Inlovewithfictionalmenholic

Got adult money & new obsession wish me luck

[bobo-bush]

⠀⠀ᮀ᮫ 🍡়᩠ ⠀⠀ᮀ᮫ 🍡়᩠ ⠀⠀ᮀ᮫ 🍡়᩠ ⠀⠀ᮀ᮫ 🍡়᩠ ⠀⠀ᮀ᮫ 🍡়᩠ ⠀⠀ᮀ᮫

Angie

21. She/her. Supportive Reader 𝜗ৎ

oh. when in doubt I’m gonna take a nap.

Has anyone seen my six-foot-one Cardiac Surgeon husband who loves sweets ?

[harringtonsugar]

Fixed on You

summary: steve notices your fixation on his hands

warnings: smut, oral and hand fixation, fingers in mouth, p in v smut, unprotected sex, dirty talk,

word count: 1.7k

Steve Harrington may not have been the sharpest tool in the shed but when it came to his girlfriend? Well he was incredibly perceptive.

And for the past two weeks, he’s been picking up on the way you’ve been staring at his hands.

It doesn’t matter what he’s doing – if his hands are visible, you’re fixed on them. At first he thought he was imagining it but you proved him wrong.

When he’s counting down the registers at work, mindlessly swiping his tongue over his fingers for a better grip on the cash, you’re staring.

When he came over last week and built you a new vanity, screwdriver between his teeth, and his hands hammering in every screw, you’re staring.

After work when he surprised you with a glass of wine and plan for a homemade meal, chopping up vegetables – you’re staring.

And tonight he was going to prove it.

He whisked you away for a casual date night – spending the night at a new dive bar he found and used every possible excuse to showcase his hands.

He showed up in a white button down, the top three buttons left open to show just enough of his chest hair to tease, and made sure to keep his sleeves rolled up to his elbows – displaying the veins in his hands and forearms.

He kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the expanse of your thigh, gently kneading the skin every few minutes. And when he was pulling into the parking spot? That same hand came to land on your headrest, muscles twitching as he maneuvers the car – inches away from your face, and your mouth.

It worsened once he roped you into a game of pool. His body bent over the table, the thin wood looked minuscule between his long fingers. The veins in his hands shifting as he lines the stick up.

It was all so consuming that it was hard to carry out a full conversation with him.

And of course, Steve noticed.

By the end of the night, he could see the way you were a buzzing mess of nerves – practically drooling over the sight of his hands and the way he used them tonight.

It was no surprised when you all but pounced on him the minute you stepped inside. Your mouth was on his seconds after the door was shut, hands clawing at any inch of skin you could reach. He smirked into the kiss, awfully aware of how he triggered your reaction.

But he let you have your fun, because by the time you got upstairs, a trail of clothes left behind leading up the stairs, he knew what he wanted.

And that was getting you to admit what he already knew.

You’re laying flat on his bed, legs spread wide for him to settle between. Steve hovers over you, his warm mouth gliding against yours, his tongue licking into your mouth. Your hands are tangled in his hair, tugging every time his teeth bites into your lip.  

It’s messy and desperate and still not enough.

Steve pulls away suddenly and watches the way you raise your head off the pillow, chasing after his lips. Your chest heaves as you try and catch your breath, all the while he stares down at you – a barely there, teasing smile on his face.

Slowly, he grinds his still covered cock against your pussy. You don’t hold back the moan he pulls from you and your hands raise to grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His smile widens at your reaction. “That feel good, baby?”

You’re nodding instantly. “Mhm.. so good, Steve,”

He hums an agreement, still slowly rocking his hips. He knows it’s not enough for you, but you’re sweet enough not to rush him.

“You want more though,” He says softly, lowering his head to hover his mouth over yours – not quite a kiss yet. “Don’t you?”

Your breath hitches, just barely, but enough for him to notice. You swallow hard and nod timidly.

“Use your words.”

His hips are still lazily moving into yours but it’s still enough to turn your brain into mush.

“Y-Yes, Steve. I want – I want more, please.” You beg him and raise your head, pushing your lips against his. He doesn’t fight you and kisses you back just as hard.

His hips move faster now, a new harsh and fast rhythm. You can physically feel your own wetness soaking the fabric of the boxers he still wears, but neither of you care. The room fills with the sound of your lips smacking against each other and you’re mewling for more under him.

Slowly, he slides his hand up your thigh, over your hip, up your ribs, all the way until he reaches your face. His palm cups your cheek and he brushes his thumb over the skin there.

It’s a gentle touch and it’s a dizzying difference compared to the way he’s slamming his hips into you.

He pulls back then and waits for you to open your eyes. You’re breathless when you do, staring up at him. Your mouth is swollen red, lips bitten raw. The skin of your face is flush, a faint blush covering the apples of your cheeks.

So fucking beautiful.

His fingers slide down your face, carefully tracing your lips and taps his thumb against them.

“Open.” His voice is low, soft and gentle, and there’s no room to question him.

You blink up at him but he doesn’t repeat himself.

Your lips part and he lets his thumb slip inside. Instinctively, your lips wrap around his finger – and you don’t just hold him there. Your cheeks hollow out, tongue swirling around him. Your eyes flutter shut, a content hum surrounding his finger, like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

Steve groans quietly above you and he presses his thumb down on your tongue. Your whimper is muffled around him.  

“This what you’ve been wanting, baby?” He murmurs, carefully sliding his thumb in and out of your mouth.

With your mouth full, you still nod. Your eyes are hooded, swirling with unfiltered need and desire – it’s almost enough to make him cum right there.

“Yeah I know it is,” He breathes. “Been watching my hands, my fingers. Just needed them in your mouth – something for you to suck on, huh?”

Your face burns – from embarrassment, shame, hunger, you have no idea really. All you know is you want him to keep going.

He watches your reaction before he pulls his thumb out with a pop!

You whine at the loss and he smirks down at you. He doesn’t let you suffer for long before he reaches down and pushes his boxers off.

Your stomach twists in anticipation while you watch him. He kicks them off the bed, and grips his cock in his hand, sliding it through your wet folds.

“Please – don’t tease me,” You whine. Steve ignores you and pushes the head of his cock against your clit, moving in small circles over the sensitive bud.

You watch the way his hand tightens around his cock – veins protruding and twitching beneath his skin.

He guides himself down to your entrance, your wetness giving him easy access but before he pushes in, he looks back up at you. He plants a gentle kiss on your lips and slides home.

Your shared moan is instant. The stretch he brings is intense and the feeling of being completely full overwhelms you in the best way. It’s almost like you can feel him all the way in your throat.

He starts his brutal pace – hips slamming into yours and his cock hits that sweet spot inside you almost immediately.

“Mhmm.. fuck,” You cry out, mouth hanging open and Steve takes the opportunity.

His hand rises to your face again and his pointer and ring finger flat against your tongue. You suck him in, encouraging him further.

“So good baby, so fuckin’ good,” He moans. Your mouth soak his fingers, all the while your pussy soaks his cock. “Just stuffed full, aren’t you? This pussy full from my cock and this pretty mouth stuff with my fingers,”

His words are so fucking vulgar and should make you disgusted with yourself but you’re not – it just makes you want it even more.

You nod feverishly, whining around his fingers. Drool slips past your lips and onto the pillow beneath you. His hips haven’t stopped slamming into you for a second and already, you can feel the coil pulling tighter and tighter in your tummy.

Steve can feel it and it’s pushing him closer to the edge behind you.

“Come on then baby. Cum for me,” He rasps. His cock drills into your harder, deeper. “Cum around my cock while I fuck your mouth with my fingers.”

Your orgasm washes over you the second the words leave his mouth, giving you barely any warning. Stars burst behind your eyes, your skin burns from the feeling of him and his words.

Steve watches the way your thighs convulse around him, your pussy tightening and clenching around him, your juices gushing the base of his cock.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Steve whines. His hips stutter, losing rhythm, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth – giving you only a second to breathe before slams his mouth against yours. You swallow down his whines as his cock jerks inside you, hot ropes of cum spilling inside you.

He steadies himself over you after a moment, his lips gently pecking at yours as you both try to catch your breath. When he pulls his face away from yours, he smiles down at you.

“What?” You ask breathlessly.

“Nothin’.” He responds. You narrow your eyes at him. “Just thinking of all the other ways I can use my hands to get you like this now,”

“Steve!” You gasp out a laugh. He laughs back, burying his face in your shoulder.

He found a hundred different ways that night.

[fanficwritinggirl]

{One Whole Year - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

I can assure you all that he is getting out very soon. Comment to be added to the taglist.

Andie turned one on a Thursday.

You knew because you had checked the date six times before getting out of bed.

Not because you had forgotten.

Because it felt impossible.

A year.

One whole year since the hospital room, since Craig filming with shaking hands, since Deran pretending not to cry, since Andrew's voice through the prison phone telling you to breathe while his daughter fought her way into the world.

A year since she had been placed on your chest, furious and warm and dark-haired, with Andrew's frown already stamped across her face like a warning.

Now she was standing at the coffee table in the living room, one hand planted flat on the wood, the other clutching a soft block she had no intention of sharing with anyone.

She was wearing one sock.

The other had been missing for forty minutes.

She had a smear of banana on her cheek, a tiny yellow bow in her hair that she had already tried to remove twice, and an expression of deep suspicion aimed at the birthday outfit laid across the back of the sofa.

"No," you told her.

Andie slapped the block against the table.

"Da."

"Yes, Daddy later," you said, because that was what most of her sounds meant now, according to you and absolutely no science.

From the kitchen, Deran said, "That one was definitely block-related."

You looked over your shoulder.

He was leaning against the counter with a paper bag of pastries in one hand and a tiny birthday cupcake box in the other, trying very hard to look like he had not specifically gone to three places to find the right one.

"It was not block-related," you said.

"It was."

"She knows today is special."

"She's one. She thinks the remote is special."

"She does love the remote."

Craig came in from the hallway carrying the diaper bag, which he had packed and repacked twice with the grim seriousness of a man preparing for siege.

"Do we need two backup outfits or three?"

You stared at him.

"For a one-hour visit?"

"She got apple sauce in her ear yesterday."

"That was one time."

"How?"

You looked at Andie.

Andie looked back at you with complete innocence.

"No one knows," you said.

Craig put a third outfit in the bag.

You did not stop him.

The contact visit had been approved four days earlier.

You still did not entirely believe it.

The same family programme. The same good-behaviour notes. The same mountain of paperwork Craig had bullied into existence with phone calls, follow-ups, and a tone that made multiple people decide it was easier to say yes than continue speaking to him.

One hour.

Contact room.

Supervised.

Approved birthday visit.

You had read the message until the words blurred.

Then you had called Andrew.

He had gone silent for so long you had said his name twice.

Finally, he had said, "I get to hold her?"

And your whole chest had folded in.

Now the hour was today.

Andie's birthday.

Andrew's daughter, one year old, walking badly along furniture and saying his name like she had invented the word.

You looked at her again.

She grinned around the corner of the block.

Your eyes filled.

"No," Deran said immediately.

You blinked at him.

"What?"

"You're doing the birthday crying."

"I am not."

"You are."

Craig glanced over from the diaper bag. "She's allowed. It's emotional."

Deran pointed at him. "Don't encourage it."

Craig zipped the diaper bag shut. "You cried at the cake."

"I did not cry at the cake."

"You stood in the bakery staring at it like it owed you money."

"It was too small."

"It's a baby cupcake."

"She deserves bigger."

You pressed your lips together.

Deran saw your face and looked away fast.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"You love her."

"Everyone loves her."

"You love her in a very soft uncle way."

"I will leave."

Andie slapped the table again.

"Da."

Deran looked at her. "See? She wants me to leave too."

"She is saying Daddy," you said.

"She says Dada to spoons."

"She says Dada when she sees Andrew's photo."

"She says Dada when she sees the ceiling fan."

Craig looked up. "To be fair, the ceiling fan is impressive."

You laughed despite the lump in your throat.

Andie cruised carefully along the coffee table toward the framed picture on the low shelf.

Andrew through visiting glass.

His hand pressed to the barrier.

Andie's tiny hand, months younger, held opposite it.

She slapped the frame with her palm.

"Dada."

The room went quiet.

Deran stopped pretending not to feel things.

Craig's hand stilled on the strap of the diaper bag.

You swallowed hard.

"Yeah, baby," you whispered. "We're going to see Dada."

Andie looked back at you and grinned.

Like she knew.

Maybe she didn't.

Maybe she only knew that the word Dada made your voice go soft and the house go still.

But you believed she knew enough.

That had always been the rule with Andie.

She knew enough.

The prison looked wrong with birthday clothes.

It had looked wrong with a newborn.

It looked wrong with a six-month-old.

It looked wrong with a baby in a soft yellow romper with tiny white stars, one sock already threatening escape, and a birthday bow in her hair that had somehow survived the car ride.

The building did not deserve her.

That was the thought you had every time.

It did not deserve Andrew either, but that was a different ache.

Andie sat on your hip, alert and busy, one hand fisted in the collar of your shirt. She looked around at the doors, the walls, the guards, the lights, taking everything in with the solemn intensity of a tiny judge.

Craig walked on one side of you with the diaper bag.

Deran walked on the other with the approved cupcake container.

He had complained about carrying it twice.

He had also refused to let Craig carry it because Craig "tilted it weird."

At security, the guard glanced at the paperwork.

Then at Andie.

"Birthday?" he asked.

"One," you said.

Andie stared at him.

The guard's face softened despite himself. "Happy birthday."

Andie blinked.

Then said, very seriously, "Da."

The guard looked briefly confused.

Craig looked down.

Deran coughed.

"She's selective with thank-yous," you said.

The guard waved you through.

The contact room was the same beige box you remembered.

Same table.

Same chairs.

Same too-high window.

Same walls that looked like they had been designed by someone who distrusted joy.

But today there was a small paper banner taped crookedly along one wall.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Plain block letters.

Approved, apparently.

You had not brought it.

You looked at Craig.

Craig lifted both hands. "Not me."

Deran looked away.

You turned to him slowly.

"Deran."

"What?"

"You did the banner?"

"It came with the cupcake thing."

"It absolutely did not."

"Maybe it did."

Your eyes burned.

He made a face. "Don't."

"You got her a prison birthday banner."

"Worst sentence anyone's ever said."

Craig snorted.

You laughed wetly and leaned over to kiss Andie's head.

"Your uncle Deran is very emotionally fragile today."

Deran pointed at the door. "I'm waiting outside."

"Coward."

"Correct."

Craig set the diaper bag down and squeezed your shoulder once as he passed.

Not long.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

"You good?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"No."

He smiled faintly. "Fair."

Then he and Deran left.

The door closed.

You were alone with Andie.

For maybe five seconds.

Then the other door opened.

Andrew walked in.

Andie saw him before you said a word.

She turned toward the sound of the door, one hand still clutching your shirt, bow slightly crooked, eyes bright and curious.

Andrew stopped just inside the room.

His gaze went to you first.

It always did.

A quick check.

Your face.

Your body.

Your eyes.

Still making sure you were okay, even after a year of learning that you were allowed to be tired and fine at the same time.

Then he looked at Andie.

Really looked.

And something in him went quiet.

Not empty.

Not blank.

Quiet like a room after a storm.

She was so much bigger than the newborn he had held.

That was the first thing you saw him understand.

Not because he hadn't seen photos.

He had.

So many.

Printed photos. Visit photos. Still frames from videos. Pictures with banana on her face and socks in her hands and books half chewed.

But photos flattened her.

Here, she moved.

She breathed.

She looked at him.

She knew him.

Andrew's hands flexed once at his sides.

Andie stared.

One second.

Two.

Her face lit up.

Not slowly.

All at once.

A gummy, delighted grin opened across her face, bright enough to ruin him on sight.

Then she reached both arms toward him.

"Dada!"

Andrew's face broke.

Completely.

His hand came up over his mouth.

He looked like he had been hit.

You started crying immediately.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

Andie bounced on your hip, reaching harder.

"Da-da-da!"

"Oh," you whispered, half laughing, half sobbing. "Okay. Funeral for your father, apparently."

Andrew made a sound.

It might have been a laugh.

It might have been a sob.

It was probably both.

He crossed the room carefully, like moving too fast might make this less real.

Andie leaned toward him so hard you had to tighten your grip.

"Someone remembers you," you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

Wet.

Destroyed.

"She does."

Not a question.

A realization.

You nodded.

"She does."

Andrew reached you.

For a second, he only looked at Andie.

Then his eyes came back to you.

"Hi," he said.

Your laugh shook. "Hi."

"You okay?"

"Still your first question."

"Yeah."

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"I'm very emotional, but physically intact."

His mouth twitched.

Then you shifted Andie higher.

"Do you want her?"

Andrew looked at his daughter.

Andie had one fist tangled in your shirt and one hand still reaching for him, impatient now.

His face softened into something so open it hurt.

"Yeah," he whispered.

You passed her over carefully.

This was different from the newborn visit.

So different it almost knocked the breath out of you.

Then, she had been small enough to frighten him into stillness.

Now Andie came into his arms like she had places to be.

She grabbed his collar immediately.

Andrew froze.

Andie patted his chest with one hand.

"Dada."

He closed his eyes.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Andrew held her more securely, one arm under her, one hand spread over her back. His fingers looked huge against her little yellow romper.

"She's heavy," he whispered.

You laughed through tears.

"She is not heavy."

"She is."

"She weighs about as much as a bag of flour."

"She's heavier than last time."

"That was almost a year ago."

His jaw worked.

"I know."

Andie slapped his chest again.

"Da."

Andrew looked down at her.

"I'm here," he said.

His voice was barely there.

Andie grabbed at the front of his prison shirt, then leaned forward and planted her open mouth against his collarbone.

You blinked.

Andrew looked panicked.

"What is she doing?"

"Kissing you. Or trying to eat you. Hard to tell at this age."

Andie lifted her head, drool shining on his shirt.

Andrew stared at the wet mark.

Then looked at her like she had blessed him.

You laughed so hard you cried harder.

"She drooled on you."

"I know."

"You can wipe it."

"No."

Of course not.

You stepped closer and brushed your fingers over Andie's hair.

Andrew's eyes flicked to your hand.

Then to your face.

The room shifted.

For one year, every contact visit had left both of you starved for touch. Every time you were allowed in the same room without glass, you became careful and greedy at once.

Today was no different.

His free hand reached for you.

You took it immediately.

Palm to palm.

His fingers closed around yours with a force that made your breath catch.

Not too tight.

Never too tight.

Just enough to say he had missed this too.

You stepped into his side, your shoulder brushing his arm, Andie between you.

Andrew looked down at your joined hands.

Then at you.

"You made it a year," he whispered.

Your eyes filled.

You shook your head.

"We did."

His expression cracked.

"Baby."

"We did," you said again, firmer this time. "She knows you because you showed up every way you could. Calls. Books. Visits. Photos. All of it."

Andrew looked down at Andie.

She was busy trying to remove the top button of his shirt.

"You did this too," you said.

His hand tightened around yours.

Andie looked up at him again.

"Dada."

His face folded.

"Oh, she knows how to weaponize that now," you said.

Andrew huffed a broken laugh.

"She can say it whenever she wants."

"She does."

"Good."

"She said it to a spoon yesterday."

His eyes lifted.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"She called a spoon Dada?"

"Briefly."

Andrew considered this.

Then looked at Andie.

"That's okay."

You stared at him. "That's okay?"

"She's learning."

"She called cutlery by your title."

"She's one."

"You are so biased."

"Yes."

No hesitation.

No shame.

Just yes.

You laughed and leaned into his shoulder.

His hand released yours only to wrap around your back, careful and warm. You turned your face into him for one second, just one, breathing him in as much as the room allowed.

Andrew pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Your eyes closed.

Andie slapped his cheek.

He opened his eyes.

You burst out laughing.

"She wants attention."

"She has it."

"She knows."

Andrew shifted Andie slightly and sat down, bringing her onto his lap. She immediately tried to twist around, interested in the table, the banner, your hair, the air, absolutely everything.

Andrew looked overwhelmed.

"She moves a lot."

"Yes."

"All the time?"

"Yes."

"How do you do anything?"

"I mostly don't."

He looked up, concerned.

"I'm kidding."

"Are you?"

"Partly."

He frowned.

You touched his cheek because you could.

Because you would use every second.

"I'm okay."

His eyes softened under your hand.

"You look tired."

"I am tired."

"But okay?"

"But okay."

Andie reached for your hand on his face and grabbed your fingers.

For a second, the three of you were tangled together.

Your hand on Andrew's cheek.

Andie's hand around your fingers.

Andrew's hand on Andie's back.

A ridiculous knot of love in a beige room.

Andrew looked at it.

His throat moved.

You did not say anything.

Some moments did not need help.

The guard outside shifted.

Reality, reminding you it existed.

You ignored it.

"Do you want the cupcake?" you asked.

Andrew looked immediately suspicious.

"For her?"

"For her birthday."

"She can eat cake?"

"She can eat a tiny bit of cupcake."

"Sugar?"

"Oh no. Not sugar on her birthday."

Andrew gave you a look.

You laughed. "Baby, she will survive frosting."

"What if she chokes?"

"She's supervised."

"What if—"

"Andrew."

His mouth shut.

You smiled fondly.

"Would you like to give your daughter her first birthday cupcake or would you like to continue arguing with me about sugar?"

He looked down at Andie.

Andie slapped the table.

"Da!"

He exhaled.

"Cupcake."

"Good choice."

You opened the little container.

The cupcake was tiny.

Yellow frosting.

One small white candle tucked separately because fire was absolutely not allowed in a prison contact room, which you had expected and honestly did not mind.

Deran had somehow found tiny duck sprinkles.

You stared at them.

"Oh, Deran."

Andrew leaned forward. "What?"

"Duck sprinkles."

His mouth softened.

"And he carried it?"

"Like it was evidence."

Andrew looked toward the door.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

You placed the cupcake on the table in front of Andie, who was now sitting on Andrew's lap with both his arms forming a protective barrier around her.

She stared at it.

Suspicious.

Andrew stared too.

Also suspicious.

You looked between them and snorted.

"She has your exact cake suspicion face."

"I don't have a cake suspicion face."

"You do now."

Andie reached one finger toward the frosting.

Stopped.

Looked at you.

You nodded. "Go on."

She poked the frosting.

Then looked at her finger.

Andrew leaned in like he was watching a bomb.

"She okay?"

"She has frosting on one finger."

"She's thinking."

"She is."

Andie put her finger in her mouth.

Her eyes widened.

You grinned.

Andrew stopped breathing.

Andie looked at the cupcake again.

Then slammed her whole hand into it.

You laughed.

"There we go."

Andrew's mouth parted in horror. "Oh."

"She's supposed to make a mess."

"She's destroying it."

"It's a smash cake."

"It's a cupcake."

"Smash cupcake."

"That sounds made up."

"It is made up. It's still happening."

Andie lifted her frosting-covered hand.

Before either of you could stop her, she planted it directly on Andrew's chest.

Yellow frosting smeared across his prison shirt.

The room went still.

You clapped a hand over your mouth.

Andie looked delighted.

Andrew looked down at the mark.

A tiny, messy, yellow handprint.

Right over his heart.

Your eyes filled instantly.

"Oh," you whispered.

Andrew did not move.

He just stared at it.

"Andie," you murmured, laughing and crying at once. "That was very dramatic."

Andrew's hand hovered over the frosting mark.

Not touching.

Not wiping.

Just hovering.

You swallowed hard.

"You can wipe it," you said softly.

His eyes lifted to yours.

"No."

Of course.

Your face crumpled.

He looked down at Andie.

She had frosting on her wrist now. On her mouth. Somehow near one eyebrow.

"Dada," she said happily.

Andrew closed his eyes.

For a second, he looked like he was praying.

When he opened them, they were wet.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I'm here."

You did not survive that.

You cried quietly while Andie continued destroying the cupcake with astonishing focus.

Andrew watched every movement like it mattered.

Because it did.

The way she poked the frosting.

The way she offered him a wet, crushed handful and then changed her mind before he could pretend to eat it.

The way she clapped once, smearing cake between her palms.

The way she babbled, "Da-da-da," like she was narrating the occasion.

Andrew laughed.

Really laughed.

Small and rough and unused, but real.

You stared at him.

He saw.

"What?"

"You laughed."

"She put cake on my shirt."

"Frosting."

"Frosting."

"You're happy."

His face softened.

"Yeah."

The simplicity of it made your throat close.

You reached over and took his hand again.

His fingers folded around yours.

For a few minutes, you let Andie have the cupcake while you and Andrew stayed pressed close enough that your knees touched. His thumb moved over your knuckles. Your shoulder leaned into his. Every small point of contact felt like a stolen thing.

Eventually Andie got tired of the cupcake and more interested in the paper banner.

Andrew held her up so she could see it.

"Happy birthday," he said.

His voice was quiet.

Andie looked at the banner.

Then at him.

"Da."

"Yes," he said. "Dada."

You wiped frosting from Andie's chin with a cloth.

"She had your birthday recording this morning," you said.

Andrew glanced at you. "Yeah?"

"She smiled at the part where you said happy birthday."

He looked down quickly.

You squeezed his hand.

"She did."

"I recorded it three times."

"I know."

"How?"

"You sounded hoarse by the end."

His mouth twitched.

"The first one was bad."

"I doubt that."

"I said happy birthday too fast."

"She is one. She does not have pacing critiques."

"I did."

"You always do."

He looked at Andie.

"I wanted it right."

Your face softened.

"It was."

The guard knocked lightly.

"Fifteen minutes."

The words dropped into the room like a stone.

Andrew's hand tightened around yours.

Andie, oblivious and sticky, reached for his face.

He leaned down automatically.

She patted his cheek with a frosting-smudged hand.

A faint yellow streak appeared along his jaw.

You laughed through tears.

"She got you again."

Andrew did not wipe that either.

"She can."

"She can?"

"She can do whatever she wants."

"You are going to be impossible."

"Yes."

"At least admit it."

"I did."

You smiled at him through wet eyes.

"She's going to run circles around you."

"Good."

"You say that now."

"I'll say it later."

Andie grabbed his nose.

He winced slightly but let her.

"Gentle," you told her.

Andrew's hand covered her back.

"She's okay."

"She needs to learn gentle."

"She's one."

"You are no help."

"She's one," he repeated, softer.

There it was.

The weight under the sweetness.

One.

A whole year.

His daughter had lived a full year outside your body, and Andrew had counted it through visits and recordings and phone calls and photos held carefully by prison light.

You touched his arm.

"She's one."

His eyes stayed on Andie.

"I missed a lot."

You took a breath.

You had known it might come.

Not as a spiral.

Not as self-punishment.

Just truth.

"Yes," you said softly.

His jaw worked.

"And you were there for a lot."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"Not the same."

"No," you said. "Not the same."

You would not lie to him.

You loved him too much for that.

"But it counted."

Andrew looked down at the frosting on his shirt.

At Andie's little handprint over his heart.

At his daughter chewing on the edge of a napkin you immediately removed from her mouth.

He huffed softly.

You smiled.

"It counted," you said again.

His eyes went wet.

"Yeah."

This time, it sounded like belief.

The guard moved outside.

Ten minutes.

You leaned forward and kissed Andrew.

He froze for only half a second before kissing you back.

Still careful.

Always careful.

But less disbelieving than the first contact visit.

His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye.

Andie made an outraged sound between you.

You pulled back, laughing.

"Sorry. Birthday girl objects."

Andrew smiled at her.

Actually smiled.

A tiny, open thing.

"Sorry."

Andie slapped his chest again.

"Da."

"I know," he said. "You're in charge."

"She really is."

He looked at you.

"You okay?"

You laughed softly. "Yes."

"With this?"

Your smile faded into something tender.

"With what?"

"With me having this today."

Your heart cracked.

"Oh, Andrew."

His eyes flicked down.

You touched his jaw, thumb brushing near the frosting streak Andie had left.

"I wanted you to have this."

His throat moved.

"I have her every day," you said. "The mornings. The nights. The messes. The firsts. The tantrums. The way she throws spoons like she's being paid. I get so much."

His face tightened.

"So when there is a way for you to have a piece too," you whispered, "I want you to have it. I want you to have all of it."

Andrew's eyes shone.

"I don't want to take from you."

"You're not."

"I know, but—"

"You're her dad," you said. "Loving her isn't taking from me."

He looked at Andie.

Then at your hand on his jaw.

The words landed slowly.

Carefully.

Like his body was still learning that love could multiply instead of divide.

Andie yawned suddenly.

A huge, dramatic yawn that made both of you stop.

"She's tired," you said.

Andrew's face shifted immediately into concern.

"She needs sleep."

"She can survive five more minutes."

"She's rubbing her eye."

"I know."

"She does that when she's tired?"

"Yes."

He watched closely, memorizing that.

Of course he did.

"Anything else?"

"What?"

"When she's tired."

You smiled despite the ache.

"She gets clingy. She makes this little humming sound. She hates being put down even though she clearly wants to sleep."

"Like you."

"Excuse me?"

"You get mean when you're tired."

"I gave birth to your child and organized a prison birthday cupcake. Choose your words."

His mouth twitched.

"You get quiet when you're tired," he corrected.

"Better."

"And mean."

"Andrew."

He laughed again.

You loved him so much in that moment it made you almost dizzy.

Five minutes.

The guard announced it softly this time.

Maybe because of the baby.

Maybe because even he had a heart somewhere under the uniform.

Andrew looked down at Andie.

His face changed.

The letting go was coming.

It was always coming.

No amount of frosting or laughter or birthday banners could stop it.

Andie rested against his chest now, sleepy, one sticky hand curled against the mark she had left on his shirt.

Andrew's hand covered her back.

You watched him breathe her in.

"Baby," you whispered.

His eyes closed.

"I know."

You moved closer.

"I'll take her."

His arms tightened for one second.

Only one.

Then loosened.

He handed Andie back with the kind of care that made your chest ache.

She fussed immediately.

Reached for him.

"Dada."

Andrew's face crumpled.

You held her close, tears filling your eyes again.

"I know," you whispered to her. "I know."

Andie reached harder.

"Dada!"

Andrew stood.

His hands curled once at his sides, like letting her cry for him was worse than anything he had prepared for.

You stepped close, shifting Andie between you.

"Touch her," you whispered.

He did.

One hand to her back.

One finger to her tiny frosting-sticky hand.

Andie grabbed it.

Hard.

Andrew bent his head.

"She knows you," you said.

His eyes closed.

"She'll know you next time too."

His jaw worked.

"I know."

And he did.

That was the difference.

He knew.

Not perfectly. Not without pain. But enough.

Andie tugged his finger.

"Dada," she said again, softer now.

Andrew swallowed hard.

