotten yourself into? 

You’re training with the Fossoway boy when you see him again. He doesn’t pace the tiltyard where you spar. No, that’s too lowly for him, too close to the common blood. But he watches from the Targaryen pavilion overlooking the field. Hands braced on the railings as you knock Raymun to the mud over and over and over…

Honestly, it doesn’t feel like a real fight when the boy is barely a squire, let alone a knight. His cousin had tried to take you on earlier; you’d only had to knock him on his arse once before he gave up. At the very least, you can admire Raymun’s tenacity. 

You hold up your hands, needing a break before another round. Raymun stays lying in the mud, simply nodding as you step over him. You walk to the edge of the field, toward some benches, and pick up a rag, wiping the sweat from your brow with it. 

You’re taking a swig from your waterskin when he approaches. You don’t hear him coming, his steps disconcertingly silent. 

“Hardly a fight,” he notes, head tilting as he watches Raymun’s cousin walk over to him. He kicks at Raymun, shouting about letting a woman beat him. 

“Noble boys are never much fun to fight,” you tell him, smile sharp as he turns back to you with narrowed eyes. “With exceptions,” you amend. 

He straightens at that, the sharp edge of his lips softening just slightly. “I could offer you a real fight.”

“I’m still recovering from our last one,” you tell him, motioning toward the bandages at your waist. 

He sucks his teeth with a small shake of his head. “Not with me. The Kingsguard that traveled to the tourney with us, they’re grand fighters. Certainly more challenging than an apple boy.”

“Certainly,” you muse, gaze narrowing as you consider him. “Why do you want me to?”

“I want to see what you’re capable of,” he tells you simply. He turns on his heel and begins to walk off. You let out an agitated sigh, realizing he’s not giving you any choice but to follow him. You’re stubborn, but you’re not stupid enough to blatantly disregard a royal command. 

Even if that command is yanking on your leash like you’re some new mutt he’s found. 

“I’m quite tired, your grace,” you try. He shakes his head, stepping through the gates of the tiltyard. Beyond where you’d been training is a larger field. The ground is more even, less of a rugged, muddy terrain. Men in loose shirts and trousers spar lightly with one another in the center. 

They straighten as the gate closes behind them, swords dropping to their sides as Aerion approaches. Your brows furrow at that, like some sort of practiced performance. Had he planned for this?

How odd. 

He glances over his shoulder at you before nodding you forward. “My lady,” one of the guards greets. 

“She’s not a lady,” Aerion corrects before you can, gaze sharp on the knight. 

The man’s chin dips in apology. “Pardon– Ser,” he corrects. Your eyes flick uncertainly toward Aerion as you lift your sword. 

“I suppose we’re meant to spar,” you tell him. He glances over at his prince, who is watching you both with rapt attention. He seems just as confused by his behavior as you. He turns back to you, offers an easy smile, and you bare your teeth at him. “Take it easy on me, and I’ll take your head. Kingsguard or not,” you snap. 

He draws back in shock before letting out a low laugh. “I see why he likes you.” He raises his sword, and you offer a sharp smile, lifting your own to clash with his. 

The rest of your day is consumed by the Prince’s whims. He sets you on his guards, watches you spar. Watches you sweat and bleed as you’re worn down by his never-ending supply of opponents. You’re blessed not to have to fight on the morrow. 

You don’t know if he’s trying to wear you out, run you down, or what his intentions are. His eyes never strayed from you, intent on tracking each of your moves. Absorbing your method and style as you danced around his guards and struck them down. 

They were certainly more entertaining challengers than your previous foes. These were trained and hardened men. With bodies hewn from years of wielding a sword for their King and princes alike. 

You found yourself knocked to the mud more times than you could count. It was far more entertaining when they released their ideologies about you being a woman and started cutting you down like a man. 

When the setting sun begins to cast its glow across the dew of the field, and you, as well as the other Knights, are scattered across the mud, panting– Aerion finally releases you. He comes to stand before you, hands tucked behind his back, head tilted. It’s the first time since you’ve met he’s been afforded the opportunity to look down at you. 

“You may return to your apple boys and stags,” he dismisses. 

“Truly?” you demand, a fresh welt on your cheek leaking blood. “That’s all?”

He hums and begins to walk off. “That’s all.” He disappears back into Ashford’s halls, and you scoff incredulously. The man thinks himself a dragon wrought in human flesh; you will never understand him. 

But this was quite an odd way to spend your day. 

One of the royal guards offers you a small smile as he passes by, clapping your shoulder. “You’re quite the skilled fighter,” he compliments. Though that shock in his voice makes the jagged edges of his words grate across your skin. 

“A Kingsguard shouldn’t let a hedge knight sweep him off his feet. You do both of us a discredit when you hold back,” you bite out, getting to your feet and ignoring the hand he offers you. “If we are ever to meet on a field such as this again, I recommend you do not pull your punches.”

His expression hardens, the kindness in his eyes disappearing as you turn on your heel, dismissing him. You trudge back to your tent, without the energy to find Lyonel tonight. 

And while you sleep, the prince visits a puppet show. He watches as the puppeteer slays her faux dragon, and he decides it’s a grave crime. While you sleep, the prince breaks her fingers, and a hedge knight defends her honor. 

When you wake on the morrow, the news has already spread throughout the camp. Ser Duncan will be on trial in a day’s time. 

“Lady Wyght,” someone calls outside your tent. You frown, looking up from where you’d been sharpening your sword. Placing it down, you tuck your dagger in your belt and approach the tent flaps. 

“Not a lady,” you call out, stepping into the early morning sun. Three Targaryen household guards stand before you, decked in the dragon’s colors. “What do you want?”

“Prince Aerion Targaryen demands your presence at once.” Demands, not requests; he could not even grant you the manners of pretending you have a choice. 

Your eyes narrow on them, the lax way they stand, their eyes drifting past you– bored of carrying out the Prince’s orders. You could easily knock them down, take their swords and send them scurrying back with their tails tucked. But you don’t need to find yourself in the middle of a royal scandal as sweet, foolish Dunk has. 

“Alright,” you agree. The one in front nods curtly before turning on his heel, marching off to Ashford Hall. You glance back at your tent, almost wishing you’d brought your sword, and follow behind him. 

Anger bubbles in your gut as they lead you through the tents and camp. Past the tiltyard and into the hall. It broils and settles under your skin like something buzzing and alive. It’s astonishing, the audacity of the prince, to demand anything of you after what he’d done. 

Their boots echo through the stone halls as they march you up the stairs, one at your back and front so you can’t go running off. It’s not like you would. You’re itching to see Aerion, to give him a piece of your mind. 

“–and Daeron will–”

“I will not have Daeron fight for me,” Aerion hisses out. You believe it’s his father’s voice in the room with him as you approach. They’re bickering about something, possibly the upcoming trial. “I have someone to fight for me.”

“Oh, and who would that be?”

The guards open the doors for you, and you step into the room. Prince Maekar Targaryen turns from his son and faces you. His eyes narrow, gaze flitting up and down your form as he shakes his head. “Who the fuck are you?”

You bristle at his tone and are forced to remind yourself of what he could do if you pissed him off. “My knight,” Aerion boasts, smug as he shoots his father a knowing look. You dislike the way he drags out the my. You are not his anything. “She will fight in Daeron’s place.”

“This is the one who unseated you?” Maekar demands, glancing over at you warily. 

“Aye,” you answer him. “Though, I’d love to know why I was brought here.”

“As would I,” Maekar grits out, glaring at his son. You shift uncomfortably as they both posture before each other. You have been exposed to far too much royalty of late. With your luck, the bloody heir would walk through the doors next. 

You grimace, glancing over your shoulder, checking they’re still locked. That truly is the last thing you need. 

Aerion lets out a long-suffering sigh, as if you should both already know his intent. Though, you doubt he ever understands his own motivations. “The trial is to be a trial of seven. Seven knights for each side,” he explains to you. “You are going to fight for me,” he tells you sharply. 

“No.”

Maekar stiffens at the outright rejection, eyes widening slightly as he watches his son carefully. Aerion goes still, blinking as his expression slowly settles into something unreadable. “You deny a command from your prince?”

“Is it a demand?” you ask simply. 

“No,” Maekar butts in. “No one can force you. You must fight of your own volition.”

Aerion whips around to his father, muscle of his jaw flexing as he takes in a sharp breath. You don’t like this, being here stuck in a fight between two dragons with sharp teeth and sharper words. This is not your place; it never has been. 

“Tanselle was my friend,” you tell them both. They stare at you blankly, and something sharp curdles in your gut. “The puppeteer whose finger you broke,” you hiss at Aerion. “And you hurt her for no other reason than your bruised ego.”

Aerion rounds the table, stalking slowly toward you. You see Maekar stiffen behind him, almost looking as if he might reach out, try to stop his son. You shake your head minutely. 

“She ought not to have made the dragon lose,” Aerion chides, voice laden with a slow drawl that makes you burn. “Dragons do not–”

“Where are your dragons, my prince?” You bite out, glaring down at him, leaning until your nose is nearly brushing against his own. “They are all gone.”

Aerion sucks in a sharp breath, rearing back as something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “I could have your tongue for that,” he threatens. 

“For the truth?” you taunt. Maekar shifts uncomfortably behind you both, looking bored and done with this conversation. “The dragons are dead, and you broke her hand for no other reason except spiteful cruelty. There is no honor in you, no decency. And I do not fight for men I do not respect.” 

His hand lifts as his lips pull back with a snarl. “How dare you–”

“Enough!” Maekar’s voice booms through the room. He glares over at his son before his eyes cut to you. “Leave, now. And mind how you speak to your betters.”

You suck your teeth and step back from Aerion. “Apologies, your grace,” you offer bitterly. You turn toward the door, and Aerion bites out your name. 

“I’m not finished with you,” he warns, and you ignore him, striding through Ashford Hall until you’re back under the sunlight. Away from stone walls and the suffocating presence of dragons. 

Righteous fury thrums in your blood as you march through camp, heading toward the Fossoway’s tent. As expected, Dunk is inside, pacing the perimeter with his head in his hands. Raymun watches him helplessly; his little squire hovers just behind him. 

His head lifts when he finally notices you, eyes widening. “Ser, what are you–”

“I would fight for you, Ser Duncan, if you would have my sword.” Dunk’s eyes widen as a smile breaks out onto Egg’s face. Hedge Knight or no, whether or not you lack a strong house behind your name, you will not fight for a cause you do not believe in. 

And you believe in Dunk. 

“Are women even allowed to fight?” Ser Beesbury demands, face screwing up as he glances over at you. 

You roll your eyes, perched atop your mare as she waits impatiently at the gates. The trial will commence any moment now. Dunk has collected seven knights now that you have joined him; it is only a matter of time. 

“I don’t know,” Lyonel ponders. “Are you allowed to fight, Beesbury?” He offers a sharp grin as Beesbury bristles. Lyonel directs his steed toward you, stopping at your side. “Who are you more excited to fight? Personally, I can’t wait to spill some dragon blood.”

You give him an amused look. He raises his brows, tilting his head. “I know there’s someone.”

“A Kingsguard I’d sparred,” you finally admit. “I want to show him what a woman looks like when she’s not holding back.”

Lyonel chuckles to himself. “If it’s anything like your fight with the prince, I’m not sure he’ll survive it.”

The gates begin to open, and Dunk stiffens on his horse in front of you. He goes still before he’s lurching over the side of his stallion, vomit spewing from his mouth in one violently anxious wave. You grimace, and one of the other knights laughs as Raymun shortly joins him. 

“Fucking green boys,” he taunts. 

You shake your head, riding up beside him. You pat his back awkwardly, unused to sharing gentle words of comfort. You are not the maiden from tales of knights and dragons that gives her favor and spurs the men on with easy smiles. But you are here, at his side, and you will pledge your life and sword to him if he so demands it. 

Dunk looks up and glances over at you. You nod once, a severity in your eyes that conveys your loyalty better than words ever could. He glances behind himself, at the men ready to lay their lives down for the chance to spill royal blood. 

After a moment, he spurs his steed on. You follow closely behind him, pulling up your hair and shoving on your helm. Lyonel joins you at your side as you take in the tiltyard. Seven fences for each of you. 

Just like you’d hoped, a Kingsguard waits at the end of yours. 

Fog settles heavy around you; it swirls around the horse’s hooves. The pavilion of nobility, the field of common folk; they remain quiet. Your breath rattles through your helm, vision narrowed until all you can see is the man in front of you. 

Lyonel’s steed shuffles impatiently beside you; his grand, horned helm towers above him. Against the darkened sky, he paints the picture of noble death. Your heart beats hard against your chest plate, blood humming as you turn back to your opponent. 

The horns bellow, and you lift your lance, charging forward.  

He had died, the Kingsguard, with your sword buried in his neck, helm abandoned in the mud. He’d had nothing but a woman’s eyes to stare into as he choked on his own blood. It had been his fault. He had softened his blows, thought himself to be fighting honorably. 

There is no honor in underestimating your opponent. Nor in allowing them to win. 

You did not offer him the same version of “honor.” But he was allowed a warrior’s death. 

You lie in Lyonel’s tent as you have for the past few days. Your torso is bandaged tight from where you’d taken a mace to the gut. There is stitching across your forehead from the stray swipe of a dagger. 

Lyonel is on a crutch, his head bandaged and eye welting purple. But he is content. He fought Maekar, lived to tell the tale, and spilled dragon blood all in the same day. And the Prince could do nothing to punish him for his eagerness about violence against royalty. Everything you’d both done, everything that once would have been a sin, had been brought on and allowed by Aerion. 

Your body aches in ways it hasn’t in years, but you will take the pain if that means Dunk is free. The last you’d checked on him, he’d been under his elk tree. Thanking you and Lyonel both for your aid. 

Prince Baelor had declared him innocent once he’d grabbed Aerion by the scruff of his neck– forced him to yield. 

“I’d like to drink and not stop for the next week,” Lyonel muses beside you. 

“I’d drink if it weren’t for the hole in my gut,” you regard, not bitterly, but your voice is tired. He snorts at that and picks up his mead, taking another deep swig. 

You hear the clank of armor, of a sheath jostled against chainmail, and frown, sitting up. A low hiss escapes you as it tugs at the stitches along your stomach. “Ser Wyght!” A voice calls from outside Lyonel’s tent. 

“Whaddya want?” He demands, voice slurred from the alcohol he’s already indulged himself in. 

“Prince Maekar Targaryen demands Ser Wyght’s presence at once.”

You roll your eyes as Lyonel scoffs. “Do they have to say the cunt’s whole name?” He wonders aloud. You slap lightly at his shoulder as you get to your feet, tightening the laces of your shirt. “Try not to get your tongue taken,” he warns, amusement lacing his tone. 

You ignore him as you step out of the tent. It’s the same guards who had fetched you for Aerion. They look just as irritated as you that they’d had to fetch you once more. “On with you,” you mutter, waving them forward. 

It’s the nearly same path as the last time, but they take you down a different set of halls. Up winding stairs and into an office you’re sure belongs to the master of Ashford Hall. Maekar stands behind the desk, his back to you. 

He waves his hands and the guards leave you immediately. “Take a seat,” he mutters. You would object if you were not in so much pain. With a low groan, you settle yourself into the stiff chair before his desk. 

He turns, slow, eyes not meeting yours as he focuses on something in the distance. “Aerion is still bedridden. He has yet to wake up; the maester keeps him laden with milk of the poppy.”

You suck your teeth, raising your brows. “He’ll live, though?” Maekar nods, and you smirk. “Small blessings.”

“The last time I saw you, I told you to mind your betters. I see you haven’t learned much.” You bristle, straightening in your chair. It tugs at your wounds, but you ignore the ache as you meet his stare head-on. 

“The Kingsguard you killed was a good man and a better warrior–”

“Not good enough,” you bite out, caring little that it’s a Prince of the realm you’re interrupting. “He underestimated me; that was his folly.”

Maekar pauses, eyes narrowing as his jaw tightens. You expect admonishment, but he slowly nods, taking a seat before you. “Agreed. I have to admit, I was surprised when I saw you fight Aerion. I was surprised still when I saw you take on Ser Wylde.”

Had that been his name? 

“I know of what my son wished from you before this ridiculous trial. He wanted you to join his own personal guard.”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, a stone settling in your gut as you nod. “I also know you refused. A stupid fucking decision,” he bites out, glaring at you. “You are barely even a hedge knight. You are barely a knight at all.”

“I’m more a knight than your son. And you can take my tongue for speaking out of turn. But at least I know what honor is,” you snap back at him, nails digging into the arms of your chair. 

Maekar’s hands tense up on the desk, nose twitching as he fights back venom. “I will not deny that, but I will warn you to be incredibly careful what you say next. You do not have to join his guard, but I will respect his wishes. I want you to travel with myself and my family to Summerhall.”

You open your mouth to object, and he holds up his hand. “Consider it payment for your displacement of one of our guards. A month’s time, that’s all I ask. So that my son can sate this sudden itch he’s found himself with. And I don’t have to listen to him whinge on about the woman-knight he lost.”

“He does not have me,” you tell him. “How could he have lost me?”

Maekar lets out a sharp breath. “This is a command from your Prince. Do not argue.” He looks to some papers on his desk, effectively dismissing you. “We will collect you in two days when we leave.”

He calls for the guards, and they come in, helping you out of your chair and escorting you from Ashford. You make your way back to Lyonel in a daze, reality not having settled quite right. 

Dunk is in the tent with him; their grins drop as you walk inside. “What is it?” Lyonel asks. “You did not seriously have your tongue taken, did you?”

“Nearly,” you scoff, slowly making your way to him. You take the mead from his hand and swallow it down quickly, until the mug runs dry. Dunk watches you with wide eyes. “I am to ride with the Targaryens to Summerhall,” you tell them, blank stare settling on the floor.  

The tent is silent for a moment before Lyonel lets out a low, “What?”

You nod, “Prince Maekar has demanded my presence. On behalf of Aerion.” You look up and meet Lyonel’s furious stare. “I’m going to kill that little bastard,” you swear, and something like pride flits across his face. 

The rage subsides, for there is nothing to fuss or fight about. A dragon has made a demand; you must comply. His arm slings around your shoulders, dragging you into his side. You’re careful to avoid the sharp points of his stag crown. 

“Oh do be sure to give those royal cunts some hell for me.”

You meet Dunk’s eyes as he offers you a sorry look. “Perhaps it will be a good opportunity,” he offers. 

You and Lyonel both snort at that. “A month is all that’s been demanded. I’ll make myself intolerable.”

“Don’t have to work hard at that,” you slap Lyonel’s shoulder, and he grins. The mead flows between the three of you as you try to ignore the tightening in your chest. The way the fabric of the pavilion seems to drape ever closer. 

It’s only a month. 

Aerion is barely cognisant in the wagon as you ride beside him. He’s still hazy from milk of the poppy. Maekar had made it clear your only role right now is to simply stop him from tumbling off the side. 

You keep your hand reluctantly balled in the prince’s sleeves, hands on the reins of the horses. Your mare is somewhere in this long train of royalty. You don’t know where. They’d taken her, laid their supplies on her and then dismissed you to your new role. 

Dragons take so easily. 

Aerion mutters to himself, and you roll your eyes as his body lolls to the side. You jerk him back, and his head pops up for a moment, eyes heavy as he seems to realize you’re beside him. “You,” he mutters, voice sharp. “My knight.”

“Don’t call me that,” you admonish, grimacing as his head drops to your shoulder, eyes falling shut once more. 

Maekar rides up the line, head on a swivel as he searches for something. “Where is Aegon?” He demands, glaring back at the servants. “Where is my son?”

You ride past him, biting back a smile as your lips twitch. You think of Dunk, of his stubborn squire. At least one of you has escaped these people. “What are you so happy about?” Aerion slurs, glaring up at you. 

You shake your head and push his face from yours. “Nothing. Sleep, my prince. The road is long and weary.”

“You do not command me,” he slurs out, but then his head is falling once more, and he’s asleep. You should enjoy this while it lasts. The peace and quiet of him being too high to be of any concern to you. 

It is a week into the ride to Summerhall. You’ve been told by some of the servants that it should only be a few days more until you arrive. Your back is to a tree, the sound of passing water behind you. 

Aerion lets out a low grunt, and you glance over your shoulder. He’s relacing his trousers as you fully turn. “This is humiliating,” you tell him, no bite to your voice. 

“You are my guard,” he turns with a sharp smirk, staring up at you. “Guard me.”

“While you piss?”

“The road is a dangerous place; you said it yourself,” he taunts, brushing past you. You scoff and follow behind him. 

“You realize I am not truly your guard. Your father has only demanded my presence for a month, no longer.”

Aerion’s jaw clenches at that, expression hardening as he looks at you. “The month does not start until we arrive at Summerhall. Until then, you do as you are bid by your prince.”

You open your mouth, and his eyes widen with interest, goading you on. Your mouth snaps shut with a click. “Yes, my prince,” you acquiesce. He nods at that, returning to the wagon. The entire train of people that he’d forced to stop because he had to make water. 

Much of the ride has gone like this. He makes small, frivolous demands, testing the patience of you and his family. They have not snapped, yet; you refuse to be the first to break. Aerion climbs back onto the wagon while you go to mount your horse. 

“No,” he stops you with only a word. “Ride beside me.” 

Your teeth clench painfully tight as you turn to face him. He tilts his head, waiting as he leans into the spot beside him. You shake your head, passing off your mare to a nearby servant before climbing onto the wagon beside him. 

Baelor and his son travel ahead in carriages. You think this is Aerion’s punishment, for the trial. Riding in a wagon like smallfolk. But he does not mind as you hold the reins, as he leans back on the bench with the smug satisfaction of a cat whose just caught itself a bird. 

If this is what the next month will look like, it will be a miracle if you survive it without being charged with treason.

Summerhall is grand in a way you could never put into words. With domed roofs, white walls, and a sprawling estate, it is possibly the most beautiful place you’ve ever been. You have explored much of Westeros and seen miraculous things. 

But this is beautiful in a noble way. The architecture, the gardens, the way the castle seems to capture and reflect the sunlight… it is a beauty created by nobles you thought not possible. 

It is incredibly difficult to mask your reaction as you ride in with Aerion. He observes you from his spot beside you, eyes narrowing with interest, lips curling as your mouth parts in awe. “If you think this is impressive, you’ll go into shock once you see the Red Keep.”

Your mouth snaps shut as you glance over at him, the haze of Summerhall dissipating. “I have seen the Red Keep from below. In the muck of Fleabottom.” Something burns in your chest as you look away from him. “It is not so beautiful from there.”

Besides, you will not be with him long enough to travel to the Red Keep. 

Aerion lets out an irritated huff that you ignore as the servants guide your wagon toward the stables. He jumps off the bench and holds his hand out toward you, expectant. You glance down at it before ignoring him and stepping down. 

His face tightens at that, but he doesn’t point it out. Rather, he takes your arm in his hand and leads you through the sprawling estate. “I will show you to your rooms.”

You glance over your shoulder, brows furrowing in confusion as you watch the Kingsguard walk in the opposite direction. “This is not the way to the barracks,” you point out.

He snorts, “Gods no. You won’t be sleeping there. You’re to be my guard; I want you close by.” He cuts his eyes up to you with something smarmy in his smile. “Should I need you for anything,” he taunts. 

You bristle, but decide it’s easier not to argue. 

He takes you through the winding halls. Long carpets muffle your footsteps as you make your way up the stairs. Stained glass windows cast the colored shadows of prismatic flowers across the floor the higher up you go. 

