Shop Smart Shop S Mart

The Cody house always smelled like salt water, cheap sunblock, and old grease, but in the early mornings, before the sun completely burned through the marine layer, it just smelled like damp concrete and stale beer.

Andrew stood at the kitchen counter with his back to the rest of the house. He moved quietly—he had spent thirty-nine years learning how to occupy as little space as possible in a room—his broad, square shoulders hunched slightly to hide what he was doing.

He was cutting the crusts off a slice of white bread.

He did it with a heavy chef’s knife, his large, calloused fingers pressed lightly against the soft center so he wouldn't crush it. His hands were scarred across the knuckles, the skin rough from hard labor, jailhouse floor sweeps, and fists met with bone, but right now, they were trembling just a fraction. He was trying so hard to be delicate.

With his niece Lena, the noise in his head quieted down. It didn't disappear, but it dialed back to a low hum he could ignore.

It was seven in the morning. The rest of the house was still asleep, sleeping off whatever line they’d snorted or bottle they’d finished the night before. Pope stood in the kitchen, his tall, lean frame hunched slightly over the island. He was cutting a slice of cheap white bread into four neat, perfect triangles. He’d already trimmed the crusts off because the crusts were too hard for her teeth, and he’d spread the jelly in an even layer, edge to edge, so there weren't any dry spots.

He heard her tiny, bare feet slapping against the cool tile before he saw her.

"Uncle Pope?" her voice was thin, raspy from sleep.

He turned slowly, lowering himself down on one knee so he wasn't towering over her. He was always careful about that. He knew his face looked hard—knew his eyes sat too deep in his skull and that he scared people without trying.

"Hey, kiddo," he rasped, his voice rough from disuse. "Slept okay?"

Lena rubbed her eyes with the back of a small, bruised-looking fist—just a scrape from playing on the gravel driveway yesterday—and nodded. Her dark hair was a tangled mess at the back. Without a word, Pope reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wide-toothed plastic comb he carried specifically for her.

"I don't want the peanut butter," she mumbled around her thumb. "Just the jelly."

"I know," Pope said gently. "Just jelly. No peanut butter. I remembered."

He didn't rush. He held the base of her hair in his large, scarred palm to absorb the tension so he wouldn't pull her scalp, gently working the comb through the ends first, working his way up. His hands—hands that had snapped bones, hands that smelled like gun oil and brake cleaner—moved with a tentative, almost painful gentleness. He barely breathed while he did it, terrified that one wrong move would make her wince.

"You want milk or water?" he asked softly, laying the comb on the counter.

"Milk, please."

He poured it into her plastic cup with the cracked lid, making sure it was only half-full so she wouldn't spill it if her hands shook. He pulled out a chair, lifted her up by her waist—she felt as light as a handful of dry leaves—and set her down in front of her plate. He sat in the chair next to her, resting his elbows on his knees, just watching her take tiny, slow bites.

"Eat your toast," he whispered. "Then I'll tie your shoes."

"Look at the fucking nanny," a voice drawled from the doorway.

A sudden creak on the stairs broke the quiet.

Baz came down first, barefoot, wearing gray sweatpants, his chest bare. He looked rough around the edges, his dark eyes bloodshot, but he carried that effortless, arrogant grace he always had. He stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning his shoulder against the frame, watching Pope adjust the cup closer to Lena's plate.

Pope's hand instantly pulled back from Lena's hair, dropping to his side like he’d been burned.

Baz was leaning against the doorframe, wearing yesterday's jeans and no shirt, his chest covered in a thin sheen of morning sweat. He had a bottle of water in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette tucked behind his ear. He looked at Pope, then at Lena, and the corner of his mouth twisted up into that familiar, condescending smirk—the one that made Pope feel like he was six years old and trapped in a closet again.

"What are you doing, Andrew?" Baz asked, shuffling over to the fridge. He didn't even look at his daughter. He didn't say good morning to her. He just reached over her head, grabbed a cold brew, and popped the top with a sharp snap. "She's three. She can eat the crusts. You're spoiling her."

"She doesn't like the crusts," Pope said to the floor. His hands slid into the front pockets of his jeans. His thumbs hitched over the denim.

"She doesn't like them because you keep cutting 'em off," Baz snapped, taking a long pull from his bottle. He leaned back against the counter, right where Pope had been standing moments before, and looked his older brother up and down. His eyes were cold, assessing, full of that casually cruel superiority he always carried around Pope.

"Look at you," Baz chuckled, a bitter, dry sound. "Playing daddy. You like that, don't you? Dressing her up, making her little snacks. It’s pathetic, Pope."

Pope’s jaw worked. A muscle in his cheek twitched once, twice, but he kept his eyes locked firmly on the grain of the wooden table. "She was hungry."

"Yeah, well, enjoy playing house while it lasts," Baz said, his tone flattening into something meaner, sharper. "Get it out of your system now, Andrew. 'Cause let's be real—this is the closest you're ever gonna get to having a kid."

The words settled like heavy, suffocating smog.

Pope didn't look up. His fingers twitched against his thighs, but he kept his eyes on the kitchen island. "She was hungry."

"She's fine, Andrew. She's got a mother. Catherine," Baz sneered, stepping into the kitchen and opening the fridge, grabbing a carton of juice and drinking straight from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Pope over the rim. "It's funny, man. You sitting there playing house. Pretending you're her dad."

Pope’s chest tightened, a familiar, cold lump settling in the back of his throat. He said nothing.

Smurf came down the stairs a moment later, wrapped in her silk robe, her short blonde hair barely out of place. She possessed an uncanny ability to enter a room and instantly suck all the air out of it. She walked over to the coffee pot, pouring herself a cup, her blue eyes scanning the kitchen until they landed on Pope, sitting hunched next to her granddaughter.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. It never did when she looked at Pope like this. It was the look she gave a stray dog that kept coming back to the porch despite being kicked.

"Now, Baz, don't be nasty," Smurf murmured, though her voice carried zero reprimand. She stepped around to face Pope, reaching up to touch the side of his jaw. Her thumb pressed into his cheekbone, dragging down to his chin. Her eyes were bright, dark, and completely devoid of warmth. "Andrew’s just helping. Aren't you, baby? He's got a good heart. A soft heart."

"He's just enjoying it while he can. Aren't you, sweetie?"

Pope’s shoulders pulled up toward his ears. He stayed frozen beneath her touch.

"Baz is right about one thing, though, sweetie," Smurf whispered, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly soft, maternal coo she used when she was delivering a death sentence. "You have to be realistic about who you are. Women... normal women... they look at a man like you, Andrew, and they see what's missing. They see the dark parts. Nobody’s ever going to want to carry your baby. Nobody’s going to trust you with a child of your own. You know that, don't you?"

Pope didn't pull away from her hand. He couldn't. He just swallowed hard, his throat feeling like dry sand, and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"Good boy," Smurf patted his cheek—two sharp, stinging taps—and stepped over to the coffee pot. "Now go clear out the garage. J needs the space for the bikes."