"I love you," he whispered.

She blinked at him.

"I love you," he said again.

You were crying openly now.

He looked at you.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

He leaned forward and kissed you once more.

Brief.

Warm.

Desperate around the edges.

Then he kissed Andie's forehead.

She grabbed at his chin.

He smiled through tears.

"Happy birthday, baby girl."

The guard opened the door.

Time.

You stepped back.

Andrew's hand slipped from Andie's grip.

She made a noise that nearly broke all three of you.

You bounced her gently, trying to soothe her while your own face fell apart.

At the doorway, you turned back.

Andrew stood in the middle of the beige room with yellow frosting on his shirt, a smear on his jaw, and tears on his face.

The birthday banner hung crooked behind him.

One hour.

One cupcake.

One whole year.

You lifted Andie's hand.

She did not wave.

She was too busy looking at him.

"Da," she said.

Andrew covered his mouth.

Then the door closed.

Deran was waiting in the hall.

Craig too.

Both of them stood when they saw you.

Their eyes went immediately to Andie.

Then to your face.

Then to the closed door behind you.

"How bad?" Craig asked.

You laughed through tears.

"Destroyed."

Deran looked down at Andie. "Him or you?"

"Yes."

Craig stepped closer, reaching out to wipe a bit of frosting from Andie's wrist with a wipe he had somehow already prepared.

"She okay?"

"She's tired."

"She cried?"

"At the end."

Craig's face tightened.

Deran looked away.

"She reached for him," you said.

Neither of them spoke.

Andie sniffled against your shoulder, thumb creeping toward her mouth.

Deran cleared his throat.

"He got to hold her?"

You nodded.

"And she said Dada to his face."

Craig closed his eyes briefly.

Deran rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"Jesus."

"Yeah."

You smiled through wet cheeks.

"She put frosting on him."

Deran blinked.

"On purpose?"

"She's one."

"So yes."

You laughed.

Craig looked toward the door, then back at you.

"He wipe it?"

"No."

Craig's mouth trembled.

Deran turned toward the exit.

"Car," he said roughly.

"You're crying again," you said.

"I am walking."

"Emotionally."

"I am walking emotionally."

You laughed, then kissed Andie's hair.

"Let's go home, birthday girl."

Andrew did not wipe the frosting off until he had to.

Not when they walked him back.

Not when another man looked at the smear on his shirt and raised an eyebrow.

Not when the guard said, "You got something there."

Andrew looked down at the tiny yellow handprint over his heart.

"I know."

The guard did not tell him again.

Later, when he had no choice, he cleaned the shirt carefully.

But before he did, he pressed two fingers to the mark.

Just once.

A handprint.

His daughter's handprint.

Andie had turned one.

She had reached for him.

She had said Dada to his face.

She had laughed at cake and grabbed his nose and smeared frosting on him like she knew exactly where to leave the proof.

Andrew sat on the edge of his bunk that night with the birthday photo you had managed to get printed before the visit tucked between his hands.

In the picture, Andie sat on his lap, frosting on her mouth, one hand pressed to his chest. You were beside him, leaning close, smiling through tears. His own face was turned toward Andie, ruined and soft and unguarded.

He barely recognized himself.

Maybe that was good.

Maybe fathers were supposed to become unrecognizable in certain ways.

He looked at the wall of photos.

Scan.

Gender note.

Nursery.

Contact visit.

Smile.

Glass visit.

And now this.

One year.

One whole year.

A year ago, he had heard his daughter's heartbeat through a prison phone.

Now she had said his name to his face with cake on her hands.

Andrew touched the edge of the birthday photo.

One year had passed without him coming home.

But not one year had passed without him being her father.

He knew that now.

Not all the time.

Not perfectly.

But tonight, he knew.

Behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody lay down with his daughter's voice in his head and the memory of yellow frosting over his heart.

Dada.

Dada.

Dada.

And for once, the word did not feel like something he had to earn.

It felt like something she had already given him.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

@jennataurus @sarai-ibn-la-ahad 

@changbinsrightboob @labiblioteque @booknerd0394  @fromirkwood

@pinguphd, @fulla02, @nightshadestars, @rebeccaflores1 @romantic-insomniac @sage-files @starwarsdinosaur  @goddess-of-spring @tulilip21 @mxkhxx 

[annsfics]

♡ the better woman ♡

♡ pairing: sammy bryant x fem!reader

♡ synopsis: now happily married to the kind of woman sammy could only dream of before, he's a very satisfied man. but... something seems to be bothering you tonight. once you're finally in bed together, you divulge the reason for your quiet disposition this evening. afterward, you prove to him yet again just how smart he was for wedding you.

♡ content: misogyny & internalized misogyny, anti-tammi, reader is a pregnant housewife, blowjob

Sammy often calls you his guardian angel. Because coming home to you is blissful heaven. There's no shouting matches, unhinged hysterics to deal with because you did something ridiculous while he was at work earning a paycheck and putting his ass on the line to provide for you, or a wreck of a house to clean up when he walks through the door.

No, just peace and quiet and calm.

Vacuumed carpet, mopped hardwood floors, polished countertops, laundered uniforms, a fresh assortment of fruits and vegetables in the kitchen, and faintly flickering candles on the coffee table which is complete with tidily organized stacks of magazines for your own respective interests.

And there's always toilet paper under the bathroom sink.

After his mess of a divorce, he was lonely, sure, but also very reluctant to ever get involved with someone ever again. After all, what if the new woman he chose turned out to be just as unstable as the last one—if not more so—and took him for all he was worth yet again, simply because he was trying to do the right thing by being a hardworking man?

Going on a reluctant search was never necessary to begin with, though, because there you were all along... From the very beginning, ahead of his filing for legal separation.

Before Sammy made you a happy little housewife, you'd been a waitress at a local diner, which he soon began to frequent after every shift, in an attempt to unwind and decompress before going home to a wife he resented.

You were a balm to his ragged nerves. Always sweet and sociable, and willing to lend an ear to listen to his woes when he actually had the energy to speak.

It gutted him that you were working ten hour shifts—and on sneakers that were being held together with naught more than duct tape, at that (he always felt guilty anytime he left you less than a $30 tip, even if all he ordered that evening was a glass of ice water). Meanwhile, Tammi was at home getting high with a damn teenager who stole something he stretched himself so fucking thin over to provide her with in the first place.

He should've known photography was going to be another whim just because she was bored.

At that, instead of being thankful, she instead reminded him of how he wasn't enough—or doing enough—when she harped on and on over the phone about wanting to move into a house he could never dream of affording while he was just trying to do his goddamn job.

Pushing it all down, his anger manifested in other ways before long.

It made him seethe watching other men put their hands on you when you came by to refill their coffee, or bring them their ordered meals because they somehow felt entitled to you.

When he started pulling his badge to get them to back the fuck off, or leave altogether, is when he knew that he was absolutely whipped.

Whenever Sammy would try to flirt, though, your eyes would always drift to that bothersome gold band that he desperately wanted to flush down the toilet and forget about entirely.

He was fucking terrified of losing you.

So, he filed and risked half of everything—his savings, pension, personal property, and financial assets—just for a chance at having something better by your side before the day finally came where you either disappeared from the diner's outdated interior in search of more favorable prospects elsewhere, or you slipped through his fingers altogether while another man put a wedding ring on one of yours.

No more does Sammy come through the front door and toe off his black rubber boots before you suddenly appear before him. Pressing yourself affectionately to his chest, you wind your arms tightly around his neck and grant him a soft peck on the lips.

"Welcome home," you whisper. Running your fingers through his soft auburn curls, you rest your forehead gently against his. "How was your day?"

Snaking his arms around your waist, your husband gives you a careful squeeze while a contented smile crawls its way across his lips and feeling of uncontainable warmth fills his heart. "Better now."

Sliding a heavy palm over your swollen belly, the corner of Sammy's lips twitches when your little one kicks excitedly.

"He missed his daddy as much as I did," you murmur.

Falling back a step, you tug Sammy past your two's cozily decorated living room. "Go ahead and take a hot shower. Dinner's just about ready."

He smooths a hand down the back of your head. "Did you—"

"Grocery list is all checked off," you remark with a confident nod. "And the gentleman at the auto store even changed my wiper's for me."

He frowns slightly. "I could've done that, baby."

You pad into the kitchen. "Think it's just something they do," you state with a shrug. "One less thing for you to worry about."

Squeezing your backside, you squeak quietly while Sammy chuckles and heads back to the bathroom to wash up.

It's always the little things that she would've never even dreamed of considering which repeatedly confirms that he made such a great fucking choice in his second spouse. Like a carefully folded pile of clothes waiting on the edge of the bed for him to change into after bathing.

Happy wife, happy life indeed.

While Sammy is all too happy to be chowing down on a heaping plate of steaming hot wings, and sipping from a cold bottle of beer in-between hearty bites after suffering through a grueling day amongst the crime-riddled streets of LA, he's acutely aware of how quiet you are tonight.

Maybe the grocery shopping should've waited until he could make a trip out this weekend instead. You already do so much. What, with cooking and cleaning and growing his baby in your womb...

Tacking on a trip to Sam's Club was a task that should've been placed on his calendar, he thinks, not on yours that's already so full.

When it came to Tammi, what he wanted mattered little, if at all. But he fears with you—since you never tell him no—that you somehow feel obligated to meet his every demand because he's the breadwinner in the relationship.

You even went so far as to encourage him to sign a prenup incase he "decided he made a huge mistake" and "wanted to undo it with no financial fallout."

Sammy refused to allow papers to be put between you, though. Not a single one.

No way in hell, because he was sure this time.

He just hopes that you don't feel...trapped.

Are you happy? Do you feel safe, loved, protected, and appreciated? Worshipped?

He nudges your socked foot beneath the round wooden dining table you're both seated at, and smiles when you look at him. "You okay, baby?"

You nod and nibble on a piece of chopped celery that's drenched in ranch. "Just tired."

Sam's well of worry deepens.

"Alright," Sammy groans while dragging you into his lap now that you're both in bed. "You gonna finally tell me what's been on your mind all evening?"

Your eyes flit to his and he immediately takes note of the look of hesitation he finds within.

Curling your fingers against the warm, freckled skin of his bare chest, you worry your lower lip between your teeth.

"Is it...somethin' I did?" he questions warily. "Are you—"

"No," you state softly while cupping his stubbled cheek tenderly in your hand. "It was something that happened at the store. I planned to tell you. I just... Wanted you to be fully settled in for the night before I did."

Gripping either of your hips, he leans back against the fluffed pillow behind him. "I'm all ears, angel."

"So..." you begin while resting a hand over his shoulder. "I was done shopping and went into the baby aisle to browse for a bit before I checked out. And..." you sigh exhaustedly. "Tammi was there."

He sits up the least bit straighter.

"Nothing happened, though," you swiftly reassure. "Apart from a verbal confrontation."

"Tell me," he insists.

"I felt like I was being stared at. Turned out I was right when I looked over my shoulder. There was a moment of recognition, which she commented on: Good, you know who I am," you relay in a snide voice meant to mimic her own. "I told her that I've seen photos. When she saw that I was pregnant, she sort of flew off the handle. Started screaming that I was a whore who stole her husband from her and destroyed her life. That I was a homewrecker, a slut..."

You shake your head while blinking back unbidden tears.

"Thankfully, an employee was nearby. He broke it up and threatened to call security on her if she didn't leave. Her being forced out of the store when she wasn't done shopping only set her off further. She was yelling the whole way out the door."

He squeezes his eyes shut to force down a broiling torrent of pent-up rage. "I'm so sorry, honey." Opening his eyes again, Sammy cups your shoulder—adjusting the strap of your nightgown where it's slipped down your arm. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I had food to get home and put away. If I did, I knew you would've come running." You chew your cheek. "Or you would've made things worse by having it out with her in the parking lot."

"This bitch..." he murmurs. "Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I'll never be rid of her."

"I wanted to tell her that it wasn't what she thought. That you and I never had an affair, but—"

"Not entirely true," he interrupts. "No, we never screwed before my marriage was dissolved, but there was definitely emotions being exchanged."

You rest a hand atop your belly. You've tried to give her grace; understanding in her numerous issues. But you think you've finally reached the end of your rope with it all.

No wonder he was so eager to have you instead after all the bull she put him through. She nearly made a monster out of a good man, but you've done your wifely duty and healed his troubled heart.

"Cunt," you whisper.

Sammy barks a laugh and leans forward. "I'm sorry, did my perfect little do-gooder wife just say what I think she did?" he inquires with an amused, toothy grin.

You study him from beneath hooded lids while smirking salaciously. "She never deserved you," you continue. "I'm the better woman."

Now it all comes out, he thinks with satisfaction.

"Yes you are," he rumbles while cupping your ass cheeks in both his hands and kneading the plump skin. "In every way."

"Mhm," you hum while slowly nodding. "Actually know how to keep house," you add. "I have dinner on the table every night, and I spend your hard-earned money wisely. Except for when you spoil me," you murmur with a shrug while grinding down against his semi-erect cock. "I do whatever you tell me to like a good girl."

"Shit," Sammy rasps while throwing his head back.

"I'm thankful for the home you've provided, and all the nice things you give me," you continue while leaning forward and trailing soft kisses along his chin. "I'm so lucky to have such a good man who gave me his last name. Who put his baby inside me where it belongs."

His cock stirs against your thinly-clothed pussy.

"Let me help you relax after such a long, hard day," you mutter while tugging off your nightgown.

Lying on your back in the middle of the bed, Sammy is resting back on his haunches while continually sliding his swollen, twitching cock between your shimmering lips.

Gripping the velvety shaft firmly in your fist, you plant a wet kiss atop the oozing mushroom tip before circling it lazily with your drooling tongue.

"Fuck, such a good girl for me," he utters.

You open wide, and Sammy eases his erection into the back of your throat. Cradling the base of your scalp in his palm, he rocks his hips and moans when you eagerly swallow what he gives you, just like always.

"You're right," he whispers while gazing down at you with unabashed adoration. "Better in every fuckin' way."

Gagging happily on his hard length, your eyes flutter closed when your husband sinks two calloused fingers between your slick, pulsing walls.

[mariasont]

SUN-SPLIT LOVERS ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

when pope tries to protect you from his family's crude conversations, he ends up having to answer your uncomfortable questions about sex

PAIRING pope cody x bunny reader

WARNINGS suggestive content, explicit talk about sex, obsessive behavior, innocent reader, craig being a dick, mention of crying during sex, pope has dirty thoughts about reader, possessiveness, coercive undertones, age gap, emotional dependency, crude language, if u don't like it don't read!!!!

WORD COUNT 1.9k

The Cody house can be a very uncouth place to be.

Loud in every way possible, in volume and temperament too. Filthy-mouthed. Mean for the pleasure of it.

Craig says something disgusting every third sentence just to hear himself say it, just to get a laugh, just to see who flinches and who doesn’t. Deran’s no better when he’s in the mood to needle. And Smurf, when she wants to, can make a whole room feel dirty with one lifted eyebrow and six words.

Pope has never minded crude things. Never saw much use in pretending to. This place is what it is. He’s used to it. This is his life. This is simply the way he grew up.

But now you’re here, Smurf’s latest little acquisition, her new ornament to polish and put in the window.

Another pretty doll in her crooked collection. All polished and docile and good manners, brought in to handle the things Smurf considers beneath her. Logistics. Errands. Paperwork. Loose ends. The harmless-sounding parts, at least on the surface. 

Pope can’t decide how much you actually know. About any of it, really — where the money comes from, whose hands get dirty, which names to never mention again.

He bets you don’t ask, though, and Smurf must love that. Probably loves that you move through the work the way you do everything else: sweet and unassuming, smiling vacantly like you’re still asleep, floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean, eyes closed, nothing beneath you but endless dark water.

Open-hearted, oblivious, too easy and good to survive here.

So now the vulgarity of the Cody house grates on him. Makes him tense. Makes his shoulders bunch up near his ears. 

“So this chick tells me she can take it, right? Says she can handle anything. Five minutes later she’s cryin’, tellin’ me it’s too good.”

You stand against the fridge, spoon paused midway to your lips, yogurt abandoned as Craig’s drunk slurred chatter hangs in the air.

Pope watches closely, your expression a cloudy haze, eyes soft and curious and unaffected by words that should shock you into silence.

Pope’s fingers twitch at his side, the urge rising like nausea to shake you awake, to wrench you away to somewhere safe. 

He stays rooted instead, his muscles aching from the strain of keeping still as your curious voice cuts through the air.

“Why would she be crying?”

Craig looks at you blankly, his mouth hanging open as incredulity colors his face, like he’s never encountered something quiet so baffling.

A clueless girl in the Cody kitchen. It’s almost funny. It’s definitely not funny to Pope.

Deran, at least, thinks it’s funny, he makes a garbled choking sound and swivels away, a strangled laugh breaking through his arm. 

Craig continues to gape, finally managing a long breath, punctuated by hard edges: “Are you fuckin’ serious?” He tries again, mouth twisting into a smirk as he attempts an explanation, “I mean sometimes people cry when they’re gettin’ fu —”

Pope moves before his brain can catch up. His body knows something his mind hasn’t yet processed, and one second he’s pressed flat and invisible against the wall; the next he’s behind you, palms cupping over your ears. 

Your startled intake of breath dies softly under his touch, your confusion vibrating delicately against his fingertips.

“Don’t,” he growls, gaze sharp, locked onto his sibling’s stunned face. “You finish that sentence and you’ll spend the afternoon putting your jaw back together.”

Craig shakes his head. “The fuck's wrong with you? She's a grown woman. What, you think she's gonna burst into flames if she hears the word sex?” 

Pope’s eyes darken, narrowing into slits as he tightens his hold ever-so-slightly around your ears. 

“Maybe she will. Either way, you won’t be around to see it.”

Craig lets out a low laugh, running his hand through his hair like this whole standoff is just another joke, palms upraised like he’s dealing with a wild animal.

“Alright. Relax. Whatever you say, man.” 

Pope watches him retreat out of the room, Deran trailing not far behind him, likely to finish his story elsewhere.

And that’s fine. As long as he stays over there and out of ear shot of you.

The tension lingering in his tendons only just starts to loosen when he’s out by the pool.

He feels your hands reach up to pull his wrists away from your ears, fingers tentative around his rough palms. Rough palms that make him notice just how soft you feel, petal-pink nails sinking into the course terrain of his own skin.

The contrast is jarring. Scarred knuckles, raised veins, and a web of old cuts meeting hands that have never know real violence.

You pivot in his space, turning to stand toe-to-toe with him. 

You smell like whipped vanilla and candied pears. He forces himself not to lean closer, not to draw in another desperate breath because he wants to pin the scent down, memorize it, peel it apart note by note until he knows exactly what clings to your skin and your hair and your clothes.

“What was that for?” you ask.

Pope looks at you. “You don’t need Craig ‘splainin’ things to you.”

“Does that mean you’d rather explain things to me?”

Is that what he meant? Pope isn’t sure, and the uncertainty bothers him more than he wants to admit. The idea of you coming to him with your honest confusion, earnestly asking him to explain the gritty specifics of things he can hardly voice — no, that sounds like a terrible idea.

You have to know the basics, surely. Isn’t that enough? Pope thinks so. He thinks, really, the less detail you know, the safer your carefully maintained sense of self remains. The longer you stay wrapped in that protective bubble, unblemished by knowledge you shouldn’t have, the better.

Pope doesn't want to be the one who breaks it open. 

“I’m no good at explaining things like that,” he says finally. “Just don’t need Craig putting ideas in your head either. Or anyone else for that matter.”

You take a small step back, and Pope feels like he’s finally getting air into his lungs again. It’s short-lived. You scoop another spoonful of yogurt into your mouth, pretty lips pursed around the spoon, before you tilt your head and look at him thoughtfully. 

“Then… how am I supposed to learn anything?” you ask.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, aware of the incremental tightening of his pants. Fucking pathetic, he thinks.

He clenches his jaw tight before speaking. “You don’t need to know everything. Some things you’re better off not knowing, yeah?”

Your brows knit together. “But wouldn’t it be better if I at least knew —”

Pope cuts you off sharper than he intends. “No. You heard me. Drop it.”

You look away from him, nodding as your shoulders sink a little. “Right. Sorry.”

The frown on your face settles like a shadow Pope desperately wants to wipe away.

It sits wrong there, out of place, disturbing, even. He realizes, abruptly, that he hates seeing you even the tiniest bit upset. He’s not used to it; your smiles come so easily that your unhappiness feels tangible, something he’s placed there.

Something he’s responsible for. It’s rare to see your features drawn up like this. 

God, he’s really fucking this up, isn’t he?

He’s always been a little awkward, always a little too blunt, and no good at smoothing things over. He doesn’t know what comes next, doesn’t understand how to mend whatever he’s broken. Maybe that’s always been the problem, that hollow feeling at the back of his brain, the missing part, the empty gap everyone else seems born knowing how to fill.

“Shit, listen, kid,” Pope clears his throat, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean anything by it, alright? I just meant Craig talks a lot of bullshit and there’s stuff said around here that you really don’t need to learn. But —” He sighs, glancing down at his knuckles. “You’re an adult. If you wanna know things, it’s your call.”

You lift yourself onto the counter, legs swinging gently as you bring another distracted spoonful of yogurt to your mouth. 

“So if I do decide I wanna know something…” You pause, eyes turned up to the ceiling as if testing the air, probing at an unknown territory. “You’ll tell me about it?”

“Yeah,” Pope says slowly. 

He can’t quite meet your gaze, his eyes tracking the linoleum pattern like it’s the most compelling thing in the room. He knows he has no real choice in the matter. Better he’s the one who delivers the hard truth rather than you seeking answers elsewhere. With someone else.

“So…” you say slowly, voice dipping into something quieter, almost shy now. You lift on foot onto the counter, unthinking, the fabric of your skirt slipping upward. Soft pink underwear flashes at the edge of Pope’s vision. “Why exactly was that girl crying — with Craig?”

He takes two steps towards you, broad shoulders angled slightly to shield you from the rest of the room should someone walk in.

He keeps his eyes steadfastly fixed on your face, even as his fingers curl tense at his side, nails biting deep into his palms. 

It’s torture, but he doesn’t glance down. Not even for a second.

He hesitates at your question, searching for words that fit just right. He’s not sure he’ll find them, but he forces himself through it anyway.

“Craig was, uh — he was tryin’ to say she was crying because the sex was good, I guess. But, it’s not always just that. People cry for all kinds of reasons during sex. Could be physical, emotional, whatever. It’s complicated sometimes.” He pauses again, clearing his throat. “People have complex reactions to physical stuff like that.”

“Have you ever —?” Your teeth press carefully into your lower lip. He can see the follow-up question forming in your eyes. “Have you ever cried, you know… during?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, uncomfortable already. “Happens.” 

The word feels too small for it. Happens. Like it’s the same as catching a cold. 

“Oh.” 

And then his brain takes a turn and he’s picturing you. A common theme. You with glassy and wide eyes, dark mascara streaking down your cheeks in inky lines as he pounds inside you.

He can almost hear your breath catching, a soft sob, the slick slide of tears along your face for him to kiss away. 

Given your question, Pope doubts you’ve ever felt something so intensely vulnerable. Probably never cried during sex.

Maybe you haven’t even had sex, though he tries not to assume things. Still, it seems likely, given your blushes, your hesitations, the way your eyes widen at even the most indirect innuendos. You could have some scattered experiences, maybe, fragments of intimacy without ever fully grasping how it all works. 

He doesn’t like the sudden flare of possessiveness he feels; he doesn’t want to imagine anyone else ever seeing you like that. 

Pope clears his throat, banishing the image away. “So, uh, did that… answer what you wanted to know? You satisfied now, or?”

Your fingers move to twist the hem of your skirt. You look up through your lashes.

“Yeah,” you murmur finally, a little unsure and entirely too sweet. “I mean, I think so. For now.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You let me know if that changes, then.”

Craig’s voice cuts through the kitchen before either of you can say anything else, his footsteps heavier than usual as he strides back inside from the glass doors.

Pope reaches out and pulls your leg down, adjusting the hem of your skirt in the process.

His skin burns from where he touched you. 

“I’m tellin’ you, if she can’t fit both —”

Pope interrupts him by stepping forward, giving him a swift shove against the wall. Hard. Craig smacks shoulder-first into the wall with a loud thunk.

“Jesus, Pope. What’s your damage today?”

Pope steps back with a neutral expression, shaking out the tension in his knuckles. “Just doing everyone a favor.”

He avoids your eyes, heat still burning up the back of his neck.

A/N - this reader series will be a lil different than my usual i think... will end up being pretty dark and twisty!!! read at your own risk! and to reiterate!! if you don't like, don't read!

FIND MY MASTERLIST HERE! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[miasvelvetvoid]

bambi series,

summary: One secret changes everything. As the Cody family’s carefully buried truths come to light, you find yourself caught between running from the people you love and fighting for them. In the end, loving Pope Cody doesn’t just change your life, it changes the entire family. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: sexual content/smut, abusive relationship (not andrew), bestie!deran trope, not timeline specific, fix it fic, some parts are dark, mentions of SA/grooming, parental abuse, smurf and baz, manipulation, j redemption arc, murder, violence, canon show themes, substance use, drinking, gun use, possessive!pope, jealous!pope, soft boy!pope, discussions of mental health, warnings are chapter dependent. total word count: 74.4k amalia’s love note: finally started a masterlist for this series lol, love yall

doe-eyed running to my tranquility (smut, angst)

After escaping your abusive boyfriend, you get pulled into the dangerous world of the Cody family and unexpectedly become the center of Pope Cody’s obsessive attention. As dark secrets unravel around you, Pope grows fiercely protective, pulling you deeper into his chaotic life until the line between safety and danger disappears completely.

take what you want (smut, fluff, angst)

After a job goes wrong, Pope disappears for four days, hiding his injuries and burying himself in silence. But when you finally confront him, you realize his biggest problem isn’t violence, it’s that he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to want or need anything. So you show him exactly how badly you want him to take what’s his.

i love the sick (angst, dark)

What starts as a simple night watching Lena turns into something far more dangerous when Baz leaves you at Smurf’s overnight. As Smurf slowly tightens her grip, quietly isolating you from the outside world, J is the only one who notices the pattern for what it really is and for the first time, he steps between you and his family. The night cracks open the fragile balance you’ve built with the Codys, exposing a darker, more volatile side of Pope Cody that leaves your relationship hanging by a thread and forces long-buried truths dangerously close to the surface.

all my morals shot (smut, dark, angst)

One secret sends you running from the Cody family, but escaping Pope Cody proves impossible. As buried truths come to light and old wounds turn into reckless choices, you’re forced to confront the feelings you’ve been trying to outrun. Meanwhile, Smurf realizes too late that you’ve become a threat, not because you’re using Pope, but because you’re the first person who truly chooses him. And no matter how hard you run, Pope always finds his way back to you.

mirror (fluff, angst)

Vignettes from your years-long friendship with Deran Cody, and the long-overdue conversation that finally puts the pieces back together.

nothing at all (dark, smut, angst)

A phone call from your father cracks open wounds you thought had long since healed. As you struggle to keep yourself together, Pope shows you the terrifying truth about loving a man who would do absolutely anything for you.

siren sounds (smut, angst)

Smurf draws a line in the sand, and suddenly everything you love is at risk. Forced into an impossible choice, you tell a lie that could cost you everything to protect the person who matters most. As tensions rise, the boys begin piecing together a truth Smurf never intended them to see, and loyalty becomes far more dangerous than betrayal.

queen of nothing (angst, dark, smut)

As the Cody boys begin seeking comfort and guidance from you instead of Smurf, her resentment grows into something far more dangerous. Meanwhile, Pope’s fear of abandonment threatens the future of your relationship just as things are finally starting to feel real. Oh, and where the hell is Baz? Because whatever he’s up to, it can’t be good.

© 2026 all rights reserved - miasvelvetvoid. do not modify, plagiarize, feed my work to AI, repost or claim any of my work as your own without permission.

[bobo-bush]

New chapter means to rereading

[mooninsaggy]

DARLING .✦ ݁

mdni

sugar daddy!jack abbot x fem!reader

all parts

part three: hard work

author's note: again, tysm for showing this series so much love <33 not sure how long it will be yet but i have some ideas in mind. i've done my best to keep up with the taglist but i apologise if ive missed anyone!

taglist: @boricuas-fic-recs @777bambi777 @hugospritzz @danielle143 @piscesfairyyy @thehockeynerd30 @pinkpantheressluver @straykids1011 @melissa66orion @bakedlina @sharkfin106 @gf4lwt

[mooninsaggy]

DARLING .✦ ݁˖

mdni

sugar daddy!jack abbot x fem!reader

all parts

part two: tease

author's note: tysm for the positive responses to part one! wanted this one to be a bit longer but didn't want to get too carried away. they're fun to make so hopefully the next part won't take too long!

taglist: @melissa66orion @pinkpantheressluver

[mooninsaggy]

DARLING .✦ ݁˖

sugar daddy!jack abbot x fem!reader

all parts

part one: hot

author’s note: my first smau fic, please be gentle!

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Dada - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

You are going to be emotionally destroyed.

By the time Andie was eight months old, Andrew's voice had become one of the ordinary sounds of the house.

It lived in the nursery beside the wooden duck with the crooked beak. It came through the little approved player during bedtime, nap time, teething time, and the terrible half hour before dinner when Andie seemed to remember suddenly and personally that she was a baby and therefore had grievances.

There was the duck book, still the favourite.

The bear book, which Andrew had read so seriously you had cried laughing the first time you played it.

The moon book, which always made Andie go quiet.

And the rabbit book.

The stupid rabbit book.

Andrew still claimed he hated it, even though he had recorded it three times because the first version had "too much page noise" and the second had "bad pacing," whatever that meant when the intended audience regularly tried to eat her own socks.

His voice had talked Andie through colic.

Through teething.

Through nap strikes.

Through one memorable evening where she screamed every time you sat down, then stopped immediately when Andrew's recording said, "Hi, baby girl. It's me," like she had simply been waiting for the correct parent to arrive.

You had told him that on the phone.

He had gone quiet for so long you thought the call had dropped.

Then he said, very softly, "She's got standards."

You had laughed so hard Andie had startled awake.

Now there were photos everywhere.

Andrew holding Andie during the contact visit, your head resting against his shoulder.

Andie smiling at his voice, the photo slightly blurry but perfect anyway.

A newer picture of Andrew from a visit, his hand pressed to the glass while Andie's little palm rested opposite his. She had been too young to understand it then. Now, sometimes, she slapped at the photo like she was trying to get his attention.

The nursery had changed too.

The rocking chair still creaked.

The green walls were still soft and warm.

