#evancelinewrites

chapter one | homecoming

The bass from the speakers rattles through the Cody backyard hard enough to make the pool water tremble beneath the floating neon lights.

Bodies crowd every inch of the place. Girls in bikinis drape across lounge chairs. Guys you don’t recognize are already drunk before sunset, shouting over music loud enough to shake the windows. Beer bottles clink together near the outdoor kitchen. Someone jumps into the pool fully clothed and comes up laughing while Craig cheers like it’s the greatest thing anyone has ever done.

The party is supposed to be for Joshua. J, as everybody calls him.

Smurf’s long-lost grandson, freshly introduced into the Cody house shortly after his mother overdosed. From what you’ve heard, Julia never talked much about her family while J was growing up, which seems less surprising the longer you stand in the middle of their backyard and watch everyone act like noise is the same thing as celebration.

“Welcome to the family,” you mutter.

Chrissy hears you anyway. She’s beside you in cutoff shorts and sunglasses, lighting a cigarette with one hand cupped against the breeze.

“Try not to sound so excited.”

“I’m thrilled.”

“You look thrilled.”

You move farther into the yard, already regretting letting her talk you into coming. The California heat clings to your skin, sticky and relentless, and the party hasn’t even had the decency to get dark yet.

You spot J almost immediately near the pool. Skinny kid. Borrowed board shorts. Standing awkwardly beside Nikki Belmont while Craig explains something with both hands, loud enough for people three houses over to hear. Nikki laughs too hard anyway, tucking her brunette hair behind her ear as she looks up at J like the whole family is some kind of private ride she got invited onto by mistake.

Kid, you think, then almost laugh at yourself.

In reality, you’re only eight years older than her. That doesn’t sound like much on paper, but in this world, it feels different. Nikki still looks at the Codys like they’re exciting. Untouchable. Like danger is something you get close to for the story instead of something that stays under your skin.

“You’re making that face again,” Chrissy says.

“What face?”

“The one where you act like you’re above everybody here.”

“I am above everybody here.”

Chrissy barks out a laugh and takes a drag from her cigarette.

“No, you’re not. You’re late on rent.”

You reach for the cigarette and steal it from between her fingers.

She isn’t wrong. You’ve been late on rent for almost two months, and Chrissy has been covering more than her fair share without saying much about it. You lost your diner job almost a year ago after the owner cut half the staff without warning. Chrissy told you the club paid better, and at first, it did. It was easy enough once you learned how to turn yourself into whatever men wanted to look at and nothing they could really touch.

Except men always wanted more if they thought they could pay for it. Eventually, desperation did what pride couldn’t afford to stop, and you started saying yes to things you used to swear you wouldn’t.

Even then, money disappears faster than it comes in. Everybody’s struggling these days.

Everybody except the Codys, apparently.

You hand the cigarette back and lean against the fence with your arms crossed loosely over your chest.

“I told you I didn’t wanna come.”

“And I told you rich criminals tip better than businessmen.”

“See Baz yet?”

Your jaw tightens before you can stop it.

“No.”

“Cath here?”

You don’t answer. Which means yes.

Across the yard, Cath sits beside Baz near the outdoor kitchen while Lena rests sleepily against his chest. Cath glances over at you, just once. Not long enough to make a scene. Long enough for you to know she sees you.

You look away first.

Cath knows enough. Maybe not every detail, maybe not every late night or borrowed room or cash folded into your hand like it made any of it cleaner, but she’s smart enough to connect the dots. Baz never hid his habits well. He only smiled through them and trusted people to let him.

Baz catches your eye seconds later and grins. He’s always been good at that. Like every ugly thing can be softened into charm if he tilts his head right and smiles long enough.

You grab a beer from the cooler instead of acknowledging him.

Chrissy nudges your shoulder.

“Still mad about Baz?”

“He’s a pig.”

“You liked the pig.”

“I liked the money.”

Chrissy snorts. “God, I love your honesty.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile pulls at your mouth anyway.

Then the noise near the gate changes.

Craig’s voice cuts through the music first.

“No fuckin’ way!”

Heads turn. Deran straightens from his chair near the pool. Baz stands slowly, beer still in hand. Even Smurf goes still for half a second before her face opens into something bright.

Across the yard, Cath looks down immediately and pulls Lena a little closer against her chest.

That’s the first thing you notice. Not the noise around the backyard, but the way Cath’s body reacts before anyone says his name.

Then you follow everyone’s gaze.

Andrew Cody.

Pope.

Fresh out of prison.

Tall and broad beneath a white tank top and an open flannel, rough-looking hands hanging at his sides, jaw set tight under the dim backyard lights. You’ve only seen photos of him around the Cody house before, rare ones tucked between pictures of the brothers and old family memories Smurf keeps displayed where everyone can see them.

None of them do him justice.

He looks better in person. Not in the obvious way Baz is good-looking, all easy grin and lazy confidence, or the way Craig takes up space because he assumes the room will make room for him. Pope is rougher than that. Quieter. Built like someone who learned a long time ago that being still could be its own kind of warning.

The years didn’t pass through him cleanly.

You can see it before he says a word.

Maybe that’s what catches you off guard most. Not the size of him. Not the stories. Not the fact that half the party suddenly forgets how to act normal. It’s the way everyone gets louder around him, like they’re trying to drag him back into a version of himself they already understand.

Craig reaches him first and nearly knocks into him with a hug.

“You asshole. You didn’t call?”

Pope barely reacts. One arm lifts late, more out of obligation than ease, while his eyes move over the backyard, careful and quiet, already annoyed by the crowd.

Smurf reaches him next.

“My beautiful boy.”

She wraps both arms around him, holding on longer than he seems ready for. Something crosses Pope’s face before disappearing completely. It’s gone so fast you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Almost.

Sometimes after sex, Baz would talk too much. Little pieces of the family slipping out during lazy pillow talk you never really wanted to hear. Enough for you to understand that Smurf’s love came with conditions attached. She controlled her sons with affection the way other people used fear.

Watching Pope stand there in her arms, you understand that better than you want to.

Baz hands him a beer with an amused grin.

“Well,” Baz says, loud enough for half the party to hear, “guess J’s welcome party turned into a homecoming.”

J stands nearby beside Nikki, overwhelmed and quiet, staring at his mother’s twin brother for the first time in his life.

Pope barely glances at him.

Then his eyes find you.

The world doesn’t stop. The music keeps pounding. Craig says something to Deran that makes him laugh. Someone near the pool drops a bottle and swears. Baz keeps talking, though you lose the words almost immediately.

The noise only falls back enough for you to feel the full weight of Pope Cody looking at you.

Most men look at your body first. That’s easy to read. Easy to manage. You know what to do with that kind of attention. You know how to turn it into money, how to deflect it, how to make it mean less than it does.

Pope looks at your face.

Steady. Unreadable. Like he’s trying to figure out why you are standing apart from the noise instead of disappearing into it. Like he expects fear, or interest, or whatever people usually give men with stories attached to their names.

You give him none of it.

You just look back.

Something in his expression shifts.

Chrissy leans closer immediately.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“He’s staring at you.”

You keep your face neutral, even though something twists low in your stomach.

“Maybe he stares at everybody like that.”

“No,” Chrissy says, voice lower now. “That man looks like he’s deciding whether to kill somebody or…”

You glance at her.

“Or?”

“I don’t know. Something worse.”

You almost laugh, but it doesn’t make it out.

Because Pope is still looking at you.

And because you’re still looking back.

For the first time since he stepped into the yard, something faint changes in his face. Surprise, maybe. Like he expected you to look away.

Truthfully, you’ve seen men far worse than Pope Cody. Men who smiled while hurting people. Men who cornered girls in apartment hallways. Men who thought money bought affection, gratitude and silence.

Pope looks dangerous.

But not cruel.

There’s a difference.

And against every good instinct you have left, you want to know what it is.

As the night drags on, the party slowly empties.

Cath eventually takes Lena home after a quiet, tense argument with Baz near the kitchen. You don’t catch all of it, only Cath’s low voice and Baz’s laugh cutting through it like he thinks being charming is the same thing as being forgiven. On her way out, Cath pauses beside you for half a second. Neither of you speaks, but her eyes soften slightly.

Not warm exactly.

Tired.

Like maybe you aren’t really the problem anymore.

Then Lena tugs at her hand, and Cath leaves without looking back.

By midnight, only the usual stragglers remain. Half-drunk surfers. Girls floating lazily in the pool. Craig disappears upstairs with two blondes hanging off his shoulders. Deran sits by himself in the living room nursing a beer, one foot propped against the coffee table while he watches everything with the bored irritation of someone who already knows how every Cody night ends.

J and Nikki sit together near the patio steps talking quietly while Nikki leans into him.

Kids, you think again, letting out a small laugh under your breath.

Pope barely says a word all night, but every time you look up, his gaze finds you again. Not casual. Not even subtle. Deliberate enough to stay with you after you look away, leaving heat low in your stomach and a strange awareness crawling over your skin.

Inside the house, Smurf gathers her boys in the living room while the muffled bass from outside vibrates through the walls. You stay near the doorway with your beer in hand, close enough to see them but far enough to avoid getting folded into whatever this is supposed to become.

Then Baz looks over.

“Hey, baby.”

He whistles softly, crooking two fingers toward himself like he’s calling you over from a stage.

You already hate his tone. The way he says baby like money and a few nights together gave him the right to sound familiar in front of his family.

Baz lounges across the couch while Pope sits nearby with his elbows resting on his knees, beer dangling loosely from one hand. Smurf watches from her chair with a drink balanced between her fingers, quiet amusement already settling over her face like she knows something entertaining is about to happen.

“C’mere,” Baz says.

You walk closer slowly, mostly because refusing would make more of a scene than you want to make. As soon as you pass the couch, Baz’s hand brushes the small of your back, lingering too low for comfort. You shift forward before he can touch you properly, slipping out of reach easily enough that his drunk ass doesn’t even seem to notice.

Pope does.

His eyes drop for half a second to the space Baz’s hand almost claimed, then lift back to Baz.

Baz grins wider.

“Got a welcome home gift for Pope.”

Pope’s jaw tightens.

“Baz.”

“What?” Baz laughs, looking around the room like he expects everyone to join him. “Come on, man. You just spent three years locked up. Thought maybe it’s time you got back in the saddle.”

“What I do ain’t your fuckin’ business,” Pope says.

The room quiets faster than you expect.

Not completely. Music still hums through the walls, someone outside still laughs too loudly by the pool, but everything in the living room pulls tighter around Pope’s voice. Deran’s eyes flick from Baz to Pope. Even Smurf goes still, though her expression barely changes.

Baz either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

He looks back toward you with that grin you once found charming. Now you mostly want to smash the beer bottle in your hand over his face.

“Show him a good time,” Baz says.

Then he pulls a few hundred-dollar bills from his back pocket and slides them into the small gap between your shorts and bikini bottoms.

Your whole body goes still.

Not because of the money. You’ve taken money before. You’ve taken it from worse men than Baz, in worse rooms, with worse hands on you.

It’s the familiarity.

The way he turns humiliation into a joke and waits for everyone else to laugh so he doesn’t have to admit what he’s doing.

Pope’s eyes flick down, catching the bills tucked against your skin. His fingers tighten around the beer bottle until his knuckles pale.

Then he stands.

“I told you to shut up, Baz.”

You don’t move.

Pope isn’t loud. He just stands perfectly still in the middle of the room, broad shoulders squared, eyes locked on Baz like the rest of you have disappeared. For one second, you understand why people step carefully around him.

“Relax,” Baz says, still grinning. He looks back at you, lifting his hands like he’s being generous. “Don’t be scared of him, babe. He’s just… intense.”

The joke lands wrong.

You see it in Pope’s face. A brief change near his eyes, gone before anyone else could name it. His mouth tightens, then smooths out again. He buries the reaction so fast it almost makes the room feel uglier.

Like he’s used to doing it. Like everybody in this house knows exactly where to press and exactly how much pressure it takes.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you pull the money from your shorts and hold it between two fingers.

Then you step toward Pope.

“Come on,” you say, looking at him and not Baz. “At least this time it’ll be worth it.”

You keep your eyes on Pope.

For half a second, nobody says anything.

Then Craig barks out a laugh somewhere behind you.

Baz points at you, delighted despite himself. “See? This is why I like her.”

Even Smurf laughs softly into her drink.

But Pope doesn’t look at them.

He looks at you.

Then he smiles.

It’s small, quick and gone almost immediately, but it changes his whole face for the brief second you get to see it. Something in him loosens. Not much. Just enough to make your stomach dip.

The room keeps making noise around him, but all you can feel is that look.

Pope takes one step closer.

“We’re not stayin’ here.”

Baz raises his eyebrows, smug again.

“Atta boy.”

Pope’s eyes cut toward him.

Not enough to start something.

Enough to end the joke.

“I got a hotel,” Pope says.

Smurf’s smile warms like the whole thing pleases her now that she gets to call it harmless.

“Suite’s nice and quiet.”

You shrug lightly and turn back to Pope.

“Lead the way.”

The whistles and jeers follow you both out of the living room, through the hall and all the way to the front door. Pope doesn’t touch you until you’re outside.

Then his hand finds the small of your back.

Not where Baz touched you.

Higher.

Steadier.

As if he knows the difference matters.

The drive to the hotel stays quiet.

Pope drives with both hands tight around the wheel while streetlights flash across his face. Every so often, when the car slows at a red light, his eyes shift toward you. Quick, careful glances. Gone the second you notice.

Even with the windows down, the heat still clings to your skin. It gathers at the back of your neck, along the bend of your knees, beneath the waistband of your shorts. You wipe a bead of sweat from your throat before rubbing your palms against your legs.

When you look up again, Pope’s gaze drops lower.

His eyes stay on your thighs before flicking back to the road, his jaw tightening as if the sight costs him something to ignore. He looks too still behind the wheel, too controlled, and for the first time all night, you wonder what it would take to make him stop pretending patience comes easily.

The thought stays with you longer than it should.

You glance around the car, wondering who it belongs to. Baz, maybe. Or Smurf. Maybe she handed Pope the keys before he left.

You want to fill the silence. Usually, you would. Men usually liked easy conversation. Fake intimacy. Something soft enough to make the transaction feel less obvious.

But Pope doesn’t ask you to perform.

He only drives, quiet and watchful, moving through the dark at his own pace.

So you stay quiet too.

The hotel suite surprises you.