Baz let out a short, harsh laugh from the sink. "Yeah. Can you imagine some poor girl bringing a kid home to this? Jesus. She'd take one look at those crazy eyes and run for the hills."

"Nobody’s ever going to let you father a child, Andrew," Smurf whispered, her voice intimately warm, like she was telling him a sweet secret only the two of them shared. "Women can smell it on a man like you. They know when a man’s blood is...tainted. You're meant to take care of us. You're meant to stay right here with your mama. That's your job."

She patted his cheek one last time, turned, and carried her mug toward the patio. Baz followed her out, leaving the glass sliding door open just enough for the salt breeze to carry their soft chuckles into the kitchen.

Pope stayed frozen.

Lena reached out with a stick , jelly-covered finger and touched his knuckles. "Uncle Pope?"

He looked down at her. His chest felt hollow, like someone had reached inside with a dull knife and scraped out everything that made a man human, leaving only the dried shell behind.

Tainted blood. Broken.

He knew they were right. He felt it every second of every day. He was a weapon Smurf kept in the garage, pulled out when something needed to be broken or bled, and wiped down afterward. He wasn't meant for good, soft things. He wasn't meant for a life that had sunshine and rainbows in it. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and gently wiped a drop of jelly from the corner of Lena's mouth with his thumb.

"Eat your toast, kiddo," he murmured, his voice flat, dead, devoid of anything at all.

Two weeks later, a new job came up.

It was a simple thing—a smart-house reset in a quiet, high-end neighborhood three miles off the strip. The target was a mid-level guy who dealt in offshore accounts and kept a safe behind a fake vent in his home office. Craig and Deran were handling the transport, Baz was doing the wire work, and Pope was on baseline reconnaissance.

That meant sitting. Watching. Learning the pattern of the block until the street felt like a map drawn on the back of his eyelids.

Pope sat in the driver's seat of an old, faded blue Ford sedan parked under the sprawling shade of an ficus tree down the block. The engine was off. The windows were cracked just half an inch to keep the air moving, carrying the thick, heavy heat of late afternoon into the cabin.

He had a black spiral notebook open on his lap, a stubby pencil held between his thick fingers. He wrote down license plates. He wrote down the exact minute the mail truck pulled up to the curb. He wrote down the neighbor’s golden retriever barking at the sprinkler system.

It was brainless work, the kind that usually let the static in his head get too loud. He picked at the skin around his thumb until it bled, staring through the dusty windshield, feeling the old, heavy weight of his family pulling him down into the dirt.

Then, at 5:14 PM, a light blue hatchback pulled into the driveway of the house directly across from the target.

Pope didn't move. His eyes narrowed habitually, his hand reaching for the pencil to mark down the arrival.

The driver's side door swung open.

You stepped out into the humid afternoon air. You were wearing a simple, worn-out t-shirt and jeans, your hair pulled back loosely, a few stray strands sticking to the back of your neck in the heat. You reached back into the rear seat, struggling for a second with a heavy paper grocery bag that had a loaf of French bread sticking awkwardly out of the top.

As you pulled the bag out, the paper seam split near the bottom.

Pope watched through the dirty glass as two oranges rolled out, bouncing down the asphalt driveway and coming to a stop in the dry grass near the curb.

But there was no outburst. You didn't slam the car door or throw your hands up in frustration the way Smurf did when things didn't go her way, or the way Baz did when he was annoyed.

Instead, you just stopped. You stood there on the driveway, leaned your head back for a fraction of a second, and let out a soft, quiet laugh that Pope couldn't hear, but could see in the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders. You carefully set the broken bag on the hood of your car, walked over to the grass, knelt down, and picked up the oranges.

You wiped the grass off one against your jeans, held it up to the sun for a second, and smiled. It was a real, unbothered, carefree smile.

Pope forgot to write down the license plate.

He sat frozen in the sweltering dark of the Ford, his fingers locked around the stub of his pencil, his breath catching somewhere deep in his chest. He watched you pick up the rest of your things, hip the car door shut, and walk up the porch steps, tossing an orange up in the air and catching it with one hand before disappearing inside.

The front door clicked shut. The street went quiet again.

Pope glanced down at his notebook. The white page was blank beneath the time stamp 5:14 PM.

Andrew spent two weeks watching you. At first, it was just the schedule. You left your apartment at 7:40 AM with a faded canvas bag slung over your shoulder. You walked three blocks to the bus stop, always checking your watch twice. You came home at 5:15 PM, usually carrying a paper bag from the corner market, your keys already out and jangling in your hand before you even reached the bottom of the porch steps.

But after three days, the schedule stopped mattering.

Pope began setting his alarm an hour early just to sit in the suffocating heat of his truck, waiting for the split-second your front door opened. He watched the way you squished your eyes shut against the morning sun, the way you brushed a stray lock of hair out of your mouth, the quiet, small smile you gave to the old guy who walked his golden retriever past your lawn every morning. You walked around like someone who didn't expect to be hurt. You didn't look over your shoulder. You didn't glance at the dark, tinted windows of the gray Ford sitting under the shade of the eucalyptus tree.

You were soft, and clean, and completely untouchable.

When the job fell through, he couldn't stop. It was like an itch beneath his ribs that he couldn't scratch. He began parking two streets over, walking past your local laundromat, stepping into the small, cramped diner where you bought coffee on Saturday mornings.

The first time you actually spoke to him, he almost choked on his saliva.

He was standing by the sugar dispenser at the counter, his massive frame hunched over, trying to make himself small. You bumped into his shoulder and your coffee cup sloshed over the rim, spilling warm, tan liquid onto your fingers.

"Oh, shoot! I am so sorry," you said, immediately stepping back, laughing at your own clumsiness.

Pope froze. His blood ran cold, his hands instinctively dropping to his sides like he had been caught stealing. He stared down at you, his dark eyes wide and fixed, his chest heaving once. "It's... it's fine," he grunted out, his voice a dry, rusty scraping sound.

You simply pulled a napkin from the dispenser, wiped your fingers, and looked up at him with a pair of clear, unbothered eyes.

"I'm out of my mind today," you murmured, offering him a small, wry grin. "I'm usually way better at not bumping into people. I'm..." You glanced at his hands, then at his face. "I haven't seen you around here before. I'm y/n."

He swallowed hard. His name felt heavy in his mouth, a dirty word. "Andrew," he managed.

"Nice to meet you, Andrew," you said softly. And then you walked away to your table, leaving him standing there in the smell of fried hashbrowns and cheap coffee, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

It was a Tuesday at five in the afternoon at the little hardware store three miles off the avenue. You were standing in the plumbing aisle, staring up at a wall of copper fittings with a crumpled piece of paper in your hand, looking utterly lost.

Pope had been two aisles over, pretending to look at box nails, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hands were sweating. He took three agonizing steps around the corner, his heavy boots squeaking on the linoleum, and stopped just behind you.

"That's... that's the wrong thread," he said. His voice rasped, rough from disuse, cutting through the quiet aisle like a rusty blade.

