wheels up in thirty.

“Andy, we have a one-year-old who loves to make a mess with all of her toys and food. This morning, before Deran picked her up, she squeezed her applesauce packet so hard that it splattered all over the dining room light fixture. I had to clean it up while you were at Home Depot. So now that it’s clean, with no Gerber all over the place, I would like to savor a clean home,” you tell him, and grab the wet cloth in this hand that smells like his body wash and hair products. His sweat rag. You put it in your back pocket, then return your eyes to his. “That includes your dripping body. Even though it is a very appetizing sight.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” he whines and, in one swift pull, presses you against his chest. “It’s hot out there, and I need a break.” 

“I’ll bring a fan over with a cup of sweet tea,” you say, and keep waddling over the barrier between your cold wood floor and the warm summer concrete. 

He shakes his head and bites down on his lip. “Not that kinda break.” 

You raise a brow and jut your lips out. He kisses you again, and you can taste the saltiness of the sweat coating his face. “You can’t wait until you’re not soaking anymore?” 

He shakes his head. “Nuh-uh.” 

“Then maybe –” you continue, leading him to the playmat you set out for Cami’s eighth month, which she stopped caring for when her cousin, Nick, spent the majority of her first birthday party sitting on it – “We can spend your break right here.” 

Once you’re both standing on the large mat, you reach down and unbutton your jean shorts. You pull them down and step through them, and toss the fabric onto the lounge chair a few feet away. You then sink to your knees and fiddle with the buttons of your tight button-up shirt. You can pull it over your head, but you’re aiming for dramatics and sexiness. You’ve found a way to lose a bit of baby weight – taking long walks on the beach and helping Andrew with home renovations – but your boobs have begun sagging due to breastfeeding, and there remains a pudge of loose skin from pregnancy. You haven’t felt as attractive as you’d like, so fingering each button loose and unsheating your tits from the warm fabric has your panties dampening. 

Andrew’s chest rises and falls dramatically as you do this. He looks down at you with a blossoming boner and a face you only get when you’re turning him on: widened pupils that absorb his hazel irises, and pursed lips he futily hides his smirk with. 

You extend your hand and grab his index and middle finger. “Get down here, Andrew.” 

He doesn’t wait another second. With his right hand, he unbuttons his tight black jeans and pulls them down. He’s left in his boxer briefs and drops to his knees so you’re facing one another. “You look so beautiful,” he murmurs, as though the entire world can hear him – even though your house is isolated; even though your neighbor is a mile away, and no one really passes by this road. He grabs your boob and fondles it. He twists your nipple, and you gasp, just as you did when he tracked sweat into your home. 

“Do I?” you say between moans. He nods and now wraps each hand around each boob, kneading them as though they were dough. He pulls your flesh towards him. “Come here, let’s have sex. Ride me, beautiful, please.” 

You follow his requests and slowly push him onto the blue mat. You pull his boxer briefs down his legs, letting his hardened, red cock strike his stomach, dripping pre-cum into his happy-trail. You climb over his legs, your cunt already contracting for him. 

You sink onto his lower belly, his cock pressed between your lips. You grind on him, and he groans – the sound coming out from deep in his throat, sounding like agony fading into pleasure. You grab his hand and place it over your breasts, placing his index finger and thumb over your nipple, showing him exactly how you want to be touched. It’s been this way ever since you stepped into the sexual territory of your relationship a few years ago. He would ask you to show him exactly how you wanted to be touched, beg you to tell him what to do, and let you throw him around however you pleased. He was never the one twisting and turning you around, telling you to get on your knees and suck him off, or wait for him in little-to-nothing once he got back from a job. He never enjoyed taking the dominant role, and upon learning that, you gladly took the reins — guided by his critique, of course. 

You grind onto his cock through your panties for a few minutes, fondling his sweaty pecs while he fondles your breasts. You stop once Andrew shuts his eyes and turns his head onto the now-hot mat. 

“Want me to ride you now, Andy?” you ask. 

He nods, opens his eyes and mouth to moan, “Yes.” 

You pull your panties to the side and drag his cock down to your dripping hole. You slowly sit down, and you both moan into the sweltering air as you begin rocking your hips back and forth. You don’t fuck him harshly or beg him to lift you and do all the work of hammering into your pussy. It’s also rarely like that with Andrew. When you’re intimate, you opt for passion and depth – both literally and mentally. You understand that he’s had traumatizing experiences with sex due to his mom and Baz, sometimes his younger brother, Craig. His mother would pay hookers to come to her house and fuck him. Baz would pay strippers insane amounts of cash to seduce him into fucking them. And he’d always do it. He felt forced; he felt as though he had to prove something. Masculinity? Sexuality? That he was mature enough to handle anything thrown his way? He fought each situation with force because that’s who he was: strong and fucking insane, according to Smurf. 

It took you a while to understand Andrew. You didn’t have sex until three months into speaking to one another, and it was exactly like losing your virginity to someone who was also a virgin. Even if you kept stopping to chuckle, or hum ‘uhhh’s’ every ten seconds, or teaching him how to have sex rather than fuck, it was amazing. You spent this time understanding his wants and needs in an extremely vulnerable position, and it dramatically transformed your relationship. You had gone from seeing one another to being with one another until the end of time after that moment. 

Andrew only grabs your hips, bends his knees, and slowly strokes into you when your entire body is soaking in sweat from fucking him. He pushes in and out of you as deep as he can – and you both come seconds later, when his cock hits the most sensitive spot inside of you over and over again. 

Once your orgasms wash over you, you drop your body over his like a weighted blanket. Andrew wraps his arms around your back and holds you, his cock still buried inside of you, while cum leaks out of your cunt. 

“Stay here,” he whispers into your ear. “I like this – how you feel around me.” 

“You sure that’s what it is, or you just want another baby with me?” 

Pope remembers when he met you for the first time, June 1st 2012. You were eighteen and bright-eyed, happy, smiling. Precious. Catherine needed time to herself, needed help with little Lena, two years old at the time and you were there. The babysitter. 

            He met you when he went over to talk to Baz about a job and found that Baz and Catherine were out and you were there, holding Lena on your hip. 

            “Hi,” you had said, your expression concerned, drawn together, suspicious, your body put between him and your charge, the door not entirely open. “Can I help you?”

            “I’m looking for my brother, Baz,” he had replied and your eyes had narrowed in that analytical way you have, the one he didn’t know then, but he grew to know. Grew to love. “Where can I find him?”

            “Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell have gone out. They won’t be back for a few hours. Should I take a message?” You were perfectly polite, but all he’d done was shaken his head, angry at the stone wall you’d put up, the impenetrableness of the force which you created. 

            “I’ll be back later,” is all he’d said, storming off, walk rigid like always. He’d been told by his brothers that he didn’t walk like a human and when he’d reached his car, he’d glanced back, noticing the door still open. You were watching him, making sure he left, protective of Lena. Of the girl you were tasked to look after. 

            That was the first time he met you, but it was not when he fell into deep, sickening love, a kind of love that others would call obsession, stalking. That time came later, after you’d been introduced to him by Catherine and Baz and he became Mr. Cody, someone okay to be around Lena. 

            You were always there, watching over Lena, your laugh always echoing, infectious. A college student, he’d been told. One studying science, but no one ever told him what science, only that you were quite good, quite skilled at what you did. What you were studying. He could sometimes see you doing complicated equations while Lena scribbled with crayons. 

            But he did not fall into his love (obsession) until October 27th 2012, a date seared into his memory. He’d been tasked with checking on Lena, a task from Smurf who didn’t like Catherine and he knew that you were watching her, most likely at the park. 

            He’d shown up, lurking in the trees, watching as you played with Lena in the sand, pushed her on the swings, looking for all the world like a young mother or older sister. There was just something about you that made him feel you truly cared for the girl. He watched and he felt something shift inside of him, like the compass in his chest that was always steered to Catherine now steered towards you. 

            You’d looked up at that moment, your body haloed by the sun, attention on him. You had noticed him and waved him over, calling out “Mr. Cody!” Lena had grown excited and he complied, standing there awkwardly, standing there unsure what to do, unsure what to say the way he always was. 

            He did not know intimacy. He did not know love. He knew what had paid for, had been purchased, bought, and expected of him. He did not know what it felt to have someone entirely his to be someone else’s entire. He knew what it was liked to be used, forced and hurt. 

            He knew heartbreak. 

            But you made him want more. You made him want love. Especially because as Lena fell asleep against you, the three of you sitting on a grassy knoll, watching the birds as you explained that Lena liked to do, you had been at peace. You had not been scared of him, ashamed. You had felt comfortable, safe. 

            And you read him like an open book. 

            “You’re in love with Cath,” you had whispered and he remembers that he looked at you with shock, surprise. You had smiled at him, the kind of smile that came from being used to people’s surprise. “You don’t hide it, Mr. Cody,” you continued, the smile turning sad. “I just wish more for both of you.”

            “What do you mean?” he had asked and you sighed, your hand stilling on Lena’s head from where you had been smoothing down her ever-growing dark hair. 

            “I mean that Cath deserves someone who loves her wholly and you deserve to love someone capable of loving you back, Mr. Cody.” He had wished that you would call him Andrew, called him by his name, but it seemed like you were incapable of that, a line drawn between professional and personal. Except for Cath, it seemed. 

            “You call her Cath,” he had said, unsure of how to ask, unsure of what to say and you had looked at him with softened eyes and a smile, one nostalgic. 

            “Because she asked me too,” you’d whispered. “She said that I’m more like Lena’s older sister than her babysitter and that I should call her Cath.” He had wanted to ask you what would happen if he asked you to call him Andrew, but he understood then that he was not Cath. That Cath was Cath and he was Mr. Cody, a line forever drawn. 

            But he didn’t want that line there. He just wanted you. You as his and he as yours. A part of him thought you wanted that too. 

            And then he fell headfirst into loving you, learning your music preferences, your favourite colours and foods and days. It didn’t matter, what you loved he knew about. He just wished that he made it onto that list. 

            When he was arrested in 2013, you were the person he thought of, cared about. Worried for. You visited him once at Folsom, a backpack on your shoulders, your body tense and rigid as you stepped into the visiting room, putting the phone to your ear as he did the same on the other side. 

            “I heard Mr. Blackwell and Deran talking about you being here,” you had said and he’d swallowed hard at your words, at this admission that he mattered enough to you for you to do that. “I thought I’d come by.”

            “Why?” he’d asked, watching as your face shifted, shuttered, eyes darting around, refusing to settle on him. 

            “Because I figured no one else was.” It was true, the truest truth he’d heard since…well, ever and it did not surprise him that it came from you. You seemed honest to a fault. “And Lena wanted me to tell you about her ballet recital.” You had pulled your phone out, putting the screen against the dividing wall so he could watch as his niece toddled around the stage in a glittery blue costume. “Made the costume myself,” you’d told him and he felt his heart pound and pound and pound harder and harder because you were so…perfect. 

            You came every so often for a visit, some update about Lena over the three years he was away, but you mainly wrote him letters, keeping him apprised of her daily life, but never you. It was still a line drawn between you and him and what you could be. 

            But in the walls of Folsom, he pretended that the wall did not exist, spoke of you to the inmates as his wife. His, his, his, his, his. He wanted you to be his. So badly. 

            When he got out, the first person he went to was you, your apartment number burned onto his mind and he stayed in the rental vehicle he’d gotten, watching you through your curtains, watching as you moved around. Alone. 

            Blissfully alone. 

            He knew then, that night, his first of freedom, that you would be his. 

            He just had to wait until the time was right. 

            “Are you crying?!” Lena cries, standing up from the couch, her little face twisted into an expression of shock and disgust, hands on her slim hips. 

            “No,” you lie, looking away, your hands pressing against your eyes, moving from in to out, wiping away your tears. 

            “You so are! Why? That movie’s just weird,” she says and you can hear her grab her glass from the coffee table, small feet making a surprising amount of noise as she stomps to the kitchen. 

            “The Notebook is not weird, you little gremlin!” you call out, your voice teasing despite the thickness still there. The movie reduces you to tears every time, the way that love wins and yet it doesn’t. The way they fight for their happy ending and yet lose it so quickly. 

            “He’s so obsessed with her!” Lena calls out and you roll your eyes, untangling your legs from one another and the fluffy blanket you’ve curled up under, planting your feet flat on the hardwood floor, pushing up to a stand, grabbing the popcorn bucket and your glass, walking through the living room, back towards the kitchen, the movie’s credits still rolling. 

            “And what?” you ask, stepping in, walking to the sink while Lena pulls a bottle of water from the fridge. “What’s wrong with him being obsessed with her like that? I think it’s romantic.”

            “He never moves on,” Lena says, her spare hand held up, index finger of her right hand, the one currently wrapped around the bottle ticking down the reasons, folding each finger. “He, like, falls apart and is all unkempt because she’s gone—”

            “He did survive war too, you know,” you interrupt, but she waves you away, silencing your protests with an enthusiastic wave of her hand. 

            “He builds the house for her,” she says. “And he fights to have her even when she’s marrying someone else!”

            “That doesn’t count!” you exclaim, turning from her to the sink, running some water in your glass, the one that held you cream soda. “She wasn’t in love with him. She loved Noah the whole time too.”

            “Yeah, but,” Lena continues, “she was moving on. And Noah ruined it! Besides! Lon’s way cuter!”

            “You take that back!” you cry, spinning around, eyes wide as they settle on the child who has completely and totally destroyed your faith in humanity. “Ryan Gosling is way hotter than James Marsden! That rain scene, man!” Lena’s laughing so hard that it’s more a cackle, her seven, nearly eight year old body, convulsing with her laughter while you roll your eyes, leaning back against the kitchen counter, hands splayed flat on the cool, smooth granite. 

            “I just,” she says, now that she’s calmed down, “think it’s creepy how in love with her Noah was. You know.”

            “I don’t know,” you muse. “I think it would be romantic to have someone…willing do to anything for you—like the house. I think…ah, man, I think I would want that.”

            “You’re weird,” she says, tone flat and thick black brows drawn together, her expression so stern and serious that it’s now your turn to laugh, the kind of laugh that starts deep in your stomach, rumbling through you. 

            “Yeah,” you tell her, amidst the laughter. “Don’t listen to me, kiddo. Now, go get ready for bed.” She runs past you, up to the stairs, her feet padding on the carpet noisily despite the fact that it’s carpet and she’s no more than 60 pounds soaking wet. 

            You can’t help but laugh again, the sound more of an exhalation than any real laugh, as you run some water in the sink, adding soap, knowing that Mr. Cody prefers his house clean, obsessively so. 

            A part of you wonders what would happen if you didn’t bother to clean, what he would say, but you know there’s no use going down that path, even if you sometimes wish that he would speak to you. Look at you. 

            But that line of thinking leads nowhere. 

            It’s best to just close it down. 

            Pope’s heart is in his throat, pulsing and pounding erratically, his lungs tightening and clenching, constricting and burning. He heard you, those words I think it would romantic to have someone willing to do anything for you…I think I would want that still echoing around him, surrounding him, choking him. 

            He’s been waiting for the right time, the right way and here it is. He just has to show you that he’ll do anything for you. 

            And he can do that.

            The club is loud, music pulsing in the air, almost in a way that you can see, the sound so loud, more noise than music. Your friends are laughing, yelling at each other just to be heard over the music, but you’re quiet, hand turning your glass in circles, a single shot of tequila downed. You’re not much of a drinker, never have been, preferring to stay present in your mind. Preferring to stay present. 

            “YOU OKAY?” Jonathan yells, his voice still just barely audible as you turn to him, shrugging. 

            “IT’S TOO LOUD,” you reply and he nods, looping his arm through yours, his touch gentle and kind, sweet in his way. Jonathan is sweet though and pretty, bright green eyes set in skin the colour of toffee, dark hair curling down his forehead and a smile even and pretty. Not crooked in the slightest. Not like…nope, you won’t go there, not even in your own mind. 

            “Better?” he asks, pushing out of the club, the autumn breeze cool and crisp, tinged with cigarette smoke and car exhaust, yet still better than the sweat and alcohol smell of the club that mingles with mildew and broken leather. 

            “Much,” you tell him, sighing and leaning against the brick wall of the club, your head falling back against it, a buzzing in your jacket pocket. “One sec,” you tell him, walking a ways away, pulling your phone out, noticing LENA in all caps on your screen. “Lena?! What’s wrong?”

            “Uncle Deran fell asleep before he could help with the bedtime routine!” she cries, her voice thick and pained and you sigh, your eyes closing for a minute. The bedtime routine became sacred after Cath left, an open sore, her disappearance still a question of what? Where? Who? When? Lena needs to see her door close, needs to know someone is there, the way Cath isn’t. 

            You wanted a single Saturday night to yourself, with friends. You wanted to have fun, to return to a world that wasn’t full of the Cody’s and the Blackwell’s, but rather the life you could have had if you had never accepted the babysitting gig that your friend, Elizabeth, skipped out on seven years ago. 

            You wanted to forget and be someone young. You wanted to act your age. But you just can’t get that. 

            “Hey, I have to call it a night, Jonathan,” you say, tucking your phone into your pocket after assuring Lena that you’ll be there, just wait for a bit, you’ll be there, always. 

            “What’s wrong?” he asks, hands tucked into his jean pockets, cheeks darkening from the cold. 

            “My…Lena needs my help,” you tell him, your lips twisting into an apologetic smile, but he shrugs, eyebrows rising. 

            “I could give you a lift and then, you know, when you’ve helped her…maybe you and I could grab something to eat or…something,” he says and you can feel something inside of you, some kind of feeling that you don’t entirely know rise as you nod and he smiles, a bright kind of smile. 

            “That sounds good,” you tell him, mind only half here, the other part on Lena and who was supposed to be watching her. 

            Why wasn’t Mr. Cody there?

            Where is he?

            Did Lena lose another person again?

            You fumble with the keys that Mr. Cody gave you, the ones needed for the days that you pick Lena up or for the occasional times that you have to take her somewhere and lock up and unlock it again to come back. 

            They’re slipping through your fingers, chiming and clinking against one another as you finally slot it into the door, unlocking first the deadbolt then the knob, twisting the handle and pushing the door open. You step into a quiet house, still except for the sound of snores coming from the couch. 

            Deran, the fucker. 