It’s bigger than you expected and spotless, almost aggressively so. White sheets pulled tight across the bed. Pillows untouched. Empty surfaces. Nothing out of place except the two of you standing in it.

“Jesus,” you mutter, looking around. “This room’s bigger than my apartment.”

Pope shuts the door behind you and locks it.

“I like it clean,” he says immediately.

His eyes move once around the room, checking everything without seeming to think about it. The lock. The window. The bathroom door left half-open. Then, after a beat, he adds, “Quiet.”

There’s exhaustion buried beneath his voice, deep enough that you hear it before you fully understand why.

You glance around again, taking in the neat white sheets and the empty nightstands. Chrissy always teases you for keeping your apartment Monica-clean, which reminds you that before she dragged you to the party, you had been perfectly content staying home and watching Friends again. Even after seeing the show a thousand times, it still comforts you. You remember sitting at the kitchen table doing homework while your grandma cooked dinner and the laugh track played softly in the background.

His stare pulls you back to the present.

He stands near the foot of the bed, watching you with the same quiet focus he’s had all night. Steady enough that you feel it before you decide what to do with it.

You step closer and reach toward his chest.

His hand catches your wrist instantly.

Not hard.

Fast.

His breathing changes before his expression does.

“I don’t like being touched.”

You study him for a second. There’s no anger in his voice. Just a line drawn so quickly and clearly that you get the feeling people have crossed it before and regretted it.

You nod once.

“Okay.”

Something shifts in his face, almost too quick to catch. Like he expected you to make a joke, push back or take it personally. You do none of those things. You only let your hand fall.

The room goes quiet again.

“You just got out?” you ask softly. “How’s it feel?”

He doesn’t answer. His attention moves over you instead, sharper now, and he steps closer until the air between you changes. Close enough for you to feel the warmth coming off him. Close enough for him to smell the cigarettes, sunscreen and lingering heat from outside still clinging to your skin.

“Take your clothes off,” he says quietly. “Keep your eyes on me.”

The command cuts cleanly through the silence.

You hold his gaze and pull your shirt over your head. Then your shorts. Your fingers find the strings of your bikini, loosening one side, then the other, until the fabric drops to the floor beside the bed.

His breathing changes again.

He watches every movement like he is waiting for hesitation, fear or regret.

None comes.

“On the bed.”

You climb onto the mattress and sit near the edge.

For a moment, he only stares at you. You can see the want in him now, clear and heavy, pressing against whatever control he’s trying to keep in place. His hand flexes once at his side before going still again.

Then he leans down and kisses you.

Your teeth knock together the first time, and for half a second you think he might pull away, embarrassed by it.

He doesn’t.

Pope kisses you again, rougher this time, one hand braced against the mattress beside your thigh, the other hovering near your waist like he wants to touch everywhere at once and doesn’t trust himself to pick a place. There is nothing smooth about him. Nothing rehearsed. Nothing easy. Baz always knew exactly how to touch people. He moved through women with a confidence of someone used to being wanted, used to taking charm and making it feel like generosity.

This isn’t that.

This is instinct. Want. Years of loneliness with nowhere else to go.

Somehow, that makes you kiss him back harder.

A rough sound leaves him when your mouth opens under his. His hand lands on your waist, gripping too tight for half a second before loosening. That tiny correction sends heat through you because he’s trying. Even now. Even with his body leaning into yours like stopping might kill him.

“You okay?” you breathe.

His eyes flick to yours.

“Yeah.”

Pope presses you back against the bed, his body following, heat and weight settling over you. His hand moves down your side, rough palm dragging over your chest, your stomach, your hip, then lower. Not smooth. Not patient. He tries to be, but the hunger keeps breaking through, making his touch uneven in a way that has your breath catching before he even gets where you want him.

“Fu—” The sound breaks off when his fingers find you.

His eyes lift immediately.

“There?”

You nod too quickly.

“Words.”

“Yeah.”

His jaw tightens. His fingers move again, learning the reaction before you can hide it.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “So good.”

His mouth drops to your neck, his breathing hot and uneven against your skin while his fingers keep moving with the same pressure. Pope isn’t gentle exactly, not in the way men usually try to be gentle when they want credit for it. He’s careful in pieces. Rough, then checking. Hungry, then holding back. Like he’s fighting himself and losing a little more every time you make a sound.

“Look at you,” he murmurs.

Your body answers before you can stop it.

He feels it.

His hand moves back up your body, lingering against your stomach before travelling higher. When he reaches your mouth, he pauses for half a second, dark eyes locked on yours.

Then he lets you taste yourself on his fingers.

Your lips part around them, and his breathing catches hard enough to make his chest move against yours.

“Good girl,” he whispers near your ear.

The words move through you fast and embarrassing and impossible to hide. Your thighs press together around him.

Pope pulls back suddenly and lifts his shirt over his head. Up close, you notice details you hadn’t before. The size of his arms. The freckles scattered across his skin. The light colour of the fine hair along his forearms beneath the warm glow of the lamp beside the bed.

His belt comes undone too quickly. His jeans get shoved down just enough. He tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth, his eyes cutting back to you as he rolls it on with impatient hands.

“You want me?”

The question catches you off guard because it doesn’t sound cocky.

It sounds like he needs to hear it.

You nod.

His hand finds your jaw.

“Say it.”

Your throat tightens.

“I want you.”

His breath leaves him slowly.

“Again.”

“I want you.”

Something in his face shifts.

He leans down and kisses you again, one hand braced beside your head while the other guides himself closer. When he pushes into you, it’s rougher than he means it to be. You feel the way he tries to slow halfway through, jaw locked, breath breaking against your mouth as if the first tight heat of you almost takes his knees out from under him.

“Fu—” he starts, then stops, forehead dropping near your shoulder.

Your fingers curl into the sheets.

His eyes lift to yours.

He starts slow, but it only lasts a few thrusts. His control breaks in pieces, each one smaller than the last. His hand grips your hip, then your waist, then the sheet beside your head. Every movement feels urgent, almost starved, like his body remembers how long it went without this.

He kisses you hard, then messier, missing your mouth once before finding it again. His breathing keeps catching in the spaces between. You feel him trying to stay present, trying to watch your face, trying not to disappear completely into the heat of you.

Then he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach in one swift movement. His hands grip your hips and pull you back against him, urgent enough to steal your breath. The sharp sting of his palm against your ass makes you gasp, fingers twisting in the sheet.

He stills.

Just for half a second.

You glance back over your shoulder.

The look on his face nearly undoes you. Dark-eyed and breathing hard, all hunger and restraint, still watching for the moment you tell him no.

Instead, you press back against him.

That’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes into you again, deeper this time, and both of you make a broken sound at once. His pace turns rougher. Less controlled. He leans over you, body covering yours, his mouth near your ear.

“Tell me,” he says.

You can barely hear yourself over your own breathing.

“What?”

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

His hand slides down your arm, finding yours against the mattress. He pins it there, not trapping you, not really. Holding on. Keeping you with him because this already feels like too much and not enough.

“Again.”

“I want this.”

His breath breaks.

“Me.”

Your eyes shut.

“I want you, Pope.”

A rough sound leaves him, low and almost helpless.

After that, the room narrows to heat, pressure and the sound of him losing the fight with himself. His hand stays over yours. His other arm slides beneath your stomach, pulling you back into every thrust, keeping you close enough for his chest to press against your spine. Every time you gasp, he reacts. Every time your body tightens, his rhythm falters.

“Close?” he asks.

You nod into the pillow.

“Words.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

You come long and hard with your face buried in the pillow, your body tightening around him as pleasure rushes through you hard enough to make the room blur at the edges. He holds you through it, hips still moving, breathing turning ragged behind you.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, I can’t—”

He lets go of your hand only to slide his arm around your waist, pulling you upright against his chest. Your back presses to him, your head falling against his shoulder while his hand spreads wide over your stomach.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice strained and uneven.

You can feel how close he is. How hard he is trying not to finish without hearing it from you first.

You turn your face slightly toward his.

“You.”

His eyes close for half a second.

“All of you.”

That does it.

His mouth presses hard against your shoulder as he comes, body shuddering behind yours, his arm locked around your waist like he needs proof you’re still there. Even through the thin layer of protection between you, you feel the tension leave him in sharp, uneven waves.

For a while, neither of you moves.

His breathing slows against your skin, but his arm stays around you. His hand moves once over your stomach, then stills there, heavy and warm.

Every touch still feels hungry. Possessive, maybe. But underneath that, there’s something else.

Like he needs proof you’re still with him.

Like stopping might leave him with nothing.

Like this, whatever this is, reached some place in him he didn’t mean to show you.

And beneath the roughness, beneath the control, beneath the way he holds on like he doesn’t know what happens when he lets go, you feel the same thing you noticed the second he walked into the party.

Loneliness.

Later, you sit beside him pulling your clothes back on while Pope stays near the edge of the bed by the window, staring down into the parking lot below.

He has pulled his jeans back on but hasn’t bothered with his shirt yet. Not that you mind. You let yourself take one selfish look, something to keep for later when you’re back in your apartment pretending this night hasn’t gotten under your skin.

The warm light from the lamp catches along his shoulders, over the hard line of muscle in his arms, the scattered freckles on his skin, the faint marks you noticed earlier but didn’t ask about. He looks quieter now.

“You and Baz,” he says finally.

Straight to the point.

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“On and off.”

Pope’s jaw moves once. The reaction is small, but you catch it.

“I stopped after I found out about Lena,” you say quietly. “She deserves better than that.”

That softens something in him.

His eyes move from the window to you, and for a second, the hard line of his mouth eases.

“Haven’t slept with your other brothers,” you add, trying to make the room feel less tight. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

He glances over at you, expression unreadable.

“And J?”

You blink.

For half a second, you genuinely don’t know what to do with the question. Then you realize he’s joking.

Actually joking.

A small laugh slips out before you can stop it, and Pope looks away like he doesn’t want you to catch the slight shift at the corner of his mouth.

“I just met him tonight,” you say. “Besides, he’s too young for me.”

You tilt your head, letting your eyes move over him just enough for him to notice.

“I like my men older.”

His mouth shifts again, barely there, before he looks back toward the window.

Then his expression closes.

“You see other men?”

You let out a small laugh, but there’s no humour in it.

“I do what I have to do.”

You notice the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders pull back, the way his whole body seems to hold itself still by force. Beneath all that quiet, there’s jealousy there.

“I don’t like sharing,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow.

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

Silence stretches between you.

Then Pope looks at you again.

“What if I was the only one?”

Your breath catches slightly.

“You serious?”

“Yeah.”

No hesitation.

“You got exclusivity money, Pope Cody?”

He reaches into his pocket without looking away and leaves another small stack of cash on the table beside the bed.

“I got enough.”

You look at the money, then back at him.

For a second, neither of you moves.

You know what this is supposed to be. A transaction. A cleaner arrangement than the messy, humiliating thing Baz tried to make of you in front of everyone. Money in exchange for time. For access. For the version of you men are always trying to buy.

But Pope doesn’t look smug.

He looks tense. Focused. Almost exposed. Like this is the only language he trusts enough to use and even he knows it isn’t the right one.

You lean back against the headboard slowly.

“If we do this,” you say carefully, “you don’t own me.”

He stays quiet.

“I come when you call. I see only you. But you don’t treat me like property.”

His eyes stay on yours.

Another pause.

“Okay.”

You study him suspiciously.

“You agreeing that fast is kind of terrifying.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

“Probably.”

That almost-smile catches you off guard again. The dry honesty. The fact that he can be funny when he isn’t trying to be.

You hold out your hand.

“Phone.”

Pope looks at you.

“Why?”

“So I can give you my number.”

He reaches for the phone on the nightstand and hands it over silently. Your fingers brush for the briefest second.

This time, he doesn’t pull away.

The phone’s brand new, the thin layer of plastic film still clinging to the screen. Another gift from Smurf, no doubt.

You type your number in before calling yourself so you’ll have his saved too. Pope watches quietly the entire time, his eyes following every small movement like he’s trying to memorize you already.

A sly smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it.

Under contact name, you type: Pope’s Girl

When you hand the phone back, his eyes drop to the screen.

The corner of his mouth shifts, small and private, before he hides it again.

Pope sets the phone beside the money on the table, but his gaze stays on you. For the first time all night, the silence between you doesn’t feel empty.

A few minutes later, you grab your purse from the floor and slip your shoes back on.

Pope looks over immediately.

“You’re leaving?”

The question comes quieter than expected. Not offended. Not angry. Just uncertain enough to make your hand pause on the strap of your purse.

For somebody who looks so dangerous, Pope carries an almost painful kind of loneliness beneath everything else. Like some part of him is always waiting for the door to close.

“I thought I should,” you say gently. “Give you some quiet.”

He watches you for a long moment.

You walk over slowly and stop in front of him, close enough to see the exhaustion sitting behind his eyes, even after everything that happened between you.

“Get some sleep if you can.”

Pope gives a short, humourless laugh.

Neither of you believes it.

Even exhausted, there’s still something restless beneath his skin.

You reach for the money Pope left on the table before pausing near the door. Between that and the cash Baz shoved into your shorts earlier, rent will finally be covered for the month. Maybe there’ll even be enough left over for one of those overpriced tubs of ice cream Chrissy always begs you to buy but can never justify.

You glance back at him.

“You can call me anytime,” you say, keeping your voice light. “Doesn’t have to be for sex either.”

Pope looks at you sharply.

That catches him more than anything else you’ve said all night.

You wonder how often anyone offers him something without making him earn it first.

Then you give him one last look and head toward the door.

As you slip into the hallway, you glance back and catch him staring down at his phone, thumb hovering over the contact you saved yourself under.

chapter two | birthday boy

Two weeks. That’s how much time has passed since Pope was released from Folsom and somehow, your life starts revolving around him more than the arrangement you both agreed to.

You see him everywhere now and fuck him everywhere too. In the back seat of his car beneath the glow of streetlights. In his immaculately spotless hotel suite where messy sheets tangle around both of you in the lingering heat of sweat and sex. Pope spent years starving for intimacy and touch, and now he’s finally found something, or someone, capable of quieting the noise in his head for a little while. And somehow, every single time with him only gets better.

He learns your body quickly. Not easily, exactly. Pope doesn’t do anything with ease. He does it with focus. His hands remember what makes your breath catch, what makes your hips lift, what makes your fingers tighten in his hair before you even realize you’re doing it. He learns the sounds he can pull from you with his hands, his mouth or the gentle scrape of his teeth against the space between your neck and shoulder. He learns how your body reacts whenever his voice drops low enough to vibrate against your skin, especially when he praises you. When he calls you his good girl.