You turned around, startled, dropping the small brass valve you were holding. It clattered against the concrete floor.

Pope instantly dropped to his knees to grab it for you. His giant, scarred hand hovered near your shoe, his broad shoulders tensing as if he expected you to recoil from him. But when he looked up, extending his palm with the brass piece sitting in the middle of it, you weren't terrified. You were just smiling—a tired, grateful little turn of your mouth.

"Thanks. Andrew right?," you asking, taking it from him. Your fingers brushed his palm. His whole body went rigid at the contact. "I have no idea what I'm looking for. My bathroom sink is dripping and the guy at the front desk told me to just 'get a washer,' but there are fifty of them."

Pope stood up slowly, towering over you, his eyes darting to the floor, then to your face, then back to the shelf. "It's... it's a three-eighths flat," he mumbled, his thumb pointing toward a red bin on the bottom rack. "For a standard delta faucet. You need the rubber ones. Not the plastic."

You looked from the red bin back up to his face, your eyes soft and curious, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the tight, defensive set of his jaw, the sheer size of him. "You know a lot about sinks?"

"I know how to fix things," he said quietly, his voice dropping into his chest. "When they're broken."

It was a slow, agonizing erosion of the walls he’d built his whole life.

You bumped into him again three days later at the market. Then at the laundromat. You began to expect him. You offered him half of a pastry you bought; he accepted it with trembling hands, sitting on the curb beside you in silence while you talked about your job, your annoying landlord, the rain forecast for the weekend. He mostly just listened, nodding occasionally, mesmerized by the simple cadence of your life.

When you invited him up to your apartment the first time, he stood in your doorway for three full minutes, refusing to step onto your rug until he took his heavy boots off, terrified he’d track dirt onto your floor.

That night was supposed to be a mistake. A quiet, breathless collision between two people who were lonely in entirely different ways.

You had reached out and touched his face while he was sitting on the edge of your sofa, his knuckles white against his knees. Your hand was warm, soft, smelling faintly of lavender soap. When your thumb slid over his cheekbone, Pope’s eyes snapped shut, a low, desperate sound tearing from his throat. He touched you like he was handling glass—afraid that if he pressed too hard, if he used his real strength, you would shatter, or realize what he was and run screaming into the night.

That night was slow, desperate, and quiet. Every time his big hands moved over your skin, he checked your face, searching for any sign of disgust, waiting for the moment you realized what he was and pulled away. But you didn't pull away. You pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the back of his neck, burying your face in the crook of his collarbone.

When it was over, he lay awake on his back for four hours, staring at the water stains on your bedroom ceiling, listening to the soft, steady rise and fall of your chest against his side. He felt like a thief who had broken into a church and stolen something holy.

In the beginning, you both called it what it was: simple. Friends. An arrangement. Something quiet that happened behind closed doors when the rest of the world was asleep.

Pope liked that word—arrangement. It was safe. It meant there were no expectations. It meant you weren't asking him to be normal, or sweet, or the kind of man who brought flowers and took a girl home to meet her parents. It meant he could give you his body, his labor, his fierce, silent protection, without risking the terrible reality of him ruining you.

But Andrew Cody didn't know how to do anything halfway. He didn't know how to keep a boundary when it came to light.

Slowly, the arrangement began to rot from the inside, replaced by something deep, heavy, and dangerous.

"You can stay, you know," you told him one Tuesday morning.

He was sitting on the edge of your bed, pulling his socks on, his back a map of old scars and pale skin. He paused, his head turning slowly to look over his shoulder at you. You were tangled in the white sheets, watching him with soft, unblinking eyes.

"I got... stuff to do," he mumbled, his default shield against the world.

"It's six in the morning, Andrew," you said gently, reaching out to lay your hand flat over his spine. "You don't have to run every time the sun comes up. I’ll make coffee. Stay for ten minutes."

Ten minutes turned into an hour. An hour turned into staying for breakfast.

Slowly, things began shifting.

The first time he fixed something in your apartment, it was your kitchen faucet. It had been leaking again. Pope brought a small metal toolbox he'd stolen from the Cody garage years ago. He spent forty-five minutes on his back under your sink, his shoulder pressed against the cabinet door, his hands working with silent, methodical precision while you sat on the floor nearby, talking to him about your job, your day, the beach.

You poured him a glass of water.

Pope had stared at that glass of water like it was made of pure gold.

In his world, you only got things if you earned them through blood or obedience. In your world, you gave him things just because he was sitting in your kitchen.

You sat next to him on the edge of your couch. And when you leaned over and pressed your mouth softly against his jaw, Pope stopped breathing entirely.

"You don't have to," he croaked out, his hands hovering in the air near your waist, terrified to touch you, terrified his rough, filthy hands would leave a stain on your clothes. "I'm... I'm not... you don't even know me well."

"I know enough," you whispered.

By the second month, his things started migrating.

First, it was a spare black t-shirt, folded neatly and left on the back of your wooden chair. Then a pair of work boots by the front door. Then a toothbrush sitting in a plastic cup next to yours on the sink. He had brought it over wrapped in a paper towel, hiding it in his back pocket, blushing fiercely when he set it on your sink.

By the fourth month, half his wardrobe was hanging in your small closet. His heavy flannels sat squeezed between your floral dresses and light sweaters. His work boots stood neatly by your front door. Your apartment began to smell like him—leather, motor oil, and the crisp, cedar soap he bought because he knew you liked it.

One evening, after a long, brutal afternoon where Smurf had spent two hours screaming at Craig in the backyard while Baz sat by the pool laughing, Pope walked into your home, closed the door behind him, and leaned his forehead directly against the wood. His shoulders were trembling. He looked exhausted, drained down to his very bones, his eyes sunken and dark.

You walked over, unbuttoned his heavy flannel shirt, pulled it off his shoulders, and took his hand.

You led him to the bed. He sat on the edge, his face buried in his hands, his long fingers pressing into his temples so hard his skin turned white.

"I can't... I can't be over there anymore," he choked out, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing grief. "It's too loud. It's all... it's all rotten."

You sat down behind him on the mattress, wrapping your arms around his broad chest, pressing your cheek against his heavy shoulder blade. "Then don't be," you whispered against his skin. "Stay here."

Pope turned around slowly, looking at you like you had spoken in a foreign language. "Here?"

"Here," you repeated. "With me."

He looked around the room—at the soft blue rug on the floor, the small stacks of books on your nightstand, the quiet afternoon sun filtering through the linen curtains. It was a life that had nothing to do with Smurf, nothing to do with armed robberies or guns or blood on the concrete. It was yours. And somehow, impossibly, you were offering him a piece of it.

That night, Pope slept for nine hours straight without waking up once—a feat he hadn't accomplished since he was a couple months old.

"Where’s Andrew?" Smurf asked one night at dinner, her eyes darting over the empty chair at the long wooden table.

Baz shuffled his cards, not looking up. "At his girl's house. He's been living there three, four nights a week now."

