x Reader Repository

“Huh?” He tilts his head and then proceeds to rub his eyes. 

You roll your eyes; he really is useless sometimes. “Andr- Pope and Bandit?”

He points down the hall and calls in a mocking sing-song tone coupled with a shit-eating grin, “Oh, Andy! Your girl is here!”

Dick.

Andrew pops out of his room with a tired smile and rasps out a “hey.”

You walk into the room and shut the door, then turn to Andrew, cradling his face and planting a firm kiss on his lips. You swear you can feel him go lightheaded and lax against you.

“How are my boys?” Is mumbled into his neck as he wraps you in an almost constricting hug, causing you to smile and relax into his grasp. You laugh, “Miss me much?”

He nods and tucks his face into the side of your neck. “Yeah, we both did”

He quickly lifts you from the ground, his arms wrapping around the back of your upper thighs where your ass meets your legs. You let out a shriek of his name as you laugh. Laying you on his bed. He settles between your legs with his head on your plush, warm, sun-kissed belly. Your hands immediately start to card through his curls and rub his shoulders. Feeling him relax, you close your eyes but pry one open upon hearing a quiet jingle. Your gaze landed on the small gray cat that the cat distribution system so graciously gave you.

Eight months ago, Andrew was driving you back to your apartment because he refused to let you stay at what you’ve come to know as the Cody compound, and you made him pull over because you saw a tiny kitten on the side of the road near a storm drain. You had gasped so dramatically that he nearly crashed his truck because he thought you had hurt yourself on something, causing panic to seep deep into his bones. 

After collecting himself, he turned to look at you to ask what the fuck that was, but you were already running across the street to something he still couldn’t see. Jumping out of the truck, he runs to you with nothing but concern written all over his face. 

“Baby! What’s wrong?” He asked, borderline whined, turning you to face him, and his heart sank further once he saw tears in your eyes. Speaking frantically and panicked, “Please talk to me, baby. What did I do wrong?”

“He’s just a baby,” you whimper out with a pout, showing him the tiny, trembling, fuzzball of a gray kitten. 

Pope, letting out a sigh of relief, spoke pleadingly, now holding your shoulders, “Please don’t gasp like that again and look both ways before crossing the street. You scared this shit out of me.”

Wiping your tears, you nod. “Can we keep him? Please, Pope?” You stick out your lip in a dramatic pout with the doe eyes you came to realise will make him say yes to just about anything. 

Guiding you back to the truck with one hand over the kitten and the other on the small of your back, “Yeah, sure, baby, we can keep him, but Smurf doesn’t like cats.

He’s still frazzled as he now drives to a pet store instead of your apartment because you said the poor thing needed a bed, food, and toys. Simply nodding along, he pays for supplies but not before you tell him to pick a collar for his new ‘son’. The title makes him stop dead in his tracks.

“What did you just call it?” He searched your eyes, making sure he heard you correctly.

You let out an overly dramatic gasp. “Do not call our son an ‘it’. We just need to come up with a name for him.” Looking down at the cat, you spoke directly to him: “It’s okay, mommy and daddy will find you a good name.” You look up at Pope again. “Right, Daddy?”

Pope knows in that exact second he is a goner, and he is exactly where he wants to be, especially if you are going to call him that again.

He comes to when he notices you waving a hand in his face. “Pope? Honey? Earth to Andrew. Are you okay?”

All he managed was a nod before giving the confused cashier a wad of bills and carrying the bags to the engraving machine, where you stand, for the small tag that goes on the ocean blue collar Pope chose. 

“Hmm.” You hold up the kitten you wrapped in your sweater. “What does he look like to you?”

He shrugs, looking at you instead of the kitten. 

You shift from hip to hip, still thinking. “Oh! What about Clyde?”

His face scrunches at the suggestion. “Why Clyde?”

“Because he stole my attention.” You state simply.

He stares at the screen like he’s deep in thought before asking. “Do you really want to keep with the theft thing?”

You shrug, “Yeah, kinda, I don’t think you’d be a fan of Andrew Junior for a cat. I think that should be reserved for our human child.”

You then watch his brain melt in real time, his face beet-red and looking at you like you hold the secrets to the universe, and he manages to stutter out “Bandit?”

“That’s perfect, Pope. I love it!” You quickly type in the name, but you notice he goes even quieter. “What’s wrong? Do you not like it?”

“No, no, I like it, but I like Andrew.” He mumbles, looking at the ground.

Questioning, you tilt your head. “You want to name him Andrew?” 

“Bandit for the cat but. I like it when you called me Andrew.” He slowly admits, still not looking directly at you. 

You lean up and press a kiss to his cheek and state it like it’s a fact. “Well. I won’t call you Pope anymore then. Is that better, Andrew” 

He’s frozen like a deer in headlights and nods, touching his cheek as his ears, down to his chest, burn a dusty shade of red. “Just if Smurf and everyone else are there, don’t.” He chews the inside of his cheek.

He remains quiet as the name ‘Bandit’ is engraved on the small tag, and for the dive back to your apartment. After turning the truck off, he races around the front to help you out and grab the bags of things he bought from the pet store. He walks you to your door and sets the bags down.

Awkwardly kicking the ground and stuffing his hands into his pockets, he finally speaks up. “Uh, goodnight, and goodnight, Bandit”

“Andrew… Do you want to come inside?” You spoke as you unlocked your door.

He stares at you and blinks. “You want me inside?”

“This isn’t exactly how I pictured asking you to spend the night, but yeah. I want you to stay.” You give a shy smile. The original plan to get him to stay the night was to have a beach date near your place and end the night with a bonfire, and then say you didn’t want him driving late at night, but saving a cat would have to do. 

He closed and locked the door behind him and stood awkwardly at the shoe rack. “Shoes off? Wait. Spend the night?”

“Please. Then help me set everything up for our son. Yeah, I want you to spend the night. We’ve been dating for about four months, and I get that we said slow but… I don’t know; you don’t have to stay.” You quickly turn around and put Bandit in his new bed on the couch.

Suddenly, you feel hands wrap around your waist from behind and a peck on your shoulder. Melting back into him, you smile contentedly.

“I’ll stay. We have the little guy to take care of now.” He spoke in a hushed tone.

You turn around and kiss him properly. “Yeah, we do.”

That was the night you figured out that the three of you would be stuck together for a long time, and you have been.

After thinking about the night you knew your boys were yours, you motion for the now much larger cat to join you and Andrew on the bed. Bandit lies between Andrew's arm and your thigh. He seems to need to be touching both of you when it's time to lie in bed. As you continue to comb through Andrew's hair, you swear he starts to purr like Bandit does.

Andrew lifts his head and stares up at you with those soft, deep chocolate eyes that make you melt. He then gives an equally soft smile as his hands run over your waist and sides. Smiling back down at him for a moment, you close your eyes and let your head fall back down to the pillows. 

He turns his head to the side and starts speaking to Bandit as if they were both humans. 

“We had loads of fun doing some seagull watching.” Andrew scratches Bandit’s chin. “You really gotta get better about not stepping in your own piss, though I’m tired of bleaching the bathroom and mopping the house,” Andrew spoke softly while stroking Bandit's head. 

You roll your eyes. “You don’t have to mop just cause he tracks litter through the house-”

As he attempts to interject with his brows screwed together with a scowl. You put a finger to his lips. 

“Let me finish.” You lock eyes with him, taking a more serious gaze. “You can just vacuum and sweep. Everyone always wears their shoes inside, and there’s a party here every other day. I think you should just stick to the basics and not have to deep clean every day. Once a week would be fine. We could also get better about wiping his feet after he uses the litter box. Then there’s Craig’s dogs.” You shudder thinking about the dogs and what they used to do in the house before Andrew told him to stop bringing them because they tried to eat Bandit once. 

Andrew grumbles and looks back at Bandit. “I’ll get some more baby wipes, I guess”

“Listen, Andy, as much as I would love to stay here with you both, I’m getting kinda hungry.” You scratched Bandit’s head. “My boys need dinner too”

Andrew reluctantly gets up but keeps a hand on your hip as you pick up Bandit. You three walk into the kitchen to see Craig digging through the fridge. 

“Calm down; I’m getting ready to make dinner.” I hand Bandit to Andrew and swat Craig out of the way. 

Andrew walks over to the couch with Bandit, setting him in his lap and turning on the TV to the nature channel, where a documentary about birds is playing. Craig joins them on the couch, grumbling about being starving as he rolls a joint. 

“Everyone okay with baked chicken, potatoes and broccoli?” You call from the counter as you set everything down, earning a unanimous grunt of agreement from the three men. 

You season the chicken, broccoli, and potatoes before putting them in the oven to cook. Just as you enter the TV pit, you smile at Andrew and then see that Bandit and Andrew both have their heads tilted to the side, watching the TV. You smile, but the moment is very quickly ruined by a cackle from Craig. 

He continues to laugh as he gets Deran’s attention, “Hey, Der, look Pope and the cat have the same stare!”

Deran also bursts out laughing, causing both Bandit and Andrew to look at the two laughing men with the same unamused expression. 

Deran slaps the back of his hand to Andrew’s chest. “You got the same eyes, man.” They both continue to laugh.

The somewhat carefree expression that Andrew had is now gone and replaced by his signature shark-eye stare.

“Quit making fun of my boys.” You quickly chirp and sit in Andrew's lap. After kissing his cheek, you whisper. “You do pull the same faces sometimes.” 

His ears burn red at the casual affection. It took him a long time to get used to affection in private; he just couldn’t believe that what you felt for him was genuine. Getting him used to even subtle PDA was an uphill battle, but you didn’t push it too much just a kiss on the cheek, a side hug, or a barely there peck on the lips if anyone was around and could see the two of you, even if it was the people he grew up with. Albeit they are shitty people. 

You remember the time shortly after you got Smurfs' approval for Bandit to stay the night from time to time that you caught them both staring blankly out the window. Not looking for anything but more so just relaxing their eyes and enjoying the sun that was pouring through the large windows.

The laughing eventually dies down, and you all watch the documentary that Andrew chose. The timer for the oven goes off, and you get up to serve dinner. Andrew quietly sets the table as if it is for an etiquette class exam, but you are grateful because you could never remember which side the knife is supposed to go on, and if the cup is supposed to be above it or on the opposite side of it. 

“Thank you for setting the table for us.” You smiled, setting the hot dishes on the hot pads in the middle of the table. 

You get a nod in response and a grunt as he sits down, but he thanks you for the meal after and washes the dishes. Craig slips a few ‘guests’ in for the night, and Deran says he's going out. Making your way back to Andrew's room, you see him moping on his bed, taking a deep breath, and closing the door. 

Sitting at the foot of the bed and petting Bandit, you ask him what's wrong. When he doesn’t respond, you move closer to him, resting a hand on his leg. 