And you? You like how badly he wants you.

Sure, the money is nice. You find yourself worrying less about rent and what you’ll eat during the week, but the real addiction is the hunger behind everything he does. Pope kisses like he wants to consume you, his hands gripping harder every time you kiss him back with the same need, as if some part of him still expects the moment to disappear. Even when he gets rougher, there’s care underneath it. A hand at the back of your head. A pause when your breath catches wrong. His eyes checking yours before his mouth finds you again.

Even after all the nights spent together, Pope never once asks you to stay over.

You know he wants to. Part of you quietly hopes he will. You see it every time you get dressed while he sits silently watching you leave, his eyes following you toward the door like there are words trapped somewhere inside him he doesn’t know how to say out loud. He never reaches for you. He never asks. He only watches, jaw tight, one hand resting against his knee like staying still is something he has to force himself to do.

Pope still barely sleeps, and you can tell just by looking at him. Some nights after sex, while your breathing slowly settles, he stands near the hotel window staring down at the parking lot below with restless energy trapped inside him. His body relaxes around you, but his mind never fully does. You can make him quiet for a little while. You can feel the moment his body gives in beneath your hands.

But you still can’t make him rest.

The following night, you lie on your side while his fingers lazily trace circles along your bare thigh beneath the sheets. The room smells faintly of sweat, clean linen and salty ocean air drifting through the cracked hotel window.

You light a cigarette before climbing back on top of Pope, offering him a drag from the one still balanced between your fingers. Pope doesn’t take it from you. He only leans up, eyes staying on yours as his mouth closes around the filter.

You hold it there for him, watching his cheeks hollow slightly as he inhales.

Then your eyes drift down, catching on the healing cut near his ribs, half-hidden beneath the sheet. Your fingertips brush lightly against it.

“That from the other night?”

Pope glances down briefly.

“S’nothing.”

But the bruising around it has already turned dark purple and yellow. You lean down without really thinking about it, pressing a soft kiss against the skin beside the cut.

Pope goes still beneath you.

Only for a second.

Then his hand settles against your waist, slower this time, fingers spreading carefully over your skin like tenderness still catches him off guard when it isn’t followed by anything sharp.

Before you can say anything else, his phone starts vibrating loudly on the nightstand beside the bed. Pope doesn’t even look at it. His hand slides to the back of your neck instead, pulling you into a kiss.

The buzzing stops after a few seconds. Then starts all over again.

You laugh softly against his shoulder.

“Someone’s desperate.”

Pope groans under his breath before grabbing the phone.

“What.”

Craig’s voice explodes through the speaker loudly enough for you to hear.

“Happy birthday, asshole!”

You immediately push yourself up off Pope’s body.

“Birthday?” you mouth silently toward him.

Pope winces and pulls the phone away from his ear while Craig keeps rambling loudly about plans tomorrow and how Pope better not disappear all day with “his girl.”

Heat rushes into your cheeks at the nickname while Pope drags a tired hand down his face like Craig is already exhausting him.

“Yeah,” Pope mutters eventually. “I’ll come.”

Pause.

“No, I’m not jumpin’ outta a plane, dipshit.”

You laugh harder at that as Pope shoots you an irritated look. His hand is still on your waist, though, which ruins some of the effect.

He hangs up eventually and tosses the phone back onto the table before laying back down.

“You didn’t tell me it’s your birthday.”

Pope shrugs.

“Didn’t matter.”

You roll onto your side to face him properly.

“Not a fan of birthdays?”

He doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches for a moment before you speak again. You shift onto your back, taking another drag from the cigarette between your fingers.

“My favourite birthday was probably three years ago.”

Pope glances toward you quietly.

“Chrissy snuck us into Disneyland after my ex broke up with me.”

His eyebrows lift slightly in curious amusement.

“Snuck?”

“She was screwing a guy working security,” you say, smiling softly at the memory. “We spent the entire night going on rides and watching fireworks.”

Pope stays quiet for a second before speaking unexpectedly.

“Julia skipped school with me once.”

Your attention shifts back toward him immediately.

Pope never brings up Julia.

“She took me to the beach,” he says, voice lower now. “We split this vanilla cupcake with strawberry filling from some bakery near the pier.”

There it is again. That grief sitting just beneath the surface inside him. You suddenly wonder what Julia would’ve been like. Wonder what kind of person could still make Pope sound this gentle years later.

Pope looks back toward you then, reaching over to take the cigarette from between your fingers before bringing it to his mouth. Smoke leaves slowly through his nose before he speaks again.

“Smurf wants me at the house tomorrow.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes shifting toward the ceiling.

Then Pope says, “Come tomorrow.”

You blink.

“To your birthday?”

His eyes stay on yours.

“Yeah.”

Something in your chest tightens at the invitation. You study him for a moment, waiting for the casual correction, the shrug, the thing that will make it sound smaller than it is.

It never comes.

“You asking me or telling me?” you ask softly.

Pope’s mouth almost moves.

“Asking.”

The answer is quiet enough to feel more intimate than it should.

You take another drag from the cigarette, mostly to give yourself something to do with your hands.

“Okay,” you say softly. “What time?”

The next morning, you dig through your closet until you find a yellow sundress shoved near the back. Soft fabric. Thin straps. Fitted enough around your waist to make Pope look at you a little too long, if you’re lucky.

Chrissy watches from your bed, sitting cross-legged while you change.

“Where the fuck are you going so early in the morning?”

“It’s Pope’s birthday,” you say, adjusting the dress in the mirror.

That gets Chrissy’s attention immediately. Her expression shifts while you tie your hair into a braid, the teasing look on her face giving way to something more careful.

“Pope Cody’s birthday?”

You meet her eyes in the mirror.

“I know the stories too, Chrissy.”

“Okay, but stories don’t usually come from nowhere.”

You soften slightly because Chrissy is genuinely worried, even if she’s trying not to show it.

“I’m okay,” you say. “Promise.”

Chrissy studies you for another second before sighing dramatically and falling back against your pillows.

“You better be. I’m too lazy to make new friends.”

You laugh quietly before grabbing your purse from the doorknob.

“Love you. Don’t wait up,” you say with a wink.

“First of all, gross,” she mutters immediately. “Second, there’s a bachelor party at the club, so I’ll be at work all night. Third, I love you too.”

The Codys love a party, even if it’s just family.

Craig cannonballs into the pool fully clothed while Deran yells at him from the patio. J sits nearby next to Nikki, looking deeply overwhelmed by the entire family. He clings to Baz constantly now, following him around with this desperate need for guidance that seems to irritate Pope more every time he notices it.

The second Pope looks up and sees you standing near the patio doors in the yellow dress, his entire expression changes. His gaze drags over you slowly, lingering just long enough to make heat rush up your neck before settling back on your face. The longer he looks, the less he seems interested in birthday plans and the more he seems interested in getting you alone.

Deran catches Pope watching you from across the patio and mutters something under his breath to Craig, making him laugh. Pope doesn’t even look over. His attention stays on you.

Baz notices you too. His gaze drags slowly over the yellow dress with the kind of familiarity he has no right to anymore. Slow enough to make sure you feel it. Slow enough to make sure Pope sees.

Pope’s jaw tightens immediately. Baz leans back casually in his chair before looking toward you again.

“You never wore dresses like that around me.”

“Maybe you didn’t deserve them.”

Baz’s grin widens, but his eyes flick past you toward Pope.

“What?” he says, lifting his hands. “I’m just saying. I had her first.”

“Baz,” Cath warns sharply from behind him.

You jump slightly, not realizing she heard the entire exchange. Cath stands near the patio door with Lena, her expression tight in a way that makes the moment feel uglier than it did a second ago.

For half a breath, something almost embarrassed flashes across Baz’s face. The smug grin comes back harder, like he’d rather be cruel than caught.

Pope starts walking toward him slowly.

“You got somethin’ else to say?”

Baz stands from his chair and smirks wider, but his shoulders have gone a little tight.

“Just statin’ facts.”

Pope shoves him hard into the pool. Water splashes everywhere as Baz goes under and for one quick second, the patio goes quiet. Then Baz surfaces a moment later, sputtering while Craig bursts out laughing.

Pope stands at the edge of the pool looking down at him, expression flat except for a faint trace of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.

“Y’know,” Baz laughs while splashing water back toward him, “you can be a real dick, Pope.”

“You started it, asshole,” Pope says and something almost playful flashes across his face. Quick, rare and gone almost immediately.

“Boys,” Smurf snaps sharply from the patio, though amusement lingers underneath her voice. “Stop play fighting.”

Then she motions toward the house.

“Girls, come help me in the kitchen.”

You follow Smurf, Cath, Lena and Nikki inside while the boys stay outside laughing loudly near the pool. As you pass Pope, his eyes find yours again, moving once over the yellow dress before lifting back to your face.

Inside, the kitchen moves around you while Nikki arranges food near the island and Cath cuts strawberries beside the sink. Lena sits colouring quietly at the counter until she looks up and notices your braid.

“I like your hair.”

The sweetness in her voice catches you off guard.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

Lena immediately looks toward Cath.

“Mommy, can you do mine like that?”

Cath pauses briefly before glancing toward you.

“You know what, babe? My hands are really sticky right now. Why don’t you ask her?”

The offer surprises you, but Lena is already climbing onto the stool beside you, excitedly handing over a brush before you can overthink it. You smile softly and start braiding her hair carefully while she continues colouring, her little feet swinging beneath the counter.

Smurf watches quietly from across the kitchen, a cigarette held loosely between her fingers.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with my Andrew lately.”

The way she says my Andrew feels deliberate.

“He likes having me around.”

Smurf smiles faintly.

“Oh, I know he does.” Her eyes drift briefly toward the backyard. “My boys have always liked pretty things.”

Nikki glances awkwardly between you and Cath. The last sentence hangs long enough to sting and Cath’s jaw tightens slightly beside the sink. You keep your hands steady in Lena’s hair.

“Funny,” you say calmly. “Pope’s the only one around here who hasn’t treated me like one.”

Smurf’s smile doesn’t move.

“Maybe not.” Her voice stays honey-sweet. “Andrew’s always been different from his brothers.”

You tie off the first braid carefully.

“He feels things stronger than most people,” Smurf continues. “Doesn’t always know what to do with it.”

Her gaze drifts toward the backyard again, where Pope stands near the pool with Craig and Deran, still not laughing as much as everyone else.

“Family means everything to him. Always has.” She takes a slow drag from her cigarette. “People come and go in this life, sweetie. Women especially.”

She shrugs lightly, like she hasn’t just slid the knife in.

“But Andrew always comes home.”

Something about the last line stays with you longer than you want it to. Nikki raises her glass slowly to her mouth, eyes darting toward you like she’s afraid to miss what comes next. Even Cath looks uncomfortable now. The implication lands exactly how Smurf intends it to.

No matter how much time Pope spends with you, no matter how badly he wants you, he still knows where to go when his mother calls.

You finish the last twist in Lena’s braid before answering.

“Must get tiring,” you say.

Smurf tilts her head.

“What’s that?”

“Always having to come home.”

The room goes still for half a second. Cath looks down like she’s trying not to react. Nikki nearly chokes on her drink.

Smurf smiles then. Not because she likes you. Because even Smurf can admit when someone has teeth.

She steps closer, lifting a hand toward your braid and letting her fingers brush over it like she’s admiring something delicate. Then she moves a loose strand of hair away from your face, examining you closely enough to make your skin prickle.

“You’re a young, beautiful girl,” Smurf says softly. “You’ve got a whole world of options that don’t involve my boys.”

Before you can answer, Lena twists around on the stool to look at her hair.

“Is it done?”

You force your attention back to her and smile.

“Almost.”

Cath clears her throat, setting the knife down beside the strawberries.

“You still looking for work?”

The question cuts through the tension cleanly enough that Nikki looks visibly relieved.

“I’ve been trying,” you admit, tying off Lena’s second braid.

“You ever worked in a bar before?”

“I was a server at a diner for a few years.”

“The Flying Pig’s hiring,” Cath says. “One of the servers left a few weeks ago and they’re trying to find someone to cover.”

The offer catches you completely off guard.

“You serious?”

Cath shrugs lightly, but her eyes stay on yours.

“You’d make good tips.”

You doubt you and Cath will ever become best friends, but you still smile softly at her, quietly acknowledging that maybe, in some strange way, you both understand each other more than either of you wants to admit.

“I’ll think about it.”

Lena reaches up carefully to touch one of the braids.

“Do I look pretty?”

You glance down at her and soften.

“Very.”

Across the kitchen, Smurf watches the whole thing, cigarette smoke curling lazily around her face.

A few moments later, once Nikki settles with Lena in the living room to watch cartoons and Smurf disappears outside to drag the boys back in, the kitchen finally quiets. Cath folds dish towels carefully beside you while tension still lingers between you both, quiet and awkward now that there’s no one else around to hide behind.

“Cath, I…”

The backyard door suddenly slams open before you can finish, and the boys flood back inside loudly while Craig drips pool water across the tile floor. Baz follows behind him mostly dry now, though his shirt still clings slightly at the collar and his hair is messier than it was before.

Pope immediately looks disgusted.

“Jesus Christ, Craig.”

“What?”

“You’re all wet.”

“It’s called a pool, dumbass.”

“There’s fucking footprints everywhere.”

Craig ignores him completely and opens the fridge, grabbing the cake with soaking wet hands. You’ve never seen Pope look genuinely horrified. Deran bursts out laughing from behind him while Baz steps forward and drops both hands onto Pope’s shoulders mockingly.

“He’s gonna want to disinfect the whole kitchen after this.”

Pope shrugs him off without looking at him.

“Don’t touch me.”

Baz only grins, but there’s still a sharpness to it from earlier.

Smurf lights a candle on a large chocolate cake while everybody crowds loosely around the kitchen island. The brothers sing terribly, mostly yelling over each other while Pope stands there looking uncomfortable through the entire thing. Craig sings the loudest, of course, one hand still dripping onto the tile while Deran laughs too hard to stay on key. Baz leans against the counter with that easy grin back in place, like the pool never happened.

You catch yourself smiling and for half a second, it almost feels normal.

Then Smurf motions for Pope to blow out the candle.

J looks at the cake. His expression barely changes, but his voice cuts through the room anyway.

“It’s my mom’s birthday too.”

The silence is immediate.