            “Deran!” you hiss, closing the door behind you with more force than necessary, delighting in the way he jumps on the couch, hissing shit in a startled voice, head swivelling until he sees you, standing, arms crossed, no doubt a seriously pissed off look on your face. 

            “What are you doing here?” he asks you, blinking, sleep still heavy in his eyes, in his voice. 

            “I’m here because Lena called me, fucking crying because you fell asleep before the bedtime routine could happen,” you hiss, watching as realization dawns on his face, his hand coming up, scrubbing down his face as he murmurs “shit” for a different reason now. “And where the fuck is Mr. Cody? He’s supposed to be here watching Lena.”

            “He left real fast. Said he had to check on some girl,” he answers, his voice becoming more alert as he sits up and you grit your teeth together, turning to dart up the stairs, taking them two at a time, conscious of the fact that Lena’s up there, she’s sad and scared and her routine has been thrown out of order. 

            “Lena!” you call out when you reach the second floor landing, pushing open her partly closed door to see her sitting on her bed, face stained with tears. “Lena,” you whisper, “let’s do the routine, okay?”

            “Okay,” she whispers, standing and walking over to you, her face brightening at your presence. “You look fancy,” she says, “were you out with a boy? And did he look like the love of your life Ryan Gosling.”

            “Oh ha-ha, little one,” you say and she giggles, heading across the hall to the bathroom to rewash her face and brush her teeth, but in truth…Jonathan kinda does look like Ryan Gosling. But even as you think that, you swallow hard because that’s not exactly what you want. You want someone older, you want someone rougher around the edges who never looks at you and is awkward and someone you should never want, but do. Someone with dark auburn curls and hazel eyes…you blink, refocusing on the here and now and the nice boy waiting for you who has never seen the inside of a prison. 

            “Okay,” Lena says, bounding into her room, her face clean and words trailing minty breath. “I’m ready.” She runs across the room, leaping onto her twin bed, disturbing her piles of stuffies, tucking herself in as you cross the room towards her, kneeling down and smoothing the hair back from her face. 

            “I miss, Mommy,” she whispers and you can feel something crack inside of you. Something you’ve kept inside, locked up tight. 

            “She was a good woman,” you whisper, feeling tears in the back of your throat as you press a kiss to Lena’s forehead, tucking her blanket in tight all around her and rising, swallowing hard. Lena really does look like Cath, does carry that bit of her. 

            “She liked you,” Lena says and those words threaten to bring you to your knees. 

            “I liked her too. She was my friend.” Lena nods, satisfied with your answer before snuggling deeper into her blanket, eyes still open, watching as you click off her lamp and walk to the door, pulling it closed while you mouth good night. You know as the door clicks shut, the light flipped off that now she’ll fall asleep. Because she saw you leave. 

            You didn’t disappear in the dead of night. 

            You draw in a deep breath, shaking your head against the onslaught of tears that threaten you, bounding down the stairs preparing to rip Deran a new one, except…the living room is empty. You glance around, seeing nothing of Deran, instead just Mr. Cody standing there in the entrance way, his hazel eyes on you. 

            “Where’s Deran?” you call out, watching as Mr. Cody walks towards you, his presence making your mouth go dry and you swallow hard, his walk like that of a predator. 

            “I sent him home,” he says, his voice husky, rough. Dark, in a way that you like but wish you didn’t. You shouldn’t like him; you can’t like him. You are nothing if not professional. 

            “Well,” you say, nodding once and moving to step past him to the door. “I best let you get on with your night. Lena’s all tucked in, Mr. Cody.” You begin to walk, but he catches your wrist, his fingers calloused and warm against your skin in a way that feels good, feels nice, but no, stop that. You can’t think that way. 

            “It’s late,” he says. 

            “I know,” you answer, keeping your gaze trained straight ahead. “But I have a ride waiting for me outside.”

            “The boy?” he asks, his voice darkening, deepening. Primal in a way, if a sound can really be primal, which, you think it can. 

            “Yeah, Jonathan…why?” you ask, feeling a small bit of fear like ice creeping up your spine, goosebumps spreading along your skin. 

            “I sent him home,” he says and you can feel his breath on the back of your neck and you know his body is far too close, but you also don’t want him to step away and god, you’ve always had that line of professionalism, but this man…since Cath disappeared, he’s been the best with Lena and you never expected to feel anything for him, but…you do. 

            “Why?” you whisper and then he’s tugging on your wrist, turning you around, pulling you against him, his broad chest against yours. 

            “Because it’s late,” he whispers, his words actually rumbling through his chest, echoing into your body. “Because you’re already home.” You swallow hard at his words, at the way he’s just said that this…his home…is yours too. 

            It’s not like you haven’t stayed here before on nights when you’ve been told that no one will be watching Lena and you’re needed for a few days, but calling it home…that’s different. That’s making it seem like he likes you, that he caresfor you. 

            “I’m not home,” you whisper, looking down at the ground where the toes of your shoes are against his. You forgot to take your shoes off in the rush to get to Lena and you never do, but he’s forgotten too. 

            “Eyes on me,” he says, two fingers under your chin, tipping your head up, your gaze landing on him because how could it not? Everyone else is afraid of him, but how can they be, when he’s kind and caring and sweet and he’s quiet. He doesn’t just speak what’s on his mind, he looks at a room and decides what to do from there and god, professionalism. Professionalism, you remind yourself even as his proximity is fraying the last of your control because his lips look reallysoft and kissable. 

            Oh god, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?

            His stare is unrelenting, tracing every part of you as if he expects to find some damage on you, but you’ve been safe all night. 

            “Why were you gone, Mr. Cody?” you whisper, noticing the way his jaw tightens at your words, the way his eyes darken and the grip on your wrist tightens. 

            “Andrew,” he spits out, “call me Andrew.”

            “Why were you gone, Andrew?” you ask and he drags his fingers from under your chin to trace your lips, the digits replaced by his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip, a pressure that has a fevered feeling growing beneath your skin. 

            “I was watching someone,” he whispers, his voice husky, watching every bit of your face for a reaction. For a response. 

            “Who?” you ask, the word just slightly muffled by his thumb digging into your lip. 

            “Who do you think?” he asks and Jesus Christ, has his voice always been this hot, this capable of getting a reaction out of you? And you really need to leave now, really need to get going, but with the way he’s looking at you, the closeness of your bodies, you press your thighs together, hoping he doesn’t notice. 

            But of course he does. 

            Because he’s Andrew fucking Cody. And he notices everything. And really, where does he get off on ruining your professionalism, on breaking that line you’ve built, a tentative wall? Where does he get his attitude? And what deity decided that making your boss look like that was fair?!

            You hate your life right now, but also not because as he presses his body against yours, the hard lines of his body fitting against the soft lines of yours, you realize that everything you’ve imagined is not even close to reality. 

            God did not make everyone equal because Andrew Cody might be the hottest man in the entire world and you are so fired if you don’t end this now. 

            “I have to go!” you blurt out, pulling back and sliding your wrist from his hold, running from him to the front door, but he’s faster than you, putting his body between you and the door. 

            “No,” he says. 

            “Why?” you ask him, swallowing hard feeling both serious lust and fear inside of you, the two warring together and yet working together at the same time too. 

            “Because you said you wanted this,” he whispers and you can feel confusion added to the choking mix of emotions, your throat tight, lungs burning and chest constricting, heart pounding, pounding, pounding almost as odd a beat as “Edge of Seventeen”’s drumbeat. 

            “Wanted what?” You don’t want the answer, you’re slightly afraid of it because you really don’t know what he’s talking about, only that he’s blocking an exit.

            “Someone willing to do anything for you.” His words ring in the room where just yesterday, in the kitchen, you mentioned that to Lena, how you thought Noah was romantic and Jesus! He was there the entire time. 

            “That’s…that’s out of context,” you tell him, blinking fast, trying to see him while also not see him at the same time. 

            “What context did I need?” he whispers, stepping towards you, steps slow and quiet as if he’s afraid that you’re a doe he’s about to startle before he can get off the killing blow and should that idea really turn you on as much as it does? “Because I would do for you anything that Noah did for Allie? You want a house like he fixed for her because I’ll do it, sweetheart. I’ll do anything for you.”

            “What?” you whisper, confusion winning out over fear because those aren’t the words of someone who only wants one thing. Those are the words of someone in love. Those are the words of someone who wants you for more than sex. 

            “Don’t you get it?” he asks and honestly, not really, because this is the most he’s ever spoken to you before. “I’m in love with you. Completely in love with you.”

            “You don’t talk…to me,” you whisper, turning from him, from the words he’s saying that sound pretty and honest but at the same time like lies and you walk, your shoes dragging against the hardwood floor, your steps slightly off-beat towards the kitchen, the tile floor. 

            “What was it that Noah said?” you hear Andrew whisper behind you. “‘So it’s not gonna be easy. It’s going to be really hard; we’re gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, every day. You and me…every day.’”

            “What did you memorize the movie?” you whisper-yell, spinning around, taking note of his relentless proximity to you. 

            “Maybe,” he whispers and the sheepish expression on his face has you laughing, but not a laugh built of humour, more of someone delirious and surprised and horny, yeah, horny too because he has no right to look that good. 

            You can feel your knees giving way, this night having been too much, too much and you slide down the counter, the handles of the cabinet digging into your spine as you sink down, your head landing in-between your knees. 

            “June first,” you hear him say, his body landing beside yours. “Twenty-twelve. The first day I met you.”

            “What?” you whisper, your head pressing against your left knee as you tilt your head, looking at him. 

            “Yeah,” he says, “I was looking for Baz, but you were there, Lena on your hip, watching me until I disappeared.”

            “No way you loved me then,” you whisper, your arms wrapped around your knees, body folded into a self-contained unit. 

            “No,” he agrees. “That came later. October 27th 2012. You invited me over when I was lurking and I fell in love with you because you were the first person not afraid of me and you talked to me. And I didn’t want to live without that. And then…you visited me in prison and wrote me letters…and…you love me too. I know you do.”

            “Mr. Cody,” you whisper, but he shakes his head, eyes darkening again. 

            “Andrew,” he hisses, “call me Andrew.”

            “You’re my boss,” you cry. “I can’t be with you. That breaks every moral and ethical code I have!”

            “But do you love me?” And for once, you fall silent, the answer in you truth, the answer resting on your tongue a lie and you don’t like to lie. 

            “I knew it,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours, his hands pulling you, shifting you, your body coming to rest on his lap, straddling him as he kisses you relentlessly. He kisses like he stares, deep and dark and predatory. It’s not a battle or a conquest, but a claiming, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip, his tongue controlling yours, sliding along it and leaving you breathless, his hands everywhere, hips moving up into yours, the bulge pressing into you, telling you just how much he wants you. 

            “Andrew,” you whisper, pulling back from his lips as best you can, his hand on the back of your head, holding you close to him. “We can’t do this. Lena’s home.”

            “I’m sick of people telling me what I can’t do,” he whispers, voice low and dangerous and so unfairly hot. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

            “Andrew…” He’s kissing you again and you don’t want to fight this. You don’t want to stop, you want this closeness, you’ve wanted this for so long, but you need assurances. You need to know that this isn’t going to ruin the babysitting job. “Pause,” you murmur against his lips and he listens, his head falling against yours, forehead pressing against you, eyes on you. 

            “What?” he asks, his voice not curt, but concerned. 

            “What does this mean for me? You’re my boss, Andrew,” you whisper and then he’s shifting again, rising, pulling you with him and shoving your hips into the counter, the granite digging into the small of your back, his body pressing into you, caging you in. 

            “Be Mrs. Cody,” he whispers, one hand tracing your face with a feather-light touch. “Be Lena’s aunt…just,” he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder, “be mine. Please.”

            “I don’t have a ring,” you whisper, “but alright.” And then he’s lifting his head and looking at you, deep and dark and now you understand that expression he’s been giving you for years: love. He does love you. 

            Then his lips are on yours again, tongue sliding along yours as he guides you up the stairs, his hands firm on your hips, guiding even as his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, to the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth sinking down onto it, your gasp muffled as you bite your tongue, skin fevered. 

            He pushes you down the hall, to the very last door and inside, shutting the door with his foot, hand leaving you. You can hear the lock flip and then Andrew is walking you back to the bed, his hands drifting to the front of your hips, fingers pulling open the button of your cutoffs, undoing the zipper and they drop to the floor. You step out of them and you want him now, want this relentless ache and throb to end, but he’s someone who seems to savour, his mouth trailing over your neck, teeth sinking into the skin every few minutes, tongue lashing out to soothe the bite marks. 

            He pushes you back, your body landing on his bed and he’s rough, but at the same time gentle as he kneels on the ground, sliding your underwear from off your hips, down your legs, set aside. He pauses for a moment, folding your cutoffs and underwear, setting them aside, his room obsessively neat, something you appreciate. 

            “God,” he whispers when he turns back, lifting your legs onto his shoulders, “so pretty.”

            “Andrew,” you whisper and he looks up at you, eyes black with desire. “You’re too dressed up.” He stands, taking his shirt off and god you wish you’d said nothing because who made him look like that? He’s too attractive for his own good. It’s highly unfair. 

            He unzips his jeans, folding them and his shirt, setting them in a pile beside yours, boxers still on, just like your baggy shirt is still on. He kneels again, a coil in your stomach tight, yet not tight enough, your legs on his broad freckled shoulders. He presses a kiss against each side of your arousal slicked inner thighs before, pulling you closer to him, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe from your entrance to your clit, the fucker locking eyes with you the whole time. 

            He knows exactly what he’s doing and where the fuck did he learn to do this? Because the way he circles your clit with his tongue, doing figure eights, his one hand sliding along your thigh, long fingers slipping along them, into the space between. He teases two fingers between your folds, scissoring them apart before plunging both of them inside of you, sinking them up to the knuckle and scissoring you open before pulling them out, knuckles dragging along your walls. 

            “Jesus—Christ!” you cry as he continues to finger you, tongue never stopping its ceaseless rhythm on your clit, little figure 8s which stop every time that he pulls his fingers out, rather his tongue pressing against your clit, against the swelling pearl. “Andrew! Fuck!”

            You can feel his chuckle against your clit, your pussy and you want to hit him, but also not because that coil in your belly is winding tight, tight, tighter and it’s about to burst and his mouth and hands are really unfairly good at what they’re doing right now. You’d hate to mess up his—rhythm. 

            He has four fingers inside of you at this point, all his extremities pumping in and out of you at a faster and faster pace, knuckles dragging down your walls one by one, each finger leaving you at different times, his index finger the last to leave always, the slowest drag against your walls, stimulating every part of you that it touches. 

            It’s not long before he has you coming apart, your orgasm ripping through, that coil snapping as he pushes all four fingers in again, his tongue pressing against your clit. He holds his fingers still while your cunt trembles with aftershocks. 

            “I’ve got you, sweet girl,” he whispers against you, his breath causing you to hiss as he pulls the four fingers out of you, slipping them in his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes locked on yours as he steps out of his boxers, cock hard and the tip leaking, a bead of precum sitting on top, sliding down, a vein bulging. 

            “Andrew,” you whisper, “how’d you get so good?” He comes to sit beside you on the bed, pulling you up, holding you, his lips on yours for a moment and the kiss is sinful and oh so hot because you can taste yourself on his tongue. 

            “When they…” he looks down at his hands for a moment, “when they paid for women to sleep with me, I learned what they liked because I…I never liked anything.”

            “Andy,” you whisper and his head jerks to yours, “what do you like?”

            “You,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours again and your body is flat on the bed, his cock teasing between your folds, kissing against your entrance as his tongue slides along yours and he murmurs, you, you, you into your mouth. 

            He slides his cock from your entrance to your clit like he did his tongue, circling your clit with his tip once before sliding back down and pushing inside, sinking into the hilt with a single thrust. He moans at the feeling of you all around him, a kind of whimper that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but it is. 

            “You’re okay,” you whisper when he pulls back from the kiss, his eyes closed. “Keep going, Andy. Use me.” And he does, pulling out and slamming himself back in over and over in a brutal rhythm that has your entire body moving with each thrust, his mouth hot on your neck. 

            “You’re so perfect, sweet girl,” he says, his words slightly unclear, but you know what he means, can hear it, the tip of his cock slamming against your cervix. “Gonna fuck a baby into you. Give Lena a cousin, maybe?” He’s hesitant in his words, but you nod and he looks up at you.

            “Go ahead, Andy,” you whisper and his pace picks up, relentless and punishing and delicious, his one hand on your waist, the other resting on your mons, thumb circling your clit, drawing you to orgasm at the same time he does. His release is thick and hot inside of you, cock pulsing and then he’s collapsing beside you, his body pulling yours tight against him and you’re not aware of much, except that he pulls the covers over the two of you and you fall asleep to his kiss against your neck. 

            “Good night, Mrs. Cody.”

            “I knew it!” Lena screams the next morning, taking in the sight of you and Andrew both in the kitchen, making breakfast, your body in his clothes, a ring on your finger that he went out and bought for you. “You’re gonna be my auntie!” And then her stick arms are around you and holding tight. 

            “Yeah, bug,” you whisper, your hand smoothing down her hair, the pancakes in the pan, “I am.”

            “And hopefully,” Andrew chimes in, “you’ll have a cousin soon.”

            “Andrew!” 

            Lena giggles when you hit him with the oven mitt and his response is to press a kiss against your cheek and you feel a contentment you’ve never felt before. 

            Because…wasn’t this what you wanted all along?

            You think it is. 

───﹒♡﹒─ chapter 40 ─﹒♡﹒───

“Nice. And dirty.” You finished securing the strap of your high heeled shoe, standing up from the ottoman at the foot of the bed to walk closer. “Certainly nothing you’d have any complaints about,” you all but whispered, holding his gaze in the reflection as you pressed a slow kiss behind his ear. 

“But,” you added, back to your normal volume as you stepped back, guiding him to turn and face you, still giving you that self satisfied smile as your hands ran over his broad shoulders, smoothing wrinkles in his suit jacket that weren’t there, “if you try to bail on me and send me to this thing alone…” You clicked your tongue derisively. “Well, I might just never talk to you again.”

Jack laughed, a full chest laugh that made you smile, his hands resting on your hips like they belonged there.

