synopsis: in which spencer is so focused on taking care of your family that he forgets about himself
pairing: dad! spencer x gn parent! reader
genre: fluff
wc: 1.1k
notes/tags: lowkey not a fan of this but i believe in posting everything, inspired by my own sunburn <3, boy dad AND girl dad spence for both target audiences, spence uses magic as bribery, it was very painful to type ‘soccer’ as a brit
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it helps promote the fic so much !!
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You raised a hand over your eyes, shielding them from the glaring sun and leaning back on your free palm as you watched your kids run around just ahead of you. The picnic blanket Spencer had laid out for you was warm, littered with fruit and candy and paper cups spread out between you both. He seemed to be examining the sun, his own shielded eyes darting between the sky and your children as they kicked around the football they’d brought along.
“I think we need to reapply their sunscreen.” He said, reaching for your kids’ backpacks.
“Are you sure?” You turned to look at him and the warm flush on his cheeks. “We only put it on them a couple hours ago.”
Spencer rummaged through your daughter’s dinosaur backpack before finally finding the bottle, pulling it out and setting it on the blanket. “Exactly. The recommended wait time between applications is approximately two hours, and given the fact they’ve been running around and sweating it off for one of those hours they’re actually overdue.”
You felt yourself smile as you turned your attention back to your kids, just in time to see your son let his little sister score a goal in their make-shift soccer field marked by twigs. Your husband had tried to play alongside them for a while, but was ultimately benched when he stumbled over his own feet for the third time.
“They’re also due a hydration break.” He muttered, diving back into the bags. “Where are the chips we packed? They need something salty to replenish their electrolytes.”
“You know we’re just watching them play, not coaching a soccer game.” You teased, smirking at him over your shoulder.
“Well, I did coach in high school.”
You tilted your head at him. “I thought that was basketball?”
“I dabbled in soccer too.” He shrugged, zipping the bag shut and gently tossing it to the side. “But don’t tell Morgan. He’ll realise I was hustling him in his game against Anderson as payback for that prank he pulled on me.”
“You’re full of surprises, Dr Reid.” Laughing, you took a sip of the lemonade he’d poured for you, leaning back once more and feeling the warmth of the sun kiss your skin. “I take it you want me to reapply too?”
Spencer leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple as he placed the spare bottle of sunscreen in your hand. “Have I ever told you how smart you are?”
Chuckling, you unscrewed the cap, finding yourself thanking the summer heat for disguising the blush in your cheeks. He waved your kids over, offering his sarcastic apologies when they grumbled and groaned and trudged their way back to the picnic blanket.
“But Daddy, it feels yucky!” Your daughter whined, snatching her arm back when Spencer reached out for it.
“I’ll bet you sunburn feels even yuckier.” You chimed in as you slathered your own arms.
“I bet it doesn’t.” She huffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her bottom lip jutted out in a pout, looking awfully familiar as her big brown eyes narrowed at him. It’s like looking at a pair of twins, you thought.
“I guarantee it does.” Spencer reached out again, tucking her breeze blown hair behind her ears. “Sore burns, peeling skin- nausea. This is serious, honey.”
Her eyes dropped to the floor as she scuffed her shoe against the grass stubbornly. Spencer sighed, gently tilting her head back up to look at him. Her face was red, her skin brandishing a light flush that made a little knot of panic tighten in his chest.
“Sweetheart, are you sure I can’t-“ he returned his hand to her ear, pulling back a piece of candy seemingly from thin air, “bribe you?”
Instantly her eyes lit up, widening with marvel as she squealed. “How did you do that!” She giggled, sticking her hand out to take the candy from him, only for him to pull it back.
“You have to let Daddy put your sunscreen on okay?” You nudged, but she was nodding before you’d even finished speaking, enthusiastically lunging for the sweet as she plopped herself down cross legged on the blanket.
Your son watched on, amazed, before grinning at Spencer. “Dad, I think there’s something in my ear too!”
A short while later and many magic pieces of candy down they were both running around again, Spencer at ease for another couple of hours and peacefully snacking on the cookies you’d brought for him. He’d been thorough, the sunscreen practically becoming a second layer of skin everywhere the sun’s rays might reach- their hands, their faces, all the way to the tips of their noses, even behind the ears he’d pulled all the magic candy from.