Craig stops smiling first. Deran’s eyes flick toward Smurf. Baz looks away, jaw tightening like something old just moved under his skin. Pope goes completely still beside the island, his attention fixed on the candle like he’s stopped seeing the room at all.

Even Smurf’s expression shifts. Only for a second. Then the softness comes back, smooth and practised.

“That’s right, baby,” she says gently. “It is.”

She looks at the cake, then at J.

“Happy birthday, Julia.”

Nobody moves.

The candle flame flickers between all of you, small and ridiculous on top of all that chocolate frosting.

You look toward Pope.

He’s already gone somewhere else.

Not physically. He’s still standing there, still close enough for your shoulder to brush his if you moved half a step. But everything in him has pulled inward. His jaw is tight. His eyes are distant. His hands hang at his sides, too still now, like he doesn’t trust them to do anything else.

And all at once, the sadness sitting underneath him all day finally makes sense.

Julia.

Not just his birthday.

Theirs.

Eventually, everybody drifts back outside again. Cath gathers leftovers quietly while Lena tugs sleepily at her hand, her fresh braid coming loose near the ends.

Before leaving, Cath stops beside you, speaking low enough that only you can hear.

“You should be careful.”

You look toward her immediately.

Cath glances briefly toward the backyard where Pope stands near the pool arguing with Craig and Deran, shoulders stiff while Craig gestures too widely with both hands.

“With him?”

Cath’s mouth tightens slightly.

“With all of them.”

Her eyes move toward Smurf next, sitting outside with a cigarette between her fingers, watching her boys like she owns every breath they take.

“Smurf doesn’t like losing track of what belongs to her.”

The warning lands quietly.

“She’ll always find a way to pull them back,” Cath adds, softer now. “I know from experience.”

The sadness underneath her voice hits harder than the warning itself.

“Thank you for looking out for me,” you say quietly.

Cath nods once, like she’s already decided not to make this more sentimental than it needs to be.

You glance toward Baz, who’s laughing too loudly near the pool like nothing in the kitchen ever happened. Then you look back at Cath.

“And for what it’s worth,” you add, voice lower, “I’m sorry.”

Cath studies you for another second. For a moment, you think she might pretend not to understand.

She doesn’t.

Her expression softens slightly, but only slightly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”

Then Lena tugs her hand again.

Cath looks down, brushing a loose piece of hair away from Lena’s face before looking back at you.

“Think about my offer. Let me know.”

Then she leaves quietly with Lena.

You’re alone in the kitchen washing dishes while the remaining houseguests stay outside near the pool. A few seconds later, Pope comes up behind you, quiet enough that you barely hear him until his mouth is near your ear.

“That dress is drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he says low, his hands sliding slowly around your waist.

A smile pulls at your mouth.

“Consider it part of your birthday gift,” you say, leaning your head back until your mouth brushes near his ear. “Although part of it might already be unwrapped.”

He goes completely still behind you.

“You’re lyin’.”

You glance over your shoulder, your eyes lifting to meet his.

“Why don’t you feel for yourself?”

That’s apparently all the permission Pope needs. His breathing changes instantly as his hand slides beneath your dress and finds nothing but bare skin waiting for him.

“Fuck,” he groans against your ear, his hand gripping you firmly. “You have no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

You bite your lip as your hips shift against his hand.

“Pretty sure I’m starting to.”

His hands move around to the front of you, pushing your legs apart while your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink. One hand settles at your hip to keep you steady while the other disappears beneath your dress again.

The second his fingers find you already slick for him, his breath turns ragged.

“Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Your head tips back against his shoulder as his touch starts slow and deliberate, focused in that way he gets when he’s learning something he wants to remember. The dishes sit forgotten in the sink, soap sliding down your wrists while your body leans back into his like it already knows where it belongs.

He pulls his fingers away suddenly.

You barely have time to miss the touch before he brings them to his mouth. His eyes stay locked on yours as he licks them clean, and the sight nearly makes your knees give out.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough. “You taste good.”

The words nearly undo you, mostly because he says them like he wasn’t trying to praise you at all. Like the truth just slipped out before he could stop it.

You turn quickly to face him, kissing him hard while your damp, soapy hands slide into his hair. Pope makes a quiet sound into your mouth, one hand catching your waist before he backs you against the kitchen island.

He lifts you onto the counter with both hands, a little rougher than necessary, like patience has finally started failing him.

Your breath catches as you lean back on your palms, the counter cool beneath your skin while Pope steps between your legs. His eyes drag slowly over you, over the yellow dress bunched high on your thighs, and the look on his face makes heat rush through you all over again.

Then he lowers himself in front of you.

“Pope—” you breathe, but there’s no warning in it.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider as his mouth presses against the inside of your knee, then higher, disappearing beneath the soft yellow fabric.

A shaky breath leaves you immediately. Your hips move before he even touches you where you need him, already desperate for his mouth, desperate to feel him taste you again after the way he looked at you moments earlier.

Just then, the backyard door slides open.

“Yo!” Baz yells loudly from outside. “Birthday boy! You comin’ or what?”

Pope’s head lifts from beneath your dress, and he shuts his eyes briefly like he’s genuinely considering murder.

“One minute,” he snaps.

Baz laughs from the patio.

“Hurry the fuck up. Guy’s gonna charge me a late fee if we don’t meet him now.”

Pope stays where he is for another second, breathing hard, his hands still gripping your thighs beneath the dress. For a moment, you think he might ignore Baz completely.

Then his jaw tightens.

He stands slowly.

You grin breathlessly as you hop down from the counter, smoothing your dress back into place.

“Take a rain check?”

His hands find your hips again, fingers digging in for half a second before he forces himself to loosen his grip.

“Hotel. Later.”

You look up at him, still smiling.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be tonight.”

His expression shifts slightly, the frustration giving way to something softer before he leans in and kisses you once, hard and brief.

“Good,” he says against your mouth.

Apparently, the Cody brothers’ brilliant birthday plans involve skydiving, despite Pope repeatedly calling it “stupid as shit.”

You’re curled on your couch later that evening when your phone buzzes with updates from him.

deran and craig got into it

craig pushed deran out of the plane

You stare at the screen.

is deran ok?

yeah

why did craig push deran out of the plane?

because deran and i did the job without him and baz

You blink once.

normal family stuff then

yeah

pope

what

that was sarcasm

i know

A minute passes before curiosity wins.

why didn’t you guys do the job with baz and craig?

baz had to take craig to a doctor in mexico

You sit up a little.

why did craig need a doctor in mexico?

bullet wound

“What the fuck?” you say aloud to your empty apartment.

i should stop asking questions

probably for the best

He doesn’t answer for a while after that.

A few hours later, your phone buzzes again.

at a strip club now

Your eyebrows lift.

poor pope surrounded by beautiful naked women

His response comes almost immediately.

don’t start

You grin to yourself, curling deeper into the couch cushions.

better not forget about me if girls are giving you a lap dance

There’s a longer pause this time.

what makes you think im getting a lap dance

You snort softly.

because baz probably paid for one already

No response comes after that.

You stare at the screen for another second before biting your lip. Then, impulsively, you push yourself off the couch and walk toward your bedroom.

The yellow dress is still on.

You let the straps fall low enough to bare your shoulders, the fabric riding higher along your thighs as you stand with your back toward the mirror. You glance over one shoulder, phone lifted just enough to hide most of your face, though the sly curve of your mouth still shows.

preview for later ;)

Read immediately.

Then nothing.

Your stomach twists.

Maybe his phone died. Maybe Baz dragged him somewhere louder. Maybe Pope looked at the picture in the middle of the club and went completely still, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the screen while some girl tried to get his attention and failed.

That last thought should make you feel smug.

Instead, the silence starts getting under your skin.

Maybe he actually accepted the lap dance.

You hate how much that bothers you.

Almost twenty minutes pass before there’s a knock at your apartment door. You frown slightly before walking over and pulling it open.

Pope stands in the hallway, breathing a little heavier than normal, his dark eyes locking onto you immediately. His gaze drops slowly down your body, taking in the yellow dress. His gaze lingers long enough to make heat rush up your neck before lifting back to your face.

“Chrissy home?”

His eyes flick past you into the apartment, quick and careful, checking corners like he can’t help himself.

You shake your head slowly.

“Working. Won’t be home all night.”

“Good.”

You step aside to let him in and Pope shuts the door behind him immediately.

When he turns back to you, the restraint is almost worse than if he touched you right away. He just stands there for a second, looking at you with the kind of focus that makes it obvious he hasn’t stopped thinking about the picture since the moment he opened it.

“What are you doing here?” you ask softly. “I thought I was supposed to meet you at the hotel later.”

Pope steps closer.

“Couldn’t wait.”

Your stomach tightens.

“No?”

His eyes stay on yours.

“No.”

You take a breath, but he’s already close enough for his hand to find your hip. His other hand slips beneath the edge of your dress, slow enough that you feel every inch of anticipation before his fingers touch skin.

“You can’t send me a picture like that,” he says, voice low, “and expect me to sit there with them like I’m not thinkin’ about this.”

His hand moves higher.

You feel the exact moment he realizes.

Pope goes still and his eyes darken.

“Still no underwear?”

“No.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. Not a full smile. Barely even close.

It still makes heat pull low in your stomach.

“That why you sent it?”

You swallow, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much the look on his face affects you.

“Maybe.”

His thumb drags once over your thigh.

“Wanted me to leave?”

Your breath catches.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

His hand tightens at your hip.

“Good girl.”

The praise slips through you immediately, fast and embarrassing and impossible to hide. Pope sees it too. His gaze drops to your mouth before he leans closer, his lips brushing the corner of yours without kissing you yet.

“It worked.”

Then he kisses you hard enough to make you stumble backward.

Pope catches you immediately, one arm wrapping around your waist while his other hand slides beneath your thigh. He lifts you easily, your legs locking around him as he carries you farther into the apartment without breaking the kiss. There’s nothing graceful about it. Not really. He moves like patience has already failed him and he’s holding himself together by force.

He sets you down on the table carefully, almost too carefully for how hard he’s breathing.

That gets to you more than it should.

The restraint. The hunger. The way he can look at you like that and still make sure the edge of the table doesn’t catch the back of your thigh.

Pope steps between your knees, his hands sliding along your legs, slow and firm, pushing the yellow dress higher until the fabric bunches around your hips.

For a second, he only looks at you.

“What?” you breathe.

His eyes lift to yours, dark and focused.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Your stomach tightens.

“About what?”

His gaze drops between your thighs before coming back to your face.

“The way you taste.”

The words leave him rough, almost like he didn’t mean to say them out loud. Like the truth slips out before he can stop it.

He steps closer, his hands settling at your knees.

“Can I?”

Your breath catches at the question. Even like this, even with his body pressed close and his mouth swollen from kissing you, he still gives you the choice.

You nod.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Taste me again, Pope.”

He lowers himself between your thighs, one arm hooking beneath your leg to pull you closer to the edge. Your hands brace behind you, fingers curling against the tabletop as his mouth presses to the inside of your knee, then higher.

He takes his time for someone who said he couldn’t wait.

That’s the part that nearly undoes you.

The way his mouth moves over your skin with deliberate patience. The way his fingers press into your thigh, not rushing, not careless, holding you open for him like he wants to feel every second of you giving in. The way he watches your face until the dress hides him from view.

Then his mouth finds you.

Your back arches immediately, a broken sound slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

“Fuck, Pope.”

His grip tightens.

The sound of your voice does something to him. You feel it in the way his restraint falters, the way his mouth grows hungrier, the way one hand slides up your thigh and keeps you right there when your hips try to move against him.

He doesn’t let you disappear into it alone.

Every time you gasp, he answers. Every time your fingers tighten in his hair, his breath drags rough against your skin. Every time your body trembles, his hand strokes once along your thigh, grounding you before he takes you apart again.

Your head falls back.

“Oh god,” you whisper. “Pope.”

He makes a low sound against you, like hearing his name like that is almost too much.

You feel yourself getting close too quickly, too sharply, the pleasure gathering low and tight until your legs begin to shake around him.

“I’m gonna come,” you breathe.

Pope lifts his head from beneath your dress.

His mouth is wet, his breathing uneven, his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Not yet.”

Your chest rises sharply.

“Pope.”

His hand slides up your stomach, pressing lightly there, not holding you down, just keeping you with him.

“Wait for me,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “Can you do that?”

You nod immediately, too far gone to argue.

A slow curve touches the corner of his mouth, almost wrecked by how quickly you listen to him.

“Good girl.”

The praise moves through you so fast your thighs press tighter around him. His expression changes again, hunger bleeding into something almost tender.

He stands and leans over you, mouth finding yours. You taste yourself on him and the kiss turns deeper, messier, his hand sliding beneath your dress to push it higher.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

His eyes move over you slowly, taking in the flushed skin, the dress gathered at your waist, the way your chest rises with every shaky breath. Pope looks at you like he’s trying to memorize what wanting can look like when nobody is taking it from him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly.

The words come out almost uneven and that makes them hit harder.

You reach for him, fingers finding his belt.

“Come here.”

He listens.

His belt comes undone quickly, then his jeans. His boxers get pushed down just enough for you to see how badly the whole day has gotten to him. You lift yourself slightly onto your elbows, watching as he rolls the condom on, his eyes flicking back to yours like he wants to catch every reaction.

Then he steps between your thighs again.

His hands slide beneath your knees, pulling you closer to the edge of the table. The movement drags a soft gasp from you and Pope’s jaw tightens at the sound.

He lines himself up slowly as your fingers grip his shoulders.

“Pope.”

“I know.”

His forehead drops against yours.

The first thrust inside you steals the air from both of you. He pushes in carefully, inch by inch and the sound that leaves him is rough and broken against your mouth. Your eyes close, overwhelmed by the stretch, the heat, the weight of him so close after wanting him all day too.

“Look at me.”

You force your eyes open.

His face is right there, tense with restraint, mouth parted, eyes locked on yours like he needs you to stay with him for this.

“There you go,” he breathes. “That’s my girl.”

Your body tightens around him.

Pope feels it immediately. His eyes shut for half a second.

“Fu—”

He starts moving slowly at first, one hand firm at your waist while the other braces against the table beside you. Every thrust pulls a breathless sound from you and Pope takes each one like it matters. Like he’s listening for what your body wants before his own can take over.

But his patience doesn’t last long.

Not after the picture. Not after the kitchen. Not after being interrupted once and forced to sit through the rest of the day with the thought of you waiting for him in that dress.

His rhythm turns rougher, more desperate, though his hands stay careful, keeping you close without making you feel trapped.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him against you.