“Never again?” he repeated, only grinning, eyes creased at the corner, when you gave him a solemn nod. “Three years just gone like that? You’d move out tonight if I don’t go drink warm punch with people you spent a few years with as a teenager?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Definitely. And I would miss you so so dearly, especially with how handsome you look right now. So pretty please come with me so I can still come home with you.” You batted your eyelashes at him dramatically, giving him a sweet smile while he chuckled. It was never a real question and you both knew it. Jack would fly with you to New Zealand that night if you truly asked him to. He would drop everything for you, and would never miss an opportunity to make you happy. Even if it meant wearing a suit and standing around with people almost 20 years his junior, pretending it didn’t make his skin crawl to see them look between the two of you and do the math.

“Well, when you put it like that…” he drawled, his smirk giving way to a fond smile as you tugged him down by his shirt collar to kiss him sweetly. He gave you a softer smile when you parted, lingering in each other's space.

“Why do you even want to go to this thing anyway?”

You exhaled something between a scoff and a laugh, taking a step back and turning from him to focus on putting on the earrings Jack had gifted you for your birthday a year before he’d finally asked you out. In hindsight, you could understand why Ahmad and Donnie had started betting on when one of you would buck up the nerve and make a move. They needed the levity after watching you inch closer and closer for so long, all the while starkly refusing to admit your feelings. You could still remember the looks your coworkers would give you when they got stuck in a room with you, ranging from intrigued to downright uncomfortable as you danced around the obvious truth.

“Want might be a strong word for it.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “That does nothing to answer my question.” You paused, still holding one earring in hand as you turned towards him. 

“Because,” you said, quieter than you’d been since you’d first told him about the invitation weeks before. “No one in high school ever thought I’d turn out to be much. They made my life hell, spreading rumours behind my back, pouring stuff on my lunch so I couldn’t eat it.” You waved your hand dismissingly, letting out a small sigh. “All sorts of stupid stuff. Apparently one of them even started telling people I died a few years back.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open into a small oh, dark eyebrows raising. It took a lot to surprise him between his time abroad and the hours he spent undoing some of the dumbest and most tragic accidents Pittsburgh could offer, but the pedantry of teenagers was something he never got used to. Even if the evening marked fifteen years since your graduation, it made him wonder what you might be walking into. Some people never grew up. He knew that better than most, spending his nights regularly tending to the wounds of so many people who swore they had a great idea in the moment, just to sober up in the ED full of regret.

You nodded, a tight lipped smile doing its best to hold back your frustration. 

“How did you die?” Jack asked it so carefully, like your fake death was a tender subject, that you couldn’t help but laugh. He looked so somber when you glanced up at him that your laughter only grew, until he was frowning at you and acting crosser than he was. 

“I have a right to know,” he chastised, still acting stern. “I think I’ve earned that after three years. To think you went and died and didn’t even do me the decency of telling me. It’s rude, that’s what it is.”

Your laughter quelled, leaving only a breathy smile full of love for the goofy man before you.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you promised cheekily. “Next time I’ll make sure you’re the first one to know.” Jack’s frown deepened at that, and he shook his head. “Next time? Oh no, you’re not dying again anytime soon.” He stepped closer, arm wrapping around your back and leaning down to press a firm kiss to the side of your head as you secured your second earring.

“What kind of doctor would I be if I lost you?” he murmured, speaking close enough to your ear to send goosebumps down your arms. 

You hummed, trying to stay focused and not get lost in his charm. 

“Still a pretty damn good one, baby.”

He made a discontent sound, ducking and pressing one more kiss to your cheek before retreating to a wall of your shared bedroom, leaning back against it with his hands in the pockets of his dress pants. The sight just about drove you wild.

“C’mon, then,” he prompted, head tilted back so he was looking down the bridge of his nose. “How’d you die?” The corner of his mouth twitched, adding on “So I can be more prepared for next time.”

You twisted a ring on your finger. Your hands felt fidgety, and you knew he noticed, his calm, level gaze dropping to your hand for a moment before returning to your face. “They said I was in a car accident.” You rolled your eyes, taking a deep breath before trying to get the next words out. “They said I was drunk and hit a stop sign, or a building, or a school bus full of children, whatever. The story varies at that point from what I know.” 

“Jesus. How’d you find out about this?”

You smile wryly. That was the best part of the story. “Someone sent my mom a condolence message on Facebook.”

Jack barked out a laugh.

“Right?” you exclaimed, laughing despite yourself. It was all so ridiculous. “And they didn’t even know me! I think we just had biology together or something and tracked her down.”

Jack blew out a deep breath of air. His burly arms crossed over his chest, not sure how to file away this new information about your fake death. Despite his mixed feelings about the idiocy of youth, he gave you a crooked smile, almost looking impressed as he exhaled a soft laugh. “You sure know how to keep things interesting, sweetheart.” You grinned, struck just again by how much you loved him. Most people would be disturbed to hear about your teenage years, and you couldn’t exactly fault them. But to Jack, it was just another thing to take in stride, only mattering if it mattered to you. He would listen, and learn, making sure he knew how to support you without judgement. Nothing was ever too much for him, not even close. Not when it was you.

“Thank you, I try,” you joked, giving a small curtsy and almost tripping when the fabric of your dress clung to you. Jack’s hands were on your arms before you had a chance to fully stumble, stabilizing you and giving you a fond squeeze before letting one hand slide down to hold your own.

“Anyone tries any of that shit tonight, you tell me,” he said sincerely, all signs of teasing gone. “You’re not a teenager anymore. They can’t get you.”

You breathed out a short laugh. 

“Damn right they can’t.” You smiled up at him, a determined set to your jaw. Those people had taken enough from you, and you were done letting them. You took his hand in your own, raising it to your lips and pressing a soft kiss to his calloused palm, your heart fluttering at the soft look in his beautiful hazel eyes as you pressed it to your cheek. His thumb ran over your cheekbone. 

“Besides,” you continued, giving him a teasing smirk, “anyone who tries anything next to my certified hunk of a boyfriend who could probably deadlift anyone we meet tonight is just asking for trouble.”

Jack laughed hard, his shoulders shaking and a few silvery curls slipping down to rest on his forehead. You brushed them back, returning the easy smile he gave you, full of love and joy. 

“Maybe ten years ago,” he conceded, cupping your cheek in his hand, his smile widening as you leaned into his touch. “But now your hunk of a boyfriend would rather just carry you around. Preferably home.”

You pouted, toying with the collar of his dress shirt. “But you look so handsome.”

His eyebrow raised. “And I’ll stop being handsome when we come home?” You scowled at him, almost breaking your fake annoyance when he looked so happy with himself, a small crooked smile pulling at the corner of his lips, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Unfortunately for me and my productivity, you’ll always be handsome, Jack.” He dragged a hand over his scruff, palming at his cheek where more and more hair grew in white instead of the dark gingery-brown it was when you first met him. He didn’t care usually about the change, and you went above and behind to make sure he never forgot how desirable he was, but public appearances still made him nervous sometimes.

“Stop fussing with it,” you chided softly, cupping your hand over his against his cheek. “It looks good, baby. Stop worrying, please.”

His eyes dropped from yours with a heavy sigh, shoulders deflating slightly.

“People might talk.” His voice came out softly, the same even tone he almost always had. Straight to the facts, even when they were inconvenient. You knew him well enough to hear what he was saying behind the words. People might see you together and make snap judgements on who he was, who you were. They might discredit your relationship before even knowing him, seeing just the creases on his face and the tinge of silver that crept into more and more of his dark curls by the year. 

You refused to give them the satisfaction of caring.

“So?” Jack’s eyebrow raised, chin tilting down so he could give you an odd look.

“So, people might think less of you,” he explained, calm enough that it hurt your heart. “Or they might go after you again. Why give them any more ammunition? Things were hard enough for you back then.”

You stepped closer, smoothing your hands over his shoulders.

“Because I’m happy now.” Jack blinked, but some of the tension eased from his shoulders. “I’m not scared of them anymore, Jack, and I want to do this for myself, to prove that I can face them. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to-” “I’m coming,” he cut in, certain and looking at you like you were crazy to even offer. “As long as you want me to, I’m there. You’re not alone this time.”

“I know,” you promised, holding his eye contact easily. “I’d never be alone, even if you weren’t there with me. And I do want you there, the same way I want you to go grocery shopping with me or to run to the post office with me. You make things more fun.” A small smile flickered onto your face, ducking your head slightly. “I might also have a small evil ulterior motive,” you confessed, slightly sheepish. 

Jack hummed inquisitively, the beginnings of a smirk playing on his lips. Usually when you referenced being evil it entailed him and a state of undress.

“And what would that be?” he asked smoothly, voice just a touch lower than usual. You could feel heat creep up your cheeks at the small difference, your body responding before your mind had the chance.

“Maybe I want to show off my sexy boyfriend.” He grinned, a faint pink creaking up to stain his ears and the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made your heart do somersaults. “My sexy doctor boyfriend,” you corrected, nuzzling into his neck and peppering his pink skin with kisses and the occasional nip of teeth. You pulled back just enough to kiss him once, firm and passionate, smiling breathlessly as he chased after you when you pulled away.

“That okay?” you checked, heart hammering at the sight of him so breathless and flustered, dark eyes hooded and hungry.

He nodded, grinning crookedly.

“No complaints here, sweetheart.” He held your chin, pressing one more slow kiss to your lips, only pulling back when your lungs screamed for air. “But we might want to get a move on,” he murmured, voice low and rough as he smirked against your lips. “‘Cause I can only see you dressed up for so long before I need to take this dress off, stunning as it is.”

Walking into the high school felt all too familiar. The harsh fluorescent lighting was the same as you’d left it, eerily similar poster boards lining the hallways painted in your school colors. It was as if no time had passed at all, the Spirit Board frozen in time, only the faces in the photographs changed. 

And yet everything was different. The halls felt wider, no teenagers shouldering past each other, clustering up along the walls or locking lips against the lockers to the chagrin of their neighbors. You could practically hear the idle chatter, the squeak of sneakers and distant sounds of metal lockers slamming shut.

You didn’t duck your head as you walked down the hall now, scurrying from class to class and stepping out of people’s way like you did as a teenager. You moved through the thin crowd of people easily, faces familiar but aged slowly recognizing each other as they found their names prepared on adhesive nametags on a table pushed along the wall. 

Jack followed you as you moved, trailing half a step behind you, his hand in yours anchoring him to you, as if you would get swept away if he didn’t watch you closely. He picked up your name tag for you, smoothing it over the material of your dress and joking that he wasn’t important enough to earn a nametag. You quipped back that he could have brought his hospital ID badge from home if he was really worried about it, and he chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before following you as you led him through the school to find the gym, where the actual reunion was being held.

You were barely ten feet into the large room when a familiar voice stopped you, calling out your name from a few feet away. You turned, an apprehensive frown already on your lips as you pivoted to face the woman. Your heart thudded in your chest, and you took a steadying breath, reminding yourself that things were different now. Who knew? Maybe she was different now. Maybe she had grown a heart. Nothing was impossible.

“Oh my god,” the woman said, eyes dragging up and down your body with wide eyes, her jaw dropped open as she stared incredulously. “Look at you, all dressed up!” She giggled softly, a manicured hand coming up to tuck a shining lock of hair behind her ear. She was still bleaching her hair, you could see. Frustratingly, it looked amazing, flawless waves falling down around her shoulders. “God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in heels before,” she commented, head dropping to the side as she spoke in a chipper tone. She was overly enthusiastic in the way only people who wanted something were, her smile blown larger than life and movements overdone just slightly. 

Jack cleared his throat beside you, his warm steadying hand pressed against the small of your back, and you glanced up at him. His brows pinched for just a moment, the hard line of his mouth set as he silently asked you if you were alright. You gave a weak smile back, shifting slightly closer to him, and his jaw set, his focus shifting back to the woman before him. 

“Hannah!” you chirped, plastering on a fake smile. You glanced down at your dress, hands smoothing over the material, suddenly hyperaware of the cling of the fabric against your skin and how different it was from your jeans and hoodie you’d stuck to in high school. 

“Yeah, I’ve kind of branched out more since graduating,” you joked. “Guess my experimental era came a little later than most.”

Hannah chuckled, eyes sliding past you again to sweep over Jack. You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to stay calm. You’d expected the way her eyes swept over him, her smile, while pretty, not quite reaching her eyes. Hannah had always had a sharp quality to her that was hard to place, hidden under sweet tones and veiled compliments.

“Wow. You are…not what I expected when I heard our little valedictorian was bringing a date.” Her head tipped slightly to the side as she appraised him, eyes continuing to slither over his sharp suit, one hand (with nails painted to match her shoes, of course) holding her plastic cup while the other folded across her chest, one hip popped out. She hummed, ignoring the way Jack shifted slightly under her gaze, his eyes flicking to meet yours though he refused to cede any ground to her. 

You could feel a familiar prickling under your skin, her gaze feeling like X-ray vision that could see right through you, just to poke and prod at the perfect spot to make you fall apart.

Jack shifted closer, an arm coming up to casually wrap around you, one warm hand resting on your hip as he pressed you against his side. He didn’t look away from Hannah, but the familiar weight of him provided a comforting feeling, keeping you grounded while unease churned in your stomach.

“Well, I’m as surprised as you are,” Jack joked, only the edge of his mouth tipped upward as he teased. “She could have anyone, but she keeps me around anyway.” He turned to look down at you, his smile coming easier when he saw the way your face warmed and you couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “Still, if that’s her only lapse in judgement, I don’t think we can fault her too much.”

He turned back to Hannah, offering her a small nod instead of a handshake.

“Jack Abbot,” he said, offering a tightly-lipped smile. 

Hannah beamed, her nails tapping against the side of her plastic cup as she looked him over. “Hannah Sampson,” she replied, standing just a bit taller. Her gaze moved to you, barely turning her face towards you, staying firmly planted with her spotless heels facing Jack.

“And of course, you know me,” she added with a small chuckle. “Or at least you did. Who’s to say after all this time if that really counts anymore, right?”

You laughed weakly. You had the feeling you knew her better than you would ever want to.

“So how’ve you been?” Her voice was overly sweet, patronizing like she was talking to a small child who wouldn’t understand her if she used a normal tone. 

You glanced at Jack, your hesitant smile growing into something more sincere as you found his soft hazel eyes.

“Things have been good,” you said, still facing him. The corner of his mouth twitched, and your chest warmed. “Really good,” you added, fully grinning as you turned back to Hannah, ignoring the skeptical squint of her eyes. “I did what I said I would, went off to school and got my degree. Met this wonderful man and somehow got him to agree to a date-”

Jack looked offended. “I asked you out,” he corrected. You only smirked, shrugging as you leaned against him, your shoulder pressing back into his chest. 

“Excuse you, I clearly remember us hanging out on the roof talking until the sun came up.” 

He rolled his eyes, a sly smile tugging at his lips.

“During our shift,” he drawled. “Don’t think an HR violation classifies as a date.”

You grinned, snaking an arm behind his back, between his dress shirt and blazer, relishing his warmth as you pressed more firmly against his side.

“You sure have a way of putting a damper on things,” you teased, leaning up to give his scruffy cheek a kiss. He bit his lip to keep from smiling, only humming in response, and you turned back to Hannah, giving her an apologetic smile. 

“Anyway,” you chuckled, satisfaction pooling low in your gut at the disbelieving look on her face, like she was sorting out a puzzle only she could see. “Yeah, things are going great. We’re even talking about getting a cat together.”

Jack chuckled, the warm sound vibrating through his chest and into you. 

“Oh, we’re going to,” he confirmed, as if the decision was already made. For him, it was, and who were you to deny your love another creature that would love him as much as you did.

“Aw, how cute,” Hannah chimed in, lip jutting out in a pout. “I’ve always been more a dog person myself, but I’m sure a kitty will love you.” Her gaze moved over you, one lazy pass that felt more like an appraisal than true sight. “Should have pegged you as a cat lady.”

Her words should have stung, and maybe on a different day, they would have. But not here, not now, with Jack’s steady hand on your hip and the idea of the two of you curled up in bed with a little furball purring on his lap. 

You shrugged. “Probably, yeah. But Jackie here is the true cat dad.” You looked up at him, already able to picture him fawning over a little kitten tumbling over itself, or a senior cat who curled up beside him as he read his novels, glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose and that adorable crease between his eyes as he got lost in the words.

“I’m a lover of all animals,” he countered, but you clicked your tongue. 

“You know you’re a cat person, baby. You can love lots of animals, but you know what you are at heart.” You tapped his chest with your palm, right over his heart, your grin widening at the way he squinted fondly down at you, smiling despite himself.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

His eyes were soft as he looked down at you, and your chest warmed. He always looked at you like that, and it took you a long time to learn to accept it, to accept him and the steady, gentle love he offered like second nature, correcting you softly when you even thought of brushing off the myriad of wonders he saw in you.

“Don’t I know it,” you teased back, pressing closer to him and giving his jaw a chaste kiss.

You managed to muddle through a couple more minutes of conversation with Hannah without tripping over your words too much. You were pleasantly surprised to find your confidence only grew the longer you talked. She asked about your career and how you were handling the high stress of emergency medicine, giving a tight smile and a clipped congratulations when Jack jumped in for you, insisting that you took to the chaos like a fish in water, always knowing where to be just in the knick of time. She asked if you still managed to see your family, managing to drag up your siblings’ past issues with anger management and substance abuse. You didn’t miss the fierce gleam in her eye, hiding behind her honeyed tone as she tutted about how sad it was to see them washed up so young, and how her heart had just broken for you in high school to come from such a background. Jack’s grip on your hip had tightened slightly, but he let you fight your own battle with your head held high. Her smug smile slowly curled into something closer to a snarl as you told her that, actually, you saw your family often. That one sibling had sought treatment for their mental illness that had gone undiscovered, and that while another still struggled, you’d learned to set healthy boundaries and only help when asked, no longer offering more than you had to give. 

You’d laced your fingers through Jack’s, never feeling more loved than you did when he looked at you with such pride.

“My parents are actually coming to visit us in a few months. They say they’re coming to see me, but I have half a mind to think they just want to see Jack.” You chuckled, not caring about the pinched expression Hannah wore when Jack laughed beside you. “Don’t even try to deny it,” you warned him playfully. “You’re their favorite in-law and we haven’t even made it official yet.”