“Andrew, honey, what’s the matter?” Speaking in a soft tone, while rubbing his thigh with your thumb.

He finally spoke up in a quiet voice, “Do we really look the same?”

You can’t hold back the small laugh that pushes its way through your lips. “Andrew! Are you actually upset about that?”

“No…” He looks down at Bandit, who then chirps at him.

Lying next to him, putting a hand over his heart and spoke honestly. “Andrew, every one of your brothers is an asshole. I know you know that. I don’t think you look like Bandit or that Bandit looks like you, but like any pet, he picks up and mirrors behaviors. I think you have watched enough nature and animal documentaries to know that. What other cat do you know or have you heard of that will put the toilet seat down? He's seen both of us do it so many times that he just does it himself.”

Andrew turns to look at you, putting his hand over yours. “I know, but he’s our son; he should look like one of us, at least.”

The two of you laugh before settling down once again, and then you speak up, “I love you, Andrew. Love you too, Bandit.”

You’re slouched on the sofa, remote in hand, idly flipping through cooking shows and late-night reruns on your new flat-screen - Pope’s birthday gift to you - when your phone vibrates against the cushion. Only one name makes you answer.

“Hey, Pope. What’s - “ You stop when you hear ragged sobs and heavy sniffs cracking through the line. “Andrew?” you whisper. “What happened?”

“Need you at Baz’s. Now.”

“Is Lena - “

“Lena’s fine. Just…please. Come.”

You fling yourself up without changing out of your oversized t-shirt and pyjama shorts. You tug on your scuffed Converse, lace them tight, and run the two blocks beneath the pale streetlights.

Baz’s front door is half-open. Inside, the living room is quiet. Pope sits on the sofa, shoulders hunched, head in his hands. You drop beside him, gripping his arms until he moves his trembling fingers from his face. Tear tracks glisten on his cheeks.

“Andrew,” you say softly.

He presses his lips together. “I had to…to protect them. I - I had to.”

“Protect who? What did you do?” you press, but he won’t meet your eyes. 

You rise and walk down the hall. In Lena’s room, a dim nightlight casts a gentle glow on her sleeping form as relief flares in your chest. At the next door, you pause and push it open. Inside, Cath lies motionless, tangled in rumpled sheets, a pillow pressed over her face. Your heart thuds so loudly you almost turn back.

Instead, you step forward, sliding the pillow away and brush Cath’s dark hair from her forehead. Her skin is cool to the touch. Without thinking, you wrap her slender frame in the duvet, shielding her from sight.

“What are you doing?” Pope’s voice is think from the doorway.

“I’m not letting you end up back in a cell,” you say, voice low as you tuck corners of the duvet under her body. “We have to move her.”

“No - stop,” he stammers, hand grazing the bed. “I didn’t mean to - “

“I can’t move her alone.” You meet his eyes. “Help me get her into your truck, then go stay with Lena. I’ll handle the rest.”

He hesitates, gaze flicking to the ceiling, as though searching for a way out.

“Who else knows?”

His jaw tightens. “No one.”

“Smurf?” you whisper, naming the only person who might have forced his hand. Pope stiffens but stays silent.

Gently, you press your palm to his cheek, turning his face so your foreheads touch. His breath is hot against your skin. “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll be okay,” you murmur. “Right now, just help me move her.”

Hours later, dawn filters through slats of the living room blinds. You step in, blinking at the soft yellow light. In the adjoining kitchen, Lena sits on a high stool, syrup bottle tipped over a stack of pancakes. Steam curls from each fluffy layer, pooling around a melting pat of butter.

Pope stands beside her, muscles rippling under a gray t-shirt as he takes the bottle from her and screws the lid back on. Even after everything, the sight of his forearms - corded veins shifting beneath skin - makes your chest tighten.

You clear your throat. “Morning.”

He nods, his voice quiet. “Morning.”

Lena swallows and wipes syrup from her chin. “Hi,” she says. “Are you here to see Uncle Pope?”

You smile, masking the secret behind your eyes. “Yeah. We’ve got a few errands to run once your dad gets home.”

She beams, satisfied with the answer, as you settle onto the edge of the couch, heart pounding with relief and dread all at once as you brush away dirt from your jeans, the only clue to what you did to her mother.

For the first forty‐eight hours, Baz never asks a single question. Instead, he burns through every second of daylight hunting for Cath. You watch him drive, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the steering wheel, as he crosses Oceanside. He checks every rundown motel she ever mentioned, calls friends she hasn’t spoken to in years, chases lead after lead that peters out, his black SUV rolling on long after dusk blurs into night.

You almost feel guilty - almost. But you remember Baz’s girl in Mexico - the secret trips, the rumor of a whole other life he’s kept tucked across the border. You remember Pope’s voice on the phone, rough and cracking, the tears tracking down cheekbones. You’d walk through fire for him, so you decide you’d make the same choice if you had to do it all over again.

A week later, morning light turns the kitchen counters of Smurf’s kitchen a pale gold. You’re leaning against the sink, half‐listening to Craig’s banter and Deran’s low laughter, when the front door slams like a gun shot. The room falls silent. Smurf doesn’t stir from her seat at the table; she lifts her coffee mug only as far as her eyes. Craig looks up from his phone, eyebrows raised. Deran mutters something under his breath. Pope freezes beside the counter, hands splayed where he stands.

Baz doesn’t even glance around the room, eyes locked immediately on Pope. His voice rips through the quiet. “Cops found Cath’s car.”

Pope doesn’t flinch. “And?”

Baz takes a step closer; the floorboards creak beneath him. “And,” he repeats, voice low and hard, “they’re saying she didn’t leave voluntarily.”

You watch Pope’s fingers tighten around his coffee mug, knuckles paling. His jaw shifts to one side, breathing shallow and measured - too measured. He’s trying too hard to seem calm.

Baz leans in, nostrils flaring. “You know something.”

Pope’s face smooths into his usual impassive mask. “I don’t.”

Baz laughs, but there’s no humor. “You do. You’ve been off since she disappeared.”

Pope’s eyes harden. “I’m always off.”

Craig snorts; Smurf’s lips twitch. But Baz doesn’t smile. He stares at Pope until the silence thickens.

“Is this a joke to you?” Baz’s words hang in the air.

Pope’s heart pounds so loud you think you can hear it. Baz closes the gap, so close you can count the dark stubble on his chin. “You know where she is.”

“No, I don’t.” Pope’s voice is flat but not unsteady.

Baz’s next question comes out in a furious whisper. “You kill her?” Craig straightens, Deran’s eyes flick between them. Smurf sets her coffee down with a soft clink. Pope’s face blanks entirely. It’s the same look he wore when you wrapped Cath in those sheets in Baz’s bedroom.

“I didn’t kill Cath,” Pope says. The lie slides off his tongue smooth as silk.

Baz studies him, nostrils flaring, then shifts his stare to you. You realize you’ve stepped forward, unconsciously positioning yourself beside Pope.

“You his bodyguard now or something?” Baz spits at you, contempt dripping from each word.

You fold your arms over your chest. “I haven’t said a word.”

“My wife is missing.” He jabs a finger at Pope; it trembles.

“I know.”

“My kid’s asking where her mom is.”

“I know.”

“He’s the last person who saw her,” Baz growls, jabbing the air at his brother. “And you’re awfully quick to defend him.”

You shrug, annoyed by the implication. “Because I know him.”

Baz laughs - a hollow, echoing sound. “You think you do. But you don’t. Not really.”

You uncross your arms and slide your back against the marble counter, watching his chest rise and fall in jagged breaths.

“You think he tells you everything?” Baz leans so far forward his forehead nearly touches yours.

“No,” you say quietly. “But I know he wouldn’t hurt Cath.” The words tumble free before you can second‐guess them.

Pope turns his head, eyes asking a question you won’t need to hear aloud. Baz’s glare snaps from Pope back to you, suspicion etched in every line of his face.

“You sure about that?” he says.

“I stand by it.”

Baz’s stare drills into you, then abruptly shifts. “Where were you the night she disappeared?”

The question hits you cold, like someone dumping a bucket of ice water over your head. You force your shoulders to stay squared. “Home. Alone.”

He leans back a fraction. “What time did you go to bed?”

“How the fuck should I know?” You shrug. “It was over a week ago, Baz.”

His gaze narrows. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Pope lately.”

You roll your eyes. “Lately? We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is,” he says, stepping forward again until you can feel the warmth of his anger like a low roar, “I’ve never seen two people this loyal to each other unless they’ve got a shared secret.”

The air thickens. Pope moves on muscle memory, sliding between you and his brother without thought. “Back off.”

Baz locks eyes with his brother. “There it is.”

Andrew’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “I said - back. Off.”

Baz snorts. “What are you gonna do? Kill me, too?”

Smurf’s voice slices through the tension. “Enough. Unless you’ve got proof, stop accusing your family.”

“She’s not family,” Baz shoots at you.

“Close enough,” Smurf says, offering you a gentle, reassuring smile.

Baz shakes his head. “You’re all unbelievable.” With that he storms out, the front door banging against the wall as he leaves. Even after his car roars down the driveway, the silence in the kitchen hangs heavier than before.

“I should go,” you mutter to nobody in particular.

“Don’t let him get to you, Baby,” Smurf says, her tone soft as she rises to head out to the pool with Craig and Deran.

Pope’s shoulders slump, the tight wire of his stance slackening. “‘M sorry,” he says, voice low.

“For what?” you ask, frowning.

“For dragging you into this.”

“You needed help,” you remind him with a small, sad smile.

“You could go to prison.”

You shrug. “I know.”

He looks down at his coffee mug, steam swirling. “You didn’t even ask me why.”

“I didn’t need to.”

His head snaps up, eyes searching yours for a reason. You answer the question he didn’t ask without hesitation. “Because it was you.”

Pope freezes, the world shrinking until it’s just the two of you in that still kitchen, your words hanging in the warm morning light. Because it was him - no “if,” no “maybe,” just pure unguarded trust. Not innocence, not proof, just faith.

You reach out and smooth the collar of his shirt, more from habit than anything else. His breath catches when your fingers brush against his neck, then he nods, wordless. You step back, heart thudding, and whisper, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Andrew.”

He stands in the hallway long after you’ve closed the front door, staring at the empty threshold. In the quiet that follows, he thinks about the way you never hesitated - how you looked Baz in the eye and defended him, even after seeing the worst thing he’d ever done. The way you’d carried Cath’s weight and buried her body. You helped him cross every line - but instead of feeling worried or anxious, his chest tightens at the memory of your touch. It’s something other than lust or possession. 

Trust. And for the first time, Andrew wonders if what’s blooming inside him might be more dangerous than any obsession he’s known.