He goes willingly, face burying against your neck, mouth dragging over your skin between uneven breaths.

“I couldn’t think,” he says against your throat.

You make a soft sound, fingers tightening in his hair.

“About me?”

His mouth presses below your ear.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Only you.”

Your chest aches at how simple it sounds.

His hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher against his hip and the new angle makes your whole body go tight.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

Pope’s breath catches.

“You close?”

You nod.

“Words.”

“Yes.”

“Not yet.”

“Pope—”

“Wait.”

His forehead drops against yours, breath breaking.

“Just… wait.”

A helpless sound breaks from you and something in his expression shifts like he almost can’t stand asking it of you.

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing you once. “I got you.”

His pace grows rougher, more uneven, every movement pulling you closer to the edge while his own control slips piece by piece. His mouth drags along your jaw, his breathing turning ragged near your ear.

“Wait for me,” he says again, rougher this time, almost pleading. “Come with me.”

That’s what does it.

Not just his body or the pressure building so sharply you can barely breathe around it.

It’s the way he says it. Like he doesn’t want to fall apart unless you’re there with him.

Release moves through you hard and sudden, your body tightening around him as Pope follows you over the edge with a rough sound buried against your mouth. His arms lock around you, holding you through it, holding you after, his face pressed into the curve of your neck while both of you shake through the last of it.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Pope stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his hand moving slowly over your back like he’s trying to keep both of you in one piece.

Then, after a long moment, his mouth brushes your shoulder.

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath.

“Yeah.”

His hand moves once over your back again.

You smile faintly, turning your face toward his.

“You left the strip club pretty fast.”

Pope lifts his head just enough to look at you. His mouth twitches faintly.

“Didn’t wanna be there.”

Your smile softens.

“No?”

His eyes move over your face, warmer now, still a little dark from everything that just happened between you.

“Wanted to be here.”

The words are simple. Almost plain.

Somehow, that makes them worse.

Later, while fixing your dress again in the kitchen, your eyes drift toward the table behind you and you nearly laugh to yourself. If Chrissy ever finds out what happened on her kitchen table, she may actually kill you.

Pope sits silently in one of the chairs nearby, still catching his breath while he watches you move around the apartment. His hair is messy, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes quieter now that the hunger has burned down into something softer.

“Stay there,” you say.

His brow furrows slightly, but he listens.

A minute later, you return holding a tiny vanilla cupcake with one crooked candle shoved into the top. You light it carefully before setting it down in front of him.

“I couldn’t find the bakery you mentioned,” you say, leaning against the table. “So I stopped at one earlier before I came home. I made sure to ask for strawberry filling.”

The shift is small, but immediate. Pope’s eyes drop to the cupcake and stay there, fixed on the wax beginning to slip down the side of the candle.

“You told me about it after I told you my favourite birthday,” you say softly. “I figured that meant it was worth remembering.”

Pope doesn’t answer.

For a second, you worry you’ve done too much. Maybe taken something private and put it in front of him before he was ready. Maybe made the room too soft for a man who still looks startled every time tenderness comes without a catch.

A small smile pulls at your mouth anyway.

“Make a wish.”

Pope looks up at you then.

Not long.

Just enough.

Then he leans forward and blows out the candle.

Smoke curls between you, thin and quiet. He doesn’t touch the cupcake right away and you don’t ask why. You only stand there with your hip pressed against the table, watching him watch it.

Eventually, his voice comes out low.

“Should’ve called her more.”

The grief underneath the words catches you off guard. It isn’t dramatic and it doesn’t need to be. It sits there between you, heavier than anything else he could’ve said.

You step closer until you’re standing beside him.

“Julia?”

Pope nods once, eyes still on the cupcake.

“She knew you loved her,” you say.

His jaw tightens.

For a second, you think he might argue. Pope looks like the kind of man who trusts guilt more than comfort, like pain makes more sense to him than forgiveness ever could.

But he doesn’t say anything.

When he finally looks up at you, the dim kitchen light makes him look younger somehow. Tired, not just from the day but from years of carrying things no one ever taught him how to put down.

You reach out slowly, giving him time to move away.

He doesn’t.

Your fingers brush once through his hair, careful and soft.

Pope’s eyes lower but he stays still beneath your hand. Maybe that's the part that gets to you most. Not the fact that he lets you touch him, but the way he looks like he has to make himself believe he’s allowed to want it.

After another long moment, he speaks again.

“Can I stay tonight?”

Your eyebrows lift slightly before you can stop yourself.

Pope looks away immediately, something hardening in his expression like he already regrets letting the words out.

“You don’t have to,” he mutters.

The words come fast. Defensive. Almost flat.

Like he’s trying to take the question back before you can make it hurt.

Your expression softens.

“I want you to.”

A little while later, you change into a lace cami while Pope strips down to his boxers near the bed. You try not to stare, but it’s a losing battle. Broad shoulders, thick arms, messy hair from your fingers earlier and sleep-heavy eyes still fixed on you like he can’t stop looking even now.

You climb beneath the blankets slowly and Pope hesitates for half a second before stretching one arm out toward you in a silent invitation.

You pause at the gesture, understanding it for what it is. Pope has never liked being touched unless he decides where the contact begins, so when he reaches for you like this, careful and quiet, something in your chest softens before you can stop it.

You move closer and settle beside him while his arm wraps slowly around your waist. Your hand rests lightly against his chest and beneath your palm, you feel him exhale deeply. Not all at once. Not enough to make the tension disappear completely. Just enough that you feel his body recognize yours beside him.

“Happy birthday, Pope,” you whisper, lifting your head toward his ear before pressing a soft kiss against his cheek.

His arm tightens around you.

Your eyes drift toward the healing cut near his ribs again and your fingertips brush lightly over the bruised skin surrounding it. A quiet anxiety creeps low in your stomach before you can stop it. There are parts of Pope’s life you don’t know how to touch yet. Parts that show up purple and yellow beneath his skin. Parts that make him stand by windows after sex and stare at parking lots like sleep is something he has to earn first.

This is just an agreement, you remind yourself as sleep slowly starts pulling you under.

But sometime later, in the middle of the night, while the apartment stays quiet around you both, Pope’s breathing finally evens beneath your cheek.

No pacing. No hotel window. No restless shadow standing half-dressed in the dark.

Just Pope, asleep with his arm still locked around your waist like he found you there and decided not to let go.

chapter 3 | family dinner

A few months pass after Pope’s birthday, and somewhere in that time, he starts sleeping over more often than he doesn’t.

It happens quietly with no conversation. No moment where either of you looks at the other and decides this is what you do now. One night he’s leaving before sunrise, and then one night he doesn’t. Then another. Then another after that, until his boots end up by your door and his shirt gets left over the back of your chair and you stop being surprised by the weight of him in your bed.

The money changes the same way.

It doesn’t disappear completely. Rent still exists. So do groceries, bills and the ugly practical parts of staying alive. But it stops appearing after sex, stops sitting on dressers like a receipt for your body.

Now it shows up differently.

A pack of your cigarettes left on the counter after you run out. Coffee placed beside your hand in the morning, still hot, no explanation attached. A paper bag set on your kitchen table after you mention you forgot to eat, Pope standing near the fridge like he didn’t file the detail away and act on it.

Neither of you says anything about it.

It isn’t that you don’t need money anymore. You do. Desperately. But somewhere along the way, you stop knowing how to take it from him without feeling the shape of his hands after.

The money had made things simple in the worst way, but at least simple things were easy to name. This is harder. Pope standing in your kitchen after midnight with bruised knuckles and tension sitting sharp in his shoulders while you eat fries from the bag he brought over. Pope drinking half the glass of water you give him, eyes moving around your apartment like he’s checking the exits even here. Pope leaving his keys on your counter, his socks near your bed, his hand low on your stomach in the dark like he knows where it belongs but still doesn’t know how to ask for it.

Other nights, you still meet him at the hotel and try to pretend some part of the old arrangement is still there. It never works for long. Not when he looks at you too much after. Not when his fingers brush your wrist before you reach for your clothes. Not when there’s no cash on the table anymore and both of you know exactly what its absence means.

On the nights he isn’t beside you, your body notices before your mind is ready to admit anything. You hear a car slow outside and glance toward the window. Your phone lights up and your stomach moves before you read the name. You wake in the dark reaching for warmth that isn’t there, annoyed at yourself for getting used to something you were never supposed to count on.

This is still an agreement, you remind yourself.

Then Pope shows up again, and it sounds less true.

One morning, sunlight slips through the blinds in thin lines across your sheets. Pope is asleep on his side facing you, one arm tucked beneath the pillow and the other resting loose across your waist. His hair is messy from sleep, and there’s a thin cut near his eyebrow from when he showed up at your door last night with blood already drying along his temple.

He looks different when he sleeps. For a few hours, at least, he looks like he’s finally stopped fighting whatever follows him into the dark.

He stirs beside you, blinking slowly against the light. His hand tightens at your waist for half a second before his fingers loosen again.

“Morning,” you say.

He watches you for another second before answering, his voice rough from sleep.

“Morning.”

Your eyes drift up to the cut near his eyebrow.

“Does it still hurt?”

Pope’s gaze stays on yours.

“No.”

You don’t make a big thing out of it because you know he’ll pull away if you do. Still, your eyes linger longer than you mean them to. You’re getting too used to seeing marks on him, too used to measuring what looks bad and what looks worse, too used to pretending relief doesn’t hit you first when he shows up at your door at all.

“When do you have to leave?”

Pope glances at the clock on your nightstand, then back at you. For a second, he doesn’t answer. His hand slides up your side instead, warm beneath the sheet.

The corner of his mouth lifts.

“Not yet.”

Then he leans over you, mouth finding yours with slow, familiar pressure. You let him kiss you for a moment, breathing him in as his weight settles closer, the warmth of his skin and the faint trace of soap still clinging to him from last night.

Then you press your palm against his chest and guide him back.

Pope pulls away enough to look at you, brows drawing together as you move lower.

“What?”

You smile faintly and keep going, watching the question leave his face the second he understands.

You take your time with him, lips moving from his neck to his collarbone, then lower, tracing the warm skin of his chest while your eyes stay on his face.

“You’re gonna make me late,” he breathes.

“You started this,” you tease.

His mouth parts like he wants to answer, but nothing comes out. Not at first.

But every reaction gives him away. The faint pull of his brows when your mouth lingers near his throat. The uneven breath when you kiss his chest. The way his stomach tightens beneath your hand when you move lower.

You follow those little tells, letting them guide you. Where his breath breaks, where his fingers flex, where his body goes quiet for half a second too long, you press your mouth there next.

By the time your lips reach his stomach, his hand has found your hair. His fingers tighten slightly, then loosen again, like even that much reaction feels too close to giving himself away.

You like him like this. Barely awake. Still warm from sleep. Trying so hard not to look as affected as he is.

Your hand reaches him before your mouth does, feeling the hard length of him through his boxers. Pope’s breath stops as you touch him slowly over the fabric. You keep your mouth just beneath his stomach, pressing small, deliberate kisses there while your fingers hook beneath the waistband.

You drag it down slowly, just enough to make his body pull tight beneath you.

“Fu—”

The word breaks off in his throat.

You look up at him as your hand wraps around him. His jaw is tight, eyes heavy and fixed on yours, restraint gathering across his face like he still thinks he can hide how badly he wants this.

You press a soft kiss to the tip first. Then another.

His hand tightens in your hair.

“Don’t tease.”

The words come out rough and uneven.

“Thought you liked when I took my time.”

His breath leaves him hard.

“Not right now.”

You smile against him, then give him what he wants.

Your mouth closes around him, and his head drops back against the pillow with a low sound he doesn’t manage to stop. His eyes shut for half a second, but when they open again, they find you.

You hold his gaze as his control starts slipping in pieces. His fingers stay tangled in your hair, not forcing, just holding on. His hips lift once before he catches himself.

You pull back only enough to speak, your mouth still close.

“That feel good?”

Pope’s breath breaks on the answer.

“Yeah.”

His fingers flex again.

“Don’t—” He stops, jaw tight. “Don’t stop.”

He barely gets the words out before your mouth is on him again. You find a steadier rhythm, one hand wrapped around him while your lips and tongue learn what makes his breathing turn rough, what makes his stomach tighten, what makes his hand go still in your hair like he’s trying not to lose himself too quickly.

“Stay there,” he breathes.

His body reacts to every movement, each pass leaving him slick and wet, making it easier to take him deeper. When your tongue reaches the tip, you linger there, circling slowly until you taste the bead of moisture already gathered there.

“Fu—”

His eyes find yours again, and whatever control he has left goes thin all at once. His fingers tighten in your hair, still careful enough not to force you, but no longer able to hide how close he is.

“I’m gonna—”

He stops, chest rising sharply.

You don’t look away.

His mouth falls open as another rough sound leaves him.

You hold his gaze when he comes, watching the last of his restraint leave his face. You take what he gives you, swallowing slowly before lifting your head.

Your thumb wipes the corner of your mouth, and the satisfaction on your face is impossible to hide.

Pope stares down at you, wrecked and quiet.

“Look at you,” he says, barely above a whisper.

His fingers tighten once in your hair, not pulling, just holding on like he needs another second before he lets you up.

Afterward, Pope lies back against the pillows for a moment, his hand resting warm against your hip. He looks less guarded like this, stripped of the usual tension he carries around his shoulders. You settle beside him and let your head rest against the pillow, watching his face while he stares toward the ceiling.

“Need to leave soon?”

“Have to be at Smurf’s.”

You study him, the answer settling into the space between you.

“Job?”

He nods once, but his hand goes still on your hip. His jaw works once before he says anything else.

“Baz is runnin’ point.”

His voice stays flat, but the irritation beneath it is hard to miss.

“That bother you?”

Pope lets out a short, humourless laugh.

“Baz likes bein’ in charge.”

You watch his face as he looks toward the window.

“He’s good at it,” Pope says.

The admission surprises you more than the bitterness underneath it.

“He sees things.” A pause. “Talks people into shit. Makes it look easy.”

You stay quiet, because anything you say would probably make it sound smaller than it is. Baz gets the room, the charm and people leaning toward him before they even realize they’ve moved. Pope gets the parts no one talks about after. The parts that come back bruised, bleeding or awake all night.

After a moment, Pope adds, quieter, “Somebody still has to do the hard part.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

Maybe there isn’t anything.

Pope doesn’t give the silence time to settle. He sits up, the sheet falling low around his waist as he reaches for his jeans on the floor.