Jack’s smile only grew, something in him softening at the promise of a forever together, of being an official family.

“Yeah, we’ve gotta get on that.”

He grinned as your face warmed, pressing your face into his shoulder to hide as your heart almost burst out of your chest just to get closer to him. You needed some air if you were going to make it through the night without dragging him off to a broom closet and kissing him stupid. 

You regretfully separated from him, hating every inch of air between you, even as your cheeks burned and your head swam with dizzyingly happy thoughts.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go grab some punch.” You flashed Jack a teasingly shy smile. “For some reason, it’s feeling warm over here.”

He hummed, looking very pleased with himself. He gave your hand one final squeeze before dropping it.

“Can you grab me some too?”

You grinned. “I was already going to.”

You weren’t gone for long before Hannah followed you. You could hear the quiet click of her heels on the linoleum flooring drawing nearer as she slid up next to you while you surveyed the small banquet someone had put together. Pre-packaged cheese spreads, hummus that was already room temperature, and cookies from the local bulk supply store. Not bad for whatever pittance of a budget the student council was working with.

“So, how old is Jack?” Hannah smiled sweetly when you glanced up at her, acting like she was just making polite conversation and not prodding at your relationship like she hoped to topple it like a house of cards.

You shrugged, head turned back down as you considered grabbing a snack while you were by the table. You eyed the brittle looking cookies on display before deciding against it. The fruity scent of the punch drifted through the air, and you were craving sugar to soothe your nerves, more than any number of mass-produced cookies could provide. You wanted to kiss whoever thought to bring an ice bowl to set the punch over. It was the only thing that stayed cool in the gym that always had a way of running humid. You grabbed two cups from a stack at one end of the table, having to tear through their plastic sleeve to free them when they caught. 

“Does it matter?”

Hannah shifted slightly on her heels, a small hum coming from the back of her throat.

“It’s just…Well…Isn’t he a little old for you?” The hair prickled at the base of your skull, a hot wave of anger flooding through you. There it was. The criticism hiding behind the guise of girlfriendly concern.

“That’s rich coming from you,” you muttered, head downturned as you ladled punch into your two red solo cups. 

Hannah let out a surprised laugh, a haughty high-pitched noise that got stuck in the back of her throat.

“Excuse me?”

You grimaced, collecting your cups and looking up to see her giving you a scandalized look.

“And what exactly does that mean?” she demanded, the obnoxious charms on her bracelet jingling as she put her hand on her hip. You wondered absently how much the whole thing cost. Five hundred dollars? A thousand? Two? Who even cared. It was all the same to her, just another jewel in her crown to flaunt around, a subtle flash of silver and diamonds to remind everyone who she was and what she had.

“It means,” you said, louder and sharper than you’d intended, “that I remember you getting awfully close to your piano teacher back in the day. Which was funny, given how much you bombed at Jennifer Chase’s birthday party. How old was he anyway? Thirty? And I know he was married, because my cousin was friends with his wife.” A slight pink rose to Hannah’s cheeks, matching the tone of her dress perfectly, though you’d never admit it. 

“I was drunk at that party,” she stammered out.

You nodded. “Oh yeah, you were plastered. But not before your boyfriend showed up with the keg, remember? Which was after you snuck off when you realized maybe your instructor exaggerated a bit when he told you how naturally gifted you were.”

Hannah shifted on her heels, tossing her head to the side to flick a stray strand of long hair out of her face. Her lips were pursed, eyes icy, her nice girl mask gone, just it had been all those years ago.

You could still remember her cheerily wishing you have a good weekend as you spilled out of class, just to corner you on the bleachers during lunch, her sweet smile gone as she sneered at you and your second hand backpack covered in pins and patches you’d sewn. 

She wore the same expression now, sneering at you from her three-inch heels, but this time, you looked back, refusing to flinch.

“I’m not the one who brought my sugar daddy.” 

You froze, everything stilling around you as a storm churned within you. 

She really just said that. And what’s worse, she said it with absolute, snide conviction, convinced she’d dealt the final blow, as if it was glaring obvious there would only be one reason you could be interested in Jack.

“You know what I think?” You weren’t sure where your calmness came from, but your voice came out cool and collected, only your blazing eyes showing your fury. You didn’t wait for an answer. “I think you’re miserable. I think you poke and prod at other people and try to tear them down because you feel small, and you think no one can hurt you if you’re the one doing all the hurting. But you couldn’t be more wrong about Jack. You could never hurt him, and you can’t hurt me either, because I have him on my side.” You stepped closer without realizing it, everything you’d held onto for all these years finally flowing out of you in one moment.

“Jack is a good person, better than me and damn better than you. He’s smart, and kind, and empathetic, and you know that he’s attractive. I don’t need to tell you that, you can see it yourself, and we both know you’ve been checking him out since we walked in.” You couldn’t stop, finally seeing her frozen in place for a change, her pretty eyes blown wide in shock. “You just can’t stand that someone like him loves me because you think that you’re better than me. But the truth is, you’re not. You never were. And Jack does love me, more than anyone ever has. So you’re going to shut your fucking trap about my man, because just because he took an oath to help people doesn’t mean that I won’t knock your teeth out if you say one more mean thing about him.” You scoffed, suddenly realizing she didn’t even know he was one of Pittsburgh's best doctors. 

“Oh, yeah, and he’s a doctor, by the way,” you added, just to rub salt in the wound. “So I’m gonna go join my hot, successful, wealthy, and kind as fuck boyfriend and tell him for the hundredth time today how much I love him. Feel free to feel bad for me as much as you want. I’ll see you in five years if I don’t let Jack convince me to stay home next time. And he can be very persuasive when he wants to be.”

You clicked your tongue as you picked up your two cups of punch, giving her a fake sympathetic look before striding across the room, head held high and heart hammering in your chest.

Jack’s eyes brightened when he saw you approaching, a small smile tugging at his lips without realizing it. He accepted the cup you held out to him, and had it raised halfway to his lips when you nudged his arm aside, stepping into his space and placing a needy, hungry kiss on his lips. He grunted in surprise, brow furrowing at the sudden act, but kissed you back, his free arm wrapping around you and supporting your lower back.

“What was that for?” he asked breathlessly when you pulled apart, lungs screaming for air. His voice was low and gentle, soft eyes probing you for answers. 

You only sighed, taking his free hand in yours and taking a small sip of your punch. It was overly sweet, enough to feel it in your teeth.

“More than I could ever say. You regret coming with me yet?”

He raised an eyebrow, expression staying level and flat. “Sweetheart, this is nothing. In fact, go ahead and RSVP me as a plus one for the 20th reunion.”

You scoffed out a laugh. “Ooh, you planning on sticking around for another five years?” you teased. You knew the answer, you could see it written on his face every time he looked at you, like you were the only thing worth truly seeing. 

“I’m not that old, sweetheart.”

You laughed. You took another sip of your punch before setting it on a nearby table. Your hands found his, and you gently tugged him, giving him just enough time to set down his own drink before you were dragging him with you towards the dance floor. The music played quietly over the speakers, a mix of music that was popular during your high school days mixed with whatever hits played on the radio.

“Come on, Jack, dance with me.”

Jack grimaced for a moment, stilling before you could fully pull him over.

“I’m not much of a dancer, honey.”

You quirked a brow at him. You stepped closer, settling against his chest with your arms slung around his neck while his hands settled on your hips. 

“You’ve done much more difficult things than awkwardly dancing with me.” 

Jack frowned, handsome features distorting as his brow furrowed. 

“You know you don’t have to,” you added, turning serious. “Talk to me, Jack. What’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours?” 

He looked away, jaw working once as he gathered his thoughts. 

“I’m not exactly graceful.” He said it quietly, voice coming out low and rough, like it pained him to say no to you. “Don’t want to step on your toes.” You laughed softly. Your hand found his cheek, gently turning him to meet the eyes you wanted to look into for the rest of your life. 

“You think I care about grace? Jack, this is a high school reunion, not Dancing with the Stars. And who cares, trample me if you want. I just want to dance with the man I love. God knows I’d probably step on your toes too.”

Jack hummed a small laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Less of a risk of it hurting me,” he supplied easily. “Less toes.”

Your head dropped to his shoulder when you laughed, resting against him like it was second nature. You barely even noticed when he started to gently sway from side to side, moving you along with him until you were dancing.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his neck, turning to press your cheek against his shoulder. “For everything tonight. And all of the last three years and however many we have together. I love you Jack, so much.”

He dipped his head until his nose grazed your hair. He pressed a soft kiss to your hairline, his warm breath tickling your scalp. 

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

You raised your head just enough to catch him in a kiss, slow and sweet. 

“Will you dance with me again someday?” Jack hummed softly, eyes soft and steady as he looked down at you. 

“One day.” “It’ll be good practice,” you pointed out softly. “We’ll have to dance together again at some point, and as much as I’ll always love our clumsy kitchen dancing, we might want something else for the scrapbook.” You smiled sweetly, unable to help the happy chuckle that bubbled out of your chest.

Jack smirked down at you, hazel eyes glimmering with fondness. 

“You saying I can’t do the chicken dance at our wedding?” he drawled.

You laughed again. “You can do whatever you want at our wedding,” you retorted, “but I’d prefer if our first dance was a little more put together than that.” “So save it for the second dance then.” You grinned, nodding happily as his grin finally cracked. “Honestly, I can’t think of anything more fitting for us.”

Jack laughed through his nose, and the smile he gave you was so soft, so open and caring and him that it made you want to propose right there in your old high school gym, even without a ring to offer. 

“I’ll learn how to dance for you,” he said after a moment, voice low and rough, sincere to the point of not caring how he sounded, as long as you were in his arms, swaying with him to the bad pop song playing. “I’ll get a better suit.”

“But this tie,” you requested, toying with the knot he had tied at his throat. 

His smile only grew, breathing out a short laugh. “Of course, sweetheart. Your tie.”

He rested his forehead against yours, drawing you closer and letting out a soft sigh as your fingers carded through his hair. 

“I’ve been waiting to hear back from the jeweler,” he admitted softly. “Would have asked you by now if I could have. He had some family emergency, had to push back the date.” He frowned, big brown eyes looking so apologetic it broke your heart and made it beat faster all at the same time. “Wanted to ask you on our anniversary. Had a whole plan, but he wasn’t ready. Didn’t want to rush him when we have time, but…I wish it could have happened sooner,” he finished quietly.

You knew it was coming. You had known for a long time that Jack was your one and only, the man you wanted to grow old with, and he made his thoughts about you just as clear. When he’d started taking closer notice of your jewelry a few months before, noting if you preferred silver more than gold, or wore sleeker pieces rather than showier ones, you knew it was fast approaching. Even your anniversary plans had clued you in, and you were surprised when the night ended curled up together without new titles for each other. You hadn’t had it in you to feel disappointed though, not when he was still your Jack, and you would be able to wake up to him in the morning. He was always going to be your husband someday. Just on a different timeline.

“The ring isn’t the important thing,” you reminded him softly. “You are. Just us, working as a team. I’d marry you with sharpie drawn on my hand, and I’d still be the happiest woman alive.”

Jack hummed his laugh, giving you a slight nod and a crooked smile that was as teasing as it was adoring.

“Maybe we don’t wait then. Maybe…the end of the month.”

You could only smile up at him, giggling when ducked his head to press a kiss to your cheek, his stubble tickling your sensitive skin.

“You’ve gotta at least act surprised when I ask though,” he murmured against your skin, pressing kiss after kiss across your face until you were pulling away to get him to stop. He grinned easily, settling back against you like he belonged there, voice hushed so no one else could overhear him. “Can’t have your parents thinking I have no manners.”

You smiled softly, lost in the soft and steady love written on his face. Things always felt so easy with him, even during your darkest moments. Even when you were exhausted and stressed, one small annoyance away from losing your minds, you were able to calm each other down, to be a safe place to let yourselves break and know that you wouldn’t have to patch yourself together again alone.

“Believe me, Jack, I’ll be as surprised as I was three years ago when I first asked you out.”

“I asked you out,” he laughed.

Jack lays beside you carefully, back scrunched against the railing of the too small hospital bed; his tear stained cheek pressed against your pale forehead, lips brushing the line of your cropped hair. Murmuring the same three words he had been all night.

“I love you.”

I love you. I love you. I love you-

You had cut your hair short a while ago. In the bathroom of your home, Jack holding your hand as Dana had gently talked you through each snip of the silver shears.

“Easier maintenance,” you’d insisted. Jack could see the truth behind your eyes anyway.

The fear.

It would fall out anyway.

Jack had never been good with words. At least, not when they counted.

Not now, when every hour the two of you had together became more precious than the last. He sometimes felt like he was groping at sand, trying to keep the hourglass from stopping, the grains falling from his hands anyways.

It had progressed a lot faster than anyone had anticipated.

The sickness.

Just a little over a year ago, Jack had held your hand silently as you cried in the blue office room.

Jack remembers that.

How blue everything was. How bleak it seemed. The hope you still clung to in spite of how quickly things spiraled.

Your body is cold now, pressed against Jack’s front. Even with the heated blanket he’d brought from home and the quilt your mom had given as a wedding present all those years ago draped over your frail body.

Jack could feel it. The life slowly fading from you.

He carefully brushes a finger over the edge of the blanket around your shoulder, reaching over to fix the canula beneath your nose.

Jack hadn't slept in a long while. Not at night anyways.

When you could slip away from his grasp before he even told you goodbye.

You'd been sleeping a lot more lately. Between doctor consults and nurses administering more medication. After a visit from your family or Robby and Dana. Jack would allow himself to close his eyes then. When Robby was sitting beside him; two men sitting in too small plastic chairs, knees pressed together.

So he would feel if something went wrong.

Jack has a looming feeling it will.

You've been more quiet lately. More tired. Even when you were awake, you'd just sit and listen, lashes droopy, leaning against the stack of pillows. Like even staying awake for more than an hour took all your energy.

You'd hold Jack's hand as Dana told you about her kids or give a small smile when Robby complained about something that had happened in the Pitt. You'd watch as life unfolded around you, holding onto Jack’s hand like he's the one who's leaving too soon.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, love.”

"But you could. If you want to go home for some rest. I wouldn't mind. Dana will keep me company-"

"No. No I'm right where I want to be. With you."

He wasn't going anywhere. He'd been there by your side for all of it.

He’d been there through the silence after your diagnosis, the pain and sickness of treatment. Through the good days and bad.

Through the really bad days.

Jack has no plans to be anywhere but by your side. He’d crawl into your grave and sleep forever by your side if he could-

“Jack.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, cracked and dry from not using it.

He misses hearing your voice. Misses it like you were already gone and not laying next to him right now. Jack sniffs, clearing his throat softly before leaning forward to hear you better.

“Yeah?”

You blink, head shifting back slowly to look at him. Your eyes are glazed over, just focused enough where Jack knows you're still there.

“Sleep.”

He gives you a soft smile. So soft, it's almost a grimace. He wipes his nose with the sleeve of his flannel, forehead pressed against yours.

“I will. I promise.”

“Please.”

His heart aches at the thought of it. At the thought of these being the last few times the two of you ever speak to each other.

“I will honey,” he murmurs against your skin. Cold against his lips. You close your eyes, lashes falling closed like you couldn't hold them open anymore. You make a noise and Jack stills, eyes wide as he looks over you.

“You okay?”

Your breathing becomes little puffs of air. Strained.

“It hurts,” you whisper. So quiet. Jack swallows, tears pricking the corner of his eyes.

“You want more pain meds?” Your head moves against the pillow. An attempt at a nod. He’ll take it.

Jack presses a kiss to your cheek, reaching over your body carefully to find the morphine drip button.

He's careful of the tubes and IV connected to you, thumb pressing the button you could no longer push yourself. You make a noise, a slight whimper, and Jack feels the lump in the back of his throat grow heavy again.

Of all the awful things he'd seen in his life, nothing would ever scar him more than this. Seeing you in pain. Watching you die slowly, leaving him before either of you were really ready-

“Ready?”

It’s a whisper. One you whisper to Jack beneath your breath as you both stand at the altar.

“Is anyone ever really?” He whispers back. Nervous. You give him a small smile, the gauzy fabric of your veil making your face softer, glowing beneath the light.

Gosh, he doesn’t think you’d ever looked so beautiful than right now. The beginning of your future. Rings and vows and everything else that was to come.

“Jack,” you laugh quietly, the priest beginning to speak. You lean closer to him, so only he could hear, “I know you're ready. Robby told me you wrote your vows months ago.”

“Started,” he corrects, looking at you from the side of his peripheral. “I didn't finish them till last night.”

“Me neither.” He raises a brow. You smile.

“Too much to say. Not enough words to say them.” Jack smiles and leans in even closer, not caring if everyone was staring.

“I love you-”

Jack looks back at you, frowning as he sets down the drip button. Your lashes are cracked open again, lips parted enough to let out shallow breaths.

“What was that hon?” He asks, brushing your hair with his fingers again.

“I love you,” you repeat. Jack takes a shaky breath, nodding.

“I know."

Jack wants to tell you so much. All the things he'll miss. The way you laugh, how much he loved your smile. The quiet mornings where you talked him to sleep, the late nights where you waited for him to come home.

He wants to thank you for the years of waiting you did. The long distance overseas when he was in the army. The way you didn't leave when he was lost in his head after his leg. The patience and love you carried with you, even now in this room.

The way you'd always been his rock. His bright day after a stormy night.

Jack wants to tell you all the things he still wants to do with you. The sabbatical trip you had always talked about. The Christmas party that never seemed to work out. The box of baby things the two of you never got to talking about.

He wants you to know he'll miss you. He already misses you. So much, it's hard to breathe sometimes just thinking one day he'll wake up to a world without you in it.

He wants to tell you so many things.

But when he looks at you, he sees it in your eyes. All the things the two of you cannot say.

And so he just says those three little words. Like they'll somehow manage to say so much more.

I love you.

------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t bounce his leg. Yet he would always steady yours. He didn’t bite his nails. But would grimace when you did it and pull your hand away from your mouth telling you how even the cleanest people have germs under their nails. The problem, you had learned, was that when the storm finally broke through it could easily shatter his mind. 