The next morning, you wake just before the third firm knock rattles your door. You curl one leg beneath you, listening. You already know who it is. Rolling out of bed, you shrug a soft gray sweatshirt over your tank top and shuffle down the narrow hallway, the wood floors creaking under your feet.

You open the door to find Pope on the battered welcome mat, two paper coffee cups in his hands. 

“I got yours with vanilla,” he says, voice low.

You blink at him, surprised. “You remembered?”

He cracks a small smile. “You always get vanilla.” He lifts his brow like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Still,” you whisper, and he just shrugs. It’s a casual gesture, but to you it feels huge.

Inside, you settle at your tiny kitchen table with the newspaper, as Pope pulls a screwdriver from your junk drawer and begins to methodically dismantle the toaster that broke last week.

“You know,” you say after a while, folding a page, “I can just buy a new one.”

He doesn’t look up. His fingers twist a screw with care. “It still works.”

“I saw flames last time I used it.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, fine - there weren’t actual flames. But there were sparks.”

He tightens a screw and finally glances at you, concentration etched in the line of his jaw. You’ve always admired the way the rest of the world seems to vanish when he fixes something. It can be dangerous - his focus is total - but in moments like this it just makes him look…peaceful.

“What?” he asks, leaning back.

“There’s grease on your face.” He reaches up to brush a dark smudge from his cheek. He wipes at it, hands shaking off the grime, but the second wipe misses.

“Nope,” you say with a teasing lilt. 

He rolls his eyes, half-annoyed, half-amused - the same look he gave you when you were kids and he beat you at every game. You step closer, wrapping his jaw in the corner of a dish towel and tracing it gently across his skin. Your fingers linger, and the morning light catches in his hazel eyes, making the gold flecks shimmer. Time stills for a heartbeat. You’re nearer than you realized, and the warmth in his gaze thumps through your chest.

“There,” you say softly, stepping back. He murmurs a quick, “Thanks,” and dives right back into the toaster with the ease of someone who’s always known exactly what he’s doing - except, you realize, with you.

By afternoon you’re both perched on your couch with grilled cheese sandwiches when a heavy pounding on the front door makes Andrew leap to his feet, muscles coiling like a spring.

“It’ll get - ” you begin, but he cuts you off with a sharp, “No. I’ll answer it.”

When he opens the door, Baz stands framed in the doorway, expression hard. He glances past Pope and his gaze settles on you.

“We need to talk,” Baz says.

Pope squares his shoulders. “You can talk here,” he replies, voice steady.

Baz’s eyes flick to him. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He doesn’t back down.

You slip between them, heart hammering. “It’s fine,” you say, though Pope’s jaw stays tense.

Baz steps inside and folds his arms. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been working,” you answer, trying to keep your tone light.

“You don’t have a job.” His voice is a challenge.

“What do you want, Baz?”

He steps closer. “I want to know why Pope called you the night Cath disappeared.”

All movement in the room halts. You feel Pope tense behind you.

“Lena said she woke up and he was on the phone, calling your name over and over.”

Andrew’s fists clench. You force yourself to meet Baz’s eyes. “He calls me all the time.”

“At two in the morning?”

“When he’s having a hard time.” Your voice softens. “He trusts me.”

Baz studies your face as though it’s a puzzle he can’t quite solve. “Why you?”

“Because I’m his friend,” you reply, and even you can feel the firmness in your words.

Baz laughs, low. “You know, when we were teenagers, I used to think he was in love with Cath.” He shakes his head. “But now I’m starting to wonder if I’d been looking at the wrong person. He follows you around, watches you, listens when you tell him to calm down.”

Andrew’s gaze flickers between you and Baz - something raw and uncertain in his eyes. He steps forward, voice tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah,” Baz says, walking back to the front door. “I don’t think you do either.” Before leaving, he turns back to you. “If I find out you’re lying to me…” He doesn’t finish the threat before he brushes past Pope, shoulder bumping into his, and slams the door behind him.

You breathe out. “Well.”

Pope turns to you, eyes wide. “What did he mean - when he said that look?”

You force a laugh. “Baz was just trying to get under your skin.”

Pope’s gaze drops to the floor, and for the first time you hear the unsteady catch in his voice. “I do watch you,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard. “I know when you’re tired. I know when you’re pretending you’re okay. I know you hate driving after dark. I know you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re worried. You always tuck your feet underneath you on the couch…” His voice trails off as though he’s surprised to realize how many little details he’s stored away.

Your heart hammers so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. Before you can reply, he steps away. “I should go.” His hand hits the doorknob, and then the door clicks shut behind him.

You stand alone, the echo of Baz’s words and Pope’s confession swirling around you like dust motes in sunlight.

Across the street, Andrew sits in his truck, hands resting on the steering wheel, staring at your window. The afternoon hum of traffic goes on without him. He closes his eyes and lets himself wonder - when did he stop thinking of you as just his best friend?

Pope doesn’t come by the next day, or the day after that. You tell yourself he’s busy, that Smurf always has him running errands. But by the third morning, you’re pacing your living room whenever a truck rumbles past. When none of them is his, you decide to stop waiting.

Smurf’s house is alive with noise when you push open the door. Craig and Deran are shouting at each other over the couch cushions, Smurf’s voice crackles through a phone in the kitchen, and Lena’s tiny frame is curled on the floor with crayons and paper. When she sees you, her face lights up.

“You’re here!” she exclaims, holding up a drawing of a dolphin that looks more like a slug with fins, but she beams with pride.

“It’s beautiful,” you tell her, ruffling her hair. You lean in. “Where’s Uncle Pope?”

Her smile wavers. “He got hurt,” she says, voice small. “Grandma Smurf made him rest.”

Your pulse quickens as you slip down the hall, the air growing cooler as you approach his bedroom. The door is cracked open so narrowly that you pause to knock. No answer. You push it open.

He’s perched on the edge of the bed, shirt halfway off, shoulders hunched against the bruise that blooms across his ribs in violent shades of purple and blue. A raw scrape mars his chest, the edges still pink. His breath jerks when you step in.

“What happened?”

He starts, as if he thought no one would notice. “Nothin’.”

You cross your arms. “Liar. That bruise is the size of California.”

His lips twitch in spite of himself. “California?”

“Well, it’s big.”

You disappear into the bathroom and reappear with a washcloth damp with antiseptic, gauze, and a battered first-aid kit.

He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to stop you. “You don’t have to - “

You cut him off and kneel in front of him anyway. “Take your shirt off.”

He hesitates, vulnerable in a way he never allows anyone but you to see. Finally he slides the fabric over his head, and you take in the full view of the cut and bruise. 

“This is gonna sting,” you warn.

He closes his eyes and tenses, throat bobbing. You press the cloth to his scrape, and he inhales sharply, clenching his jaw.

“You can say ‘ow,’ you know.”

He exhales, voice rough. “It’s fine.”

You dab antiseptic along the scrape, then slip a sterile strip of gauze over it. Next, you lay the cool cloth on the worst of the bruising, fingertips barely grazing his skin. He flinches, drawing in a breath, and you drop your hand. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” he whispers.

You wrap a soft bandage around his ribs as tenderly as if you’re cradling glass. “There.”

He surveys your handiwork in the mirror behind you. “Looks stupid.”

“You’re welcome,” you grin, knowing he doesn’t mean it. “Stay off your feet for a day or two.”

He shakes his head, voice muffled. “I can’t.”

“Smurf will survive one afternoon without you.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but when you hold out your hand, he slips his into yours. Together you rise, and he lets you guide him down the hallway. As you lower him into a kitchen chair for water and painkillers, you realize that caring for him feels as natural as breathing. And somewhere, deep in both of you, something has shifted for good.

You coax Pope onto your sofa with the only promise you can muster,  “Sit here and I promise I’ll stop fussing over you.” 

He arches an eyebrow, voice low and clipped. “You’ve said that three times.” You stick out your tongue, voice lighter than you feel. “Well, I mean it this time.”

He sinks onto the cushion beside you, shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world sits there. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The muted drone of the television murmurs through the air, but your eyes remain fixed on the way sunlight pools around his boots, drapes across his forearms, and settles in the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“You tired?” you ask softly.

“No.” The word tumbles out too sharp, too quick. You can already feel the tremor at the edge of his voice.

“You look exhausted,” you say gently. “ When was the last time you slept more than a couple of hours?”

He says nothing, and the silence answers for him.

On impulse, you pat your thigh. “Come here.”

Andrew’s hazel eyes narrow in confusion. “What?”

“Lay down.”

He hesitates, head tilting to one side. “… Why?”

“Because you look like you’re gonna fall asleep sitting up.”

With a slow nod, he eases himself across the length of the couch, and you slip your hand under the back of his neck, guiding his head into the cradle of your lap, your fingers itching to do what they’ve done so many times before.

You begin to comb your fingertips through his hair, tracing the gentle curve of his skull just like you did the night he staggered in after the prison gates closed behind him, just like you did when he first learned Cath and Baz were together. You feel the tension unfurl from his shoulders, imagine it pooling on the floor between you, leaving him a little lighter. His breathing slows, each exhale deeper than the last.

“You know,” you murmur, your voice low as a breeze through dry leaves, “you don’t always have to be the strong one.”

The silence stretches, warm and fragile, until he finally whispers, “I don’t know how not to.” The words are so soft you almost miss them.

Your fingers keep drawing slow, small circles at his scalp. You feel the soft rise and fall of his chest against your thigh, the tranquil rhythm of someone beginning to unburden their soul. Lines that usually crease his brow smooth out, and one of his arms drifts across your waist, his fingers curling lightly into the cotton of your shirt.

You let yourself smile down at him, content to stay exactly where you are. Your legs have gone numb, pins and needles prickling through them, but you don’t shift. For the first time in years, Andrew looks genuinely peaceful.

He wakes a few hours later to the weight of your fingers still nestled in his hair. He lifts his head an inch and sees you asleep, head tipped to the side, elbow propped on the armrest. A stray lock of hair curls across your forehead, catching the last glow of sun.

He doesn’t move. He knows you must be uncomfortable - your leg must be numb, your neck stiff - but you haven’t stirred. You stayed right here so you wouldn’t wake him.

He watches your breathing, slow and even, the faint rise of your chest beneath your shirt. His thumb hovers, uncertain, then he reaches behind you for the soft throw blanket draped over the couch back. He drapes it across your shoulders with reverence, the fabric settling around you with care.

You sigh softly in your sleep, and his chest tightens with something he can’t name. Looking at you like this doesn’t make him feel restless or desperate. It makes him want to protect you, to shield you from every worry that aches inside you. To earn the kindness you’ve given him.

He isn’t sure he can ever be worthy.

Still, he carefully shifts back onto your lap, his head finding its familiar nook. He closes his eyes again without waking you, and in that quiet moment, he realizes something with startling clarity -  he doesn’t come to you just because you’re the only one who understands him. He comes to you because, somewhere along the way, you became the place that feels most like home.