“Happy now?” You said, shuffling on the blanket until the rolled up sleeve of his cardigan was brushing your arm.
“Hmm.” He hummed, nose scrunching. “Almost.”
“Almost?”
Holding back a smile, he raised his arm, beckoning you closer with a tilt of his head. You obliged in a heartbeat, letting his arm fall around you, tucking you into his side as your head lolled onto his shoulder. You could’ve fallen asleep as he placed a tender kiss to your crown.
“Now I’m happy.”
Bonus
Later At Home
“Oh my God.” You gasped. Spencer was shuffling slowly into the kitchen, skin red and raw. “Oh, honey you look like you were roasted on a spit.”
“Yeah, I know.” He murmured miserably. You stepped towards him, gently brushing the tip of his nose with one finger, pulling away when he winced through his teeth.
“I’m sorry!” Looking him up and down, you pouted at the redness sticking out of his sleeves and creeping up his chest and to his neck. “How did this even happen? All you did today was talk about sunscreen.”
“I was so focused on making sure the kids were safe,” he looked down pathetically, almost whimpering at the sight of his burning skin, “I guess I forgot about myself.”
You sighed, wanting to reach out for him but not wanting to hurt him. Despite the wounded-puppy look on his face you couldn’t help the tiny smile pulling at your lips. Of course Spencer Reid would get so swept up in magic tricks and reciting the dangers of sun damage that he would forget to actually protect himself from it.
“You’re too caring for your own good.” You risked a hand in his hair, carefully avoiding his scalp as you brushed your fingers through it. “Diagnosis: sunburn. Treatment?”
“Aloe vera?” Spencer’s head tilted, following your movements.
“You need help putting it on?”
He smiled at you, small and slightly embarrassed. “Please.”
Giggling softly, you held out your hand for him to take, delighted that his hands were sunburn-free enough to do so. “Come on, Rudolph.”
synopsis: in which spencer is so focused on taking care of your family that he forgets about himself
pairing: dad! spencer x gn parent! reader
genre: fluff
wc: 1.1k
notes/tags: lowkey not a fan of this but i believe in posting everything, inspired by my own sunburn <3, boy dad AND girl dad spence for both target audiences, spence uses magic as bribery, it was very painful to type ‘soccer’ as a brit
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it helps promote the fic so much !!
————————————☀️———————————
You raised a hand over your eyes, shielding them from the glaring sun and leaning back on your free palm as you watched your kids run around just ahead of you. The picnic blanket Spencer had laid out for you was warm, littered with fruit and candy and paper cups spread out between you both. He seemed to be examining the sun, his own shielded eyes darting between the sky and your children as they kicked around the football they’d brought along.
“I think we need to reapply their sunscreen.” He said, reaching for your kids’ backpacks.
“Are you sure?” You turned to look at him and the warm flush on his cheeks. “We only put it on them a couple hours ago.”
Spencer rummaged through your daughter’s dinosaur backpack before finally finding the bottle, pulling it out and setting it on the blanket. “Exactly. The recommended wait time between applications is approximately two hours, and given the fact they’ve been running around and sweating it off for one of those hours they’re actually overdue.”
You felt yourself smile as you turned your attention back to your kids, just in time to see your son let his little sister score a goal in their make-shift soccer field marked by twigs. Your husband had tried to play alongside them for a while, but was ultimately benched when he stumbled over his own feet for the third time.
“They’re also due a hydration break.” He muttered, diving back into the bags. “Where are the chips we packed? They need something salty to replenish their electrolytes.”
“You know we’re just watching them play, not coaching a soccer game.” You teased, smirking at him over your shoulder.
“Well, I did coach in high school.”
You tilted your head at him. “I thought that was basketball?”
“I dabbled in soccer too.” He shrugged, zipping the bag shut and gently tossing it to the side. “But don’t tell Morgan. He’ll realise I was hustling him in his game against Anderson as payback for that prank he pulled on me.”
“You’re full of surprises, Dr Reid.” Laughing, you took a sip of the lemonade he’d poured for you, leaning back once more and feeling the warmth of the sun kiss your skin. “I take it you want me to reapply too?”
Spencer leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple as he placed the spare bottle of sunscreen in your hand. “Have I ever told you how smart you are?”
Chuckling, you unscrewed the cap, finding yourself thanking the summer heat for disguising the blush in your cheeks. He waved your kids over, offering his sarcastic apologies when they grumbled and groaned and trudged their way back to the picnic blanket.