It’s quieter in his section of the castle. It takes a moment for you to realize that no one else has claimed a room anywhere near him. He is isolated, whether through choice or his own family’s wariness; you’re unsure. 

He stops you in front of an arched door. “My room,” he tells you. He turns you and marches you three steps forward. “And yours,” he tells you. 

You shoot him a disbelieving look as you glance between his room and your own. “We’re across from each other.”

He tilts his head, huffing out a laugh. “You understand the purpose of a guard, don’t you?”

Your eyes twitch, and you are a hair away from striking a royal across the cheek. Instead, you force yourself to turn, to throw open the doors of your new room for the next month. You stagger to a stop as he lingers behind you, smug as he takes in your expression. 

“Better than a hedge, isn’t it?” he taunts. 

It is certainly grander than any place you’ve slept. The bed is four-postered and larger than any you’ve ever seen. There is a hearth where the fire has already been stoked, a chaise across from it with a flagon of wine on the table. 

There are shelves full of books and a desk pushed into the corner. It is larger than any inn you’ve been in and far better decorated than any tree you might have slept under. But this… 

This is a room meant for a lady. 

“I should be in the barracks,” you tell him, tone hardening as you force the wonder from your voice. 

His brows draw in, eyes narrowing as he shakes his head. “I already told you–”

“I know what you told me. It doesn’t change the fact that I am a knight, a soldier. I should be in the barracks, same as the others–”

“You forget yourself,” he interrupts. His voice is low, calm as he stalks closer to you. Your shoulders stiffen, expression hardening as you look down at him. “I am your prince. It does not matter how you feel,” he tells you, tone soft as he reaches up, brushing some of your hair from your shoulder. 

You shudder at the touch, biting your tongue. “Besides,” he continues. “I do not trust those men with you. A woman in the barracks, knight or not, I won’t have it. Not with you. You will stay here, as I said,” he tells you, voice sharpening at the end. There is no room for argument. 

Sucking your teeth, you nod. “As you wish, my prince.”

“Very good,” he hums, releasing the strand of hair he’d been curling around his finger. “What do you think of your room, then?”

“I appreciate it, my prince,” you respond stiffly. His eyes narrow with dissatisfaction at that.  “Thank you, Aerion,” you try again, forcing something kind into your tone. He presses closer, and you find yourself drawn down to him, breath stuttering as your noses brush. 

He pulls back abruptly, and you let out a sharp huff. “The Kingsguard train at dawn, I want you there.”

“Yes, my prince,” you respond.

He nods. “I’ll fetch you for dinner,” he tells you, promptly turning on his heel and closing the doors behind him. 

You shrug off your cloak, tension ebbing from your shoulders as you toss it onto the desk. You peer around the room and find a tub already filled with water. Stripping out of your clothes, you decide to wash the week's worth of travel off. 

You miss the small creak of your door as the prince steps back in, having forgotten another order for you. The words fall from his lips as he watches you, eyes rapt on your body. The scars along your skin from fights lost and won. The sword-hewn muscles in your arms as you sink into the tub. 

You tilt your head back, hair draping along the edge as you let out a low, satisfied noise. His eyes rove across your body. His knight– before he steps back into the hall. 

As your prince demanded, you showed up at dawn to spar with the Kingsguard. It’s not quite as brutal as it had been at Ashford. There is order here, a schedule to things that Aerion cannot wholly control. 

It is Ser Crakehall that you spar with this morning, an older man, with fine features. He does not hold back as your swords clash against one another. Nor does he soften his blows as he barks orders at you on how to correct your form. 

You appreciate it more than you care to admit. 

Aerion watches from above the training yard, arms crossed along the bannister with interest as he stares down at you. There are other ladies beside him, tittering at the knights sparring. They got over the shock of your presence quick enough. 

You duck under Ser Crakehall’s blade and find yourself glancing up. Aerion’s sharp eyes are already on you, a tilt to his lips as he watches you. A blade swipes against your arm, and you hiss, ripping your eyes away from the prince. 

“Focus,” Crakehall snaps, shooting you a pointed look. 

“Come on then, old man,” you taunt, jumping back a step as he lunges at you. Blood weeps from the cut on your arm. Sweat makes your shirt cling to your back as you duck around his swing, sweeping your leg behind his foot and sending him to the floor. 

Crakehall lets out a low groan, the air rushing out of him as he lies before you. You offer a winded laugh, grinning down at him. “Two to three now, I’ve nearly got you beat,” you goad. 

“Nearly,” he shakes his head. “But not quite.” You offer your hand, and he slaps his palm in your own, letting you help him to his feet. “I must admit, I’m quite enjoying the challenge,” he tells you, a shine in his eyes that makes your grin widen. 

“As am I. I rarely meet men so willing to beat a woman’s arse,” you laugh. He smiles at that and lets out a low huff of amusement. 

You had thought, after the Kingsguard you’d killed, this would be hard. That he would be vying for your head, for vengeance for his fellow knight. Apparently, the one you’d killed had been fresh. Not quite beloved by his men. 

Crakehall and the others seemed to harbor no ill will toward you for it, but you were still hesitant. 

“Another round?” Crakehall asks, retrieving his blade from the ground. 

You’re about to agree when Aerion calls your name from above. “Wyght,” he orders. “Be done for today,” he commands. 

You suck your teeth and cast your eyes to the heavens for patience. “Another time, then,” you tell Crakehall. He offers a low laugh and glances over at the prince. Aerion has disappeared down the stairs, most likely coming to collect you. 

“I have not seen him like this in some time,” he admits.

You watch Aerion appear at the corner of the courtyard and tilt your head. “Yes, well, some men despise a woman who can put them on their arse. Others…” you both watch Aerion stalk forward. “Others enjoy it a little too much.”

Crakehall chuckles as you walk away from him, already heading toward your prince. 

Sweat drips down your neck as you reach him; it pools down your clavicle and dips beneath your shirt. Aerion tracks the droplets, eyes rapt on the sheen of your skin as you come to stand beside him. 

“You let him get the better of you,” he admonishes. 

“Ser Crakehall is a better knight than I; I can admit that.”

His eyes narrow as he shakes his head. “No,” he purses his lips and begins to walk ahead of you. “We will fix that,” he promises. You roll your eyes in exasperation, following behind him. 

You had lost sight of Aerion after dinner. You do not sup with his family; you are not royalty or bound to them by marriage. You eat with the other soldiers, in the barracks, despite Aerion’s irritation. It is enjoyable, amicable as you jest with them. 

They are far more welcoming than you once thought they would be. Perhaps it only takes knocking a few of them on their arse to earn that respect. 

But, after you eat, it is time to return to your prince’s side. You stand guard in the dining room at his request, despite how much it irritates his father and unsettles his uncle. He insists that he needs you. That threats lurk around every corner. A Targaryen can never be too careful. 

Maekar always rolls his eyes at that. But he’s gotten to the point where it's easier to let Aerion just win these little things rather than spend the night arguing. 

After dinner, tonight, however, he’d escaped your eye. You don’t know how much you care to track him. But you’d put in the barest effort. Checking in the courtyard, the gardens, the library, and then finally knocking on his door. 

Once you’d decided sleep was more important than wherever he was sulking, you turned to your own room. Pushing open the doors, you let out a tired groan as an ache settles in your muscles. Training with Crakehall and the other men has been more of a challenge than you’ve dealt with in months. 

That consistent, honing schedule is far more than you’d been prepared for. But you’d be lying if you said you did not love the ache of muscles reforming into something stronger. 

The fire is already crackling in your hearth. And you are not surprised when you see a familiar white-blond head of hair draped along your chaise. His head is on the armrest, arm draped along the back as a goblet of wine dangles from his hand. 

“My prince,” you greet, taking off your cloak and tossing it over your desk. Aerion does not move from his spot on the chaise or attempt to greet you. A frown tilts your lips as you make your way slowly to him. 

He stares into the fire, the flames casting a golden light across his sharp features. The angles of his jaw and expression truly do remind you of a dragon. The goblet wobbles precariously in his hand as he lies there. 

You kneel before him, tilting your head as you take in that guarded look in his eyes. “Aerion,” you whisper, reaching out to him. Your fingers brush some hair from his forehead, the callouses of your hand rough against his soft skin. 

His eyes close as he tilts his head, leaning into your touch. “Is something the matter, my prince?”

“Are you happy?” He suddenly asks, eyes opening and boring into yours. You jerk back slightly at the intensity of his gaze. “Are you happy here?” He demands again. He sits up, and you don’t dare take your hand off him, knowing it’s the only thing keeping him from pouncing. 

“I– I suppose,” you settle on weakly. 

His eyes narrow, chest heaving as he inches ever closer. “Are you happy when you spar with Crakehall?” he snaps, the goblet falling from his hand. Crimson spills across the furs in front of the hearth. You rip your eyes from the stain, finding him once more. 

Is this… “Are you jealous, my prince?” you whisper. “You are the one who told me to spar with him,” you remind him. “I only do what you ask.”

He lets out a sharp huff, shaking his head. You reach up, cupping his face in both your hands. “I am happy with you,” you tell him, surprised that it doesn’t taste like a lie as it rolls off your tongue. 

Perhaps it isn’t a lie. Perhaps this once gilded cage has become something new to you. Something to hone you into a new beast, a better knight. And, loathe as you are to admit it, it is Aerion’s fault that you are here. That you have been afforded these opportunities you never would have had before. 

His eyes flash with something you don’t understand, darting between your own, looking for some form of untruth. You don’t look away, allowing him to peer as deep into you as he wishes. He creeps closer, slipping from the chaise and kneeling on the floor in front of you. Your hands do not leave his face, even as you both lean closer. 

He is alluring, attractive in a way that is serpentine and feels very much like crawling into an ever-tightening trap. But what lowly hedge knight could ever boast that they had captured a prince’s attention so wholly as you have?

None. 

Not in this way, at least. 

“You’re happy with me?” He whispers, gaze dropping to your lips. You nod, and it feels truer the more you admit it. There is no warning when a snake strikes, when it sinks its fangs down and venom courses through your veins. 

There is no warning as Aerion lunges forward. His hands ball up the hem of your shirt, pulling you forward until you’re in his lap and his lips are on yours. It is not gentle or sweet like the princes in fairytales. 

His touch is consuming, fire trapped in flesh as his sharp teeth drag across your lips. His arms band around you, keeping you close as a serpent tightens around its prey. Your lips part against his demanding mouth, his scouring touch. 

He rolls you onto the floor, hips pressing into your pelvis as his arms bracket your head. You let out a low sound you have not heard from yourself before as pressure begins to mount in your core. 

His rough hands slip from your shirt; they dip under the hem, warm fingers dragging their way up to your chest. He explores your body as if he has a right to. As if you have always belonged to him and just finally admitted it. 

Your eyes twitch, fury spasming in your fingers as you grab his hips. He lets out a low noise of surprise as you roll him, pinning him down on the furs. You part from him with a gasp, lips swollen and split from the violence of his devotion. 

Your hands find his wrists and hold them above his head. He tilts, eyeing you warily as you glare down at him. Your chest heaves as you work to get air back into your lungs. “It’s not so easy, princeling,” you taunt, smiling cruelly down at him. 

“You cannot even best me in a fight, and you think you can just lay claim to my body?”

He lets out an angered noise, the closest thing to a growl a human can make. Amusement thrums in your skin as you watch him struggle beneath your weight, beneath the strength of your hands as you keep him where you want him. 

“You may hold my leash outside these walls,” you taunt, leaning down, your breath brushing against his jaw. He shudders as your teeth nip lightly at the sensitive skin there. “But the same cannot be said in here, do you understand?”

You lift back up and stare down at him expectantly. His face says he wants to fight you, to show you that he is stronger. But there is pressure growing between your legs, something pushing up between his own that betrays his own want. You smirk, slowly grinding your hips down against him. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, head tilted back and neck exposed as you continue your teasing ministrations. “Words,” you chide, leaning down to sink your teeth into the junction of his neck. He lets out a low groan, grimacing, but his hips buck against your own. 

“Fine,” he hisses out. 

You doubt he will give up so easily next time, but he is desperate now. Laid down and wanting beneath you. You pluck at the laces of your shirt and nod down at him. He follows your lead, tearing off his tunic as you do the same. His hands reach out greedily toward your chest. 

You click your tongue, and he pauses, jaw clenching as his hands drop back to his side. Slowly, you stand, undoing the ties of your trousers and letting them fall to your ankles. You nod expectantly at him, and he stands, following suit. 

Feeling just the slightest bit indulgent, you take his hand in your own, let it skate up the scars of your stomach, let him cup your breast as you take his face in yours once more. The kiss you guide him into is less aggressive but no less demanding. Just as impassioned, still fueled by something you cannot tell if it's hate or attraction. 

You push his shoulders back as his nails dig into the skin of your waist. Let him drop back to the floor as you straddle his hips once more. You reach between the pair of you, guiding him against your entrance that has been slick since you found him in your room. 

You have been waiting for this. Watching as his gaze teeters on that edge of obsession and possession. Waited to find another way to put him back in his place. He holds the power at Summerhall, outside these walls– but here… Here it is yours. He is yours. 

You let out a low hum, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you sink fully down on him. Aerion gapes up at you, hands flexing on your sides. It takes a moment before you realize he’s waiting for permission. 

Eyes narrowing, you slowly nod. His reaction is immediate, hips bucking up into yours and ripping a sharp gasp from you. It feels like another battle, another fight to be tugged at and won between the pair of you. 

His arms snake around your body, hips thrusting up into your own as you bear down on him, letting your body sink onto him with an aggression no other man has wrought from you. Teeth and nails, the kiss is bloody, your coupling far from romantic as you take him on the floor before your fire. 

You want to taste his blood on your tongue, see defeat settle in his eyes as he submits to you. You jerk back from the grasp, shoving him fully to the floor as you pin him once more. Your thighs tighten around his, ignoring his protests as you take your pleasure from him. 

Your hips slam against his own, and you’re sure that you will both be bruised tomorrow. But his pain is your pleasure, and he soaks up the attention like a disregarded stray. Something mounts in your core, a tidal wave, a flurry of your rage and hatred toward him that bursts through your stomach as your hips stutter over his. 

You slow, hips slowly rotating against his as you settle in the aftermath of your completion. He’s still staring up at you, waiting for permission. You slip off of him, and he hisses in displeasure. You don’t give him long to complain as you wrap your hand around him, grip tight, your rough callouses making his hips buck eagerly. 

It does not take long before he’s finishing in your hand, spend splattering across his stomach. You sink back with a satisfied grin, tilting your head as you take in the way he struggles to catch his breath. 

“Still with me, my prince?”

He growls something at you that you don’t quite catch. You grab your tunic from the floor, slipping it on as you drape yourself across the chaise. His head lifts, following you. He does not bother redressing as he joins you, smothering you with his weight as you both struggle to fit on the small chaise. 

Neither of you complains. 

You have just entered the courtyard for your daily spar with Crakehall when you feel it. That stare burning into your back, heady with malicious intent. You glance over your shoulder, leaning on your sword as Aerion approaches. 

Your lips tilt with something smug as you regard him. “Joining us today, your grace?”

He stops before you, jaw clenched as he holds back something in his expression, eyes glinting up at you. “Spar with me today,” not an offer but a demand. 

You glance over at Crakehall before tilting your head, considering your prince. “Not too tired, are you?” Lips curling with suggestion. Crakehall smothers a laugh as he glances away from the pair of you. 

Aerion’s eyes are alight with challenge as he studies you. “You’re not worried I’ll best you, are you?”

You lean further onto your sword and shake your head. “I am not so prideful that I cannot admit you are a great fighter, my prince. You could easily best me. Just as I have you.”

He preens at that, shoulders rolling back and something sharp cutting across his lips as he huffs. “Then spar with me, today.” You’re confused, but you nod nonetheless, lifting your sword and motioning him forward. 

He begins to unsheathe his own sword, pausing as he tilts his head, eyes narrowed with predatory intent. “How about a wager?” he offers. 

Suspicion crawls up your spine, seizes your neck as you stiffen. “What sort of wager?”

Aerion’s smirk turns deadly, eyes growing cold as he unsheathes his sword. “Your month with us will be over soon. Should you win, I will let you go.” Was he not going to before? “But if I win, you stay. Join my guard and pledge your sword to me.”

Crakehall has drifted back to the perimeter of your spar, his brows perk with interest as he glances between the pair of you. You look to him for aid, but he simply shakes his head. The whims of the prince– the ones he lets you know about– are always hiding something worse. Something more malicious. 

Why does he so desperately desire you to be his guard?

You know that Aerion could beat you. His father and uncle had interrupted your last fight, stopped you before you killed each other. This is different. This is a simple spar. The playing field is even, no mud to sink into and blind you. There is a small audience of Kingsguard who have suddenly grown interested in their prince’s strange behavior. 

Agreeing to this is damning. It could go either way. 

But there’s something about his stare. That taunt in his eyes that is just daring you to turn him down. To admit that he’s bested you. “I agree,” you mutter, grip tightening around your sword. His smile turns sharp, eyes going cold as he nods. 

There is no horn to announce the start of your match. He simply lunges, and you lean in to deflect him with your sword. But he pivots at the last moment, slams the flat side of his blade into the spot Crakehall had kicked you yesterday. 

The bruise is still tender, still aching. He would have seen it last night. You let out a low groan, whirling around on him and blocking the next swing he aims at you. That bastard had planned this. Had catalogued the weak points of your body and paid attention. 

You attempt to kick his leg out from under him, but he jumps away from you like he’d been expecting the move. Your brows furrow as you circle each other. There is something eager on his face. Eager and hungry, as his sharp tongue licks at his teeth. You suck in a shaky breath as he lunges forward, just barely blocking him. 

He’s playing a different game than you are. 

You strike first, and Aerion easily dodges the swipe, but you pivot on your heel, throwing your arm back and catching the back of his head as he tries to dart past you. He lets out a low hiss, flinching forward as he whips back around. His sword catches the edge of your shirt and tears through the material at your arm. You glance down and see blood begin to leak down your skin. 

Contact could count as the end of this. But he doesn’t say anything, just watches you expectantly, brows raised as he rocks back on his heels. You bare your teeth, throwing wild blows at him, no intent or real thought behind them. Just something to disorient him, to make him forget about whatever he thinks he knows about your fighting style. 

You think of something you’d once heard from an older knight. He no longer played in tourneys because when he fought a man, he didn’t want him to know what he was capable of. 

As Aerion bears down on you, sharp teeth pressed in a manic grin, you realize he was right. All this time– demanding you train with the Kingsguard, insisting he watch– even that first night back in Ashford when he’d made you spar from dawn till dusk. 

The whole time, he’d been watching. Learning the way your body moves across a battlefield. The specific steps of your dance as you spar with someone. Learning what you do when you're desperate, tired, or feeling entirely too cocky. 

And he knows, now. Just how to beat you. 

He does what you so often do to others. With his sword bearing down on yours, blades uncomfortably close to your faces, breath mingling– he wraps his foot around your own, yanks just hard enough for you to lose your balance. 

You drop to the ground, hard. The air rushes out of you in one wheezing gasp that makes you forget the pain as you scramble for breath. Your sword falls from your hand, and you quickly turn to reach for it. 

A hand snaps out, tangling through your hair and jerking you back by the scalp. You let out a low yelp as Aerion presses his sword to your throat. “Yield,” he growls out, eyes burning as he glares down at you. 

“Never,” you gasp out, water lining your eyes as his nails dig into the tender skin of your scalp. Something warm begins to dribble down your throat. It drips down your clavicle and pools in your shirt. Your eyes meet Crakehall’s from where he watches you both, and you see true fear in his gaze. For you.

The edge of Aerion’s sword bites further into your throat as you gasp out, “I yield.”

He releases you at once, and you fall forward, hands scrambling up to your throat. They come back crimson, coated in your own blood as you lurch to your feet. “A spar,” you spit out, turning on him with a burning rage. “You nearly took my head.”

He leans on his sword now, shrugging cavalierly. “I won,” he corrects. “Now, I believe I’m owed something.”

You scoff; he cannot be serious. You need to take care of your wound, to clean out the gash and see if it needs stitching. But he’s nodding to the ground before him, and you realize that you have no choice. 

Dropping your hands to your sides, you slowly make your way toward him. Everything in you screams at you to stop. But he won, and you’d agreed to these terms. Slowly, you drop to one knee, kneeling before your prince. 

His eyes are alight with victory as he lifts his sword, resting it on your shoulder. “Swear your allegiance to me,” he demands. “Swear your loyalty.” His voice lacks its usual bite. There’s something eager and anticipatory lurking just beneath. The prize he’s been vying for far longer than you were aware of is finally in his hands. 

“I swear myself to House Targaryen,” you grit out, knowing that if Lyonel could see you now he’d take your head himself. “To Prince Aerion Targaryen, I swear myself to you. My sword is yours to command.” He tilts his head, sword tapping your shoulder impatiently. “My prince,” you bite out, looking up at him.

Even if you do not want to, you mean every word of your oath. He will never rid himself of you, not even if he commands it. Because you are nothing if you are not bound by honor. 

His smirk goes lax at the edges, softens into something covetous. “My knight,” he purrs. 

a/n: 🚬🤏😮‍💨good soup. If you couldn’t tell, this was a gender swap of typical Knight and lady tropes. If you couldn’t tell x2– I love humbling Targaryen men

It didn’t take much to convince her. She’d been getting bored with you, anyway. You suppose you should just be happy that Deran got to you first, that you didn’t die with a needle in your arm like so many other girls before you who had “lost their touch.”

You never questioned why her rotation of women was so quick, why their employment was so short-lived. But you all knew. Smurf didn’t make mistakes; she didn’t leave behind messes, and she had no room in her life for other women. Especially not when it came to her sons. 

Her fragile hold over Deran is already tumultuous, though. She knows it's not you that poses a threat to that tether. It’s the fact that her emotionally fucking her sons’ heads when they were kids didn’t stick with him. His pendulum swings the other way. 

It always brings a little smile to your face in those rare moments you catch him and Adrian together. Just one instance where Smurf hadn’t gotten what she wanted. You’re sure that's why she never bothers coming by the bar. She doesn’t like the reminder of her failure. 

And you certainly appreciate having one aspect of your life free from that woman. 

Letting out a low sigh, you bend down and grab a rag to wipe down the bar. The little bell above the door chimes as someone walks in. “We’re closing,” you call out. Bootsteps still come closer, and you frown, glancing over your shoulder. “I said– oh.”

Pope pauses for a moment, surveying you. “Deran’s in the back,” you tell him, offering a strained smile. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, rounding the bar and making his way through the kitchen to the back office. You continue with your closing duties, gnawing your lip as you think. 

You’re not scared of Pope, not really. You know what he’s capable of, but it’s Smurf that calls the shots. It’s always her that you have to look out for. The old lady’s a lot smarter than people want to give her credit for. 

You never knew why she didn’t let you have Pope. You’re certain you would have enjoyed it. There’s something about that intense look in his eyes– emotions so shadowed over, his gaze is almost empty. 

But Smurf never offered you up, always kept you hidden away. She knows how easy it is for you to get attached; maybe that’s why. You always struggled separating the act and the paycheck. 

In the back of the bar, you can hear Deran and Pope’s voices growing louder. Your head shoots up as the kitchen door swings open, banging off the wall. Pope storms through, jaw clenched as he stalks past you, muttering something to himself. 