Andrew shifts against you on the couch, the rough weave of your sweatshirt rubbing against his bruised ribs as he tilts his face toward your stomach. His breath is shallow when his lids flutter open and he pushes himself up slowly, every movement stained with pain. His hand hovers at his side before he presses it to his ribcage, teeth clenched against the dull ache there.

“Easy,” you murmur, fingertips grazing the curve of his scalp. You pull back at the first wince.

“I should go,” he says, voice rough as gravel.

“Okay. Try not to get into any fights tonight,” you answer, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead.

“I won’t.” He rubs at his temple.

“But if you do…”

“I’ll call,” he finishes.

You give him a small, tired smile. “Good.”

He pauses, hand on the doorknob, reluctant. He lifts his gaze to yours. “…Thank you…for today.”

“You don’t ever have to thank me for taking care of you,” you say honestly. “That’s what friends do.” The word lingers between you, unfamiliar on your tongue, carrying an odd weight.

He nods once, stiffly. “Yeah.”

By the time he arrives back at Smurf’s, she’s there, standing at the kitchen sink, a wine glass in one hand and a white cloth in the other. She twists the glass stem in patient, practiced motions. The low light glints off her gold bracelet.

“Where’ve you been?” Her voice is cool and measured, trying not to reveal her annoyed state.

“Out.”

“With her.” She doesn’t bother to ask, her tone making it clear she already knows.

Pope shrugs, eyes downcast. “She has a name.”

Smurf steps forward, trailing the cloth across the rim of the glass so that it squeaks in protest. “You spend more time with her now.”

“So?” he says, but his voice is flat.

She lifts a hand and smooths the front of his shirt. “You’ve started looking at her differently. When she walks into a room, your eyes follow her.” Her voice softens. “And when you got hurt this afternoon…who took care of you?”

He stands silent, shoulders squared, as though braced against something stronger than pain. 

Smurf allows herself a small, triumphant smile. “I thought so.”

He squares his shoulders and crosses the room to the hallway. She calls after him, voice low and final. “Andrew, remember…people become weaknesses.”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens, then he disappears into the gloom of the bedroom, leaving only the click of the door behind him.

Pope lies on his back in the darkness, every twist of his body sending pulses of fire through his ribs, but he barely notices. Instead, memory rises in harsh, vivid shapes -  the softness of your palm resting on his temple, your fingers tugging at the knot of hair above his collar, the way you frowned when he drew in breath too sharply.

He was fifteen, sitting on the porch steps after Smurf’s latest furious tirade. He’d sat alone, knees drawn up, cold night air nipping at his ankles. You emerged wordless and pressed the bigger half of your peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich into his hand.

He was seventeen, standing in an alley behind a warehouse, his knuckles split open, blood dripping on the concrete. Instead of going home, he’d gone to you. You saw him through the window, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, shirt soaked through with sweat and blood. Without a question you’d guided him inside, settled him on the bathtub edge, and fished out the first-aid kit. 

He was twenty-five, a job had gone sideways, red and blue lights chasing him down the street. He’d pounded on your door at two in the morning, sweat and adrenaline heavy on his skin. You cracked the door in an old hoodie of his, the fabric smelling faintly of your laundry detergent. “Get in,” you’d said, locking the deadbolt behind him before he could protest. You pulled the curtains closed and passed him a fork before warming him up some leftover spaghetti. No questions. Only the hum of the microwave and the steady thump of his heart in his ears.

Then last week, in Baz’s bedroom. He’d called you, sure you’d recoil at the body on the bed. After all, you’d known Cath most of your life too. Instead, you’d been methodical and unshaken. You wrapped her body with the same efficiency you would use to swaddle an infant. Not once did you flinch or call him a monster.

All these memories fade together, and Andrew sees for the first time that it isn’t only that you’ve been there for him - it’s how you’ve been there. Each time he bled or broke or feared for his life, you opened your door, shut out the night, and pulled him in. Not because you celebrated the Cody family’s bloody business, but because you refused to let him face it alone. 

You and Pope slump onto your sagging couch, heat from the takeout containers warming your thighs. Steam curls as you lift the cardboard and inhale the tang of soy sauce and dumplings. You set your containers on your lap, plastic forks balanced precariously.

“Okay,” you say, leaning back into the cushions, “you’re doing that thing.”

Pope glances up from his sweet and sour chicken, dark eyes narrowed. “What thing?”

“You’ve looked at me six times in the last five minutes. What’s going on?”

He frowns, the plastic fork clattering against the takeout box rim. “Just… thinking.”

“About…?” you prompt

He flips the fork over in his hand, rhythmical, as if weighing his words. “Do you ever… regret it?”

Your smile falters. A knot tightens in your chest. “Regret what?”

“Knowing me.” He meets your eyes at last - earnest, vulnerable.

Your throat goes dry. You reach out, scoop his box off your knees, and set it aside. “Look at me.” You pat the cushion beside you. “You’re my best friend.”

He pulls in a breath, as though bracing himself. “You don’t know the things I’ve done.”

You tilt your head. “Come on, Andrew, I’ve literally buried - ”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

You sigh, exhaling relief and frustration at once. “My point is, I know who you are. I’ve seen every side of you, and I’m still here.”

He looks stunned. He’s spent a lifetime believing affection has to be earned, that someone as broken as him could never be loved unconditionally. His jaw tightens.

A few days later, you push open your front door and step into a kitchen lit by the soft hum of a flickering bulb above the sink. Pope stands on a wooden chair, hands steady as he unscrews the faulty bulb.

“You know,” you say, setting grocery bags on the counter, the plastic crinkling under your weight, “most people wait until the homeowner gets back before doing repairs for them.”

He glances over his shoulder. “You said it kept flickering.”

“I said I’d get around to changing it.”

“Three weeks ago.”

He steps down, gathering the bags with easy familiarity. Without a word, he lines up your fresh vegetables, the smell of basil mingling with the sharp tang of onion. He unpacks pasta and jars of marinara. You lean against the counter, the granite cool under your palms.

“Leave the pasta out,” you decide. “I’ll make us dinner.”

After dinner, you stand at the sink, warm soapy water lapping at your wrists as you scrub the last plates. Pope drapes a towel over his arm and dries each dish methodically.

He sets the final plate inside and pauses. “Listen, about what I asked the other day… about regretting knowing me…”

You pass him a bowl without looking - soap suds glimmering in the overhead light. “Yeah?”

He takes a breath, voice low. “I wanted to thank you. For saying what you said. And for… always being there.”

The kitchen quiets around you. The refrigerator hums, the faucet drip echoes. You lift your gaze and meet his eyes. “Someone should.”

He stares at you, as if seeing you in a new light. “You’re the only person who ever has.”

Your chest tightens. You lay a hand gently on his forearm—just a brush of skin. Heat flares across his cheeks. “Andrew,” you whisper, “you deserved it.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. He swallows. “So did you.”

You blink, startled. “What?”

He steps closer, the warm scent of him wrapping around you. “When your dad left...”

Shock ripples through you. You haven’t thought about your father in years.

“I remember you pretending it didn’t bother you.” His voice is soft, remorseful. “Making jokes so nobody would know you’d been crying.”

Your eyes burn. You barely whisper, “I didn’t think anyone noticed. You never said anything.”

His shoulders slump. “I didn’t know how. I wanted to. I should have.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “You were sixteen.”

He shakes his head, regret in every tremor. “Still.”

The walls seem to close in as you realize he’d been paying attention all along, collecting pieces of you like faded photographs.

“I hated that he left you,” Andrew confesses, voice hushed.

You force a laugh that tastes bitter. “Yeah, me too.”

He inhales sharply. “I wanted to go after him.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You did?”

He nods once, decisively. “I asked Baz to help me find him.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out. “And then what? What were you going to do?”

He shrugs, genuine uncertainty clouding his eyes. “Dunno. At sixteen, I just knew someone had hurt you. My instinct was to stop it.”

Silence settles like dusk. You trace his jawline with your gaze. “You don’t always have to protect me.”

“I want to.”

Your breath catches. He’s so close, his honest gaze burning into yours.

“I don’t really know what’s happening,” he admits, voice small.

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

He searches for the right words, fingertips brushing the cabinet door. “I keep thinking about you. I mean, I always thought about you. I… I’m not good at explaining things.”

You step nearer, the scent of leftover garlic bread still clinging to the air. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

He exhales, as if letting down a barrier. “I miss you.”

You lift the corner of your mouth. “You see me all the time.”

His eyes soften, and for a moment the world beyond your kitchen fades. “I know, but when I leave,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “I want to come back.”

Slowly and carefully, you slide your hand from his forearm down until your fingers find his hand. You don’t lace your fingers together, you simply let your hand rest against his, giving him every chance to pull away.

Instead, after a hesitant moment, his fingers curl gently around yours. He looks down at where you’re touching, almost in disbelief. “I’ve never really done this before.”

You smile softly. “Held someone’s hand?”

A faint, self-conscious smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at your teasing. “I’m serious. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You step closer until only a breath separates you. “We’re two people who’ve known each other most of our lives. You won’t hurt me.”

“You can’t know that.” Guilt flashes across his face, but you reach up to cup his cheek. His eyes immediately close, leaning into your palm as though he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Andrew.”

He opens his eyes again.

“You’ve spent your whole life believing the worst things you’ve done are the only things people will ever see. But I see the scared little boy who jumped into a swimming pool because someone was hurting me.”

A tear gathers in the corner of his eye, his breathing grows uneven.

“The man who would do anything to protect Lena, who is more of a father to her than her own.”

A tear slips free from his eye.

“And the man who’s standing here looking terrified because he’s afraid of hurting me. I see all of you.”

“...Why?”

The question breaks your heart. You shake your head. “Because I’ve loved all of you.” The words hang in the heavy silence between you. Pope doesn’t move, just stares, his gaze fixed on your face with an intensity that borders on physical weight. The usual sharp. predatory confidence that defines him is stripped away, leaving him raw and exposed. You can see the rapid pulse beating in the hollow of his throat.

“I wasn’t planning on saying it like that,” you admit. You take a small step forward, closing the distance until you can smell him  - remnants of dish soap and musky cologne that feels intoxicating. “But,” you reach up, your fingers trembling slightly as they brush against his jaw. You catch a single tear that has escaped the corner of his eye, wiping it away with the pad of your thumb. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. I watched you fall in love with Cath.”

His face crumples at her name, the muscles around his mouth tightening as if he’s been hit. You see the guilt flash in his eyes, dark and swirling. 

“I watched you choose anyone but me,” you continue. You remember the parties, the dates, the endless parade of women while you sat on the sidelines, aching with a jealousy that ate you alive. 

His lips part, the lower one glistening slightly in the dim light. He tries to speak, but no words come out. He looks wrecked, his composure shattered by the sheer weight of your confession. 