“But Daddy, it feels yucky!” Your daughter whined, snatching her arm back when Spencer reached out for it.
“I’ll bet you sunburn feels even yuckier.” You chimed in as you slathered your own arms.
“I bet it doesn’t.” She huffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her bottom lip jutted out in a pout, looking awfully familiar as her big brown eyes narrowed at him. It’s like looking at a pair of twins, you thought.
“I guarantee it does.” Spencer reached out again, tucking her breeze blown hair behind her ears. “Sore burns, peeling skin- nausea. This is serious, honey.”
Her eyes dropped to the floor as she scuffed her shoe against the grass stubbornly. Spencer sighed, gently tilting her head back up to look at him. Her face was red, her skin brandishing a light flush that made a little knot of panic tighten in his chest.
“Sweetheart, are you sure I can’t-“ he returned his hand to her ear, pulling back a piece of candy seemingly from thin air, “bribe you?”
Instantly her eyes lit up, widening with marvel as she squealed. “How did you do that!” She giggled, sticking her hand out to take the candy from him, only for him to pull it back.
“You have to let Daddy put your sunscreen on okay?” You nudged, but she was nodding before you’d even finished speaking, enthusiastically lunging for the sweet as she plopped herself down cross legged on the blanket.
Your son watched on, amazed, before grinning at Spencer. “Dad, I think there’s something in my ear too!”
A short while later and many magic pieces of candy down they were both running around again, Spencer at ease for another couple of hours and peacefully snacking on the cookies you’d brought for him. He’d been thorough, the sunscreen practically becoming a second layer of skin everywhere the sun’s rays might reach- their hands, their faces, all the way to the tips of their noses, even behind the ears he’d pulled all the magic candy from.
“Happy now?” You said, shuffling on the blanket until the rolled up sleeve of his cardigan was brushing your arm.
“Hmm.” He hummed, nose scrunching. “Almost.”
“Almost?”
Holding back a smile, he raised his arm, beckoning you closer with a tilt of his head. You obliged in a heartbeat, letting his arm fall around you, tucking you into his side as your head lolled onto his shoulder. You could’ve fallen asleep as he placed a tender kiss to your crown.
“Now I’m happy.”
Bonus
Later At Home
“Oh my God.” You gasped. Spencer was shuffling slowly into the kitchen, skin red and raw. “Oh, honey you look like you were roasted on a spit.”
“Yeah, I know.” He murmured miserably. You stepped towards him, gently brushing the tip of his nose with one finger, pulling away when he winced through his teeth.
“I’m sorry!” Looking him up and down, you pouted at the redness sticking out of his sleeves and creeping up his chest and to his neck. “How did this even happen? All you did today was talk about sunscreen.”
“I was so focused on making sure the kids were safe,” he looked down pathetically, almost whimpering at the sight of his burning skin, “I guess I forgot about myself.”
You sighed, wanting to reach out for him but not wanting to hurt him. Despite the wounded-puppy look on his face you couldn’t help the tiny smile pulling at your lips. Of course Spencer Reid would get so swept up in magic tricks and reciting the dangers of sun damage that he would forget to actually protect himself from it.
“You’re too caring for your own good.” You risked a hand in his hair, carefully avoiding his scalp as you brushed your fingers through it. “Diagnosis: sunburn. Treatment?”
“Aloe vera?” Spencer’s head tilted, following your movements.
“You need help putting it on?”
He smiled at you, small and slightly embarrassed. “Please.”
Giggling softly, you held out your hand for him to take, delighted that his hands were sunburn-free enough to do so. “Come on, Rudolph.”
synopsis: when spencer comes home from a rough case in the middle of the night tired and injured, he wants nothing more than to spend the day in bed with you (and to make you breakfast)
genre: fluff !
wc: 1.6k
notes/tags: another sleepy spence fic? from cherrygarcia-07? its likelier than you think, im so sorry that im always writing him hurt i promise i love him, spencer has Anxiety, puppy coded! spencer strikes again
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it helps promote the fic so much !!