But now there were baskets of toys, board books with chewed corners, soft blocks, rattles, tiny socks that appeared in places socks had no business being, and one wooden duck that had been moved to a higher shelf after Andie tried to put the entire thing in her mouth.

Andrew had been horrified.

"She can't eat the duck," he had said.

"She didn't eat the duck."

"She tried."

"She tries to eat everything."

"Move it."

"I moved it."

"Higher."

"Andrew."

"Higher."

So the duck lived on the high shelf now, safely above Andie's reach, looking down over the room like a tiny wooden guardian with a questionable beak.

You loved it more than most furniture.

That afternoon, Andrew's bear recording was playing in the living room while Craig tried to install a baby gate between the hall and kitchen.

Tried was the key word.

He had been at it for forty minutes.

The gate was still not attached.

Deran sat on the sofa eating crisps and pretending not to be entertained by the whole thing.

Andie sat on the rug in the middle of the room, surrounded by toys, one soft block in each hand, dark hair curling slightly at the back of her head, cheeks round, eyes bright, mouth shiny from drool.

She had started crawling two weeks ago.

Not properly at first.

More like dragging herself forward with sheer determination and one suspiciously strong leg.

Now she was fast.

Too fast.

Alarmingly fast.

You had turned around yesterday and found her halfway under the coffee table, chewing the edge of an unopened packet of wipes like she had paid rent and could do what she liked.

Hence the baby gate.

Craig muttered something under his breath and glared at the instructions.

You folded laundry at the end of the sofa, half watching him, half watching Andie, because motherhood had given you the ability to see in several directions at once and still somehow miss where the dummy went.

"You're holding it backwards," Deran said.

Craig did not look up. "I am not."

"You are."

"I'm reading the instructions."

"That's worse."

Craig lifted the paper. "How is reading the instructions worse?"

"Because you're still holding it backwards."

You glanced over.

"He's right."

Craig slowly lowered the instructions and looked at you.

You smiled.

"Sorry."

"You are not sorry."

"No, I'm not."

Deran crunched another crisp. "Pope would've had it done by now."

Craig pointed a screwdriver at him. "Pope would've hated the instructions and then pretended he didn't need them."

"Yeah, but it'd be done."

"It would be crooked."

"It would be secure."

"Those are different things."

On the rug, Andie slapped one block against the other.

"Ba," she announced.

All three of you looked at her.

She stared back, delighted with the power of sound.

"Ba-ba-ba."

You smiled automatically.

"That's right," you said. "Tell them."

Craig softened immediately, despite himself. "Yeah? You telling him he's useless?"

Deran leaned forward. "Don't put that on her. She likes me."

"She tolerates you."

"She smiles when I walk in."

"She smiles at ceiling fans too."

"Ceiling fans are funny."

Andie flapped both arms.

Andrew's voice played from the small speaker on the side table.

"And the bear went looking for the moon."

Andie turned her head toward the sound.

You noticed because you always noticed.

Even after months of it, the little turn still pulled at something inside you.

She knew him.

Not in the way she knew you.

Not in the bodily, constant, milk-and-sleep-and-skin way she knew you.

But she knew him.

His voice.

His rhythm.

The low softness he used only for her.

Andie dropped one block.

"Da," she said.

Your hands went still in the laundry.

Craig froze with the screwdriver in midair.

Deran, without missing a beat, said, "No."

You looked at him.

"I didn't say anything."

"You had the face."

"What face?"

"The mother face."

"I do not have a mother face."

"You absolutely have a mother face."

Craig was still staring at Andie. "She did say da."

Deran pointed at him. "Don't encourage it."

Craig blinked. "She did."

"Babies make sounds."

You sat forward slowly, heart suddenly thudding.

Andrew's recording continued.

"The bear was very tired."

Andie bounced slightly where she sat, hands on her knees, gummy little mouth working around another sound.

"Da."

Craig's expression changed.

Deran stopped chewing.

You whispered, "Where's Daddy, baby?"

Deran looked at you. "You're escalating."

"Shh."

Andrew's photo sat on the low shelf beside the stack of board books. Not the wooden duck shelf, because that one was now practically a museum exhibit, but the lower shelf with the soft toys and the approved player. In the photo, Andrew was on the other side of the visiting glass, palm pressed flat, eyes fixed on Andie with that expression that still made your chest hurt if you looked too long.

You pointed gently.

"Where's Daddy?"

Andie followed your hand.

Maybe.

Or maybe she just looked at the bright square on the shelf because babies were mysterious and often unhelpful.

Then Andrew's recorded voice said, "Hi, Andie. It's me."

Andie grinned.

Your breath caught.

She slapped one hand down on the rug.

"Da."

It was not clear enough.

Not yet.

But it was close.

So close that the whole room seemed to hold its breath.

Craig lowered the screwdriver.

Deran set the crisp packet down.

"No," Deran said again, but quieter this time.

You turned to him, eyes wide.

"Deran."

"No. Not yet."

Craig looked at him. "You heard that."

"I heard a sound."

"You heard a dad sound."

"A dad sound?" Deran repeated. "That's not a thing."

"It is now."

You were already reaching for your phone.

"No one move."

Deran looked offended. "I wasn't moving."

"Don't breathe emotionally either."

"I don't breathe emotionally."

"You absolutely do," Craig said.

Deran glared at him. "Install the gate."

"Record the baby," Craig shot back.

You ignored both of them and opened your camera.

The second the phone was pointed at her, Andie stopped making any noise at all.

Of course she did.

She picked up the soft block and put the corner in her mouth.

You lowered the phone slightly.

"Andie," you said gently.

She chewed harder.

"Baby girl."

She stared at you.

Andrew's recording continued in the background, steady and warm.

You pointed again to the photo.

"Where's Daddy?"

Andie drooled on the block.

Deran leaned back. "Strong performance."

You shot him a look.

Craig moved quietly around the side of the rug, crouching so he wasn't in the frame. "Maybe play the start again."

You glanced at him.

He looked deeply serious.

Evidence mode.

You loved him a little for it.

"Good idea."

Deran looked between you. "This is becoming a production."

"This is a milestone," you said.

"This is a baby chewing foam."

"She said da."

"She said a syllable."

Craig gave him a warning look. "Deran."

"What?"

"Don't be an ass."

Deran's jaw worked, but he shut up.

You stopped the recording player and restarted the bear book.

Static.

A small scrape.

Then Andrew's voice.

"Hi, Andie."

Andie went still.

Your phone was already recording.

Craig stopped moving.

Deran's expression shifted despite his best efforts.

Andie's whole face changed when she heard him.

It always did.

Not dramatically. Not like adults recognized people.

But her eyes brightened. Her mouth softened. Her fingers opened against the block.

"Hi, baby girl," Andrew's voice continued. "It's me."

Andie kicked both legs.

You held your breath.

"Where's Daddy?" you whispered.

Andie looked toward the player.

Then toward the photo.

Then she smiled.

A wide, gummy, delighted smile.

Craig's eyes went shiny immediately.

Deran's mouth parted slightly.

Andie slapped the rug.

"Dada."

Clear.

Small.

Imperfect.

Perfect.

For one impossible second, nobody moved.

Then Craig whispered, "Oh, shit."

You clapped one hand over your mouth.

Your phone kept recording.

Andie looked thrilled with herself.

"Dada," she said again, less clear this time, more babble than word, but it did not matter.

It had happened.

It had happened.

It had happened.

Your knees went weak even though you were already sitting.

Craig lowered himself onto the arm of the sofa like he needed support.

Deran stared at Andie.

He did not say it was gas.

He did not say it did not count.

He did not say anything for a long moment.

Then, very quietly, he said, "Okay."

You turned to him through tears.

His eyes were fixed on Andie.

"That one counted."

Your face crumpled.

Craig looked away, dragging a hand over his mouth.

You stopped the recording with shaking fingers, then immediately checked it.

The video began slightly sideways because of course it did. Andrew's voice came through clear enough. Your whisper. The pointed finger toward the photo. Andie's smile.

Then the word.

Dada.

Tiny.

Crackly.

World-ending.

You played it once.

Craig leaned closer.

Deran did not move from the sofa, but his eyes flicked to the screen.

You played it again.

Andrew's voice: Hi, baby girl. It's me.

Andie: Dada.

You started crying properly.

Not cute crying.

Not manageable crying.

The kind of crying that made your shoulders shake and your breath break apart.

Andie looked at you, confused by the sudden display, then laughed.

Actually laughed.

One of those little baby laughs that sounded like hiccups had learned joy.

Craig made a sound that might have been a laugh if it had not been so wet around the edges.

Deran looked at the ceiling.

"You're gonna kill him, kid," he muttered.

You wiped your face with the sleeve of Andrew's old T-shirt.

"She said Dada."

Craig nodded.

"She did."

"She said Dada."

"Yeah."

Deran stood abruptly.

You looked at him.

He pointed vaguely toward the kitchen. "I'm getting water."

"For who?"

"Everyone."

He left the room too fast.

Craig watched him go.

Then looked at you.

"He's crying in the kitchen."

"Should we let him?"

"Absolutely."

You laughed through tears and scooped Andie up from the rug.

She came willingly, still grinning, one hand grabbing your collar.

"Oh, baby," you whispered, pressing kisses all over her soft cheek. "You have no idea what you just did."

Andie slapped your face gently.

You laughed harder.

Craig crouched near the baby gate parts, still emotional, still holding the screwdriver.

"You gonna tell him tonight?"

"If he calls."

"He'll call."

"You don't know that."

Craig looked at Andie.

Then at the photo of Andrew.

"Yeah," he said softly. "He will."

The rest of the day moved strangely.

Everything ordinary looked different because Andie had said a word and the world had shifted around it.

The baby gate eventually got installed.

Crooked.

Secure, according to Craig.

Suspicious, according to Deran.

You fed Andie lunch while she banged one hand on the highchair tray and babbled nonsense as if she had not just emotionally destroyed an entire family.

Deran stayed longer than planned.

Craig did too.

Neither of them admitted it.

Craig said he wanted to make sure the gate held.

Deran said traffic was bad.

Traffic was not bad.

You let them lie.

By seven o'clock, Andie was in her pyjamas, hair damp from a bath, face soft and sleepy in the way that made her look younger again. The pyjamas had tiny yellow stars on them. Andrew had not seen them yet. You made a mental note to send a picture.

Your phone sat on the arm of the rocking chair.

The video was saved.

Backed up.

Sent to yourself twice.

Deran had also made you send it to him "in case you do something stupid with technology."

Craig had it too.

Everyone was guarding the word like evidence in a murder trial.

At 8:37, the phone rang.

Your entire body jolted.

Craig looked up from the sofa.

Deran, sitting on the floor with his back against the armchair because he claimed the sofa was "too soft," froze.

You grabbed the phone.

The automated voice began.

You pressed one.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hey."

You tried to be normal.

You really did.

"Hi."

A pause.

"What happened?"

Your eyes filled immediately.

"Nothing bad."

"That means something happened."

Craig looked at Deran.

Deran looked at the floor.

You shifted Andie against your chest.

She was drowsy but awake, cheek pressed to your shoulder, one hand clutching your shirt.

"Andrew."

His voice changed. "What?"

"She said Dada."

Silence.

Complete.

Total.

So long that your heart started pounding.

Then he said, very quietly, "What?"

You closed your eyes.

"She said Dada."

Another silence.

And then, almost a whisper, "No."

"Yes."

"She's too little."

"She's eight months."

"That's still little."

"She said it."

"Baby."

"I have video."

The line went dead quiet again.

You could hear him breathing.

Craig looked away.

Deran stood abruptly and walked toward the kitchen.

You watched him go with a sad smile.

Andrew's voice came back rough.

"You have video?"

"Yes."

"You got it?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Because Craig went into evidence mode and Deran emotionally denied the whole thing until he couldn't."

A sound came through the line.

Barely a laugh.

Barely anything.

"Play it," Andrew said.

You swallowed.

"Okay."

You pulled the phone away and opened the video on your other device, holding it close to the receiver.

Craig came to stand quietly beside you.

Deran appeared again in the doorway, pretending he had not just left the room to have feelings.

You pressed play.

Static from the recording.

Andrew's own voice, tinny through the video, then through the prison phone.

Hi, Andie.

A rustle.

Your whisper.

Where's Daddy?

Then Andie's little voice.

Clear enough.

Tiny enough.

Perfect enough.

Dada.

Andrew made no sound.

You stopped the video.

The silence stretched.

Then he said, "Again."

You played it again.

Hi, baby girl. It's me.

Your whisper.

Where's Daddy?

Andie.

Dada.

Andrew's breathing broke.

Your eyes filled again.

"Again," he whispered.

You played it a third time.

Craig pressed the heel of his hand against his eye.

Deran turned away, jaw tight.

The video ended.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

"Andrew?"

He did not answer immediately.

When he did, his voice sounded wrecked beyond repair.

"She said it."

"She did."

"She said Dada."

"Yes."

"At the recording?"

"At your voice."

"At my photo?"

"I think so. I pointed and asked where Daddy was."

"You asked where Daddy was."

"Yes."

"And she said..."

"Dada."

His breath shook.

You held Andie closer.

"She knows you," you whispered.

Andrew said nothing.

"She knows you well enough to call for you."

That broke him.

Not loudly.

Andrew never broke loudly if he could help it.

But you heard it.

The small sound.

The way his breath stopped being steady.

The way he turned away from the phone and came back a second later, trying to sound like he had not just been split open by a baby's first word.

"She said it first?" he asked.

Your chest tightened.

There it was.

The part you had been waiting for.

Not because you thought he would ruin it.

Because you knew him.

You knew love often came into him wrapped in guilt.

"Yes," you said softly.

He was quiet.

"Before Mama?"

"Yes."

Another silence.

Then, carefully, "Are you okay?"

You smiled through tears.

The question was so Andrew it hurt.

Even now.

Even after hearing his daughter say Dada.

He was worried about you.

"Because she said that first?" you asked.

He did not answer right away.

Then, "Yeah."

You looked down at Andie.

She was half asleep now, little lashes resting low, mouth moving softly against your shirt.

Your daughter.

Your everyday.

Your morning weight.

Your midnight cry.

Your warm, stubborn, impossible little person.

You got her first breath on your chest.

First feed.

First bath.

First night home.

First fever scare.

First time she rolled from her tummy to her back and scared herself so badly she cried.

First smile in real time.

Every tiny ordinary first that Andrew had to receive through stories and recordings and printed photos.

Your throat tightened.

"Andrew," you whispered.

He waited.

"I get to be here every day."

The line went quiet.

"She knows I'm here," you said. "She reaches for me. She cries for me. She falls asleep on me. She pulls my hair like she has a personal vendetta against my scalp."

Craig huffed softly.

You kept going.

"I get so much. I get more than you do right now. And I hate that. I hate it for you."

Your voice trembled.

"But this one..." You looked down at Andie again. "I wanted this one to be yours."

Andrew's breathing broke.

"I wanted it to be you," you said.

No one in the room moved.

Craig stared at the floor.

Deran had one hand over his mouth.

On the phone, Andrew said nothing for a long time.

Then, barely audible, "Baby."

"She said Dada because she knows your voice," you whispered. "Because you read to her. Because you call. Because you talk her down when she's mad. Because your photo is on the shelf and your books are in her room and your duck is watching over her like a weird little wooden bodyguard."

Craig's mouth twitched through the emotion.

"She said it because you're her dad," you said. "Not because you're missing. Because you're here in the ways you can be."

Andrew exhaled.

It sounded painful.

It sounded like relief.

It sounded like grief deciding, for once, not to win.

"She said Dada," he whispered again.

You smiled through tears.

"She said Dada."

Andie lifted her head slightly at the sound of your voice.

You shifted the phone.

"Do you want to talk to her?"

"Yes."

No hesitation.

You moved the phone near Andie's ear.

"She's listening."

Andrew's voice changed immediately.

Soft.

Low.

Hers.

"Hey, Andie."

Andie blinked.

Her eyes drifted toward the phone.

"I heard you."

She made a sleepy little sound.

Craig's face crumpled.

Deran looked at the ceiling.

Andrew continued, voice rough and tender.

"You said my name."

Andie slapped one hand gently against your collarbone.

"Yeah," Andrew whispered. "I know."

You pressed your lips together.

"I'm here," he said.

Andie babbled.

Not Dada.

Not anything clear.

Just a small string of sleepy sounds.

Andrew let out a broken laugh.

"You telling me about it?"

Andie made another noise.

"I know. Big day."

You were crying again.

You couldn't stop.

Not with his voice like that.

Not with Andie listening.

Not with Craig and Deran standing there pretending they were not being permanently altered by a baby and a prison phone.

Andrew's voice softened.

"I love you, baby girl."

Andie's eyes fluttered.

"Dada loves you."

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Craig turned away.

Deran left the room again.

This time, no one commented.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

Andrew was breathing unevenly.

"She talked to you," you whispered.

"Yeah."

"She didn't say it again."

"She doesn't have to."

"No?"

"No." His voice was low. "I heard it."

Your smile trembled.

"You did."

"I heard it."

The timer beeped faintly in the background.

You closed your eyes.

"How long?"

"Ten."

Ten minutes.

A gift.

A cruelty.

A lifetime if you used it right.

Craig quietly gathered the abandoned baby gate instructions and took them to the kitchen, giving you space without making a production of it.

Deran stayed in the hallway this time.

Close enough to hear.

Far enough to pretend.

You sat back down in the rocking chair, Andie curled against your chest, the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a few minutes, Andrew asked questions.

Not rushed.

Not panicked.

Careful.

Like he was trying to build the moment from every angle.

"What was she doing?"

"Sitting on the rug."

"What was she wearing?"

"The little yellow dungarees with the white shirt."

"The ones with the pocket?"

"Yes."

"She had toys?"

"Blocks."

"Which recording?"

"Bear."

He paused. "Bear?"

"Bear."

"Not duck?"

"Not duck."

"She said Dada to the bear?"

"She said Dada to your voice."

"That bear book is better than I thought."

You laughed softly.

"What did Craig do?"

"Nearly cried."

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell him I said that."

"I'm telling him."

"Andrew."

"He'll deny it."

"He absolutely will."

"And Deran?"

You smiled. "Left the room twice."

A rough little laugh came through the line.

"Yeah."

"He said it counted."

Andrew went quiet.

That seemed to mean something to him.

Of course it did.

Deran saying it counted meant it could not be dismissed as your hope or Andrew's imagination.

It counted.

Your daughter had said Dada.

The timer beeped again.

Five minutes.

You hated it.

Andie was nearly asleep now, her whole body loose and warm against you.

"She's falling asleep," you said.

"Good."

"You did that too."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"She's just tired."

"Let me have this."

A pause.

Then softer, "Okay."

You smiled.

"You should ask me again," you said.

"Ask what?"

"The thing."

Andrew was quiet for a second.

Then, almost shyly, "She said it?"

Your face crumpled all over again.

"She said it."

"At me?"

"At you."

"At my voice?"

"At your voice."

"What did it sound like?"

You closed your eyes, holding the moment carefully.

"Small," you said. "Like she didn't know what she was doing, but some part of her did anyway."

Andrew said nothing.

"Happy," you added.

His breath caught.

"She sounded happy."

The silence that followed was soft.

Not empty.

Full.

Finally, Andrew whispered, "She sounded happy."

"Yeah."

The timer beeped.

One minute.

You moved the phone back near Andie.

"Say goodnight."

Andrew's voice came through, barely steady.

"Goodnight, Andie."

She slept.

"I love you."

Her little fingers flexed against your shirt.

"I heard you today," he said.

Your eyes filled.

"I heard you."

Andie sighed in her sleep.

Andrew stopped for a second.

Then, softer, "Yeah. I know."

You brought the phone back.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you."

"You okay?"

"No."

You smiled sadly.

"Good no or bad no?"

A pause.

Then, "Good no."

Your eyes closed.

"Good."

The final warning beeped.

Andrew's voice came quickly, like he was trying to fit the whole world into the last seconds.

"Play it again for her tomorrow."

"I will."

"And send it."

"I will."

"And tell her—"

The line clicked.

Gone.

You lowered the phone slowly.

The room was quiet except for Andie's soft breathing.

Craig came back in after a moment, eyes carefully dry.

Deran followed, pretending very hard that he had not been lurking.

You looked at both of them.

"He heard it."

Craig nodded.

"Good."

Deran cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he said. "Good."

Andie slept on, entirely unaware that she had just given her father something no prison wall could take from him.

That night, Andrew did not sleep for a long time.

He lay on his back, one arm folded under his head, staring at the ceiling.

The unit settled around him in pieces.

Footsteps.

A cough.

A low voice down the tier.

Metal shifting somewhere.

All of it familiar.

None of it enough to drown out the sound in his head.

Dada.

Small.

Crackly.

Barely formed.

His.

He replayed it without the video.

He did not need the video yet.

He had the sound now.

Your voice first.

Where's Daddy?

Then Andie.

Dada.

Andrew pressed one hand over his chest.

Not because something hurt.

Because something did not.

For once, the ache in him was not only grief.

It was wonder.

His daughter knew him well enough to call for him.

Maybe she did not understand the word yet.

Maybe it was babble.

Maybe tomorrow she would say it to a lamp or the baby gate or Deran's shoe.

It did not matter.

You had asked where Daddy was.

Andie had answered.

Andrew turned his head toward the wall of photos.

In the dark, he could not see them clearly.

But he knew each one.

Scan.

Gender note.

Nursery photo.

Contact visit.

Smile.

The timeline of his daughter finding her way to him.

Now there would be another piece.

A video.

A sound.

A word.

He closed his eyes.

Across the city, you laid Andie carefully in her cot after she finally surrendered to sleep. The nursery was dim. The wooden duck watched from the high shelf. The approved player sat beside the stack of books, waiting for tomorrow.

You looked down at your daughter.

Her mouth was relaxed now, no words, no babbling, no little sounds except breath.

"You made his whole life with one word today," you whispered.

Andie slept on.

You smiled, touched two fingers to your lips, then gently to her forehead.

"Dada," you whispered back to her.

As if returning the word to the room.

As if letting it settle where it belonged.

Behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody fell asleep with his daughter's voice in his head, saying the only word that could have found him through every wall.

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[fanficwritinggirl]

{The Shape Of Her Smile - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Comment to be added to the taglist.

The video was mostly useless.

That was the first thing you noticed when you watched it back properly.

Not emotionally useless.

Emotionally, it was devastating.

Technically, it was a crime.

The first three seconds were your knee.

Then the nursery rug.

Then one blurry close-up of Andie's foot kicking with great intensity while Andrew's recorded voice said, faintly in the background, "Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Then your own voice, whispered and frantic.

"Come on, baby. Do it again."

The camera lifted too fast.

Blurred.

Focused.

Lost focus.

Found Andie's face.

Your daughter lay on the soft blanket in the middle of the nursery floor, dark hair sticking up slightly, tiny fists pulled close to her chest, eyes wide and unfocused in the way that made her look like she was receiving visions from another realm.

Andrew's duck recording played from the little device beside her.

His voice was low.

Careful.

Nervous, still, even though he had denied that every time you mentioned it.

He turned a page.

The audio crackled faintly.

Andie blinked.

You held your breath even though you already knew what happened next.

Andrew's voice softened around a sentence about the duck finding its way home.

Andie's mouth moved.

Just a little.

A tiny pull at one corner.

Then the other.

A crooked, fleeting, impossibly small smile.

There.

Gone.

The whole thing lasted maybe two seconds.

Maybe less.

But it was real.

You paused the video so quickly your finger slipped and skipped forward.

"No, no, no," you muttered, dragging it back. "Come on."

You found the moment again.

Paused.

There.

Andie's face, caught halfway through the smile, eyes bright, mouth curved, one fist open like even her hand had been surprised by joy.

You stared at the screen.

Your throat closed.

It was not the first time you had cried over the video.

It was, embarrassingly, not even the fifth.

Motherhood had turned you into a woman who could be defeated by a tiny mouth.

You sniffed hard and wiped your cheek with the sleeve of Andrew's flannel.

Andie was asleep against your chest in the rocking chair, warm and soft and completely unaware that her face was currently doing structural damage to your heart.

"You know," you whispered down at her, "your dad is going to be unbearable about this."

She sighed in her sleep.

Tiny.

Content.

Her cheek pressed deeper into your shirt.

You looked back at the frozen frame.

Andie smiling.

At Andrew's voice.

Not yours.

Not Deran's ridiculous argument about gas.

Andrew's.

You had told him about it on the phone already, but telling was not enough. You knew that because you had heard the silence on the other end of the line. The way he had tried to imagine it. The way he had asked what she looked like, voice careful and rough, as if too much wanting might make the answer disappear.

He needed to see it.

You managed to transfer the still image to be printed the next morning.

It took far longer than it should have because technology seemed personally committed to ruining mothers.

Andie cried halfway through.

Then needed feeding.

Then spat up on your clean shirt.

Then smiled at absolutely nothing when your phone was across the room, because apparently she had developed comedic timing.

By the time Deran came by with groceries, you were sitting at the kitchen table with Andie in the crook of one arm, the laptop open in front of you, and a deeply suspicious expression on your face.

Deran stopped in the doorway.

"No."

You looked up. "No what?"

"Whatever this is."

"You don't even know what this is."

"You look like you're about to ask me to do something."

"I am."

"No."

"Deran."

"No."

"I need you to help me print a photo."

He stared at you.

Then at Andie.

Then back at you.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why do you look like you're committing fraud?"

"Because the printer app is asking me to create an account and I don't trust it."

Deran set the grocery bags down with a sigh. "Give me the laptop."

You smiled sweetly.

"You're very kind."

"Don't."

"And helpful."

"I said don't."

"And emotionally available in a crisis."

"I'm leaving."

"You are not. You love Andie."

Deran looked down at the baby.

Andie was asleep, mouth slightly open, one hand curled against your shirt.

His face did the thing.

The soft thing.

Then he looked away immediately.

"She's fine."

"That was not a denial."

He took the laptop. "Show me the picture."

You clicked the file.

The smile filled the screen.

Deran went quiet.

You watched his face.

He had seen the smile happen in person. He had argued about it. Denied it. Then folded completely when Andie did it again.

But this was different.

Frozen like this, there was no pretending it had been gas or timing or wishful thinking.

It was joy.

Tiny, blurry, crooked joy.

Deran's jaw moved slightly.

"Yeah," he said.

Your smile softened. "Yeah?"

"Print that one."

"I know."

"No, I mean..." He cleared his throat. "That exact one."

You looked at the screen again.

Andie smiling at Andrew's voice.

"That's the one," he said.

Your eyes burned.

"Yeah," you whispered. "That's the one."

Deran did not look at you.

That was kind of him.

The first copy went on the fridge.

You tucked it under the smiling sun magnet beside the photo of you pregnant in the nursery and the photo from the contact visit — Andrew holding Andie, you leaning into his shoulder, his eyes fixed on your daughter like he had forgotten the rest of the world existed.

The second copy you held for a long time.

Then you turned it over.

You had planned to write something beautiful.

Something thoughtful.

Something that would make sense of the ache and softness of it.

Instead, you wrote:

Father science confirmed.

You stared at it.

Then laughed so hard Andie startled in the sling against your chest.

"Sorry," you whispered, kissing her hair. "Your parents are ridiculous."

Underneath, you added:

She smiled at your voice.

That was better.

Simple.

True.

Enough.

You tucked the photo into an envelope with a short letter.

It lasted maybe two seconds.

Deran said it was gas.

He was wrong.

She smiled at your voice, Andrew.

I wish you could have seen it when it happened, but this is the closest I could get.

I watched it too many times and cried like an idiot.

You would have pretended not to cry and failed.

I love you.

She loves you too.

You sealed the envelope before you could overthink the last line.

Then you pressed a kiss to the corner.

Not because Andrew would know.

Because you would.

Andrew received the envelope four days later.

He knew it was yours before he saw the handwriting.

He always did.

There were very few good things that came through the mail in prison. Most of it carried bad news, rules, delays, official language, or nothing worth holding onto.

Your letters were different.

Your letters had weight before he opened them.

He took the envelope back to his bunk like he always did now.

Some men opened mail in the common area. Standing, impatient, tearing through paper with too much force.

Andrew never did.

He opened yours carefully.

Privately.

Some things deserved to be protected before they were even known.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, one shoulder angled slightly toward the wall, and slid his finger under the flap.

A letter.

And a photo.

The photo fell into his palm face down.

He saw your writing first.

Father science confirmed.

Andrew stopped.

For a second, he just stared at the words.

Then a sound left him.

Small.

Rough.

Almost nothing.

A laugh, maybe.

He pressed his thumb near the edge of the photo, not over the ink.

Then he read the line below.

She smiled at your voice.

Everything in him went still.

He turned the photo over.

Andie.

His daughter.

Smiling.

Andrew forgot how to breathe.

Not because it was big.

It was not.

The smile was tiny. Crooked. Barely there. Her eyes were still unfocused. Her fist was open near her chin. The picture was a little blurry, like whoever had taken it had been shaking or rushing or both.

But it was real.

She was smiling.

His daughter was smiling.

Andrew had imagined it badly.

He realized that immediately.

He had pictured something bigger. Maybe because grown people smiled with their whole mouths, their eyes, their whole faces. He had imagined a baby version of that.

But Andie's smile was smaller.

Softer.

More fragile.

Just a little curve, like happiness had touched her face and she had not known yet how to hold all of it.

It wrecked him worse.

Andrew sat there with the photo in both hands and looked until his eyes burned.

Her hair was darker than he remembered.

Her cheeks fuller.

She had changed again.

Babies did that, apparently. Changed without permission. Grew in tiny increments and then all at once, and he was always catching up through photos and phone calls and your careful descriptions.

But the frown was still there.

His frown.

Except now interrupted by a smile.

He brushed his thumb along the border of the photo, stopping before he touched her face.

He would not smudge it.

He would not wear it down.

His throat worked.

"She smiled," he whispered.

No one answered.

That was fine.

He said it again anyway.

"She smiled."

At his voice.

The thought landed differently every time.

Not just that she settled for him. Not just that his voice could quiet her when she was screaming. Not just that she knew the sound of him.

She had been happy.

Because of him.

Andrew covered his mouth with one hand and bent forward over the photo.

The tears came quietly.

No sound.

No dramatic collapse.

Just heat in his eyes and a sharp ache behind his ribs and the impossible weight of joy in a place that had never been built to hold it.

He read your letter next.

Slowly.

Then again.

He stopped at the line about Deran.

Deran said it was gas.

Andrew huffed through tears.

Of course he had.

Then:

He was wrong.

Andrew looked back at the photo.

"Yes," he whispered. "He was."

He folded the letter and tucked it beneath the blanket on his bunk, then held the photo again.