You tilt your head as you consider him. The broad line of his shoulders, the strength of his body you can make out even under his loose shirt. He lets out a short huff, storming out of the bar. Yeah, you could definitely see yourself getting attached to that one in all the wrong ways. 

Deran comes out of the kitchen, and you jump, ripping your eyes away from the door. “Don’t let any more of my family come through,” he barks out. 

“You guys fight?”

He shoots you a sharp look that has you biting back a smile. “What the fuck do you think?”

“You know I don’t like your family, anyway,” you defend, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the counter. Deran goes quiet, and you roll your eyes, glancing back over at him. He’s giving you a knowing look that has you huffing. 

“I don’t like most of your family,” you amend. Throwing his hands up, he shakes his head, storming back to his office. You glance back at the door, almost wishing Pope would walk through again. He’s certainly more intriguing than the other Codys. 

Parties at Smurf’s place only have two directions they can go. High and low. High, of course, is when she brings out the good stuff, and everyone’s floating two feet above their bodies. Head lost somewhere in the clouds of smoke. Low is when some asshole, usually one of her sons, gets too drunk and starts a fight. 

It seems to be going high, this time, a good sign for you, considering you want nothing more than to relax tonight. Deran had been kind enough to get you a job at his bar. A handout, honestly, considering how much he already helps you out with. Turns out, the opening week of a new bar is hell on your back. 

You’re lounging back on one of Smurf’s pool chairs, lazily smoking a blunt Deran had handed you, as some girls flock around him. You’re certain they’re aware he doesn’t swing that way, but he's the tamer boy of the Codys. They probably just hope he might cut them a deal on whatever little baggies Smurf has him handing out. 

You don’t blame the girls. You’d rather take something from Deran than his brother Craig. You wouldn’t trust Craig as far as you can throw him. Especially not with that sleazy grin he always shoots you. 

A shadow falls over you, and the low tittering of the women goes quiet. You frown, lifting your sunglasses and glancing over at them. But the throng of women have scattered. Glancing up, you let out a little laugh, finding the reason standing over you. 

Pope has emerged from the house, arms crossed as he hovers at your side. You doubt he even realizes you’re beside him, or the effect he’s had on the partygoers. Honestly, you appreciate his presence for the quiet it provides. He’s got a good dampener effect on the rowdy parties that go on around here. 

“Having fun?” you try, not expecting much back from him. He glances down at you, brows raising. He probably just realized you’re there. 

“No,” he tells you bluntly, eyes narrowing on the blunt in your hand. You tap the tip of it, shaking some ash off by his feet. He lets out a little sigh that almost makes you feel bad for teasing him. 

“Really? You seem like the life of the party.” You shift higher up on the chair, back bowing slightly as you try to get comfortable. His gaze lingers on the top of your bikini before he looks away. His shoulders stiffen, arms tightening as he glares out at the rest of the party. 

“You’re too easy,” you mutter, flicking your glasses down and closing your eyes. 

The skin of his hand is rough, but his touch is barely there as he snatches the blunt from between your fingers. Your eyes shoot open as he gives you a sharp look. “Don’t fall asleep with this in your hand. You’ll burn the chair,” Pope quietly chides. 

You snort as he storms off, tossing the blunt into the trash as he goes. You wonder if he knows how often your stare lingers on him. How easy it is for you to seek him out in every room you walk into. You doubt it. And you really doubt he’d ever want used goods, as Craig so often calls you. 

You sink back into the chair, trying to get comfortable again. 

The universe seems to be flipping you one giant middle finger today. 

“Comfortable?” a rasping voice asks. 

You suck in a deep breath, mentally prepping yourself. “Yep,” you grit out, flicking your sunglasses up and offering a smile to Smurf. You’re certain it comes off more as a grimace than anything else. 

She offers something sickly sweet in return. It’s meant to come off as motherly or nurturing in some way. It does nothing more than set your nerves on edge. You don’t know why she tries any of her tricks with you. You know her intimately and have already seen past her many masks to the bitch below. 

She hums, laughing slightly to herself as she perches on the chair beside you. “Talking to Pope?”

“No,” you answer quickly. God forbid she think you’re trying to steal one of her precious boys out from under her. 

“Really?” She hums, sucking her teeth as she surveys the rest of the party. “Looked like you were the only girl who could stand being near him.”

You consider your response, wondering what constitutes her thinking you’re a threat. “He’s not so bad,” you finally settle on. 

Smurf says nothing for a while, and you begin to worry you’ve messed up. She knows that you're Deran’s friend. And, in no way, are you a threat to her already fragile claim over him. But Pope’s different than the others; she’s much more unpredictable when it comes to keeping her guard dog close. 

“Pope’s been having a hard time lately,” she finally tells you. “His mind isn’t where I need it to be.” 

Is it ever? You just nod, not voicing your skepticism aloud. 

“You know how it works with him. Usually, the girls I send in help soothe those fragile nerves.” Smurf lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. 

You tense up, muscles locking as you suck in a fragile breath. Yeah, you know how it works with him. You know all about the girls she sends to him. But there’s no reason for her to be bringing any of this up to you. Not now. 

“Pope…” she lets out a low breath, shrugging. “Pope’s different, you know that.” Everyone knows that. “It doesn’t work for him when he knows the girls are being paid.”

You hum, lips pursed tight as you struggle to think of a way out of this. “Interesting,” you whisper. 

Smurf lets out a little laugh, shooting you a sharp smirk. “Interesting,” she mocks, her tone cruel in its intentions. “You know what I want, don’t you, kid?”

You suck your teeth, arms winding tight around your stomach. You feel too exposed now. Body on display just like she wants. “I don’t do that anymore,” you bite out, forcing some sort of strength into your voice. 

“Please,” Smurf barks out a laugh, sitting back up and leaning in toward you. You can’t find the strength to meet her eye. But her stare is branding into your skin. “I know women like you. You’ll do anything if the price is right. Besides… don’t forget what I know about you.”

For a moment, the world goes quiet. There’s no party, no throng of people getting high and drunk in front of you. It’s just you, small as you’ve ever been, and Smurf. With that god damn smirk on her face, always one step ahead of everyone else. 

“You said you were done with me,” you whisper, tears clawing at the edge of your voice. 

Smurf shakes her head. “No, I said I was done for now. And now, I need you again. I’ll even be nice and pay you, sweetheart. Four hundred a session, not hourly.”

Your eyes fall shut, nails digging into your arms as you realize you have no choice. You can keep fighting her, but all that’ll do is take away your pay. You’ll be forced to do what she wants, and you won’t even make anything off it. “What am I doing?”

“Just… entertainment.” She reaches forward, touch cold as she slides the falling strap of your top up. “And Pope doesn’t know about our little arrangement.”

It’s Smurf. You don’t have a choice. Not with the dirt she’s got on you. At the very least, it’s Pope, not someone like Craig or Baz she’s asking you to sell yourself out for. 

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes watering as you stare down at your lap. 

Smurf gets up and pats your head. “Good girl,” she mutters, laughing as she walks away. One day… She’ll be dead. Buried somewhere six feet deep, and you’ll be there. 

Dancing on her fucking grave. 

You let yourself in with the key Smurf had given you. Just like she used to, she sent you a time to show up. Normally, that was accompanied by a name and place. But you already knew who she wanted you to take care of. And since they’d sold his house, there was only one place for him to be. 

Heading into the kitchen, you drop your purse on one of the chairs. There’s a low murmur in the living room, something playing softly on the TV. Sucking in a sharp breath, you fix your shirt and adjust your hair. 

It’s not typical of you to be nervous before one of these appointments. But you haven’t done this in a long time. And you already know none of your old tricks are going to work here. Pope isn’t anything like the clients Smurf used to toss you to. 

They had been looking for something carnal. Something quick that they could wrench pleasure from and then toss aside. Pope’s already a hundred times different from them just for not wanting his girls to be paid to be with him. 

There’s another factor you’re worried about. At least, when Smurf pays the girls, Pope knows they’re coming. He knows what’s coming and how he’s expected to perform. He’s not been briefed for you, and you’re barely ready for him. You’re not sure you want to know what it would feel like to be rejected by him if this goes wrong. 

Rolling back your shoulders, you force yourself to move. Rounding the corner into the living room, you stop short. “Oh.” The plan was to feign surprise, pretend you had been looking for someone else. But you don’t really have to feign anything right now. Not with Pope sitting on the couch in nothing but his boxers, watching… a bird documentary?

Clearing your throat, you blink a few times, trying to recover from the sight of him being half-naked. He seems just as taken aback, clearly expecting to have the house to himself today. His brows furrow as he watches you, hand twitching on his lap. 

“Sorry. Is Deran here?”

“No,” his voice cracks slightly as he shifts against the cushions. You feel a little bad. You don’t think you’re making him nervous, but he certainly isn’t confident. “He’s at the bar,” he explains, jaw clenching. 

“Oh,” you wave your hand and step into the living room. “My mistake,” you dismiss airily, shrugging. “Mind if I wait for him here? He shouldn’t be long.” Pope doesn’t say much or invite you closer. But you move forward anyway, not like you have much choice here. He drags a pillow over his lap as you take a seat beside him.

You’re decent enough to give him a few inches of space between you both, though you doubt that helps much. 

You can’t confidently say that Pope is nervous. But he certainly seems affected right now. Your eyes narrow on the way his leg bounces slightly, the wrinkles at the hem of his boxers. Smurf left, the house is empty, and he’s been on edge lately. Maybe he’d been expecting one of Smurf’s girls. 

He was right, in a way. But he didn’t get to know that. 

Your skirt hitches as you tuck your legs under yourself. You shuffle for a moment, trying to get comfortable and “accidentally” slipping too close to Pope. He jerks away from your touch, not hastily, but carefully. You catch a sidelong look from him before he redirects his attention to the TV. 

It’s easy to tell, just from the tautness of his shoulders, that he’s not hearing a damn word Attenborough is saying. 

You settle back against the cushions and let out a little sigh, thighs flexing as you slip just a bit closer to him. It’s harder with Pope. You can’t get this started the way you would with old clients. They had been expecting you, and in turn, they’d been expecting a quick release. 

Smurf made it clear that Pope isn’t allowed to know a damn thing about this arrangement. You’re terrified of what she would do if you messed this up in the first session. 

You’ll have to ease him into this. 

Sadly, that means suffering through an hour of a documentary that has you biting your tongue to keep from passing out from boredom. You spend the time creeping ever closer to Pope. Letting your thigh accidentally brush against his and pulling back quickly. Watching the sharp intake of breath in his chest from the contact. 

Having your fingers graze the back of his hand as you stretch. You watch these little reactions flash across his face, making you wish you had a better understanding of his body language. You keep up this little game until he stops flinching from your touch and starts leaning into it instead. 

You move closer, thigh brushing his leg, arm nearly pressed to his. He doesn’t move, just sinks a little deeper into the sofa. Your arm stretches along the cushions as you let out a low sigh. 

“Pope?” you mutter, voice low as you lean in closer toward him. 

“What are you doing?” He tilts his head toward you, eyes narrowed, a little quirk to his lips as his gaze drops to your mouth. 

You’re slightly taken aback and resist the urge to pull away. “What do you mean?” you whisper, trying not to break the tentative bubble around you. He doesn’t answer, just watches you, eyes running along your form as you stretch closer. “I mean, I thought I was being kind of obvious.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you let out a breathy laugh. “I like you, Pope. But you know… I just can’t tell with you.”

He grabs the remote, turning off the documentary before tilting his body toward you. The pillow shifts slightly off his lap and you inch closer. “Can’t tell what?”

“Well…” the arm draped behind him shifts, and you let your fingers brush against the nape of his neck, teasing into his hair. “I’m usually much better at reading people. But I just don’t know with you. Do you like me, Pope?”

His voice is rough as he speaks, and you don’t miss the way his gaze drops to your lips. “Why do you care?”

You let out a little laugh, “I just said–”

His hand comes up, taking your wrist in his grasp. It’s not rough, but you can’t slip away. Your eyes widen slightly as you back up. “Did Smurf put you up to this?” His expression hardens; whatever reaction you might have been eliciting out of him is gone. 

“What?” Your lips part as you shake your head. You let your eyes go wide with surprise, faux hurt, leaving them open until a little bit of water builds at the edges of your lashes. “No, I just–” You cut yourself off, putting on a proper show as you try to move away from him. “I’m sorry, this was so stupid,” your voice cracks around the words. 

Maybe you’re laying it on a little thick. But Pope is sharp, sharper than you’re comfortable with. He couldn’t have caught onto you that quick… could he? 

Maybe you’ve lost your touch. 

“I’ll just leave.” You get on your knees, trying to pull away. His hand tightens imperceptibly around your wrist, and you lift your eyes, meeting his gaze once more. “Pope?” you whisper, leaning just a little closer to him. 

He lifts off the cushions slightly, and you almost smile. You’ve still got it.

Tilting your head, you let your lips brush against his. Just barely, at first, hesitant like you really are nervous. And maybe, you are, just a bit. He pulls back for a moment, eyes darting along your face, gauging your honesty. 

After a moment, he tilts his head, nose brushing yours as he presses his lips to yours. There’s more force behind the kiss than you’d like. His body is stiff beneath you as you slide your leg over his lap, straddling him. There’s too much teeth in the kiss; it’s aggressive in a way that reminds you of your old clients.

But there’s something else that’s off. It’s like he’s simply not used to this. To something that hasn’t been paid for and wasn’t premeditated. His hands hover over you, uncertain. 

You let your palms drag along his broad shoulders, cupping his neck as you pull back. He stares up at you, lips parted and expression vulnerable in a way that makes guilt itch in your throat. 

He’s used to fucking and being done with it. He doesn’t understand intimacy like a man his age should. That’s no fault of his own, not really. 

“Slow,” you whisper down at him, waiting until he nods to kiss him again. His hands drop to your hips, squeezing once before settling there. You do your best to guide him into something soft, slow in a way that lets him follow your lead. He’s a quick learner, pulling you closer to him as he finds his own footing. 

You get more comfortable, settling in his lap as you kiss him. Something begins to press up between your thighs, his boxers growing tight as you let your fingers tangle in his curls. His hips buck, and you let out a little gasp at the bold move. His tongue darts across the seam of your lips, and you tilt your head, letting him deepen the kiss. 

His arms shift, wrapping tighter around your back as he tugs you closer. Your knee slips along the cushions, bumping into the remote. You both jump apart as a loud infomercial suddenly comes alive on the TV. “Shit,” you mutter, laughing as your forehead falls against his. 

He lets out a rough sigh as your thumb lightly traces his bottom lip. Pulling back, he leans further into your touch, following you. He’s staring up at you, waiting for… something. 

“Maybe we should take this to the bedroom,” you suggest quietly. The magic words, apparently, as he gets up from the couch. His arms are thick, secure around you as he carries you over to his bedroom. 

You lean down, pressing soft kisses to his jaw, trailing down his neck as he walks. You’re easing him into the idea of you. But you’re also trying to placate yourself. It’s a poor attempt to calm the racing beast in your chest. 

Your heart has been pounding against your ribs for the past few minutes. You know, in his own way, he’s not really a client. Certainly not like any you’ve ever done business with before. But your last experience…

Well, it had been your last for a reason. 

It’s hard to forget the kind of pain you’ve gone through, shoved into similar situations like this before. Always at the hand of the same woman. But it doesn’t have to be like that again. Not with Pope. 

He kicks the door shut behind him, turning and pressing you up against it. Your nails bite into his shoulders as he presses his nose to the crook of your jaw. He rests there a moment before slowly making his way back to your lips, just waiting. His shallow breaths fan across your face as you move forward, just enough to finally connect with him. 

Rough hands flex around your thighs before he turns you around, walking you both back to the bed. Your legs slip from around his waist as he lays you down. Your hand trails up into his curls, tugging as his touch skates down your body. Pulling at the zipper of your skirt. You break apart, just long enough for you to peel your shirt off. 

His fingers drag up along your bare skin. Goosebumps break out at the soft touch as he pulls back enough to get a good look at you. You would laugh if it weren’t for that look in his eye, slightly panicked and overwhelmed. 

You’d made the choice to forgo a bra, knowing what you were getting up to today. His attention is unmoving on your breasts, and you let out a little huff. “I don’t bite,” you tease, taking his hands in yours and guiding them up to your chest. “Usually.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, barely even moves. His gaze drags back up to yours, and you give him a little nod. Slowly, he cups your breasts, cold hands making you shiver. It’s been a lot longer than you’d ever tell anyone since you’ve been intimate. 

But… you’re liking this with Pope. For once, you’re not at the mercy of someone else. If anything, it feels like you’re holding the power here. His pleasure is only given if you will it. It’s certainly a feeling you could get used to. 

Your hands drag up his arms, resisting the urge to squeeze those thick biceps, and you draw him back down into another kiss. He’s already learning, softer with his approach, less aggressive. His palms skate down your body until he’s squeezing your waist. You try to pull him closer, legs closing around his hips, and his hands fall to the sheets. 

They flex at your sides as his body tenses. Pulling back, he won’t meet your eye, and you frown at the way his jaw clenches. There’s something sharp in his gaze that has your breath stuttering. You’ve seen the look before. In exes who knew what you used to be. 

That niggling question of whether you were clean? If you were still seeing your ‘clients’? You can’t blame him for thinking it, especially knowing his inclination toward cleanliness. But the hurt never lessens. That slight edge of rejection never gets any smoother. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, slowly releasing him. He says nothing, and you sit up on your elbows. “Pope,” you tell him, voice firm. “We don’t have to do this.”

“You want to,” he mutters, finally meeting your eye. Your lips purse as you fight back the ache in your chest. You know that look too. The sudden fear that if you don’t give this person what they want… they’ll leave too. 

You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he falls into the touch easily. “Come on,” you urge, moving up the bed and pulling the sheets back. 

He hesitates, hovering over you and still wondering if he should just do what you want. You pat the spot beside you, and he finally crawls under the sheets. You settle into the pillows, opening your arms to him. 

Pope watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed, before slowly sinking into your touch. Your hand settles in his curls as his head falls against your chest. It doesn’t take him much longer to melt completely against you, not as you play with his hair, nearly falling asleep yourself. 

It’s comforting, in an odd way. Being pressed into the sheets by someone’s weight– but, for the first time in a while, they’re not expecting anything else from you. It’s a man you actually want. Not one that’s paid to own you for a few hours. 

You lean back, drawing him closer as the sun sets through the window. 

Pope is long gone by the time the sun rises again. Letting out a low sigh, you get out of bed, pretending you don’t miss the warmth he’d provided. Your skin is more chilled than you care to admit as you get dressed. 

It’s not as if you’d expected him to stay. Smurf always has him out running errands for her or doing the odd jobs no one else will. For someone who wants her attack dog close, she sure hates having him in the house with her. 

As you slip out of his room, the rest of the house is quiet, save for some clinking coming from the kitchen. Walking in, you grab your purse off the counter. There’s an extra weight that hadn’t been there the night before. 

Smurf stands by the kitchen island, stirring her coffee with that smirk you’d love to carve off her face. “Fun night?”

Sucking your teeth, you straighten your skirt and nod. “It was nice,” you grit out. 

She shakes her head and nods at your purse. Looking inside, you see a thick wad of cash rolled up and tossed carelessly inside. “Good girl,” she mutters, brushing past you. She gives your ass a little pat as she heads toward the pool. 

You bite back something venomous, nails digging into the soft skin of your palms as you take in a fortifying breath. It’s not worth it. 

You storm toward the front door. The anger inside you begins to dull as you start heading back home. You feel dirty. It’s the first time you’ve left a job of hers without someone else's fluids drying between your thighs. Or new bruises on your body. 

Still, you feel cheaper than you have in a long time. 

You want to convince yourself that you needed to do this to survive. You can’t survive off the shitty tips you make at Deran’s bar. And she could ruin your life with the knowledge she holds over you. 

That doesn’t stop you from feeling like scum. 

You’ve gotten better at noticing him before he makes himself known. It’s his stare, you think. It’s so heavy, so intent, it’s almost impossible to miss the weight of it on your back. His gaze is still something predatory to you– not that you don’t enjoy it. But you know better than to think of it as something empty, or compare it to the blind hunger of a shark, like you used to. 

Lifting your head, you offer Pope a small smile as he stalks into the bar. There’s not really another word you can think of for that unique stride of his. 

He brushes brusquely past the customers who are leaving. It doesn’t take long for people to simply make room for him. It's incredibly impressive– and attractive– how he can take control of a room without ever saying anything. Maybe people are just scared of his general energy, but it works. 

He sits at the corner of the bar closest to you. “What can I get ya?” You toss your towel over your shoulder as you make your way toward him. 

Pope fishes out his wallet, tossing too much cash on the counter. “Just a beer,” he tells you, turning to survey the rest of the people here. 

He’s leaning against the bar, but his posture still remains stiff. His eyes never stop watching everyone around him, looking out for possible threats. It’s hard to tell if that’s a result of his time in prison or just a skill inherent to the Codys. 

His mannerisms make you think of a man who should hate eye contact. But talking to him is intense enough to make you short of breath, sometimes. He never takes his eyes off of you, as if he’s one slip up away from being stabbed in the back. You wonder who the last person he trusted was. His sister, probably. 

The longer you meet his eye, the more you see, the worse it gets. Those little flecks of emotion hidden among the hazel, it’s too much for a man who's meant to keep his cards close to his chest. You look away first, reaching for his cash and counting out his change. 

“Keep it,” he dismisses when you try to hand it back to him. 

Your eyes narrow, but you can’t afford to argue. Pocketing the cash, you nod, going to retrieve his beer. “Deran isn’t here,” you let him know, placing the bottle in front of him. 

He wipes at the condensation before fetching a napkin, slipping it under the bottle. “Did you want to leave a message for him?” you ask. 

Pope looks up from the beer and shakes his head. “No,” he tells you. “I didn’t come here to see Deran.”

A smile pulls at your lips despite yourself. “No?” you hum, pretending to wipe down the bar so he can’t catch that look in your eyes. The one that will give away too much, too soon. “Just came here for the shitty beer?”

“Exactly,” he mutters, taking a deep swig. Your eyes narrow as he plays along, a slight laugh huffing out of you. His idea of humor is so dry that it almost circles right back to not even being a joke anymore. 

Shaking your head, you move down the bar to top off some drinks. He lingers in that corner, nursing the beer. He owns that section of the bar, even as business picks up and more people shuffle in. They don’t take the stools on either side of him. 

There are these burdens, like shadows, ever present around him. It’s not something everyone can see, but they can feel the energy that radiates off him. That sort of ‘stay away’ warning that you’ve never been particularly good at following. 

It’s rare for you to get through a shift without at least one shitty pick-up line or a drunken slap on your ass. But, with Pope’s stare burning over your shoulder, you have a pretty good night. 

It’s interesting how quick he was to give in to your whims. How fast he now seeks out your company. You wonder: without Smurf’s prodding, would you have been able to lure him in like you had last night? Would he have given in to you the same way?

All this time you could have had him. But you’ve never been particularly good at taking what you want. 

Pope remains in his seat the rest of the night. It takes a herculean effort not to simply close the bar early, knowing what's waiting for you after your shift. His stare is heavy with intent. Still, you control yourself, letting the anticipation drag out for him too. 

“We’re closing,” you tell him, going around the bar and collecting the last of the beer bottles. Pope straighens up and slides from his stool. 

“I’ll wait,” he tells you simply. You linger by the kitchen door before shaking your head with a scoff. You carry the recycling to the back, and when you come back, he’s wiping down tables with the cleaning solution from behind the bar. You don’t object, getting your closing tasks done in half the time with him. 