You’d been watching for it since you’d walked into the yard that night and seen Smurf laid on the workbench. It took you a second to realise she was gone but one look at Andrew confirmed it. He looked away from you instantly and you knew it was so that he didn’t fall apart now that you were there. The one person he needed. 

The boys were stood around the table and without even thinking about it you closed the space between you both, pressing your chest against his arm so that you were angled straight to him. Your hand on his back. He leaned into you slightly. 

You had zoned in on the blood on his white shirt and ear instantly but otherwise he looked okay. You glanced around at the boys. They all just looked in shock. Andrew looked broken. 

J didn’t look affected. Something you took note of. 

“We need to call the doctor you use. What’s his name?”

“Why?” Craig asks.

“We can’t take her to the mortuary like this, they’ll call the cops. She needs to have died in her bed from the cancer.” J was right but you wished for Andrews sake this could have been easier. You didn’t know what happened yet but you knew the selfish bitch would have made it as hard on them all as possible. Especially Andrew. 

You keep your hand where it is on his back, knowing there is absolutely nothing you can do to help but be there. And even that wouldn’t stop the repercussions of Smurfs actions, you worried. 

“And we need a doctor to sign the death certificate that says so.” J continued. 

“I’ll call him.” Deran says calmly before leaving. You grab his hand giving it a squeeze as he walks past you. He just squeezes back. 

“Where’s your truck?” J asks Andrew and when you look up at him you can feel your chest shatter. He looks lost, he looks like a little boy, the one you know is always somewhere inside the scary shell he hides behind. He’s not there. You can tell. “Pope.” J says abruptly to get his attention, making the man jolt slightly against you.

“What?” He says to J. 

“Where’s your truck did you leave it out there?” 

“I was in a gun fight.” Andrew snaps back. “I barely got out of there.” He lowers his voice, as though not wanting you to hear even though you were right beside him. Your stomach drops but you know it needs to be filed away for another time. Like so many things these days just to get through the day. You feel him dipping and you guide him to walk backwards and sit on the stool just behind him. 

When he’s sat he looks up at you so helpless that you can’t hold back any longer and pull him into you. He wraps his arms around your waist like a vice, burying his face into the space just below your chest. You hold him close, almost hiding him from the other with one hand and the other arm wrapped around his shoulders.

When you look over at Craig he sniffs and you can tell he’s holding back the tears. You offer him a look that you hope shows how sorry you are. Despite who she was, she was their Mom. And you just knew something fucked up will have happened today. You’ve known it. Had a bad feeling hanging over you from the second he told you Smurf had a job and that she would be joining. 

You glanced at J who just looked at you and Andrew with an unreadable expression. The pair eventually left. To go home or to sort out the next moves with Smurf. 

When they’d gone you shush Andrew the way you often had over the years when things got too much for him. “Andrew…” You whisper and he pulls back to look up at you, tears streaming down his cheeks. You hold his face, clearing them with your thumbs, your own falling now. Not because of that woman. 

Never. But because you knew how hard this was going to be on Andrew out of them all. 

“Im so sorry.” You tell him tearily as you bend down to leave a lingering kiss on his forehead. 

“She’s just… gone.” He says it he can’t believe it, yet you knew that he more than most knew what that sudden sickening finality felt like when it came to death. You just nod. 

“Yeah… yeah she is.” You confirm. “And you’re going to be okay.” You look him in the eye because you need him to know it. To believe it. “I promise.” You whisper it with so much certainty he almost believes you. 

The thing was you knew him so well. 

You knew what Smurf was to him. How deep that bond went. Traumatic or not and this would undoubtedly break him. 

You knelt in front of him without a word. His shoulders sagged the moment you did.

Slowly, he folded into you until your foreheads touched. His face turned, brushing against yours in a quiet, absent movement, like instinct had taken over before he'd even realised he'd done it.

You closed your eyes. One hand came up to cradle his jaw, your thumb stroking across his cheek. He leaned into it immediately.

Eventually you feel like you should give him time alone with her. You tell him you’re right inside if he needs you and he nods looking at you gratefully. Grateful that you always know when to give him the space he needs. With one last kiss on his forehead you leave him.

Andrew told you everything later that night as you lay facing each other in his bed, only an inch or so between you. About meeting his Uncle and Cousins. Learning about his Father. How there’d been a shoot out that Smurf had no intention of getting out of. How he’ had to drag her out of there and left his truck behind. That you were going to have to go to your parents house until they figured out what they were going to do about the fact his new found ‘family’ were out for blood. 

But it was Deran who told you, as you gave Andrew time to say goodbye to Smurf, the part about her shooting Andrew. How badly it could have all gone wrong. How she had wanted to drag him down with her. Couldn’t stand the thought of him living without her iron grip. 

“It was so bad.” Deran had whispered into your hair shakily as you held each other, terrified at the fact there could have been two bodies in the garage. 

After Deran had left and Andrew walked into the house, dazed and covered in blood you had told him to go get a shower. You knew he needed some direction right now or he would just sit. You would look after him. You always would but there was something you wanted to do first. 

J was sat by the pool when you walked out. 

“Is there anything I can do?” You ask and he looks over his shoulder at you. He reminds you so much of Andrew in that moment, calm faced but the shiver down your spine told you there was more underneath. And you weren’t sure you wanted to experience it. 

“You’re kidding, right?” He scoffed before looking back towards the pool and takin a swig of his beer. “Pope would murder me if I got you involved in this.” 

He was right, you knew that but recently you were getting the feeling that no matter how hard he tried you were getting more and more tangled into the Cody family web. 

“Just trying to help.” You say aggravated. You’d just heard how close Andrew came to dying tonight. 

“I know. Thanks.” You heard J say to your retreating back but you didn’t acknowledge it. 

When you walk into the garage you just stare at her for a few moments. Waiting to feel something. Not sure what you should be feeling. The only thing you can think is that the damage she caused throughout her life was very much still here, even is she was not. 

When you were stood right beside her you kept expecting her to jump up. Another fucked up Smurf event. But she didn’t.

You’d leaned down, close enough to her ear as though she would hear you better before speaking. 

“May you always get what you deserve.” 

Then with one last look you turn and walk away leaving her alone and cold. Exactly as she deserved. 

“I’m not going.” You told him the next morning. He hadn’t slept, you could tell. Every time you’d woken in the night he’d still been awake, he would kiss your face gently and shush you telling you to go back to sleep. Every single time you tried to stay awake but he would run his hands through your hair. Whispering ‘please sleep for me’ like it was all he wanted as he kissed your eyelids. 

He’d held you all night replaying everything that had happened and what he needed to do next to keep you and his brothers safe. 

“You’re going.” He replies in a voice that left no room for argument but you found some anyway. 

“I am not leaving you right now.” You’re sat on his bed, legs and arms crossed and he sighs as though he’s looking at a petulant child. 

He doesn’t say anything just puts your shoes on the floor in front of you, points at them and says “put them on.” 

“Do I get breakfast first?” You want to create more time to I’ve him all the reasons you absolutely have to stay with him.

“Of course.” He says in a soft voice that breaks your heart. You don’t want to be giving him a hard time right now but leaving him would be the worst thing for him even if it was the best thing for you safety. You didn’t care. 

You move to the edge of the bed and start to put on your shoes but he kneels down, gently moving your hands away before resuming the task. He gets worse when he’s stressed so you don’t argue it, knowing that it helps him. That something in his brain will have told him he had to put your shoes on for you, that he wanted to look after you. 

Once he’s tied them perfectly you grab his face in your hands and he looks up at you with those sad eyes.  

“Will this be easier on you if I’m at my parents, handsome?” You ask him softly and he melts into you as he nods, head dipping. His arms flexing as he leans against the edge of the bed before buying his head in your lap and wrapping his arms around your hips. 

Biting your lip and squeezing your eyes closed to stop yourself from crying, you take a deep breath as your fingers card through his hair and rub his large shoulder. 

“Okay.” You say when you think your voice is finally steady enough. He doesn’t say anything just squeezes you one more time before getting up, kissing you gently and walking out the bedroom door like he’s ready to kill anyone in his path. Like he wasn’t just curled in your lap like a puppy. 

You finish your breakfast and walk to the door leading out to where the brothers were sat just in time to hear Andrew saying something to J. 

“Lose the glasses you’re not John Gotti.” 

To which you reply, “who’s John Gotti?” As you follow him into the kitchen. 

He lets out a tired huff that’s almost a laugh as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Christ, sweetheart.”

The goodbye is painful for you both. He promises to get everything fixed as quickly as possible. You also make him promise to call if he needs you. You also send Deran a text to make sure he calls you if Andrew needs you. 

He doesn’t reply but you don’t think too much into it. 

It’s only two days later when he calls to tell you to come home. The butterflies in your stomach don’t leave you the whole drive but you feel like your stomach falls out as you walk up to the door. 

Andrew had let you in the gate and meets you at your car, opening your door for you. You step out and straight into his arms where he keeps you pulled into him with no intention of letting you go. You manage to pull back just enough to look at him. 

“What the fuck happened?” 

“We took care of it.” 

Pulling him closer the pit in your stomach doesn’t go anywhere like his presence usually makes it. You had a terrible feeling and you were right to. 

The next few days were hell. You could barely get in touch with him and when you did he was vague. When you did see him he wasn’t there. Not really. 

It was bad, just like you knew it would be but when he started avoiding you that’s when you got really worried. You’d gone to Deran’s bar to talk about it but he just put it down to him ‘being Pope’ and insisted this was normal. 

He came to you one night after they’d done a job, walking in like he just didn’t know what to do or where to go. 

“I can’t be there.” You know what he means. That house. You simply grab his hand and take him to bed. No questions, no lectures. That was the last thing he needed. 

He curls up on your bed in the dark and you climb in behind him, kiss his cheek and start talking. About anything and everything. Insignificant things that had happened in the last few days as you stroke through his curls and he falls asleep instantly. You know he probably hadn’t really slept in days. 

He’d done it for you first. Whenever anything bad happened, whenever you codlin’t sleep for the pain sneaking around your chest. It became something neither of you ever had to ask for, just did. 

When you wake up he’s not there. It’s 4am. You walk into your hallway and see him stood there facing your front door, like a guard. 

“Andrew?” You whisper softly knowing there was a chance he was sleepwalking again. 

He moves so slowly, just a shadow as he turns his head. “Julia?” He asks and you freeze. No idea what to do. You’d seen him sleepwalk before, you’d woken him up before but this felt different. Like his shattered mind had finally stopped holding him together. 

“Andrew…” You say your name hoping to wake him, or bring him back, you weren’t sure. 

“Julia…” This time it isn’t a question and a second letter he gasps as if waking you from a bad dream. He freezes and won’t turn around. You say his name but he just apologies as he rushes out. Still making sure to lock it on the way out. 

“Fuck…” You curse before getting rest and grabbing your keys. The sun is is just starting to rise when you get to The Cosy house after driving around for in obvious places looking for him with no luck. 

You look in every room but he isn’t there. J is fast asleep with some girl and you kick the mattress, he jumps, sitting right up. He’s clearly got the fear all the Cody family have when he grabs a gun from the side of his mattress. Once he see’s it’s you he lowers it with an annoyed sigh. The girl he’s with looks terrified and usually you’d feel bad but you’re in no mood. 

“Have you seen Andrew?” 

“What? No…” 

“Useless.” You growl before walking back out slamming his door shut behind you. 

Deran wasn’t answering. 

Craig was as dismissive as ever making some joke about how you are allowed to be apart for more than 8 hours. 

You were sat in your car in their driveway deciding where to look for him next when you got a call from an unknown number.

It was the hospital. They don’t even finish explaining anything past having Andrew there and you were already back on the road getting there in record time, driving in a way Andrew would definitely be mad at you for if he witnessed it. 

He’s not hurt. 

He’s not physically hurt. 

You can fix this. 

He’s not hurt. 

Was the mantra going round and round in your mind as you walked into the hospital. 

“Andrew Cody?” You ask at the desk, flustered. “You called me. I’m his next of kin.” 

“Right through there.” She directs you. “Third bed.” 

You rush down and when you finally see him all you want to do is dive on him but you hold back. 

“Andrew…” You say thinking back to the last time you’d seen him, calling for Julia. When he looks up at you, finally notices you, he says your name and the sigh of release makes you physically sag. Then you do go to him, pull him into a hug which he leans heavily into. “I was so worried.” 

“I… I’m sorry.” He says and the vulnerability in his voice destroys you. 

You pull back to look at him.

“Hey… no.” You shake your head as you look him in the eyes. “We’re not doing that okay? Don’t apologise for something you can’t help.” All the things you’d tried to drill into him over the years, all the behaviours you tried to gently unlearn from him came back at their worst when he was like this. 

His mouth turns downward and he looked utterly miserable. 

“Can I take you home?” You ask gently. He nods and stands, grabbing your hand letting you lead him out. 

In the car he opens up to you, apparently the shrink he had spoken to in the hospital had said he needed to. He complained that she was pushing his buttons. 

“She was trying to help, handsome.” You tell him. “I think it’s good.” 

“What happened… I remember falling asleep with you.” You look over at him, he’s studying you carefully. 

“You…  you were stood in the hallway. You kept saying Julia.” You look over at him as you stop at a junction. The way his fists are clenched on his thighs. His lips pinched together like he’s angry, at himself of course and he’s no longer looking at you. Ashamed. 

BEEP! 

You gasp as the sound jolts but before you gather your bearings Andrew has opened the passenger side door and started to get out, face like thunder. 

“Andrew!” You yell, in the nicest possible way. The way a kindergarten teacher would. “No! Get back in here!” You reach over just in time to hook a few fingers into one of the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him back in. You don’t succeed of course but he feels the pull and it makes him turn to look at you, a dangerous look in his eyes. 

“He’s being an inpatient little fucker!” He spat as he looked over at the car behind who has suddenly gone quiet. 

“Andrew…” You plead. 

“He made you jump.” He said, this time to you with a soft voice. 

“I’m okay. I am begging you to get back into the car.” You say it and he hears the weariness in your voice. With one last look at the car behind you, hopefully not to memorise his license plate he gets back in. 

Once it’s safe you turn. 

“It was my fault.” You said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No it wasn’t.” He said before you’d even finished your sentence and despite yourself and the situation you laugh tiredly. It was sweet, in his own way, he knew how much you hated stuff like that but it also showed how short his fuse was at the moment. And that is what scared you. 

When you get back to The Cody house you can tell by the cars that J and Deran are there. You lead over to kiss him gently, he kisses you back following when you pull back. 

“Do you trust me?” You ask him, 

He looks at you like you’re crazy. 

“With everything.” 

“Will you let me take care of you?” 

“You always take care of me.” He says in a small voice that nobody would believe was him. 

You nod. “Can you go pack a bag for me?” 

He stares at you and you know a million thoughts a minute are going through his mind. But he nods. 

“I’ll be back in less than an hour okay?” You tell him. He nods and gets out of the car before walking around to your side, you roll the window down. 

“Drive safe.” He says like every time you’re about to drive away and puts his head into the car to kiss you one more time. 

When you pull back into his drive he’s already stood there waiting arms hanging at his side with his duffle in one hand. He looks like a caged animal, eager to escape. He walks over and taps on your window. 

“We’re taking the truck.” He tells you as you roll your window down. He grabs your bags out of the trunk before you park up and get out. 

He doesn’t say a word as he drives you both away but the further he gets away from Oceanside the more irritated he seems to get. He barely engages with your questions or small talk. Not that he was a huge talker anyway, but still. 

After a couple of hours you’re on the long empty roads in the desert. Ones you know he’s driven many times but his twitchiness still had you on edge. And then he started speaking what seemed like a stream of consciousness to you. 

“She showed me where my Dad was buried.” He told you, a sharp edge to his voice. “Didn’t even know I had a Dad.” 

You shake your head. “What happened to him?” You’re walking a fine line and you know it between angering him and helping him. You just want to get him away from the subject of Smurf.

He didn’t answer, his knuckles grip the steering, you weren’t even sure he was listening. When he sped up you stiffen but deep down you know he won’t put you in danger. You dread to think how he would have been alone. 

“Andrew…” You say warningly. 

“Wanted me dead.” He says speeding up again but this time there’s a car coming on the other side of the road.

“Andrew!” You cry, voice full fear despite trying your best to hide it. This seems to snap him out off it and his foot comes off the accelerator just as the cars passing you. He hits the break and you stop with a skid in the road. He lets out an angry cry hitting the steering wheel so hard you’re sure he will have hurt himself. You think that might have been the point. 

You take a moment, eyes closed to push away the tears but before you can open them you hear his car door slam. You follow. He’s stood in front of a huge sign someone has painted. 

WHO ARE YOU?

————————

FIND THE TRUTH

He hears your feet crunching on the gravel behind him. 

“I’m sorry.” He says but it’s tired. He’s tired of apologising. He’s tired of feeling like he’s losing his mind. He’s tired of everything being so goddamned hard. 

“Don’t.” You say simply and you thread your fingers through his, staring at the sign too. 

A truck drives behind you up to a chain link fence where more signs hang. “What is this?” He asks and as you walk a little further down with him you see a sign. 

“Kinship of light & truth.” 

“Some hippy cult shit by the looks of it.” You shrug and try to pull him away slightly. “Come on. I’m hungry.” 

He smirks slightly. It doesn’t reach his eyes but the fondness for you never leaves, never has. Even throughout all of his episodes over the years.

“Food.” He agrees before leading you back to the truck. 

“Maybe I should drive?” You say with a teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood. It was very hit and miss but sometimes he would play along. 

“Shut up.” He scoffed as he opened the passenger side for you. 

“Your hair looks really good today.” You smile up at him as you pass to climb in. You always tried to compliment him on things, even trivial. Anything to get this mans confidence to where it should be. 

His lips upturn at one side and you take it as a victory. 

After you’d found a small town close by and eaten you were back on the road. Andrew had been driving for the last three hours, still on the long straight dessert roads. He had let you drive for an hour or so, only because you begged to but the second you yawned he made you stop and swap. 

You had both decided there was no plan. You would just drive and be together. And for the first time since you can remember he wanted this. 

He needed this.

To get away from the death, the destruction, the pressure and memories of it all. 

For once Andrew Cody was thinking of himself. 