Smurf’s eyes narrowed, a tiny, dangerous flicker of annoyance crossing her features before she smoothed it over with a laugh. "He'll be back. He always comes home when he gets hungry. He doesn't know how to be out there on his own."

But Smurf was wrong.

Andrew wasn't hungry for her food anymore. He was starving for the safety of your small bedroom.

At the Cody house, he slept with one eye open, his heart constantly hammering in his throat, waiting for the front door to burst open, waiting for Smurf to demand something terrible of him, waiting for Baz to make another soul-crushing comment about his mind.

At your place, the world was quiet.

He loved you with a terrifying intensity that frightened even him. He loved you so much it felt like an ache in his chest, a heavy, throbbing weight that never went away.

But even then, in the darkest, quietest hours of the night, when you were fast asleep with your head resting on his chest, Pope would lie awake and stare at the wall, Smurf's voice echoing endlessly in his mind:

Nobody’s ever going to want to carry your baby, sweetie. You know that, don't you?

He would look down at you, at the soft curve of your waist, at the peacefulness in your face, and he would swallow down the bitter, jagged pill of his own truth. He would give you everything he had—his body, his protection, his quiet, desperate heart. But he would never ask for more. He would never push for a real family, a real future, a real home. He was broken goods, and he was just grateful to be allowed inside the warm room for as long as you'd let him stay.

He loved the mundane, sacred rituals of your life. He loved standing behind you while you chopped vegetables, resting his chin on the top of your head, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist. He loved listening to the low hum of the television while you sat on the couch with your feet tucked under his thighs.

He didn't sleep stiffly on his back anymore. He slept buried in your neck, his large arm draped heavily over your waist, his breath slow and deep against your collarbone.

One evening, after you’d been together for nearly a year, you came home from work to find him sitting on the floor of your living room. He had taken apart your squeaky bed frame, re-aligned the wooden slats, and re-bolted the frame so it wouldn't make a sound when you moved.

He looked up at you from the floor, a wrench in his hand, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "It was noisy," he said softly, almost apologetically. "It shouldn't squeak when you try to sleep."

You walked over, dropped your bag on the floor, and knelt down in front of him. You took the wrench from his hand, set it aside, and took his large, calloused hands in yours. You pressed a kiss to each of his knuckles, one by one.

"Andrew," you whispered, looking directly into his dark, haunted eyes. "You don't have to keep fixing things to earn your keep here."

He swallowed hard, his throat working violently. "I want to," he rasped, his voice breaking slightly. "I wanna make it nice for you."

"You do make it nice," you said, reaching up to frame his jaw with your hands. "Having you here makes it home. You know that, right?"

A tear squeezed out of his left eye, tracking slowly down his cheek. He just leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands coming up to wrap around your wrists, holding onto you like you were the only solid thing in a world made of smoke.

---

Prison was cold concrete, bleached tile, and the perpetual, sour stench of industrial floor wax mixed with old sweat. For a man who lived perpetually inside his own head, the noise of the block was a relentless torture—shouted slurs across the tiers, metal spoons scraping against plastic trays, the sharp snap of officers’ boots against the catwalks.

In the first two months, Pope retreated into total, stony silence. He sat on the edge of his narrow bunk in his gray scrub pants, his long arms resting on his knees, staring at the small, high window barred against the pale sky. The guys on the yard knew better than to fuck with him; he had a look in his eyes that was flat, dead, and unpredictable—a dangerous combination that kept even the toughest cliques at arm’s length. For now, at least.

Smurf visited twice in the first six months. She sat behind the acrylic partition, looking trim and immaculate in her tailored blouses, her voice smooth as silk through the tiny perforated metal speaker. She talked about business, about Craig’s latest fuck-ups, about how hard it was managing the house without him, squeezing her eyes shut in dramatic, performative sorrow. Baz came once, standing in the back of the waiting room with his arms crossed, checking his watch three times before leaving early.

None of them looked at Andrew like he was a human being who was rotting behind bars. To them, he was just a tool sent to the shed until they needed him to cut something again.

Except for you.

You came every single visiting day allowed by the facility. Rain or shine, three hours in traffic on the freeway, sitting in the cold plastic chairs of the waiting room for hours just to get sixty minutes across a chipped laminate table.

The first time he walked into the visiting room and saw you sitting there, wearing a simple cardigan he recognized from your bedroom closet, Pope’s knees almost buckled. He dragged his heavy steel-toed prison boots across the floor, sliding onto the metal bench opposite you, his hands clamped tightly in his lap so the guards wouldn't see them shake.

"You shouldn't be here," he had croaked out, his voice raw from days of non-use. "It's not... this isn't a place for you."

"Shut the fuck up, Andrew," you had said, your voice breaking, but your hands reaching straight across the yellow divider line to grab his wrists.

The guards yelled at you to keep your hands on your own side of the line, but you didn't care. You held onto his large, scarred fingers until he slowly, hesitantly curled them around yours.

For two straight years, you were the air in his lungs. You wrote him letters twice a week—not long, grand manifestos, but domestic updates. You wrote about the leak under the sink holding up, about the neighbor’s dog that wouldn't stop barking, about how you walked down to the beach on Friday nights and thought about his hand in yours. He kept every single piece of paper under his thin mattress, stacked neatly, their edges worn soft and thin from how many times his thumbs had traced your handwriting in the dark.

When the days were bad, when the noise inside the block threatened to shatter his mind completely, he would close his eyes, press his knuckles into his mouth, and picture the faint smell of your laundry detergent, the cool blue rug in your bedroom, the sound of your voice telling him to come chop the onions.

You kept him alive. You kept him human.

On the morning of his release, the sun broke through the coastal fog, casting long, stark shadows across the asphalt parking lot outside the gates.

When the heavy steel door clicked open and Andrew stepped out into the open air, he didn't look at the sky or the road. He looked at the white sedan parked near the fence. You were leaning against the driver’s side door, your hair blowing across your face, holding a paper cup of black coffee in your hand.

Pope stopped dead in his tracks. For ten agonizing seconds, he just stared, his chest heaving under a plain gray t-shirt that hung loose on his thinned frame.

You set the cup on the roof of the car and walked—then ran—straight into him.

When you slammed into his chest, Pope couldn't catch you with his hands at first; he was too afraid he was dreaming, too afraid the guards were going to tackle him back onto the pavement. But then your face pressed hard into the crook of his neck, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, and your warm, familiar scent filled his nose.

A ragged, choking gasp escaped his throat. His big arms came around your waist like iron bands, lifting you an inch off the ground, burying his nose into your hair. He shook against you, trembling with a violent, desperate relief that shook his entire body.

"I'm here," you whispered over and over, your thumbs smoothing down the back of his neck, feeling the coarse hair at the base of his skull. "I'm right here, Andrew. You're out. You're home."

"You stayed," he rasped, his eyes squeezed tight against the glare of the morning sun. "You stayed."

But going back to the Cody house felt like stepping back into a shoe that no longer fit, its leather cracked and stiff.