“You know,” you start, as you count out the cash in the register. “If you wanted to spend time with me, you could have just asked.” He goes still where he’s standing. You offer him a wry grin. “I like being around you.”

He’s quiet for a moment before letting out a low huff. “Most people don’t.”

Your hands freeze as you shoot him a severe look. “Most people are idiots,” you tell him sharply. The corners of his lips twitch, and you sigh. Walking the envelope of cash to the back, you leave it in the safe under Deran’s desk. Out front, Pope waits for you by the door. 

Grabbing your purse from the bar, you catch up with him. He holds the door open for you as you step outside. “So,” you hum. “Your place or mine?”

Pope tenses up beside you as you lock up. “What?” he asks as you turn to face him. His eyes dart down to your lips and you grin. He’s not as subtle as he thinks. 

“Are we going to your place or mine?” you ask again, leaning against the door with your arms crossed. 

You almost expect him to back out or change his mind. He knows who you are, what you were. You haven’t forgotten that moment of hesitation from the other night. You’d be honestly surprised if he wanted anything to do with you. 

“Yours,” he tells you, voice so sure it takes you aback. 

“Alright,” you mutter, slipping past him with a surprised smile. 

Pope drives you to Deran’s place. You live in the apartment above his and Adrian’s home. A fact that you now realize you’ve never shared with Pope. But it’s not like you’ve ever had a reason to invite him over before. 

You lead him up the stairs, his hand in yours as you let him inside. He toes off his boots as you toss your purse on the entryway table. “Want a tour?” you ask, raising your brows. He nods, and you squeeze your hand around his, guiding him through the tiny apartment. 

It’s a decent enough place for somewhere that doesn’t charge rent. You’ve got your own little kitchenette and a depressingly small shower. It’s honestly not all that interesting. Lacking all of the personal touches that make a place home. You’ve learned to live small. 

You lead Pope past everything and take him straight to your bedroom. “Not much of a tour,” he tells you, rough voice teasing. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you really complaining?” You step closer, pressing your chest to his as you wind your arms around his neck. He shakes his head and you push up, lips just brushing against his. “Are you sure you don’t want a better tour?”

He cuts off your teasing with a kiss. For a moment, it’s too harsh. But then he’s remembering what you’d shown him. He backs off, grip loosening around your waist, his touch softening. You take his hands in yours, dragging them down your body and directing him to the button of your pants. He makes quick work of it, helping you out of them.

You’re pushed up against the doorway, his rough palms squeezing your hips while you work on the buckles of his belt. The second you’ve got it undone, he’s kicking off his jeans, pulling away from you to rip off his jacket. Your hands drag down his torso, greedy as your fingers find the hem of his shirt. Lifting it, you eagerly palm the soft muscles of his stomach. 

Pope shudders beneath your touch, and you grin, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. He searches for more, but you dart out of his reach, whipping off your shirt and flitting toward your bed. You beckon him forward with a small crook of your finger, and he follows obediently. 

You turn down your sheets, crawling onto your bed and waiting for him to do the same. He climbs over you, lips pressing against yours before drifting along your jaw, moving down your neck. He kneels before you, touch greedy as he palms your thighs. 

It feels like he’s teasing you as he moves lower between your legs. His eyes never leave yours. Your breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze. His fingers play with the band of your underwear before he slowly moves back up your body. 

You let out a soft breath, almost relieved he hadn’t traveled farther. You’re not sure how much of him you can handle at once. It’s been so long since you’ve let yourself be open with someone like this. And even now, you’re hiding things from him. 

You can only take so much at once. 

“Can we do what we did last night?” he whispers, tone hesitant. As if you would say no to that. 

You just nod, reaching up and letting your hand scratch through his curls. You sink back into the pillows, and he follows you. He seems more sure of himself as he sinks into your chest, arms winding around your torso as you both get settled. 

This seems to be becoming a tradition of sorts. You hold him until his breath settles and he falls asleep. Rolling over, you curl tighter around him, letting out a low, sated breath. 

The bed is cold when you wake up. There’s a dip where his body used to be, but he’s gone. Rolling over, you scrub a hand down your face, suddenly aware of how naked you are. Uncomfortable at the AC nipping at your bare skin, you tug the sheets up. 

Glancing over at your nightstand, you see a notification lighting up your phone. A part of you hopes it's Pope. But your heart sinks when you realize it’s a notification from Smurf. A wire transfer of $400 and a little ‘good girl’ memo, just so you don’t forget whose in charge. 

With a low huff, you sink back into your pillows, stomach twisting. How could Smurf possibly know what happened last night? Did Pope tell her? Had Smurf sent Pope to you?

You hadn’t gone home with him last night with a paycheck on your mind. You’d just wanted to be around him. 

Glancing back at your phone, you realize you finally have enough money to go grocery shopping for the first time in a while. 

No going back now. 

You have a tendency to follow Deran along wherever he leads you. Usually, you’re bored and looking for something interesting to occupy your time with. Most of the time, though, you have this feeling of obligation to him. For helping you more than he ever had to or even should have. 

Ultimately, that habit puts you right back at Smurf’s place. No matter how hard he tries–how hard any of them try–they always find their way back to her. There’s something magnetic about her that pulls the boys right into her orbit, even if they know they should have left years ago. 

Deran lounges by the pool while you get some water out of the fridge. You survey the area outside. The party is smaller this time. Likely thrown so Smurf could do business with someone, though you never have much clue what she gets up to. 

The sliding glass door opens, and you straighten up. The devil herself walks through, that familiar smirk on her face. “What’re you doing in here, baby?”

“Just getting something to drink,” you answer, moving out of her way as she gets some food she’d made out of the fridge. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Oh,” she hums, brows lifting as she motions you on. 

You lick your lips, swallowing roughly. It’s hard to string the right words together. To find that magical combination that will keep you looking like prey in her eyes, rather than another competitor. “You don’t–” Huffing, you start over, forcing yourself to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to keep paying me.” 

She shakes her head, feigning cluelessness and your nails bite into the plastic of your water bottle. “For Pope. I don’t mind keeping him entertained for you, but I don’t want you to keep paying me.”

“Now,” she chuckles, leaning against the counter. “Why would I stop? It’s not like you’re dating him, sweetheart. You’re just doing me a favor.”

Because it's wrong. Because every goddamn person in his life is using him in some way. And you can’t let yourself be someone like that to him. 

“Right, well, I don’t need to be paid for it.”

Smurf smiles, tilting her head as she swaggers up to you. She drapes her arm around your waist, leading you outside. “C’mon, I want you to meet someone.” You want to dig your heels into the floor and stop her, but you don’t have a choice. 

She leads you over to a balding man in an ill-fitting Speedo. There are already three girls surrounding him, each in skimpy bikinis with eager smiles. But that doesn’t stop him from turning his lecherous gaze onto you when Smurf brings you over. 

“Honey, this is Robert. We’re working out some business right now. But I thought I’d introduce him to the girls.” She sets her chin on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear. “Do I need to introduce you to him, too?”

You jerk out of her grip, stomach turning as you take in the other man. “I’ll take the money,” you hiss out, meeting her eye with a sharp glare. 

“That’s what I thought,” she grins. “Go on, enjoy the party,” she urges you along, and you run off to find Deran. You can hear that man objecting behind you. His arms are already full of beautiful women, but he’s still a greedy pig. 

Your throat tightens with nausea as you throw yourself down on the pool chair beside Deran. Why would you have ever thought that would work?

If Smurf stopped paying you, that would be like admitting defeat. She’d be accepting that Pope actually has someone stable in his life. Someone who wants to be with him and around him. It would be admitting that she made a mistake. She had given you permission to enter his life and had given him access to the affection and care she weaponizes against him. 

It’d be like his leash was switching hands. And she couldn’t have you cutting him free; of course she couldn’t. 

You can’t believe you were stupid enough to think she’d conceded so easily. 

“Everything okay?” You jump, the sound of Deran’s voice catching you off guard. 

You force a smile onto your face, shoving down your discomfort. “Yeah, of course.” You motion toward Robert and redirect the conversation. “So, what’s she got planned this time?”

“Fuck if I know,” Deran scoffs. He takes a hit from the blunt in his hand. “She doesn’t tell me shit until she wants something,” he mutters, smoke billowing out of his mouth. 

You hum, but you’re barely paying attention now. Something else has begun to occupy your thoughts. Well, someone else. Glancing over your shoulder, you see him. 

Pope is lingering. That feels like an ill-fitting word for him. Lurking, brooding, stalking, those all fit him much better. Lingering seems so meek for him. Still, you can’t deny, that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s standing just at the perimeter of your space. Not approaching, just quiet in the corner of your vision. As if you might wave him away if he gets too close or takes up too much space. 

It’s a silly worry, but you can see it clearly on his face as his gaze keeps darting back to you. He crosses his arms, pretending to be watching the rowdy partygoers. A smile pulls at your lips; you can’t judge him. You used to struggle keeping your eyes off of him, it’s easier now that you don’t have to pretend. 

Deran lets out a rough sigh, and you force your attention back to him. “What?” you chuckle at the aggrieved look on his face. 

He nods toward his brother. “What do you think? He’s weird but never this fucking weird.”

“Watch it,” you scold, shooting him a playful glare as you toss a sidelong glance at Pope. He’s only a few feet away; you’re sure he can hear his brother being a dick. It’s funny, though, how he acts like he hasn’t been waiting to talk to you since the moment you showed up. 

“Have you guys fucked yet?”

You jump, head whipping back toward your friend. “Jesus, Deran, you make me sound like some sort of whore.” He shoots you a look that makes you laugh. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, are you a lady now?”

“Thin ice,” you warn, shaking your head at him. He holds up his hands, but that shit-eating grin doesn’t leave his face. 

It’s dark by the time Deran passes out on the pool chair. The party has grown louder, and more people have shown up after sunset. You groan as you stand, shooting Deran an amused look as you leave him. He lets out a particularly loud snore as you brush past. 

You glance around the pool for your shadow. He hasn’t gone far. Just retreated into a quieter corner, eyes never leaving you as you approach. “It’s getting pretty rowdy out here,” you whisper conspiratorially as you move to stand beside him. 

He nods, eyeing the party before his gaze inevitably drifts back to you. “Are you not cold in that thing?” He nods toward your bikini, and you scoff. 

You place your hands on his bicep and prop your chin on his shoulder. “Maybe. Do you wanna help warm me up?” 

He swallows thickly, jaw clenching as he watches you. For a moment, you think you’ve finally got him. Then he looks away, rolling out his shoulders so you’re forced to let go. The rejection stings as you back up. “Don’t you have business to attend?”

Your brows furrow as you frown. “What?”

Pope just nods over toward the man Smurf had threatened you with earlier. You let out a disbelieving sigh, a stiff smile on your face as you shake your head. “Seriously?” you demand. Pope says nothing. “I’m not fucking him if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Before he can say anything else, you continue. “And I don’t do your mother’s business anymore. But you can go ahead and say what you’re thinking, Pope. I’m just another whore, right?”

Shaking your head, you move away from him and back toward the house. Somewhere inside, you know that this is irrational. Smurf is paying you. Not just that, but Pope is now your business. He wouldn’t be, if you had one fucking iota of control over your own life. 

But you’re certainly not leading him on with this idea that you’re exclusive just to be fucking someone else behind his back. It hurts that he would think that lowly of you. That after the time you’ve spent together, you’re still nothing more than a prostitute looking for a quick buck. 

You hear footsteps rushing up behind you before someone’s taking your wrist in their hand. Whipping around, you see Pope. He says nothing, just starts pulling you through the party. People part for him; they always do. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss, not making much of an effort to break free. 

He leads you to his bedroom, letting the door close behind him. You can see it, as the sounds of the party fade, his shoulders lose that stressed hunch. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, staring down at the ground, unable to meet your eye. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Crossing your arms, you shrug. “Whatever. I can’t exactly blame you for not wanting to be with me.”

His head lifts, and he frowns. “That’s not what I meant. I just–” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath. His shoulders roll back as he takes a step closer to you. “I want to be with you. But I don’t share.” 

It took him a second to find the right word before settling on share. You doubt there’s a word succinct enough to say he doesn’t like his women sleeping with other men for cash. “I can’t stand it when you’re around other men. I just–” his eyes are wide with this slightly panicked look, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of pissing you off and having you run, again. 

You surge forward, dragging him down into a kiss. You like this more than you should. That little bit of insecurity in his voice. The slight possessiveness as his hands squeeze around your waist. It’s nice to be wanted rather than scorned for situations far out of your control. 

Your back is pushed gently against his door, and his hands cup your cheeks. Your hands drop to his wrists, flexing around them as he pushes you higher up the door. His thigh slots between your legs as you throw your arms around his shoulders, desperate for some leverage. His leg flexes, and your hips grind down, a soft gasp escaping you as his grip flexes around your waist. 

This is different. More rushed than what you’ve done with him before. There’s intent behind this kiss, especially behind the way his palms drift. He cups your ass, lifting you until your legs are wrapping around his hips. He shuffles you higher up his body, dragging you away from the door. 

Your hands find their way into his hair, grip tightening around his curls, trying to anchor yourself in whatever way you can manage. He lets out a low groan that makes nerves spark beneath your skin. “Pope, what’s gotten into you?” 

You let out a low sigh as he bends, placing you carefully on the bed. He surveys you for a moment, jaw flexing as he debates answering. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs his shirt off, arms and stomach flexing as he does. You reach for the string of your bikini top, tugging it loose. 

You let it sit on your chest, beckoning him closer and guiding one of his hands to the thin fabric. His lips drag down your neck, calloused palm eagerly ripping away your top. He tosses it somewhere behind him, and you sink back onto the bed, letting him take the lead. 

He hasn’t seemed confident in initiating much with you; you don’t want to discourage him now. 

His rough palms travel down your body, lingering at the band of your bottoms. When his wide eyes meet yours, you give him a little nod. He pulls, slowly, until the flimsy fabric dangles  from one ankle, then he settles back over you. 

His fingers skate across your stomach, touch barely there, but just enough to leave goosebumps in his wake. His lips marks a slow, intentional path down your body. He lingers at your chest, careful as he slowly mouths at your breast. 

His eyes dart between yours, like he’s waiting for you to scold him, push him away. You thread your fingers through his hair, nodding. You’re afraid of saying anything, of spooking him out of the moment. 

He sucks once and you tug at his hair, letting out a low whimper as his free hand tweaks your other nipple. “Pope,” you gasp out, spine arching into his touch. 

It’s so faint, so hesitant, you can’t stand how much of a tease he is. His eyes close as his hand wanders, searching. He wants to know how much you want him. Wants to feel it. 

Slowly, he parts from you; you have to stop yourself from reaching for him. His mouth descends until  he’s lingering  between your thighs. You spread your legs wider, making room for his broad shoulders. 

Just like everything else he’s done tonight, he’s tentative at first. A shallow dip of his tongue has you holding back a groan of frustration. You’re not trying to rush him; you want this to be good for him. To feel real. 

But it’s hard. You’ve wanted him for so long, and he’s right there, kneeling between your thighs, and there’s nothing you can do but be at his mercy. 

You tighten your grip around his hair, inching your hips ever closer to his mouth. His large arms wrap around your legs, keeping your back pressed flush to the bed. The corded muscles of his shoulders flex as he finally leans forward. You’re struck by the sight of his thick body pinning you down, the sudden urge to sink your teeth into him overwhelming. 

Instead, you tilt your head back, resisting the need. Your heart thumps fast, anticipation pushing you closer toward the steep edge of desperation. 

Something is flickering inside you, smoldering. A small flame sparked alive by the heat of his breath, catching like wildfire when you finally feel his mouth on you. He doesn’t hold back, ravenous as his hands flex around your thighs. 

A rumbling groan tears from deep within his chest, low and desperate with every swipe of his tongue. The vibrations leave you keening; your hips twitch, but his heavy arms keep you in place. He pulls away, ignoring your wanton mewl.  His hand pinches at your thigh and you look up. The second your hazy eyes meet his, he’s dipping back down. 

You could swear there’s a smile on his lips as his tongue thrusts into you, mouth greedy as he devours you. 

You wonder what he’s like with the women Smurf hires. 

You shouldn’t be thinking about her, not right now. 

But… does he take what he wants? Shove into them and take them until he finds release? Or is he tender with them, too? Reaching hopelessly for some sort of connection, one they’ll give him right up until the cash is in hand. 

You don’t want to be that; you want this. Want him. Want that desperate edge in his eye as he eats you like all he’s ever felt is hunger. Your hand tightens in his hair, a broken moan crawls up your throat as something inside you burns. The heat pools low, spreading to your every limb. Your muscles jump and contract as you squirm beneath his iron grip. 

The jerk of your hips, the sounds that splinter then shatter the moment they touch your lips, the closeness you demand with your fingers threaded through his curls— it all seems to spur him on. He buries his face deeper, tongue relentless as he burrows inside you, and the only thought your mind can conjure is Pope Cody. 

“F-Fuck— Oh, God,” you let out a sharp gasp. Losing all manner of control, you begin to writhe, grinding down on him until the fire burns so hot, it becomes cold. Pleasure crests over your body in waves, leaving you shivering. Your legs twitch, thighs practically closing around his head as his fingers dig into you, ten crescent moons carved into your skin. He doesn’t stop until you tug weakly at his hair. 

He’s panting slightly as he finally lets you go. When he pulls back, loosening his grip, your slick shimmers on his chin, though he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are dark and dazed, but no less intense, as he watches you struggle to catch your breath. 

Following your gentle pull, he crawls up your body, letting his lips mark a trail as he goes. His rough hands knead and soothe your spasming muscles. 

You drag him into a lazy kiss, palms smoothing down his back as you wrap your legs around his waist. His length sits heavy in his boxers, you can feel it pressing against your hip, the wetness that grows as he flinches away from the pressure. 

Carefully, you push at his shoulders until he’s sitting on the bed. You follow once he’s settled, sliding into his lap.“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, hands hovering over your hips. Like he’s waiting for permission to touch you, despite the scent of you still on his breath or the messy sheen that’s drying on his chin.  

“I want to,” you promise, cupping his cheek and luring him into another soft kiss. Slowly, but surely, his palms find solace on your hips, and he nods into the affection. You rise on shaky legs and help him work his boxers down. 

He notices the slight quiver in your hands and guides them to rest on his shoulders as he lines himself up. You let out a shuddering sigh, lowering yourself onto him. Your breath catches as he fills you completely. He groans when you take a moment to adjust and it’s dizzying. All you want is to hear more. You want to know every pretty sound he can make, so you push him back, your hands sliding down to his chest as you lift your hips. 

It’s tentative and barely anything, you’re still slightly weak from before, but you can feel the anticipation tightening his grip into something almost painful. His fingers flex, like he’s trying to remind himself of control. 

“There we go,” you whisper, more to yourself as you find a steady rhythm. You peer down at him, noticing the clench of his jaw, the white knuckles of his hand. He won’t look at you. His gaze is far-out and set on the languid roll of your hips.

You let your nose trail along his flushed cheek as you wander lower,  pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. Your lips brush his ear, teeth just barely grazing. “You can touch me, Pope,” you promise. You settle back on his thighs, taking his heavy hands and dragging them to your breasts. “I’m all yours,” you whisper, enjoying the way his jaw loosens, wide eyes finding your own. “Only yours,” you swear.

That severe look softens as you slowly begin to circle your hips again, setting a steady pace. You let go of his hands, falling forward onto his chest as you brace yourself. Pleasure begins mounting again, the feeling of him inside you overwhelming as you pulse around him. 

Your body trembles as you begin to lose your rhythm, walls still fluttering from the feeling of his tongue. You’re too sensitive for this. It’s been so long since you’ve genuinely been with someone without performing that you’ve almost forgotten the right moves. 

Hesitantly, his hips buck, and you choke on your breath, sliding until your lips are pressed against his once more. Your hands drag up his chest, stroking his cheek as he winds his arms around your back. You set the pace, decide the rhythm, but his hips move in time, taking only as much control as you allow him. 

“There you go, just like that,” you pant, breathless as your stomach tightens. The encouragement seems to spur him on, his thrusts speeding up slightly. 

You pull back, biting your lip as you stare down at him. “God, that f-feels good.” His eyes light up, glimmering in a way you haven’t seen before. There’s a low, rumbling sound you quickly realize is coming from him, but it soon fractures into something softer, needier. “You’re doing so good,” you whisper, observing him intently. 

Your jaw drops open when you hear his voice, weak and wanton, stretching thin around a single word, over and over: “Yeah, y-yeah, yeah.” You gasp as he ruts up into you, reaching deeper than before. His movements are rushed, his brows furrowed; you can practically see his control fraying like old twine.  

He hits that spot inside you that has your vision going blurry and your nails biting into his chest as you cling to him. Your moans grow pitchy, drowning out his soft noises. Your attempt at keeping pace falls apart as you curl into him, your eyes shut so tight you begin to see spots whizzing around in the darkness. 

Despite the way you tighten and convulse around him, he keeps moving. Your spine arches, frozen and bowed in his unyielding grip. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple as his hips buck wildly. He’s speaking, you notice, muttering so quietly, your hazy mind can’t latch onto a single word. The only thing you can hear is the tide of raw desperation that rushes through and hollows out his tone. Then, his muscles pull taut; he holds you as close as he physically can, whining brokenly when he can’t drag you any closer. 

Chest-to-chest, you feel the heat of his breath rush over your face as his hips jerk, losing all coordination. Warmth. All you feel is his warmth as his head burrows into the crook of your neck and his length flexes helplessly inside you. 

With his heart thumping rapidly against yours, your fingers carding through his damp curls, you realize you broke your own rule. You hadn’t even thought about using a condom, let alone asking him to pull out. You wanted him. All of him. And now you have it. So you let him soften inside you as he carefully moves you under the sheets. 

You relish the ache in your body, succumb to the exhaustion in your bones. You’re pulled from a dreamless sleep when you feel the wet warmth of a washcloth between your thighs.

After a few moments, the bed dips beside you. Your hand wanders blindly, brow furrowing as you pat at the empty space. You don’t say a word as you grab his wrist, dragging him into your arms, closing the gap between you. He huffs softly—maybe a laugh, maybe a begrudging complaint, you’re not sure. It’s merely a rasp of breath, but it hitches, like it’s caught on something in his throat the second your fingers start to soothe the angry red marks on his freckled skin. Like a vow of surrender, he presses a kiss beneath your jaw, and you sigh. “Thank you,” he mutters, speaking the words into your skin, and you can only hum, pulling him closer. 

Your laughter wakes him up, echoing from the kitchen and just barely reaching his room. It’s a light sound, without the baggage that he’s grown so familiar with. Frowning, he scrubs his hand down his face and sits up. 

Sun spills in through the windows, marking the spot you’d been lying in the night before. His hand runs across the sheets. It’s cold enough that he knows you’ve been gone for a while. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that settles in his chest at the realization. 

It’s probably a sensation you’ve grown familiar with, considering how often he leaves you alone in bed. He hates that every time you’ve woken up and seen the indentation where his body was, he’s left you with this. But staying would be admitting to an attachment that’s dangerous for both of you. 

He throws the sheets back, getting up and dressing quickly. He’s interested in whatever's got you laughing so hard this early in the morning. When he steps out of his room, he shouldn’t be surprised to find his brother sitting with you. 

You and Deran are seated at the kitchen island, cereal shared between you as you laugh at something Deran’s said. His brother has that bored look on his face, unaware of how rare the sight of you smiling like that is. 