“But I never stopped loving you anyway,” you say, the finality of it settling over the room. You don’t look away. You force him to see the reality of it, the years of longing hidden in plain sight.

Pope looks completely overwhelmed. He blinks rapidly, his chest rising and falling with the effort to draw breath. He swallows hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. “You loved me?”

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. “For years.”

“I didn’t know,” he breathes out, the words sounding like a prayer and a curse all at once. He shakes his head slowly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of deceit. He looks like a man who has just realized he’s been living in a dream while the world burned down around him.

“I know,” you say softly. You never let him see.

“I would’ve…” He stops himself, the sentence trailing off into nothing. Because he doesn’t know what he would’ve done. The past is a fixed point, immutable and painful. But he knows one thing with absolute certainty now, a realization that hits him with the force of a physical blow - he can’t imagine his life without you. The thought of you walking away, of leaving him here alone with his regrets, is more terrifying than anything he’s ever faced.

“I love you,” he says. His eyes widen slightly, the dark pupils dilating as he stares at you, surprised to hear himself say it. It’s as if the confession has unlocked something inside him, a dam breaking under the pressure of years of unspoken tension.

“I didn’t know that’s what this feeling was,” he admits quietly, his voice rough with emotion. He takes a shuddering breath. “I just…” He trails off, stepping closer to you. The heat radiating from his body is intoxicating, a magnetic pull that you are powerless to resist. He drops his forehead to rest against yours, the contact intimate and grounding. You can feel the dampness of his skin, the slight tremor in his frame.

“I want to be wherever you are,” he whispers, the words ghosting over your lips. It’s a surrender. A total surrender of the control he usually clings to so tightly.

Your eyes close, shutting out the world so there’s only him. He lifts a hand to your face, his fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back. He brushes his thumb across your cheekbone, the touch light, reverent, as if he’s asking for permission to cross a line he never thought he’d reach.

You don’t answer with words. Words are insufficient now. Instead, you close that inch between you. The kiss is soft, tentative, and gentle. It’s not the aggressive, dominating possession you’ve fantasized about at night - it’s a question.

Pope barely moves at first, his lips molding to yours with a hesitancy that makes your heart ache. He kisses you as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses any harder, as if you’re made of spun glass and he’s a bull in a china shop. You can feel the restraint in every muscle of his body, the way he holds himself back.

You smile against his lips, a small curve of your mouth that conveys everything you can’t say - I’m not going anywhere. The movement seems to break the spell. His shoulders slowly relax, the tension draining out of them as he realizes you aren’t pulling away. He exhales a shaky breath into your mouth.

His free hand comes to rest carefully at your waist, his fingers splaying wide against your side. Even through the fabric of your shirt, you can feel the heat of his palm, the strength of his grip. It’s possessive, even in its gentleness. 

You lean into him, your body softening against the hard planes of his chest. You can feel the heavy thud of his heart, the steady rhythm that matches your own. You part your lips slightly in invitation, and deepen the kiss just enough for him to understand that this isn’t a mistake. This isn’t a moment of weakness. This is everything.

Andrew doesn’t pull away abruptly, dragging his mouth from yours with a wet, heavy sound, his lips sliding over your shin, grazing the corner of your mouth as if he’s trying to memorize you. He leans back just enough to create a sliver of space, his chest heaving against yours.

When his eyes snap open to meet yours, the vulnerability that washed over him moments ago has been swallowed by something else - something darker, hungrier. The gold of his irises nearly covered by the dilation of his pupils, his gaze dropping to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat before fixing on the fabric covering your chest.

His hand leaves your cheek, trailing down the side of your neck, his thumb dragging over your racing pulse. He lets the silence stretch while his hand continues its descent, skimming over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, until his palm flattens against your ribcage just below your breast. You can feel the heat of his skin radiating through your top, branding you.

“I need to taste you,” he rasps.

The words are low, guttural, vibrating in his chest and transferring straight to yours. It isn’t a question. Before you can process the shiver that races down your spine, Pope’s knees hit the floor. The movement is fluid and powerful. He sinks down before you, his height diminishing until his face is level with your stomach.

Looking down, the top of his head comes into view, the dark strands of his hair messy where your fingers are tangled. Your world suddenly narrows down to just him and the heat of his body. 

His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the flesh there, possessive and grounding. He holds you steady as he leans in, pressing his face against your shirt. He inhales deeply, nose dragging against your stomach, and a low groan rumbles in his throat, a sound of pure need.

“Andrew,” you breathe.

He ignores your plea, or perhaps interprets it as encouragement, because his hands slide from your hips to the waistband of your pants. The button pops open with a sharp, audible click that echoes in the quiet room. The zipper follows, the teeth parting with a metallic hiss that seems deafening. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of both your pants and underwear, tugging them down in one rough, deliberate motion.

The air of the room hits your exposed skin as Pope drags the fabric down your legs, taking his time, palms grazing the sensitive skin behind your knees, calves, ankles. You step out of the pooled clothes, kicking them aside, leaving you bare from the waist down.

He leans back slightly, taking you in. The heat of his gaze is a physical weight, focusing intently on the apex of your thighs. You know what he sees - you can feel the evidence of it. You’re soaked, your lips swollen and glistening with the arousal that has been steadily building. 

“So fucking wet,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice rough with approval. He shifts closer, his hands coming up to grip the backs of your thighs, just below the curve of your ass. He urges you to widen your stance, and you obey, your legs trembling slightly as you shift your weight. The position leaves you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed, but the rush of adrenaline only heightens the throbbing ache between your legs.

Pope doesn’t dive in immediately. He teases, tormenting you with his proximity. He leans forward, his face inches from you, but he doesn’t touch, just breathes.

The exhale is a gust of air that fans over you. The heat is intense, contrasting sharply with the dampness on your skin, and you gasp, your hips jerking toward him. His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you in place, preventing you from closing the distance.

“Stay still,” he orders, though his voice lacks any real discipline - it sounds wrecked.

He hovers so close, you can almost feel the phantom pressure of his lips. You feel the warmth of his breath washing over your clit, over your entrance, coating your sensitive flesh. It’s maddening, the anticipation coiling tight in your belly, your muscles clenching around nothing.

You look down, watching the top of his head, the way his neck muscles strain as he holds himself back. He’s breathing hard, you can see his shoulders rising and falling with the effort, and you realize he’s savoring this moment - the sight of you, the smell of you, the knowledge that he’s about to ruin you.

He presses his cheek against the inside of your thigh, rubbing his face against your skin. Finally, with a groan that sounds like a man breaking, he presses his mouth to your core.

The contact is electric. His tongue is hot and wet, delving deep into you with a hunger that borders on violence. He doesn’t start slow, there’s no gentle exploration, no tentative testing of the waters. He laps at you, flattening his tongue to drag it through your slit from your entrance to your clit in one long, broad stroke that collects every drop of your arousal.

You gasp, you hips bucking forward, fingers pulling desperately at his hair. “Andrew.”

The sound of his name tearing from your throat seems to spur him on. He seals his lips around you, sucking hard. “Fuck, you taste good,” he mumbles against you. He pulls back slightly, just enough to speak, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your core. “So sweet.”

Before you can catch your breath, he dives back in, this time focusing his attention on your clit, flicking his tongue fast and hard. Your thighs tremble, the muscles straining as the pleasure coils tightly, threatening to snap. You try to close your legs, instinctively trying to protect yourself from the overwhelming intensity, but Pope’s shoulders are wedged firmly between them, holding you open.

“Don’t you dare,” he commands, releasing your clit just long enough to growl the order before burying his face as deep as it can go, his nose bumping against your pubic bone.

The pressure builds to a breaking point, a white-hot wave that starts at your toes and rushes upward. Suddenly, the heat vanishes, as Pope pulls away at the exact second your orgasm was about to take over. You gasp, a broken, desperate sound as your clit throbs with need.

Pope stands without speaking. He doesn’t look at your body with the hunger of a lover anymore. HIs gaze is detached and calculating as me moves with a terrifying calmness that contrasts sharply with the frantic thrumming of your blood. 

You watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he reaches for his belt, the leather creaking softly as he opens the buckle. He pulls the belt through the loops of his waistband, eyes locking onto yours, pinning you to the spot with a gaze that dares you to look away. He holds the belt in his hand for a moment, the heavy leather dangling, before dropping it carelessly onto the floor with a dull thud.

Your breath hitches in your throat. The denial is still singing your veins, making your skin hypersensitive.. You watch his hands move to the button of his jeans, popping it open before lowering his zipper inch by inch. He isn’t undressing - he’s forcing you to wait.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and boxers, staring at you, letting the silence stretch until it becomes suffocating, until the only sound in the kitchen is your ragged breathing.

“Get on your knees.” It isn’t a request.

A fresh spike of adrenaline shoots through your system, overriding the lingering frustration of the ruined orgasm. You scramble to obey, not thinking, just moving. Your legs feel clumsy and weak, but you force your body to kneel. The position instantly shifts your perspective. You’re smaller now, lower, looking up at him. 

From this angle, Pope seems massive. He looms over you, his legs spread slightly, his open fly framing the heavy outline of his cock. You sit back on your heels and look up at him, silently begging him to bridge the gap. 

Pope looks down at you, a dark, satisfied smirk touching the corner of his mouth. He sees the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips are parted, the hunger in your eyes that mirrors the wetness between your legs. He steps closer, invading your space until you have to tilt your head back further just to maintain eye contact.

“Good girl,” he mutters, the praise a low rumble in his chest. He lets his hands hang loose at his sides, waiting to see how far you’ll go to reclaim the pleasure he denied you.

You stare up at him from the floor, his smirk, the arrogant curl of his lips, snaps something inside you. The submission evaporates, replaced by a need to turn the tables. You surge upward from your heels, and before he can react, you slam your palms against his chest, shoving him backward with all the strength you have.

Andrew stumbles, his eyes widening in genuine surprise as you force him to walk backward to your bedroom. You don’t stop until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. With a final push, you send him tumbling onto the bed. He bounces slightly, his breath leaving him in a rush, but you’re already moving.

You climb onto the mattress, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle him. You lower your weight, your wet center pressing directly against the rough denim of his jeans. The friction is electric, but you ignore your own pleasure to focus on his reaction.

Your hands find the collar of his shirt, and you don’t bother with the buttons. You grip the fabric and tear, the sound of ripping threads loud in the quiet room. Buttons scatter across the duvet as you expose his chest, your nails raking possessively over his skin. Then you capture his mouth, your lips crashing against his, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste copper, forcing his head back into the pillows.

“Get these fucking things off,” you command, your voice low and ragged, leaving no room for argument. You shift your weight back, giving him just enough space to lift his hips. You yank the denim down his legs, finally stripping him bare.