Smurf "welcomed" him back with open arms, a spread of fried chicken, and a cold beer, act-playing the loving matriarch. Baz gave him a tight, perfunctory nod from the couch, already back on his phone, planning whatever small-time score he was running. Nobody asked how he slept. Nobody asked about the cold steel bunks or the grey walls. The mind games and torture. The terrible fights with the other prisoners. The predatory wardens.

The only thing that felt real besides you was Lena.

She was older now, her legs longer, her speech clearer, but she was still terrified of the loud shouting that broke out in the house at night. Baz treated her like an inconvenience, an extra mouth to feed that he dumped on Smurf or left sitting in front of the television for hours with a box of dry cereal.

Without a word, Pope stepped back into the role.

He didn't care if Baz called him a nanny behind his back. He didn't care if Craig laughed at him when he carried a small pink princess backpack through the front door. Every morning, Andrew was the one who made sure Lena had fresh milk. He was the one who brushed out the tangles in her long hair when she cried, his large, rough hands moving with breathtaking patience. He sat on the edge of her bed in the dark, his back pressed against the wall, listening to her light, rhythmic breathing until he was sure she was fast asleep.

He was protecting her the only way he knew how—by being the wall between her and the rot of the family.

And of course, this continued for years.

The air inside Baz’s bungalow was always sour, choked with the smell of stale takeout, cheap beer, and the ghost of Catherine’s absent presence.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and the house was still. Baz had been gone since early morning, leaving Lena with the two of you without so much as a thank-you or a dollar for lunch. But inside the cramped, messy living room, you and Pope had built a small pocket of peace.

You were sitting on the worn carpet, leaning against the front of the sofa, helping seven-year-old Lena stack wooden building blocks into a towering, unstable castle. Pope stood a few feet away near the arched doorway leading into the kitchen, holding a glass of tap water. He hadn't taken a sip. He was just standing there, his tired muscles leaning lightly against the frame, watching the two of you.

His face was soft in a way that almost didn't belong to him—the harsh lines around his eyes smoothed out, his mouth slightly parted in a quiet, unconscious awe. Every time Lena giggled as a tower fell, his shoulders dropped another fraction of an inch.

Then the front door rattled on its hinges and swung open with a sharp, heavy bang.

Baz walked in. He smelled like exhaust, sweat, and cheap cologne. He kicked off one of his shoes by the rug, tossing his keys onto the counter with a loud clatter. He barely glanced at Lena, walking straight past her and into the kitchen to grab a cold drink.

On his way past, Baz caught Pope standing there. He saw the way Pope’s dark eyes were pinned to you, saw the quiet, tender warmth resting on his older brother's broad face. Something ugly and sharp flashed behind Baz’s eyes—that deep-seated, casual cruelty that the Cody boys threw at each other like knives.

"Look at you," Baz muttered, his voice cutting through the soft room like broken glass as he popped the tab on a soda can. He stepped right up to Pope, leaning in just enough so his words were low, deliberate, and poisonous. "Still staring, huh? Don't get comfortable, Pope. You're just a glorified babysitter. Don't even know why you still stick around, really, after Catherine chose me. Nobody in their right mind is ever gonna want to have... this...with you. You’d just ruin it, same as everything else. Julia. Catherine."

The words tore through the small room like a shockwave.

Across the rug, your hands froze over a blue wooden block. A sudden, blinding heat flared up in your chest—a rage so violent, so white-hot, it made the air in your lungs turn to ash.

Pope’s entire body went rigid. His chest caved inward, his gaze dropping instantly to the dirty floorboards. The old, familiar shame rushed back in to fill the hollow space in his chest. Baz is right, he thought, his stomach twisting into a sickening knot. It's true. It's always been true.

You forced your hands to stop shaking, turning to Lena with a calm, impossibly soft smile.

"Hey, sweet girl," you whispered, your voice completely smooth despite the fire burning in your throat. "Why don't we take the block set into your bedroom and build the big castle on your rug?"

Lena nodded obliviously, scooping up the wooden blocks in her apron and scrambling off down the hallway.

Pope saw you stand up. He watched you gently guide Lena out of the room, and his heart completely shattered. In his mind, your quiet departure was the final nail in the coffin. She heard him, he thought, his throat closing up, his dark eyes brimming with a silent, devastating despair. She heard, and she knows he's right. She's walking away.

Squeezing his eyes shut to block out the light, Pope stood frozen by the counter, bracing himself for the quiet awkwardness of you packing your things and leaving him forever. He took a slow, heavy breath, waiting for the front door to open and close.

He didn't hear the soft click of Lena’s bedroom door latching shut down the hall.

He didn't hear your fast, furious strides across the worn carpet.

CRACK.

The sound reverberated through the small house like a gunshot.

Baz’s head snapped violently to the side, his hand flying up to his left cheek as he stumbled back against the kitchen counter, his eyes wide in absolute, unadulterated shock.

Pope’s eyes flew open. He blinked, paralyzed, staring at the scene unfolding in front of him.

You were standing chest-to-chest with Baz, your right palm bright red and throbbing, your entire body trembling with a fury so visceral it made the floorboards feel like they were shaking. Baz stared at you, his jaw slacked, a bright crimson handprint rising on his cheekbone. He didn't even know what had hit him until the sting settled into his skin and he heard the harsh, ragged sound of your breathing.

"How dare you?!" your voice sliced through the room, ringing off the walls with raw, trembling venom. "How fucking dare you even think of uttering those words?! To your own brother, no less!"

Baz opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped deeper into his space, pointing a shaking finger directly between his eyes, backing him up against the cabinets.

"The one man in this pathetic family who actually gives a damn!" you spat, tears of pure anger burning at the corners of your eyes. "The one who raised you! The one who cared for you and fed you when your own fucking mother refused to look at you! The man who's more of a father to your own daughter more than you ever have been!"

Baz was frozen, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, completely cowed by the sheer magnitude of your rage. Behind him, Pope stood rooted to the spot, his mouth slightly parted, his wide dark eyes darting between you and Baz, his brain entirely unable to process what he was witnessing.

"Fuck you. You don't deserve him," you gasped out, your chest heaving as you took a ragged breath. "None of you do. Don't you ever—ever—fucking talk to him like that again."

Before Baz could even form a sentence, you turned on your heel, reached out, and grabbed Pope tightly by the forearm.

"We're leaving," you said, your voice breaking on the last word.

Pope stumbled after you like a man pulled by a current, his boots dragging on the floor as you dragged him out the front door, down the porch steps, and into his truck.

The ride back to your apartment was thick with a heavy, suffocating silence.

The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, orange shadows across the dashboard. You sat in the passenger seat, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, staring fixedly out the side window at the passing palm trees and power lines, your jaw set so hard it ached.

Pope’s hands were glued to the steering wheel at ten and two, his knuckles white. His thumbs tapped nervously against the worn leather. Every few seconds, his dark eyes would flick sideways, taking in your rigid profile, before darting back to the road. He was terrified to speak. He was terrified that if he said a word, the anger that had just leveled Baz would turn on him. He felt exposed, raw, his deepest shame laid out in the open.