Pope’s never elicited a reaction like that from you. The thought makes something sharp and ugly curl in his gut. He grimaces, shaking his head. It’s not like he’s ever said anything worth laughing at. 

Humor’s never been his talent. Most people don’t recognize his attempts; they just stare at him with that look in their eyes. Like they’ve been waiting for him to leave since he walked up. 

You’ve never looked at him like that. 

Pope storms up to the kitchen, and your laughter slowly fades. Something in his chest tightens at that. Your eyes widen at the look on his face, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He snatches up the milk and shakes it at Deran. “Why don’t you learn how to put things back?” he snaps, glaring at his brother. 

Deran shoots him an offended look. The moment’s broken by your laughter. It’s the light kind of sound that usually only his brother earns. Your eyes narrow, and you give Pope a funny look. 

“Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” you tease. Pope lets out a huff, shaking his head as he puts the milk away. 

“Yeah, with you on the right side,” Deran mutters. Pope glances over his shoulder, whatever he was going to say gone as he realizes you’re dressed in nothing but his shirt. 

You kick Deran under the counter and scoff. “Fuck off,” laughter still lingers in your voice. Pope can appreciate the sight of you like this. Happy, uninhibited. Usually, when you’re over at the house, you always look like you’re one good scare away from running out the door. The work of Smurf, he’s sure. 

He wants to think he contributed to your mood in some way. But he’s never been good at improving moods, just learned not to make them worse. He likes the thought of one day being the reason you have a smile on your face, but he knows it’ll probably never happen. There’s a reason he’s got a poor track record with dating. 

You jump up from your seat, dropping your bowl in the sink. When Pope moves to put it in the dishwasher, you intercept. You throw your arms around his shoulders with a small smile. “Morning, you grump,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

His hands hover over your waist, nearly returning the hug, but you’re already moving away. It’s so simple with you, isn’t it? Holding and knowing how to be held. It’s not such a foreign idea to you as it is to Pope. 

He wants to be comfortable with it, with you. But it’s hard to get rid of that feeling, like he’s ready to strip off his skin anytime you touch him so softly. Rougher is easier; it’s familiar. This just doesn’t make sense to him. That you’re around him willingly, that Smurf isn’t just paying you off to keep his head on straight. 

Pope’s still not sure how much he trusts this whole arrangement with you. He knows what you said, about not working, about only being with him. But he’d seen how Smurf had taken you aside last night, that terrified look in your eyes when you’d run off. 

A part of him is worried about what he’ll find if he digs much deeper than the surface. 

Deran lets out a disgusted sigh at the affection and moves outside. He leaves his bowl at the counter for someone else to clean. Pope glares at his brother’s back as you jump onto the kitchen counter beside him. You steal his attention easily. 

Pope could certainly get used to this feeling of someone being so eager to be the center of his attention. 

“What do you want to do today?” you ask, a lazy smile on your face. He knows he's greedy when he wishes he could keep that smile just for himself. To have you in a way no one else does, not even Deran. 

A part of him resents his brother for getting to you first. For being your friend first and making that unofficial claim on your time and presence. 

“You wanted to go to the boardwalk,” he reminds you, even though the idea sets his teeth on edge. He’d hate to be out in the sun surrounded by rowdy tourists and louder locals. But he knows you’ve been wanting to go, and you’ve been doing too many things he’s wanted to do.

Besides, he wants to hear you laugh again. Or get a real, genuine smile out of you. Not that teasing look that's ever-present on your face. 

“Seriously?” you scoff, tilting your head. “Don’t you hate that kind of thing?”

Yes. Pope just shrugs, focusing on cleaning up the mess Deran left behind, hoping you don’t notice the stiff posture of his shoulders or tight look on his face. “How about,” you slip off the counter and sidle up behind him, hand resting lightly on his back. 

“We catch a movie? It’s too hot to be outside, anyway.”

The weather’s perfect for a day out on the boardwalk. But he knows you’re lying for his sake. He should make the sacrifice to make you happy. But it’s surprising how easily you’ll switch your plans to accommodate him. It’s hard to say no to that. 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees. You smile, turning off the sink and taking his hand in yours. You offer Deran an absentminded wave as you lead Pope outside. He relishes the eye roll his brother sends you. 

Maybe you’d had plans with Deran today. It didn’t really matter, though, because you’d chosen Pope. He’s almost tempted to gloat, but you’re still dragging him along behind you. 

Pope helps you up into his truck. Your phone lights up, and you glance down at it, the smile on your face fading. It looks like a notification that someone’s sent you money, but you’re closing the door before he can get a good look at it. 

He gets inside and watches you carefully. You bite at the skin around your thumb, leg bouncing as you type something out on your phone. His mind shouldn’t immediately go to the thought that it's a client paying you. 

You’d told him last night there wasn’t anyone else. And he knows Deran does his best to keep you away from all that, now. 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel as he backs out of the driveway. 

Pope has no claim to you; he knows that. Even after all the time you’ve spent together, you still aren’t technically anything. But that doesn’t chase away the barbed feeling of possessiveness in his chest. He told you he doesn’t share, and he meant that. 

He can’t stand the idea of someone else being with you the way he had been last night. It makes something hot burn up in his stomach. The corners of his vision go dark as he glances over at you. 

“Everything alright?” you ask, frowning at him. 

He just nods, sucking in a sharp breath as he turns back to the road. You haven’t given him a reason not to trust you. 

The bell above the door rings out, and you already know who it is without looking. Pope takes his usual seat at the bar, and you grab him a beer. Just like he has the past few weeks, he’ll wait out the last hour of your shift with you and drive you home. You’ll turn on a movie, and Deran will still complain he can hear what you’re getting up to with his brother tomorrow morning. 

You smile at the thought, leaning against the bar as Pope watches you. “No plans tonight?”

He shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “Smurf wanted me home for dinner.” He purses his lips, glaring down at the bar. “I don’t want to deal with that tonight,” he mutters, meeting your eye again. 

“I feel so special,” you tease, forcing the smile to stay on your face. 

But your heart is racing, adrenaline spiking in your blood. You do actually feel special that he would choose you over Smurf. But it’s worrying. You’ve never been a threat to her before, not really. 

All bets are off when it comes to Pope. She’s so terrified of what he could do if he stopped idealizing her in his head. If you begin posing a threat to her position with him, she won’t hesitate to take you out. 

Trying to distract yourself, you go back to topping off drinks and wiping down spills. You head into the kitchen to fetch a customer’s food. By the time you come back, there’s someone else waiting by the bar. 

It’s a tall man in a pressed suit with the posture of someone who holds themself in high esteem. Cop, you figure. Spend enough time with the Codys or working the jobs you used to, and you get good at sniffing them out. This one’s probably a detective based on that expensive watch he’s wearing. 

He’s eyeing Pope warily, probably well aware of his place in the Cody family. You’re sure they’re a hot topic at the station. “What can I get you?” you ask, walking back behind the bar.

A fool’s hope that he’s here for a shitty beer. He’s not even sitting down. Probably afraid to get a stain on his pants from Deran’s secondhand stools. The detective offers a smarmy grin and says your name. You hum, nodding. 

“I was wondering if you’ve seen this man?” He digs around in the inside of his blazer and pulls out a picture, sliding it across the bar. You bite your lip, innately aware of the stare burning into the side of your head. It takes all your self-control not to look over at Pope. 

Your stomach drops so violently that you worry you might throw up as you stare down at the picture. You recognize that face. Green eyes framed by wrinkles from a life filled with laughter. Blonde hair that had been going gray the last time you’d seen him. Tears line your eyes as you stare down at the image. 

You suck in a sharp breath, blinking a few times before looking back up at the detective. “Can’t say I have,” you tell him, plastering on a smile. “Should I be looking out for him? Did he do something?” You play the “concerned citizen” role well, but not well enough. 

He’d caught you off guard, sent you stumbling from that reminder of the past. 

The detective sucks his teeth, smile tightening at the edges as he shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. His name is Joseph Barker. He was murdered three years ago. The case has been closed, but some new evidence recently came to light that has us reopening it.”

“Oh,” you hum, eyes wide with naivety. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never seen him before.”

The detective pulls out his wallet, takes out a business card, and places it down. “I want you to keep that,” he tells you, nodding to the picture. “And call me if anything… jogs your memory.” His eyes cut toward Pope before he swiftly leaves the bar. 

You let out a low breath and lean against the counter, head falling between your shoulders. “What was that?” Pope asks, breaking through the quiet. 

You lick your lips, picking up the card and picture. “Nothing,” you mutter, throwing them both in the trash. You turn around to Pope with a tight smile on your face. Shrugging haplessly, you just tell him, “I have no idea who that is. Ever heard of him?”

Pope stares at you for a long while. Long enough to make your skin crawl with the paranoia that he sees right through your long list of lies. Finally, he shakes his head. “No. I haven’t.”

“Weird,” you mutter, voice cracking around the word. You have to turn away from him. Scrubbing a hand down your face, you suck in a deep breath, willing yourself to get it together. His stare feels like a judgment weighing heavily on you for the rest of your shift. 

Pope’s mind is usually filled with a dozen different thoughts. What Smurf wants from him, worrying about his brother’s fucking something up, reminders of past failures. Lately, the new addition to that has been you. He normally likes his thoughts of you. They break through the rest of the noise and give him a chance to breathe. 

But his mind is jumbled up around how you’ve been acting. You’re barely ever looking away from your phone. Teeth always tearing through the skin of your nail beds until they bleed, uncaring as you frantically message someone on the other side of the screen. 

You’re jumpy and less touchy with him than you typically are. He has a hard enough time initiating with you, but you’ve been making it even worse by flinching at anything and everything. 

He was worried before; it’s only gotten worse since that detective stopped by the bar. You’ve withdrawn into yourself completely. You’re always quiet, with this look in your eyes that tells him you’re somewhere else completely. 

His worry is a poor excuse for what he’s doing right now. But there’s no one around to judge him but himself, and he’s never had particularly strong morals when it comes to protecting those he cares about.

Pope’s been following you all day. Trailing behind you in his truck, watching you run your errands and flit about town. You’ve never noticed him, not once. Which is worrying enough. He’s not been particularly subtle. Almost hoping that you’ll catch him so he can just confront you. 

He’s parked across the street from the gas station you’re at. Arm propped on his window as he watches you run inside. A sleek black car pulls up and parks beside yours. Pope frowns, shifting in his seat to get a better look as the detective from before gets out of the car. 

Detective Benson— he found out the name after he’d fished the man’s business card from the trash. He did a bit of digging into him. He typically handles the more Wall Street cases. Helps businessmen cover up their illicit affairs and bad investments. It makes sense that he’s got this Joseph guy's case. But Pope can’t figure out the connection back to you. 

He sits up as you come out of the gas station, reading your receipt and unaware of your surroundings. Benson walks up to you, cutting you off before you can get in your car. Pope can’t hear anything that’s being said, but he can see the shock on your face. How quickly it morphs into fear as you look around for an escape. 

You were lying to him. 

He knew that at the bar. You’d looked like you were on the verge of tears after the detective left. And he’s not blind. Pope knows you’d recognized the picture Benson had given you. But you weren’t willing to open up to him. 

You look flustered as Benson starts talking to you, holding up your hands and shaking your head. You try to escape back to your car, but he stops you, stepping in front of you and grabbing your shoulders. 

Pope shifts in his seat. He doesn’t appreciate just how comfortable this cop is getting with you. His hand is on the door handle, almost tempted to head out and help you. But you already look calmer, head hanging down as you nod. Benson backs off, pulling out his card again and handing it to you. 

You take it without objecting, lifting your head to watch as the detective drives off. Pope can see you thinking, your foot tapping as you stare down at the card. He’s willing you to turn around and throw it away. To just forget about the cop. 

Instead, you pinch your nose, shaking your head as you put the card in your purse and climb back into your car. 

Pope’s seen enough. He sucks in a sharp breath, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he pulls out and away. The information he needs, he isn’t going to get from you. 

He drives back to Smurf’s place. And he knows that he should have just come to her to begin with. But he’s cagey about you. She knows he’s spending his nights somewhere else now. Somewhere away from her. 

He hasn’t told her about you. Going to her, asking about this Joseph guy, he knows it’s going to point right back to you. But you’re not talking to him, and he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Pope lets out a rough sigh, scrubbing his hand down his face as he parks. He’s trying to think of anywhere else he could go. Anyone else he could talk to so he can figure out what your connection to a dead man is. But he knows what you used to do for his mother, who you were. She knows. He’s sure of it. 

He slams his truck door closed, storming up the front steps. He can hear her in the kitchen, making dinner. He’d forgotten she’d called a family dinner tonight. The last goddamn place he wants to be is surrounded by his family while he’s dealing with this shit with you. 

“Hey, baby,” she calls, glancing over her shoulder with a sharp smile. “Where you been?”

Pope leans against the counter, jaw flexing as he shakes his head. “Nowhere,” he mutters. She narrows her eyes but doesn’t question him further. “Do you know a Joseph Barker?”

Smurf frowns, tilting her head as she thinks. “Yeah,” she smiles at him and nods. “Yeah, I do.” She says your name, and the way her smile sharpens has his chest tightening. “He was her favorite. Something happened between them. Haven’t heard from him in years.”

Smurf shrugs with a helpless smile, but he knows she hasn’t been helpless a goddamn day in her life. “Not my business to tell, baby. Now, help me set the table.”

He takes the plates she hands him instinctively, going to arrange the table just like she asked. Her words ring through his head. Your favorite. He hadn’t realized escorts had favorite clients, but he guesses it makes sense. 

Doesn’t matter that the man’s been dead three years; something ugly and sharp still burns hot through his chest. He slams the plates down harder than necessary, thinking about you having a favorite anything. 

You’ve done everything she asked. 

And you did your job too damn well. That’s why she’s punishing you. It has to be. She wanted you to entertain Pope, keep him occupied, and stop him from spiraling. You did just what she asked. 

You entertained him, cared for him, provided him with the sort of affection she saves up until he’s desperate for any form of contact. Until he’s practically broken. You’ve done your best to stop him from breaking, and that’s exactly why she’s doing this now. 

Smurf is bringing ghosts back, sending the cops on your trail so you remember just why you’re so afraid of her. It’s what she has on you that has kept you so compliant for years. 

You were only meant to entertain Pope. Not become something to him that has him skipping family dinners and ignoring Smurf’s calls. You’ve created this gap between her and him that has her trying to scare you into submission now. You’re so certain she’s the reason “new evidence came to light” on Joseph’s case.

But you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. There’s nowhere you can run, not now. You’ve never been particularly good at covering your trail. She’s the one who’d taken care of everything. Sworn that it was over and done with. 

You pace your living room, biting at your lip and trying not to break down. What the fuck are you going to do now?

Someone knocks on your front door, and you nearly scream. Clutching your racing chest, you turn toward it, debating not answering. Maybe it’s that detective again. Coming by with more questions. 

He’d got you at the gas station today. Tricked you into admitting that you knew Joseph. He got in your head with all that soft bullshit about wanting to help you—– you just had to be honest with him. You’re fragile, and you’re fucking stupid, slipping up like that. 

“It’s me,” Pope calls from the other side. You can’t tell if it's relief or panic that has your stomach swooping. 

“One sec,” you call, voice cracking. Grimacing, you rush up to the door, opening it up for him. “Hey, thought you had a family dinner tonight?” Your smile is tight at the edges, crumbling under the weight of your panic. 

You know your eyes are wide, expression bordering on desperate. You just don’t know if you’re desperate for him to stay or leave. In some strange way, he terrifies you. He sees so easily through all your lies and defenses. He knows something is wrong with you, but he hasn’t probed. And that’s what's scary. 

Because if he hasn’t felt like digging deeper, then what does he already know?

“Left early,” he tells you, stepping inside. Your forehead falls to the door, and you suck in a trembling breath as you try to get your shit together. 

With a quiet exhale, you turn around. His back is to you as he takes in the mess of your living room. A result of your earlier breakdown this morning. “Did you need something—”

“Whose Joseph Barker?” His voice is rough, eyes sharp as he turns to face you. Your nails bite into your palms as your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You flounder, back pressed to the door as you shake your head helplessly. 

Pope huffs, crossing his arms as he glares at you. He’s not easing up in the slightest. “I talked to Smurf. I know he used to be one of your clients. You lied to me.”

“I—” your voice cracks, and you feel your chest heave as you drag in a breath. “I had to,” you mutter, pinching your eyes shut as you fight back tears. “Please, Pope, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Too bad,” he snaps, voice making you jump. 

Why is he here?

Did she send him?

“You lied to me. I want to know why.” He stalks closer, and you dart away from the door, trying to put as much space between you as you can. Your eyes flit over his body, the way he pauses as he watches you run. His hands— loose at his sides. 

You would be able to tell, wouldn’t you? If he was going to hurt you. You want to think you would know. But it’s Pope… As much as you think you mean something to him, you will never be Smurf. 

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, Pope, okay? I still can’t.” You want him to leave. But you’re too afraid to say that. Your hand shakes at your side as you watch the way he blocks your door. He’s probably not even doing it on purpose, but it feels like the goddamn walls are closing in on you. 

He looks away from you, lips pursing as he sucks in a sharp breath. “Smurf told me he was one of your clients. That something happened—”

“God,” you scoff, cutting him off. “Are you really gonna trust a goddamn thing that woman says?”

His eyes flit back to you, and he shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what to believe?” There is something so painfully broken open on his face. The sort of pain that’s only caused when someone you care about lies to you. And you’d done that. Repeatedly, you’ve lied to him about everything in your relationship. 

Your head drops as you rub your hand down your face. You can’t look into those hurt eyes of his for another second, or he’s going to break you open completely. “Okay,” you whisper, voice breaking around the word. 

He takes a step closer, but you can’t handle the proximity. Not while it feels like your ribs are seizing around your lungs. You shake your head, backing up and pacing away from him. “I knew him, okay? He was my client, you’re right.”

Pope watches as you pace, brows drawn in. Something guarded falls over his face. “She said he was your favorite.”

You pause, eyes lifting back to his. He can’t seriously be jealous of a dead man. “Yeah,” you scoff. “He was my favorite. That doesn’t mean a whole lot in my line of work. He didn’t hurt me, alright?” Not at first, anyway. “And I appreciated that.” Something flickers in his eyes, anger on your behalf that you’re not interested in. 

You look away from him, throat tightening as you try to find the right words to explain what happened. How it all went wrong. He takes a step closer, and your eyes dart warily to him. “Tell me,” his voice is softer now, a pleading edge to it. 

Sighing, you take a seat on your couch. He hovers beside you, waiting until you motion him over. He leaves some space between you, eyes intent on your face. “He was the first client Smurf ever assigned me to.” 

Licking your lips, you shake your head. “And the reason I needed Deran to get me out. It was… good, at first. I was still new, still fresh to the game. It was harder for me to remember that being with him was a paycheck. He made me laugh, and he never made me feel bad about who— about what I was.”

You finally look up; Pope hasn’t taken his eyes off you. His arm is draped over the couch behind you, his hand placed in his lap. But he’s tilted toward you, resisting the urge to touch you like you know he wants to. To try to ground you the way you do for him. 

“I killed him, Pope. What do you want me to say?”

You wait for it. The flicker in his eyes, the shock, maybe a little fear—though, you doubt he’s afraid of you. Something that registers just how despicable a creature you are. He tilts his head, “Is that it?”

You let out a sharp scoff, staring at him in disbelief. “Is that it?” You jump off the couch, whirling around on him. He remains seated, staring up at you with pensive eyes that make you so angry for some reason. “Pope, I thought I loved him, and then I fucking killed him. What do you mean, is that it?”

“Why?” He prods. 

“Why?” You let out take in a deep breath and forcing yourself to calm down. “Does that even matter?”

“Yeah,” he shoots you a sharp look, finally getting to his feet. “It matters. Tell me why.”

You can’t quite meet his eyes, staring down at your hands. It’s jarring, thinking about that night. You’ve done your very best to forget as much of it as you can. He finally reaches out, taking your hands in his own and stopping you from picking at any more of your skin. A little bit of blood blooms around the edges of your nail, and you grimace. 

“He wanted to play a game. I said I didn’t like it, but he insisted. And… He wouldn’t stop when I told him to. I got scared, really scared for the first time since I’d been with him. I forgot that he was paying for my time, that I really didn’t deserve a say. I grabbed whatever I could reach, a fucking pillow of all things, and I hit him.”

You clench your eyes shut as you think of it. “It caught him off guard, and he fell over. Knocked his head on the edge of the nightstand. I just watched as he spasmed on the floor, as blood started pooling under him. I didn’t know what to do, so I…”

You suck in a sharp breath, your confession a whisper. “I ran.”

What you don’t tell him is how you called Smurf, told her what happened. She’d told you to leave the key to the room under the motel’s mat. That she’d take care of it. You never knew what she did with the body. But you’d been so panicked, you didn’t question why she wanted to deal with it herself. Why didn’t she just tell you to deal with it? 

You still don’t know what it is she has over you. An admission of where you were that night? Pictures of you and him together? Or maybe, just your DNA on the body. Whatever it is, it’s had you on a tight leash, tethered to her for the past three years. And if Pope knows about that, you’re afraid of how deep he’ll dig into your relationship with him. Of what he’ll find out if he goes looking. 

“Do you think someone can be forgiven?” You ask, looking up at him. “For hurting someone they love?”

To your surprise, his eyes water slightly as he stares down at your hands. “Pope?” you question, dipping down to try and catch his eye. He blinks a few times and sniffles, looking away from you. “What happened?” you ask softly. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he tells you. 

Your eyes narrow as you glare at him. “You think I don’t know that look? What happened?”

He sucks in a shaky breath and purses his lips, finally meeting your eye. “I don’t think I can be forgiven,” his voice cracks around the words, and you tug him closer, dragging him down into a hug. 

He presses his cheek to your shoulder, arms tight around you as his shoulders shudder. “I killed Cath,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. Your eyes fly wide, and you struggle not to tense up beneath his touch. 

“Smurf had told me she was talking to the cops, and I— I killed her. I hurt her,” his voice is breaking down, and you can feel your heart pounding against your chest. You hold him tighter against you, a shield so he can’t pull back and see the terror in your eyes. 

You’ve always been afraid of what he’s capable of under Smurf’s command. But in some—ridiculously stupid—way, you’d thought there were exceptions to how far he would go for her. You should have known better. 

Pope never stood a chance against that woman. She’s had her nails dug in since he was a baby, promoting the idea that there was no room in his life for any other woman but her. You thought love, real love, would stop that, but you were wrong. 

He cries as you hold him, and you grimace. Would he do the same to you if she told him to?

This was a reach for normalcy, you’re sure. 

Things between you and Pope have been off ever since you told him about Joseph and he told you about Cath. The pair of you are practically perfect for each other: always hurting the people you love. 

Things with him feel more intense now. Like you’ve shared these secrets, and there’s no going back. You’re both stuck with each other. You wouldn’t mind it if you just didn’t know about Cath. More specifically, if you didn’t know that he had been in love with Cath when he killed her.

You don’t judge him for it, not in the way you should. You’ve seen how Smurf gets into her sons’ heads; you see how she used to hurt Deran with her expectations of him. 

But he knew how to break away from her, at least marginally. Pope never got that chance. At each and every opportunity for a positive influence in his life, she cut it off. Even if that meant being the reason her own daughter was dead. 