For a long time, he did nothing else.

Later, the programme officer came by during count.

Andrew stood with the others, photo tucked safely under his pillow.

She glanced at him once.

"You get the mail?" she asked quietly.

He nodded.

"Good?"

Andrew hesitated.

Good was too small.

Good was dry chicken not being as bad as usual. Good was a call going through. Good was being allowed into the recording room again.

This was not good.

This was his daughter smiling at his voice from across the city.

He nodded once anyway.

"Yeah."

The officer looked like she understood enough not to ask.

"Recording list is posted," she said. "You requested another book?"

Andrew thought about the book list.

The bear one.

The rabbit one he thought was stupid.

The bedtime one with the moon.

He had planned to pick one.

One was reasonable.

One was what the slot allowed if other men needed time too.

But Andie had smiled at his voice.

His daughter had smiled.

"How many can I request?" he asked.

The officer's eyebrows lifted slightly.

"One at a time, usually."

"Can I request them in order?"

"You can make a list."

Andrew looked at the wall.

At the place behind the blanket where the photo waited.

"Bear," he said. "Then moon."

The officer wrote it down.

After a pause, he added, "And the rabbit."

She glanced up. "Thought you didn't like the rabbit."

Andrew's jaw tightened.

"I don't."

"Then why request it?"

He looked down.

Because Andie might.

Because if his voice made her smile, he would read every stupid rabbit book in the building.

Because maybe one day you would play it in the green room while she lay on the blanket with her fist near her face, and maybe she would know him a little more.

Because he was her father and this was what he could do.

He shrugged once.

"It's for her."

The officer's expression softened.

Just slightly.

She wrote it down.

The phone rang at 8:52 that night.

You were in the nursery, because of course you were.

Andie was lying on her blanket again, kicking one leg with fierce concentration. The duck recording had just ended. The smile photo was propped on the dresser because you had not yet decided whether to frame it or carry it around like a lunatic.

Deran was downstairs, allegedly watching television, though you suspected he had actually fallen asleep on the sofa again.

You grabbed the phone.

The automated voice started.

You pressed one.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hey."

You smiled immediately.

"Hey."

A pause.

Then he said, "You didn't tell me she had your smile."

Your throat tightened.

There it was.

He got it.

You leaned back against the rocking chair and looked down at Andie.

"She does?"

"Yeah."

"I thought it was yours."

"No."

"You haven't smiled at yourself much, then."

He huffed softly.

"She smiled at your voice," you said. "That makes it yours too."

Andrew went quiet.

You could hear him breathing.

Not even.

Not steady.

"Baby," you whispered.

"I got the photo."

"I know."

"I looked at it."

"I assumed."

"A lot."

You smiled. "Also assumed."

"She's bigger."

"She is."

"Her cheeks."

You looked down at Andie's cheeks.

They had filled out slightly, soft and round and absolutely ridiculous.

"Very kissable," you said.

Andrew made a small sound.

"Sorry."

"No."

"You okay?"

"No."

"Good no or bad no?"

A beat.

Then, softly, "Good no."

Your face crumpled.

"Oh."

"She looks happy."

"She was."

"At the recording?"

"Yes."

"At the duck one?"

"Yes."

His breath moved through the line, shaken.

"She smiled at the duck."

"At you."

"At a duck book."

"At you reading a duck book."

"That's different."

"It is."

Andie kicked both legs and let out a tiny squeak.

Andrew went silent instantly.

"What was that?"

"She's here."

"She awake?"

"Very."

"She okay?"

"She is currently fighting the air."

"She winning?"

"Hard to tell."

Andrew huffed.

You smiled and moved the phone closer to Andie.

"Say hi."

Andrew's voice changed at once.

Softened.

Lowered.

The Andie voice.

"Hey, Andie."

Your daughter blinked.

Her legs stilled.

You bit your lip.

Andrew kept talking.

"I got your picture."

Andie waved one hand.

"You smiled."

Her eyes shifted vaguely toward the sound.

"You look like your mom when you do it."

Your eyes filled.

Andie's mouth moved.

Not quite a smile.

Almost.

You held your breath.

Andrew said, "Yeah. I know. She says it's mine too, but she lies about stuff like that."

You laughed.

Andie's mouth curved.

Tiny.

There.

Again.

You gasped.

Andrew stopped. "What?"

"She did it."

"What?"

"She smiled."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"At me?"

"Yes."

The line went completely silent.

You grabbed your phone tighter.

"Andrew?"

"She smiled again?"

"Yes."

You laughed through sudden tears. "You made her smile again."

Andrew made a sound that broke halfway through.

You closed your eyes.

"I wish you could see."

"Tell me."

"She's on the blanket," you said quickly, trying to hold every detail while it was still happening. "She's wearing the little cream sleepsuit with the yellow stars. Her hair is doing that mad thing at the back where it sticks up. She had one fist by her mouth, and then you said she looked like me, and she smiled."

He did not speak.

"It was bigger this time," you whispered.

His breathing broke.

"Bigger?"

"A little. Still tiny. But bigger."

Andie kicked once, then started hiccupping.

"And now she has hiccups."

Andrew let out a wet laugh.

Your chest ached.

"She smiled again," he said.

"She did."

"Father science confirmed."

You laughed, crying openly now.

"Father science confirmed."

You brought the phone back to your ear.

Andrew was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, "I asked for more books."

Your smile softened.

"Yeah?"

"Bear one."

"Good."

"Moon one."

"Very good."

He hesitated.

"And the rabbit."

You grinned. "The stupid rabbit?"

"It's for her."

Your heart went uselessly soft.

"She'll love the stupid rabbit."

"She better."

"She will."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll play it until she does."

"That feels wrong."

"It's parenting."

A soft laugh came through the line.

You leaned your head back against the rocking chair.

"I'm proud of you," you said.

He went quiet.

"Don't."

"I am."

"For reading?"

"For letting yourself be her dad in every way you can."

The line went still.

You heard him inhale.

"I don't know how to do enough," he said.

Your smile faded into something tender.

"This is enough for today."

"It doesn't feel like enough."

"I know."

"It feels small."

"It is small," you said softly. "But babies are small. Small things count."

He did not answer.

You looked at Andie.

She had started chewing on her fist, staring up at nothing with great concentration.

"She doesn't know what you can't do," you said.

Andrew's breath caught.

"She knows what you do. She hears you. She settles for you. She smiles at you. That is what she knows."

Silence.

Then, rough and low, "Okay."

You knew that okay.

It meant he was trying.

You let him have it.

The call timer beeped faintly.

You sighed.

"How long?"

"Ten."

Andie hiccupped again.

Andrew's voice softened. "She still doing it?"

"Hiccupping? Yes."

"Does she hate it?"

"She looks offended."

"She always does."

"You gave her that face."

"Apparently I gave her a smile too."

Your heart squeezed.

"Yes," you whispered. "You did."

For the next few minutes, you told him about the photo.

How long it took to get the frame right.

How Deran helped with the printer app and acted like the whole thing was beneath him while hovering over the screen.

How you put one copy on the fridge.

How the other copy, his copy, had been kissed at the corner before you mailed it.

Andrew went very quiet at that.

"You kissed it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I can't kiss you."

The line went silent.

Your eyes burned.

"So I kissed the thing I was sending to you."

Andrew's voice came back rough.

"I kissed it too."

Your breath stopped.

"The photo?"

"Yeah."

You closed your eyes.

"Oh."

"Corner," he said, like it mattered that you knew. "Not her face. Didn't want to mess it up."

A tear slid down your cheek.

"Same corner?"

"I don't know."

"I'm choosing to believe yes."

"Okay."

You smiled.

The timer beeped again.

Five minutes.

Andie started fussing slightly, tired now from the enormous work of smiling twice and hiccupping with her whole body.

You picked her up and tucked her against your chest.

"She's getting sleepy."

"Need to go?"

"Not yet."

"If she needs—"

"Andrew."

"What?"

"We can have five more minutes."

He went quiet.

Then, softer, "Okay."

You shifted Andie against your shoulder and stood carefully, walking slowly around the nursery because she liked movement when she was tired.

The chair creaked as you moved past it.

The wooden duck sat on the shelf.

The smile photo watched from the dresser.

Andrew's voice stayed in your ear.

For five more minutes, you talked quietly.

About nothing.

About everything.

The bear book.

Deran's printer skills.

Andie's star sleepsuit.

Bad prison chicken.

Whether the rabbit book was genuinely stupid or just misunderstood.

When the final minute warning came, Andie was asleep against your shoulder.

"Say goodnight," you whispered, holding the phone near her.

Andrew's voice came soft.

"Goodnight, Andie."

She slept.

"I saw your smile."

Your face crumpled.

"I love it."

Andie sighed.

"I love you," he whispered.

You brought the phone back.

"I love you too."

"And you."

"I know."

"No, you don't."

You blinked.

Andrew's voice went quieter.

"I love you for sending it. For making sure I see things."

Your throat closed.

"I don't want you to miss everything."

"I know."

"You won't."

"I know," he said.

And this time, maybe he did.

The line clicked off.

You stood in the green room with Andie asleep against your shoulder, Andrew's voice still warm in your ear.

The smile photo sat on the dresser.

Small.

Blurry.

Perfect.

That night, Andrew put the photo on the wall beside the contact visit picture.

He placed it carefully.

Not too close to the edge where it might curl.

Not where the light would fade it.

Just beneath the note that said It's a girl.

Now the wall had become a timeline.

Scan photos.

The gender note.

You in the green room, pregnant and wearing his shirt.

The contact visit, his arms around Andie and your head against his shoulder.

And now his daughter smiling.

He stood in front of it for a long time after lights-out, barely visible in the dim.

The first time Andrew saw his daughter smile, she was already asleep across the city.

He had not been there when it happened.

But the photo was there now.

Awake beside him.

Proof that his voice reached her.

Proof that she knew him.

Proof that joy could cross concrete if it had to.

Andrew touched two fingers to his mouth.

Then to the corner of the photo.

The same corner, he decided.

Because he wanted it to be.

Then he lay down with his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

In the dark, he tried again to imagine the shape of Andie's smile.

This time, he got closer.

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[fanficwritinggirl]

{Almost A Smile - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Comment to be added to the taglist.

The first time Andie smiled, you were not ready.

This felt rude.

You had spent weeks watching her face like it was going to reveal state secrets. You had studied every twitch of her mouth, every sleepy grimace, every milk-drunk expression, every scrunched little frown that looked so much like Andrew it made your chest ache.

You had been waiting.

Not patiently.

Never patiently.

But waiting.

Everyone said six weeks was around when babies started smiling on purpose. Real smiles. Social smiles. The kind that meant something other than gas or digestion or mysterious newborn internal politics.

Andie was seven weeks old.

Seven weeks and two days, if you were being exact, which you were, because motherhood had apparently turned you into the sort of person who counted time by days and feeds and nappy changes and how long she slept before making the tiny offended noise that meant she had decided the world was disappointing again.

You had been prepared.

Sort of.

You had your phone nearby almost all the time now because she had started doing this little thing with her mouth that looked almost like a smile if you were very hopeful and willing to ignore medical probability.

You had tried everything.

Silly faces.

Terrible singing.

Bouncing her gently on your knees.

Kissing her cheeks.

Saying, "Who is the prettiest baby in the entire world?" in a voice that would have made Andrew stare at you with deep concern.

Nothing.

Andie would blink at you.

Frown.

Occasionally spit up.

Once, she had sneezed directly after you said, "Smile for Mummy," which felt personal.

Then, on a Tuesday afternoon when your hair was half falling out of a claw clip and you had one sock on because you had lost the other somewhere between the nursery and the kitchen, you played Andrew's duck recording because Andie was getting fussy.

Not screaming.

Not fully.

Just building toward it.

The dangerous pre-cry stage.

The red eyebrows.

The trembling bottom lip.

The increasingly dramatic breathing.

You were sitting cross-legged on the nursery rug with your back against the rocking chair, Andie lying on a blanket in front of you. Her little legs kicked the air with furious purpose. One hand waved near her face like she was conducting an orchestra no one else could hear.

"Don't start," you warned gently.

Andie's mouth opened.

"Please don't start."

She made a tiny angry sound.

You reached for the little approved player on the floor beside you.

"Okay," you sighed. "Fine. Calling in reinforcements."

You pressed play.

There was a second of static.

Then Andrew's voice filled the room.

"Hi, Andie."

Your daughter went still.

Not asleep.

Not magically soothed all at once.

Just still.

Her eyes widened slightly, dark and unfocused, turning toward the sound like her whole tiny body recognized the shape of him before her brain knew what recognition was.

You froze too.

You always did.

Even now, after playing the recording every day, sometimes more than once, the sound of him in the nursery still caught you right under the ribs.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie blinked.

Her little hand opened.

You smiled.

"There he is," you whispered.

Andrew's recorded voice continued, rough and careful and more nervous than he would ever admit.

"This is a duck book."

You laughed softly.

Every time.

Every single time.

You knew the recording by heart now. You knew where his voice steadied. Where he paused too long before turning the page. Where he did the barely-there duck voice and pretended, later on the phone, that it did not count as a duck voice.

You watched Andie while he read.

She kicked once.

Then again.

Her face, which had been working its way toward tragedy only seconds earlier, relaxed.

Her eyes tracked vaguely toward the player.

Andrew read about a duck getting lost, then found, then tucked into bed beneath the moon. It was not a complicated book. It was, in fact, a very silly book. The duck had no survival skills and far too much confidence.

Andrew had somehow made it sound important.

Halfway through the second page, Andie's mouth moved.

You leaned forward.

"No."

Her lips twitched.

Just a tiny curve.

Barely anything.

You stopped breathing.

"No, no, no. Do that again."

Andie blinked at the ceiling.

Andrew's voice said, "The duck was not scared."

Andie's mouth curved again.

Small.

Soft.

There and gone so quickly you almost doubted it.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

"Oh my God."

Andie waved one fist.

You grabbed your phone so fast you nearly dropped it on your own foot.

"No, wait. Wait, do it again. Please do it again."

Andie immediately looked bored.

"No. Don't do that. Don't look like your father when someone asks him to talk about feelings."

She sneezed.

You stared at her.

"That is not a smile."

She made a tiny noise.

Andrew's recording kept going.

You hit record on your phone anyway, because if motherhood had taught you anything, it was that babies liked to perform miracles the second no one was documenting them.

"Okay," you whispered, aiming the camera at her. "Go on. Smile for Dad's voice."

Andie hiccupped.

You narrowed your eyes.

"You are being difficult."

The recording ended with Andrew's soft, "Goodnight, Andie. I'm here."

Andie did not smile again.

You replayed it.

No smile.

You replayed the first page.

No smile.

You tried saying "Hi, baby girl" in Andrew's voice.

This was a mistake.

Andie looked deeply unimpressed.

You gasped. "Excuse me. That was a very good impression."

She started crying.

You sighed and picked her up.

"Alright. That was fair. I'm sorry. I'll never impersonate your father again."

Deran arrived twenty minutes later with groceries, nappies, and the expression of a man who had somehow been tricked into becoming useful.

He let himself in like he lived there.

Which, at this point, he basically did three days a week.

"You alive?" he called.

"In the nursery."

He appeared in the doorway carrying two shopping bags and a packet of nappies under one arm.

Andie was tucked against your chest, mostly calm now, one cheek pressed to your shirt, mouth making tiny sleepy motions.

Deran looked at her first.

Always.

Then at you.

"You look weird."

"Thank you."

"No, like..." He frowned. "Excited weird."

You sat up straighter in the rocking chair.

"I think she smiled."

Deran's face went blank.

"Okay."

"At Andrew's recording."

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Okay."

"Do not say okay like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're humouring me."

"I am humouring you."

"Deran."

He stepped fully into the room and set the bags near the dresser. "Babies do weird face stuff."

"It was not weird face stuff."

"It was probably gas."

Your mouth fell open.

"You are banned from the nursery."

"I brought nappies."

"You may leave them at the door and go."

"She's seven weeks old."

"Exactly."

"Babies smile around then."

"See? You know that."

"I know it was a smile."

"You want it to be a smile."

You pointed at him. "That is a dangerous sentence to say to a sleep-deprived mother."

Deran glanced at Andie. "She asleep?"

"Almost."

"Then why are we arguing?"

"Because you accused my child's first smile of being gas."

"I said probably."

"You're making it worse."

Andie stirred against your chest, grumbling softly.

Both of you froze.

Deran lowered his voice. "Sorry."

You looked at him.

He looked annoyed at himself for apologizing to a seven-week-old baby who could not understand him.

You smiled.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You had a face."

"I have many faces."

"Unfortunately."

You laid Andie carefully back on the blanket on the floor once she seemed calm enough, because now that Deran was there, you needed a witness.

A hostile witness, apparently, but a witness.

You grabbed the player again.

"Watch her."

Deran leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. "This feels like a trap."

"It is not a trap."

"You're going to say I'm heartless if I don't see a smile."

"You are heartless if you don't see a smile."

"Trap."

You ignored him and pressed play.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hi, Andie."

Andie's head moved toward the sound.

Deran's posture shifted.

Tiny.

But you saw it.

You looked up at him with triumph.

He pointed at you. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

Andrew's voice continued.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie kicked.

Her eyes opened wider.

Her mouth made the smallest little shape.

You stopped breathing.

"Watch," you whispered.

Deran looked down at her.

The room went quiet except for Andrew's recorded voice reading about the deeply incompetent duck.

Andie stared toward the player.

Her hands opened and closed.

Andrew did the duck voice.

Barely.

Just enough.

Andie's mouth curved.

Tiny.

Soft.

Completely real.

You gasped.

Deran went still.

"There," you whispered. "There."

Andie's little face relaxed into it for maybe two seconds.

Two seconds of something bright and new and unmistakable.

A smile.

Not gas.

Not digestion.

Not a random twitch.

A smile.

At Andrew's voice.

Your hands flew to your mouth.

"Oh my God."

Deran did not say anything.

That was how you knew he had seen it.

You looked at him, eyes full.

"That was a smile."

His jaw worked.

He looked at the player.

Then at Andie.

Then back at the player, as if Andrew might somehow be hiding inside the little approved device and would hear him admit defeat.

"Yeah," Deran said.

Your face crumpled.

"Yeah?"

He cleared his throat, looking away. "Yeah. Probably."

"Deran."

"It was a smile."

You burst into tears.

Andie, offended by the sudden emotion, kicked one leg.

You laughed and cried at once.

"She smiled at him."

Deran's eyes went shiny in a way he absolutely would not appreciate you mentioning.

"Yeah."

"She smiled at his voice."

"Yeah."

You grabbed your phone.

"Oh my God, I didn't get it."

Deran looked relieved to have a practical problem.

"Do it again."

"Babies aren't vending machines."

"Play the duck again."

"She might not do it again."

"Try."

So you did.

You replayed the first part of the recording.

Nothing.

You replayed it again.

Andie yawned.

Deran said, "Maybe the smile took it out of her."

You glared at him.

"What? It was probably hard work."

You tried again fifteen minutes later after a feed.

No smile.

You tried after nappy change.

No smile.

You tried while she lay on your chest.

No smile.

Andie had apparently decided to reveal joy once, emotionally destroy the room, and then retire from public life.

Deran stayed.

He pretended he was only there because Craig had asked him to check the smoke alarm batteries, which was both random and unbelievable. In reality, he sat on the nursery floor with his back against the wall, scrolling through his phone and glancing up every time the recording started over.

On the fifth attempt, Andie smiled again.

You almost dropped your phone in your rush to record it.

"Got it?" Deran asked.

"I think so."

"You think?"

"I panicked."

"You had one job."

"You hold her entire emotional development in your hands and see how steady you are."

You opened the video.

It started with a blurry shot of your knee.

Then a close-up of Andie's foot.

Then your whispering voice saying, "Come on, baby, do it again."

Deran snorted.

"Shut up."

Then the camera found her face.

Andrew's voice played in the background.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie blinked.

Kicked.

Then smiled.

Small.

A little crooked.

Over in a second.

Perfect.

You pressed the phone to your chest and started crying again.

Deran sighed.

But not like he was annoyed.

More like he had accepted this was what the day was now.

"That's it?" he asked.

You nodded, laughing through tears. "That's it."

He leaned over to look at the screen again.

"She did smile."

"She did."

"At Pope's voice."

"At her dad's voice."

Deran looked away.

His mouth tightened slightly.

"Yeah," he said. "At her dad's voice."

Andrew called at 8:43 that night.

You had been waiting since 8:00.

Andie had fallen asleep against your chest after an hour of fussy, unsettled little noises that never quite became crying but still kept you trapped in that strange newborn state of alert exhaustion.

The player was on the side table.

Your phone was tucked into the chair cushion beside your thigh.

The second it rang, your hand shot out.

Andie startled.

You froze.

She settled.

You accepted the call before the automated voice had finished its usual insult to romance and family life.

The line clicked.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hey."

"She smiled at you."

Silence.

You closed your eyes.

That was not how you had planned to say it.

You had meant to ease into it. Ask how he was. Tell him Andie was asleep. Mention the recording. Build toward it gently because Andrew handled joy like something suspicious left on his doorstep.

Instead, you had thrown it directly at his head.

The line stayed quiet.

You opened your eyes.

"Andrew?"

"What?"

His voice was strange.

Low.

Careful.

Like he had heard you but did not trust the sentence.

"She smiled," you said, softer. "At your recording."

Another silence.

Then, "No."

"Yes."

"She's too little."

"She is seven weeks."

"It might've been gas."

You sat up straighter. "Do not Deran me."

"What?"

"Deran said that."

"Deran saw?"

"Yes."

A pause.

"He said it was gas?"

"At first."

"And?"

"And then she did it again."

Andrew stopped breathing.

You smiled through tears.

"She smiled, Andrew. It was tiny and quick and she immediately went back to looking like she was judging the furniture, but she smiled."

"At the recording?"

"At your voice."

He did not answer.

You held Andie closer.

"She was fussy," you said. "So I played the duck book. And you said, 'Hi, baby girl. It's me.' And she just... stopped. She looked toward the player and her little mouth did this tiny—"

Your own mouth trembled.

You laughed, crying already.

"I can't even explain it. It was so small."

Andrew was silent.

"Baby?"

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"No."

You smiled through tears.

"Good no or bad no?"

"I don't know."

"Still?"

"Yeah."

You leaned back in the chair, rocking slowly.

"She smiled at your voice."

This time you said it carefully.

Like a promise.

Like proof.

Andrew inhaled shakily.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Not because you wanted her to?"

"I mean, I did want her to."

"Baby."

"But Deran saw it."

That seemed to land.

Andrew knew Deran. Deran did not hand out sentiment unless cornered by objective evidence or a newborn.

"He said it was a smile?" Andrew asked.

"Eventually."

"Eventually?"

"After being banned from the nursery."

A small breath came through the line.

Almost a laugh.

"Did you get it?"

"Yes."

His silence changed.

"Video?"

"Yes."

"You got a video?"

"I panicked, so the first second is my knee and then her foot."

"Okay."

"But then you can see it. Your voice is playing, and she smiles."

Andrew did not speak for so long that you checked the phone screen to make sure the call had not dropped.

It hadn't.

"Andrew?"

"I want to see it," he said.

His voice was rough.

"You will."

"When?"

"I'll bring it next visit if they let me show you. If not, I'll print a still from it. Or I'll describe it frame by frame until the guard begs for mercy."

Another small breath of laughter.

"You would."

"I absolutely would."

Andie made a tiny sound against your chest.

Andrew went quiet instantly.

"What was that?"

"She's asleep. Just making noises."

"She okay?"

"She's perfect."

"She smiled."

"She smiled."

"At me."

"At you."

His breath caught.

"At my voice," he corrected softly.

You looked down at Andie.

Her cheek was pressed against your chest, mouth slightly open, one tiny fist curled in the collar of your shirt.

"At her dad's voice," you said.

Andrew went silent again.

This time, you let him.

Some silences needed space.

Finally, he said, "She knows me."

Your throat tightened.

"Yes."

"I know we said that before."

"I know."

"But she..."

"She smiled."

"Yeah."

You nodded even though he could not see.

"She knows you in the ways she can right now."

The line crackled.

"Your voice," you said. "Your rhythm. The way you say her name. The way you do that terrible duck voice."

"It's not terrible."

"It is beloved and terrible."

"It's one voice."

"It is a duck voice."

"It's barely a voice."

"It made your daughter smile."

That shut him up.

You smiled softly.

"Yeah," he said, very quiet. "Okay."

Andie shifted, making another sleepy sound.

You moved the phone closer to her without thinking.

"Want to talk to her?"

"She's sleeping."

"She can still hear you."

"She needs sleep."

"She can sleep and be loved at the same time."

Andrew went quiet.

Then, softer, "Put me on."

You held the phone near Andie, careful and close.

"She's listening."

Andrew's voice lowered into that tender place that belonged only to her.

"Hey, Andie."

She did not wake.

Her tiny fingers flexed against your shirt.

"I heard you smiled today."

Your eyes filled all over again.

"Your mom says it was at me."

You pressed your lips together.

"She's usually right."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"And Deran saw it, so I guess it counts."

You laughed silently.

Andrew paused.

Then, voice rougher, "I wish I saw it."

Your smile faded.

"I know."

"I will."

"You will."

"I just..." He stopped.

You waited.

He breathed out.

"I'm glad it happened."

Your heart softened.

There he was.

Not spiraling.

Not making the good thing smaller because it hurt.

Letting it be good.

"She'll do it again," you whispered.

"She doesn't have to."

"No?"

"No. Once is good."

You closed your eyes.

"Once is everything," he said.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

"She'll smile for you again."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Mother science?"

"Mother science."

A pause.

Then Andrew said, "Father science says she will."

You burst into a wet laugh.

Andie stirred.

You froze.

Andrew huffed softly. "You woke her."

"You made me laugh."

"She needs sleep."

"You are the problem."

"I am never the problem."

"Lies."

Andie settled again with a sleepy sigh.

Both of you went quiet.

"You sound tired," Andrew said.

"I am tired."

"Did you eat?"

"Yes."

"Pain meds?"

"I don't really need them much now."

"That's not what I asked."

You smiled despite yourself. "Yes, if I need them."

"Water?"

"Yes."

"Sleep?"

"I have a seven-week-old."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

His voice softened.

"You okay?"

The question was gentler now.

Not routine.

Not interrogation.

A real ask.

You looked down at Andie.

At her tiny face relaxed in sleep.

At the little mouth that had smiled at her father's voice.

"I'm okay," you said.

And you mostly were.

Tired. Lonely in the strangest ways. Happy in ways that made the loneliness sharper and softer at the same time.

But okay.

"She makes it better," you said.

Andrew was quiet.

Then, "Yeah."

"And harder."

"Yeah."

"And better again."

A breath of laughter came through the line. "Yeah."

You smiled.

The call timer beeped faintly.

Your stomach sank.

"How long?"

"Ten."

Ten minutes.

You let your head fall back against the rocking chair.

"I hate that sound."

"Me too."

"Tell me about your day."

His pause told you the answer was no.

You lifted your eyebrows though he could not see.

"Andrew."

"What?"

"Tell me something boring."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want every call to be me giving you Andie updates while you disappear into listening mode."

"I like Andie updates."

"I know. Tell me something boring anyway."

He was quiet for a second.

Then, "They served bad chicken."

You smiled. "That's terrible."

"Dry."

"How dry?"

"Very."

"Compelling."

"You asked."

"I did."

He continued, reluctantly at first, then with a little more ease. Bad chicken. Loud guy in the next unit. Recording programme had another slot next week. He had looked at the book list and there was one about a bear that seemed "less stupid than the rabbit one."

You laughed.

He tried to explain why the rabbit book was stupid.

You listened.

Andie slept through all of it, which felt like a miracle.

Near the end of the call, Andrew asked, "You play the recording every day?"

Your chest softened.

"Every day."

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes more than once."

"She doesn't get sick of it?"

"No."

"You?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Andrew, I listen to your voice read a duck book while wearing pyjamas covered in spit-up. I have never loved you more."

He went quiet.

Then, softly, "That's weird."

"It is."

"I love you too."

You smiled into the dim room.

The timer beeped again.

Five minutes.

Andie stretched against you, one arm lifting, fist opening.

You looked down.

"She's doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"Stretchy arm."

"What's that?"

"You know. The newborn stretch. Where they lift both arms like tiny old men waking from a nap."

"I don't know that."

"You will."

The words came out before you could stop them.

Not maybe.

Not someday if the system allowed.

Will.

Andrew went quiet.

Your eyes burned.

"You will," you repeated softly.

"I want to."

"I know."

"I want all of it."

"You'll get pieces."

His breathing shifted.

You hated that it was true.

But pieces mattered.

A recording.

A smile.

A phone call.

A tiny hand through glass.

His daughter knowing his voice.

"And someday," you said, "you'll get more than pieces."

He did not answer for a moment.

Then, "Yeah."

You knew he did not fully believe it yet.

That was okay.

You could believe enough for tonight.

"Ask me again," you said.

"What?"

"About the smile."

Andrew breathed out shakily.

"She smiled?"

You smiled through tears.

"She smiled."

"At my voice?"

"At your voice."

"What did she look like?"

You looked down at Andie.

"She looked happy," you whispered.

The line went silent.

You could hear the words reach him.

Happy.

His daughter.

At his voice.

"She looked happy," he repeated.

"Yeah."

The timer beeped.

One minute.

You moved the phone near Andie one last time without him asking.

"Say goodnight."

Andrew's voice came softer.

"Goodnight, Andie."

She stayed asleep.

"I love you. Keep smiling at the duck story. Your mom likes it."

You laughed quietly.

"And sleep for her tonight."

You brought the phone back.

"She will ignore that."

"Probably."

"She's your daughter."

"Yeah," he said.

There was no fear in it this time.

Only warmth.

"She is."

The final warning beeped.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you."

"And she loves you."

"I know."

You closed your eyes.

That still got you every time.

The line clicked off.

The room went quiet.

You stayed in the rocking chair for a long time after, Andie sleeping against your chest, your phone resting in your lap.

The player sat on the side table.

You looked at it.

Then at your daughter.

"You smiled at him," you whispered.

Andie slept on, mouth soft and relaxed.

You smiled.

"Show-off."

Andrew lay awake that night, one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

The unit had quieted.

Mostly.

There was always noise somewhere. A cough. A door. Someone muttering in sleep. Pipes knocking in the walls.

But beneath all of that, he heard your voice.

She looked happy.

He closed his eyes.

He tried to imagine it.

Andie on the blanket.

Her little fists.

The dark hair.

The frown.

Then the smile.

He could not get the shape right.

That frustrated him at first.