“He’s bringin’ J.”

You look toward him.

“The kid?”

Pope pulls his jeans on and turns away from the bed, like he needs somewhere else to look before he answers.

“He’s not a kid.”

“Barely.”

He doesn’t answer. He buckles his belt, movements sharp and familiar now, every layer putting him back together again. Jeans. Belt. Shirt. Boots. Every piece making him look more like the man who walked into that backyard the first time you saw him and less like the one who just came apart beneath your hands.

“You don’t trust him?”

“No.”

The answer comes too fast.

You watch his shoulders beneath the shirt as he reaches for the buttons. The irritation is obvious in the sharpness of his movements, but there’s something else underneath it too. Something harder to pin down. Something that reminds you of the silence that settled over him at his birthday when J brought up Julia.

“He wasn’t raised in this,” Pope says.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

His mouth tightens.

“Means I don’t know what he’ll do.”

Pope doesn’t turn around, but you can see enough of his profile to know this isn’t only about a job. It isn’t only about J being new, or young, or untested. Julia’s name isn’t in the room, but it might as well be.

“He’s Julia’s son,” you say softly. “He’s your nephew.”

Pope’s eyes cut toward you.

“I know who he is.”

The conversation stops there.

His tone stays even, but the message is clear enough.

You know better than to push.

You look down at the sheet gathered against your chest while he finishes dressing. Pope moves like a man trying to put himself back into the right order before leaving your apartment. Shirt buttoned. Boots tied. Hands empty. Face unreadable. By the time he reaches for his keys, the morning has already started losing him.

For a second, he looks toward the bed again. Toward you.

The look is quick enough that you might miss it if you didn’t know him better now.

“I’ll see you later,” he says.

“You gonna text me, or should I just stare at my phone like an idiot?”

Pope gives you a flat look.

“Don’t stare at your phone.”

“So you’re texting me?”

“Yeah.”

You laugh, and his eyes soften for half a second before he turns toward the door. A minute later, he’s gone, and your room feels quieter than it should.

You sit there for a moment longer, listening to the silence he leaves behind. You tell yourself not to look at your phone because he literally just told you not to, which makes you look at it almost instantly.

Nothing.

You roll your eyes at yourself and reach for your shirt, tugging it over your head as you get out of bed. You make it halfway to the dresser before your phone buzzes against the nightstand.

Your stomach reacts before you do.

Then you see the number.

Unknown.

its cath. got your number from baz’s phone

how fast can you get to the pig? owner wants to meet you

You stare at the message for a second before typing back quickly.

gimme 30 mins

The Flying Pig looks different than you expected.

You’ve heard about it enough. Little mentions from Baz here and there when he got too comfortable and started talking like the two of you were closer than you were. Cath’s shifts. Regulars who tipped well. Fights in the parking lot. The owner who didn’t put up with shit from anyone.

But you’ve never actually stepped inside before today.

You didn’t want to.

Not when Baz came here. Not when Cath worked here. Not when the whole place felt too close to a life you were already trying not to touch more than you had to.

During the day, though, it’s quieter than you imagined. Less crowded. Less sticky. It still smells faintly like beer, fried food and old wood, but without the night crowd packed inside, the place almost looks ordinary.

Cath stands behind the bar when you walk in, wiping down glasses while a woman with short dark hair flips through papers near the register.

Cath looks up first.

“You made it.”

“Barely.”

She nods toward the woman.

“This is Tracy. She owns the place.”

Tracy looks you over quickly. Not unkindly, but directly enough that you stand a little straighter.

“Cath says you served before.”

“Diner. Couple years.”

“You know how to handle drunk idiots?”

You smile faintly.

“Unfortunately.”

Tracy snorts.

“Good. We have plenty.”

The interview doesn’t feel like an interview for long. Tracy asks about your availability, whether you can work late, whether you can handle your own section and whether you know how to keep your mouth shut around regulars who talk too much.

“I’m good at minding my own business.”

Cath glances at you from behind the bar like she doesn’t entirely believe that.

Tracy studies you for another second, then taps the papers against the register.

“You can start Friday.”

You blink.

“That’s it?”

“You want me to make it harder?”

“No.”

“Then Friday.”

Cath hides a smile behind the glass she’s drying, and for the first time since she texted, you let yourself feel it properly.

A job.

A real one.

Not enough to fix everything overnight, but enough to make the floor feel steadier under your feet. Enough to picture rent without immediately doing the math in your head and hating the answer.

Enough that when Pope gives you money now, maybe you won’t have to take it.

Or maybe that’s the part you aren’t ready to think about yet.

You step outside afterward with your phone already in your hand.

got a job

Pope responds faster than you expect.

where

flying pig

There’s a short pause, long enough for you to wonder if he knows exactly why that place feels strange to you.

Then your phone buzzes again.

ill come get you

You stare at the message longer than necessary.

not done yet

i can wait

You look at the message until the screen dims in your hand.

Then you slip the phone into your pocket and go back inside.

Inside, Cath is restocking bottles beneath the bar when you walk back in, sliding them into place with quick, practised movements.

“Thanks,” you say.

She looks up briefly.

“For this.”

Cath shrugs and reaches for another bottle. “You needed work. They needed someone.”

“You didn’t have to help me.”

“No,” she says, setting the bottle into the row. “I didn’t.”

The honesty sits between you. It isn’t exactly warm, but it’s something solid. It doesn’t ask either of you to pretend the past didn’t happen.

You lean against the bar and watch her work for a moment.

“Pope said Baz is running point today.”

Cath’s hands slow around the bottle.

“He tell you anything else?”

“Not really.”

Her eyes move toward the front windows, then back to the label she’s lining up with the others.

“Good.”

You study her.

“Good?”

“Less you know, less you have to lie about.”

The words come out too calm to be casual.

Before you can answer, the front door opens and a man steps inside wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt. Cath looks over, and her face changes just enough for you to notice before she looks busy again.

“Hey,” Cath says.

The man approaches the bar, his gaze flicking briefly to you before settling back on her.

“Hey.”

Cath gestures toward you. “Meet our newest server. She starts Friday.”

He turns to you and offers his hand.

“Patrick Fischer.”

His grip is warm. Normal. Nothing loaded underneath it.

“Nice to meet you,” you say.

“You too.”

Patrick looks back at Cath, still smiling.

“You working tonight?”

Cath raises an eyebrow.

“Why?”

He lifts one shoulder. “Just asking.”

“Sure you are.”

You glance between them and bite back a smile. Cath sees it anyway, but she doesn’t say anything until Patrick heads toward the bathroom.

Then you lean closer to the bar.

“He’s cute.”

Cath shakes her head immediately, though a small smile tugs at her mouth.

“Don’t start.”

“I said he’s cute. That’s an observation.”

“That’s how you start.”

You grin.

For a second, it almost feels easy.

You’re outside waiting for Pope with a cigarette already between your fingers when Patrick steps out a few minutes later.

“Got a light?”

You hold out your lighter.

When he reaches for it, your eyes catch on the badge clipped near his belt.

“You’re a cop?”

Patrick follows your gaze, then looks back at you.

“Off duty.”

“That’s not a no.”

His mouth lifts faintly.

“No. It’s not.”

You study him for another second before letting him take the lighter.

“Does off duty mean you stop being annoying?”

“Depends who you ask.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it.

Patrick lights his cigarette and hands the lighter back before leaning against the wall a few feet away. You appreciate that more than you expect. Most men only understand space after someone makes them.

“So you’re friends with Cath?” you ask.

“She’s good people.”

You look over at him.

“You like her.”

Patrick lets out a small laugh, eyes dropping toward the pavement.

“That obvious?”

“Little bit.”

He shakes his head, smiling toward the street.

“She’s got enough going on.”

That makes you like him a little more.

Before you can answer, Patrick’s posture changes. Not dramatically, but just enough.

You follow his gaze and see Pope crossing the parking lot toward you.

Even from a distance, his presence changes things. He moves at the same steady pace, unconcerned with anyone else in the parking lot. He walks like the space in front of him has already cleared, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on you first, then Patrick.

Patrick notices.

“You know this guy?”

“Yeah.”

Pope stops close enough that Patrick glances once between you both.

“You good?” Patrick asks.

It’s careful. More checking in than anything else.

Pope hears it anyway, his eyes moving to Patrick.

“I’m fine,” you say before Pope can answer for you. “He’s with me.”

Patrick nods, though he doesn’t look fully convinced.

“Alright.” His gaze stays on you for another second. “See you Friday.”

You wait until Patrick disappears back inside before turning toward Pope.

“That was normal, by the way.”

Pope looks at you.

“What?”

“You don’t have to stare at every man who talks to me like he’s planning something.”

His eyes flick toward the door.

“Who’s he?”

“Patrick. Just met him today.”

For a second, you think about mentioning the badge. Then his attention cuts back to the door Patrick disappeared through, and the cigarette waiting between your fingers feels like enough to deal with.

“He works here?”

“No. He knows Cath.”

Pope’s expression shifts at Cath’s name.

Instead of pushing, you lift the cigarette. Pope takes the lighter from your hand before you can use it.

He lights it for you, gaze fixed on the flame for a second before it lifts to your mouth. There’s something strangely intimate about it, the way he stands close enough to block the breeze, one hand cupped around the lighter, eyes following the first drag you take.

You offer him the cigarette.

He takes it from your fingers and brings it to his mouth.

“You got the job?” he asks after exhaling.

“Yeah. Friday.”

“Good.”

The word is blunt, but the tension sitting behind his face softens for a second.

Then his fingers brush yours.

Just for a second, barely there.

The back of his knuckles graze yours before he pulls away, gone before anyone could make too much of it.

“Dinner tomorrow,” he says.

“At Smurf’s?”

He nods.

“She wants everyone there.”

Of course she does.

Pope watches you for another second, waiting.

You hold his gaze.

“Okay.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. The parking lot is quiet except for a few cars passing out on the street.

“I gotta meet Chrissy at the beach after this.”

His eyes move to you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Unless you were planning on kidnapping me.”

Pope looks at you.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

“Would’ve brought rope.”

Something in his face eases, small and quick, like he got exactly the reaction he wanted.

“That’s disturbing.”

“You asked.”

You shake your head, still smiling.

“I’ll take you.”

“To the beach?”

He nods once.

“On the way.”

You look at him for a second.

“Okay.”

Chrissy’s already sprawled on a towel by the time you reach the beach, sunglasses on, one arm thrown over her face and a magazine open on her stomach. You drop onto the towel beside her, and she lifts one hand without moving the rest of her body.

“You got here fast.”

“Pope dropped me off.”

“Course he did.”

“He was already coming this way.”

Chrissy hums, unconvinced.

“No, he wasn’t.”

You roll your eyes and pull your knees up, working at the sand caught between your toes.

“I got the job.”

That finally gets her to move. The magazine slides down her stomach as she turns her head toward you.

“At The Pig?”

“I start Friday.”

Her eyebrows lift behind her sunglasses.

“That’s kind of huge.”

You shrug, trying not to let anything show.

“They needed someone.”

“Yeah, and Cath just happened to think of you?”

“She’s being nice.”

Chrissy makes a small sound, not quite agreement.

You look out toward the water, letting the waves fill the space for a few seconds. The ocean rolls in bright and restless beneath the late afternoon sun, and you let the heat settle over your legs while the salt air dries the sweat at the back of your neck.

Chrissy shifts beside you.

“Was Pope at the apartment this morning?”

You glance over.

“Why?”

“Because the spice rack is alphabetized.”

You press your lips together.

Chrissy pushes her sunglasses higher on her nose.

“I opened the cupboard half-asleep and thought I was being threatened.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it.

“Maybe he likes order.”

“Yeah, no shit. He put cumin behind coriander because C-O comes before C-U.”

You drag a hand over your mouth, still smiling.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Didn’t say he was.”

“You were going to.”

“I didn’t need to. The oregano said it for me.”

You laugh again, softer this time, and Chrissy’s expression shifts in that way hers does when she’s deciding whether to make fun of you or worry first.

“He spent the night again?”

“Yeah.”

“And then he picked you up from your new job and drove you here.”

“You’re making it sound like something.”

“It is something.”

You dig your heel into the sand, watching the grains slide over your foot.

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Chrissy doesn’t answer right away. For once, she doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She only sets the magazine aside and leans back on her hands, looking toward the water like it might give her a better way to say whatever is coming next.

“I know what you look like when something’s just sex,” she says eventually.

You glance at her.

“This isn’t that.”

The waves rush up over the sand, then pull back again.

“It’s supposed to be,” you say.

She hears the difference. You know she does because she doesn’t tease you for it.

After a moment, she bumps her foot against yours.

“Yeah,” she says. “Feelings are annoying like that.”

It isn’t advice. Not really.

Maybe that’s why it helps.

A few minutes later Chrissy’s phone buzzes.

She checks it, and the smile comes too fast.

“Is it Simon?”

“Maybe.”

Simon was the bachelor’s brother Chrissy met the night of Pope’s birthday, the one who’d spent most of the night ignoring the bachelor and finding excuses to talk to Chrissy instead. Since then, he’d developed a suspicious habit of showing up whenever she worked.

Chrissy looks toward the water, like that might hide the grin pulling at her mouth.

“He asked me to go to the movies tonight. Something with wizards or superheroes. I don’t know.”

“Oh my god, you like him!”

She sighs like you’ve dragged the truth out of her through torture.

“He’s nice.” She pauses, then glances back at you. “Like actually nice. Not the kind of nice until he realizes I’m not going home with him.”

For once, the easy comeback doesn’t come right away, and Chrissy notices immediately.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

You lean back on your hands, smiling a little.

She looks down at her phone again, thumb moving over the edge of the case without typing anything. For all her noise, Chrissy gets quiet when something matters. It only lasts a second before she locks the screen and tosses the phone onto the towel between you.

“You should go,” you say.

Chrissy glances over.

“To the movie?”

“Yeah. Seriously.”

The corner of her mouth lifts, but the softness stays there for a second longer than usual before she looks back toward the water.

After a while, you sit up and brush sand off your thighs.

“I have to pee.”

“There’s a surf shop over there,” Chrissy says, gesturing toward the shops behind you. “Or just go in the water.”

You stare at her.

“That’s gross.”

“It’s the ocean.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s nature.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Chrissy squints at you from behind her sunglasses.

“You’re worse than Pope.”

You stand and flick sand at her towel, laughing as you make your way over to the surf shop.