To try and settle yourselves from the tension and the perception shattering reveals… he’s taken you out to dinner. It’s a nice restaurant; you’ll give him that. Nicer than where you typically go. The menu isn’t cheap laminated plastic, and your elbows don’t stick to the table. 

You’re surrounded by happy couples. They’ve either got rings on their fingers, or that content look in their eye that they’ve found the right person to spend their life with. The place is perfect on paper. 

But you aren’t. 

You’re unsettled, scared, and incapable of sitting with your back to the door because you’re so afraid of who could come up behind you. Smurf has gotten into your head with all the investigation bullshit she’s been throwing at you. As much as you want to enjoy this with Pope, you can’t. 

You’re too busy thinking about whether or not she’s fuming that he’s not at home right now. Is tonight the night she turns you in? Or tells him to hurt you?

Sucking in a sharp breath, you force yourself to focus on the menu. You can feel Pope’s stare burning into you, but you can’t find the energy to meet his eye. 

“Do you like it?” He suddenly asks, probably about the restaurant. 

You force a stiff smile on your face and nod. “It’s nice,” you mutter, unable to come up with anything better. His expression tightens, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Really, Pope,” you let out a stiff laugh. “You did good.”

That’s not enough to make him feel better, but he accepts it, at least. The waitress comes up, and you don’t even know what you order, just blindly saying whatever Pope did. The table is quiet as you eat. You’re one of the only couples in the place not whispering to each other or getting lost in each other’s eyes. 

He doesn’t prod, which you appreciate. After dinner, you take his hand and lead him down from the restaurant to the beach outside. You sit down on the sand, enjoying the way the moon’s light reflects off the waves. 

He settles beside you, arm pressed to yours, and watches the water wash across the sand. “Can I ask you something?” You rest your chin on your knees, turning toward him. 

“What?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the water. 

You think of something Deran had once told you, about Pope being a nickname. “What’s your name?”

Pope lets out a little laugh, turning toward you. “You don’t know?”

You click your tongue with a disappointed sigh. “I thought it was Pope for a while, honestly.” 

He leans in close, tone almost teasing. “Why’re you asking now?”

“Because I want to know you, not…” Not the man Smurf made you into. “Humor me?”

The slight smile he’d had slips from his face as he turns back toward the waves. “Andrew,” he admits, his voice soft with what sounds like vulnerability. Something guarded falls over his face, and you look away. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, testing it out. He turns toward you, and you can tell he likes how it sounds on your tongue. “So… Where the hell did Pope come from?”

That earns a laugh from him. You grin, turning to catch his eye as he looks over at you. His smile fades slightly as his lips twitch, shoulders hunching up. “When I was younger, I started going to church. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, and I figured if anyone could help, it would be God.”

He sniffles and looks away from you, gaze distant as he stares out at the ocean. “I got close to one of the priests at the church. Smurf and Baz found out. They made me use that connection to rob the place.” His voice cracks slightly as he continues, but his expression remains guarded. He doesn’t want you to think it still affects him. 

“He tried to stop us, and I beat him with a fucking bible,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “They’d always called me Pope. For being… different. It just stuck after that.” 

Bile burns in your throat as you watch him, but he won’t look at you, not now. After everything he’s told you, does he really think that’s what's going to scare you off? It just makes you hate Smurf more. 

You wish you could have known him when he was younger. That you could have helped him in any way. But he never really stood a chance. 

“I like Andrew better,” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just presses his head to yours, taking in a deep breath as his body goes lax under you. 

You can’t keep this up much longer. 

Pope wakes up to a message from you, asking to talk. His chest tightens as he takes in a short breath. He hasn’t had a lot of normal relationships, but even he knows that’s never a good sign. 

Pocketing his phone, he pinches his eyes shut, shaking off the feeling and heading into the kitchen. Smurf stands by the oven, flipping pancakes. “Breakfast is almost ready, baby,” his lip curls at the pet name. 

He’s not particularly interested in spending the morning with her. It’s been harder to stomach being around her after he learned about what you’d done to Joseph. There are these questions bursting at the seams of his lips. 

The type of questions that would only lead to trouble for you and him. 

Smurf turns from the stove and offers him a saccharine smile. She says your name, catching him off guard. He turns toward her with narrowed eyes, and that smile grows cruel. “Have you seen her around lately, baby?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head as he reaches out to straighten the plates she’d put out. “Why?”

Smurf lets out a little laugh and shrugs, plating some fruit and pancakes, passing it off to him like he’s a child incapable of getting himself his own food. There’s such a confusing divide between how she treats him and what she expects from him. Infantilizing him while demanding perfection. 

“I, uh, I got a business associate I’d like her to meet.” She offers a conspiratorial wink that makes his stomach sour. “He’d have some fun with her,” she mutters. She glances up through her lashes at him, just waiting for him to take the bait. 

Pope’s hands tighten around the edge of the counter as he glares down at his plate. “Is she still working for you?” he asks, voice strained. 

Smurf tilts her head with an obviously forced look of confusion. “Didn’t she tell you? I’m sorry, baby, I thought you knew.” 

Pope knows better, at this point, than to blindly believe her. Smurf does this with anyone he starts to get too close to. He’d like to believe he’s been subtle about you, good at keeping you behind closed doors. But she knows. She always knows. 

And she always finds a way to make him start to doubt. To make him start questioning what he thought was real. He doesn’t want that to happen with you. Not like it did with Cath. Not like…

Not like Julia. 

“I’m not hungry,” he tells her, voice strained with barely restrained anger as he storms out of the house. Her smirk bores into his back as he goes. 

You weren’t still working with her; you’d told him that. And after finding out what happened with Joseph, he doubts that you would ever willingly go back to that life. You don’t need to, either. You have him now; if you were struggling, he’d take care of it. Take care of you. 

He gets into his truck, knee bouncing as he stares out the windshield. After debating for a moment, he pulls out his phone. He swipes to the location app he’d installed, the same one he’d added to your phone when you’d been in the bathroom the other night. 

Your icon pops up… driving right toward some scummy motel off the highway. 

His chest seizes as he stares down at the address. Smurf’s words echo through his head. He knows she’s lying, that she’s just trying to get under his skin. But that doesn’t stop the images that start barraging his thoughts. 

Thinking of… someone else getting to touch you, to be with you. 

You choosing someone else… 

Something white-hot and furious floods him, has him peeling out of the driveway before he can really think about what he’s about to do. 

He follows the app’s directions toward you, not stopping until he’s parked at the far entrance of the motel. It doesn’t take him long to spot you. You’re still in your car, biting your nail as you stare down at your phone. 

Your eyes are frenzied in a way he’s never seen before on you. Everything about you seems off-kilter. This is a new low for you, he hasn’t ever seen you get to this point before. Not even when you were telling him about Joseph. You must be scared, then. You must know that this is wrong. 

And, still, he watches as you get out of the car, sucking in a deep breath before turning toward the stairs. Pope sits there. He should be getting out of the truck, dragging you back to your car, and demanding to know what you think you’re doing. 

But he doesn’t, because he’s willing you to turn back around. To change your mind and drive off. You don’t. 

He’s practically cucking himself as he watches you knock on one of the doors. A man opens it, close in age to you, and relatively good-looking. Not the type that should be in a scuzzy place like this. 

Pope opens up his glove compartment, pulls out the gun inside, and tucks it in the waistband of his jeans. He has no thoughts as he throws open the truck door, no plan for what he’s going to say to you to explain his presence. He’s not going to tell you he’s been tracking you. Clearly, you’re hiding things from him, too. 

Just as he gets out, the motel door closes. You move inside and stand in front of the open window. He waits a moment, but you take a seat at the table. The man sits across from you. Neither of you makes a move toward the bed. Instead, you seem to be talking amicably with him. 

Maybe this is another one of your “favorites.”

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The man you’re with slips something across the table to you. You grimace, glancing around. You seem to just be noticing the open curtains. Jumping up, you’re quick to pull them closed. Pope can just barely make out your silhouette behind them. 

He glances down at his watch with a sigh. You get two minutes, and then he’s coming in. Pope leans against his truck, eyes trained on the scummy door. The waiting is agonizing. Two minutes shouldn’t feel this long to him. 

You might not be meeting a client right now, but it’s clear that you’re still hiding something from him. He thought that after he’d told you about Cath, that would be it. You would realize you don’t have to hide anything from him anymore. He’d given you information that could end him if you wanted to. 

Checking his watch, he starts toward the stairs just as the door opens. “Shit,” he hisses, ducking back behind his truck. You walk out of the room with a little wave to the other man. You don’t look disheveled; your clothes don’t look like they’ve been put back in a rush. He lets out a sigh, but relief doesn’t lessen the pressure of his chest as he takes in the large yellow envelope in your hand.

Your head lifts, brows furrowing as you look around the parking lot. Pope ducks and moves behind his truck. He waits before popping his head back out. You’re already getting back into your car. 

He keeps his gaze intent on you as he pulls out his phone, dialing your number. He sees through your window as you jump, glancing down at your phone with a grimace. After too long hesitating, you answer. 

“Hey,” you offer awkwardly. He almost wants to smile at the way you shake your head at yourself. 

“Where are you?” He asks, getting into his truck as you start your car. 

He hears the way you swallow, fingers bouncing against your steering wheel as you sigh. “Grocery store, why?”

Why is it so easy for you to lie to him?

His jaw tenses as he works to control the tone of his voice. “You said you wanted to talk,” he grits out. 

“Uh, yeah. Not on the phone, it’s kind of a lot.” Your head falls back onto your seat as you let out a heavy breath. “Are you free tonight?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll see you later.” He hangs up before you can respond, tossing his phone into the other seat. You frown down at your phone for a second before pulling out of the parking lot. He starts his truck, intent on following you when someone messages him. 

His fingers drum against the steering wheel, staring after you, before he finally picks his phone back up. Smurf’s name is the last thing he wants to see. 

Come home. 

Now. 

Of course, she doesn’t tell him why. She calls, he comes. That’s just how it works. That’s just how it always works. 

Pope throws his phone back and turns in the opposite direction you went. Right back to Smurf, ever the obedient son. 

“I was in the middle of something,” he calls out as he storms into the house. He’s expecting Smurf as he heads into the kitchen. But J standing beside her is disconcerting. Especially that look he’s got on his normally stoic face. 

J meets Pope’s eyes, and he swears there’s an apology in them. The oddity of it tames some of the anger broiling inside him. 

“You’re going to want to hear this,” Smurf tells him, lacking that normal saccharine tone she lays on too thick. 

Pope freezes, eyes darting between the pair before slowly nodding. Smurf lets out a low sigh, though he truly doubts this is hurting her as much as she’s pretending. Slowly, she slides a piece of paper over to him. He’s annoyed by the drama of it all and glares over at J before flipping it. 

His nails dig into the counter as he looks down at a picture of you. You’re standing in front of the police station, hand on Detective Benson’s arm as he stares down at you. It certainly looks damning. 

“Are you following her?” He grits out, eyes flitting up to meet Smurf’s. 

Her expression hardens as she scoffs. She glances over to J, but he looks less than enthused about involving himself. “You’ve had bad taste in women before, but this is a new low, baby.” Pope shakes his head, passing the picture back to her. 

“You know why they’re looking into her. That doesn’t mean anything.” It feels petulant to argue about this with her. He always feels so childish butting up against her because she is so good at making everything he says small. 

“Michael, one of my old associates and one of her former clients, was arrested today. Someone sent in an anonymous tip about his more illicit business practices. His warehouse got raided. And I’m supposed to think it’s a coincidence your girlfriend just happens to be talking to cops, right now?”

“It wasn’t—”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her,” J interrupts. “She’s been around the cops, man. A lot for someone who seems so scared of them.”

Pope leans against the counter, letting out a low groan as his shoulders hunch over. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not like that.” But he doesn’t even know if that’s true. He doesn’t know if he can trust you not to hurt him. Not to hurt his family. 

You’re desperate, and you’re feeling cornered. People have done worse for lower stakes than avoiding a murder charge. 

“Why wouldn’t you come to me?” He asks Smurf, eyes cutting over harshly to J. A warning to keep his mouth shut if he doesn’t want it shut for him. 

Smurf takes a step closer, and Pope backs up, watching her warily. She tilts her head with a sympathetic sigh. “Has she not told you, baby?”

He sucks his teeth, shaking his head. “Told me what?”

Smurf makes a disparaging noise that sets his teeth on edge. “I’ve been paying her to keep you company.” His chest tightens, and he jerks back, wishing J weren’t here right now. It’s bad enough Smurf is saying this to him; he doesn’t need a goddamn audience. 

He wants to object; he knows that's not true, and she just keeps going. “She’s not your girlfriend, baby. She’s just another whore who will do anything for the right price. And now, she’s someone we need to take care of. I’m worried about you, Pope. You knew she was talking to the cops, and you didn’t come to me?”

Pope has nothing to defend himself with. He doesn’t even want to. He just stands there, lungs tightening with pain as he tries to catch his breath. She was paying you to be with him. 

Was anything with you real?

“Are you still with us?” Smurf asks, tone biting. 

“What?” Pope croaks out, ignoring the way his eyes have begun to burn. 

“You knew that someone close to you— close to me was going to the cops. And you didn’t say anything. Are you going to let this girl, a nobody, hurt your family? You’re going to let her get away with this?” 

Smurf and J both stare at him with these expressions of betrayal. It’s muted in J. The kid holds everything so close to his chest; it’s the exact opposite of how Julia had been. And Smurf… she’ll say anything, do anything to make him hurt. Because for once, he’d been paying someone else more attention. Giving you more priority. 

But you’d just been another one of her girls. Playing the long game to keep him docile. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. 

Smurf glances over at J before leaning in close to Pope. “Just like Cath, baby,” she mutters, and something inside him snaps. 

He lets himself in with the copy he’d made of your key. It’s better if he doesn’t give you a chance to prepare. There’s a shuffling in your room, the sound of frantic footsteps as you rush from one side of the room to the next. 

Pope slowly makes his way through the apartment as he takes in the wreck you’ve made of it. Drawers opened and emptied. Random pieces of paper scattered throughout, sheets and blankets tossed around the living room. It looks like someone came through and raided everything. 

He walks into your room and watches you rip out all the clothes from your closet. You turn away from it and catch sight of him standing in front of your door. “Jesus!” You shout, jumping back, clothes falling to the floor. 

Letting out a laugh, your eyes widen and dart toward your bed. He follows your gaze, sees a suitcase open on the floor. That yellow envelope you’d gotten from the motel right on top. He looks back at you as you rush over and kick it to the side. 

“I thought you’d call first,” you deflect, giving him a flustered smile. It’s strained, shadowed by the panic in your eyes. When he doesn’t say anything, the smile falls. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”

Pope takes another step into the room, and you eye him warily, but you don’t back away as he expects. You move closer, face creased with concern. He doesn’t know if you’re worried for him or about him. He thought he knew you, thought he could read you. 

You loved proving him wrong, apparently. 

His hands flex at his sides, the gun in his waistband a heavy weight on his back. He doesn’t know why he brought it. Probably because Smurf was watching him, expecting it. Pope knows he could never look in your eyes and pull the trigger, even with how much you’ve lied to him. He’s too weak. 

Too pathetic. 

“Have you been talking to the cops?”

Your brows furrow, and you nod. Easy admittance makes him doubt you. Everything you’ve done up to this point makes him doubt you. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get that detective off my ass.”

“Have you taken on other clients?” He demands, not letting you have a chance to tie your story together. 

“No,” you take a step forward, but the look on his face has you stopping short. “Andrew, why are you asking me that? You know you’re the only person I’m seeing.”

“Your only client,” he corrects, watching as your face falls, panic blanketing your features. “Smurf told me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He demands, stalking toward you. To your credit, you don’t back down. 

Your eyes crinkle like you want to cry, but you don’t run away. “You’re lying to me. Again!” He snaps, voice rough as he sucks in a shaky breath. 

You bite your lip, swallowing thickly as you shake your head. “Please, I am begging you to listen to me. I love you, Andrew,” he jerks away from you as you reach for him. But you don’t stop, rushing forward and taking his face in your hands. He could fight you, but he lets you redirect his gaze back to yours. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” your voice cracks as you grimace. “Smurf, she would have made me take on more clients if I didn’t take the money. She—” you bite your lip, and your voice softens into something painful. “She knows about Joseph, okay? She took care of the body. She’s the one sending the cops after me.”

His hands come up to cover yours, and you smile, but then he’s pulling away from you. Eyes narrowing as pain seizes his chest. “You lied about that, too?”

“No, I— Fuck,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. 

“How am I supposed to trust anything you say? I’ve followed you,” Pope admits. There’s no shame in him as you look at him in surprise. “I saw you at the motel today. Who were you meeting with if that wasn’t a client?”

“I can explain that,” you rush out, breathless as you turn toward your suitcase. You grab the yellow envelope, your hands fumbling as you pour the contents out on your bed. There’s a stack of cash, some cards, and two passports that scatter across your comforter. You pick up two of the cards and turn back to him. 

“Smurf isn’t just idly threatening me with this Joseph thing, alright? So I’ve been meeting up with old friends and contacts. Trying to put together enough to get out of here.” He looks at you with hurt in his eyes. 

You were running… 

He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“But,” you hold the cards out to him. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Glancing down, he sees they’re new IDs; one of them has his picture on it. “I thought we could go together,” you rush out, a manic smile on your face as you nod. 

“You weren’t going to leave me?”

You suck in a sharp breath and shake your head. “No, I swear. I know I haven’t given you a good reason to trust me, but I wouldn’t do that to you. Andrew, please, just look at me.”

He grits his teeth, finally meeting your eyes. A few tears run down your cheeks as you wait for him to say something. But he doesn’t know what he could say to you. He remembers when Smurf sent him after Cath. 

She’d told him that she’d been talking to the cops. That she was putting the family in danger. And he had done what she’d wanted. He’d killed Cath, the woman he was in love with. He can’t—

It makes him sick to think of pushing you down on the bed, to put a pillow over your face as he’d done to her. His hands twitch at his sides as you reach up, cupping his cheek. “I love you, Andrew. And you don’t have to believe me, okay? But I wouldn’t leave you, not without telling you first.”

There have been a lot of women in his life who have said they’d loved him. He used to believe Smurf when she said it, until it started to feel empty. Until it became something that hurt him. He’d believed Julia, and then he’d left her. Cath had never meant it. 

But you do. 

“I can’t,” he mutters, pushing away from you and shaking his head, dragging his hands through his hair. “No, I can’t.”

“Andrew, please.” He wishes you wouldn’t call him that. It’s too soft, too good for what he deserves. “What’s wrong?” Pope looks back over at you, that glint in your eye. You can’t be scared, can you? He wouldn’t hurt you. 

You reach out to him, and he falls into you easily, cheek pressed to your shoulder as he tries to get his breath under control. “I need to tell you something,” you whisper. 

“Don’t,” he mutters, turning, pressing his head into the nape of your neck. His arms squeeze tight around you, trying to keep himself grounded in your touch. Your arms drape low around his back, and he feels your fingers graze the handle of the gun in his waistband. 

He can feel the way your body tenses under him, breath stalling in your throat. The gun isn’t for you. Why did he bring it?

“I’m pregnant.” 

It’s his turn to go still. You hold your breath as he slowly pulls away, eyes watery as he glares at you. “Are you lying?” he chokes out, unable to take any more deceit from you. 

You shake your head, pulling away and running off to your bathroom. He’s left right where he’s standing, stunned and in disbelief. You can’t be. Can you?

It’s not as though either of you has ever been particularly picky about using protection. And he hadn’t ever bothered asking if you were taking anything. His stomach twists itself into knots as you walk back toward him. You hold something out, and suddenly he’s staring down at a positive pregnancy test. 

“Oh,” Pope lets out a rough breath, doubling over as he tries to get his head under control. There’s too much racing through it. Too many different commands urging for his attention. He drops to his knees, unable to meet your eye. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, taking a step closer and running your hand over his hair. His head falls onto your stomach, hands finding their way to your hips as he shakes his head. 

He can feel you trembling beneath his touch, breath shaking as you cup the back of his head. “Please,” you beg, “don’t do what Smurf wants you to.”

His head shoots up, but you’re not looking at him. Your face is pointed toward the ceiling like you’re trying not to cry. Getting to his feet, he cups your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. 

He knows what Smurf wants, what’s expected of him. You’re a threat. A threat to her. To the family, just for knowing what they do. He has failed so many people he loves, but he’s never failed her. 

Pope can’t do to you what he did to Cath…

To Julia. 

His head drops, forehead pressing to yours. You let your weight rest on him, taking in shaking breaths while his eyes drop to the new IDs on the bed. “I won’t,” he swears. 

You’re on a hotel bed, expression bored as you watch Andrew. He’s sitting at the table, knee bouncing slightly as he reads through a magazine he picked up at the grocery store. It’s clearly marketed toward women with its swooping, pink font. But the pregnant woman on the front, the 50 tips for an easier pregnancy! has completely stolen his attention. 

There’s a bottle of prenatal vitamins by his elbow, and the dingy hotel fridge has been stocked with food for the past few weeks. He’s settling into this lifestyle a lot faster than you are. You miss your apartment above Deran’s place. You miss your shower and your bed. 

But Andrew had told you it was too risky to stay there. So he’d taken your suitcase and brought you to a decent hotel with “luxury” accommodations. You’re financing the stay for now. Just while he works on compiling savings in an account not attached to Smurf’s name. 

Your phone was trashed. A burner shoved in your hand instead. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to say anything to Deran. Andrew thought it was too much of a risk. 

“Are you feeling sick?” he suddenly asks, looking up from the magazine, brows pinched. 

“Huh?” you mutter, turning away from the crappy soap you’d put on TV. 

He gets up from the table and moves to sit beside you on the bed. He’s closer than he typically would be, eyes roving your face like it’ll give him the answers he’s looking for. “Do you feel sick at all?”

You glance down at the page of the magazine he’s on, catch the words “morning sickness blues,” and grin. “I’m fine.” You promise, taking his hand in yours. He squeezes your palm, moving closer. “I don’t think I’m far enough along yet to be worrying about that.”

You actually don’t know how far along you are, period. Amongst the worry of running from the cops, escaping Andrew’s mother, and the general hell your life has turned into… 

You haven’t made the time for a gyno appointment. You’re sure that if Andrew weren’t so worried about Smurf discovering you, he would have already dragged you to one. 

Letting go of his hand, you get up to go to the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you the entire five feet it takes you to get there. You’re quick to push the door closed, back pressed against it as you suck in a deep breath. 

He’s doing his best, you know that. Every day, he tells you that this is all temporary. He just needs time. Time to make a plan for you both. Time to get the proper amount of funds for your escape. 

Time, time, time

There doesn’t seem to be enough of it lately. Each day grows shorter, the walls shrink around you, and it’s harder to catch your breath. He’s settling well, his toothbrush beside yours on the sink, spare clothes folded in the dresser. 

He’s adapted to this like he could live in this hotel forever with you. Always keeps your shoes by the door, complains when you move them, and he trips on them. Keeps food stocked in the room and bought sheets that are actually comfortable to sleep in. As if this is just the home you’re going to share with him now. 

But you’re cracking around the edges. Every day that you don’t have a deadline for when you get to leave pushes you one step closer to the edge. He says it’s temporary, but it’s getting harder to believe him. 