Now you were relaxed in the passenger seat happily watching him drive along, golden freckled skin wrapped around the muscles of his arms in the setting sun. You hadn’t seen another sole for a long time and he had almost a peaceful look on his face. You smile over at him. This is all you ever wanted. 

He caught you smiling at him, eyes never staying on the road long, softening in that way they only ever had or would for you. The man who handled violence and all the dirty work for his family was gone for a moment, just leaving behind your Andrew. His hand slid across the console, fingers threading through your before resting both in your lap.

“We should stop soon. Is there anywhere to stay close by?” You ask.

“You tired, sweetheart?” 

“No. But you’ve been driving all day. Pretty much.” 

“I’m fine.” He grins dismissively, like he has some secret knowledge that you don’t. Like he isn’t worthy of being worried about. Cared for. Adored.

You decide to remind him. 

“You’re a good driver right?” You ask with a slight grin. He narrows his eyes at you, noticing your tone immediately. 

“The best.” He said. He found it so easy to be confident about things that he could do and not who he was. “Better than you anyway.” He teases back. 

“Well yeah..” You scoff. “Wanna test that out?” You ask as you let your hand reach over to stroke the bulge in his jeans. 

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, a sharp exhale escaping him. The man who never hesitated, never faltered in high pressure situations was struggling to maintain composure and it was addictive. 

“Yeah.” He says in a clipped tone. 

You undo his pants and he lifts his hips just enough for you to move them and pull out his already hardening dick. “Thank you.” You whisper as you look up at him, his dick in your hand. You wait to make sure he is okay with it.

He let out a breath as he gave the slightest nod and takes the hand closest to you off the steering wheel to open his arm to you as you lean into his lap. You suck on the tip first before slowly inching down as far as you can take him. He pants as one hand squeezes the steering wheel and the other strokes gently up and down your back. The truck stayed perfectly steady on the empty road, his control absolute because as good as it felt he couldn’t afford to lose it. Not with you in the car. 

You speed up slightly, letting the spit drip down his cock to help the hand that joined your efforts twist around the base. His hips lifted off the seat instinctively as he moaned your name. You moaning right back. 

“Sweetheart…” He tries to speak. “I gotta…” But you choose that moment to take him right to the back of your throat creating a vacuum around his cock with your mouth. He was fucking your mouth, slowly and carefully. “That’s…” 

You know he’s struggling but you trust him completely so you keep going but he grips the back of your neck with enough strength to pull you off him. “You’re gonna make me…” 

He starts to say as looks down you’re looking up at him, lips swollen and wet, pupils blown and so obviously enjoying yourself. It makes his cock twitch and leak pre cum, which you happily lick up. 

The pleasure shot up his spine and for the first time the car jerked to the wrong side of the road before he quickly corrected himself. He was fighting a losing battle. “I can’t come right now.” He ordered, voice rough with need but he wound’t risk it. “But you can.” 

The hand he had a grip on the back of your neck with slid around to your front, pushing you gently back into your seat. You don’t have much time to think before he’s flipped your dress up and impatiently ripped your lace panties clean off you. “Sit back, sweetheart.” He commands and although his eyes remain on the road he doesn’t wast a second before dipping into your wet pussy and finding your clit. Rubbing slow, tight circles. “I want you to come.”

You spread your legs for him, his fingers easily sliding over you, he couldn’t believe you were so wet from sucking his dick. 

“Put the seat back a little.” He tells you and so you do, gasping when he uses the space to turn his hand, two thick fingers entering you, his muscled arm across your torso whilst his hand his buried between your legs. 

You moan as his fingers slide in and out of you, his palm bumping and rubbing against your clit.

“You’re so good for me.” He says, barely a whisper as he glances at you beside him as much as he can safely do so, jaw locked tight in concentration. 

You gasp when his palm stays grinding into you at a certain angle, fingers curling inside you. “So good..” Your hands cling to the arm pressed into your chest. You look over at him, the other arm tensed as he keeps control of the vehicle and something about it makes you crazy. 

“Yeah?” He asked, in a satisfied rasp, fingers curling deeper making you arch your back in the seat. “Look at you…” He says admiringly as you’re all spread out for him. 

You know it wasn’t an order but something about the way he says it makes you look down where you could see his strong hand pushing into you, your swollen clit rubbing against his palm. He groans your name when he notices your face when you’re watching. “You like watching?” 

“Mmhmm.” Is all you can get out before your head falls back against the headrest, hips beginning to rock into his hand. He barely had to do anything.

“Good girl.” His voice an encouraging deep lull. “Take what you need, sweetheart.” He repeated the words you’d used to him and it made you clench around him and cry out. 

He stops all movement suddenly.

“Pull your dress back down.” He says in a calm but serious voice and you’re confused until you see the headlights of what seems to be a large truck heading towards you. You cursed loudly but does as he says and close your legs around his hand which he leaves exactly where it is. He would never pull out, not when you were this close. 

And you were so close, but he codlin’t risk anyone seeing you that way. You understood but it didn’t make it any easier as you rocked your hips and whimper. 

“Shh, angel.” He soothes, moving his hand ever so slightly so that his thumb could reach your clit, stroking it so, so slowly you banged your head back against the headrest in frustration.

Once the lorry passed you looked over at him. “Please…” you whine. 

“Not yet, let it get a little further away.” You almost suspect this is partly for his own enjoyment by the way his cock throbbed painfully in the place he had haphazardly pushed it back into his jeans. 

You can’t help but let your legs fall open again, one hand sliding down to grip his wrist as your body twitches involuntarily. 

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He murmured sympathetically but his fingers never moved. He waited until the tailgates of the lorry were tiny red dots before he moved again, hand maintaining the exact steady rhythm he knew you needed. “That’s it.” He murmurs as he feels you clench around his fingers straightaway. 

You cry out his name as you come apart. He usually waits, working you through the aftershocks, letting you ride it out but he pulls out his fingers the second he knows you’re finished, turning the truck harshly off the road. 

The truck hit the asphalt abruptly, bumping into the dirt shoulder sending gravel and dirt shooting up against the car, all the while he’s sucking his fingers clean. When the truck came to a stop in a cloud of dust he unbuckles himself before grabbing you by the hips. “Backseat. Now.” He guides and lifts you over the console into the back seat. 

Then he’s out and walking to back to join you, jeans pushed down to his knees as he sat down in the back seat. His cock is hard and swollen, wet with so much pre cum. He was massive, balls tight with need and it made your pussy ache, especially knowing he had just made you come with absolute patience. 

He had clearly lost that now as he grabs you by your hips and hauls you into his lap operating purely on instinct. Dress shoved up to you waist exposing you completely whilst he grabbed the base of his cock, lined himself up and pulled you down onto him. 

The second you start to sink down on him he lets out the most pathetic sound and it only makes you weaker. You brace yourself on his shoulders pressing close into him as you start to move up and down. 

“Fuck… I can’t… ugh…” He codlin’t even form sentences as his hips were already bucking up into you. You keep riding him pulling him in for a deep kiss, tongues sliding over each other as he grabs your ass, helping you lift and slam back down. His fingers clumsily pull down the front of your dress to expose your breasts, mouth wrapping around one nipple, the other caressed by his hand. 

“Need you…” He pants. 

“You’ve got me… you’ve to me…” You whimper breathlessly, comfortingly. His cock throbs inside of you making your pussy clench, you both moan. "You wanna see?” You whisper against his lips but you don’t wait for an answer. You lean back against the seat behind you giving him a perfect view of where you are joined. Hoping it would effect him just as much as seeing his hand between your legs did you earlier. 

His eyes lock onto where you’re connected, watching himself disappear inside you as you stretch to accommodate his size. You start rocking back and forth whilst he’s completely inside you and you feel him twitch and expand inside you but he sees it.

His head falls back against the seat, his hands gripping your thighs as he says your name in a broken whimper. It’s your undoing and he can tell from your gasp you’re about to come. He rocked up against you, keeping himself deep, watching as your walls flutter around him, your eyes wide and back arched.

“Yes, yes, yes…” He breaths. 

The way his eyes flick greedily between your face and the way your pussy is wrapped around him turns you on even more and you come so hard, wetting his cock even more. 

The visual alone is enough to tear a ragged moan from him as he hols your legs open and starts snapping his hips upward. You moan his name and meet his thrusts as he continues to not know where to look. He was trembling as one deep thrust has him tensing up underneath you, something that sounded like a sob tearing from him. 

Emptying himself in you with broken, helpless noises and his eyes rolling back you feel the thick come coating your walls and moan his name. You look down and his come is already leaking out of you but his cock was still pulsing and he was still writhing under you. After what felt like minutes he finally seemed to calm down.

“Fuck…” He didn’t know what to say. He was a mess. You both were. You’re both shaking when you all forwards onto his chest weakly, his arms wrapping around you immediately. 

“I think we made a mess…” You whisper apologetically after a few minutes as you feel more of him leaking out of you. 

A weak breathless laughter makes his chest vibrate against yours. He was still twitching inside you, his heart only just stopped hammering against your ribs. 

“Yeah.” He rasped, voice almost gone. “Worth it.” 

You knew he was too exhausted, too sated and utterly destroyed to do anything right now. You knew because you were exactly the same. But by some miracle all he cared about in that moment was the weight of you on top of him and the evidence of the moment, the memory you’d just made. He would clean it up but not right now. 

You’d found a motel, not the nicest but you didn’t care as long as you could shower and sleep with Andrew beside you. 

Then you were back on the road. 

“Can I ask about your Dad?” You say a couple hours into the drive the next day. 

He just nods once. 

“So he died?” You asked. 

“Yeah.” His voice was gruff and full of emotion he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have. He had resented his Father for so much of his life having been told nothing from Smurf. Understandably he had assumed that like Deran and Craig’s Dad’s that his and Julias had just left. 

“I’m sorry.” You say as you reach over to grab his hand. Since the night before he had been ever so slightly less tense. 

“Me too.” He says with a slightly shrug of his shoulder. 

“Did you find out anything else about him?”

“Billy said he was the only one my Mom actually loved.” 

You actually smile at the thought of Smurf actually in love. Toy with the idea that if Colin had lived then maybe she wouldn’t have been such a bitch. 

“That must be where all the good in you came from.” 

He doesn’t acknowledge it and you’re not surprised. 

“Stop!” You shout point at a sign for a town. “Turn. Please.” And of course he does. “Can we get day drunk?” 

He looks over at you, amusement in his eyes. “It’s one fifteen.” 

“It’s five o clock somewhere, that’s the saying right?” You look over at him hopefully.

“It sure is, sweetheart.” He sighs with a lightness you haven’t seen in him in weeks. 

That’s how you end up drunk at 4pm in the afternoon. 

The only way to describe Andrew "Pope" Cody drunk was that he'd go one of two ways. There was never an in-between.

And you knew that tonight was a gamble.

But if it went the way you hoped it would… It'd be worth it.

And it was. 

“Do you remember…” he lets out a small laugh. “That time we were swimming in the ocean and you thought something had bitten you?” 

“It hurt!” You laugh along. You love him like this. It’s far and in between but he is almost care free, he is right there in the moment with you.

“It was seaweed.” He said his head tilted forward looking up at you, a tight smile on his face. 

“It moved!” You argue. 

“The tide moved.” He deadpanned as he slid closer to you on the booth you were both sitting on. You happily leaned into him, his arm resting on the top of the seat around you. “Remember when you used to count my freckles?” He said in a low, rough voice. Your stomach flutters at the memories of how many times you’d started and never been able to finish. 

The ways you both got distracted. 

“Yeah… I’ve still never finished that.” You look up at him with lust filled eyes, a look he knew so well by now. 

He dips his head letting his lips meet yours in an intense kiss, his large hand cupping your face, surrounding you in the back booth of a dive bar. You feel the soft growl in his chest rather than hear it and you pull back to remind yourselves where you are. 

Time goes on and you never want to leave, in that bar you could both be anyone. Just a normal couple reminiscing and unable to keep their hands off each other. But you were quickly learning life was just always waiting to throw something at Andrew Cody. 

You were going to get your last drink under his watchful eye of course as he could see the bar from your booth. Instantly you knew what was going to happen when a man came over, correction the drunkest man in the bar came over slamming his glass down on the bar next to you. His drink spilling out over your arm and the already sticky bar. 

You gasped on instinct the mans blurry eyes finding you and in the back of your mind you knew Andrew would already be standing up. 

Shit.

“Shut up bitch.” He slurs. “You were in my wa…” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Andrew grips the back of the mans neck, not unlike he had done to you last night just without the tenderness, of course. 

Before the obliterated man even has time to know what’s going on he’s yanked back before being smashed into the bar top so harshly you hear something crack. 

Silence follow but you react quickly. 

"Fuck..." you whisper, grabbing Andrew's arm. "Come on.”

You tug, but he doesn't move.

He's a statue.

Every muscle in his body locked, his eyes fixed on the man crumpled over the bar.

You know that look. And you know he won't leave until he's decided the threat is gone.

You don't let yourself think about what that might mean.

“Andrew please, look at me.” You plead with him as the chaos starts, someone shouts to call the police, the drunk guy passed out on the floor, other men approaching warily. Like they want to fight him but recognise something in him. 

His eyes shoot your the second you ask him to and he finally lets you pull him out of the bar. He’d parked the car around the back where there had been no cameras, such an Andrew thing to do but you were glad of it now. 

“You shouldn’t drive.” You say. 

He snorts still obviously slightly under the influence of it, or his version of that anyway.  “I think we’re a little past traffic offences. 

“That’s not funny!” You shout back but laughing despite yourself. 

“Get in the truck.” He demands with a smirk you would commit your own crimes to see more often. 

He speeds away and once you’re back on the freeway you’re laughing and laughing. Andrew looking over at you with a light in his eyes you wish you could bottle and give to him in his bad times. You ask him to stop eventually, it was getting dark and you hadn’t found towns close by.

You’d backed sleeping bags and blankets just in case and so you set up in the bed of his truck for the night, under the stars. You were lay beside each other holding hands, looking at the sky, stealing looks at each other.

Or you were stealing looks at him and he was just unashamedly staring at you. 

“You still love me.” It’s a statement and you smile wide as you turn your head to look at him. You’d heard him question it far too many times. “After everything…” He swallows and looks up at the stars again. “After everything I’ve done.” 

“Always.” You tell him. 

“If you love me…” He says, his voice becoming unsteady as a tear runs down the side of his face. “I can’t be… completely bad.” He says it like he’s studying it, trying to make sense of it. 

You sit up just enough to hover over him and wipe his tears, even though they keep coming. 

“Why have you never been scared of me?”  He looks completely broken by everything, but not in the way he did a couple of days ago. The distance was definitely helping. 

“Because I know you.”  

“I’m not sure I do.” He says shakily, clearly unsettled by the blackouts he’s had recently. 

“Then let me, handsome.” You tell him softly as you stroke his hair back from his forehead.

He looks up at you like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “But you know what I’ve done.” He cries.

“I also know why.” 

You know he’s done when he straightens his face, he’s not going to argue it, not right now at least. He pulls you down onto his chest, holding you tight, his hand grabbing your before securing in on his chest under his own. 

“I love you.” He whispers. 

“I love you.” You reply. 

You’d been gone a week when you started to head back. You knew it wouldn’t be permanent, this was Andrew. This was his brothers. You were just so glad he was coming back in what seemed to be a stronger frame of mind. 

You’d had more sex than you could count, worked through things with him and you were sure this trip would stay sacred to you for a long time despite the way it came about. 

Not far from Oceanside you had asked if you could stop by your parents. He was wary at first. Although he saw them from time to time and they were always nice to him, knowing he was a constant in your life despite being scared of his reputation. The thing was, and they had told him so, he would always have a place in their home and a soft spot in their hearts. They knew his history. 

“We always knew he snuck in. We thought it was sweet.” Your Mom says as she puts a drink in front of you both. 

You grimace knowing how unsweet they would think it was if they knew what you actually got up to. The modified look in Andrews eyes as he stared at the table almost made you lose your composure. You rub his thigh reassuringly under the table. 

“You had a nice trip then?” Your Dad asked, looking at Andrew. 

“Err, yeah. We did thank you.” He replies with a nod. Most people would have gone into details but you supposed it wasn’t exactly the vacation most people would expect. 

The conversation goes a lot like that before Andrew excuses himself. You were all used to this. Used to Andrew so it didn’t matter. 

“Is he doing okay?” Your Dad asked, you’d told them about Smurf passing from cancer. 

“He’s…” You nod. “He’s getting there.” 

“Awful woman.” Your says from in the kitchen. 

“Mom!” You scold with a smirk.

“Well she is.” You all laugh. Your parents had more right than anyone to hate Smurf after all they’d seen the social services report and probably saw things they would never repeat. Even to you. 

After a while you follow him outside and see him staring up at the treehouse. 

“This is where we met.” He rasps, nodding his head up once as you approach. 

Once you’re stood beside him you adopt the same stance, looking up at the place it had all started.

“Yep.” Your voice is full of fondness and he looks at you, eyes rimmed red like he cannot believe that him coming into your life could ever be a fond memory. 

“I’m such a fucking idiot.” He holds back his tears but his voice is wrecked. 

“What?” You say surprised, having thought you were discussing a nice memory. 

He swipes his hand over his eyes once. “I love you.” 

He says it slowly. Almost like he’s only just realising it but you know that’s not the case. 

You say coming to stand in front of him about to say it back and ask what he means but he speaks before you can. 

“I kept waiting.” 

“For what, Andrew?” You ask so confused. 

“To be good enough.” He says it simply, like he’s not just torn your heart from your chest at his admission. You always knew he held himself back that little bit, you always knew he didn’t feel worthy maybe but hearing him say it… killed you. 

“Oh, Andrew.” You cry and pull him into you.

He pulls back only enough to take your face in his hand, study your face, bit by bit. 

“Come home with me.” He says, voice rough with emotion. You scrunch up your brow in confusion before you realise what he’s saying. 

Make a home with me. 

Make a life with me. 

“Your home?” 

“Our home.” He clarifies with a small smile. “I know it’s not… I’ll still have to…”

“Shh…” You tell him as you pull him down to kiss you. “Our home.” 

You smile up at him and he lifts you by your thighs, wrapping your around him properly. 

“Was that our first home?” You ask teasingly as you look up at the treehouse and he laughs swatting your ass lightly. 