He wanted to know exactly. Wanted to see it properly. Wanted to hold the moment in his hand and study it until it belonged to him.

But maybe that was not how this worked.

Maybe some things could be his without being fully seen.

A recording sent home.

A smile he missed but caused.

A daughter who knew his voice before she could know his face.

Andrew turned onto his side and reached under his pillow.

His fingers found the folded copy of the photo from the contact visit — you had managed to get one printed after all. Him in the beige room, holding Andie with your head leaned against his shoulder, his eyes down on the baby, your hand around his wrist.

He held it carefully in the dark.

Tomorrow, maybe he would ask about recording the bear book.

Maybe the rabbit one too, even if it was stupid.

Maybe all of them.

If his voice could reach her, he would send as much of it as they allowed.

Across the city, in the green nursery, you pressed play one more time before laying Andie down.

Static.

A page turning.

Then his own voice, rough and careful.

"Hi, Andie."

Andie slept through the rest of the story with one tiny fist curled beside her cheek.

And behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody fell asleep trying to imagine the shape of his daughter's smile.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

@jennataurus @sarai-ibn-la-ahad 

@changbinsrightboob @labiblioteque @booknerd0394  @fromirkwood

@pinguphd, @fulla02, @nightshadestars, @rebeccaflores1 @romantic-insomniac @sage-files 

[fanficwritinggirl]

{She Knows Your Voice - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Comment to be added to the taglist

You told yourself the duck onesie was practical.

It was clean.

It was soft.

It had snaps that didn't make you want to throw it across the room at three in the morning.

Those were all practical reasons.

The fact that Andrew loved it was irrelevant.

Mostly.

Probably.

You stood in the nursery with Andie lying on the changing mat, her tiny legs kicking with great seriousness while you tried to get one foot through the correct opening.

"Stop fighting the duck suit," you murmured.

Andie made a small offended sound.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I insult your dignity?"

She blinked at you.

You smiled despite yourself and fastened the final snap.

There.

Tiny yellow ducks.

Dark hair sticking up slightly near her crown.

Andrew's frown already forming even though she was only a few weeks old and had absolutely no bills to pay.

You looked down at her and felt your chest do the painful, impossible thing it did fifty times a day now.

She was real.

Still.

Every morning, somehow still surprising.

You brushed one finger gently over her cheek.

"Your dad is going to lose his mind."

From the doorway, Deran said, "You're dressing her emotionally."

You turned.

He stood there with two takeaway coffees in one hand and a packet of nappies under his arm, looking deeply unimpressed for a man who had voluntarily shown up at nine in the morning with baby supplies.

"I'm dressing her practically," you said.

"It has ducks."

"Ducks can be practical."

"No, they can't."

"You have no proof of that."

"You put her in the duck onesie because Pope likes it."

"I put her in the duck onesie because it was clean."

Deran looked at the laundry basket overflowing beside the wardrobe.

"There are four clean things on top of that pile."

You narrowed your eyes. "Why are you inspecting my laundry?"

"It's right there."

"Stop perceiving my laundry."

He huffed and stepped into the room, setting one coffee on the dresser. "That one's decaf."

You softened immediately.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, whatever."

Andie kicked both legs.

Deran looked down at her.

His face changed.

It always did, even though he tried to stop it. Something in him went quieter around her, like she made the whole room less easy to joke inside.

"Hey," he said.

Andie stared past him at absolutely nothing.

Deran nodded. "Good talk."

"She's very selective."

"She looks like she's judging me."

"She is."

"She gets that from you."

You laughed and lifted her carefully from the changing mat. Your body still felt strange most days. Better than those first raw days after birth, but not fully yours yet. There were aches you had learned to move around, a tiredness that sat under your skin, and a new constant awareness of Andie's weight in your arms.

Not heavy.

Never heavy.

Just there.

A whole person.

Deran watched you shift her against your chest.

"You okay going today?"

You glanced up.

His voice had gone casual in the way Cody men used when they were being very, very not casual.

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"You look tired."

"I have a newborn."

"Yeah. That's why I asked."

You looked down at Andie.

She had started making little rooting motions against your shirt even though she had eaten forty minutes earlier, because apparently babies worked according to laws no one had written down properly.

"I'm okay," you said, softer.

Deran leaned back against the dresser.

"It's glass today?"

Your throat tightened.

"Yeah."

He nodded once.

No contact room.

No special approval.

No one impossible hour of Andrew holding both of you like the world had narrowed down to his arms and your daughter's breathing.

Just the regular visiting room.

Booth five.

Phones.

Glass.

Andrew had held Andie once now.

That was the blessing.

That was also the wound.

Deran looked down at his coffee.

"That's gonna suck."

You laughed once.

Small and honest.

"Yeah."

He nodded again.

Then he looked at Andie in the duck onesie.

"He'll like that, though."

Your smile trembled.

"I know."

Deran cleared his throat.

"Okay," he said, pushing off from the dresser. "Let's get this emotionally practical duck baby on the road."

You laughed properly then.

Andie startled at the sound, eyes widening.

You kissed the top of her head.

"Sorry," you whispered. "Your uncle is ridiculous."

Deran paused in the doorway.

"Uncle?"

You looked up.

He was staring at you.

You blinked. "What?"

"You said uncle."

Your face softened.

"Oh."

He looked away too fast.

"Don't make it a thing."

"I wasn't."

"You were about to."

"I absolutely was."

"Don't."

You smiled down at Andie.

"Your uncle Deran is emotionally fragile."

"I can still leave you here."

"No, you can't."

"No," he admitted. "I can't."

Andrew knew it was going to be glass.

He had known for three days.

That did not help.

He stood in the visiting room line with his hands at his sides and tried not to think about the weight of Andie in his arms.

It was impossible.

His body remembered before his head could stop it.

The warm curve of her.

The way she had fit against his chest.

The tiny sound she made when he said her name.

The frown.

His frown, apparently, though he still thought you were exaggerating.

He could still feel your hand on his wrist too.

Your mouth.

Your cheek against his shoulder.

The way you had leaned into him when he held her, like for one hour all the months of distance had been suspended in the space between your bodies.

Now it was glass again.

Phone again.

Touching nothing.

He told himself seeing them through glass was still seeing them.

It did not help much.

The door opened.

He walked in.

Booth five.

You were already there.

Andie was against your chest, wrapped in a blanket, her little face turned toward your throat.

Andrew stopped.

For a second, the glass disappeared because all he saw was you.

Tired.

Soft.

Beautiful in a way that hurt.

Then Andie shifted.

The blanket moved.

Yellow ducks.

His breath caught before he could stop it.

You picked up the phone.

He sat and grabbed his.

"You put her in the ducks," he said.

No greeting.

No question.

Just that.

Your smile warmed and ruined him at the same time.

"She chose them."

His eyes dropped to Andie. "She can't choose clothes."

"She has strong opinions."

"She's a baby."

"She's a Cody."

Andrew looked up at you.

Your mouth twitched.

His did too.

Barely.

But enough.

"Hi," you said softly.

His throat tightened.

"Hi."

"You okay?"

"That's my question."

"I'm stealing it."

He looked at you through the glass.

You had dark circles under your eyes. Your hair was pulled back, but not well. His old flannel was draped over your shoulders again, sleeves rolled messily at the wrists. Andie's cheek rested against your chest, tiny mouth relaxed, one fist tucked under her chin.

The sight made him ache.

Not only from missing it.

From loving it.

"I'm okay," he said.

Your gaze softened, like you knew all the ways that answer was incomplete and decided to let him have it anyway.

"She sleep?"

"Sometimes."

"That means no."

"That means she sleeps like a newborn."

"That means no."

You sighed. "No."

"Eating?"

"Yes."

"You?"

You gave him a look. "Also yes."

"Enough?"

"Andrew."

"What?"

"You have moved from baby interrogation to wife interrogation very quickly."

"You both need food."

"She gets hers directly from me. It's very hard to forget."

His eyes widened slightly.

You laughed.

"Oh, don't look so alarmed. You know how babies work."

"I know."

"You look scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You are absolutely scared."

"I'm concerned."

"About breastfeeding?"

"About all of it."

Your expression softened.

Andie made a tiny sound against your chest.

Both of you looked down.

She shifted, scrunched her face, then started fussing.

Not crying yet.

Just winding up.

You adjusted her carefully, bouncing her a little against your shoulder.

"Hey," you murmured. "It's okay."

Andrew's hand tightened around the phone.

The sound went through him strangely.

He had heard her fuss on calls.

He had heard her cry.

But seeing it through glass, seeing her tiny face crumple while he could not reach either of you, made something hot and useless move through his chest.

Andie fussed harder.

You shifted again.

"I know," you whispered, kissing her hair. "I know. It's loud in here."

Andrew leaned closer.

"Put me on."

Your eyes lifted.

"What?"

"The phone."

You looked down at Andie.

"She's upset."

"I know."

"She might scream directly into your ear."

"That's okay."

For a second, you just looked at him.

Then you nodded.

You moved the phone from your ear and held it near Andie, careful not to press it too close.

"She's listening," you said.

Andrew's voice changed before he even thought about it.

Low.

Quiet.

The voice that had become hers somehow.

"Hey, Andie."

Andie fussed.

Her little face crumpled.

Andrew swallowed.

"Hey, baby girl. It's me."

Her crying caught.

Not stopped.

Caught.

A tiny interruption in the rhythm.

You went very still.

Andrew saw it.

He kept talking.

"I know. This place is loud. I don't like it either."

Andie made a small distressed sound.

"But you got the ducks on," he said. "That helps."

A wet laugh slipped out of you.

Andie's fussing softened from the edge of a cry into hiccupping little complaints.

Andrew kept his eyes on her.

"You saw me already," he said softly. "Remember? I held you. You slept on me."

His throat tightened.

The words almost got stuck.

He forced them out anyway.

"You were warm."

Your face crumpled behind the glass.

Andie quieted.

Not fully asleep.

Not peaceful.

But listening.

Her eyes opened slightly, dark and unfocused, shifting vaguely toward the phone.

Andrew stopped breathing.

You brought the phone back to your ear slowly.

"She knows your voice," you whispered.

Andrew could not answer.

His eyes stayed on Andie.

She was still looking toward the sound.

Toward him.

Not seeing him, probably. Not really. The books said newborn eyesight was blurry. He had read that twice.

But she knew something.

The voice.

The rhythm.

The shape of him in sound.

Andrew pressed his palm flat to the counter, because if he didn't put his hand somewhere, he was going to break.

"She knows your voice," you said again, softer.

His jaw worked.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

Andie made another tiny noise.

Not upset now.

Just there.

You smiled down at her. "See? That's Daddy."

Andrew's eyes burned.

Daddy.

He had heard you say it before.

Every time, it landed somewhere new.

You shifted closer to the glass, lifting Andie carefully so she faced him more. Her head wobbled slightly, supported by your hand at the back of her neck.

"She's looking," you said.

"At what?"

"At the blur that is probably you."

A rough laugh left him.

Andie blinked slowly.

Her tiny hand escaped the blanket.

You caught it gently between your fingers.

Andrew watched like his whole world had become that hand.

So small.

Ridiculously small.

Perfectly formed fingers curling and uncurling against your thumb.

You looked up at him through the glass.

"Do you want to..."

You did not finish.

You didn't need to.

Andrew lifted his hand.

Slowly.

Like he was afraid of frightening her even through the barrier.

You brought Andie's hand to the glass.

Her palm pressed flat, tiny and loose, supported by your fingers.

Andrew placed his hand on the other side.

His palm dwarfed hers completely.

Glass between them.

Your fingers around hers.

His hand opposite.

For a second, none of you moved.

The room around you faded.

The other visitors.

The guards.

The phones.

The ugly lights.

All of it blurred around the smallest hand in the world pressed to the barrier between Andrew and his daughter.

Andrew's mouth trembled.

"Hi," he whispered, even though the phone was at your ear and she could not hear him that way.

You heard.

That was enough.

You looked at his hand.

Then at his face.

"She's touching you," you said.

His eyes flicked up.

Then back down.

"Not really."

"Yes," you said. "Really enough."

His face changed.

Really enough.

That was what so much of this had become.

Phone calls were not holding, but they were really enough to calm her.

Recordings were not bedtime in his arms, but they were really enough to fill the room.

Glass was not skin, but right now, his daughter's hand was opposite his and yours was holding her there.

Really enough.

Andrew nodded once.

Barely.

You pressed Andie's hand there a moment longer.

Then she squeaked, unimpressed, and curled her fingers.

You laughed softly.

"She's over it."

His mouth twitched.

"Like you."

"Like you."

Andie yawned then.

A huge, dramatic newborn yawn that took up her whole face.

Andrew stared.

"She does that a lot," you said.

"Yawns?"

"Yes, Andrew. Babies yawn."

"I know."

"You always sound surprised."

"I still am."

You smiled.

His hand stayed on the glass even after you lowered Andie back against your chest.

He did not seem to notice.

Or maybe he did and simply did not want to move it yet.

You didn't tell him to.

For a while, you talked about small things.

Andie's hatred of swaddling.

Andie's conflicting hatred of not being swaddled.

The way she slept with both hands near her face like she was ready to fight someone in a dream.

Deran falling asleep upright on your sofa and denying it while still half asleep.

Andrew listened to all of it.

Every ridiculous detail.

He asked questions that were half practical, half desperate.

How much was she eating?

Did she still make the angry rooting face?

Was the duck on the shelf or had it been moved?

Was the chair still loud?

Were you taking the pain medicine on time?

That last one made you pause.

Mostly because you had not been.

Andrew saw it.

Even through glass.

"Baby."

"I'm mostly taking them."

His gaze narrowed.

"What does mostly mean?"

"It means I am an adult woman who knows how to take medication."

"It means you forgot."

"It means newborns are distracting."

"It means you forgot."

You huffed. "Maybe once."

His eyes stayed fixed on you.

"Twice."

Andrew's expression did not change.

You sighed. "Fine. Deran has set alarms."

"Good."

"He labelled one 'take your damn pills.'"

"Good."

"He labelled another one 'Pope would yell.'"

Andrew nodded. "Accurate."

You laughed.

Andie startled.

Both of you froze.

She settled again.

You lowered your voice. "You're both bullies."

"You need sleep."

"I need a clone."

"No."

"No?"

"One of you is enough."

Your eyes softened.

Andrew seemed to realize what he had said a second later. He looked down, but you caught the warmth before he could hide it.

The visit timer crackled overhead.

Ten minutes.

The sound went through you like a small blade.

Andrew's hand finally dropped from the glass.

Andie shifted against you, her mouth making soft sleeping movements.

You looked down at her.

Then back at him.

"It was harder today," you said quietly.

Andrew's eyes lifted.

He knew exactly what you meant.

No contact room.

No arms.

No kissing.

No Andie warm against his chest.

Just glass again.

He looked at his hand where it rested on the counter.

"Yeah."

Your throat tightened.

"I'm sorry."

His eyes snapped up.

"No."

"I know. But—"

"No."

You stopped.

He leaned closer, voice low.

"Don't be sorry for bringing her."

Your eyes burned.

"I'm not."

"Good."

He looked at Andie.

Then at you.

"It was easier before I knew what she felt like," he admitted.

The honesty hurt.

You had expected it, maybe.

Still, hearing it made your chest ache.

"I know."

His jaw tightened, but he did not spiral.

He did not turn the pain into apology.

He just sat with it.

That, too, was new.

"But I know now," he said.

Your face softened.

"And that's good."

You nodded.

"It's good," he repeated, like he was making himself believe it because it was true and because truth sometimes had to be held steady with both hands.

Andie stirred.

You lowered your mouth to her forehead.

"She still knows you."

Andrew looked at her.

Then at the phone.

"Yeah?"

You smiled through tears.

"Andrew, she practically stopped mid-meltdown because you told her the prison was loud and praised her outfit."

His mouth twitched.

"The ducks help."

"The ducks help," you agreed solemnly.

The loudspeaker called five minutes.

You hated every announcement in this building.

Andrew looked at Andie like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of her sleeping against your chest.

"She bigger?"

"Since the contact visit?"

"Yeah."

"A little."

"I thought so."

"You saw her for one hour."

"I know."

"And you can tell she grew?"

"Yes."

You smiled. "Obsessed."

His eyes stayed on his daughter.

"Yeah."

No denial.

No shame.

Just yes.

You looked at him and felt your heart fold itself in half.

The last minutes went too quickly.

They always did.

You promised to send pictures.

He told you to take your medication.

You told him not to be bossy.

He ignored that and reminded you to drink water.

You asked about the recording programme, and he said the first one had been approved for mailing.

Your expression changed.

"It's coming?"

"Should be."

"You read the duck one?"

"Yeah."

"Was it good?"

His mouth tightened.

"It was a book."

"That is not an answer."

"It had a duck."

"Also not an answer."

"It was fine."

You narrowed your eyes. "Andrew."

"I did the voices."

Your mouth fell open.

"You did not."

His eyes flicked away.

"You did?"

"Don't make it a thing."

"Oh, I am absolutely making this a thing."

"Don't."

"You did duck voices?"

"One voice."

"Andrew Cody."

"Baby."

"You recorded yourself doing a duck voice for your daughter."

His jaw tightened, but there was color high on his cheekbones.

"She might like it."

Your face crumpled.

All teasing disappeared.

"She will love it."

He swallowed.

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"Mother science?"

"Mother science."

The guard stepped closer.

Time.

You stood slowly, careful with Andie against your chest. Your body still ached if you moved too fast, and Andrew noticed because of course he did.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"Pain medicine."

"I will."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

His face softened.

You lifted Andie's tiny hand from the blanket.

Just a small wave.

Andrew pressed his palm to the glass again.

"Bye, baby girl," he whispered.

You looked at him.

"I love you," you said.

His eyes lifted.

"I love you."

"And she loves you."

This time, he did not ask if you were sure.

He looked at Andie.

Then at your fingers supporting her tiny hand.

"I know," he said.

Your breath caught.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he finally had enough proof to hold.

You smiled through tears.

Then you turned and left.

Behind you, Andrew kept his palm on the glass until the door closed.

The package was waiting when you got home.

Deran saw it first.

He had carried the diaper bag in while you carried Andie, who had fallen asleep in the car and was now making tiny dream noises against your shoulder.

There was a padded envelope on the hallway floor just inside the door, pushed through the letter slot at an odd angle.

Deran picked it up.

His expression changed.

"What?"

He looked at the return label.

"Family services thing."

Your heart jumped.

"The recording?"

"Looks like."

You shifted Andie higher against your chest.

She stayed asleep.

For once.

Deran looked from the envelope to you.

"You want me to open it?"

"No."

You said it too quickly.

He nodded and handed it over without comment.

The envelope was light.

Inside was a children's book.

Bright cover.

Yellow duck.

Of course.

A small plastic sleeve was attached to the inside with a labeled audio file on a simple approved player.

Your fingers trembled when you opened the cover.

On the dedication page, in Andrew's careful handwriting, were four words.

For Andie.

From Dad.

You inhaled sharply.

Deran looked away immediately.

"Jesus," he muttered.

You laughed wetly. "Yeah."

You carried the book upstairs to the nursery.

Deran followed, quieter now.

He did not make a joke about the chair.

He did not make a joke about ducks.

That was how you knew he was already emotionally compromised.

You sat in the green rocking chair with Andie against your chest. The room was dim, warm from the late afternoon sun. Andrew's wooden duck sat on the shelf beside the scan photo. The hospital bracelet lay in a little dish. A clean blanket hung over the arm of the chair.

Deran stood near the doorway, arms crossed.

"You don't have to stay," you said.

"I know."

"You want to?"

"No."

You looked at him.

He sighed. "Fine. Yeah."

You smiled.

Andie stirred, making a small grumbly noise.

"Okay," you whispered. "Let's hear Dad."

Deran shifted against the doorframe.

You pressed play.

For a second, there was static.

A small scrape.

Then Andrew's voice filled the nursery.

"Hi, Andie."

Your face crumpled instantly.

Deran looked at the floor.

On your chest, Andie went still.

Andrew's voice was rougher than usual, like he had been nervous.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie's eyes fluttered.

You pressed your lips together to keep from sobbing too loudly.

There was a pause on the recording.

Then Andrew cleared his throat.

"This is a duck book," he said.

Deran made a strangled sound.

You looked at him through tears.

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

"You are not."

"Shut up."

The recording continued.

Andrew read slowly at first.

Too slowly.

Like he was afraid of getting it wrong.

Then he found a rhythm.

His rhythm.

Low and careful, turning the silly little duck story into something softer than it had any right to be.

He did the duck voice.

Barely.

It was more of a slight change in tone than a full voice, but you caught it immediately.

Deran did too.

He covered his mouth with one hand and turned toward the wall.

You started crying harder.

Andie relaxed against your chest.

Completely.

Her tiny fist opened.

Her cheek settled against you.

By the second page, she was asleep.

You looked down at her, then back at the book.

Andrew's voice kept going.

In the room he had helped choose.

Beside the duck he had carved.

Around the daughter who knew him by sound before she knew almost anything else.

Deran was suspiciously silent by the door.

You glanced at him.

His eyes were red.

"Deran."

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"No."

You smiled through tears and looked back down at Andie.

The story ended after a few minutes.

There was a small pause.

Then Andrew's voice came back softer.

"Goodnight, Andie."

Your breath hitched.

Another pause.

"I'm here."

The recording clicked off.

The room went quiet.

Not empty.

Not anymore.

You sat very still, Andie asleep against your chest, the book open in your lap.

Deran cleared his throat.

"That was..."

He stopped.

You looked up.

His face was turned toward the window.

"Yeah," you said softly.

He nodded once.

"That was good."

Your smile trembled.

"It was."

Andie sighed in her sleep.

You looked down at her.

"She knew."

Deran looked at her too, expression soft and unguarded for once.

"Yeah," he said. "She did."

You leaned back in the chair and pressed your cheek gently to the top of your daughter's head.

On the shelf, the wooden duck watched over the room.

In your lap, the book rested open.

Andrew's voice was gone from the player, but somehow still there.

In the walls.

In the green.

In the quiet.

He was not home.

Not yet.

But his voice had arrived before him.

Andie slept through the rest of the afternoon with one tiny fist curled against your chest, while Andrew's voice filled the green room like he had found another way back to both of you.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

@jennataurus @sarai-ibn-la-ahad 

@changbinsrightboob @labiblioteque @booknerd0394  @fromirkwood@pinguphd, @fulla02, @nightshadestars, @rebeccaflores1 @romantic-insomniac @sage-files

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Still Warm - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Comment to be added to the taglist.

Andrew could still feel her.

That was the worst part.

Or maybe the best.

He could not tell anymore.

He sat on the edge of his bunk with his hands resting open on his knees, palms up, fingers slightly curved like his body had not yet understood that his daughter was no longer there.

Andie.

Andie Hope Cody.

The name still moved through him like something too bright to look at directly.

He had said it six times since they brought him back.

Once in the hallway, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

Once under his breath when the door shut behind him.

Once sitting on the edge of the bunk, staring at nothing.

Three more times after that, each one softer than the last.

Andie.

His daughter.

His girl.

His.

Not in the way the Codys had always meant mine. Not ownership. Not blood as a chain. Not a name used like a hook.

His as in beloved.

His as in held.

His as in somewhere in the world, a three-day-old baby existed who had slept in his arms and made a tiny grumbling sound against his chest like she had opinions about prison-issued fabric.

His daughter had been warm.

That was the thing he could not get past.

She had been warm in a way nothing in here was warm. Not the blankets. Not the food. Not the showers with their bad pressure and worse timing. Not the sun through the window when it hit the concrete floor in pale squares.

Andie had been warm like life.

Like proof.

Like every impossible thing Andrew had stopped expecting from the world had been placed carefully into his hands and told him to support the head.

He looked down at his arms.

Empty now.

Still shaped around her.

His chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with injury.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

He could still feel you too.

That was not better.

Your fingers in the front of his shirt.

Your mouth on his after months of glass.

Your cheek against his chest.

Your hand on his wrist while he held Andie.

The way you had leaned into him like your body remembered before your brain could decide whether it was allowed.

He had held you carefully because you were three days postpartum and exhausted and hurting and stubborn enough to drag yourself into a prison contact room because you had decided he needed to meet his daughter.

He had wanted to hold you harder.

That want sat in his ribs now, aching.

He had wanted to put one hand on the back of your head and the other around your waist and keep you there until every bad month between you gave up and left. He had wanted to kiss you until the guard knocked. Until Craig kicked the door in. Until the whole prison complained.

He hadn't.

He had been careful.

Careful with your body.

Careful with Andie.

Careful with the hour because if he touched it wrong, it might break.

Then it ended anyway.

The thing about good moments was that they still ended.

Andrew dragged a hand down his face and looked at the wall near his bunk.

The photo of you in the nursery was there.

The scan photos.

The note that said It's a girl.

The list of names, folded and unfolded so many times the creases had gone soft.

And now, written on the inside of his wrist in faint pen because he had not trusted paper alone, was her name.

Andie.

He looked at it until the letters blurred.

A knock sounded at the open edge of his cell.

Andrew looked up.

One of the programme officers stood there with a folder tucked under her arm. She was older than most of the staff. Less hard around the mouth. Not soft exactly, but not looking for reasons to be cruel either.

"Cody."

He stood automatically.

She looked at him for half a second, then at the wall of photos.

Her expression did not change much.

"Family services approved the next step," she said.

Andrew frowned slightly. "Next step?"

"The reading recordings."

He stared at her.

She opened the folder and pulled out a sheet. "For eligible inmates with young children. You can record yourself reading approved children's books. The recording and book get sent to the child's caregiver after review."

Andrew's mouth went dry.

A book.

His voice.

Sent home.

To Andie.

To you.

"She's three days old," he said.

The officer looked at him over the top of the paper. "Babies can still hear."

His throat tightened.

He looked down.

The officer continued, either not noticing or pretending not to. "You'll pick from the approved list. Nothing personalized beyond the permitted opening and closing statements. No messages to anyone else except the child. No coded language. Recording is reviewed before release."

Andrew barely heard half of it.

His voice.

In the green room.

When he couldn't call.

When Andie cried.

When you were tired.

His hand closed slowly at his side.

"When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, if you want the slot."

He looked back up.

"Yes."

The answer came too quickly.

He did not care.

The officer nodded, made a note.

"You'll want to practice. Some guys get nervous."

Andrew almost laughed.

Nervous.

He had held guns steadier than he had held his daughter.

He had faced men who wanted to kill him with less fear than he felt at the thought of reading a children's book badly into a prison recorder.

"What books?" he asked.

She handed him the list.

He scanned it.

Most of the titles meant nothing to him.

Animals.

Bedtime.

Moons.

Bears.

Ducks.

His eyes stopped there.

A book about a duck.

Of course.

The officer noticed.

"That one's available."

Andrew folded the list carefully.

"I'll do that one."

"Alright."

She turned to leave.

Then paused.

"Congratulations," she said.

Andrew went still.

He did not know what to do with the word in here.

Congratulations.

Like he was just a man whose wife had had a baby.

Like joy could be acknowledged without turning into a weapon.

He nodded once.

"Thank you."

The officer left.

Andrew sat back down.

For a long moment, he stared at the list in his hand.

Then he looked at the photo of you in the nursery.

At your hands around your stomach.

At the duck onesie on the dresser.

At the green room waiting for his daughter.

"I'll read to you," he said quietly.

The words felt strange in his mouth.

Not bad.

Strange.

He looked down at his wrist.

Andie.

"I'll read to you," he said again.

This time, it sounded almost like a promise.

At home, Andie would not settle.

She had been fed.

Changed.

Burped.

Swaddled.

Unswaddled because she hated the swaddle.

Reswaddled because she also hated having arms.

Held upright.

Held sideways.

Rocked in the green chair.

Walked around the bedroom.

Walked around the nursery.

Walked around the landing until your stitches reminded you that you were a fool with a newborn and no survival instinct.

Nothing worked.

Your daughter was furious.

Not crying in a delicate, newborn way.

Screaming.

Red-faced. Fists clenched. Mouth wide open. Tiny body rigid with outrage.

You stood in the nursery at 1:06 in the morning, wearing Andrew's flannel over a nursing bra and pyjama shorts, your hair coming loose from the bun you had made six hours ago and forgotten about. Your entire body hurt. Your breasts ached. Your back ached. Your heart ached in a way that felt stupidly personal because a three-day-old baby was not crying at you, she was just crying.

Still.

At some point, every new mother had probably looked down at her child and thought, desperately, please like me.

You bounced her gently.

"Baby girl," you whispered. "Please. Please, sweetheart. I don't know what you want."

Andie screamed harder.

You closed your eyes.

"Okay. That's fair. I also don't know what I want."

Downstairs, Craig had fallen asleep on your sofa forty minutes ago after insisting he was not tired. Deran had gone home only because you threatened to lock him out if he kept pacing near the kettle.

You could call Craig.

You should call Craig.

Instead, you pressed your cheek to the top of Andie's soft dark hair and tried not to cry too loudly.

You missed Andrew so badly it made you angry.

Not at him.

Not even at the situation, because anger required too much energy.

Just angry in your body. In your bones. In the empty space beside you where his hands should have been. His voice. His calm, rough, bossy instructions. His way of turning fear into tasks.

Check the nappy.

Water.

Breathe.

Sit down.

Give her to me.

Except you couldn't.

You couldn't give her to him.

You had given her to him that afternoon for one impossible hour, and now your body remembered what it had felt like to have help from the one person you wanted most.

That made the night worse.

Better, maybe.

No.

Worse.

Andie screamed into your shoulder.

You sat carefully in the rocking chair because if you didn't, you were going to fall over.

The chair creaked.

Back.

Forward.

Back.

Forward.

The wooden duck sat on the shelf beside the scan photo and the hospital bracelet you still had not put away.

You stared at it through tears.

"Your dad made that," you told Andie, voice shaking. "He was very stressed about the beak."

Andie did not care.

You laughed once, broken and exhausted.

"He held you today," you whispered. "Do you remember?"

Of course she didn't.

She was three days old.

Still, her crying hitched for half a second.

You froze.

Then she screamed again.

You sagged back in the chair.

"Okay. Not helpful."

The phone rang.

You nearly dropped the baby.

It was such a sharp, sudden sound in the room that your whole body jolted. Andie startled, screamed harder, and you fumbled for the phone on the small table beside the chair with one hand while trying not to let her head wobble.

The number on the screen made your breath catch.

You answered immediately.

The automated voice began.

You have a prepaid call from an inmate at—

Andie screamed over the recording.

You pressed one so fast your thumb slipped.

The line clicked.

Static.

Then Andrew's voice, already alert.

"What's wrong?"

You started crying.

That was apparently your answer.

Andie wailed against your chest.