Scrubbing your hands down your face, you move toward the sink, splashing cold water over your cheeks. He’s been fussier since he learned you're pregnant. He always looks like he thinks you’re going to keel over. As if being pregnant makes you this new, breakable thing. It’s slightly aggravating, but you understand where he’s coming from. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, you find he’s right where you left him. Posture stiff as he continues flipping through that ridiculous magazine. You walk over, snatching it quickly from his lap and dropping it on the nightstand. “You know all of this is bullshit, right?” you tease. 

He only narrows his eyes at you, arms crossed as he huffs. “You should try reading some of it.”

You crawl into bed beside him, scoffing. “Are you calling me a bad pregnant lady?”

“No,” he mutters, immediately making room for you beside him. Even how he holds you at night is different, now. You’re not just you to him anymore. Suddenly, you’re carrying his child, too, even if you’re not showing. 

You settle with your back to his chest, his arms wrapping securely around your front. He sleeps on the side closest to the door. Always still slightly awake, just in case. 

Your hand drifts down, taking a hold of his and letting out a soft sigh. He shifts, pressing himself closer. “How much longer do you think we’ll be here?” you whisper, afraid to break the peaceful quiet. 

“Until I can get some things together.”

He’d said that last week, but you don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. Instead, you roll over, wrapping your arms around him as you let out a tired sigh. His arms tighten around you, cheek pressed to your head as you let the droning sounds of the TV put you to sleep. 

“What’s that?”

Andrew looks up from the groceries he’d been unloading. He shakes his head, and you point to the box on the table. “Cereal,” he tells you bluntly. 

“Yeah, some weird whole grain shit,” you sigh as you pick up the box. It proudly promotes whole grains, fiber in every bite, and absolutely no added sugar. Eating the box would taste better. 

Andrew stalks over with a sigh, taking the box from your hands. “It’s healthy. You need to eat more fiber.”

You shoot him an affronted glare. “You’re a doctor, now?”

He straightens up from the groceries with an aggrieved sigh. “Diet is important.” The stern look he shoots you goes unappreciated. 

“I resent that,” you pick up the cereal and shake it at him,  “and I resent this.” He shakes his head, undeterred by your complaints, as he continues to display all the healthy options he picked up today. You’re really starting to miss sugar. 

You wonder what he would think if he knew you went down to the hotel lobby and loaded up on soda and junk while he was out. 

Moving toward the dresser, you’re digging around for a pair of socks when you notice something plastic rattling around. “What…” Moving aside some of Andrew’s pants, you see a pacifier and baby bottle hidden beneath his clothes. 

Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you pull them both out and turn toward him. “A little early for this, isn’t it?”

He straightens up, glancing over at you. His jaw tenses as he lets out a rough sigh. “They were on sale.” He tells you bluntly, striding over and taking them from you. You can’t help but snort as he carefully places them back in the drawer. 

“Anything else you’re hiding in there?”

He pauses, and you don’t really expect him to answer. But then he opens the top drawer and moves aside some shirts. Beneath are three parenting books. Each with stupider names than the last. “Wow,” you whistle. “You’re making me look bad.”

He’s quiet for a moment before frowning. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest tightens as you look him over, that slightly unsure tilt to his lips. “You won’t,” you tell him, squeezing his arm and offering a soft smile. He just nods; you’re not sure he actually believes you. Clearing your throat, you try to break up the tense moment. “Besides, you’re definitely taking this a lot more seriously than I am.”

The look he gives you is tired. You’re just pointing out what he’s already been nagging you about. “You’re pregnant.” As if you need reminding. 

With nothing to do in this tiny room, you walk over to the bed, throwing yourself on it and grabbing the remote. The magazine from the other night is still on the nightstand. You glance over at it, thinking about the baby bottle and whatever else he’s bought in the dresser. 

“You know, that said not to start buying anything until after the first trimester,” you tell him, nodding toward the magazine. “When the risk of a miscar—”

“I know what it said,” he interrupts, glancing over at you. “It was just… It was on sale,” he mutters, not meeting your eye. His shoulders hunch as he reorganizes the pantry area he’d created. 

Guilt sours in your stomach, and you shift uncomfortably on the bed. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to…” the words won’t come. He looks too uncomfortable for you to keep prodding at what you’re sure is one of his biggest worries right now. That anything might happen to you or the baby.

Your hand rests over your stomach, lips curling as you glance down at your complete absence of a bump. “It doesn’t feel real,” you muse. “I guess that’s why I’m not taking it more seriously.”

Andrew pauses what he’s doing, glancing over his shoulder at you. “I just keep thinking about when we’re going to get out of here.” He looks down at that, and you sigh. “Soon,” you mutter, before he can feed you the same empty promise he has been. 

“Look,” he gets to his feet, but his phone starts ringing on the table. You can see his name from where you’re sitting. Deran lights up the screen, and your stomach sinks with guilt. You wonder if he’s worried about you or if he just thinks you’re another unfortunate soul who slipped through the cracks. Andrew glances between you and his phone before picking it up and walking out of the room. You can hear him answer just as the door closes. 

Grabbing the TV remote, you spend a few minutes channel surfing before settling on an old sitcom. By the time you’re done, he’s coming back. He lets out a short sigh, jaw flexing as he tosses his phone on the table. 

“What was that?” you ask, motioning him over. He follows obediently, settling beside you on the bed. His back is stiffer than normal, shoulders tense as he stares blankly ahead at the TV. “Andrew?” you murmur, reaching up to run your hand through his hair. 

Andrew sinks easily into the touch, finally looking over at you. “Deran says he and Craig have a job. One Smurf’s not involved in.” Your heart rate picks up, and you try not to let your excitement show too much. “Could be enough,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. He doesn’t seem convinced. 

“That’s good,” you remind him, keeping your voice soft. He just nods, not seeming like he’s truly present with you. With a sigh, you tug on his shoulder slightly. He moves easily, sinking further onto the bed as he lowers his head on your lap. His hand comes up to wrap around your thigh, more grounding than possessive in his intent. 

You let your hand smooth over his curls as you sink back into the pillows. “This is good,” you remind him, ignoring the worry that tightens your gut when he says nothing in return. He just settles closer to you, and you have to let yourself be content with what you have.  

Waking up alone has become foreign to you. Andrew doesn’t like leaving without you waking up first. Which, you’re sure bugs him on the days you’re particularly slow getting out of bed. Today, the spot beside you is cold; the shape of his body is still indented on the sheets. 

It takes you a moment to remember the job he’d told you about with his brothers. He didn’t have time to wait for you today. You throw back the sheets and let out a low groan, rubbing your back as pain shoots up your spine. 

God, you miss your bed. 

These hotel slabs were just making you stiffer every day. Glancing over at the table, you see he’s quite pointedly left out the fibrous cereal for you. Scoffing, you slip on your shoes and run down to the lobby. 

They have a little store full of grab-and-go snacks. With your warden out today, you grab all the junk you can carry and take it back up to the room. There’s really nothing you can do to pass the time besides turn on the TV and stuff your face with as much processed sugar as you can handle. 

You just have to make sure to hide the wrappers before he gets back. 

You make sure to keep an eye on the clock all day. There’s never a guarantee how long a job will take. That’s dependent on the materials they need, the plans they lay out, and whether or not the job requires patience rather than rushing in for a quick cash grab. 

Andrew hadn’t deigned to share any of the details with you, so you're left in the dark. 

You toss away the wrapper to a honey bun—that may have been expired—and feel your eyes begin to burn from staring at the same screen for so long. There's a sharp pain in your stomach, and you let out a groan, doubling over as you press down on the ache. 

Spitefully consuming a bunch of processed junk might have been really stupid. 

Grimacing, you get up and head to the bathroom. There’s another sharp pinch, and you let out a low gasp, grimacing as a cold pain shoots through your body. “Jesus,” you hiss out. 

Approaching the toilet, you pull your pants down and pause. It’s hard to tell; your underwear is a dark blue. But…

Yeah, just there is a little bit of blood. 

Your stomach swoops as you jerk your pants back up and rush toward the bed. You rip the magazine off the nightstand and flip through until you find the pregnancy section. 

It takes a few minutes of scanning, your foot tapping restlessly as you do, before you find what you’re looking for. “Spotting is completely normal in your first trimester!”

Letting out a low breath of relief, you almost laugh at yourself. You wish you could, but then you see that little asterisk next to the sentence, and your eyes drop to the bottom of the page. 

*You should always consult your doctor if spotting is accompanied by any sharp pain or abdominal discomfort. 

The magazine slips from your hands as you grab your phone off the bed. A million thoughts race through your head before everything just comes to a stop. All you can think about is that stupid superstition of not buying anything until the second trimester. Because what if… 

What if you lose it?

A cold panic spikes through your blood; it chills you down to your toes. And it’s not even for you; it’s hardly for this baby. Because this still doesn’t feel real to you. It’s not something you’ve gotten to know or love. But suddenly it's something you could lose. 

And it’s Andrew you’re thinking about. His face as you tell him you lost the baby. 

Shaking the thoughts away, you dial his number on the burner he gave you and wait. It rings for a minute before you hang up and try again. Your foot taps impatiently against the floor; another sharp pain digs its nails into your stomach and rips. 

Letting out a groan, you clutch your gut, kneeling on the floor while you dial him again. Halfway through, you finally remember that he’s not going to answer. Not while he’s on a job. 

That’s probably why he’d been acting so off last night. He can’t afford any distractions during a job. Meaning no phone and no you. You bet he was thinking of a situation just like this one. Where you need him, and he can’t get to you. 

“Fuck,” you hiss. You throw your phone on the bed and turn toward the hotel’s landline. You jam your fingers into the numberpad, calling the front desk. It doesn’t take long to connect, but you can barely get the words out through the pain you’re struggling to breathe through. 

You ask them to order you a cab and force yourself off the bed. It’s a herculean effort to get downstairs and in the lobby. From there, it’s kind of a blur. It’s not until you’re in the waiting room at the hospital that you realize you left your phone in the hotel. 

“Shit,” you hiss, head falling back against the wall. 

“How are we feeling today?” 

You look up from your hands and glare over at the doctor who walks in. It’s rude, the look on your face. But how the fuck does he think you’re feeling?

“Not great,” you snap, eyes narrowing. He offers a polite smile and sits down on his little chair. He picks up a clipboard one of the nurses had left behind and scans over it, muttering to himself. 

“Um,” you clear your throat, trying to catch his attention. “Am I… okay?” 

It’s hard to get yourself to say the word miscarriage out loud, as if you’re going to manifest it into being somehow. Pursing your lips, you wait for him to respond. He holds one finger up with an impatient huff, and you scoff. 

With a sigh, he places the clipboard down and offers you a placating smile. “Good news is, everything’s a-okay with the baby!” 

“Thank god,” you mutter, curling into yourself as you let out a shaky breath. There’s another sharp pinch of pain in your stomach, but you ignore it for now. You’re not sure you would have been able to look Andrew in the eye and tell him–

You don’t have to worry about that now. 

Rubbing your eyes, you shake your head and look over at the doctor. “What’s wrong with me, then?”

He rubs his chin and considers you. “Pregnancy is always stressful, but would you say there’s anything that’s been making things harder for you?” You don’t even get to answer before he barrels on. “Is the father in the picture?”

“Yes,” you tell him, more defensive than you should be. Maybe because Andrew seems to care more about this kid than you do. When you can get out of that damn hotel room, that’s when you’ll let yourself believe this is real. 

“And, yeah, I would say I’m more stressed than normal.” Having your former pimp and the cops after you really isn’t great for your blood pressure. 

He purses his lips, “Spotting is normal in the first trimester. And I think you might be suffering a bit of indigestion, hence the stomach pain. But I want to be careful. I’m going to have you stay here overnight so we can monitor you.”

Panic spikes through you. As much as you hate the hotel room, being out in the open after spending so many nights sequestered inside is worrying. There’s no reason for Smurf to ever show up here, but paranoia isn’t logical. 

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“For the safety of you and your child, yes,” he tells you, that jovial tone leaving him as he gives you a stern stare. 

Letting out a rough sigh, you nod. “Alright. But is there a phone I could use? I need to call someone.”

He nods, getting up and holding the door for you. “There’s a payphone in the hall. I’ll have a nurse come and get you when a room opens up.”

You rush past him, heading toward the payphone. Rifling through your pockets, you manage to find enough change and push it into the slot. Picking up the phone, you bite your lip, trying to remember the number to Andrew’s burner. 

With a grimace, you type it in and pray you’re right. It rings for a while before you’re connected to his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me, um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–” the phone beeps before the line goes dead. 

“What the hell?” you mutter, trying to see if you have any more change. Fuck. You didn’t even get to tell him everything was fine. You let out a loud groan, leaning forward and letting your head thunk against the wall. 

He’s going to have a goddamn heart attack.  

Pope stands around a table with J and his brothers. There’s stacks and stacks of cash in front of them. More than J had even predicted. “Alright,” J has a smile on his face, relieved his plan actually worked out. It’s still odd to see the kid look anything but solemn. 

This newfound desire of his to start leading jobs, making plans, puts him on edge. There’s something off about it all. He’s been too busy with you to give that problem the attention it deserves. Something to be worried about later. 

“We’re taking a cut now,” J tells them, picking up a stack of cash and throwing it at Pope, then Deran and Craig. “I’m going to take the rest and…” he trails off, eyes cutting toward Craig. The one who could really screw this up for them all if he gets in the right mood. “I’ll take care of it,” he mutters. 

Pope counts through the cash quickly. A couple thousand, probably. It doesn’t feel like enough. Not if he wants to be able to find you both a place to stay, finance both of you completely starting new. And then he’ll need extra for the baby’s stuff in a few months. 

“I need more than this,” Pope tells J. 

Deran’s brows furrow as he shoots his brother a strange look. He says nothing, though. Instead, he nods, “I do too. I need to redo the kitchen at the bar.” He holds up the cash and shakes his head. “This isn’t going to cover it.”

J’s eyes narrow into slits, but he can’t object as his brothers start eagerly taking more money. When Pope’s satisfied with the amount, he nods at the kid. “Alright,” J snaps, stopping Craig from pocketing any more. “That’s enough.” he shoots Deran an aggrieved look. “Will that be enough?”

Deran cuts his eyes toward Pope before looking back at the kid. “Yeah, should be,” he tells him. J lets out a heavy sigh and starts bagging up the rest of the money. Pope takes his own cut and moves away from the table, pulling out his phone. He powers it back on as Deran moves toward him. 

“Hey,” Deran greets, eyeing him warily. Pope barely lifts his eyes to greet him. It’s only when Deran says your name that he catches Pope’s attention. He keeps his face carefully neutral. “I was wondering if you’ve seen her around? She just left the apartment a wreck a few weeks ago, and I haven’t seen her since.”

Pope’s about to answer that he cut you off once Smurf told him what you were doing for her. But his phone’s back on and the notifications he missed are popping up. His heart drops as he sees the missed calls from you. 

He walks away from Deran immediately, already heading toward his truck. Deran calls his name, but he isn’t listening. He tries dialing your number, but it just rings through until going to voicemail. Pick up, he thinks, gut twisting as he gets in his truck. 

He scrolls through the missed calls and sees an unknown number. Frowning, he clicks on the voicemail. “Hey, it’s me.”

His head falls against the steering wheel as he sucks in a deep breath. You sound fine, thank god. 

But then, you just have to keep talking. “Um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–”

Pope’s head whips up as the voicemail ends. His fingers are frantic as he replays the message. But there’s nothing more. Whatever you used to call him just cut out. His hands tighten around the steering wheel until he can hear the leather creak. 

He throws his phone in the seat and peels out of the driveway. It’s a blur as he drives to the hospital. There are so many thoughts swirling through his head, drowning out anything else, that he can barely breathe. 

He hadn’t wanted to go on the job today. He knew that he needed to. That this is more than enough for the two of you to get out of town and get somewhere safe. But he shouldn’t have left you alone. He knew that, and he still did it. 

He’s just incapable, isn’t he?

Incapable of becoming attached to anyone, of caring for anyone, without hurting them. 

He’d done everything right. He’d kept you safe and hidden. He found those prenatals at the store that the books all said were good for the baby. Smurf, for once, doesn’t know one of his secrets. And he still managed to fuck it up. 

Pope has to force himself to slow down as he pulls into the hospital parking lot. He doesn’t want to hear you finish your sentence when he sees you. Doesn’t want to know that superstition in the magazine is followed for a reason. 

At the very least, he can hold onto the fact that you sounded okay. You were still good. But he wouldn’t blame you if he was the last face you wanted to see right now. 

Striding into the hospital, he beelines straight for the front desk. The nurse behind the counter offers him a soft smile. “Can I help you?”

He gives her your name, “She called me from here earlier.” His nails bite into speckled linoleum as she types your name into the computer. “Is she okay?” he demands, unable to stop himself. 

Her eyes barely lift from her screen. “Give me a moment, sir.”

“I just need to know if she’s okay,” he repeats, trying to keep his voice steady. He’s been impatient before. When CPS first took Lena, he couldn’t cope. Had lost his shit at the office and had to rely on Smurf just to see her again. 

He can’t do that again. He can’t keep messing this up with you. 

The nurse offers a strained smile. “I understand, sir, but I don’t have that information right now. What’s your relationship to the patient?”

His mouth opens before he goes quiet. “Um,” he glares down at the floor. What are you? “She’s carrying my baby,” he settles on, nothing else fitting right next to the idea of you. 

The nurse nods, typing something before letting out a sigh. “Alright, looks like she should be okay for visitors. Just log in here, and you should be good to go back. It’ll be the third door on the left.”

Pope just scribbles on the paper she passes him, taking the visitor’s pass and racing off through the door to his left. He’s counting under his breath until he’s in front of the third door. It’s closed, and the blinds have been shut against any prying eyes. 

He sucks in a shaky breath, bracing himself for whatever he’s going to find on the other side. He’s never been lucky before. Baz always told him no one would ever want a baby with him. He had a point. Pope’s not… right. He’s not good for anyone, especially not for himself. Why would his luck suddenly change with you?

He has no other choice but to push the door open. 

Reruns of some old show are playing on the TV on the wall. And you—

You’re sitting on the bed with your legs folded, eagerly eating a pudding cup as you watch the show. Your head lifts as the door opens, a smile flitting across your face as you see him. It drops at whatever expression he’s wearing right now. 

“Hey,” you greet softly. “Stop lurking,” you tease, but it’s weak as your brows crease with worry. 

He takes one step inside, letting the door fall closed behind him. He can’t find the right words or the right questions. The magic words that will get you to tell him if everything’s okay. “Are you…” He trails off, coming to your side, hands flexing out toward you. He stops himself, checking over you, trying to find anything that’s visibly wrong. 

The possibilities of what could have happened to land you here are overwhelming in their intensity. Too many at once to possibly try and verbalize it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him, reaching out and lacing your fingers through his. You tug his arm until he’s sitting on the bed beside you. You put the pudding on your nightstand and take his other hand, pressing it to your stomach. “Everything is fine.”

The relief is so staggering he feels ill. You let out a quiet laugh as his eyes fall shut; he feels like he can breathe for the first time since he left this morning. “C’mere,” you mutter, tugging him forward until his cheek is pressed to your shoulder and he’s squeezing his arms around you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and he shakes his head, fingers flexing in the thin fabric of your hospital gown. “That stupid payphone cut me off. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Whoops! Don’t mean to interrupt.” Pope jerks back as the door to your room opens. You let out an annoyed huff, keeping your hand in his as he turns to see a doctor walking in. “The father, I presume?”

“What happened?” He demands, something about the doctor’s tone rubbing him the wrong way. 

“Well, I think a lot of the pain was caused by indigestion.” Pope frowns, glancing over at you, but you won’t meet his eye. “However, in your blood work I noticed a high level of cortisol and your blood pressure isn’t where I’d like it to be.”

Pope just stares at the man, waiting for him to continue. The doctor lets out an aggrieved sigh, but it's you he gives a sharp look. “You’re too stressed. Especially this early in the pregnancy.” Your hand tightens around Pope as you shift uncomfortably in the bed. “Some lifestyle changes will need to be made.” His eyes dart to Pope before he shakes his head. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

The door closes behind him, and you take in a heavy breath. Pope can’t think of anything to say, eyes cast down at the blanket. It’s his fault that you’re so stressed, that you’re even here. He knows that. He promised to get you out of that hotel room weeks ago. But he’s been stalling, selfish as he enjoys this time with you just to himself. No outside interference, no one to take away your attention. 

He got you here. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t know what else he can say. 

He waits for it, for you to take his hand, to tell him it's okay. You’ve done it so many times before. You’re so indulgent, so forgiving; he doesn’t deserve to expect it. But, God, he wants you to just tell him it's not his fault. 

“I can’t live like this anymore,” you tell him, and he can’t find it in himself to turn around and face the truth. Not right now. “Andrew,” you call, “look at me.” 

His hands dig into the blanket as he looks up at you. There’s nothing soft on your face, now. You seem severe; the circles beneath your eyes are darker than ever. You’re worn down in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

“I can fix this,” he promises, and if you didn’t believe him, he wouldn’t blame you. He’s so good at fixing problems for his family. At being the one they call to clean up their messes. But he’s always been horrible at fixing his own. 

Your eyes flit down, and you nod. Silence permeates the air between you. He hates it, but he doesn’t know how to fill it.  

The door to your room opens, and you know who it is before he walks in. Andrew hasn’t really left your side tonight. Despite your many assurances that you really are okay and you’ll be able to leave tomorrow. 

Luck was on your side, though. He stepped out to use the bathroom, and you had enough time to call someone. He’ll probably be back before Deran has a chance to leave, but it’ll be too late by then. And the both of you need Deran’s help. 

“Good to know you’re alive,” Deran tells you, voice flat as his eyes narrow on you. 

You grimace, “I’m sorry, Deran, really.”

His eyes fall shut as he pinches at his nose. He stands at the end of your bed, refusing to come closer. Shrugging, he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “It was Smurf, wasn’t it?”

Your eyes fall to your lap, and you nod. “Why didn’t you just come to me in the first place?” he asks, taking a step closer. 

“It wasn’t that simple,” you mutter, looking up at him. His brows are pinched in concern. Deran’s done a lot for you since you’ve known him. He’s certainly been more selfless than his family ever expected him to be. 

You know you’ve been shitty, hiding everything from him. But it already feels like you’re wrecking Andrew’s life. You didn’t feel like you could drag Deran down with you both. Not when he had worked so hard to help you clean your life up. But you don’t have any other choice now. 

“Alright,” he shakes his head with a scoff. “Then make it simple. You move out, I don’t hear from you for weeks, and suddenly you call me up to tell me you’re in the hospital. You gotta give me something, here.”

You let out a bitter laugh, “How’s this?” He shakes his head, waiting. You force the words out, “I’m pregnant.” 

Deran’s face falls; he takes a staggered step toward you as the door opens behind him. His head whips around as Andrew walks through. Andrew’s expression goes tight when he sees someone else standing next to you. 

“There’s the dad,” you offer weakly, trying for a joke and failing miserably.

Andrew closes the door behind him, eyes narrowed on his brother. “Why is he here?” He demands, looking at you. You can tell he’s holding his temper back. But it’s been on a short leash, already. You don’t want to risk making things worse. 

“He can help–”

“You knew where she was?” Deran demands, taking an angry step forward. Andrew doesn’t back down, expression twitching as he straightens up. “I asked you, man.”

Cody anger is volatile. It’s quick to spark and worse to quell. You can see it, swelling between them. Deran doesn’t take much to get going, he reaches out, shoving Andrew back. You grimace as Andrew grapples with him, trying to get him to stop before you’re all kicked out of the hospital. 

“Deran!” You snap, eyes darting toward the windows and praying no one looks inside. 