When his cock springs free, your breath hitches. It’s thick and throbbing, the head flushed dark and leaking. You had every intention of making him wait, of hovering just out of reach until he was begging, but the sight of him makes you abandon your patience.

You lean down, spitting a thick glob of saliva onto the head before giving it a few rough strokes with your hand, mixing the slickness with his own arousal. You rise up, position the head at your dripping entrance, and slam your hips down, taking him to the hilt in one brutal motion.

You both cry out - your voice sharp, his a low groan - at the sudden stretch of him. You immediately take control, slamming down onto his lap in a punishing rhythm. Your thighs burn, slick with sweat, as you chase the friction you need.

“Fuck,” you gasp, digging your nails into his pecs are you ride him. You tilt your hips, grinding down until his cock drags against that electric spot inside you, the one that makes your spine arch and your toes curl against the sheets. Pope’s hands clamp onto your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, his hips snapping up to meet yours in a collision of skin and heat.

You watch his face - the set of his jaw, the bead of sweat at his brow, the wild, glassy pleasure in his eyes - and you let yourself go. Your orgasm slams into you like a riptide, forcing your forward, clamping down around him in a relentless, greedy grip.

Your muscles ripple as you ride it out, the pleasure blurring into pain and back again. Pope arches up, a guttural sound wrenches from his throat as he grabs you harder, holding you in place as he drives up one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go.

You feel him throb, the heat of him spilling into you, and that last sensation - being filled, being claimed - triggers another shuddering spasm in you, an aftershock that makes you collapse against his chest.

You stay that way for a long moment, locked together, his cock still twitching inside you, your breaths mingling in the haze. You don’t want to move, don’t want to break the fragile shell of intimacy you’d built from violence and need.

Pope’s arms loosen around you, his hands trailing up your back, now soothing and gentle where they had been bruising. You realize you’re shaking, small uncontrollable shivers working through your limbs. Andrew holds you until they fade.

You raise your head to look at him, and find he’s already watching you, his expression vulnerable in the aftermath. Neither of you say anything, but a slow grin curves on Pope’s mouth, wry and a little awestruck.

You can’t help but smile in return. “Jesus,” you mutter. Pope huffs a laugh in return.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse.

You wake slowly, feeling a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek. Your head is resting against Andrew’s bare chest, one of his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, his hand relaxed against the small of your back. 

You smile. You’ve known Andrew Cody most of your life. You’ve seen him angry, terrified, heartbroken. You’ve seen him covered in blood and shaking from panic, but you’ve never seen him look this peaceful.His face is softer in sleep. He isn’t listening for danger, he’s simply resting.

Your fingers absentmindedly trace small circles against his shoulder, and his eyelashes flutter. “You awake?” 

“Think so,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, pulling you a little closer instead. Finally, he opens his eyes and the two of you simply look at each other. There’s no awkwardness, no regret. Just quiet certainty.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’ve never been better.” Your response earns you a sleepy smile, one you know is only for you. You suspect you’ll never get tired of seeing it. “You?”

“I was worried that…” He trails off.

“Andrew?”

“Was worried you’d wake up and change your mind.”

Your heart breaks a little. You reach up and brush a strand of hair away from his forehead. “Andrew, I’ve spent half my life wishing we’d end up here.”

He searches your face, looking for even the smallest hint that you’re only saying what he wants to hear. He doesn’t find one. “Nobody’s ever stayed,” he admits quietly.

You shift up onto one elbow so you’re looking directly at him. “Well I’m not nobody.”

He reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. It still feels almost unbelievable to him that he can do something so simple. That he can hold your hand without wondering if he’s asking too much. “I don’t want to hide this.”

“You mean…us?”

He nods. “Spent my whole life hiding parts of myself,” he says, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I don’t wanna hide the good part.”

Tears sting your eyes, and you lean forward and kiss him. It’s slow, somehow already familiar. When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours. “I love you, Andrew,” you whisper.

He doesn’t look surprised at your admission. “I love you too.”

Later that morning, you walk hand in hand toward Smurf’s house. “You nervous?” you ask.

“A little.” He squeezes your hand. “If this goes bad…”

“It won’t change my mind.”

“If Smurf tries something, or if Baz - “

“We’ll deal with it,” you reassure. You stop walking, tugging his hand until he turns toward you. “So much of your life has been about surviving everyone else. So let’s stop letting them decide what we get to have.”

He studies your face, and for the first time in as long as you’ve known him, Andrew makes a choice that isn’t driven by fear, guilt, or obligation. “We’ll decide,” he affirms, lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles.

“We will.”

You start walking again, not as two friends carrying each other’s burdens, not as two lonely people clinging to familiar ground, but as two people who had spent a lifetime choosing each other long before they ever found the courage to call it love.

Your foot caught the edge of the third step. The laundry flew from your grip, sending sheets and towels flying as your weight shifted violently forward.

You launched. Your knee slammed hard against one step, and before you could even register the ache there, the sharp edge another one scraped violently across your cheekbone.

For a second, the world just went completely quiet. You were crumpled on the steps, the breath knocked clear out of your lungs, staring down. The pain in your knee was loud and throbbing, and your face felt… numb.

"Doll, what happened? Are you okay?"

Jack’s voice broke the silence. You looked at him, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Because of his leg, he couldn't just drop to his knees or rush up the stairs to scoop you up; he had to take each step deliberately. The frustration of his own physical limitations was already written in the tight line of his jaw.

"I'm fine!" you managed, your voice sounding small. "Just... dropped the towels. And added another bruise to the collection." You tried to laugh, pulling yourself up to sit straight.

Jack reached the step just below you. "Don't move. Stay exactly where you are."

His tone was rigid. Stripped of all warmth.

"Jack, seriously, it’s just a scrape—"

"I said, don't move," he snapped, his fingers gently but firmly clamping onto your chin to tilt your face upward into the dim stairwell light.

That was when you felt it. A strange trickling sensation creeping down your cheek. Something dripped past your jawline. You reached up to touch it, but Jack caught your wrist mid air, holding it tightly away from your face.

But your fingers were already stained red.

"Oh," you whispered, the adrenaline suddenly spiking. "That's... blood." You tried to deflect with a nervous laugh. "Does the cut matches the bruise on my knee? A matching set for the collection. I'm keeping you in business, Doc."

Jack didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

"Shut up," he said. "Don't make a joke out of this."

"Jack, I'm just trying to—"

"I don't care what you're trying to do." He snapped, letting go of your chin. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your cheek. "Apply pressure. Hold it there."

You took over, pressing the cloth to your face, the sting finally waking up beneath the numbness. "Don't talk to me like that. I just tripped."

"Because you were running! How many times do I have to ask you to slow down?" Jack’s hands were trembling slightly. "You treat your own safety like it’s a punchline. 'Another bruise to the collection.' Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear a crash and know I can't run down there to catch you? Do you know what went through my head when I saw you lying here?"

His voice cut through your defense mechanism. You looked at him, he was angry and terrified. And, you knew, he was trapped by a body that wouldn't let him be the protector he desperately wanted to be.

"I wasn't trying to minimize it," you said softly. "I joke because I'm embarrassed, Jack. I'm clumsy, and I hate that I make you worry."

"I don't care about being worried," Jack replied. "I care about you being safe. I spend all day at the hospital patching up people who didn't see the accident coming. And you... you're rushing through our own home like you're invincible. And I can't... if something happens to you, I can't get to you fast enough. You know that."

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Jack gently reached out, taking your hand away from the handkerchief to check the bleeding. The edge of the cut was clean, but it was deep enough that it would probably need a few butterflies, if not a stitch or two.

"It needs to be cleaned properly," he murmured. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah," you whispered, wincing as you shifted your weight onto your bruised knee. "I can stand."

"Good." Jack took a deep breath. Once he was stable on his good leg, he offered you his hand. "Let's go fix you up. No more jokes."

"Okay. No more jokes," you agreed, letting him pull you up into the kitchen.

Jack guided you to a stool by the kitchen island. Without a word, he moved around, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet and grabbing a damp washcloth from the sink.

"Keep pressure on it," he ordered softly, setting the kit down.

When he turned back to you, he pulled up another stool, carefully positioning his stiff leg out to the side so he could sit close enough to work.

"Okay, take the cloth away. Let me look."

You pulled the blood soaked handkerchief from your cheek. Almost instantly, a fresh crimson stream welled up from the split in your skin, tracing a rapid path down your jaw and dripping onto your collarbone.

Jack’s brow furrowed. He took the damp washcloth and gently tapped around the wound, trying to clear the area to see the actual depth of the laceration. "Hold still. I know it hurts."

The cold water hit the raw nerves, and you gasped, leaning back instinctively. "It stings—god, Jack."

"I know, I know. Don't pull away from me." His hand was firm on the back of your neck, holding you in place. But as he wiped a fresh layer of blood away, the wound immediately filled again, spilling over. The edge of the step had sliced deep, right over the prominent curve of your cheekbone where the skin was tight.

He waited a beat, pressing a clean piece of sterile gauze against it, counting silently under his breath. One minute. Two minutes. When he pulled it back to check, the blood welled up just as fast. It wasn't clotting. The edge of the cut was jagged, grinning open in a way that made his stomach do a sick flip.

Jack let out a frustrated breath. He didn't say anything, but the professional shift in his posture told you everything.

His ER doctor self had completely taken over.

"I-Is it bad?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"It’s deep," Jack said, his voice felt cold. "It tore right through the dermal layer. It’s too wide for butterflies, and because of the location on your face, it’s going to keep opening every time you talk or blink. I can't close this here. It needs a layered suture, and it won't stop bleeding until it gets one."

He packed a thick stack of sterile gauze against your cheek, taking your hand and forcing your fingers to hold it there with heavy pressure.

"We're going to the hospital," he said, already standing up. The sudden movement made his brace click sharply.

"Jack, can't you just do it? You have a kit, you're a doctor—"

"I don't have a local anesthetic or the proper fine gauge monofilament sutures in the kitchen cabinet," he snapped, his voice cracking with sudden panic. He grabbed his car keys and his and your jacket from the hook by the door. "If I try to patch this up with what I have here, you’re going to end up with a massive scar on your face. We’re going to the hospital. Now."

The drive was quiet. He kept his hand firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road, while you sat in the passenger seat, pressing the now heavy gauze to your face.

You looked over at his profile, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle was jumping in his cheek.

"Jack," you whispered, the movement pulling painfully at the cut. "I'm sorry."

He didn't look at you, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Just keep pressure on the wound, please. We're almost there."

-

The doors of The Pitt hissed open, swallowing you both into the familiar air of the emergency department.

Tonight, you were the intake.

"Jack? What the hell happened?"

Robby said from behind the central desk, his eyes darting instantly from Jack’s tense face down to you. He saw the blood soaked gauze you were holding tightly against your cheek and the dark stain on your collar.