The surf shop is small and half-empty, smelling like sunscreen, board wax and rubber, with a rack of cheap sunglasses spinning beneath the ceiling fan. The guy behind the counter barely looks up from his phone when you ask for the bathroom.

“Back hallway,” he says. “Door on the left.”

You thank him and head toward the back, the floor creaking faintly beneath your sandals as you pass a dusty display of tourist keychains. The whole place is quiet except for the low hum of an old refrigerator somewhere behind the counter.

Then you hear movement from a room near the hallway.

A soft laugh.

You glance over before you think better of it.

Deran’s there.

So is a guy you don’t recognize.

They’re kissing in the half-open doorway of what looks like a staff room, Deran’s hand curled in the front of the guy’s shirt while the other guy smiles against his mouth. It only lasts a second, maybe less, but it’s enough to feel like you’ve walked into something private without meaning to.

For half a breath, your brain doesn’t catch up.

Then your foot catches the corner of a cardboard box stacked too close to the wall. The whole pile shifts, and something inside crashes loud enough to make your heart jump.

Deran jerks back immediately. Whatever was on his face a second ago is gone before he even turns toward you.

The other guy steps away fast, startled, one hand lifting toward the back of his neck while his eyes flick between you and Deran like he’s already trying to figure out how bad this is.

Deran doesn’t look at him.

He looks at you.

The colour drains from his face.

You lift both hands slightly.

“Sorry.”

It comes out quiet and useless.

Deran doesn’t say anything and you don’t wait for him to.

You turn back toward the front of the shop and leave, the bell above the door ringing too loudly behind you.

By the time you and Pope get to Smurf’s the following night, dinner’s already on the table.

Craig’s in his chair with a beer in one hand, talking too loudly about something Deran did while Deran sits across from him, expression flat and arms crossed over his chest. J’s near the end of the table, quiet as usual, picking at the fabric on the placemat while his eyes move around the room. Baz leans back beside him, making some comment under his breath that makes Craig laugh and Deran roll his eyes.

Cath and Lena aren’t there.

You notice it, but you don’t ask. The house feels different without Lena’s colouring book spread across the counter or Cath moving through the kitchen with that careful quiet you still haven’t figured out how to name.

Pope pulls out the chair beside him for you, then sits close enough that his knee brushes yours under the table. His shoulder’s warm beside you, the faint smell of soap still clinging to his shirt. You reach for your water, trying to settle into the room like you belong there, or at least like you aren’t waiting for Smurf to notice every breath you take.

Pope leans closer, voice low enough that only you hear it.

“You look good.”

Your mouth curves before you can stop it.

“You already said that in the car.”

His eyes move over your face, serious in that way of his that always makes simple things feel heavier than they should.

“Still true.”

You look down at your plate, pretending to care about whatever Smurf put in front of you. It’s easier than looking at him when he says things like that, easier than letting the room see how quickly he can get under your skin without even touching you.

Then his hand finds your thigh beneath the table.

Your fingers tighten around your glass for half a second before you force them to relax. Pope’s palm is warm against your skin, steady at first, resting just above your knee like it belongs there. You take a careful sip of water, mostly to give your mouth something to do besides react, and Pope notices. His thumb moves once, slow enough to be deliberate, and his hand slides higher.

You keep your eyes on the table.

Pope keeps his hand where it is.

Across from you, Craig reaches for the bowl of salad and knocks his beer with his elbow. It spills across the table before anyone can catch it, beer running toward the breadbasket while Deran mutters, “Fuckin’ hell, Craig.”

Pope’s hand stills against your thigh, his attention snapping to the mess.

Craig grabs a napkin and it only spreads wider.

“What?” he says. “It’s fine.”

“It’s on the table,” Pope says flatly.

“Yeah, that’s usually where dinner happens.”

“You spilled beer on the bread.”

Craig looks down at the basket, then back at Pope like he can’t believe this is a part anyone cares about.

“Jesus Christ, you’re even more annoying now that you brought your girl to dinner.”

Deran grabs the breadbasket before the beer reaches it and sets it near you instead. “Can you two not do this shit at dinner?”

Craig points at Pope with the wet napkin. “He started it!”

“You spilled a beer.”

You reach under the table and brush your fingers lightly against Pope’s wrist.

His hand stays on your thigh.

Smurf watches from the head of the table, her smile faint enough to pass for nothing.

“J,” she says, setting her glass down. “Where’s Nikki tonight, baby?”

J looks up, caught off guard by the attention.

“She’s, uh…” His eyes drop to his plate. “She’s not coming.”

Smurf’s brows lift slightly.

“No?”

J shakes his head once.

“We broke up.”

Craig pauses mid-drink. “Already?”

Deran gives him a look. “Don’t be a dick.”

Baz lets out a quiet laugh and looks toward J.

“Women, man.”

J doesn’t answer. He just keeps looking at his plate.

Smurf gives him a soft, sympathetic smile.

“Oh, baby,” she says. “Young love. Never meant to last too long.”

The words are for J, but her eyes drift briefly toward you before returning to him.

Pope’s fingers press once against your thigh.

“You’ll be alright,” Smurf says, reaching for her glass again. “Girls come and go.”

Baz lifts his brows, mouth curving before he takes a drink.

“Some more than others.”

Pope looks at him.

“Watch it.”

Baz lowers his glass slowly, grin still there.

“Relax. Wasn’t talking about her.”

“Bullshit.”

The table tightens around the word. Craig looks between Pope and Baz, suddenly interested, while Deran mutters something under his breath and reaches for his beer.

Baz holds Pope’s stare for another second before lifting one hand.

“Andrew,” Smurf says calmly, not needing to raise her voice.

Pope doesn’t look at her right away. His hand is still on your thigh, warm and unmoving, but the fight leaves him before he says another word.

Smurf’s smile returns, easy and sweet.

“Heard you got a job at The Pig,” she says, and just like that, her attention is on you.

“Yeah. I start Friday.”

“Good for you, sweetie.” Smurf reaches for the serving spoon, calm as anything. “Cath knew you needed the money?”

“She knew they needed someone,” you say.

Smurf hums softly, placing food onto her plate.

“Lucky timing.”

The table keeps moving around the exchange. But everyone hears it.

Pope hears it too.

Baz takes a drink, then glances toward you. “The Pig’s not bad. Tips are decent if you don’t mind drunk assholes.”

Craig snorts. “So, basically us.”

Baz smiles at that, but his eyes stay sharp for a second longer than the joke needs.

You pick up your fork, though your appetite has gone thin.

“Guess I’ll find out Friday.”

Pope’s hand stays on your thigh beneath the table. Lower this time. Safer, almost careful.

But that’s not where you need him.

Dinner keeps going around you. Forks against plates. Craig talking too loud. Baz speaking like nothing happened. Deran pushing food around his plate while J stays quiet near the end of the table.

Then Smurf reaches beside her plate and lifts a small ring of keys.

“Andrew.”

Pope looks up but doesn’t take them right away.

“I had the beach house cleaned up.”

“What for?”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time away from the hotel, baby.” Her voice is sweet “Thought you might like somewhere more comfortable.”

Craig leans forward. “Which beach house?”

“The one on Cassidy.”

Deran looks over. “The place with the shitty water pressure?”

Smurf ignores him, eyes staying on Pope.

Pope looks at the keys, then at her.

“Close by?”

“Of course,” Smurf says. “Family should stay close.”

Close.

She makes it sound harmless.

Pope takes the keys eventually, the metal disappearing into his hand.

Smurf’s eyes drift toward you.

“Especially when he’s got company so often.”

Pope’s fingers close around the keys.

“Thanks,” he says.

Smurf’s smile warms.

“You’re welcome, baby.”

A gift, technically.

A furnished beach house near the water. A place with walls, a bed and enough privacy to pretend it might belong to him. Maybe even to both of you, if you were stupid enough to believe anything from Smurf came without a string tied around it.

The hotel had been temporary. Anonymous. Easy to leave.

This is different.

This has an address.

This has Smurf’s fingerprints all over it.

You offer to wash the dishes later because you need something to do with your hands.

The house has settled into smaller pockets of noise. Craig and Baz are outside, their voices carrying through the patio door every few seconds. Smurf is in the living room with Pope close by, drink in her hand, pretending not to watch everyone while somehow missing nothing.

J appears beside you with a plate in his hand.

“Thanks,” you say, taking it from him.

He nods once, already turning like he expects that to be the end of it.

“You okay?”

J pauses.

Not long, but long enough.

“Yeah.”

The answer comes too quickly, just like it did at dinner.

You rinse the plate beneath the faucet and glance toward him.

“Sorry about Nikki.”

J shrugs, eyes shifting briefly toward the backyard when Baz’s laugh cuts through the glass.

“Wasn’t serious.”

“Right.”

He looks back at you then, catching the disbelief before his eyes drop again.

His mouth tightens. The feeling is there and gone before you can name it.

“People don’t usually get less complicated around here,” you say.

J’s mouth almost pulls into a smile.

“Noticed that.”

Then he leaves before you can say anything else.

A few seconds later, Deran appears beside you so quietly you almost drop the plate.

“Jesus.”

“Sorry.”

You glance at him.

He looks uncomfortable, which on Deran somehow makes him look younger and more annoyed at the same time.

You turn off the faucet.

“His name’s Adrian,” he says.

You lean back against the counter.

“Okay.”

Deran watches your face like he’s waiting for it to change.

“You gonna say anything?”

“No.”

His jaw moves slightly, like he wants to believe that and hates that he has to ask.

“It’s not my place,” you say.

Deran looks down at the counter, fingers tapping once against the edge.

“Yeah, well. People around here don’t really give a shit about what’s their place.”

You follow his gaze without looking toward the living room.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

Deran doesn’t answer right away.

Then he nods once, small and sharp, swallowing whatever tried to surface before it could make the room worse.

You pick up another plate and hand it to him.

Deran looks at it.

“What am I, helping now?”

“You walked over here.”

“Yeah, to threaten you.”

“Then threaten me while drying.”

He stares at you for a second before taking the dish towel from your hand.

“Just because you know doesn’t mean I’m your gay best friend now.”

You grin.

“Too bad. I was gonna invite you to brunch.”

Deran shakes his head, but the tension breaks. He dries the plate quickly and sets it down beside the sink, standing close enough that the silence between you feels easier than the one before.

After a while, he glances toward the living room where Pope sits with Smurf.

“He’s been different.”

You follow his gaze.

“Pope?”

Deran nods.

“Since he got out.” A pause. “Maybe because of you.”

You don’t know what to say to that, and Deran seems to notice because he looks back at the plate in his hand like he regrets saying anything sincere.

“Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t.”

“He’ll get weird.”

“He’s already weird.”

Deran snorts.

“Yeah. Fair.”

You find the bathroom near the hall off the kitchen, tucked past a wall of framed family photos and a narrow table covered in mail, loose keys and an ashtray already crowded with cigarette butts. By the time you finish washing your hands, the house has shifted again, voices moving from room to room.

You open the door and start back toward the kitchen.

Then you hear Smurf.

“…people talk in bars, Andrew.”

You stop before you mean to.

Her voice carries from the living room, soft enough that you almost miss the words beneath Craig laughing outside and the low thud of music coming from somewhere near the patio. You can’t see them from where you stand in the hallway, only the edge of the doorway and the warm spill of lamplight across the floor.

Pope says something too low for you to catch.

Smurf answers with a little hum, gentle and knowing.

“Catherine always knew how to look helpless.”

There’s a pause. You hear the faint click of Smurf’s lighter, then her inhale.

“That place has eyes,” she says. “Always has.”

Pope doesn’t answer this time. Or if he does, his voice stays buried beneath the house.

You stand there a second too long, trying to decide whether you heard enough or too much. The words themselves aren’t clear enough to hold onto, but the shape of them is. Smurf’s voice. Pope’s silence.

Then someone speaks behind you.

“You lost?”

You turn to see Baz leaning against the wall, one shoulder pressed to the faded wallpaper, a beer dangling from his fingers. He looks amused, but not surprised.

“I was looking for the bathroom.”

His mouth curves.

“Sure you were.”

You look past him toward the living room, but the voices have dropped lower now. Whatever Smurf’s saying to Pope has folded itself back into the house.

Baz pushes off the wall, enough for the hallway to feel smaller. His gaze moves over your face, and it makes something inside you go cold before he even opens his mouth.

“You think he’s different with you?”

You hold his stare.

“He is.”

Baz almost laughs, but nothing about his face is amused.

“Yeah. Bet he is.”

“Don’t.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the living room, then back to you.

“That what you told yourself with me too?”

Your stomach turns. He says it like there was ever anything between you worth comparing, like old access is the same thing as intimacy.

“You and I were never that.”

“No,” he says. “But at least we knew what it was.”

Something crosses his face before he turns it into a smirk.

“Yeah,” you say. “‘Til I found out about Lena.”

Baz’s smile thins.

“Don’t make yourself sound noble.”

“I’m not.” Your voice stays low. “I’m reminding you why it stopped.”

His jaw tightens. For a second, the hallway feels too narrow for both of you.

“At least we didn’t pretend,” he says.

You laugh once, quiet and humourless.

“Don’ stand here acting like you’re warning me because now you wanna care.”

His eyes narrow.

“You think I give a shit?”

“No,” you say. “That’s the point.”

Baz looks toward the living room again, jaw working once before his attention comes back to you.

“You really don’t fucking get it,” he says, voice lower now. “You think because he wants you, that means he picks you.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t look away.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to.”

He tips the beer toward the living room.

“Smurf found out Julia was pregnant. Made sure everybody knew where they were supposed to stand.”

His mouth twists before he continues.

“Pope loved Julia. We all did.” He looks down at the bottle in his hand, thumb dragging once through the condensation. “Didn’t matter.”

You think of Pope looking at the cupcake, the way grief had pulled his voice low. You think of Smurf saying my Andrew like a hand closing around his throat. You think of the way Pope went quiet at the table when she said your name like she was only being polite.

Baz looks at you then, and the charm slips enough for you to see the anger under it.

“He can want you all he wants,” he says. His voice goes flatter. “He can show up at your place, sleep in your bed, look at you however the hell he looks at you.”

He pauses, eyes cutting once toward the living room.

“But when she calls, he goes.”

You force yourself to hold his gaze.

“Maybe.”

Baz blinks, thrown by the answer.

“Maybe?”

“Maybe he does.” You glance toward the living room, then back at him. “But you don’t get to use Julia just to prove a point.”

His face goes still.

The reaction is small, but it's there.

“You didn’t save her either,” you say.

For a second, Baz has nothing ready. Then his mouth hardens.