“You lied to me,” he shouts at Andrew, face growing red. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Andrew barks back. 

Desperately glancing around the room for anything to stop them, your eyes land on the empty pudding cup. You snatch it up and throw it at the back of Deran’s head. He flinches at the impact, head whipping around to face you. 

“Enough! Jesus fuck, Deran, I’m in the hospital because I’m too stressed. This isn’t why I wanted you here!”

Andrew still has a hold on him. Deran glances between the pair of you, expression turning embarrassed. He shoves his brother’s arms off of him and reaches up, trying to smooth back the hair that's fallen in his eyes. 

“Then what the fuck do you want from me?” 

At the same time, Andrew asks, “Why is he here?”

They both shoot each other severe looks that have you grimacing. It would have worked out a hell of a lot better if Andrew had just stayed in the bathroom. You scrub your hands down your face and let out a rough exhale, shoulders hunching. 

“We’re staying in a hotel right now. But I can’t keep living like that,” Andrew says your name, but you stop him with a look. “Look where I’m at right now, Andrew. Can you honestly say that the way we’re living is healthy for me?”

You purse your lips. You know this is dirty; you’re using one of his deepest fears against him. And it’s awful; you’re a horrible person. But you’re human, and you physically cannot take another day living like a fugitive on the run. “Is it healthy for the baby?”

His hands go lax at his sides, eyes widening imperceptibly as he stares at you. Whatever argument he had ready is killed by your cutting words. You suck your teeth, shoving down the guilt burning in your throat. 

“So that’s what you want?” Deran asks, staring over at you with this strange look in his eyes. “Another place to stay?”

“I know that I shouldn’t ask you for anything–”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.” You bite your lip, sucking in a sharp breath. He rolls his eyes, glaring up at the ceiling. “But…” he lets out a sardonic laugh as he turns toward you. “I actually have a place.”

“Smurf,” he continues, “gave us properties.” he motions between himself and Andrew. Your brows turn in as you turn to him. Because he’d never told you about any sort of property. 

He can’t meet your eye, hand balling into a fist as he glares at the floor. “I couldn’t use any of them for you. She would have looked,” he doesn’t seem very defensive. And you’re sure he believes that excuse. But you’re stupid if you think he wasn’t also attracted to the idea of being so close to you, of having you all to himself. 

“Yeah, well she won’t go looking through any of mine,” Deran tells him. He turns back to you, “There’s a house by the beach you can stay in.” You want to get up and thank him, to hug him for the first time in weeks. But his expression is reserved as he moves toward the door. “I gotta go. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll figure it out.”

The door slams behind him, blinds rattling from the force. He’s still angry, then. You suppose you can’t blame him. Not with the way you just disappeared. Sighing, you lean forward, head falling into your hands. 

Andrew comes up beside you. “I would have taken care of it.”

“Would you?” you scoff, glancing over at him. You don’t mean it maliciously, but it’s been weeks. And he’s apparently had ‘property’ this whole time. Andrew was working off his own schedule, and that just wasn’t good enough for you.  

The house is a slightly run-down bungalow by the beach. But it’s good. Anything is in comparison to that hotel room. It’s woefully empty of any furniture or anything to actually make a house a home. You can work on that, though. 

Slowly, over the course of a few monthss—long enough for your stomach to start to swell—you begin collecting everything for the place. The couch that Deran was going to get rid of makes its way to you. Your dining table is something you found at an estate sale, oddly enough. 

Bits and pieces make their way to you. Some old, some new. But it’s a start. A start to something that belongs solely to you and Andrew. Smurf had sold his house when he was arrested. It left him with nowhere to go but back to her. 

The bungalow is a few hours outside of Oceanside. Which makes it a commute for Andrew anytime she calls him back home to deal with family business. You know she must be growing suspicious by now. Especially because Deran stops by a lot. 

Where could both of her sons be disappearing to?

You don’t know what Andrew is telling her to keep her off his back, or if he’s even trying. You try not to think about it a lot. The pregnancy has begun to feel real to you. Your stomach is swelling with life; you’re outside of her control. Worries about her serve only to make you more stressed than you need to be. 

So, you linger in ignorant bliss. Andrew lets you, though you can see his worries about the future eating away at him. There’s only so much you can do for a man who refuses to cut the last tether to the most agonizing aspect of his life. 

His mother. 

“The appointment is at two, right?” 

Andrew nods; he’s busy putting together the bedframe you just bought while you go through the notes from your last visit with the gynecologist. He’d missed it, Smurf calling him home for some job. A bad time to miss it, too, considering the doctor said she was worried you were showing early signs of gestational hypertension. 

It’s not anything life-threatening, but you know he’d been bothered that he wasn’t there when you heard the news. He’s insisting on attending this one. You don’t mind the company, that’s for sure. When the doctor asks what prenatals you’re taking and what your diet looks like, a lot of that knowledge lies with Andrew. He’ll have a better time processing and planning around the information than you will. 

His phone rings, breaking up the quiet of the moment. You glance up from your computer with interest. His entire demeanor changes as he looks at the name. It doesn’t take much guessing to know who it is. 

The way his shoulders hunch up, his lips pursing as he lets out a heavy sigh. “Smurf?” you ask.

He just nods; he gets up, moving out toward the porch as he answers. You glance toward the window, trying to decide whether or not you want to listen in. You sigh before deciding against it. He’ll tell you about it if he needs to. 

You continue looking through the notes from your last visit, making sure you didn’t forget to tell Andrew anything. The door slams closed as he comes back in, making you jump. Your brows furrow as you look over at him. He’s glaring down at the floor, phone tucked back in his pocket. 

You hesitate on saying anything.  “That was fast,” you land on.

“She wants my help on a job,” he tells you. Letting out a rough sigh, his shoulders sink as he looks up. “Today.”

“Ah,” you click your tongue. She seems to have a psychic link to him. Always knowing the worst time to steal him away from you. Looking back at the computer, you bite back whatever venom you want to spew. Instead, you try to keep your voice calm as you ask, “Are you going?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you don’t want to look over. You don’t want him to see the hurt on your face that you even have to ask that question. Guilt shouldn’t be what makes him stay. He should just want to. 

A soft touch lands on your shoulder and you sigh, sinking back into him. “I’m going with you,” he tells you, firm on the decision. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, reaching up to squeeze his hand as he goes back to putting the bed together. “Did she say what the job was?”

Andrew considers for a moment before shaking his head. “She said she’d be coming along on this one. Said it was important.”

Something gnawing stirs up in your stomach. You frown as you consider him. God, you can’t believe you’re about to ask this. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go?”

He pauses from where he was picking up his tools. You get a sidelong look as his voice quiets. “Do you not want me coming?”

Of course that’s how he took it; you feel like an idiot. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” You have a bad feeling about Smurf. But you have no evidence and no reason to voice aloud your doubt. “Of course I want you there, Andrew.”

He looks over you, eyes narrowing as he stares into your eyes, checking for any dishonesty. Slowly, he nods and resumes his task. You try to do the same, but your focus is anywhere but on your notes. 

You’d had Andrew’s hand in a death grip your entire appointment. You couldn’t tell him why or even explain to the doctor this sudden panic that’s come over you. She’s worried about it, telling you it’s important you lessen the stress in your life as much as possible to avoid any complications. 

If only it were that easy. But you hardly understood your worries before you were pregnant. It only got that much harder after. 

Luckily, everything looked fine with the baby. She couldn’t get a good look at it through the ultrasound, and she forgot her “readers” at home. So, instead, you have to wait a while longer while she runs a blood test to determine the gender of the baby. 

You don’t really care either way. But you think Andrew would make a good dad to a little girl. 

“You don’t want to do the whole gender reveal thing, do you?” You ask on the drive home. 

Andrew glances over at you and shrugs, hand flexing around the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Might not be so bad.”

Your eyes narrow. “Really? You want one of those stupid confetti things staining our backyard pink or blue?”

He lets out a scoff, smiling slightly as he looks over at you. “How ‘bout a cake?” he offers, and you think he might just be messing with you. 

“Considering the strict diet you’ve got me on, I’ll take a cake.” He huffs a little at the dig but doesn’t seem to mind too much when you grin over at him. You stretch, hand resting on the center console. He reaches down, taking it in his own as he pulls onto your street. 

You frown, sitting up when you see another car in your driveway. “Who’s that?” you wonder aloud. 

Andrew’s hand tightens around your own as he slows down. He comes to a stop in front of the house, letting out a low breath of relief when you both see it’s just Deran. But he doesn’t look good. He’s pacing on the porch, hands shoved in his pockets, and his face is strangely red. 

“Wait here,” Andrew mutters, getting out of the truck and stalking up the driveway. You let out an irritated huff, watching as he approaches his brother. Deran’s head whips up as he gets closer, and he stops his pacing completely. 

That unsettled feeling from before returns tenfold as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. You can’t hear what's being said, but you can see the way Deran’s face shifts from that usually untouchable look to something scarily vulnerable. Andrew runs up the steps to the porch, and Deran stops him, grabbing his shoulder and taking in a deep breath. 

You tilt yourself closer to the window, as if you might be able to hear something. Deran finally says whatever news it is he had to be in person to deliver. Your brows furrow as you watch it all play out on Andrew’s face. 

He tilts his head before shaking it, saying something. You can’t make out what he says, but you can hear his voice rise, see him shove Deran back as he continues to shake his head. His hands come up to his head, cupping it. 

You can’t take watching this anymore. Getting out of the truck, you make your way up the driveway just as Andrew sinks onto the porch steps. His head falls between his knees, shoulders beginning to shake. You run up to him, falling beside him. Deran stands behind you both, gaze vacant as he watches his brother. 

“What’s going on?” you snap at Deran, hands cupping Andrew’s cheeks. You try to get him to look at you, but he collapses into you instead. You let out a sharp gasp as his head falls in your lap, hands gripping desperately at your dress. You can feel him shaking, the sharp breaths he’s struggling to get in. 

“Deran!” You snap, hands desperately running over Andrew, trying anything to get him to calm down. 

Deran finally looks at you, but he doesn’t see you. “Smurf is dead.”

The fridge is open again. 

It’s happened over the past week. You’ll walk through the house, and there will be these little things that are wrong. The fridge is open because he forgot he was going to make dinner. The light to the hallway has been on all day because he never remembered to turn it off. There are dirty plates put away in the cabinets because he’d zoned out, unloaded a dirty dishwasher without even blinking. 

You walk over and close the fridge, letting your head fall against the cool metal with a shaky exhale. This is getting bad. You knew he wouldn’t be well immediately following his mother’s death. Who would?

But this is different than being lost in grief. He’s losing chunks of the day, leaving the house and not knowing where he’s going. You caught him standing in front of the nursery with a drill in his hand. He stood there for about ten minutes before you asked what he was doing. 

He didn’t remember. 

Moving away from the kitchen, you check your watch. He’s been gone for two hours already. You hadn’t wanted to let him leave the house on his own. He was meant to take you grocery shopping with him. But you had to run to the bathroom, and he just left. 

You move into your bedroom, intent on putting away some clothes. You’re trying to tidy the place up a bit before he gets back, so he doesn’t have to worry about it. 

Picking up a pile of clothes, you trudge into the closet. It’s stuffed full right now and barely organized. With an annoyed huff, you drop the clothes on the ground and reach for some shirts on an overstuffed bar. You tug at them a bit, grunting until the hangers finally come off. 

Something tumbles from the shelf above; it pops you perfectly in the toe before tumbling off into the shadows of the closet. “Ow,” you grumble, forgetting the clothes as you get on your knees. Your hands swipe across the closet floor, blindly groping until you feel your fingers brush against what fell. 

Pulling it out, you pause. This is…

This is one of the baby bottles he bought. “What the hell?” you mutter, looking up at the shelf it fell from. Getting to your feet, you rush off and drag the stepstool into the closet. Climbing up, you get a good look at the shelf. 

The parenting books, pacifiers, everything he bought too early has been shoved up here. Pulling it all out, you lay it out on the bed. Why the hell would he hide all this?

Sure, you noticed there was less baby stuff around the house. But you thought that was because he was putting it all away in the nursery. You haven’t been there in a while. The scattered parts of the crib he never built are too much of a tripping hazard. 

You never would have thought he was hiding it all away. 

Rubbing your head, you let out a low groan. You rack your brain, but you can’t find a reason he would do this. And with the state he’s in, you doubt Andrew even understands what he’s doing. 

The front door opens, and you run out of the bedroom. Andrew stands in the doorway, his head lifts, eyes still carrying that sad look they’ve had the past few days. “Andrew,” you whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, head lifting as he surveys you with narrowed eyes. But you’re not the problem here.

You purse your lips, struggling to maintain a kind smile. “Where are the groceries?”

His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “What?”

You let out a rough sigh, pinching your nose as you shake your head. “Never mind,” you tell him. Instead, you walk over to him, taking his hand in yours. He lets you lead him to the couch and sit him down. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, looking slightly dazed as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Nothing, just, maybe rest for a little while, alright?” You want to help him; you do. But he’s mourning. And you can’t relate to that pain. Smurf made your life hell. The only good she ever did anyone was giving birth to Deran and Andrew. You wanted to fucking leap for joy when you heard she was dead. 

But Andrew’s steadily devolving into a state that you don’t know how to get him out of. You doubt he’ll be himself for a long time. But this is different. This is wrong. Pulling out your phone, you call the only person you can think of. 

Pope is sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the porch. You’d deposited him there, the burden that’s only serving to make your life more difficult. He wonders if you’re watching him through the window to make sure he’s not going to wander off. He feels like he’s falling apart. 

And maybe he is. Pope’s not sure anyone would call hearing their dead mother’s voice stable. But he does hear her. And he sees her everywhere too. A phantom that he just can’t let go of. 

He hears a car pull up the driveway and frowns, lifting his head. They park and throw the door open. Deran stands there a minute, just watching Pope, before slowly making his way up the porch steps. 

Deran lets out a low groan as he sits in the chair beside Pope. His chest heaves as he exhales and rubs his hands down his face. Pope watches him warily, wondering why he bothered coming. 

Deran looks over at him and laughs. It’s not genuine. It’s bitter and filled with the same sort of reluctant grief plaguing Pope. “You look like shit, man,” he tells him. 

Pope scoffs, but he can’t disagree. He’s hardly keeping his head on straight right now. “What do you want?” he asks, wishing for some quiet for once. Away from all the noise in his head. 

“What do you think?” Deran huffs. He motions inside. “She called me,” he says your name, and Pope grimaces. You must really think he’s just a mess. 

Deran goes quiet for a moment, picking at a thread on his jeans. “How have you been doing?” He asks, his tone losing its abrasive quality this time around. 

“How do you think?” Pope scoffs, looking over at him. And something inside him breaks, seeing his little brother who is holding it together so much better than he is. “I keep seeing her man,” his voice cracks around the confession, and he looks away. “I’m— I’m fucking hearing her in the back of my head. Reminding me—”

Pope shakes his head, dragging his hand down his face as he tries to take in a steady breath. “Reminding me of how much I fucked up. I wasn’t there,” he admits. “I wasn’t there, and she’s dead.”

Deran stays quiet, just watching Pope. There’s nothing he could say that would absolve him of this guilt. He doesn’t deserve it. Not when this is all he’s done his entire life. He was put on a leash for a reason. Because every time he ever tried to break out of that control, the only thing he’s ever done is hurt someone. 

Something about the quiet softens something in him. “I hid all the baby stuff,” he admits. 

Deran lets out a confused noise and looks up. “What?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why?

Pope shrugs, looking down at the chair and digging his nail into a scratch. He picks at it, watching the wood splinter. “I can’t mess this up,” he admits, voice rough as he blinks away the burning in his eyes. “I hear Smurf. I hear Baz. And they’re both just telling me how much I fucked up. And I can hear Baz telling me that no one would ever want a kid with me. Because he was right,” he lets out a bitter sound, taking in a shaky breath. 

“She doesn’t want a kid with me. She just got stuck with me.”

Deran takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head. He laughs, but it's hollow. “Baz was wrong about a lot of things,” he says. He reaches over and takes his shoulder. Pope grimaces, but he doesn’t move away, looking over at Deran. 

“But Baz was always wrong about you, man.” He squeezes Pope’s shoulder before letting go. “Smurf fucked us all up. But,” Deran whistles and shakes his head. “She really did a number on you. Still, if any of us could actually give a kid a chance of survivin’ all the shit we went through…”

Deran offers a strained smile, “It’d be you.”

Pope can’t honestly say he believes him. Believe this is anything other than an attempt to bring him back from the edge. But he wants to. He wants to so badly think that he’s capable of doing something good. 

Neither of them says anything else, sitting in the quiet with one another. 

A while later, Deran gets up. He doesn’t say much, just that he has to head home. Pope nods, watching as Deran walks down the porch. The door opens behind him, the swell of your stomach clear in his peripheral. You call out a goodbye to his brother, walking toward him. He reaches up, hands brushing against your stomach as his head falls against you. You reach up, nails dragging through his curls. 

You’re real. You’re here. Not a voice in his head reminding him that everything falls apart under his touch. 

You kneel, pressing your forehead to his. Your lips brush against the corner of his mouth before you pull away. He holds onto your hand until you’re walking back into the house, and his hand falls back by his side. Deran pulls out of the driveway; he stops at the end for a moment before driving off. 

Pope gets to his feet; he follows the only noise in the house until he’s standing in front of the nursery. You’re kneeling in front of the disassembled crib. Without looking up, you silently hold out the instruction booklet. He walks forward, taking it from you and kneeling at your side. 

Your eyes dart to him for a moment. “It’s a girl,” you tell him. 

His stomach swoops as he looks over at you. You offer a small smile. “The doctor called this morning. I thought you would want to know.”

You reach over and take his hand in your own, lacing your fingers together. He leans over, pressing his forehead to the side of your head. You turn, lips brushing against his as you pull him into your embrace. He sinks easily, the world going quiet around him as you hold him. His hand falls from your side to the swell of your stomach. 

For now, there’s only one voice. 

Baz was always wrong about you. 

But you don’t really have to feign anything right now. Not with Pope sitting on the couch in nothing but his boxers, watching… a bird documentary?

AHHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHHAHAHHAHA YESSSSSSS THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEE WOOO HOOO HOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Get sum cold cuts get sum cold cuts get sum cold cuts!!!! It’s just so fucking funny to me that his concept of “me time” is sitting half naked in the den watching animal documentaries😭😭 that’s my boy!!!!

He absolutely is a freak and loves those documentaries, and that's so precious to me

There’s more force behind the kiss than you’d like. His body is stiff beneath you as you slide your leg over his lap, straddling him. There’s too much teeth in the kiss; it’s aggressive in a way that reminds you of your old clients.

I love that this highlights this boiling need just below the surface. And the need doesn’t have to come from long term yearning. He’s pent up. This is why Smurf needs her to do this. He needs a release. It’s healthy. But he is an unhealthy man and softness doesn’t come easy. Nor do I think he equates it to intimacy. Intimacy is not even the right word for him. It’s sex. And it’s something to get done and move on. At least until the next time he needs a release. Ugh he’s like a caged animal meant to roam free, I love him

I like to believe that he yearns, but I feel like that's just too soft for the type of love he's capable of. He's obsessive, observant, will watch over you to keep you safe, and longs for you. But yearning is too soft. Every scene in that show where he interacted with someone who was paid for sex with him made me so upset. He was clearly just providing what was expected of him and just needed someone who actually cared about him. MY SHAYLAAA 😭

He doesn’t understand intimacy like a man his age should. That’s no fault of his own, not really. 

Hehehehe our minds🤞

my twinnnnnnnnn

Your nails bite into his shoulders as he presses his nose to the crook of your jaw. He rests there a moment before slowly making his way back to your lips, just waiting. His shallow breaths fan across your face as you move forward, just enough to finally connect with him. 

1) scent kink pope for the win and 2) the way he keeps waiting for permission😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 MY DARLING BOYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY WAHHHHHHHHHH HES BEING SO GOOD FOR HERRRRR

You cannot convince me he wouldn't just be happy with proximity and breathing you in

Oh I WILL be killing myself and I’m gonna leave a zodiac killer level clue that, once decrypted, spells out your🫵 name

WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH MY BOYYYYYY MY SON-LOVER

only way to describe him

He’s standing just at the perimeter of your space. Not approaching, just quiet in the corner of your vision. As if you might wave him away if he gets too close or takes up too much space. 

Clutching my chest in PAIN because he’s so sweet, like a homeless dog searching for kindness he’s not used to

AHAHAAWWWWWWW EVEN DERAN NOTICES POPE IS BEING WEIRD ABOUT THE READER EVEN FROM A FARRRRRRRR WAHHHHHHHHHHHH I LOVE ITTTTTT

no other way for me to think of him except as one of those old dog-fighting strays that just wants to trust someone but has been hurt too much

But your heart is racing, adrenaline spiking in your blood. You do actually feel special that he would choose you over Smurf. But it’s worrying. You’ve never been a threat to her before, not really. 

All bets are off when it comes to Pope. She’s so terrified of what he could do if he stopped idealizing her in his head. If you begin posing a threat to her position with him, she won’t hesitate to take you out. 

This is now a horror movie

There’s such a confusing divide between how she treats him and what she expects from him. Infantilizing him while demanding perfection. 

You get it. You just get it.

The way this was inspired by someone I know, and it's such an infuriating dynamic just to watch, never mind being the person getting treated like that

OH WAITER, WAITER☝️A BULLET TO THE SKULL PLEASE😁WAHHHHHHHHHH,

“Andrew,” you whisper, taking a step closer and running your hand over his hair. His head falls onto your stomach, hands finding their way to your hips as he shakes his head. 

OHHHH I LOVE A MAN ON HIS KNEES LOSING HIS MIND AND HOLDING ONTO HIS WOMAN FOR DEAR LIFE!!!!!!!

GIRL, I WROTE THAT PART JUST FOR YOUUUUUUU

Oh my God, he’s so cute😭😭😭 I know he’s probably very easily adaptable because that’s been his life, but I also think he’s doing well because she’s with him🥹 she’s there, she’s safe. He knows where she is at all times because there’s literally nowhere to hide. It’s probably the most calm he’s felt in a while😭

Describing Pope as fussy over her being pregnant has me livinggggg!!! Because that sounds about right LOL she’s not even showing and he’s in full mama bear nesting mode

I LOVE HIM DOMESTIC- IT MEANS SO MUCH TO ME! HE WOULD BE SUCH A GOOD HUSBAND

Deran’s brows furrow as he shoots his brother a strange look. He says nothing, though. Instead, he nods, “I do too. I need to redo the kitchen at the bar.” He holds up the cash and shakes his head. “This isn’t going to cover it.”

Deran covering for/supporting him🙂‍↕️ he doesn’t even know this is for her, but he and Pope have a connection🤞youngest and oldest, looking out for each other🙂‍↕️

Their relationship means so much to me. He's his big bro, ofc he wants to help, especially later seasons, Deran, when he's finally gotten a chance to be independent and start to grow

This doctor is very judgy🤨kind of hate him

inspired by every male doctor I've ever had to interact with ever

The mother-lover relationship I have with Pope is singing right now😈 the way he’s gripping onto her, but also so close to her bump😈that’s new mama right there

Her being pregnant changes so much for him- like, yes, this is the motherly figure you need in your life that will give you the affection Smurf never gave you and you also are in love with her

Such a good fic😩😩 you truly understand Shawn’s characters🫶 loving you, missing you, smooching you <33