This time he wasn’t going anywhere. 

You hoped. 

Defeat crumpled the frustration that was keeping Craig wound-up and tense. It unravelled from his rigid spine first, slumping him forward until his shoulders went with it. He looked deflated and at a loss. Like a dog at Deran’s doorstep, his spoils of the hunt rejected.

“She could at least give him a call, man,” he sighed dolefully, scratching at the tufts on the nape of his neck. “I know he’s not her responsibility or whatever, but they were in love, weren’t they? That’s gotta count for something.”

It counted for everything.

Deran knew that. Knew you. Knew you still had parts of Pope etched into you so deeply that it reached bone. That you most likely would drop whatever you were doing if he were to pick up the phone and tell you about just how bad things had gotten since you and his biggest brother called it quits—since he twisted that knife in you for the last time that you could stomach and sent you packing from Baz’s place.

That’s the kind of woman you were. The kind of soft-hearted, tender person that he probably should’ve severed himself from years ago but Deran was almost as selfish with you as Pope had been. You’d loved Pope like your skin was uncalloused for the sake of his rough fingers to press dents into. Like your blood’s sweet for him to lap at with his doglike, wounded tongue. Like you were made for him.

You’d loved Deran first—not in the same way, not with your mouth breathing pretty things into his like you did with Pope to calm him down. But you were the first person outside of that nightmarish house of horrors and chlorine-burn and swollen bruises that treated him like a kid and not some burly knucklehead like the rest of his brothers. The two of you bonded over a shared love for surfing and Marlboro Golds. Yours was the first shoulder he’d cried onto after he realised that he loved you—God, he loved the bones of you—but there was something missed that he only really felt when he was with Adrian.

You made his childhood bearable. Deran owed you.

He should’ve kept Pope far away from you as soon as he saw those blown pupils of his, that tell-tale sign that his big brother found another thing to obsess over. But by the time he realised that it was more than some depraved fixation he had, you were already in deep right with him. Submerged in it, in fact. In him. Nursing his wounds like it was goddamn second-nature and kissing the cuts on his knuckles like an anchorite. Until Pope’s eyes were all pupil—not a glimpse of hickory or sun-bleached gold to comb out. He was a goner, and so were you, and it was too late for Deran then to save you.

It wasn’t too late now.

So he shook his head at Craig, feeling all kinds of guilty—like a Cain-figure almost, knowing Pope was at home pummelling his fists against a punching bag and yearning for the one thing he couldn’t have. Then he lifted his shoulders, truly sorry for their oldest brother, but thinking only of the salty sea air and the pigtailed girl who first called him friend.

“Sorry, Craig. But I ain’t asking her to do shit for him.”

Pope would never expect it of you anyway.

Deran knew that. Hell, Craig knew that. If Deran's made some angel out of you from the bloodied cloth of his fonder childhood memories, then whatever Pope has done to you in his head could only be described as idolatry.

Ever since he was a kid, he'd had a complicated relationship with religion. But Pope would've lived on his knees at your feet for the rest of your life if you'd only asked. He thinks of you every time he finds himself on them—in the ring, straddling the brawny waist of some bull-headed asshole, beating the shit out of his face until there's only meat left. It's not quite the on-the-knees worship he was used to when he thought of you. Absent of the draping of your legs over his shoulders as he lapped you up like holy water. These pieces of shit never had their hands in his curls the way your pretty fingers did, pulling and tugging, their grunts nowhere near as sweet as your airy sighs of Andrew Andrew Andrew as he calls you honey, 'cause he swears you taste like it.

Fuck, he'd live with his knees permanently bruised. Hiding the grimace whenever they clicked so he could take you apart, again and again, until it's his mouth doing the unravelling and only his mouth that can put you back together.

It's not just the sex he misses, though. Pope's relationship with intimacy was almost as twisted and depraved as the one he had with God.

(You're the cure in both equations—the doe-eyed salvation to the chronic soft dick he suffered with after prison and the tremble he got in his hands when praying).

He misses everything. Coming home from a job to you and Lena cuddled up under a scratchy blanket, Powerpuff Girls still on the television as her head lolled sleepily on your shoulder and your fingers absently carded through her thick curls. Misses the smell of your skin, all sun-soaked and coconut-drenched from the cream he'd lather generously over you just to get a touch. You'd play with his hair most nights. He'd curl up almost embryonic on your lap and murmur nonsense into the flimsiness of your sleep-shorts, playing with a loose thread as you play with his curls. The two of you comforted with the knowledge that, just down the hall, Lena was fast asleep. In the morning, it would be more of this sickly domesticity—sweet Lena wincing at the saccharine orange juice through the spearmint of her toothpaste, giggling as Pope made a similar face after making the same mistake. You'd plate them both fruit and pancakes, kissing Lena's temple, Pope's mouth (you'd join in on the gag, grimacing at the sourness of the OJ), and sit down at the little table to eat with them.

For a brief, anguishing, gorgeous time, Pope had a life. Had a family. Had a little girl who needed him and a good woman that wanted him.

Now, he was back to nothing. Back to Smurf. May was well crawl back into her barren womb to rot there with the rest of her bile and hate. After all, he and Julia were just the sorry afterbirths of all Smurf's worst parts. He should just return to that nasty, darkened matter—be where he belonged.

Since that was biologically impossible, Pope settled for the next best punishment. The house.

He'd made love to you for the first time in this place. Not in this room where he rots now. In his room. In his bed. Arms bracketing your delicate head as you whimpered at the size of him. He'd been shaky and as nervous as a virgin. Damn near blew his load as soon as you hooked your legs around his waist, ankles digging into the dimples at the small of his spine and hands groping at the freckled meat of his shoulders to coax him deeper. To bring him in home to you.

That room's not his anymore. Neither are you, so it felt fitting. It also felt fitting to serve his time in this room—the one Smurf had decorated for Lena. Walls smeared in lilac and other posters for a little girl that was living on a nicer side of town now. Wardrobe still pink with tagged clothes. His limbs ached from being cramped up on the tiny, twin-sized mattress. He deserved it though. Same as how he deserved the contusions on his ribs and the split-lip. The purplish shiner over his left eye is just as needed as the taunting lettering of his niece's name on the untouched wardrobe. All of this—the room, the house, Smurf's meatloaf, his haunted old room down the hall—serves as a reminder to what he's lost. What he let get away.

Pope sat on the edge of the bed. Spine rigid. Palms flat against his thighs. Light imbuing through gauzy curtains. The lavender paint shines like bluebells in springtime.

"Pope."

Smurf. He had his back to her but he could already picture her hip against the doorframe and that viper-like sharpness in her eyes. Like she wants to cut him open and eat him alive.

"You can't sit in here forever, baby..."

Yeah? Fucking watch him.

Pope merely let his chin graze his shoulder in a halfhearted attempt at acknowledging her, and said, "M'fine."

"When you let those people take Lena, I didn't think that meant I wouldn't be seeing your girl around here anymore either?" Prison must've took it out of Smurf, because the faux-concern was just rubbing salt into his many wounds. Or maybe Pope could just see right through her now. "Where is Honey, Andrew? I didn't realise her and Lena were a package deal."

That sucker-punched him. Didn't realise? Lena would've clung to your hip until she went off to college if she could. And you would've let her. Even when her limbs got too gangly and your knees as creaky as his. You loved that kid. And Lena loved you.

She was fawn-eyed and doleful the day they first took her away. You'd cried yourself sick. Pope had to hold back your hair. (He promised he'd get her back. Promised he'd do anything to bring her home. Even said, mouth heavy and wanting against yours—all apologetic and grieving—that he'd give you a baby of your own, too. Give Lena a little sister...In a way, he had. Just not with your eyes).

"Andrew," Smurf said sternly, "I'm talking to you, baby."

Pope sucked in a trembly breath. "She's gone, Smurf. We're done. She left."

There was a beloved beat of silence when she didn't say anything at all. Pope relished in it. Thanked God for it. Thought of you and the comfortable silences you'd give him.

Until, "Because of Lena?"

"Because of me. I ruined it. I lost Lena. I got angry and stupid. So she left," he said scathingly; not angry at you, but needing to spit the words out else he'd lose them in his throat.

"Well, that ain't on you, baby. I don't think it's very fair of her to leave you over something that wasn't in your hands," mused Smurf. "Why don't you ask Deran where she is? I'm sure your brother wouldn't mind—"

"She left me," he interjected, voice cracking down the middle like a wishbone. "She don't want nothing to do with me. I ain't gonna—" Pope wrenched his eyes shut, balling his hands into his fists on his knees and trying to think of your sweet perfume to calm him down. It just made his chest throb. "I don't wanna chase her 'round town, begging her to take me back. She deserves better, same as Lena."

The two of you should be together still, he thought miserably. Maybe not in Baz's—too many ghosts, too much hurt. Pope ruined that place, same as he ruins everything.

But somewhere else where Lena could hear the sea, with not a glimpse of pink. She didn't like pink. But she liked you, and she liked the sea, and the two of you would've been happy together. Orange juice in the mornings and Powerpuff Girls at night. Seashells on Lena's nightstand and her drawings on yours. You'd braid her hair before school; maybe she'd even start to enjoy it with you taking care of her—maybe she'd have friends 'round for sleepovers, and you'd cook for them. Lovely and motherly in a frilly apron. The two of you wouldn't have to wait up for him. You'd have a whole bed to yourself, no tortured man attaching himself to you like a sad appendage, mumbling into the hollow of your neck.

Instead, Lena lived with strangers. Kind enough ones. She had a swing-set. A sister. She couldn't hear the waves from her room anymore, but the beach wasn't too far.

Did she think of you? Did she dream of you, like Pope did?

Did you dream of him?

The tequila left your throat raw and cheeks warm. Salt lingered on your tongue, the acidity of the lime wedge neutralising the burn.

You were in your nicest dress. God knows why, or for whom. You'd told yourself in the mirror that it was for you, but you so detached from your sense of self lately that it felt hollow and wrong to say that. The hem had ridden up to your upper-thigh, exposing the bare lengths of your legs and a tinkering anklet Pope used to kiss when he fucked you in a mating press.

Deran's bar looked almost garish through the lenses of your drunken, droopy eyes. Your chin was lolled in your palm, elbow perched on the sticky bar, about to slip and knock over your empty shot glass.

"If you don't start to look alive real soon, I'm cutting you off," your best friend drawled as he used a dishcloth to dry out a pint glass.

"You wouldn't," you said childishly, challenging him with the sloppy jilt of your chin and a scowl.

Deran arched a single brow at you. "Yeah. Yeah, I would."

"Well, look—" you perked up, folding both arms out in front of you on the bar surface and giving him your most dazzling smile, "I'm alive. And ready for another!"

"Jesus. Look at 'ya, Honey. You're ready for bed, not tequila."

You hiccupped in offence. "Bed? Bed? You promised me a distraction—a night out! You can't—hik!—" you cringed, "can't expect me to just go home and sleep! C'mon, Der, you're meant to be cheering me up not bumming me out."

"He does that, Honey," a sympathetic voice said from behind you, all cocksure but familiar enough to warm your tender, drunk heart.

Delighted, you spun around to smile up at Craig. He towered over you, his hair loose and dishevelled around his rugged face. He grinned crookedly at your dazed, beaming expression and the askew nature of your flimsy dress.

"Hey, Craig," you said sweetly.

"Hey, Honey." He lowered himself into the barstool next to you, still towering, and tauntingly hooked a finger through your fallen strap to slide it back up to your shoulder. He settled it down with a patronising pat before signalling Deran to grab him a beer. "How long you been here, huh? You look wasted."

"Am—hik!—not!" you protested, indignant.

"Yeah," he laughed, "sure." He took the beer from Deran, feeling it sweat into his hand. "Thanks, bro. Put it on my tab, yeah?"

Deran didn't look too pleased to see him. "Your tab."

"Yeah. My tab."

"What are you doing here, Craig?" he sighed.

"I'm here to see my favourite girl, duh," he replied affably, bumping his shoulder with yours. You blushed, a bit girlish in your drunken state. "Where you been, Honey? We don't see you 'round the house no more."

Deran's jaw tightened. "Craig."

"What? I'm only asking," his brother said innocently, blinking back at you and the fresh, forlorn frown that downturned your lips into a shiny pout. "I miss you, s'all. And your bikinis..."

"I just... Andrew and I, we're..." Your brain felt like mush. As liquid and sour as the tequila still burning in your throat. You felt yourself sway a little, slumping into the hard ledge of the bar. "I don't think it's fair of me be there, y'know? Not when he's living there again."

It killed you when Deran told you that Pope had moved back into the family home. You'd thought you'd saved him from all of that. At the very least, if he wanted nothing to do with you anymore, you figured he'd still keep his independence from that place. That woman.

You'd had a home together, the two of you. Lena, three. Well, it was Baz and Cath's place first. You didn't intend on staying forever, just until you found someplace else where Lena could hear the sea. But it had been a home, for all intents and purposes. The place you'd spent the better part of a year with two of your favourite people—eating breakfast, teaching Lena fractions, nursing Pope's wounds (the kind that bled and the kind that only you could reach).

Naively, you'd thought you'd shown him a world that existed without Smurf, violence, and all that generational hurt. But as soon as the two of you called it quits, he went right back to it. To butchering himself for her. To bleeding for her. He probably smells of chlorine again these days. That had faded when he was with you. The artificial tang of the pool had been exchanged for saline and the faint, sweet warmth of sun-cream. That was no doubt gone now. He presumably didn't give a second thought to protecting his skin, nor any other part of himself.

Your beautiful boy, all covered in scars and butterfly-stitches and yellowing bruises.

"Hey," said Deran gently, crouching a little so he was at eye-level with you, "we don't gotta talk about him, Honey. You don't even need to think about him. C'mon, I'll pour you another drink."

And so he did. Then another. And another. Then a mai tai, complete with a gaudy umbrella and a maraschino cherry.

You were sipping it through a red straw, barely keeping upright. The rest of the bar had cleared and you had no idea what time it was. Your dress was even more higher on your thighs now, and you were pretty sure that the wrong turn on the barstool would have you flashing your underwear. Luckily, it was just you, Deran, and Craig—the two of them taking it turns swigging from the bottle of rum that Deran used to make your cocktail.

“—hey,” you blurted, almost sputtering on your drink as you swivelled round to slap a hand down on Craig’s shoulder, “how’s J? I haven’t seen him since, like, well—you know…but how is he? Is he—with Smurf being home—I worry—“

“J’s fine,” Craig swept in, sounding a bit disgruntled. “Kind of thinks he rules the roost now, but whatever.”

You shrugged, indifferent and half-pleased. “He’s a smart kid. I think if you give him the chance—hik!—he could make you legit.”

Craig and Deran exchanged a thoughtful, collusive look over your droopy head until the latter reached over for your tumbler glass and gave the melting ice-cubes a shake.

“Refill?” he mumbled, already going for the bottle of orange curaçao.

You smiled at him blissfully, the muscles in your face stretching out. “Sure.”

So you had another mai tai. Then, a Long Island. You were halfway down it by the time your vision started to go starry and muted-white. Everything went off-kilter. Craig became a burly blur of shoulder-length locks and a concerned frown, then the both of them were ushering you to the bathroom, saying your name and putting brotherly arms around your shoulders. Deran’s hand gathered your hair back but it wasn’t anything like Pops’s, neither was Craig’s as it rubbed halfhearted circles between your shoulders as you hacked up your guts.

Acid, bile, and self-resentment stared back at you, splattered across ceramic along with the remnants of that candied cherry. Soon you were heaving again—half-sobbing into the bowl, mumbling nonsense, mumbling for Pope. It’s like prayers.

“Shit…” cursed Deran, after about your third bout of throwing-up and no sign of reprieve. He kept one hand bunching your hair into a makeshift ponytail as he used the other to miserably rub down his stubbly jawbone. “Fuck it. Craig, call him.”

“Bro, call who? She’s—dude, she’s like, wasted. She’s probably gonna need her stomach pumped or some shit—“

“Pope, man,” Deran snarled through his teeth, smacking Craig on the chest with the backs of his knuckles. “Calling fucking Pope!”

Craig was out of the bathroom like a bullet. Deran, however, stayed with you. He always would. Promised it as kids when the both of you were still missing teeth. He even crouched down next to you, smearing his thumb over your dewy cheekbone to collect a sorrowful tear that had fell from your welling waterline.

It killed his heart to see your bottom lip wobble at the tenderness. How long was it since you last felt a scrap of affection? When you were both young, you’d each yearned for soft touches equally like dogs for a bone. Sniffing around at each other’s frail ankles like hungry sparrow-hawks around carrion.

Deran loved you. Loved the bones of you. He’d said it before and he’ll keep it saying. He needs you like you’re a rib inside of him. An iron lung. To see you like this—all slumped and sad against the graffitied wall of a bathroom stall in his bar; lost eyes, pouty mouth, emptied from the stomach and the heart—he felt sick himself.

You’d saved him all those years ago. Why couldn’t he save you?

“Honey,” he said, trying to be gentle but not knowing how—cursing his mother’s blood, “hey, look at me…” you tried, blinking forlornly through tears and daze. “Shit. M’sorry. I should’ve stopped filling up your glass. Should’ve stuck with my gut.”

“We’re s’posed to be having fun. Was having s’much fun. And then…” you stared, crestfallen, at the evidence of your empty stomach. “Deran, I’m s’sorry. Didn’t—hik!—mean to. Please don’t hate me.”

Deran felt almost as sick as you looked. “I could never hate you. You’re my favourite person.”

After everything, you found it hard to believe that you were anyone’s favourite anything.

Pope was lost to his mother’s clutches again—her nails back in him, right where she’d claimed the pinkish knots for herself decades ago. And Lena was someone else’s daughter now, telling some other patient woman about her nightmares. Even Deran felt distant these days. Face pinched with pity as he looked at you—keeping your glass full and mind fogged so you didn’t spend too much time longing after his brother, nor the ephemeral life you’d had together.

Were you truly so stupid to think that it might last? That Pope was yours, and that the pair of you could raise Lena together?

“Where is she?” a voice viciously banged from outside of the bathroom, muffled and contemptuous and yours.

“Pope, listen, bro—you gotta just—“

“Where is she, Craig?”