Andrew went very still on the other end.

"Baby."

"I'm okay."

"You're crying."

"She won't settle."

Your voice broke on the last word.

Andrew's breathing changed.

Not panic exactly.

Focus.

"How long?"

"I don't know. An hour. Maybe two. Time isn't real."

"Did she eat?"

"Yes."

"Nappy?"

"Changed."

"Burped?"

"She burped on me and then screamed like I did it."

A rough breath came through the line.

Almost a laugh, but restrained.

"You sitting?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"I walked too much."

His voice sharpened. "How much?"

"Do not start."

"You had a baby three days ago."

"I noticed."

"Andie okay?"

"She's furious."

Andie screamed, as if confirming.

Andrew went quiet.

Then, softer, "Put me on."

Your face crumpled.

"What?"

"Put the phone near her."

"Andrew, she's screaming."

"I know."

"She probably won't—"

"Put me on."

You shifted Andie carefully in your arms and held the phone close enough for her to hear, not so close it touched her.

"Okay," you whispered.

Andrew took one breath.

Then his voice changed.

It became the voice he used only for her.

Low.

Careful.

A little rough.

"Hey, Andie."

Your daughter screamed.

Andrew did not stop.

"Hey, baby girl. It's me."

Andie cried hard enough that her whole tiny body shook.

Your eyes filled.

"I know," Andrew said softly. "You're mad."

Her crying hitched.

You stared down at her.

Andrew continued, quiet and steady.

"Your mom says you ate. And you got changed. So I don't know what you're yelling about."

A wet laugh slipped out of you.

Andie's cries dropped from furious screams to broken, hiccupping wails.

Your mouth parted.

Andrew kept talking.

"You had a big day. I know. Prison's not nice. I didn't like you there either."

You pressed your lips together.

"But you did good. You slept on me. You made that face."

Andie hiccupped.

"You remember that? The mad one?"

Her crying softened again.

Still upset.

But listening.

You stopped rocking without meaning to.

Andrew's voice filled the nursery.

"You got my frown, your mom says. I think she's lying, but she's usually right about you."

You laughed silently, tears falling down your cheeks.

Andie whimpered.

Then went quiet for two whole seconds.

Andrew went quiet too.

You held your breath.

Andie made a tiny, miserable sound.

Not a scream.

A complaint.

Andrew's voice softened.

"There you are."

Your entire face crumpled.

He had said that to you once.

During labour.

After a contraction had passed.

There you are.

Now he said it to your daughter, and she listened.

"You're okay," he whispered. "Your mom's got you."

Andie's mouth moved.

Her little hand opened against your chest.

"She's stopping," you whispered.

Andrew did not answer you directly.

He stayed with her.

"She's tired. You're tired. So you're gonna sleep, alright?"

Andie made another tiny sound.

"Yeah," he said. "I know. Sleep's stupid. Do it anyway."

You laughed, and it came out as a sob.

Andie blinked slowly.

Her eyes were barely open, dark and unfocused.

She stared somewhere near your collarbone, then toward the sound of the phone.

Andrew kept talking.

Not saying anything important.

That was what made it important.

He told her about the duck he made, and how the beak was still wrong no matter what you said. He told her the chair was loud. He told her Craig was probably sleeping downstairs pretending he wasn't. He told her Deran had looked scared when he held the coffee at the hospital, which was not important but was true.

Andie calmed.

Not all at once.

In pieces.

Screaming became crying.

Crying became whimpering.

Whimpering became tiny, exhausted breaths.

You sat frozen in the rocking chair, phone held near her, barely breathing because you were terrified of breaking whatever spell his voice had cast over the room.

Finally, Andie's eyes closed.

Her mouth relaxed.

Her cheek pressed against your chest.

She was asleep.

You stared down at her.

Then you brought the phone slowly back to your ear.

"She's asleep," you whispered.

Andrew said nothing.

"Andrew?"

His breath shook.

"She is?"

"Yeah."

The line went quiet.

You could hear him breathing through it.

Uneven.

Wrecked.

"She knows me," he said.

Your throat tightened.

"She knows you."

He let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite a sob.

You closed your eyes.

"She was so upset," you whispered. "I couldn't get her to stop."

"You did."

"No. You did."

"You held her."

"You calmed her."

He was quiet.

You rocked gently again, slower this time.

The chair creaked beneath you.

Andie stayed asleep.

"I still feel her," Andrew said.

Your breath caught.

"You do?"

"Yeah."

His voice was low.

Raw.

"On my chest. My arm. I keep thinking if I look down, she'll be there."

Your eyes filled again.

"I know."

"You know?"

"She fell asleep earlier with her cheek turned toward the door."

Andrew went silent.

"Like she knew you weren't coming with us," you whispered.

His breathing broke.

"I'm sorry," you said quickly. "That was mean."

"No."

"I didn't mean—"

"No," he said, rougher. "Tell me."

You swallowed.

"She was quiet in the car. The whole ride. Craig kept checking the mirror like she might vanish."

Andrew huffed softly.

"And when we got home, I put her in the bassinet, and she turned her head toward the door. Just stayed like that."

The line crackled.

"She probably doesn't know anything," you said, wiping your cheek. "She's tiny. But it felt like..."

"Like what?"

"Like she was waiting."

Andrew did not answer.

You pictured him sitting on his bunk, one hand over the place where Andie had slept.

Your heart ached.

"I can still feel you too," you admitted.

His breath caught.

"My mouth," you whispered. "My hand. I keep touching my own wrist because you held it."

Andrew's voice was barely there.

"I didn't want to let go."

"I know."

"I wanted to hold you longer."

"I know."

"I wanted..." He stopped.

You waited.

He breathed out.

"I wanted to put both of you under my skin."

Your tears spilled over again.

That was Andrew.

Not poetic on purpose.

Not soft in any polished way.

Just honest and devastating and slightly terrifying with how much he meant it.

"You kind of did," you whispered.

He was quiet.

"The whole room still feels like you," you said. "I came home and everything felt different. The nursery. The bed. Her. Me."

"Different bad?"

"No."

"Different good?"

"Different real."

He said nothing for a moment.

Then, "Yeah."

You leaned your head back against the chair cushion and watched Andie sleep.

"She needed you tonight."

Andrew's breath shook.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I needed her."

Your eyes closed.

"I think she knew."

The call timer beeped faintly.

You hated it immediately.

"How long?" you asked.

"Ten."

Ten minutes.

A gift.

A cruelty.

Both.

Andrew cleared his throat quietly.

"There's something."

"What?"

"They approved recordings."

You blinked tiredly. "Recordings?"

"Books."

You sat up a little, careful not to wake Andie.

"What?"

"Family programme. They let me record approved children's books. Send them to you with the book. For her."

Your whole face crumpled again.

"Oh, Andrew."

"I picked one."

"You did?"

"Duck one."

A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it.

Andie stirred.

You froze.

She settled.

Andrew huffed softly. "Don't wake her."

"You picked a duck book?"

"Yeah."

"Of course you did."

"She has the onesie."

"And the wooden duck."

"Exactly."

"And now duck literature."

"It's a theme."

You laughed silently, tears dripping off your chin.

"Andrew, that is so cute."

"Don't say cute."

"It's extremely cute."

"It's a book."

"It's a duck book you are recording for your newborn daughter because she likes your voice."

He went quiet.

You softened immediately.

"She does," you said.

"I don't want to mess it up."

"Reading?"

"Yeah."

"You won't."

"I'm not good at voices."

"You don't need voices."

"Kids like voices."

"She is three days old. She likes milk and being warm and apparently prison-phone story time with her father."

Andrew made a low sound, almost amused.

"I can read normal."

"She loves normal."

"You don't know that."

"Mother science."

He exhaled softly.

"When will you get it?" you asked.

"After review. I don't know."

"I'll play it for her."

His silence was immediate.

You looked down at Andie.

"I'll play it in the nursery. And when she won't sleep. And when she's older, I'll show her the book and tell her you read it first."

Andrew's breath trembled.

"She won't remember."

"No. But I will."

He went quiet again.

"And I'll tell her," you said. "When she's old enough. I'll tell her that her dad read to her before he could tuck her in."

Andrew did not speak.

You heard something on his end. A shift. Maybe him pressing his hand over his face.

"Baby," you whispered.

"I'm here."

"You okay?"

"No."

You smiled through tears.

"Good no or bad no?"

A breath of laughter came through the line.

"I don't know."

"Still?"

"Still."

"That's okay."

Andie sighed against your chest.

Both of you went quiet.

Andrew heard it.

"What was that?"

"She sighed."

"She okay?"

"She's perfect."

"She still asleep?"

"Yes."

"Good."

You smiled softly. "You sound proud."

"I am."

"Because she is sleeping?"

"Because she listened."

"To you."

"To me," he said, like he still couldn't quite believe it.

You looked down at her tiny face.

"She's a daddy's girl already."

Andrew went silent.

Too silent.

Your throat tightened.

"Too much?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Say it again."

Your eyes filled.

You bent your head and pressed your lips to Andie's hair.

"She's a daddy's girl."

Andrew's breath broke.

You closed your eyes.

There it was.

Another piece of him opening.

Another place where Andie had reached without even trying.

"She barely knows me," he whispered.

"She knows your voice. She knows your arms. She knows you calm her down when I'm losing my mind at one in the morning."

"You weren't losing your mind."

"I absolutely was."

"You're tired."

"And sore. And leaking from several places."

Andrew went very still.

You almost laughed.

"Too much information?"

"No."

"You sound afraid."

"I'm not afraid."

"You are deeply afraid."

"You said several places."

"I gave birth three days ago."

"I know."

"You were there for the aftermath, emotionally."

"I held her, not the aftermath."

You laughed quietly, careful not to wake the baby.

"I love you."

His answer came soft and immediate.

"I love you."

The timer beeped again.

Your stomach sank.

"How long?"

"Five."

The quiet after that felt different.

You were both tired now.

Too tired to pretend that saying goodbye would be fine.

You looked at Andie, then at the wooden duck on the shelf, then at the green walls Andrew had chosen before she ever had a name.

"Read something now," you said.

Andrew paused. "What?"

"For her."

"I don't have the book."

"Anything."

"I don't know anything."

"Then make something up."

"I don't make things up."

"You absolutely do. You told me once you knew how to fix the sink."

"I did fix it."

"It leaked for three days."

"Different issue."

You smiled.

"Please," you said softly. "Just something. Before you go."

Andrew was quiet for a long moment.

You could hear him thinking.

Panicking slightly.

Then he cleared his throat.

"Okay."

You moved the phone back near Andie's ear.

Her face stayed relaxed, sleep-heavy and soft.

Andrew's voice came through low.

"There was a duck."

You pressed your lips together, smiling already.

Andrew paused.

Then, with more confidence, "Small duck."

You had to bite your knuckle.

"Very loud."

A laugh slipped out of you, silent and shaking.

"The duck lived in a green room with a bad chair."

Your eyes filled.

"And the duck had a mom who needed to sleep."

You closed your eyes.

"So the duck slept too."

A pause.

"That's it."

You brought the phone back up, laughing softly through tears.

"That was the whole story?"

"She's asleep."

"It was very short."

"Babies like short."

"You don't know that."

"Father science."

Your face crumpled in the best, worst way.

"Father science?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, I love you so much."

He went quiet.

Then, softly, "I love you too."

The timer beeped.

One minute.

You hated how quickly ten minutes could vanish.

Andie slept on, completely unaware of time limits and prison phones and the fact that her father had just invented the world's worst and best duck story for her.

"Will you sleep?" Andrew asked.

"If she lets me."

"Wake Craig if you need."

"I will."

"Water."

"Yes."

"Food."

"Yes."

"Pain meds?"

"I'm taking them."

"On time?"

"Mostly."

"Baby."

"I will."

He breathed out.

"And play the recording when it comes."

"I will."

"Even if it's bad."

"It won't be."

"It might."

"Then she'll love it because it's bad."

He huffed softly.

The final warning beeped.

Your eyes closed.

"I wish you were here."

"I know."

"I know you know. I'm still saying it."

His voice went rough.

"Say it."

"I wish you were here."

A pause.

"I wish I was there."

You swallowed.

Andie shifted gently, still asleep.

"She's warm," you whispered.

"I know."

"She smells like milk."

Andrew made a small sound.

"And your flannel."

"You're wearing it?"

"Yes."

"Good."

The line crackled.

"I can still feel you," he said.

You pressed your lips together.

"I can still feel you too."

The timer beeped again.

"I love you," he said quickly.

"I love you."

"Andie."

You looked down at her.

"She loves you too."

"I know."

He said it like he almost believed it.

The line clicked.

Gone.

You sat very still in the rocking chair, phone still in your hand, Andie asleep against your chest.

The room was quiet again.

But not the same quiet as before.

Not empty.

Not sharp.

Andrew's voice still seemed to live in the walls.

In the bad chair.

In the wooden duck.

In the tiny sleeping girl tucked beneath your chin.

You looked down at your daughter.

"You heard him," you whispered.

Andie slept on.

You smiled.

"Father science," you murmured.

Then you leaned back in the chair, closed your eyes, and let yourself rest while she rested.

The next morning, Andrew stood in a small recording room with a children's book open in front of him.

A bright duck smiled up from the page.

It looked nothing like the duck he had carved.

Too smooth.

Too cheerful.

No wrong beak.

A microphone sat on the table.

The programme officer adjusted the recorder and looked at him through the glass panel.

"Ready?"

No.

Andrew looked down at the book.

Then at the small sticky note on the inside cover where he was allowed to write a short dedication.

He had spent twenty minutes on it.

Not because it was long.

Because it mattered.

For Andie.

From Dad.

He ran his thumb once along the edge of the page.

Then he thought of her asleep on your chest.

Thought of her screaming until she heard his voice.

Thought of you in the green room, exhausted and laughing through tears.

He leaned closer to the microphone.

His hands were shaking.

He let them.

"Hi, Andie," he said.

His voice came out rough.

He swallowed and tried again.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

He paused.

Then, because no rule in the world could stop him from making one promise inside a children's book, he added softly,

"I'm here."

And then Andrew Cody began to read.

Taglist - 

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[fanficwritinggirl]

{Her Name - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

I am going to warn you all now, you are going to cry. I love you all and im sorry in advance for the emotional damage that i am about to inflict on you.

You had given birth three days ago. Seventy-two hours. Not even, technically. And everyone kept saying that like it meant something.

Like seventy-two hours was a law.

Like seventy-two hours was supposed to keep you in bed, keep you still, keep you from packing a diaper bag with shaking hands while your newborn daughter slept in her carrier by the front door.

Craig stood in the hallway with his arms crossed, watching you like he was trying to decide whether he could physically block the exit.

"You should be resting," he said.

You tucked a packet of wipes into the side pocket of the bag. "I rested earlier."

"You slept for forty minutes."

"That counts."

"It does not."

"I closed my eyes. Time passed. That's sleep."

Craig stared at you. You stared back. The baby made a tiny sound from the carrier between you. Both of you looked down immediately.

She was asleep again within seconds, one little fist tucked near her cheek, dark hair soft against her forehead, her mouth slightly open in the deeply dramatic way she had already perfected.

Andrew's frown. Your stubbornness. A full Cody-level commitment to making everyone panic over very little. You looked back at Craig.

"I'm going."

"I know."

"Then stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're still deciding whether you can stop me."

"I am still deciding that."

"You can't."

"I know."

The front door opened behind him and Deran stepped in, carrying two coffees and wearing the expression of someone who had already decided he wanted no part in the argument, despite walking directly into it.

He looked from you to Craig. Then down at the baby. Then back to you.

"You look terrible."

Craig turned on him. "Why do we keep saying that to her?" Deran blinked. "Because she does."

"I just had a baby," you said.

"Exactly."

Craig pointed toward the door. "Go wait in the car." Deran held up the coffees. "I brought caffeine."

"I can't even have that one."

"It's decaf."

You softened despite yourself.

"Oh."

Deran looked away quickly. "Yeah, whatever." The baby sighed in her sleep. Tiny. Indignant. All three of you froze.

She settled. You breathed again. Craig looked exhausted, and he had not even given birth.

"I don't like this," he said quietly.

Your chest tightened.

"I know."

"It's too soon."

"I know."

"You're sore. You're bleeding. You're barely sleeping."

"I know."

"And taking a newborn into a prison is—"

"Craig."

He stopped.

You rested one hand on the kitchen counter, steadying yourself because standing too long still made your body feel strangely hollow and heavy at the same time.

You were sore. Everywhere.

Your stitches pulled if you moved wrong. Your milk had come in overnight and made your whole chest ache. Your stomach felt soft and strange, no longer full of her but not yours yet either. You had cried that morning because one of her socks fell off.

You were exhausted. You were scared. You were happy in a way that felt almost violent. And you needed Andrew to meet his daughter. Not through a phone.

Not through a video. Not through a message handed over by a guard. Him. Her. The same room.

"I need him to hold her," you said.

Craig's face shifted. You saw the argument leave him. Not because he liked it. Because he understood. Deran cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes.

"He got the approval," he said.

Your eyes went to him. Deran shrugged. "Good behaviour. Newborn visit. Some family exception. I don't know. Craig did most of the annoying phone calls."

Craig muttered, "Most?"

"All," Deran corrected.

You looked at Craig. His jaw tightened like he was trying not to care too visibly.

"They said one hour," he said. "Contact room. Supervised, but not through glass."

Your throat closed. One hour. No glass. Andrew's hands on his daughter. Andrew's arms around you.

You pressed your palm over your mouth. Craig's face softened immediately. "Don't cry."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I just had a baby. I'm allowed."

Deran held out the decaf coffee. "Here." You took it with shaking fingers.

"Thank you."

He nodded once. Craig looked down at the carrier.

"She got a name yet?"

You went still. Deran looked up too. You glanced at your daughter. Her tiny face was relaxed now, all the fury of her first day folded into sleep.

You had filled out the hospital paperwork. You had written it carefully. First name. Middle name. Surname.

You had stared at it for so long the nurse had gently asked if you were alright. You had not told Andrew yet. Not over the phone. Not through a message.

Not because you doubted it. Because some things deserved to be spoken while he was holding her. You looked back at Craig.

"She has a name," you said.

His eyes sharpened slightly. Deran's expression changed. Neither of them asked. You loved them a little for that. Craig nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Then let's go."

The prison looked worse with a newborn. That was the only way you could think it. You had hated it before.

The gates. The wire. The sharp sound of locked doors. The fluorescent lights. The stale, metallic air that clung to everything.

But carrying your daughter inside made the place feel obscene. Too hard. Too loud. Too gray.

She slept against your chest in a wrap because you had refused to carry her in the plastic car seat any longer than necessary. Her little body was warm beneath your hand, one cheek pressed against you, breath soft and uneven.

You had tucked a yellow hat over her hair. The duck onesie was under her blanket. Of course it was.

Andrew's duck sat at home on the nursery shelf, watching over the room with its crooked little beak. You wished you could have brought it.

You wished you could bring the whole room.

The green walls. The chair. The lamp. The clean blankets. The proof that the world waiting for Andrew was not only made of concrete and rules and things taken away.

Craig and Deran walked on either side of you like very tense bodyguards. It would have been funny if you were not so close to crying.

At the security desk, the guard looked at your ID, then at the baby, then back at the paperwork.

"She's three days old?" he asked.

"Yes."

His expression said several things. None of them wise to speak aloud. Craig leaned slightly forward. "Problem?" You shot him a look.

The guard looked at Craig, decided something, and shook his head. "No." Deran muttered, "Smart."

"Deran," you warned.

"What? I said smart."

The guard gave instructions. You barely heard them over the thud of your own heartbeat. Special visit. One hour. Contact permitted.

No passing items directly without approval. Baby stays with mother or inmate only. Officer present outside room. The words blurred together. Contact permitted.

That one stayed. Your daughter shifted against your chest. You placed a hand gently over her back.

"We're almost there," you whispered.

You did not know if you were talking to her or yourself. They took you to a room you had never been in before. Not the regular visiting room. No booths.

No glass.

Just a small square space with a table, three chairs, a box of tissues, and a window too high to see out of properly. The walls were beige in a way that felt aggressive.

But there was no glass. Your knees nearly gave. Craig noticed immediately.

"Sit," he said.

"I'm fine."

"Sit."

For once, you did not argue.

You sat carefully in the chair closest to the door, moving slowly because your body still reminded you of birth with every shift. Deran took the diaper bag and set it beside you.

Craig hovered.

"You want us in here?"

You looked up at him. He already knew the answer. He nodded before you said anything.

"We'll be outside."

Your eyes filled.

"Thank you."

He looked away. "Yeah." Deran cleared his throat.

"You need anything, yell."

You smiled faintly. "In a prison?"

"You've yelled in worse places."

"I really haven't."

"You could."

Craig opened the door, then paused. His eyes dropped to the baby. His expression softened in a way he would deny under oath.

"He's gonna lose his shit," he said quietly.

You laughed, and it came out shaky.

"Probably."

Craig nodded once. Then he and Deran left. The door shut. You were alone with your daughter. For about ten seconds.

Then the other door opened. Andrew walked in. He stopped dead. No glass. No phone.

No counter. No barrier except the space between you. He looked at you first, because he always did.

His eyes moved over your face, your body, the way you were sitting carefully, the tiredness you knew you couldn't hide. His expression tightened with worry.

Then the baby made a tiny noise against your chest. Andrew's gaze dropped. Everything in him changed.

It was not dramatic in the way movies made things dramatic. He did not stumble. He did not speak. He did not reach out. He just stopped being defended.

All at once.

His face went open in a way you had almost never seen. Raw. Terrified. Wondering. Like his whole life had come to the surface and left him no room to hide behind any of it.

You stood slowly. Too slowly. Andrew moved instantly, one step forward, hand half-lifted.

"Careful."

His voice cracked on the word. You smiled through tears.

"There you are."

He looked at you. Then at her. His mouth parted. No sound came out.

"She's here," you whispered.

Andrew stared at the little bundle against your chest. His daughter slept on, entirely unimpressed by the emotional devastation happening around her.

"She's so small," he said.

Barely a voice.

"Yeah."

His eyes flicked up to yours.

"You okay?"

You laughed softly, crying already.

"You are holding yourself together by a thread and still asking me that."

His jaw worked.

"You okay?" he repeated.

You nodded.

"Sore. Tired. Emotional. But okay."

"And her?"

"She's perfect."

Andrew looked back down. His hands were shaking. He noticed. You did too. He curled them once at his sides like he could force them steady.

Your heart cracked open. For a few seconds, neither of you moved. Not because you did not want to.

Because after months of glass and phones and supervised distance, neither of you seemed to know how to cross a room without breaking.

Then you whispered, "Andrew." His eyes lifted. You shifted your daughter carefully higher against your chest.

"Come here."

Something in his face broke. He crossed the space in two steps. Not fast enough to scare you. Not slow enough to keep control.

Just desperate enough that your breath caught.

His hands hovered near you first, as if he had forgotten where he was allowed to touch. As if your body had become something fragile and sacred in his absence. As if he was terrified of hurting you, or her, or the moment itself.

You solved it for him. You stepped into him. Carefully.

Awkwardly, because there was a newborn between you and your body still ached from birth, but close enough that his breath caught against your hair.

His arms came around you. Not tight. Never too tight. Just enough.

One hand settled between your shoulder blades. The other curved carefully around the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair like he had been holding the shape of it in memory for months.

You made a sound you did not mean to make. Small. Broken. His arm tightened by a fraction.

"I've got you," he whispered.

That did it. You cried into his chest. Not prettily. Not quietly.

The kind of crying that had been waiting through every visit, every phone call, every contraction, every night you had slept curled around his old shirts because it was the closest thing you had to him.

Andrew bent his head over yours. His cheek pressed to your hair.

"I've got you," he said again.

"You're here," you whispered.

His breath shook.

"Yeah."

"No glass."

"No glass."

Your daughter shifted between you, making a tiny grumbly noise like she objected to being squashed into the reunion.

You laughed through tears and pulled back just enough to look down at her.

"Sorry," you whispered. "Your parents are very dramatic."

Andrew's hand moved automatically to the baby's back. Barely touching. A feather-light brush over the blanket. Then he froze, like even that was too much.

You looked up at him.

"It's okay."

His eyes met yours. Wet. Destroyed.

"It's okay," you repeated.

His fingers settled more surely against the blanket. There. His hand on his daughter. His other hand still in your hair.

For one second, the three of you were touching. Really touching. After months of not enough. After all the cold glass and dead phone lines and timed visits.

Your forehead rested against his chest. His palm covered his daughter's back. The baby breathed between you. Home, you thought. Not the house.

Not the green room. This. Andrew looked down at you, and his face shifted again. You knew that look. You had missed that look so badly it made you feel hollow.

His thumb brushed once along your hairline.

"You're really here," he said.

You smiled through tears. "I brought a baby and everything." A broken laugh escaped him. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Your breath caught. It had been months.

Months since he had kissed you.

Months since you had felt him close enough to know the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his jaw, the way he always paused the smallest second before kissing you like he was giving you time to change your mind.

He paused now. Even here. Even after everything. Your throat tightened.

"Andrew," you whispered.

His eyes lifted to yours.

"Kiss me."

His face crumpled. Then his mouth was on yours. Careful at first. So careful it hurt.

A trembling press of lips, almost disbelieving, like he was afraid the room would take it back if he wanted too much. You leaned into him.

The kiss broke on a shared breath. Then he kissed you again. Still gentle, but deeper this time. Enough that your hand tightened in the front of his shirt.

Enough that his fingers flexed in your hair.

Enough that for a few seconds, you were not in a prison contact room with a guard outside and a newborn tucked between you. You were his wife.

He was your husband. And the months without touching collapsed all at once. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were crying.

Your daughter made another tiny noise between you. Andrew laughed softly, wet and ruined. You smiled.

"She has terrible timing."

"She gets that from me," he whispered.

"Yes."

He kept his forehead against yours for one more second. Then he looked down at the baby in your arms. His hand was still on her back.

"She's warm," he said.

His voice was barely there. You nodded.

"She is."

His throat moved. You took a breath and stepped back slowly, keeping one hand on his arm because you were not ready to stop touching him completely.

Neither was he. You could tell by the way his hand followed you for half a second before he caught your fingers and held them. Just held them.

Like he had been starving for your hand. Like the shape of your palm was something he had been trying to remember correctly for months.

His thumb moved over your knuckles. Once. Twice. You looked down at your joined hands. Then back at him.

"Now," you whispered, "do you want to hold your daughter?"

He looked up so fast it hurt.

"What?"

"Do you want to hold her?"

Fear rushed into his face first. Not rejection. Never rejection. Just fear.

"I don't know how."

"I'll show you."

"She's too small."

"She is exactly baby-sized."

"That's too small."

You laughed through tears. Andrew swallowed hard.

"I don't want to hurt her."

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

His eyes found yours. You squeezed his hand.

"I do," you repeated.

He nodded once, not because he believed himself, but because he believed you. You guided him into a chair. He did not let go of your hand until he had to.

Even then, his fingers slipped from yours slowly, reluctantly, like separating skin was physically painful.

You stood in front of him and adjusted the baby carefully.

"Arm like this," you said.

Andrew lifted his arms. Wrong. You smiled.

"Okay, no. Like you're holding a football."

His eyes shot to yours.

"A football?"

"Gently."

"That doesn't help."

"It will."

He looked deeply alarmed. You laughed, and the baby stirred.

"Sorry," you whispered, pressing a kiss to her hat. "Your dad is very stressed."

Andrew looked like he might stop breathing. Your dad. The words were not new.

But here, in this room, with no glass and his arms waiting, they landed differently. You guided his arm into place.

"Support her head," you said softly.

"I know."

"You've been reading."

"Yes."

"Good."

"Don't quiz me."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm proud of you."

He looked away. You lowered the baby into his arms. For one terrifying, holy second, everything held still. Then she was there. In his arms.

Andrew froze. Completely. Your hands stayed over his for a moment, helping him hold the weight of her.

"She's okay," you whispered.

His eyes were fixed on her face.

"She's okay," you repeated.

The baby shifted, making a small offended sound. Andrew flinched. You smiled through tears.

"That's normal."

"She made a noise."

"She does that."

"Why?"

"Because she's a baby."

He looked overwhelmed by this information. You eased your hands back, though you stayed close.

Andrew looked down at his daughter like she had been placed in his arms by something too big to argue with. His hands were still shaking.

But he held her perfectly. Careful. Secure. So gentle it made you ache.

"She's warm," he whispered.

You covered your mouth with one hand.

"Yes."

"She's really warm."

"Yeah."

"She's…" He swallowed. "She's breathing."

Your tears spilled over.

"She is."

The baby's tiny mouth opened in a yawn. Andrew's face broke. It broke so completely you had to sit down before your knees gave out.

You lowered yourself into the chair beside him. Close. So close your knee pressed against his.

Andrew shifted instantly to make room, never taking his eyes off the baby. You leaned into his side. Your head rested carefully against his shoulder.

His breath hitched. Then he tilted slightly toward you, just enough for his shoulder to hold some of your weight. Your hand found his forearm.

His skin was warm beneath your fingers. Real. No glass. No phone.

He looked down at your hand on his arm, then at the baby in his arms, and his face crumpled again. You knew. Too much. Too much touch after months of none.

Too much love in one small beige room. He started crying silently. No sound. No sob.

Just tears sliding down his face while he held his daughter for the first time and let his wife lean against him. Your own crying turned helpless.

"Oh, baby."

He shook his head once, eyes never leaving her.

"She's real."

You nodded against his shoulder.

"She's real."

"She was in you."

You laughed wetly. "Yes."

"And now she's…"

"In your arms."

His breath shook. The baby opened her eyes. Not much. Just a tiny slit.

Dark, unfocused, newborn eyes blinking up at him like she was not impressed by lighting, air, or fathers. Andrew stopped breathing.

You leaned closer, hand sliding from his forearm to his wrist.

"She's looking at you."

"She can see?"

"Not really. Just shapes, probably."

"She's looking."

"She is."

The baby scrunched her face. Andrew's mouth trembled into something like a smile.

"She's frowning."

"She has your frown."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, she doesn't."

"Andrew."

He stared at the baby. She frowned harder. His face crumpled again.

"She does."

You laughed softly. The room was quiet except for the tiny newborn sounds and Andrew's uneven breathing. No glass. No phone static. No countdown yet.

Just him holding her. Finally. You reached over and brushed your fingertips against his jaw. He closed his eyes for half a second.

Like even that small touch had almost undone him. When he opened them, his gaze moved to you.

"You came," he said.

Your throat tightened.

"Of course I came."

"You had a baby three days ago."

"I noticed."

"You shouldn't be here."

"I know."