Dinner was eaten in the same routine. You made a quick meal, but neither of you touched much of it. Pope pushed his food around his plate with a fork, his mind spiraling down into the familiar dark belief that he had brought this on you, that he was too broken to ever bring anyone peace.

After the dishes were cleared, you walked into the living room and grabbed your light jacket. You looked at him, your expression softening, the fire in your eyes replaced by a quiet, steady resolve.

"Come on," you said softly. "Take a walk with me down to the beach."

The night air was cool and crisp, carrying the salty tang of the tide and the slow, rhythmic crash of the Pacific waves crashing against the shore.

As your feet hit the cool, damp sand, you reached down and entangled your fingers with his. Pope’s hand was massive, rough, and warm, but he held onto you tightly, like a man clinging to a ledge. Instinctively, his broad thumb began to stroke over your knuckles, a slow, soothing back-and-forth motion he didn't even realize he was doing.

You walked until the distant streetlights faded away, stopping at a quiet, secluded stretch of sand. You pulled him down to sit beside you. Pope settled heavily onto the sand, pulling his knees up slightly, staring out into the dark ocean horizon.

He swallowed hard, his throat raspy and dry. "Thank you," he managed out, his voice barely louder than the tide. "For... back there. You didn't have to—"

"Stop," you interrupted gently, turning your body to face him fully.

Pope went quiet, his dark eyes searching yours with a heartbreaking mix of hope and sheer terror.

"Don't you ever thank me for that," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "And don't you ever, ever believe a single word Baz said today. Or Smurf. Or anyone else in that fucking house."

You shifted closer, leaning your weight against his broad shoulder. Gently, you took the hand you had been holding and brought it down. You pressed his palm flat against your lower stomach, right beneath the soft fabric of your sweater.

Pope went completely rigid. His breath caught sharply in his throat.

"I'm pregnant, Andrew," you whispered, a hot tear finally escaping your eye and slipping down your cheek. "It's your baby. And I'm keeping it."

The world seemed to stop spinning.

Pope froze entirely. For three agonizing seconds, he didn't breathe, didn't blink, didn't move a single muscle. His mind refused to process the words, suspended in absolute disbelief, waiting for the catch, waiting for the nightmare to resume.

Then, the reality of what you had just said crashed into his chest like an iron weight.

A choked, ragged sound burst from his throat. Before you could even brace yourself, Pope lunged forward, wrapping his thick arms around your waist and rolling you gently back into the soft sand. He caught your weight, pulling your body fiercely against his, burying his face into your neck as if he were trying to pull you straight into his soul.

And then, a sound escaped him that you had never heard in all the years you'd known him.

It was a bright, breathless, joyous laugh—a rare, beautiful sound that shook his entire frame, shattering decades of dark, suffocating silence.

"You're... you're serious?" he rasped out, his voice cracking, his dark eyes wide and shining with an overwhelming, desperate happiness as he pulled back to look at you. "Our baby?"

"Our baby," you sobbed, laughing through your tears. "I'm keeping our baby, Andrew."

Pope leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you with a fierce, tender hunger that took your breath away. He stayed there for minutes, breathing heavily, his hands framing your face, kissing your lips, your cheeks, your forehead, his chest heaving against yours.

When he finally pulled back, he shifted his massive frame, moving down until his face was parallel with your lower stomach.

Slowly, reverently, Pope brought both of his large, calloused hands to your womb. His thumbs ran over your skin with extraordinary, trembling gentleness, tracing tiny, protective circles over the fabric of your shirt. He leaned down and pressed his lips flat against your stomach, holding his lips there for a long, quiet minute in a silent vow, a prayer, a promise to the life growing inside you.

Then, he laid his cheek flat against your womb, wrapping his heavy arms securely around your hips, anchoring himself to you.

You reached down, your fingers weaving into his thick dark curls, holding him tight against you. Beneath your hand, you felt his broad shoulders begin to shake. Warm, silent trails of tears spilled from his eyes, soaking through your sweater and wetting your skin beneath, as Andrew Cody finally let go of the pain he had carried his entire life.

obviously after a while, you understood what andrew and his family did. it took lots of reassurance from you for him to believe that his secret was safe with you but you promised him a million times over that you'd take it to the grave.

with his unconventional career, he tended to have a lot of money laying around. he wasn't one to blow it on coke like his brothers, so who better to spend it on then you? but there's just one issue.

you buy yourself everything.

not in a bad way, of course! you just love the self sufficiency of buying your own things. a purse you saw at the store? it comes home with you. a pretty bracelet you find online? the package is in your hand before andrew can even order it. you even insist that you're the one that makes the rent payments since the apartment was in your name first.

he loves that you're independent, but it's hard for him.

he feels a duty to provide for you, and he feels like he can't fulfill that when you buy yourself anything you need. eventually, a couple of weeks before your birthday, andrew breaks through the comfortable silence while you're eating chinese takeout on the couch.

"don't buy anything this week. or next."

it catches you off guard a little. "what?" you laugh gently, biting off the end of your egg roll. "what do you mean, andy?"

"for the next two weeks," he nods seriously. "don't buy yourself anything. i need to get you a gift you'll like, but you can't buy it for yourself."

you set your food down on the coffee table to turn yourself towards him more. "andy, i don't need anything big and special for my birthday. i don't need a fancy gift," you explain, grabbing his free hand. "you need an idea for something i want?"

he nods almost immediately. "yeah, lay it on me. what can i get you, sweetheart?" he asks, almost unsure.

"i wanna have dinner here. i want us to make it ourselves, and i want dessert from the italian bakery down by the cove, deal?"

he was looking for something a little more materialistic, but he nods and goes with it. "dinner and dessert, i can do that."

"good," i lean in, kissing his cheek. "now let's keep eating."

when the day finally comes, true to your word, you didn't buy anything. no online shopping, no mall trips on the weekend, not even instagram scrolling where an ad can tempt you.

andrew made the most amazing pasta for dinner and picked up cannolis from the bakery you requested. he poured you wine, let you taste test everything as he cooked while you sat on the counter next to him, and let you talk about anything you wanted while quiet music played.

"andy, this was the most amazing birthday, thank you," you praise, kissing him as you both sit on the couch after dinner is cleaned up. "and i loved dinner, it was the best gift you could give me."

he shifts on the couch, standing up to excuse himself as he walks down the hall and into your shared bedroom. he arrives only a few seconds later with a gift bag and a small smile on his face.

"andy..."

"i know...i know, you don't like huge gifts and i know that you buy everything for yourself, but of course i had to get you something. i couldn't...not, you know?"

you smile and take the bag as he hands it to you, and whatever is inside takes you by surprise with it weight. "andy, this is heavy! please don't tell me you spent a ton of money," i pout, waiting for him to sit next to me to open it.