“Neither did Pope.”

Smurf’s laugh floats out from the living room, soft and pleased, followed by Pope’s voice still too low to make out. The sound pulls Baz’s attention for half a second, and when he looks back at you, the old lazy smile is back, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ll learn.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But not from you.”

His smile dulls.

“For now.”

Then he turns and walks toward the patio, leaving you in the hallway with Smurf’s voice still slipping through the house.

You wait until Baz is gone before moving again.

By the time you step back into the kitchen, Pope is standing near the counter with Smurf beside him, his face unreadable.

His eyes find yours.

For half a second, you think he might say something.

He doesn’t.

Neither do you.

A few days after Smurf’s dinner, Pope drives you to the beach house.

It sits a few blocks from the Cody place, close enough to still feel like part of Smurf’s reach, but far enough away that you can almost pretend otherwise. It's a small beach house with wide windows and a deck facing the ocean. It’s the kind of place that should feel like a gift if you didn’t already know better.

It’s beautiful.

You hate that it’s beautiful.

Pope unlocks the door and lets you step inside first. The house smells like clean wood, salt air and something faintly lemon from whatever Smurf had someone use on the floors. The inside is already fully furnished. Couch. Bed. Towels folded in the bathroom. Dishes in the cabinets. Fresh sheets. Soap by the sink. Food in the fridge, lined up like somebody expected him to open it and be grateful.

Smurf thought of everything.

Pope stands near the living room window, staring out at the dark water beyond the deck while you wander slowly through the space. Every room is clean. Too clean. Too ready. It feels less like a house and more like an answer to a question Pope never got to ask.

“You like it?” he asks.

You look around the living room again, at the couch angled toward the window, at the lamp beside it, at the key still held loosely in his hand.

“It’s nice.”

Pope glances toward you.

“But?”

You walk into the kitchen and open one of the cabinets. Plates stacked perfectly. Glasses lined up. Nothing out of place. Nothing touched by him yet.

“Doesn’t feel like yours.”

Pope looks back toward the water for a second before setting the key down on the table. He watches you from across the room, the light from outside catching along his face.

“What would make it mine?”

The way he asks it sends warmth low through your stomach despite everything sitting heavy in your chest. He doesn’t say it like he’s asking about the house, but like he’s asking you to tell him where to put his hands.

You walk back toward him slowly.

“I don’t know.”

Pope’s gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts again. He sits on the couch and reaches for you without saying anything, hand finding your thigh once you’re close enough. His touch is warm and steady. Familiar now in a way that still manages to undo you.

“We could christen it,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Did you just make a joke?”

“No.”

“That was almost a joke.”

His mouth shifts, barely there.

“Don’t ruin it.”

You laugh softly, and the sound pulls his hand higher on your thigh. His fingers press once before he tugs you closer. You settle over him, knees on either side of his hips, and for a moment the house feels smaller. His hands move to your waist, holding you there like your weight over him is the first thing in the room that makes sense.

You brush your fingers over the side of his neck, feeling the pulse there.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I know.”

“That usually bother you?”

His hands tighten at your waist.

“Not when it’s you.”

The words settle low in your chest. You lean down and kiss him before he can look away from them. He responds immediately, mouth opening beneath yours, hands sliding around to your back and pulling you closer until there’s hardly any space left between you. The kiss starts slow, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. It never really does with him. Not when his body knows yours now. Not when every quiet thing he refuses to say finds another way out.

You tug his shirt up, and he lifts his arms just long enough for you to pull it over his head. Your hands settle against his shoulders, then his chest, feeling the strength beneath your palms, the heat of him, the faint scars and bruises you’re always trying not to look at too long.

His breathing changes when your nails drag lightly down his stomach.

“Bed,” he says, hands sliding under your thighs.

“Now.”

He lifts you off him before you can answer, one arm locked around your waist. You barely make it down the hallway before his patience breaks. He turns and presses you back against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make your breath leave you all at once.

Your head tips back against the wall as he kisses down your throat, slow at first, then less so when your fingers move into his hair. His hands go to the button of your shorts, working it open with a focus that makes your stomach twist. The denim slides down your legs with your panties, pooling somewhere near your ankles while you pull your shirt over your head and let it fall.

His hand rests against your stomach, thumb moving once beneath your ribs, like he needs to feel you breathe before he lowers himself in front of you.

One hand slides along the back of your thigh, lifting your leg over his shoulder. The wall is cool against your back, the contrast sharp enough to make you shiver when his mouth presses to the inside of your knee, then higher. He takes his time, even though his breathing has already gone uneven.

His mouth brushes higher, and your fingers tighten in his hair.

“Pope.”

His eyes lift to yours from between your thighs.

“Yeah?”

The sight of him there nearly breaks you.

“You’re taking too long.”

His mouth twitches.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

His hand tightens against your thigh, holding you open for him.

“Ask nicely.”

The words should sound smug. They don’t. Not from him. From Pope, they sound like restraint stretched thin, like he needs the last thread of control before he gives you what you both want.

You swallow.

“Please.”

His gaze darkens.

“There’s my girl.”

Then his mouth finds you.

Your head falls back against the wall, a broken sound leaving you before you can stop it. He groans low against you, one hand firm on your thigh while the other presses lightly against your stomach, keeping you there with him. Every time your hips move, his fingers flex. Every time his name slips out of your mouth, his breathing turns rougher.

“Fu—” you whimper, fingers dragging through his hair. “Pope.”

He answers with his mouth, with his hands, with the low sound that vibrates through you when you pull a little harder. Your leg trembles against his shoulder, and he notices, palm smoothing once along your thigh before he looks up again.

“Good?”

You nod too quickly.

His eyes narrow.

“Words.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “So… so good.”

The praise does something to him too, even when it’s yours. Maybe especially then.

He stands suddenly, mouth wet, eyes dark and heavy. Before you can catch your breath, his hands are under your thighs again, lifting you against him. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and he carries you the rest of the way to the bedroom, kissing you hard enough that you taste yourself on his mouth.

The bed is made too neatly.

You notice it right before he lays you down on top of the fresh sheets.

Then you stop caring.

He settles over you, one hand braced beside your head while the other slides down your body, slow and sure, like he’s trying to leave proof of himself in a room that still feels too much like someone else’s plan. You reach for his belt, but he catches your wrist and presses your hand into the mattress beside your head.

“Wait.”

You look up at him, chest rising beneath him.

“For what?”

His eyes move over your face, your mouth, your body spread beneath him on a bed he didn’t choose but clearly wants to ruin with you.

“Just wanna look.”

That stops you.

His gaze drops lower, and his hand follows, sliding along your hip, over your thigh, then back up again. Slow enough to make you ache. Careful enough to make it worse.

“You like looking at me?” you ask.

His eyes lift to yours.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Too much.”

You reach up and touch his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw. He goes still beneath it, just for a second, the same way he always does when tenderness finds him before he can brace for it. Then he turns his head and kisses the inside of your wrist.

“Come here,” you whisper.

This time he listens.

His pants come off quickly, dropped somewhere beside the bed with his boxers. He looks good like this. Too good. Bare and focused, hair messy from your hands, mouth still wet from you. You hate how badly you want him. You love how little it stops you.

He climbs back over you, nudging your legs apart with his knee. His forehead lowers to yours as he lines himself up, and the first slow push inside you steals the air from both of you.

Your eyes close as his hand catches your jaw, gentle but firm.

“Look at me.”

You open your eyes and see him right there, mouth parted, restraint written all over his face. He pushes in inch by inch, watching you take him, watching every shift in your expression like it matters more than his own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, voice rough. “Good girl.”

Your body tightens around him.

He feels it immediately. His eyes shut for half a second.

“Fu—”

The word breaks out of him, low and uneven. Then he starts moving, slow at first, his hands careful at your waist as if he’s still trying to remember nobody is going to take the moment away if he doesn’t rush. Every thrust pulls a sound from you, and he listens to each one, adjusting when your fingers press into his shoulder, slowing when your breath catches too sharply, giving you more when you whisper his name.

The room stops looking untouched after that.

The sheets twist beneath you. The headboard taps once against the wall. His mouth drags along your jaw, then down your throat, and the house fills with the quiet praise he gives you like he can’t keep it inside.

“Fuck,” he starts, mouth dragging against your skin. “Feels… so good.”

Your hands move over his back, nails dragging against his skin. He kisses you hard, then pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I got you.”

Your chest aches at the words, because he means them so much it almost hurts to hear.

After a while, he shifts, moving onto his back and taking you with him without pulling out. You end up straddling him, hands braced against his chest, both of you breathing hard as the new angle makes you shudder.

His hands settle at your waist and, for a second, he only looks at you.

“What?” you ask, voice unsteady.

His thumbs move against your skin.

“Like you like this.”

His grip firms at your waist, thumbs pressing into your skin, but he still doesn’t move you.

“Watching you take what you want.”

Heat rushes through you so fast it almost makes you dizzy.

You start moving over him, slow at first, letting your body find the rhythm while he lies beneath you, watching with that dark, unwavering focus. His hands guide but don’t force, fingers pressing into your waist when he needs more, loosening when you give it to him. Every time you sink down on him, his jaw tightens. Every time you lift, his breathing breaks a little more.

You move faster, chasing the feeling building low inside you, and he sits up suddenly, one arm wrapping around your back to keep you close. His mouth finds your collarbone, then the space between your shoulder and neck where he knows you feel it most.

The angle changes again. Deeper now. Closer.

“Fu—” The sound breaks off as your arms slide around his shoulders.

His mouth presses beneath your ear.

“Yeah?”

You pull him closer, forehead dropping against his.

“Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

His hips start meeting yours, thrusting up into you with the control he has left, which isn’t much. Not anymore. His hands move over your back, your waist, your hips, like he can’t decide where he needs to touch you most. You feel him losing the thread piece by piece, his breathing turning ragged, his mouth dragging over your shoulder between broken sounds.

“You close?”

“Yeah.”

His hand slides between you, fingers finding you again with the same focused pressure from earlier. Your whole body goes tight around him.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you.”

You come hard, nails digging into his shoulders as release moves through you. He follows seconds later, pulling you down against him with a rough sound buried at your neck. His arms lock around you, holding you through it, holding you after, both of you shaking while the house settles around the sound of your breathing.

For a while, neither of you moves.

His face stays pressed against your neck, breath hot against your skin while his hands slow over your back.

After a long moment, you lift your head.

“Think it’s yours now?”

His eyes open slowly.

He looks around the room, at the twisted sheets, your shirt on the hallway floor, his jeans by the door, the house no longer arranged exactly how Smurf left it.

Then he looks back at you.

“Getting there.”

Your mouth pulls into a smile as his hands settle at your hips again.

“Stay tonight.”

You brush the damp hair away from his forehead, watching his eyes follow your face like he’s waiting for the answer even though he already knows it.

“Okay.”

His arms tighten around you, just once.

The house stays quiet around you.

For the first time since you walked in, it doesn’t feel untouched.

Later, you lie in Pope’s bed with his arm heavy around your waist, his breathing slow against the back of your neck.

Everything should feel peaceful.

For the first time since you met him, he has somewhere that isn’t a hotel room. Somewhere with sheets that don’t smell like bleach and strangers, with dishes in the cabinets and towels folded in the bathroom. Somewhere that could become softer if the world ever gave him the chance.

But the room is too clean in the dark. Too unfamiliar. The furniture sits where someone else decided it should go. The walls hold no marks from him yet, no proof that he chose any of this except the fact that he’s sleeping in it now, one hand spread over your stomach like even unconscious he still needs to know you’re there.

His house, you think.

Then, almost immediately, the thought corrects itself.

Smurf’s house.

You think about her voice in the hallway, soft and sure as it reached for him.

People talk in bars, Andrew.

Catherine always knew how to look helpless.

That place has eyes.

You think about Baz catching you there, about the way he used Julia’s name like a warning and still somehow made it sound like grief. You think about Cath behind the bar, the way her hands slowed around the bottle when you mentioned Pope and Baz.

With Smurf, it’s always enough.

You think about Pope at dinner, his hand warm on your thigh while his voice stayed caught somewhere inside him every time Smurf said his name.

Behind you, Pope shifts in his sleep, his grip tightening slightly around your waist. The movement pulls you back into the room, into the bed, into the warmth of him.

You place your hand over his.

For a long time, you lie there with your fingers resting over his knuckles. Pope sleeps behind you, finally still. For once, the quiet seems to hold him.

chapter 3 | family dinner (PREVIEW)

A few months pass after Pope’s birthday, and somewhere in that time, he starts sleeping over more often than he doesn’t.

It happens quietly with no conversation. No moment where either of you looks at the other and decides this is what you do now. One night he’s leaving before sunrise, and then one night he doesn’t. Then another. Then another after that, until his boots end up by your door and his shirt gets left over the back of your chair and you stop being surprised by the weight of him in your bed.

The money changes the same way.

It doesn’t disappear completely. Rent still exists. So do groceries, bills and the ugly practical parts of staying alive. But it stops appearing after sex, stops sitting on dressers like a receipt for your body.

Now it shows up differently.

A pack of your cigarettes left on the counter after you run out. Coffee placed beside your hand in the morning, still hot, no explanation attached. A paper bag set on your kitchen table after you mention you forgot to eat, Pope standing near the fridge like he didn’t file the detail away and act on it.

Neither of you says anything about it.

It isn’t that you don’t need money anymore. You do. Desperately. But somewhere along the way, you stop knowing how to take it from him without feeling the shape of his hands after.

The money had made things simple in the worst way, but at least simple things were easy to name. This is harder. Pope standing in your kitchen after midnight with bruised knuckles and tension sitting sharp in his shoulders while you eat fries from the bag he brought over. Pope drinking half the glass of water you give him, eyes moving around your apartment like he’s checking the exits even here. Pope leaving his keys on your counter, his socks near your bed, his hand low on your stomach in the dark like he knows where it belongs but still doesn’t know how to ask for it.

Other nights, you still meet him at the hotel and try to pretend some part of the old arrangement is still there. It never works for long. Not when he looks at you too much after. Not when his fingers brush your wrist before you reach for your clothes. Not when there’s no cash on the table anymore and both of you know exactly what its absence means.

On the nights he isn’t beside you, your body notices before your mind is ready to admit anything. You hear a car slow outside and glance toward the window. Your phone lights up and your stomach moves before you read the name. You wake in the dark reaching for warmth that isn’t there, annoyed at yourself for getting used to something you were never supposed to count on.

This is still an agreement, you remind yourself.