His face folded with worry. You leaned in gently, your hand still against his jaw.

"Don't make me regret it by lecturing me."

He closed his mouth.

"Good choice."

His eyes softened.

"You're hurting?"

"Yes."

He flinched.

"But I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"No," you said honestly. "Not always. But right now, yes."

He nodded slowly. His gaze dropped back to the baby.

"She eats okay?"

"Yes."

"Sleeps?"

"Not really."

"Breathing?"

You smiled. "Currently, yes." He looked up, serious.

"I mean—"

"I know." You softened. "She's doing everything she's supposed to do."

"Good."

"She screams like she's personally offended by life."

His mouth twitched.

"Good."

"You keep saying that."

"Strong lungs."

"That is exactly what you said on the phone."

"It's true."

You watched him. The way he held her. The way every hard thing in him had gone quiet around her. Not gone. Never gone.

But quiet. Like she had put a tiny hand over the worst noise inside him and, impossibly, it had listened. You wiped under your eye.

His free hand moved, slow and uncertain, then found yours where it rested on his wrist. He covered your fingers with his. You both looked at your hands.

He did not let go.

"There's something I need to tell you," you said.

Andrew's gaze flicked up.

"What?"

You looked down at your daughter. Your daughter. His daughter.

This tiny furious person you had named in the quiet after birth, though really you had known before. You had known for weeks, maybe longer, carrying the name like a secret under your ribs.

Andrew had no idea. No hint. No warning.

You had talked about Mara and Nora and Willa and June and Anna. You had let him circle maybes. You had listened to him reject fruit names and shirt names and anything too sharp.

You had kept this one tucked away. Not because it was only yours. Because you needed to give it to him like this. With her in his arms.

With your hand under his. With his shoulder beneath your cheek.

With no glass between him and the part of himself he never believed deserved to become something soft.

"She has a name," you said.

Andrew went still. His eyes dropped to the baby. Then back to you.

"You picked?"

"We picked."

His brow furrowed faintly.

"We didn't decide."

"I know."

"Then—"

"You'll understand."

His expression shifted. Uncertain now. Careful. You reached into the diaper bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The birth certificate copy.

Not the official one yet, not fully processed, but the hospital record. Her name written in black ink where you had filled it in with a shaking hand.

You held it for a second. Andrew watched. His daughter slept in his arms, face tucked toward his chest. You moved closer again, shoulder pressed to his.

The three of you nearly touching from every angle. His arm around the baby. Your hand over his wrist. His knee against yours. You looked down at the paper.

Then at him.

"Her name is Andie."

Andrew did not move. For a second, you thought he hadn't understood. Then his eyes lifted to yours. Wide. Devastated.

Soft.

"What?"

You smiled through tears.

"Andie."

His mouth parted. No sound came out. You looked down at the baby.

"Andie Hope Cody."

Andrew's face crumpled. All at once. Not pretty. Not controlled.

He looked at you like you had reached into his chest and put his heart in his daughter's tiny hands.

"No," he whispered.

Your smile trembled.

"Yes."

He shook his head once, barely.

"Baby."

"I know."

"You didn't—"

"I did."

"Why?"

You touched your daughter's blanket.

"Because I love the name."

His eyes shone.

"And because it's hers. Not yours. Not exactly. She gets to be herself."

Andrew looked down at the baby. At Andie. His tears fell onto his prison-issued shirt.

"But…" Your voice softened. "I wanted her to have something that sounded like the part of you I love."

His breathing broke. You continued before he could argue.

"Not the damage. Not the Cody mess. Not all the things you're afraid of giving her."

Andrew's jaw trembled.

"You," you whispered. "The you who made her a duck with your hands. The you who talks to her like she understands every word. The you who asks about water and safe sleep and whether baby girls can wear yellow. The you who has been her dad since the second you knew she existed."

He closed his eyes. The baby stirred in his arms. His eyes opened immediately. Instinctive. Focused.

Father. Your heart nearly split.

"Andie," he said.

Her name sounded different in his voice. Smaller. Holier. Like he was afraid saying it too loudly would wake something sacred. Andie's mouth moved.

A tiny newborn twitch. Andrew stared at her.

"Andie," he whispered again.

You cried silently beside him. His hand shifted carefully over her blanket, one finger brushing the edge near her curled fist. Not touching skin yet.

Still scared. Still learning.

"Andie Hope Cody," he said.

Your lips trembled.

"Yes."

His eyes came back to yours.

"You gave her my name."

"No," you said gently. "I gave her a name that reminds me of you."

"That's the same."

"It isn't."

"It feels the same."

You smiled through tears.

"Maybe a little."

He huffed a broken laugh. Then looked down at Andie again.

"I don't deserve that."

"I know you think that."

"It's true."

"No," you whispered. "It's familiar. That doesn't make it true."

His face twisted. You touched his cheek again, because you could. Because there was no glass.

Because every second of this visit felt stolen, and you were going to use all of it.

"She deserves to know that her father is loved," you said. "That's all the name means. That I loved you when I chose it. That I loved her. That she came from something better than everything that hurt you."

Andrew covered your hand against his cheek with his own. For a moment, he just held it there. Your palm against his skin. His hand over yours.

His daughter asleep in his other arm.

Then he bent his head carefully over the baby, not quite touching her at first. Then he pressed his lips to the top of her yellow hat. So gently. So carefully.

Like even love needed permission. You sobbed. Andrew stayed there for a second, eyes closed, mouth against the hat covering his daughter's dark hair.

When he lifted his head, his face was wet.

"Hi, Andie," he whispered.

The baby made a small noise. His breath caught. You laughed through tears.

"She knows."

"She doesn't."

"She does."

"Mother science?"

"Mother science."

His mouth moved. A real smile. Tiny. Impossible. There.

You reached up and touched his cheek. He leaned into it before he could stop himself. Your thumb brushed under his eye.

"I wanted to tell you in person."

"I'm glad."

"I didn't want it to be over the phone."

"No."

"I wanted you holding her."

He looked down. Andie slept on, unaware that she had just remade him.

"You did that," he said.

"What?"

"You brought her here."

"Of course I did."

"You should be home in bed."

"Yes."

"But you brought her."

"Yes."

"For me."

"For both of you."

His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, they were wet again.

"Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me for bringing your daughter to you."

"Yes," he said. "I do."

You let him have that. The room stayed quiet.

Outside the door, someone shifted. A guard, probably. Craig or Deran maybe. The real world waiting to take back its rules.

But inside, for a little while longer, there was only this. Andrew holding Andie. You leaning against him. His thumb against your knuckles.

Your fingers at his wrist. No glass. No phone. No static. You slipped one hand around his arm, careful not to disturb the baby.

"I missed you," you whispered.

His throat moved.

"I missed you."

"I know."

He looked at you then. At the tiredness in your face. At the flannel around your shoulders.

At the body that had carried his daughter and brought her here before it had even healed. His expression changed. Softened into something that hurt to look at.

"You look like a mom," he said.

Your face crumpled.

"You already used that line."

"It's still true."

You laughed wetly.

"And you look like a dad."

He looked down at Andie, stunned all over again.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His hand cupped her more securely. Not less afraid. But more sure.

"Andie," he whispered again.

The name seemed to settle around the three of you. Around the room. Around the impossible hour you had been given. The guard knocked gently on the door.

"Fifteen minutes."

You closed your eyes. Andrew's arm tensed under your hand. No. Not yet. Never yet.

Andie stirred, squirming slightly in his arms. He looked panicked.

"She's moving."

"She does that."

"What do I do?"

"You're doing it."

"She's making a face."

"She's probably hungry."

His eyes widened. "Do you need—"

"In a bit."

"She needs to eat."

"She can wait a few minutes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

He looked doubtful. You smiled.

"Already bossing me about feeding her."

"She's small."

"She is."

"She needs things."

"She mostly needs milk, sleep, clean nappies, and people willing to stare at her like she invented air."

Andrew looked down at her.

"She did."

Your heart melted into something useless.

"Oh, you are gone."

He did not deny it. Not even slightly.

"I am," he said.

That confession made you cry again. Andrew looked at you, then down at Andie.

"I'm gone," he repeated, quieter. "Yeah."

His free hand moved back to yours. He held on until the guard's shadow shifted outside the door. Time was coming back. You hated it.

Andrew looked at you with panic rising now, not wild, but there.

"I don't want to give her back."

"I know."

His face crumpled.

"I know," you whispered.

He held Andie closer, still careful, still safe.

"I just got her."

"I know."

His eyes closed. For a second, you saw every version of him at once. The boy who had never been held right.

The man who had done things he could not forgive himself for. The husband who had cried through glass.

The father holding his daughter for the first time and learning, too late and right on time, that his hands could be gentle. You touched his cheek again.

"She knows you now."

His eyes opened.

"She heard you before," you said. "But now she knows your arms."

Andrew looked down at Andie. The words landed. You saw them land. He nodded once. Barely.

But it steadied him.

"She knows my arms," he whispered.

"Yes."

He swallowed hard.

"Okay."

The guard opened the door a fraction.

"Five minutes."

Andrew's jaw tightened. You sat up slowly, your body protesting. He noticed and shifted immediately.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"You're hurting."

"A little."

He looked like that wounded him. You shook your head.

"Worth it."

"Don't say that."

"Too late."

"You're stubborn."

"So is your daughter."

"Our daughter."

You smiled.

"Our daughter."

Andie made another tiny noise. Andrew looked down and laughed softly. It was the gentlest sound you had ever heard from him. The guard stepped in this time.

"I'm sorry. Time."

You had known it was coming. It still felt like being split open all over again. Andrew's arms tightened for one brief second.

Then he loosened them immediately, like he was afraid of holding too hard. You stood carefully and moved in front of him.

"I'll take her."

He looked at you. His eyes were red. You bent and slid your hands under Andie, lifting her gently from his arms.

For a second, he kept one hand against the blanket. Just one. Not stopping you. Just saying goodbye in the only way he could. Then he let go.

Andie settled against your chest, fussing softly. Andrew stood. You expected him to step back. He didn't.

He leaned in, careful of the baby, careful of your body, careful of every rule breathing down his neck, and wrapped one arm around you. Your breath caught.

Then you melted into him. It was not a full hug. Not the way either of you wanted.

There was a newborn between you and a guard at the door and your body still aching from birth. But his arm was around your shoulders.

His cheek pressed briefly to the top of your head. Your face turned into his chest. For the second time that hour, he held you. Really held you.

You sobbed once. He closed his eyes.

"I love you," he whispered into your hair.

"I love you."

His hand moved carefully to Andie's back. A feather-light touch.

"And I love you," he whispered to her.

She made a tiny sound. Andrew pulled back just enough to look at both of you. His face was wrecked. Yours probably was too. You smiled through tears.

"Say goodbye to Daddy," you whispered.

Andrew nearly broke again at the word. Daddy. Not dad in theory. Not father on paper. Daddy.

To this tiny girl in your arms.

"Andie," he said, voice trembling.

Her name sounded like a promise.

"I'll see you again."

You nodded.

"Yes."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"Both of you."

"Yes."

He bent his head and kissed you again. Brief. Careful. Desperate.

His hand cupped your face for one last second, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize the texture of your skin.

Then he kissed the top of Andie's hat. The guard cleared his throat softly. You stepped back. Andrew's hand fell slowly from your cheek.

He looked at Andie until the last possible second. Then at you.

"Go home," he said.

You laughed through tears. "Bossy."

"Rest."

"I will."

"Eat."

"I will."

"Let Craig drive."

"I wasn't planning to walk."

"Don't be funny."

"I am very funny."

His mouth trembled into something like a smile. You held Andie closer. Then you turned toward the door. Every step hurt. Your body.

Your heart. Both. At the doorway, you looked back.

Andrew stood in the middle of the room, empty arms at his sides, tears on his face, looking at you and Andie like the world had just been handed to him and taken away in the same hour.

You lifted Andie's tiny hand from the blanket. Just barely. A little wave. Andrew covered his mouth. You smiled through tears.

Then the door closed. Craig was waiting in the hallway. Deran too. Both of them stood when they saw you. Craig's eyes went immediately to your face.

Then to Andie. Then over your shoulder, toward the room.

"Okay?" he asked.

You nodded.

"Yeah."

Your voice broke. Craig stepped forward, then hesitated. You leaned into him before he could decide. He hugged you carefully around the baby.

Deran looked away, jaw tight.

"He held her?" Craig asked.

You nodded against his shoulder.

"Yeah."

Craig exhaled.

"And?"

You pulled back, smiling through tears.

"He's gone."

Craig blinked.

"What?"

You looked down at Andie, sleeping now like she had not just permanently altered the architecture of her father's soul.

"He's gone," you repeated softly.

Deran huffed, but his eyes were suspiciously bright.

"Yeah," he said. "Figured."

You laughed. Then winced. Craig immediately pointed at the exit.

"Car. Home. Bed."

"You and Andrew are very alike sometimes."

Craig looked offended. "Don't say that."

"It's true."

"Take it back."

"No."

Andie sighed against your chest. All three of you looked down. She slept on. Tiny. Warm.

Named. Outside, sunlight waited.

Inside, Andrew Cody sat alone after they brought him back to his cell, his arms still shaped around the weight of his daughter and his mouth still remembering the kiss of his wife.

Andie. Andie Hope Cody. He whispered it once. Then again. Quietly, so no one could take it.

He pressed his hands together and remembered the warmth of her. The softness. The small sound she had made when he said her name.

The way you had leaned against him. The way your hand had found his wrist. The way your mouth had felt after months of glass.

The way the three of you had fit, even for a minute. Andrew bowed his head. He had spent most of his life believing his name was something damaged.

Something sharp. Something handed down with blood on it.

Then you had placed his daughter in his arms and given her a name that sounded like love finding another way. Andie. His daughter. His girl.

For the first time since the prison doors had closed behind him, Andrew did not feel only trapped inside his own life.

Somewhere outside those walls, you were taking his daughter home. Their daughter. And she had his name. Not exactly. Not enough to hurt her.

Just enough to remind him that some parts of him were still worth carrying.

Andrew lay back on his bunk, one hand resting over his chest where Andie had slept for one impossible hour. His other hand touched his mouth once.

A small, almost disbelieving gesture. His eyes closed. He could still feel both of you there. Warm. Real.

His. And for tonight, even after they took you from his arms, the world did not manage to take that too.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

@jennataurus @sarai-ibn-la-ahad 

@changbinsrightboob @labiblioteque @booknerd0394  @fromirkwood @pinguphd, @fulla02, @nightshadestars,

[fanficwritinggirl]

{So He Can See - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

I am going to warn all of you to get your tissues ready. I am sorry for any emotional damage that I may cause you. Please read at your own risk. I love you all and I'm sorry.

At some point during labour, you decided Craig was going to film it.

Not the whole thing.

Absolutely not the whole thing.

If anyone tried to film your entire labour, you would become violent in ways the hospital staff would have to document.

But the moment.

That was how you thought of it.

The moment.

When she arrived.

When your daughter came out into the world and cried for the first time and someone placed her on your chest.

Andrew was not there.

That was a fact.

Not a thought you had time to fall apart over. Not right now. Not with contractions coming hard and close and your whole body turning into something ancient and furious and completely uninterested in your emotional pacing.

He was not there.

But he could still see.

Later.

When the rules let you bring something to him. When the prison allowed it. When you could sit across from him with glass between you and give him proof that he had been loved into the room even from far away.

So when the nurse said you were eight centimetres and things were moving fast, you turned your head toward Craig.

He was standing by the bed with a cup of ice chips in one hand and the expression of a man who had seen too much and understood too little.

"Craig."

He stepped closer immediately. "What? Water? Ice? Nurse?"

"Phone."

He blinked. "What?"

"My phone."

He looked around like the object might reveal itself dramatically.

"It's on the bed."

"Get it."

"Why?"

Another contraction slammed into you before you could answer.

You gripped the bedrail with one hand and Craig's wrist with the other, hard enough that his eyes widened.

"Okay," he said, voice strained. "Yep. That's my bone."

You did not care about his bone.

The contraction dragged through you, low and hot and impossible. Your back arched. Your breath broke. The nurse's voice came from somewhere near your knee, calm and steady.

"That's it. Breathe through it. You're doing beautifully."

"I am not doing beautifully," you snapped.

"You are," the nurse said, completely unbothered.

"I am doing horrifically."

Craig leaned closer, pale. "You're doing great."

You turned your head slowly and glared at him.

He swallowed.

"Terrible," he corrected. "You're doing terrible. But like... successfully."

Deran, standing near the wall with both hands on top of his head, muttered, "That might be the worst support I've ever heard."

"You do better," Craig snapped.

Deran looked at you.

You looked back at him, sweaty and furious and nine months pregnant in a hospital gown.

He looked away. "No, I'm good."

The contraction eased.

You sagged back against the pillows, breathing hard.

"Phone," you said again.

Craig grabbed it from the bed and held it out.

You did not take it.

"Film her."

His face went blank.

"What?"

"When she comes," you said, voice rough. "Film her."

Craig stared at you like you had asked him to deliver the baby himself.

"You want me to what?"

"Film her. Not me. Not..." You gestured vaguely and angrily toward the lower half of your body. "Not that. Just her. When they put her on me."

Craig's mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

You grabbed his sleeve.

"For Andrew."

His face changed.

Immediately.

All the awkwardness, all the panic, all the jokes he had been using as structural support — gone.

"For Pope," you said, softer.

Craig looked down at the phone in his hand.

Then at you.

Then at the monitors, where your daughter's heartbeat galloped steady and fast.

"Yeah," he said.

His voice had gone rough.

"Yeah. I can do that."

"Landscape," Deran said suddenly.

Both of you looked at him.

He raised his hands. "What? If he's filming, film it right."

You would have laughed if you had the energy.

Craig stared at the phone, then turned it sideways with exaggerated seriousness.

"Landscape," he muttered.

Deran nodded. "Good."

The nurse smiled like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

Another contraction came before anyone could say anything else.

This one was different.

It dropped lower, meaner, with pressure so intense your entire body went rigid.

Your hand flew to your stomach.

"Oh," you gasped.

The nurse's attention sharpened.

"What?" Craig asked, too quickly.

"I need—" You sucked in a breath. "I need to push."

The room changed.

Not dramatically.

The lights did not flicker. No alarm sounded. No one ran.

But the energy shifted all at once.

The nurse moved with purpose. Another nurse stepped in. The doctor was called. The bed changed shape underneath you. Someone adjusted the monitors. Someone told you not to push yet.

You stared at them.

"Do not tell me not to push."

"I know," the nurse said gently. "I know. Little breaths for me."

"I hate little breaths."

"I know."

Craig stood frozen with your phone in his hand.

Deran grabbed his shoulder and physically pulled him back a step.

"Move," Deran said.

"I am moving."

"You were a statue."

"I'm holding the phone."

"Don't drop it."

"I'm not gonna drop it."

"If you drop the phone during this, she'll kill you."

"She's busy."

"I can hear you," you snapped.

Both men shut up.

The doctor came in at 10:46.

You knew that later because Deran wrote it down.

At the time, all you knew was pressure, sweat, shaking legs, a nurse at your side, Craig near your shoulder, Deran hovering with the anxious intensity of a man pretending not to be terrified.

You wanted Andrew.

You did not say it.

There wasn't room.

The want was there anyway, beneath everything. Under the pain. Under the fear. Under the commands to breathe and push and wait and push again.

You wanted his voice.

You wanted his hand.

You wanted him to see.

"Okay," the doctor said. "Next contraction, you're going to push."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

Craig leaned closer. "No?"

"I can't."

The nurse took your hand.

Craig's face went stricken.

Deran stepped closer from the other side. "You can."

You looked at him, startled.

His voice was not teasing now.

Not awkward.

Not hiding.

"You can," he said again.

Craig nodded quickly. "Yeah. You can."

You started crying.

"I can't do it without him."

The room softened around the words.

Craig's jaw tightened.

Deran looked away fast, blinking too much.

The nurse squeezed your hand.

"You're not doing it without him," Craig said.

You looked at him through tears.

He held up your phone.

His voice broke slightly when he said, "We're getting it for him."

A sob tore out of you.

Then the contraction hit.

And there was no time for anything else.

"Push," the doctor said.

So you did.

You pushed with Craig counting badly beside you.

"One, two, three—"

"Not that fast," the nurse said.

Craig panicked. "Sorry."

Deran stepped in. "Four, five, six..."

"You're also bad at it," you gasped.

"I have never counted for childbirth before," Deran snapped, voice high with stress.

"Clearly."

"Focus," the doctor said.

You pushed again.

The world narrowed to effort.

To pressure.

To the unbearable stretch of your body making room.

To your daughter moving down and down and down.

Between contractions, you fell back against the pillows, shaking.

Craig wiped your forehead with a cool cloth like he had been given sacred responsibility.

Deran held the cup of ice chips and looked like he might never recover from the experience of caring this much.

"You're doing it," Craig said.

You sobbed. "Shut up."

"Okay."

"No, keep talking."

"Okay."

"Not stupidly."

Craig looked genuinely distressed. "I don't know what that means."

Deran leaned down. "You're close."

You looked at him.

His eyes were wet.

That almost made you laugh.

"You're crying?"

"No."

"You are."

"You're having a baby. Shut up."

You laughed, then cried, then another contraction took you.

Push.

Breathe.

Again.

Again.

At some point, the doctor said the head was right there.

At some point, the nurse told Craig to get the phone ready.

At some point, Craig's face went very pale.

"Not yet," the nurse said, with the authority of a woman who had absolutely stopped men from filming the wrong things before. "When baby is up on her chest."

Craig nodded with the solemnity of a soldier receiving orders.

"When baby is up."

"Exactly."

"Got it."

Deran muttered, "Landscape."

"I know," Craig hissed.

You would have told them both to shut up, but the next contraction came too hard and too low, and all you could do was bear down into it.

The room filled with voices.

The doctor.

The nurse.

Craig, saying, "You're doing it, you're doing it," like he had forgotten every other sentence in the world.

Deran, quieter, saying your name.

Then pressure.

Fire.

A sharp, impossible ring of pain.

You cried out.

"I can't—"

"You are," the nurse said. "You are."

"One more," the doctor said. "One more big push."

You shook your head, sobbing.

Craig leaned close, phone forgotten for a second in his hand.

"Hey," he said.

You looked at him.

His eyes were red.

"For Pope," he said.

It should not have worked.

It was unfair that it worked.

You pushed.

The pressure broke.

The world changed.

A cry split the room.

Sharp.

Angry.

Alive.

For one stunned second, you did not understand the sound.

Then the doctor said, "She's here."

Everything inside you came undone.

You sobbed.

Not prettily.

Not softly.

A raw, broken sound that seemed to come from somewhere older than language.

"She's here," the nurse said, smiling.

Your daughter cried again.

Louder this time.

Furious.

Tiny.

Real.

Craig made a sound behind the phone.

Deran whispered, "Holy shit."

Then they laid her on your chest.

Warm.

Wet.

Small.

Heavier than you expected.

Lighter than the world.

Your hands came up automatically, shaking as they curved around her back and head.

"Oh my God," you sobbed.

She was there.

Her face scrunched and red, mouth open, dark hair plastered to her head, tiny fists drawn up against your skin like she was offended by every single thing that had happened to her.

"Oh my God," you said again.

Craig was filming.

You knew because the nurse gently touched his elbow and said, "There. Now."

The phone moved closer.

Not too close.

Just enough.

Your daughter cried against your chest.

You laughed through the sobs.

"Hi," you whispered. "Hi, baby."

She made a furious little sound.

Your hand covered her back.

"You're okay. You're okay. I've got you."

Craig's breathing sounded wrong.

You looked up.

He was holding the phone sideways, tears running openly down his face.

You would have teased him if you could breathe.

Instead, you looked at the camera.

At Andrew.

Not really.

Not yet.

But someday.

You looked straight at the lens, your face wrecked and wet and glowing with exhaustion.

"Andrew," you said, voice breaking.

Craig's hand shook.

Deran stepped closer behind him, one hand landing on Craig's shoulder to steady him or himself. Maybe both.

You looked down at your daughter.

"She's here," you whispered.

The baby rooted blindly against your chest, still crying.

"She's here, baby. She's perfect."

Your sob turned into a laugh.

"She's really loud."

Deran made a broken sound somewhere beside you.

You looked back at the camera.

"She has hair," you said, crying harder. "So much hair."

Craig laughed wetly behind the phone.

You stroked one trembling finger over your daughter's head.

"And she's mad."

The baby wailed again, as if confirming.

You smiled down at her, absolutely destroyed.

"She's so mad."

The nurse rubbed the baby's back gently with a warm blanket.

You held her closer.

"Tell him," Craig said.

His voice was rough.

You looked at him.

"What?"

Craig nodded toward the phone.

"Tell him."

Your chest hurt.

You looked at the camera again.

At Andrew.

At the future moment when he would sit across from you in a prison visiting room and watch this through whatever device they allowed, or hold still while you described every second because if they did not allow the video you would become someone's problem.

You swallowed.

"Your daughter is here," you said.

Your voice broke over daughter.

"She's here, and she's safe, and she's beautiful."

The baby quieted slightly against your chest, still making tiny upset sounds.

You looked down at her.

"She heard you," you whispered, tears falling onto your cheeks. "I know she did. She heard you the whole time."

Craig's hand shook harder.

The nurse glanced at him and smiled softly.

You pressed your lips to the top of your daughter's head.

Her skin was warm and slick and impossibly soft.

"I wish you could see her," you whispered.

Then you looked at the camera again and cried.

"But you will. Okay? You will."

The baby made another small sound.

You laughed wetly.

"She's got your frown," you said.

Craig choked on a laugh.

Deran muttered, "She does."

You glanced at him. "She does, right?"

Deran nodded, wiping quickly under one eye like no one could see him. "Yeah."

Craig lowered the phone slightly, then seemed to remember himself and brought it back up.

You smiled down at your daughter.

Her face was still scrunched, brows drawn together in a tiny expression of deep outrage.

Andrew's expression.

So much Andrew it hurt.

"Oh," you whispered.

The room softened.

The nurse checked the baby while keeping her against your chest. Someone said weight would come later. Someone said colour looked good. Someone said she was doing beautifully.

You barely heard any of it.

You just held her.

Her.

Your daughter.

Andrew's daughter.

Here.

After months of scan photos and phone calls and kicks through prison lines and green walls and wooden ducks, she was here, making tiny furious noises against your skin.

Craig stopped recording after several minutes only because the nurse gently told him she had enough for now and needed both hands to help.

He nodded too many times.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

He lowered the phone.

Then immediately looked at the screen like he needed to make sure it had saved.

"Did it save?" Deran asked, panicked.

Craig glared. "Don't say that."

"Did it?"

Craig tapped the screen with shaking fingers.

The video was there.

He exhaled so hard he nearly folded.

"It saved."

You laughed weakly. "If it hadn't, I would have haunted you."

"I know."

"No, actually haunted."

"I believe you."

Deran looked down at the baby, then at you.

His face had gone soft in a way you had never seen.

"She's tiny," he said.

You smiled through tears.

"She's seven minutes old."

"Still."

Craig stepped closer, phone clutched to his chest like national evidence.

"You okay?" he asked.

You looked down at your daughter.

Her crying had faded into small, breathy sounds. Her cheek was pressed against your skin. One tiny hand rested near your collarbone, fingers curled.

You were shaking.

Exhausted.

Split open and remade.

"I'm okay," you whispered.

And for once, you meant it.

Not completely.

Not perfectly.

But enough.

Craig nodded.

Then, before you could react, he bent and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You froze.

So did he.

Deran stared.

Craig straightened immediately, looking horrified by himself.

"Don't," he said.

You blinked up at him.

"Craig—"

"Don't make it weird."

You started crying again.

"That was very sweet."

"I said don't."

"You kissed my forehead."

"You just had a baby."

"You love me."

"I'm leaving."

"You are not leaving with my phone."

He stopped.

Then looked at the phone in his hand like he had forgotten.

"Right."

Deran cleared his throat, eyes fixed determinedly on the ceiling.

"I can take pictures."

Craig looked at him. "You sure?"

Deran gave him an offended look. "I know how to use a phone."

"Landscape."

Deran flipped him off.

The nurse laughed under her breath.

You lay there with your daughter against your chest and watched two Cody men argue quietly about photography while a third Cody man existed only in the shape of your daughter's frown and the video now saved on your phone.

You wished Andrew was there.

Of course you did.

The wish lived in every breath.

But for the first time all day, it did not swallow everything else.

Because she was here.

Because Craig had filmed it.

Because Andrew would see.

Andrew found out two hours later.

Not from you.

Not directly.

That part hurt later when you had enough room to feel it.

But not then.

Then, you were asleep with your daughter swaddled in the bassinet beside you and one hand curled near the edge of the clear plastic like you could sense if she drifted too far.

Craig had sent the message through every channel they had told him to use.

Baby born.

Mother okay.

Baby okay.

Call as soon as possible.

He wrote it three times because the first draft had included too many swear words and the second had said, she's here and she's loud as hell, which Deran said was probably not official enough.

The third was simple.

Clear.

True.

Andrew received the news standing outside the phones.

He had been waiting for another call slot since the line cut off during labour.

Waiting badly.

Waiting with his hands clenched and his jaw tight and every part of him tuned to a door that would not open faster no matter how hard he stared at it.

A guard called his name.

Not harshly.

That alone told him something.

Andrew turned.

The guard held a printed message.

"Your wife delivered," he said.

Andrew stopped breathing.

For one second, the prison disappeared.

The walls.

The noise.

The men behind him.

The guard's face.

All gone.

Only the words.

Delivered.

Wife.

Baby.

His hand moved before his brain did.

The guard gave him the paper.

Andrew looked down.

Mother stable. Baby girl stable. Born 11:08 a.m.

Stable.

Baby girl.

Born.

He read it again.

Then again.

The words blurred.

He blinked hard, but it didn't help.

"She's okay?" he asked.

His voice did not sound like his own.

The guard's expression softened by maybe half an inch.

"Says stable."

Andrew nodded.

Stable.

Okay.

Alive.

Here.

His daughter was here.

He pressed the paper flat between both hands, afraid it would shake.

For months, she had been a scan photo. A heartbeat. A kick under a phone. A gender note. A list of names. A wooden duck on a shelf.

Now she was born.

Somewhere out there, in a hospital room he could not enter, his daughter was breathing.

His wife had held her.

Maybe still was holding her.

Andrew turned away before anyone could see his face properly.

Too late, probably.

He did not care.

He walked back to his bunk with the paper in his hand and sat down slowly.

His daughter was born.

His daughter was born.

His daughter was born.

The thought did not get smaller no matter how many times he repeated it.