"She took a fall on the stairs," Jack said, sounding entirely professional, though the tight grip he kept on your elbow betrayed him. "Laceration to the zygomatic arch. It’s deep. It’s been bleeding consistently for minutes. I couldn’t get it to clot at home."

"Alright, let's get her into Room 4, it's empty," Robby said, immediately stepping into gear, stepping beside you. "Can you walk okay? Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"

"My knee is a little banged up, but my head is fine," you muttered around the cloth, feeling a flush of embarrassment as a couple of nurses glanced your way. "Just... really clumsy."

Robby guided you onto the examination bed. "Let’s take a look."

You layed down and slowly pulled the gauzes away. Without the constant pressure, a fresh bead of dark blood immediately welled up. Robby leaned in, using a piece of sterile gauze to gently dab the edges of the wound. He winced slightly, assessing the deep split over the bone.

"Yeah, you really did a number on this," Robby murmured. "It’s a clean tear but it’s deep. It’s definitely going to need a few sutures. I'll get the lidocaine and—"

"I'll do it," Jack interrupted.

Robby paused, looking up at Jack, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Brother, you know the protocol," Robby said softly. "You don't treat family. Let me handle it. I'll make the lines clean, I promise."

"It’s my wife, Robby." Jack said, he stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes locked on the wound. "I’m doing the stitches. I need to do them."

The two doctors locked eyes for a long moment. Robby knew Jack, he knew his friend's frustrations, he knew how much Jack hated feeling helpless.

Letting Jack treat you wasn't standard, but Robby knew that forcing Jack to stand by and watch someone else patch you up would be worse.

Robby sighed, stepping back. "Fine. But I'm staying in the room to assist. And if your hands shake even a millimeter, I'm taking the needle."

"They won't shake," Jack said.

He moved to the side of the bed, carefully adjusting the stool so his rigid leg could extend comfortably.

Jack snap on a pair of sterile gloves, and when he pulled the tray of instruments closer, where a nurse put all the necessary.

"Look at me," Jack murmured softly. He picked up the syringe of lidocaine. "This is going to burn. A lot. Hold my knee if you need to. My good one."

You reached out, gripping his good knee tightly. He didn't flinch as your fingernails dug into his skin. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch."

The needle pierced the edge of the cut, and a sharp burning sensation flared across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping as the medicine flooded the tissue. Jack’s was completely steady as he repositioned the needle to numb the entire perimeter of the wound.

Within a minute, the burning subsided into a heavy weight.

Jack worked in absolute silence. He used a small suction tip to clear the pooling blood, exposing the deep layer of tissue beneath. With a needle driver, he began the meticulous process of closing the deep dermal layer first.

You only could feel the gentle tugging of the thread as he pulled the edges of your skin back together. You watched his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes entirely locked on the millimeters of flesh he was mending. The anger from the stairwell was gone, completely replaced by an aching tenderness.

Every movement of his hands was incredibly precise, deliberate, and gentle.

Robby stood by, cutting the sutures as Jack tied off each knot. "Nice tension," Robby commented quietly, validating his friend's work. "That's going to heal beautifully."

Jack didn't reply. He just kept sewing, treating your face like the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

By the time he tied off the final knot, the wound was closed, reduced to a thin black line across your cheekbone.

Before Jack could even reach for the dressing supplies, Robby quietly stepped into his line of sight, a non adherent telfa pad and a strip of medical tape already in his gloved hands. "I've got the dressing, Jack. Step back for a second."

Jack blinked, the sharp medical tunnel vision breaking as he looked up at his friend.

He didn't argue.

His hands were just starting to develop a microscopic tremor from the adrenaline crash, and he knew it.

Robby offered you a warm smile as he leaned over the bed. He placed the small protective gauze pad directly over the neat row of black stitches, securing it firmly to your cheek with the clear tape. "There you go. That’ll keep it clean and protected. Excellent handiwork, by the way. You won't even be able to see the scar in a few months."

Jack dropped the instruments onto the tray. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, and took a deep breath.

"All done, baby," he said softly. "You're okay."

"Thank you," you murmured, with an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

The ride back home was calm. The dashboard clock glowed a late hour as Jack pulled the car into the driveway and cut the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

"Let's get you inside," Jack said softly. He had the night off.

He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you his hand. As you stood up, your leg wobbled, and Jack immediately caught you. He held you close, bearing your weight as he carefully guided you into the house.

He led you straight to the living room, easing you down onto the couch. He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a plush blanket, a fresh ice pack, and a glass of water.

He carefully lowered his weight onto the couch beside you and draped the blanket over your lap, then gently held the ice pack against your bruised knee.

Looking at him, seeing the dark circles of exhaustion, the faint smear of dried blood on his forearm that he hadn't fully washed off, and his unconditional care, the dam broke.

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

"Hey," Jack murmured, his brow furrowing as he set the ice pack down and instantly reached for your face. "Hey, what’s wrong? Is the local anesthetic wearing off? Is it hurting?"

"No," you choked out, your voice thick and trembling. You shook your head, immediately regretting it as the movement pulled at the tight stitches. "No, it doesn't hurt. Jack, I'm so sorry."

"Sweetheart, you don't need to-"

"I do," you interrupted, a sob catching in your throat. You reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm so, so sorry. I know I make a joke out of being clumsy, but I hate that I frightened you. I hate that I made you feel... helpless. I know how much you want to protect me, and I was careless. I didn't think about how it would affect you to hear me fall and not be able to just run down there. I'm so sorry for being reckless with myself."

Jack stared at you, his eyes softening.

He reached out, his thumb gently catching the tears on your cheek, careful not to touch your wound. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne.

"Thank you for being honest with me" Jack whispered into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back. "But you don't have to carry that guilt. I was angry because I was terrified. When I'm at work, I can control things. I have a team. But when it’s you... here... Seeing you hurt, and knowing my own body slows me down from getting to you... it scares me, baby."

He pulled back to look into your eyes.

"I know accidents happen," he said softly. "But I just need you to take care of yourself, because you are the most precious thing in my life. Okay?"

"Okay," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the edge of the blanket. "No more running on the stairs. I promise. I'll take them like a snail."

A smirk broke across Jack’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the first time he had smiled all night. "A snail might be a bit too slow, but I'll take it."

He leaned in, carefully placing a kiss on the uninjured side of your face, then another on the tip of your nose. "I love you, doll."

"I love you, my Jackie."

"Lay back, you need rest," he commanded gently, helping you settle on the couch. He placed the ice pack back on your knee and tucked the blanket securely around you. He picked up the TV remote and settled back against the cushions next to you.

As the soft sounds of a night time program filled the air, Jack's fingers gently stroked your head, lulling you to relax and close your eyes.

After a few seconds, you drifted off to sleep, feeling completely safe and secure in the tranquility of home.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

You were never the type to make friends easily. And you’d never been quite sure why, exactly. 

You were friendly. You smiled at strangers in grocery store lines and remembered people’s coffee orders and laughed when you were supposed to, even when you didn’t always understand the joke.

But somehow girls your age always seemed to know something you didn’t, some secret rhythm to being casual and clever and wanted in groups, while you lingered at the edge of things with your lip gloss in your pocket and your hands folded too neatly in your lap.

Most of the time, people liked you in passing. They liked your clothes, your laugh, the way you listened with your whole face. They liked you best in small, shiny pieces. 

So when a couple of girls you’d met in the boutique dressing room downtown, squealed over your sandals, asked for your Instagram, and invited you to their beach party, you said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.

You didn’t have any work to do for Smurf tonight and even though you aren’t really the party type, the thought of sitting alone in your apartment on the Fourth of July just seemed pathetic.

Now you’re standing on the beach with your bare feet half-buried in the cooling sand, drawing idle, uneven patterns while the tide breathes in and out somewhere ahead of you.

The party had spread out around you in noisy, glittering bits: someone laughing too hard near the waterline, music crackling from a speaker, fireworks popping somewhere down the coast.

You’re perched on the low wooden stoop of the lifeguard tower, knees tucked close, a melting liquor-infused red-white-and-blue bomb pop dripping steadily down your left hand and into the crease of your wrist.

With your right, you try to type Pope’s contact name into your phone. This is a much larger undertaking than you expected. Herculean, even. Pope was only four letters and, frankly, you have managed harder things. Probably.

But your vision blurs every time you look down, the letters doubling, then swimming apart.

Alcohol, you decide solemnly, is not the friend to women that those girls made it out to be. 

When you finally manage to find his name, it only takes two rings for him to answer.

The line crackles, wind and distance swallowing the first half of his greeting.

“Yeah?”

You picture him blinking at the ceiling, sheets still tangled around his hips, and at once feel terribly small for plucking him out of whatever peace he’d managed to find. 

“Oh. Hi, Pope.” Your voice comes out rounded at the edges by the cold and the awful, floaty feeling behind your eyes. “Were you sleeping? I hope you weren’t sleeping. Well, no, actually, I hope you were sleeping because you don’t sleep enough and that’s bad for your brain. I read that somewhere. Or maybe Smurf said it. Wait, no, Smurf said a woman sleeps better when somebody wears her out first, which I thought meant, like, exercise, but she laughed at me, so maybe not —”  

“Where are you?” Pope cuts in.

Something shifts on his end of the line: sheets, you think, then a rough little bed-creak, then breathing harder through his nose. 

“At a party,” you say, then hiccup, then wince like he can see it through the phone. “At the beach. I was with some girls, but I don’t… I don’t really see them anymore. So I thought maybe you could come get me? I was gonna walk, I promise, but I wore those wedges with the little bows, and they’re cute, but they hurt to walk in.”

There’s silence for a long second. You chew at your bottom lip to compensate.

“You telling me nobody’s with you right now?” His tone is ice-cold, all the softness ripped out. A door slams on his end. “Listen carefully to me, please. Stay put. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be there in ten.”

It takes him five. 

It might’ve taken three if he hadn’t spent the first two tearing through his apartment in a blind fury, shoving his feet into boots without socks, grabbing the wrong keys, then the right keys, then patting himself down for a phone already pressed hot against his ear.

If worst-case scenarios hadn’t kept unspooling in his head faster than he could outrun them. You on the beach at one a.m. You at a party with people you barely know. You drunk, which he could hear plain as day in every hiccupy little detour your voice took. 

You don’t drink. Which means your tolerance is low, your judgement’s lower, and you’re out there with fucking strangers. Strangers who might look at a sweet tipsy girl alone on the beach and see opportunity. 

He would kill someone for less. Anyone who touched you. Anyone who followed you. Anyone who smiled too long and stood too close and mistook all that sugary softness for permission.

He thought it while pulling up your location, that you don’t know he has, on his phone.