"don't worry, honey. just open it," he encourages as you start to pull away the tissue paper. on top is an envelope. a very thick envelope. you pull the card out and gasp as gift cards fall out onto your lap when you open it. scrawled inside the generic card; 'the only way i can get you to spend my money. love, andrew.'

your eyes water as you pick them all up. your favorite grocery market, the bra store you like, the bookstore...he thought of everything. a folded piece of paper catches your eye, brows furrowing as you unfold and read it.

a payment statement that the rent has been paid for the next three months.

andrew is shocked by the speed at which your arms wrap around him, your wet eyes brushing his skin as your bury yourself in his neck. "this is the dorkiest and sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me...thank you, andy," you mumble, making him chuckle.

"of course, sweetheart. keep going, there's more in there," he says gently, kissing your temple. the gasp that you get out when you uncover the object under the pastel paper makes his heart light up.

The end of your shift couldn’t come soon enough. 

In the span of twelve hours, you’d been doused in bodily fluids twice, hit on by a creepy old drunk who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, passively dismissed by Robby after he deemed you “too slow” for a trauma (when in reality, the med student next to you was the one who wouldn’t hand you the damn tube), and had your lunch stolen when it clearly had your name written on it—four times might you add. 

To top the whole very bad day off, your husband hadn’t responded to the messages you had sent hours ago asking if he’d be back in time to pick you up because the forecast called for rain, and like all bad days had gone, your car basically gave up the ghost the moment you parked it in the employee lot. 

So, you were almost scrub-less, uncomfortable, embarrassed, and so starving you almost thought about paying an insane price for a small Uber-ed meal before you also realized that the app hadn’t saved your information and your card was currently sitting on the kitchen counter. 

Just what you needed. 

The groan, along with the rumbles of your stomach, caused many heads to turn. 

“Is there a stampede in here? Or is your stomach in the process of eating itself,” Dana asked, though her eyes didn’t leave the nurses’ board. 

Your head landed next to the keyboard with a loud thunk. “I think my stomach tried to eat itself a couple of hours ago before realizing that it was completely empty.”

“I saw you brought lunch. Where’d that go?” 

If glares could put someone six feet under, the one you were giving your computer should have imploded it. “Currently being digested in the stomach of a med student.” 

“Good Lord. You poor thing.” 

“Tell me about it. I’d been dreaming of those leftovers since last night!” 

Dana gave you a knowing look. “Did your husband cook it?” 

“Yep.” Your chair squeaked as you leaned back. “And I didn’t even get to enjoy it for the second time. He’s going to be pissed.” 

“Who’s going to be pissed?” Trinity asked, already leaning on the counter like getting closer to you would make the gossip flow over. “Cause if you’re talking about Dr. Robby, that ship sailed around 2:30.” 

You closed your eyes and ran a hand down your face. “Trust me; I already know he’s pissed off at the world. I’ve been on the receiving end of that way too much today.” 

She gave you a sympathetic wince. “I heard about that.” 

“Who hasn’t,” you muttered with a harsh snort. 

That was the other thing that had added to your humiliation. Robby hadn’t just quietly dismissed you or corrected you after the trauma, no, he rather loudly decided to spew his personal thoughts about your work ethic in front of not just your coworkers but also the patient’s family who were there for moral support. Blatant strangers had a front seat to watch your attending rip into you all while it hadn’t even been your fault. 

Just thinking about it brought another heated flush up your neck. 

“To answer your question, her husband’s the one who’s going to be pissed,” Dana filled her in while rewriting a name. “He’s very particular about who gets to eat his food.” 

Another groan rumbled your chest. “Med student didn’t even return the Tupperware. Now he’s going to be extra pissed at that.” 

For a small second, Trinity looked almost nervous. “Will you be okay?” 

Her concern made a small feeling of comfort and pride bloom in your chest. If there was one person you could count on other than your family and Dana, it was Trinity, never hesitating to step in if she even thought someone didn’t feel safe. You shot her a grateful smile. 

“Oh, I’ll be perfectly fine. He’ll be mad sure, but not at me. We’ll just pray that he won’t spot the student that did it.” 

“Amen to that,” Dana muttered. “He’s like your personal guard dog.” 

“Are we going to add that guy who tried to touch your ass earlier?” Trinity teased, and your eyes widened. 

“Definitely.” You nodded along. “Might as well add Robby to it too. My husband isn’t that fond of him already. I just wish he’d respond to my messages.” 

Dana gave you a knowing look. “He at work today?” 

“Yeah. There was a problem with one of the houses a few hours out, and he left before I was even out of bed. Said there was a contract breach, kissed me good morning, and drove off.” 

“That’s oddly sweet,” Trinity added. 

You couldn’t help the fond smile that grew on your face. “Even made my coffee for me. I found it with one of those little post-it notes stuck to it.” 

“Didn’t know he was into doing stuff like that,” Dana said with a small laugh. 

“You know how he is,” you replied. “The man’s love language is acts of service.” 

Trinity smiled. “What does he do for work?” 

Your fingers found the keyboard again while you answered. “He’s a relator and contractor. Usually, he works from home, but like today, he sometimes has to go out and inspect the houses or make sure the paperwork is in order.” 

“Sounds like you got yourself a stay-at-home husband.” 

You couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah. He actually really likes to do the house work. Plus, when I’m home, all I’m doing is sleeping.” Your eyes caught your wedding band. “He’s really good to me. Plus, he’s Jack’s—” 

“Ladies, if we have time to chat, we have time to work,” Robby’s voice interrupted the conversation, loud and on the very edge of condescending. “Especially you, Dr. Cody. Let’s focus on getting patients in and out instead of sitting around, yes?” 

You swallowed down an annoyed sigh, instead choosing to stand up without a word. Hating the way you felt under Robby’s glare almost made you want to put in a two-week notice and move departments. However, emergency medicine was your life; it was the sole reason you met the people who quickly became your family, the reason you met your husband. Your fingers quickly found your wedding band, specially made of the number of diamonds that symbolized how long you and your husband had been dating before he proposed. 

Grabbing another tablet quickly, you forced yourself to hold your head up high as you passed him. Robby wasn’t worth your fear or submission. Plus, it wasn’t like he never talked around; you’d caught him and the hospital’s case manager making small talk way too many times to count. The man was a hypocrite that couldn’t see past his own faults and projected them onto his employees.   

By the time you rounded the corner, and Robby had vacated the station, Trinity leaned in toward Dana a bit more. 

“Is there any way to contact her husband? She mentioned her car died, and it’s raining.” Trinity looked in the direction you had disappeared down. “If I were married and my boss talked to me like that, I’d want my partner to know.”  

Dana had already picked up her personal cell after Trinity’s first question. “Oh, I’ll make sure he knows.” 

_______________________

When you exited the patient’s room, you paused a few feet into the hallway, rubbed your eyes, and continued to stare at the nurses’ station. 

Dana being there with Trintiy and Dennis was nothing out of the ordinary. However, the added presence of Jack Abbot and your husband was. You hastily crossed the gap between you and the station, concern etching itself in your eyebrows and lips. 

“Andrew?” you called out. “What are you doing here?” 