He took the photo of you in the nursery from beneath his pillow and set it beside the message.

You had been pregnant in that photo.

Hands around your stomach.

His daughter hidden beneath them.

Now she was outside.

Breathing air.

Crying, probably.

Knowing your skin.

He covered his mouth with one hand.

The tears came quietly.

No sobbing.

No sound.

Just a collapse inward, controlled by the habit of surviving in places that punished weakness.

But he cried.

For you.

For her.

For the fact that she was here.

For the fact that you were okay.

For the fact that he had missed the first cry and somehow, because you were you, maybe he had not missed all of it.

The phone call came later that evening.

You were awake when it rang.

Exhausted beyond anything you had ever felt, sore everywhere, your hair still tangled, hospital gown clean now but unflattering, your daughter sleeping against your chest beneath a blanket.

Craig had gone downstairs for coffee.

Deran was asleep in a chair with his mouth open, denying it even unconscious.

Your phone buzzed.

Not rang.

Buzzed.

You stared at it for a second before your brain understood.

Then you answered so fast the baby stirred.

The automated voice began.

You accepted the call with shaking fingers.

The line clicked.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Baby?"

You burst into tears immediately.

"Oh," you said, laughing through it. "That was fast."

His breath broke on the other end.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Baby?"

"She's okay."

His silence was absolute.

You looked down at your daughter.

She slept with one cheek pressed to your chest, mouth slightly open, tiny brows furrowed like she was judging the entire room.

"She's sleeping on me," you whispered.

Andrew made a sound.

Small.

Destroyed.

"She is?"

"Yeah."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

His breathing shook.

"Tell me."

You smiled through tears.

"She's beautiful."

He said nothing.

"She has dark hair. A lot of it. It was all stuck to her head when she came out."

A broken laugh left him.

"And she was mad."

"Mad?"

"So mad."

"She cried?"

"Oh, she screamed."

"Good."

You laughed wetly. "Good?"

"Strong lungs."

"She definitely has those."

He breathed out.

"She has your frown."

Andrew went silent.

You looked down at your daughter's tiny face.

"I'm not kidding. Deran saw it too."

"Deran saw her?"

"Yeah."

"Craig?"

"Both of them."

His voice went quieter. "Good."

"They were good, Andrew."

A pause.

Then, "Yeah?"

"Craig cried."

Andrew huffed softly through what might have been tears. "Yeah?"

"Oh, fully. No dignity."

"Good."

"Deran cried too, but he's pretending he didn't."

"Also good."

You smiled.

Your daughter shifted against your chest, making a tiny sound.

Andrew went silent.

"What was that?"

You looked down.

"She squeaked."

His breath caught. "She what?"

"She made a little noise."

"Can I hear?"

"I'll try."

You adjusted the phone carefully, holding it near the baby without disturbing her.

For a few seconds, there was only the soft sound of newborn breathing.

Tiny.

Wet.

Uneven.

The smallest sound in the world.

Andrew did not speak.

You held the phone there, tears rolling silently down your face, while he listened to his daughter breathe.

Then she made another little noise.

A sleepy grunt.

You smiled.

"That's her."

Andrew's voice came back rough.

"That's her."

"Yeah."

"Our daughter."

"Our daughter."

The words sat there.

Whole now.

No longer future tense.

No longer someday.

Here.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

"I had Craig film it."

Andrew stopped.

"What?"

"When they put her on me," you said. "I made him film it."

His breathing changed.

"For you."

The line went quiet.

Your eyes filled again.

"I wanted you to see," you whispered. "When I see you next. Or if they let us show it somehow. I don't know. But we have it. Her first cry. Her on my chest. Me telling you she's here."

Andrew did not answer.

Not for a long time.

You let him have the silence.

Then, finally, his voice came through broken.

"You did that?"

"Yeah."

"You thought of that?"

"Of course I did."

"During labour?"

"I'm very organized."

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

It cracked halfway through and turned into something else, but it was there.

You smiled, crying harder.

"Craig filmed landscape," you added.

Andrew made another broken sound. "Good."

"Deran reminded him."

"Of course."

"She's so loud in it," you said. "And I'm a mess."

"You're not."

"You haven't seen it."

"I know you're not."

Your face crumpled.

"Andrew."

"I want to see."

"You will."

"I want to see her."

"You will."

"I want—" His voice broke. "I want to see both of you."

You closed your eyes.

"You will."

Your daughter stretched against your chest, tiny mouth opening in a silent yawn.

"Oh," you whispered.

"What?"

"She yawned."

Andrew exhaled.

"She yawns?"

"She's a person, baby."

"I know."

"You sound surprised."

"I am."

You laughed softly.

"She's very small," you said.

"How small?"

"Small enough that I'm scared to move."

"You're holding her okay?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes, Andrew."

"Her head?"

"I'm supporting her head."

"Good."

You smiled through exhaustion. "You have been a father for about seven hours and you are already auditing my technique."

"I'm asking."

"You are auditing."

"Maybe."

The baby stirred again.

You looked down.

"She's hungry."

"How do you know?"

"She's making the face."

"What face?"

"The angry rooting face."

"She has an angry rooting face?"

"She has several angry faces. All of them are yours."

Andrew was quiet.

Then, very softly, "Good."

Your throat tightened.

"You like that?"

"Yeah."

"Her looking like you?"

He did not answer immediately.

When he did, his voice was low.

"I like knowing she's mine."

You closed your eyes.

Not because he doubted you.

Never that.

Because there was something in him that still looked at good things from a distance, even when they were placed directly in his hands.

"She's yours," you whispered.

"And yours."

"And mine."

"Our girl."

His breath trembled.

"Our girl."

The nurse stepped in quietly, smiling when she saw the phone.

"Need help feeding?"

You nodded, suddenly overwhelmed. "Please."

Andrew heard.

"What is it?"

"The nurse is here. She's hungry."

"Okay."

"I have to go soon."

The words hurt.

They hurt both of you.

The call timer had not beeped yet, but the baby needed you in a way nobody else could answer.

Andrew was quiet.

Then, steadying himself, he said, "Go feed her."

Your face crumpled.

"You sure?"

"She needs you."

"I'll call when I can."

"I know."

"And I'll bring the video."

"I know."

"And pictures."

"All of them."

You laughed softly. "All of them?"

"All."

"Bossy."

"Yeah."

Your daughter made another small, irritated sound.

Andrew inhaled sharply.

"She's really here," he whispered.

You looked down at her.

At the dark hair.

The furrowed brow.

The tiny mouth rooting against your skin.

"Yeah," you said, crying again. "She's really here."

The nurse stepped closer with gentle hands.

You held the phone tighter for one last second.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you."

"And she loves you."

This time, he answered without hesitation.

"I know."

Your heart folded.

"She does," you whispered.

"I know."

The line clicked off a few seconds later.

This time, you were the one who had to go first.

You lowered the phone and let the nurse help you bring your daughter to your breast.

She latched badly at first.

Then better.

Then settled.

You cried again because apparently that was just who you were now.

Craig came back with coffee he forgot to drink.

Deran woke up and immediately claimed he had not been asleep.

Your daughter ate with one tiny fist pressed against your skin.

And on your phone, saved and backed up twice because Craig had become deeply paranoid about losing it, was the video.

Her first cry.

Her first breath against you.

The first time you looked into the camera and told Andrew his daughter was here.

You would bring it to him.

Somehow.

Some way.

And when he saw it, he would see what you had known the second she was placed in your arms.

That even though he had not been in the room, he had not been absent.

Not from you.

Not from her.

Not from the story of how she came into the world.

Because your daughter had been born with his voice still living in the air around you.

And you had made sure there was proof.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

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[mast3rbait3r]

everything feels right - andrew "pope" cody

this is for my writing challenge! you can find the masterlist here!

summary: you and deran were close friends, which was how you ended up scoring a babysitting gig for his niece, lena. you were "hired" one day without pope's knowledge. deran figured that he would be okay with it because you were close to the family and they all trusted you. pope saw this as an opportunity to finally get closer to the woman he couldn't stop thinking about lately.

contains: same old! pope, babysitter! reader, implied age difference, fem/afab! reader, au where pope has custody over lena, baz and cath not in the picture, pope is weak for his girls, eventual smut, pope LOVES kissing you, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), very sensual sex

word count: 5.3k

you were sitting by the poolside while lena was testing to see how far she could make it across the pool in one breath. you applauded as she made it at least halfway across, her little legs kicking her through the water with all their might. her smile is triumphant as she beams up at you.

"i got so far!"

she exclaims as she swims over to the edge of the pool by you, her arms resting on the warm pavement.

"you sure did! keep on practicing and you'll make it all the way across in no time at all."

you speak encouragingly, watching her eyes light up with hope. a throat is cleared behind you, causing both you and lena to look over in the direction of the gate. you both spot a stern-looking pope, but his face seems to soften as soon as his eyes land on lena in the pool. it wasn't easy for him, taking lena under his wing after what happened to her parents. he sees the smile on the little girl's face, then glances at you, then back at her, and he feels something shift within him.

"she'll be out in the ocean learning how to surf like you guys soon."

you smile softly as you talk to him, which causes an unfamiliar sense of warmth to settle in his chest. he nods at you before walking over to lena, he crouches down as he meets her gaze.

"ten more minutes, then shower before dinner's ready."

his voice was rough, but it had an uncharacteristic softness to it as he spoke to lena. she nodded, her big eyes staring at him like he hung the stars in the sky. it made your heart swell, seeing how the two of them bonded so well, especially given all the shit they'd been through. pope cody wasn't comforting to anyone except for lena, at least that's what you'd thought at first. as lena swims away and busies herself, pope stands to his full height and turns around to look at you.

"what are you doing here?"

he hadn't meant for the question to sound so harsh and bothered. he saw the way your face scrunched a bit at his tone and immediately regretted his choice of words.

"i'm watching over lena while you take care of your personal things."

"i didn't ask you to do that."

"deran said you could use the extra help."

he stands there for a moment, blinking at you. he hadn't realized that it wasn't realistic for deran and craig to watch lena when pope couldn't, especially since they were often away from home more than he was. he nods slowly, now that everything was starting to make sense once again. he glances over his shoulder at lena, who's now wearing a particularly suspicious grin as she watches the two of you interact. he turns back to you, eyes briefly drifting toward your light green tank top. he could just barely see inside your shirt, the shadow almost highlighting your cleavage. he snaps himself out of the trance and meets your gaze again.

"how much do you want for it?"

you shrug at his question, glancing over at lena who has started cleaning up her pool toys. you clearly hadn't thought about it yet, not really worried about the money as much as you were about lena.

"i don't need to be paid, i have a job. i'm just here to watch lena when you aren't able to."

he looks slightly taken aback by your answer. why were you so willing to help them out without being paid? he searches your expression for any sort of hint otherwise, but he finds nothing.

"i mean- being fed would be nice."

a slight scoff escapes his lips at your words. he just nods and makes his way back inside. a couple minutes later, lena goes inside to wash up before dinner. you make your way inside, your nostrils immediately filled with the smell of something delicious. you watch as pope busies himself in the kitchen, making what looked to be lasagna.

"looks good..."

you try to talk casually, but are met with a deadpan look.

"haven't cooked any of it yet."

his tone was flat, almost questioning as he looked at you. you let out a heavy sigh and made your way toward the living room to rest on the couch. pope mentally slaps himself for being so cut and dry with you. he'd never admit it out loud, but he wanted you to be around. he wanted to know more about you. he'd seen you here and there whenever you were helping deran with something or attending one of his pool parties. he'd always thought you were pretty, probably too young for him, but that never stopped his mind from wandering.

he continues to work on making dinner, his mind lost in a sea of thoughts that all revolved around you. especially how happy lena had looked while being with you. it almost mirrored the way she looked when she was with pope. he wondered what it would be like, if maybe you and him could be her new and improved parents. no... you were basically a stranger to him he can't be thinking of starting a family like this. lena's soft voice jars him out of his mind.

"can i have a soda with dinner?"

"yeah, but that's your only one for the day."

she nods, a giddy smile on her face as she bounces off toward the living room, presumably to join you. she plops down next to you on the couch, resting her head on your arm as she watches the cartoon you're playing on the TV. she glances up at you, a toothy grin spreading across her face. you look down at her, a bit wary at what this could mean.

"what's that look for?"

you watch as she tries to hold back the giggles.

"uncle pope thinks you're really pretty."

you can't help but roll your eyes and laugh at the little girl. part of you wondered if she was telling the truth. kids were always more perceptive than anyone liked to give them credit for.

"yeah? did he tell you that?"

you chuckle at her while her eyes are fixated on the cartoon.

"yeah... he told me one day on the way to school."

you pause at that. because now this was all starting to sound real. did he really think you were pretty? hell, you'd always been attracted to him too, but never in a million years did you think it would be a mutual feeling. before you have any more time to think about it, pope is calling you guys into the kitchen for dinner. you and lena set the dining room table while pope brings out the lasagna dish. lena sits between you and pope at the table, unable to help herself as she steals glances at both of you while eating.

"uncle pope, we talked about starting a garden today."

pope looks curiously at his niece, then up at you.

"what kind of garden?"

his eyebrows are furrowed like he's almost a bit hesitant to know the answer.

"i thought that maybe we could try a vegetable or fruit garden, make some of our own stuff. it's fun and could mean less money spent on groceries."

you chime in, watching as lena's eyes light up. she looks over at you with a bright smile.

"does that mean we can grow lemons?"

you blink, raising an eyebrow at her.

"that's what you want to grow first?"

"to make lemonade! if we have lemons we'll never run out of lemonade!"

this time, you and pope both chuckle at her exclamation.

"we'll have to buy the tree, otherwise it'll take forever to grow from the seed. that just means lemons will come first."

you smile at the little girl who happily bounces in her seat while finishing her dinner. you glance up at pope, who can't decide if he wants to see lena's excited expression, or your soft one as you think about how to start the garden.

"i mean- as long as it's okay with you."

you nod at him, forgetting that you guys likely needed his approval before creating a garden.

"just don't make me water it. and i'm not being blamed if anything in there dies or gets eaten by rabbits."

you smirk at him, knowing damn well that if lena asked he would help you out with the garden. or maybe, she'd use it as an attempt to get you and pope alone so everything can go according to her little master plan.

after about a week of planting and rearranging soil, lena's garden was finally starting to come together. you'd been around every day to help her with, teaching her the best watering techniques. you let her pick out what she wanted to grow, and then helped her organize based on what plants needed more sunlight. the whole time, pope busies himself with watching over the two of you. his rationalization is that gardening can be very dangerous, and he doesn't want either of you getting hurt. the real reason was because watching you with lena, the way you brought out the brightest in the little girl, it felt right to him. like you were meant to be here with the two of them, nowhere else.

lena notices him and waves him over to show him the final product. he steps out of the sliding glass door and makes his way over to the new garden.

"we did it, uncle pope! we have our own garden!"

lena jumps up and down excitedly, pointing at the freshly laid soil and some of the pre-grown trees you had helped her plant.

"you guys did great."

he nods slowly, looking over at you. your face was glistening with sweat after working in the heat for the past couple hours. he couldn't take his eyes off of you, you were glowing. then he saw your genuine smile as you watched lena get excited about the garden. he wanted to be another reason that you could smile like that. he watches from nearby as you help lena water for the first time. you were patient with her, letting her do most of it on her own and only helping when she asked. lena looks over at pope with the brightest smile he's seen from her in a long time. looks like they both really needed to keep you around.

once you were finished watering, pope ushered the two of you inside. he was getting worried that you were out in the sun for too long. earlier, he had definitely hounded the two of you about wearing enough sunscreen. he gives you both a glass of water, watching shamelessly as you lift the glass to your lips and take a few swallows of the cold liquid. it was like he was in a trance every time he watched you, unable to peel his eyes away, even if you were doing the most mundane things. lena's giggles bring him back to center, he glances over at her and sees the knowing look in her eyes.

"c'mon, stinker... let's go get washed up. i'll help you pick out your clothes."

she nods, hopping out of the stool and walking off toward her room with you. once you help her find her clothes, you walk back out to the kitchen, now alone with the man you found yourself growing increasingly fond of.

"you can use mine."

he spoke gruffly, watching as you rested against the countertop.

"use your what?"

you look up at him curiously.

"my shower... i'll get you a towel and stuff."

he walks off toward the bathroom and grabs you a towel and washcloth. you also see a pair of old gym shorts and a t-shirt folded neatly next to them. you smile and thank him as you step into the bathroom. he stands there for a moment, looking at you. you are also just standing there, and you're unsure if the room was filled with tension or awkwardness at this point.

"thank you..."

you tell him again, and he seems to get the hint. but right before he can step out of the bathroom, he turns to you.

"lena... really likes having you around."

"i like being around... with both of you."

you nod slowly, and you can see the small hint of surprise on his face at your words. it was true, you'd gotten used to being around both of them all the time. it felt like more of a routine than you'd ever had before, but best of all, it felt like home. he could see the way your expressioned softened completely, feeling his cheeks heat because of how much he enjoyed the sight. you finally look up at him, breath hitching slightly when you see the dazed, wanting look in his eyes. you step closer to him and he doesn't back away. but before he allows himself to give in, pope clears his throat.

"i'll make lunch while you get cleaned up."

he doesn't miss the flicker of disappointment in your eyes, but he ultimately leaves the room anyway. you sigh, stripping out of your clothes and stepping into a nice, cool shower. once you're finished you step out of the shower and slip into his clothes he left for you. they smelled like him, which made you feel a little hotter than you cared to admit. you look at yourself in the mirror, chuckling at the way his old clothes looked on you. it didn't really matter, you weren't sweaty and gross anymore. you walk back out toward the kitchen, smiling when you see lena eating on the couch.

"come back and sit with me, please!"

she calls out to you, you nod, and continue until you're in the kitchen. pope's back was to you, but when he heard your footsteps, he turned around. he froze, not expecting you to look so... domestic... in his clothes like that. he started to imagine how you'd look in his clothes, post-shower after you two just had the most mind-blowing sex of all time. a soft smile appears on his lips as he slides your plate across the counter to you.

"you should come hang out with me and lena."

you lean against the counter as you take the plate. he just nods and follows you to the living room where lena was. you both sit on either side of her, causing her to smile while she's mid-bite into her sandwich. you glance over at pope, who's already looking at you. you feel your skin heat at the eye contact, quickly looking back at the TV. he also faces forward, leaving everyone to eat their lunch in comfortable silence. after a while, lena yawns and snuggles into pope's side. he wraps an arm around her and holds her close, watching as her breath starts to even out. you smile at the sight, quietly taking out your phone and snapping a picture when he wasn't looking.

eventually, he carries lena to her room and lays her in her bed. he shuts the door quietly before returning to the living room with you. you look over at him, eyes tracing along his strong jawline and the slope of his nose. fuck, he'd be trouble if he ever realized how beautiful he was. his dark auburn curls looked soft, and you found yourself wanting to run your hands through them. he finally looks at you, catching you right in the act of staring. his hardened hazel eyes almost seemed to soften when they landed on you, but you were sure that was just your imagination. you stand up from the couch, grabbing your plate and lena's. pope follows suit, following you out to the kitchen.

"i'll wash these."

his gruff voice sends a shiver down your spine, but you nod. you set the dishes in the sink and move out of his way.

"so i was thinking..."

you speak up, resting against the counter next to the sink. he glances up at you for a moment, freezing when he realized how close you were standing to him.

"what if we took lena out to dinner tonight? maybe somewhere on the shore or something so we can watch the sunset?"

he ponders for a moment, thinking about how beautiful you would look in the warm and bright colors of the setting sun. he's nodding almost enthusiastically now, going back to washing the dishes. you smile and watch as he goes back to work. damn those stupid yellow gloves for hiding the way his fingers were probably gripping and flexing over the dishes. you were beginning to feel like a victorian man seeing a woman's ankle for the first time. you stand there, enjoying this somewhat intimate moment between the two of you. once he's finished, he looks over at you while sliding off the gloves. you can hardly focus as you watch the yellow rubber fall from his hands, revealing the tantalizing digits that you dreamed about quite often.

he holds one of his hands out to you, palm facing upward. you blink, unsure of what to do. he lets out an unsteady breath, reaching further until his hand wraps around your wrist ever so gently. you let him pull you toward his bedroom, your heart rate picking up the closer you get. he walks you inside, letting go of your wrists as he walks over to the closet. you stand still, afraid to move. you watch as he opens his closet, then he looks back to you.

"i wanna wear something nice. i need help finding it."

you let out a breath of relief you didn't know you were holding, walking over to the closet. you gently sift through his closet, most of his clothes being the same style and color shirt, same with the pants. however, you did manage to find a black polo that seemed to stand out. you take it out, finding the lightest pair of blue jeans he owned (which were still pretty dark) and pairing them together. you hand him the clothes and he assesses them skeptically. finally, he gives a nod of approval and lays them down on his bed. he turns back to face you, noticing the small smile on your face.

"what's funny?"

he glares at you, waiting for you to tease him about his wardrobe, or lack thereof.

"nothing's funny, i just think it's cool that you came to me for fashion advice."

he rolls his eyes at you, but he's not truly annoyed. he'd wanted to ask you for more than just fashion advice, but he wasn't feeling brave enough. a soft sigh escapes his lips as he walks toward the door.

"gonna clean the pool and work on the car some before we go."

you nod and watch him walk out without another word. you go off to the living room and find some way to pass the next couple hours.

you all were on the way to dinner, pope was driving his truck while you were in the passenger seat and lena was in the back. she was glancing out the window, watching the building on the street go by with a smile on her face.

"come on... can you please tell me where we're going?"

lena whines at you, causing you to chuckle. pope glances in the rearview, his eyes crinkling just a bit.

"we're almost there, lee. i told you it's a surprise!"

she groans in protest, flopping her head back against the car seat. but, as you promised, you shortly afterwards pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. pope got out, helping lena from her carseat. he frowns at you when he sees that you got out of the car by yourself, which makes you laugh. he grunts, watching lena take your hand as you walk toward the front door. he holds the door for you two, his hand ghosting the small of your back before he walks in behind you. you're all seated outside on the patio of the restaurant, admiring the view of the ocean from there. lena's eyes are wide with excitement as she takes in the view of the setting sun.

"best surprise ever!"

she wraps her little arms around you with a big grin. you return the embrace, running a hand over her hair. she sits back in her seat when it's time to order food. pope sits across from you and lena, meaning he could just watch you two interact for the next couple hours. you looked even more beautiful than he could imagine, the way the colors of the sunset made your skin glow. the way it all reflected in your eyes, he couldn't get enough of the view. he'd hardly even thought about the sunset when he had you right in front of him. as suspected, dinner went swimmingly and lena was already getting sleepy again.

"wanna walk on the beach for a couple minutes?"

you look over at lena, whose head is resting on your arm. she nods sleepily, little hands wrapped around your arm. you chuckle, looking over at pope who looked the most calm he ever had since you met him. he nods as well, getting up from his chair. he walks around the table to lena, gently lifting her into his arms, holding out his free hand to you. you smile and take his hand, walking down the wooden steps and into the sand. you walk closer to the shore, the view stealing the breath from your lungs. you look over at pope and lena, watching the way their expressions almost matched in awe. pope was still holding onto your hand tightly, the other firmly holding lena. these were the moments that pope thought he'd only be able to dream of, but yet here the three of you were.

lena's eventually fast asleep in his arms, head resting on his shoulder. he gently squeezed your hand, causing you to look over at him. he's closer than you remember, and before you can second guess yourself, you lean in and plant a soft kiss on his lips. he returns it almost immediately, although it was a bit haphazard. you pull away, rubbing your free hand along his bicep and resting your chin on his shoulder.

"should probably head back before sleeping beauty gets cranky."

he nods at your words, leading you all back toward the truck. he gets lena into the carseat without her waking up. this time, he doesn't let go of you, meaning he could open the passenger side door for you. you laugh at him again, climbing into the seat and buckling your seatbelt. he shuts the door gently and rounds the car to get into the driver's side. you make it back to the house and get out of the car while pope grabs lena again. you hold the door for him this time as he carries her off to her bed. you wait in the kitchen for him, sitting at one of the stools. he returns a couple minutes later, standing next to your stool. he's the one to lean in this time, kissing you with more intention than the previous time. his arms slip around your waist while your hands rest on his chest.

you sigh into the kiss, pulling him in closer by his shoulders. he leans into you, clearly not willing to pull away any time soon. you stand from the stool pressing him back against the counter as your tongue slips into his mouth. a soft groan escapes from him, but his tongue begins to tangle with yours soon after. his hands slip lower, over the curve of your ass, causing you to smirk against his lips. one of your hands slides through his soft curls, and they felt even better than you'd imagined. he sighs against you, continuing to kiss you with all of his effort. he whimpers when you pull away from him, the sound sending a tingly feeling all over your body. you walk toward his bedroom and he immediately follows behind you like a puppy.

once you're in his room, he pulls you back against him, kissing you again with a renewed sense of hunger. you moan into his mouth, reaching down and sliding his shirt over his head. your hands slide all over his muscular chest, earning yourself soft groans from his lips. he pushes you backwards until you fall back onto the bed with a small yelp. he removes your shoes for you, then climbs on top of you. he gently rests his weight onto you, pressing soft kisses along the corners of your mouth and your jawline. you gently trace your nails along the skin of his back, the sensation making his hard cock strain even more through his jeans. you feel his erection pressing against your thigh, and it only adds to the heat pooling low in your belly. you weren't sure how you and pope had even gotten to this point, but you surely weren't going to complain either.

he removes your clothes for you, followed by taking off his jeans. he starts trailing kisses lower, down your neck and over the swell of your breasts. you feel your back arch off the bed when he takes one of your sensitive nipples into his mouth and sucks lightly before rubbing it with his tongue. he moves over to the other side, groaning against you as he feels how worked up you're getting. then, he moves lower, kissing over your soft tummy. he pauses right at the hem of your panties, glancing up at you as if for approval. you sit up on your elbows, looking down at him with a lustful haze in your eyes. you nod slowly and shiver as he slides your panties down your legs. he feels his brain go fuzzy at the mere sight and smell of your arousal. not wasting a second, he leans in and licks a long stripe up your aching cunt. your fingers grip the sheets with a soft whine. your noises encourage him to do more, he starts sucking at your clit. you thought it couldn't get any better until he slipped his middle finger inside of you. you moan softly, falling back against the bed as he adds another finger. how the fuck was he so good at this? wasn't he supposed to be super inexperienced?

well- he was relatively inexperienced. but once he was for sure about wanting to be with you, he'd definitely started doing his research. his (now deleted) search history would be very incriminating, but you didn't have to know about it just yet. he continues to work at you, now whining lowly against your slick folds while his fingers worked into you gently. he could feel the way you squirmed beneath him and it filled him with pride. he would do whatever it took to make sure you were fully satisfied.

"a-andrew... i'm gonna-"

he moans loudly against you at the sound of his real name on your lips. he speeds up and changes the angle just right to have you coming hard on his tongue and fingers. he withdraws his fingers, leaning back over you to kiss you again. you feel goosebumps erupt over your skin as you taste your essence on his tongue. he pulls back just enough to suck your juices off of his fingers, a sight you'd be thinking about before bed for a *long* time. while kissing you, he nudges his boxers down just enough for his leaking cock to spring out. you gasp at the sight of it when he pulls back to grab a condom from his nightstand. you were quite sure he was packing heat, but you weren't expecting the absolute girth of his cock. he rolls the condom on before lining up with you entrance.

"you okay...?"

he asks quietly as he looks down at you. you nod and watch where your bodies are about to meet. he slides the tip in, groaning at how tight you were. his hands rest on your hips, thumbs trying to rub soothingly over the soft skin in hopes that you can relax for him a little bit. he leans over, kissing you gently enough that he finally feels you loosen up so he can push all the way in. you both moan as he bottoms out inside you. you'd never felt this full of anything in your entire life, but it was a welcomed feeling. one hand slips beneath your head while the other rests on your waist as he starts to slowly move in and out of you. the drag of his thick cock against your walls made you whine with need. he rests his forehead against yours, thrusts speeding up just enough to set a steady pace.

"feels good..."

he rasps against your skin, his fingers gently rubbing against your scalp as he held you. this intimate moment made you wonder how you ever able to stay away from him in the first place. this time, you lean up and kiss him, moving your hips to meet his thrusts. his hips stutter slightly as he already feels himself getting close. to make sure you were getting close as well, his hand slips between your bodies and rubs circles into your sensitive clit. your thighs begin to tremble around him, so he grabs onto them tightly and thrusts into you harder than before. the feeling of him so deep in you has your eyes rolling back into your head. his name echoes against the wall as you moan it continuously. he doesn't stop until you're clenching him so tightly he might be forced to slip out. you come with a ragged cry, nails digging into his shoulders. he spills inside the condom at the same time, thrusting a couple more times to help you ride out your high.

he leans down again, kissing you softly before collapsing beside you and pulling you against him. he grabs one of your thighs and drapes it over his waist, keeping you close. your breath starts to calm as you rest against him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. he stares at you, seeing the way your eyes were becoming heavy. he really wasn't interested in letting you go, so he tosses the covers over your bodies. he watches as you fall asleep in his arms, and suddenly everything felt as if it was all falling into place. at some point, even he falls asleep against you.

when you wake up the next morning, he's still next to you, but his eyes are open. he was clearly admiring you while you slept, but that didn't bother you in the slightest. you groan softly, feeling the soft ache between your legs as you move to stretch out your limbs. he runs a gentle hand over your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before sitting up and getting out of the bed.

"i'll start breakfast..."

he spoke quietly and you nodded, getting out of the bed as well. you desperately wanted a shower, so you walk into the bathroom and do so. when you emerge from the bathroom, you walk into the kitchen and see a freshly woken lena sitting at one of the stools. she gets up and hugs you tightly, asking if you'd eat outside with her. you nodded with a soft smile and helped pope carry the food out to the picnic table in the backyard. you all enjoyed your meal in a comfortable silence. lena sat between the two of you, but pope still managed to rub your back every now and again. you smiled, feeling warm inside, like you could definitely get used to this family life with pope and lena.

a/n: IT'S SO FLUFFY I'M GONNA DIE!!!! sorry if this plot was buns guys i tried my best, but it felt off. maybe i'll write something similar to this in the future when i'm feeling more inspired. but anyway, THANK YOU FOR READING, LOVE YOU LOTS, AND STAY SEXAAAYYY!!!!!! <333

this was requested by these two lovely people: @mimiviolette and @nightpitt !!! thank you so much cuties <3

taglist: @nyxmoretti @popecodysgirl @romantic-insomniac @sunbonesss @in-ky @thedivinegirlyp0p @uncassettodiricordi

divider creds: @/uzmacchiato