You hiccuped again, choking on it and your own air as you stared up at Deran in horror. “Andrew? Did you call…”

“Shit.”

Your best friend straightened up, massaging the throbbing pulse over the bridge of his nose. Your hair fell back down against the nape of your neck, tickling your collarbone. Deran looked distressed and overwhelmed with sudden regret. Had he even meant to ask Craig to call their big brother? What had he been thinking?

“Shit!” Deran yelled then, banging his fist against the steel door of the bathroom stall, making it rattle and you shudder.

All of that was enough to have Pope bursting in.

And you’re there—for the first time in weeks—knelt and weak; wan, hurt, and all apart. You must look wretched. Pope’s eyes go from murderous to aching in moments, and all that tension in him left in a few ragged breaths. He was all yours again. He was all apart, too.

“Honey,” he breathed.

Your lower lip started to waver again. “Andrew.”

“What the hell did you two do?” Pope sneered, glaring furiously at Deran. “You know she’s a lightweight!”

“Hey,” you mumbled disgruntledly, your regurgitated breakfast in your periphery.

“She wanted to drink, Pope. Wanted a distraction. This is on you, not me,” Deran retorted sharply. “I was only trying to clean up the mess that you made.”

“That right? My little brother, cleaning up my mess, huh?” snarled Pope.

Teeth-gnashing and hound-like. All Smurf’s, really. Maybe he wasn’t ever yours.

Then his eyes were on you, and the softness seemed suddenly gone from him—this cold, nearly catatonic, look to them that made you shrink closer towards the dirty wall.

“What're you playin’ at, huh? Sitting here, touching all kinds of germs—throwing up your guts and sitting with these two idiots, letting ‘em get you wasted. This ain’t you,” he ranted, chest heaving. “I know it ain’t, so what the hell?”

“It’s not like I’ve got a kid to come home to,” you shakily manage to spew back, feeling surprisingly defensive considering the state you were in. “Lena’s not exactly waiting for me back at home, is she? I figured I could have a night for myself. Instead of being by myself. Is that—hik!—alright with you, Pope?”

Calling him that was a low-blow, you both knew it. There was an agonised twitch to his left eye that gave his wounded pride away, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. He’d wounded you enough, surely his ego could take a blow or two.

Pope just clenched his jaw at you. “Just get up. Look at you. You’re on the floor. Do you know how filthy it is in here? Get up, Honey. I’m taking you home.”

“You’re not taking me anywhere!” you shrilled, doing everything but stomping your foot like a stropping toddler in protest.

“Yeah?”

“M’staying. ‘Feel better now, anyways. Could drink more. ‘Cause Deran cares about me. Deran wants to see me happy. You, however, are just a big, ol’—“

You were halfway home in fifteen minutes.

Buckled into the passenger side of Pope’s truck, temple cool against the condensation of the window. He didn’t like to drive with the radio on so it was just the two of you, the indigo-blue sky, and the occasional bloodbath of a red-light up ahead. You felt like a chastised child. A mutt locked outside the back door to stand out in the rain and think about what it had done—your upset belly akin to muddy paw-prints over cream carpet. You hated yourself.

Apart from the chirping of grasshoppers in rich people’s well-kept lawns and the low rumble of the engine, it was eerily quiet. Pope didn’t even spare you a single glance, hadn’t even looked at you as he got you into the seat and fastened you in, just muttered to himself about how you must be getting all the germs from the bathroom floor into his car.

The silence and the fresh air from the small crack in your window were enough to sober you up a little, so much so that after a few familiar turns and short-cut gullies, you eventually realised where he was taking you.

“No,” you stammered, scrambling to sit upright in the chair and white-knuckling the side of the door. “Pope, I’m not going there. ‘Don’t wanna see her.”

Pope finally glimpsed at you—brief and concerned through the rearview, where a beaded rosary dangled just out of reach.

“I don’t…” he drummed his fingers against his wheel, anxious, “I was gonna take you home, but I don’t…”

He didn’t know where you lived now. Not since you recklessly gave up the lease of your first ever place to move in with him and Lena at Baz’s. There was entire pieces of you that he had no idea about. New furniture and items of clothing—days gone by where he wasn’t there in the evenings to kiss your hairline and ask you what you’d done. He didn’t know about the uneven floorboard in the living room, nor how a few of the shower nozzles sprayed water up the pearlescent tiles in your bathroom. Pope hadn’t seen the new lamp that you’d gotten for your bedroom, because sleeping in the dark felt so much more frightening now without him next to you. He’d probably forgotten the smell of your sheets and shampoo—how it felt to hold you at night.

(He hadn’t. Never would, really).

“Oh,” you said solemnly, realising. “Erm, well. It’s not too far from Deran’s place. ‘Got it on the front. Y’know, in case…”

In case Lena ever came home.

Pope swallowed threadily, ligaments going taut in his thick, freckled neck. He looked so much broader now, you were slowly realising the more brave you got to look sideways to him. Even more filled out than before, with a half-healed welt over his eye and the scarred flesh of a scabbed over cut on the opposing cheekbone. He’d shucked on a jacket before being called over to play white-knight, and his shoulders and biceps pressed against the dark denim in a way that made you even dizzier.

God, you loved him. You missed him. You wanted him back: Lena too. There was even a spare bedroom in this place you’d gotten. The rent was obscene and your landlord useless, but it was some kept-dream for you. That wraparound porch and the spare room. The entire place smelt of the sea and lavender incense.

Pope would be happy there, you think morosely. You kept the place clean. He’d take over that if he was to move in—would do it religiously. And you’d cook, because Pope’s definition of a healthy meal was a slab of barely-cooked meat and raw asparagus. You’d serve him hearty dinners and bloat him up with it (and love). Sure, you loved how muscular he looked now, but you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t fond of a bit of pudge on him. The cutthroat look he had now was just further proof of Smurf’s talons in him. In some depraved way, you wanted to fatten him just the slightest bit—make him homely, make him comfortable: make him yours.

You gave the directions to where you were living now. He followed them diligently and without a word, exhibiting every last nervous tick you’d ever seen him do, from the drumming of his fingertips to the incessant twitch in his jaw.

He pulled into the communal driveway at the back of the row of houses that yours was on, right between your neighbour’s obnoxious minivan and a Wildcat Ultra Minarelli. He knocked off his headlights and left the both of you bathed in shadows. It was suffocating.

Why was he even here? Why did Deran tell Craig to call him? Why did he pick up? The questions swarmed around your mind like small, primal animals.

Chest tightening, you turned to him, feeling infinitely pathetic and two-inches tall. “Thanks for the lift, I—.”

“I’m not letting you walk in by yourself,” he quickly interrupted you, looking rather insulted that you’d even assume he would. “You were stumbling like a baby deer outside Deran’s bar.”

Insulted, you felt your eyebrows pinch inwards and your mouth open to retort. Pope didn't give you the chance. Scoffing to himself, he popped open the driver's side door and left the car. Feeling quite petulant, you slumped down in your chair and crossly folded your arms over your chest as you glared after the vague outline of him walking around the front of the car to your side.

The air hit you unforgivingly, shivering and scowling at Pope for the offence of exposing you to it. He just gave you this droll, half-apologetic look before extending out his arm. You took it, ignoring the yearning for more of him, to touch skin instead of denim—telling yourself that this wasn't intimate nor domestic, this was Pope being Pope. His brothers called him, and he heeded it. Doglike.

He cared about you still, you knew that—you weren't so butt-hurt to deny that Pope had a beautiful capacity for love, even if it was strange and mangled, and not at all like how you felt it. But he couldn't just switch it off any more than you could. Craig no doubt told him that you were a drunken mess, that you could barely stand and were hurling into a dingy toilet surrounded by coke debris and a used condom. There wasn't a possible scenario where Pope wouldn't show up for you. You supposed this was what hurt the most. The lingering concern, the persisting love, the way his touch still rendered you.

"C'mom," he mumbled, almost to himself, as his hand ghosted along the bare length of your arm and into the dip at the small of your spine, coaxing you out of his truck, "I've got you."

You don't, though, you thought viciously as he lead you over the pebbles to the scrap of a front-garden you had. You don't have me at all.

He walked you up the two small steps onto the wraparound decking, stubbornly ignoring the porch-swing that was swaying softly in the sea breeze. His hands left you then. Suddenly, you were stood in a freezing tundra rather than your doorstep. It made you feel lonelier.

You went for your bag that was already slipping down your shoulder, looking for your keys. Rummaging through a sample perfume bottle, lip glosses, loose sticks of bubblegum, you just kept retrieving random items without even hearing the dainty jangle of your keys. The fading warmth of the booze already had you on edge, but the panic of not being able to find them was making your fingers shake and breaths come out in panicked bursts of air that Pope didn't take long to catch onto.

"Here," he said gravelly, taking the handbag from you and carding through all of your things to quickly take out your house-keys. He didn't gloat. He wouldn't. Not with you. He just gave you this brief, sheepish smile that looked more like a wince and put them into your hands, before returning to staring at his shoes.

"Thanks," you breathed, and moved to unlock your door.

The lungs of your house inhale strangely upon welcoming Pope into them. He followed you slowly inside, half-predator, half-prey; quite unassuming considering his stature. He still had that swagger about him that was never cocky, yet still annoyingly attractive. A heavy, uneven gait. You felt it behind you as you moved deeper into the small entry hallway, flicking on a light-switch and bringing life back into this bizarre night.

He kicked off his shoes without second thought, toeing them off, one-by-one, because that was Pope. He didn't want to trek any outside dirt into this sacred place of yours. Didn't want to ruin it any more than he inevitably would by just being here.

In your living room, as the two of you pass through it like ghosts to seemingly get to your kitchen, he smelt lavender and saw the crochet blanket draped over the back of the sofa that used to be Lena's favourite. It was all so dizzyingly nostalgic. As were the books stacked up in rogue piles by the French-doors leading out to the back porch, and the waxen candles on the coffee table, the cardigan slung over the arm of a thrifted rocking-chair, and a kitsch dreamcatcher looped through your curtain-pole.

Your kitchen wasn't any easier to stomach. So uniquely you, quaint too. Your favourite mug was left on the countertop with a terracotta coffee-ring just underneath it, dried tacky to the cheap wood. There was even a photo-frame on the windowsill just above the sink—it didn't hold a glossy photograph, rather a slightly crinkled drawing of a family of three. It didn't take much for Pope to recognise Lena's crayons. To recognise his unruly curls and your doe-eyes, the sweet girl in-between you.

"D'you want anything?" you asked him, already on your tiptoes trying to reach a glass from a slender cabinet.

Pope blinked, having almost forgotten why he was here.

"I'll get that. You—" he cleared his throat, looking at your still dilated pupils and the fallen straps of your little dress, "go and change, brush your teeth. I'll get you some water. Tylenol, too."

"Oh, you don't..." Then, he levelled you with this look that said, yes, I do have do this, and you went quiet again.

Acquiesced, as you usually do for those puppy-dog, hickory eyes of his, and ducked out of the room to freshen yourself up.

Your absence from the room didn't make it any less suffocating, Pope realised rather quickly. It wasn't just you that did this time, he was coming around to seeing, it was everything that came with you—that fierce love you had for Lena, the earthy, sweet smell of you, and how you hadn't changed one bit.

He poured you a glass of water and found your medicine cabinet with ease, popping two Tylenol out of a sleeve that was almost gone—wondering, unhappily, how many of these you've had to take recently under similar circumstances. He stayed at your kitchen island, thumb working over a chip in the oak surface, staring at the settled water in the glass and the twin pills next to it. Just down the hall, he could hear faucet being turned off in the bathroom, followed shortly by the rustle of fabric and some endearing, disgruntled sounds as you fought with the zipper of your dress. He'd considered going in there to help you, but decided against it—Pope couldn't see you like that; all that soft skin and the dewy, vulnerable look in your eye as he helped you out of the satiny slip. Leaving you in whatever panties you'd put on, because he knew for a fact that you hadn't worn a bra with that dress.

Thankfully, he hadn't needed to, because you came padding out of the bedroom not long after, approaching him and the kitchen as if he were a frightened, bathing animal in the woods. Your hair collected back by a claw-clip, most of your legs bare save for the tops of your thighs that were covered by a plaid pair of boy-shorts and the fraying hem of an oversized tee.

You looked painfully pretty. Eyes soft and still a bit unfocused, with smudges of glitter lingering even after you tried to smear it all off with a cotton-pad and some micellar water. You were wringing your hands together when you walked up beside him, reaching nervously for the tall glass of water and the first of the painkillers.

"Thanks, Pope," you said shyly.

"Andrew," he managed to choke out as you swallowed the first pill, staring at him thoughtfully over the rim. "You call me Andrew. 'Always have."

You settled the glass down carefully. "I didn't think I could anymore. 'Didn't think it was my place."

"S'always your place. I'm—"

Pope cut himself short before he could upset either of you any more. But the stricken look on his face as he dragged his eyes to look out to the sea through your window was enough to suggest that enough damage was done—if the matching hurt in your chest wasn't already.

I'm your place.

You took the moment to just look at him. He really was gorgeous. You'd nearly forgotten how many kisses long his throat was. Would he let you remind yourself? The neckline of the navy tee under his jacket was low enough to expose the strong sinews in his neck: sun-drenched, freckled, and untouched by your mouth for far too long.

"I'm sorry that Craig called you," you mumbled, resting the small of your back into the kitchen island. The two of you were side-by-side now, both looking out at to your little cut of the seaside—where Lena should be in the sunny afternoons, building sandcastles and collecting seashells. "Hell," you scoffed next, "I'm sorry I got this drunk at all. I just—it's been, well. I think you know."

Pope nodded shallowly. "I know."

Gutted, you gnawed down on your bottom lip and looked at him again. It was like you just couldn't help yourself. This time, he actually looked back. Chin tilting down to you, giving you all of his attention. Your knees felt weak.

"I miss her," you told him earnestly.

"Me too. I know. I know. I couldn't—" he looked physically pained as he shook his head, fists balling at his sides. "Smurf was saying all this shit about keeping her close. Saying she'll let us see her. Talking 'bout moving you in with me. I didn't want you there, Honey. Not Lena, not you. Not there. I knew Lena would be happier with that family than in that house. I kept thinking about," Pope choked, "about Julia—"

"Andrew," you interjected, moving in front of him now. He shook his head desperately, pushing himself against the island and away from you, murmuring prayers of please and your name. You listened, surrendering your palms to him, but still went on, "I get it. Lena deserves better than that place—than Smurf. But so do you. What I don't get is why you had to go back there? Why you left? I could've helped get Lena back. It's not always Smurf who has to fix things. I could've—we could've done something. Us. We were doing it together, weren't we? We were happy. Was it..." you wet your lips, apprehensive, "were you happy, too?"

"So happy. It was..."

Pope looked so distraught, hands tucked behind his back, shoulders trembling. He didn't have words for it. You'd give him a home and a family. Softened out the harsh edges of all the ugliness around him. Made Lena feel safe and happy, listened to.

“I lost her. For the both of us. You loved her too, and… They took her, because I wasn’t safe. Because I’m fucked up.” He tucked his wobbling bottom lip between his crooked teeth, a whimper lodging itself violently in his throat. “I couldn’t even—I couldn’t—“

“Andrew. Andrew, hey, hey,” you spoke as gently as you could, angling your head down to try and meet his torn-up gaze. “Can I touch you? Is it okay if I—“

“Please,” he wept, keeping his hands behind his back but baring himself to you. “Please, please, please.”

And you’re on him. Because he was begging so sweetly, because he looked so broken, because you loved him. You love him. You cradled one, steady palm to the nape of his neck, tucking his head into the crook of your own, and smoothed the other between his crumpled shoulders. He shook against you, crying like it hurt. His hands didn’t move. You wondered if he was making the inside of his palms bleed. You never wanted him to bleed again. Thought about tearing the limbs off whatever brutes had been beating him to a pulp in that ring as you ghosted your lips over his sweat-slick throat.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I don’t blame you,” you promised him. “I understand why you did it. She looked happy, yeah? She has a sister. Swings. You wanted her to be happy.”

“You—you…” He couldn’t get his words out, they were ravaging their way from him as if they were being yanked by brutal force from his sternum, “you made her happy, too,” he sobbed.

You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your nails bluntly into the denim of his jacket. “I just want her to be happy. And you, Andrew. You’re not happy right now.”

“Not happy unless m’with you.”

“I’m the same,” you admitted shamefully, eyes still closed. He was yet to return the embrace, but you didn’t begrudge him for it. “I think about you all the time. ‘S why I got drunk tonight. I didn’t wanna think about how lonely I am without you two.”

That made Pope sob harder. “I ruined it. I ruined everything. M’sorry, sweetheart. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He kept saying it. Until his lungs started to rasp, his throat was raw, and he finally moved his arms around your waist, dragging you into his body. You held him impossibly tighter and Pope squeezed at the flesh of you. You wanted to climb into his ribs and stay there. He longed to have you in his blood.

“M’sorry,” he slurred shakily for the last, gut-wrenching time, sounding so exhausted.

His mouth brushed your jawbone, warm breath and devotion.

“I forgive you, Andrew.” You stroked your fingers through his curls. “We’ll figure it out. You and me, yeah?”

He didn’t repeat the words back to you. Couldn’t. It made you deflate a little, only now realising what this was. Knowing he wouldn’t wake up in your bed come the morning. Tomorrow, he’ll be back in that haunted house of his—he’ll be Smurf’s again. This ironic taunt of a home will be empty again and you’ll be alone. The spare bedroom will never know Lena’s laughter, the left half of your wardrobe won’t ever house his clothes, and you’ll make too much breakfast again. The dull throb of your hangover will feel like a punishment that you deserve for mourning this relationship that will never work out. Inevitably, this will all have been for nothing.

Pope was probably never even yours to begin with.

But neither of you wanted to confront that right now. Not with the moon and the sea behind you, and that empty child’s bedroom down the hall. This was the first time in weeks you’d been in each other’s arms, why destroy that with reality?

“You made me so happy,” he sniffled again, rueful and apologising in his own way. Thanking you, too.

You merely hummed, scratching your nails against his scalp now. “Yeah?”

“The happiest I've ever been.”

But that was all over now. That dream of yours—that the three of you could be a family—it was fallible and gone.

The sound of the waves lapping against the shore would never sound the same again.