At the sound of your voice, Andrew Cody turned his head so rapidly that it added another wave of worry that he might have pulled something. He stayed still, even when you stopped in front of him, as your hands gently ran up his arms and stopped at his face all while the small group watched on with small smiles (from Jack and Dana) and genuine curiosity (from Dennis and Trinity). 

“You’re supposed to be in Altoona right now. Did you get hurt?” you questioned when your eyes couldn’t find any visible injuries. 

He stayed silent while his hands quietly found yours, fingers threading between the gaps and holding you steady. 

“I’m fine,” he finally said, hazel eyes boring into yours. “Just missed you.” 

A relieved exhale escaped from your lips. “Thank goodness. I was worried there for a second.”  

His crooked teeth poked through a smile. “I could tell.” 

You softly pushed him before taking his hands again. “Shut up. You went hours without responding and just show up at the end of my shift. God forbid I’m concerned for my husband.” 

“See, man, I told you she’d do this,” Jack grumbled, patting Andrew slightly on the shoulder. 

“Um, not to interrupt, but did Dr. Cody marry someone who looks exactly like Dr. Abbot?” Dennis squeaked out a question, obviously trying not to step over a boundary. 

But like a sister, Trinity nudged him harshly with her elbow. “Use your brain, Huckleberry. It’s obvious they’re related somehow.” 

The two continued looking between the Pitt’s night shift attending and your husband who looked like Jack if he were ten years younger. 

“That’s what I was trying to tell you early, Trinity,” you said. “My husband is Jack’s cousin on their moms's side. Andrew, this is Dennis and Trinity.” 

Andrew didn’t reach out to give them a handshake, but the appreciated nod he gave them was somehow enough. “She talks about you two a lot.” 

Trinity looked smug by the news. “All good things I hope.” 

“Definitely,” he answered. “I can tell she likes working with you two.” 

“Which is more than he can say about Robby,” Dana muttered. 

The change in Andrew, just by mentioning Robby, was so visceral that Trinity and Dennis were both shocked. 

In the few moments, the two could see how soft this hunking-fridge-of-a-man was for you. They saw it in the way he was quick to hunch over slightly when you looked him over with worry. They noticed it in the way he held onto you when he reassured you that he was only there for her and not because he had gotten hurt. They noted the way his soft smile was only for you and not even for when his cousin jested with him. 

Dana’s words from earlier rang in Trinity’s mind as she watched Andrew’s muscles tense beneath his polo. 

He’s like your personal guard dog.

Andrew shifted his weight, shoulders now seemingly broader than they had been. “Did something happen today?” 

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “It was nothing. He’s just being Robby.” 

Surprisingly, Andrew’s eyes flitted over to Trinity like he knew she’d tell him exactly what he wanted to know. “What’d he do?” 

Trinity looked at you once, and when you looked toward the floor, she answered. “He blamed her for a med student’s slow pace. Practically yelled at and belittled her in front of the other doctors in the trauma room and the patient’s family.” 

Even Jack couldn’t hold back the wince splashing across his face at the news, mind already knowing that in five seconds, his cousin might be on a war path for his friend. However, all Andrew seemed to do was take in a deep breath and hold onto your hands like a tether. 

“All right,” he finally said, body still tense. “Okay. Anything else I should know?”

“Someone took her lunch,” Dana added, drawing your eyes from the floor to her, hues flooding with betrayal. 

Et tu, brute? 

“Dana,” you hissed. 

Andrew’s grip on your hands tightened. 

In an almost attempt to throw more gas onto an already raging fire, Trinity ended with, “And she had a patient try to grope her earlier this morning.” 

Andrew’s eyes closed slowly like he was bracing for a fit of rage to overtake his senses, his mind already racing with the fact that you probably hadn’t eaten, because when he stopped by the house to change, he saw your forgotten card. Add in you almost getting assaulted, and he was one wrongly pulled Jenga block from collapsing. 

You closed your eyes and braced for impact, already feeling the brunt of the day push down on you. They only fluttered open when Andrew didn’t move, his chest the only thing heaving in an out and in motion. Somehow, that didn’t ease the queasy feeling bubbling beneath your skin. And at that moment, Robby decided to round the corner. Like most men, you guessed that he hadn’t picked up on the tension cloud that was currently circling around the station and—more importantly—Andrew’s head. 

When Robby walked into his field of view, you swear you saw the lovely hazel of his eyes darken. It should have scared you how quickly Andrew could go from your sweet and doting husband to a very possessive animal, but instead, the change had you relaxing and relieved. If there was someone you could count on for anything no matter what, that person would always be Andrew. 

And maybe (finally) Robby sensed enough tension, because his body went stiff after he looked up from the tablet in his hands and met Andrew’s eyes. 

Trinity and Dennis really thought that your husband was going to stalk over there, throw a punch, menacingly bark curse words and insults at Robby (a man who had a few good inches to tower over Andrew), and walk back over like nothing happened. But when he stayed put, only giving a beady stare that never wavered, they realized that he didn’t even have to talk to Robby or punch him for his words to get across. 

They knew that Andrew was making Robby uncomfortable by the way Robby shifted, the way he broke eye contact first, and the way he left the station looking like a dog with a tail between its legs.  

Jack let out a low whistle. “Damn, that never gets old.” 

Dana smirked. “He ever use that on you?” 

“All the fucking time.” Jack scoffed. “Do you know how many family gatherings I spent trying to get away from those eyes.” 

“We have the same eyes, asshole,” Andrew grumbled. 

“But yours are scary as hell,” Jack shot back. “Might be a good time to say that my night shift needs another resident.” 

“Fuck no,” Trinity instantly said. “You can’t have her, or we’d be left with him.” 

Dennis nodded. “I’m in full agreement.” 

Jack looked over at you expectantly but visibly deflated at the apologetic look you were giving him. 

“Sorry, Jack, but I enjoy getting to spend my evenings at home.” You paused and smirked. “I know Samira’s been looking for a change of scenery if you want to ask her.” 

The small crowd couldn’t help but smile or chuckle at the now vivid flush across Jack’s face as he tried to sputter out an answer. 

“All right, get out of here kids before it looks like you’re staging a mutiny,” Dana said with a wave of her hands. 

“Aye, aye, captain,” Trinity responded with a salute of her own. 

Andrew grinned widely, finally showing the smile around more people than just you. “If we’re turning into pirates, Jack already has the missing-leg thing down.” 

“Hey!” 

You giggled loudly while Andrew wrapped an arm around your shoulders, bringing you into his side. Your hand gently rested against his chest as you hugged him back. He felt your body melt into his after he pressed a quick kiss to your temple. 

“Ready to go home?” he quietly muttered just loud enough for you to hear. “Dana already gave me your bag.” 

“Yeah,” you breathily sighed. “Let’s go before a trauma comes in, and I’m stuck in here until I wither away. 

Andrew hummed. “We can’t have that now, can we?” 

“Absolutely not. I still want to have leftovers at least one more time before I’m buried. And this time, I’m putting a padlock on the container.” 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”