And he thinks it now while cutting across the beach, while fireworks split open over the water, while people move past him in flashes of red cups and flip flops and cheap cologne. 

Continues to think it until he sees you sitting where you said you’d be.

You’re wearing a tacky little red gingham sundress. One that makes you look a little like a holiday decoration someone forgot to bring inside. 

His boots sink and crunch in the sand as he gets closer, close enough to see the blue bikini straps peeking out beneath the dress where the neckline gapes. 

Your name comes out rougher than he intends it to when he calls out for you, scraped low from the back of his throat. 

You look up with a delayed little flinch, eyes unfocused before they find him. Drunk, his mind supplies. Too drunk. But then you light up, and the whole beach seems to tilt around it.

You hop down from the stoop, nearly catching your foot wrong in the sand, and he’s already moving, already reaching, already annoyed with you and everyone else and the impossible fact of distance. 

You crash into him with arms wide open, pulling him into a hug before he can decide whether to grab your shoulders or your face or shake sense back into you.

His body locks around the impact. 

Candied pears and vanilla rise from your hair, pretty and familiar, ruined slightly by the bite of vodka on your breath. 

He closes his eyes, lets one hand unclench, then the other. When he finally touches you, it’s with a restraint that feels violent, palms spread over your back, nose buried at your crown. 

Fine, he tells himself, breathing you in until his lungs hurt. You’re fine. 

When you pull back, there’s a lopsided smile on your face.

“Hi,” you say, like the two of you have bumped into each other at the grocery store and not after he drove through three red lights to get to you. Your fingers curl in the front of his shirt. “I’m so happy to see you. Like… sooo happy. I’m always happy to see you. D’you know that?”

Your lipstick has slipped into a red half-moon near the corner of your mouth, and his thumb twitches with the sudden need to wipe it clean before anybody else notices. Before anybody else gets to think about your mouth at all.

There’s also glitter freckling your temple like spilled sugar, catching the firework light in sharp little flashes, disappearing and returning every time the sky blooms over the water. 

He sees you in pieces: mouth, cheek, lashes, throat, the blue string at your shoulder. Each piece intact. Each piece his mind checks and checks again. 

His expression doesn’t change, his hands do. One tightens at your back. The other catches your wrist, careful around the sticky mess of what he assumes to be leftover popsicle drying between your fingers.

“Don’t say shit like that.” His eyes flick over your face again. “Makes it hard to stay mad.”

“You’re mad at me?”

“No.”

And he means it. Mostly. He’s mad you came here with girls whose names he doesn’t know, girls you must not know well either if you’ve never mentioned them before.

He’s mad the world keeps proving him right for wanting to keep you close. For wanting to shrink your life down to manageable dimensions: his truck, his apartment, Smurf’s house, the short walk between places where he can see you. It would be so simple, really, to make everything the size of his reach. To make himself the first call, the last stop, the wall at your back and the lock on the door both. 

“Good,” you sigh, shoulders dipping in visible relief. “Your mad face is scary, and I like your normal face. Let’s stick with your normal face.”

“Let’s get you —”

You barrel over him.

“And you have such a nice face, Pope.” 

Your sticky fingers rise before he can dodge, thumbs skating across the hard shelf of his cheekbones. He ought to flinch at the tacky feeling, should mutter about germs, but all he feels is the lightning of your touch detonating under his skin. Twenty-thousand wings beating stupid fast in his gut while the world shrinks to the warm smudge of your palms.

His eyes drop to your mouth again.

Bad idea. Bad, bad fucking idea. 

Christ he really wants to fucking kiss you. Wants to bend, gather the sweetness off your lips, swallow every sloppy little giggle you’re trying to hold back. He wills himself against it.

Because right now, you’re loose-limbed and glass-eyed, floating in the aftermath of other people’s bad decisions, and he refuses to make the next one.

So he breathes, counts to four, lets the want settle into a promise instead of an action: another night, another version of the two of you where you’ll remember exactly how it felt when he finally let himself kiss the innocence away. 

“Truck,” he mutters finally, voice stripped to the bone.

One arm bands around your waist to keep you steady while he stoops, plucks your abandoned wedges from the sand, and shoves them under his elbow.

You sway against him, and he has to half-lift you the last few steps to the passenger door.

The hinge groans and he sets you on the seat, then decides to buckle you in himself — click, pull, tug — because he’s not sure your coordination is cut out for it.

“Keep this on,” he instructs. 

“Okay, okay,” you whisper, smoothing the webbing flat against your dress. “I’ll be the best seat-belt wearer you ever saw.”

You offer him a solemn thumbs-up, eyes bright with earnest pride. 

Pope’s mouth twitches. Barely. So small it could pass for annoyance if anyone else saw it. 

Then he knocks the door shut with his hip and rounds the hood before the sight of you smiling at him through the window can soften him any further. 

He ends up taking you to his place.

The thought of you drunk and alone three blocks away is worse than the thought of you under his roof, he decides. For your own good, he thinks.

But the second you cross the threshold with bare feet squeaking on the laminate and humming some pop song under your breath he regrets it.

His apartment has always been plain enough to disappear into. Blank walls, old couch, a singular chair, curtains that don’t let in much light even in the middle of the day. It’s a place for sleeping. For nothing else, really. He doesn’t need much else. And even that, he doesn’t get much of here.

Bad for his brain, you had said. You were bad for his brain. All this worry you cause. The wrinkles that now overtake his face since he’s met you.

You belong where color has somewhere to go. In gardens gone slightly wild. On porches with chipped paint and too many potted plants. In bright, warm places where things climb and bloom and turn their faces to the sun. 

You don’t belong in the stale dark of his apartment, where everything feels like it learned long ago to survive without light. 

His regret multiplies tenfold when you reach for the straps of your dress.

At first, he thinks you’re just fussing with them, your fingers clumsy at your shoulders.

Then one slips down.

Then the other.

The gingham loosens around you in degrees, revealing flashes of skin he has no right to look at and every reason to turn away from. His jaw snaps.

The dress slips lower, a slow collapse of red cotton and white trim, and he catches pieces of you in the corner of his eye before he can make himself look away. A shoulder. The curve of your hip. 

What’s left is cobalt swim fabric and miles of soft body, the damp seat of your bikini practically winking at him as you wander deeper into the apartment. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, turning his back. “Put that back on.” 

You twist, one hand braced on the doorframe, and peer back at him over your shoulder.

“It was sandy, Pope. It’s driving me crazy — here, feel.” You scrape your nails along the back of your thigh like proof, then lift the leg toward him, all generous sweep of skin and reckless trust.

Pope’s head tips skyward as if the ceiling might hand down mercy. Wishful thinking.

“M’not touching you,” he grits out. “You can use the shower to wash off.”

Though he knows you’d probably hate the experience of using his shower.

There’s nothing in there except a military-grade bar of soap and some shampoo he stole from J’s bathroom months ago because his own had run out and he couldn’t be bothered to buy more.

There’s no soft towels. No good smells. None of the little things women seem to collect in bathrooms, the bottles and jars and razors and foamy stuff with names he never reads but still notices when they’re yours. 

You probably have all of that at home. A whole routine. Something sweet-smelling. Something you rub into your legs after, standing on that little bath mat in your apartment with one hip cocked and your hair dripping down your back. 

His cock twitches in his pants.

“Don’t wanna shower,” you mumble, already disappearing into his room. “Just wanna sleep.”

A moment later the triangle of your bikini top tumbles back into view, tossed to the ground with a wet thump. It’s followed by the matching bottom scrap that had covered so much less than it should. The mattress groans.

He can’t see anything else but the fabric on the floor, but that’s more than enough. Enough to picture the rest, and the implication that comes with it.

You.

Naked.

In his bed.

The floor tilts beneath him as adrenaline and hunger vie for dominance in his gut.

He exhales through his nose, forces every muscle into a calm he does not feel, and walks to the kitchen. One glass, ice-cold tap, aspirin bottle from the medicine cabinet. Keep your hands busy, keep your eyes forward, keep your thoughts off her skin. He repeats it to himself like a mantra.

He turns to walk down the hallway and when he gets to the doorway he pauses, counts three, then four, then five, as if numbers can blunt the sight of you warm and bare beneath his blanket. 

Before he can step inside, your voice floats out from the dark, soft and slurred around the edges. 

“Your bed’s really nice,” you murmur. “I thought it was gonna be hard because you’re all…” A pause. The blanket shifts. “You know. Like that. But it’s cozy.”

He clears his throat. “That’s great. You — uh — you decent in there?”

“I think so,” you say after a second. “Most of me is covered. Probably the important parts.”

The room is mostly dark enough that most of you are mercifully hidden, the blanket dragged high, the shape of your body blurred into soft suggestion.

But not all of you. Your bare collarbones catch the dim spill of light from the hall. One arm lies loose over the sheet, hair fanned wild across his pillow like the bed had been waiting all along for something prettier to happen to it. 

“Got you water,” he says. He sets the glass and aspiring on the nightstand without looking too hard, then straightens, spine rigid, refusing to let his gaze drift lower than your throat.

You look too pretty for a night like this, too soft for a bed that’s never held anything but nightmares and empty hours, and part of him hates that the first person to see you here, sunk into his pillow and sighing like you belong, is him. 

He forces his hands to his pockets. “Aspirin’s by the glass. Drink all the water. You’ll thank me in the morning.” 

He starts to turn towards the doorway, but your hand snakes out of the dark and closes around his wrist.

The blanket sags with the movement, sliding off your shoulders, and he lunges to catch it with his free hand, fingers splaying across the warm slope just above your breast. 

“Could you… maybe sit with me til I fall asleep? Please?”

He makes the mistake of looking at your face. One soft plea blooming in those eyes and every argument he’d rehearsed goes slack. A smarter man would draw a line right here. He’s not a smarter man.

“Five minutes,” he warns, easing himself into the chair beside the bed.

“Five minutes, promise,” you echo, voice sing-song as you shift.

You avert your gaze just long enough to settle onto your side, blanket clutched in one fist, then peek back through your lashes. Both hands disappear beneath your cheek, the coverlet resting scant inches above the peaks of your nipples.

Your eyes drift half-shut, lashes heavy against your cheeks. “Wish I could sleep in your bed every night.”

Pope doesn’t move.

A second later your mouth softens, your breathing evens, and he’s left alone with the sentence like a knife he has to pretend isn’t in him. 

A lone firework bursts beyond the window. Silent through the glass but bright enough to paint pyrotechnic petals across the ceiling, for an instant crowning your form in color.

Pope exhales, lets the echo of that light fade, and settles in to keep watch until morning.

MARIA NOTE this was my attempt a 4th of july fic and somehow there are no pool parties, no wholesome firework kisses, just bunny getting tipsy off hardly any alc and pope having to fight for his life in a sad man apartment. whoops. thank u 4 reading ily!!! 🌀🍓💌