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It was odd. You were sure you’d fallen asleep in a bigger bed than you’d woken up in. Now that you think about it, the bed was colder last night too. You blinked awake slowly, adjusting to the amber glow peeking through the blinds, listening to the distant sound of the world waking up outside. The sun. Of course. That must be why it felt so warm. Yet as you caught up with your consciousness you became aware of a weight over your waist, small, rhythmic puffs of air against the back of your neck. Your lips melted into a sleepy smile as you realised.
Spencer.
He must’ve come home in the middle of the night, careful not to wake you as he climbed into bed beside you. You could picture him, all heavy limbs weighed down with exhaustion and tie discarded on the sofa somewhere in the dark as he shuffled like a zombie into your shared room. It was never easy for him, coming home this late. The team usually stayed overnight wherever they were when a case ended deep in the night, opting to make it home for the morning instead. Whatever case they’d been working on must’ve been harrowing enough that they just wanted to get away as fast as possible.
You stretched as much as you could without stirring him, delighting in his sleepy grumble as he dreamily nuzzled further into you. From the way he had anchored himself to you, you could tell this was a much needed rest. You lay there for a while just listening to him, to the steady sound of his breathing and the occasional murmurs and mumbles that accompanied them, before you found yourself itching with the urge to see his face. Slowly, cautiously, you turned over in his grasp, cringing at every creak of the mattress and each rustle of sheets. Ah, there he is.
There was a graze on his cheek, red and raw and stinging- but he was alive. A cut curved over his lip, dark, dried blood making it look worse than it probably was but it made your chest tighten all the same. His hair fanned out over the pillow behind him, a little stringy like he’d been too drained to wash it. You made a note to do it for him when he was ready. Gently, you let your finger hover over the deep purple beneath his eyes, confirmation that this was probably the first decent sleep he’d gotten all week. Spencer’s cheekbones were always prominent. You always told him it made him look like a statue, carved and chiseled like he belonged in a museum. Yet now as the rising sunlight found them, the shadows beneath them looking darker and more hollow than usual- he looked frail.
You lay there for a while, just observing. It was something he often did to you after a bad case, too hyper vigilant to let himself rest. He needed the confirmation that you were okay, he needed to see the rise and fall of your chest to steady his own. It wasn’t often that it was the other way round.
“How long have you been watching me?” A low voice mumbled. It was thin and gravelly, like he’d been yelling until it broke.
“Hm?” You looked up from where you’d been staring at the split in his lip to find two half-lidded eyes squinting at you. “I haven’t been.”
Spencer let out a small huffed laugh. “That’s funny. I could’ve sworn I’ve been feeling your breath on my face for the past five minutes.”
“Nope. Must’ve dreamt it.” He began to smile but began wincing where his lip clearly stung. You kept your voice gentle as you swiped your thumb across it. “Are you okay?”
He groaned, like he deliberated answering and ultimately decided against it. Instead he lifted his arm from your waist, beckoning you closer against his chest. “Come here.”
You obliged, biting back your insistence and cuddling into him. He’d tell you when he was ready. For now, you allowed yourself to sink into him, feeling his arms wrap around you as you slung your legs over his. It’d been a long case. Too many nights of falling asleep in an empty bed, of not waking to the smell of coffee that always seemed to cling to him. Spencer’s knuckles began grazing up and down your spine, a hypnotic rhythm threatening to lull you back to sleep right there.
He let out a content sigh, mumbling to himself. “I think I’m going to stay home today.”
“What?” Your eyes shot open. In all the years you’d known him, he’d never ever taken a day off for himself. For his mother? Of course. For you? In a heartbeat. But you were convinced he would rather crawl into work straight from his deathbed than to simply exist at home with nothing important to do. Rolling off of him slightly, you propped yourself up so that your face hovered over his, narrowed eyes squinting down at him. “Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”
He pouted, as if the sudden absence of you in his arms was physically breaking his heart. “I got my report done on the jet. I don’t have any paperwork that needs doing.” He reached out, desperately trying to guide you back to him and pouting even more when you stayed put. “I just really want to stay home today.”
“And do what?” You asked, leaning down and giving him a peck on the tip of his nose to appease the big, sad eyes he was giving you.
“Nothing.” He shrugged.
“Nothing?” Your eyebrows shot up, scandalised. “Pigs must be flying.”
Spencer chuckled, wincing as his split lip protested. “The idea of laying on the sofa in my pyjamas with you and catching up on Doctor Who is far more appealing to me than sitting at my desk for eight hours while everyone fails to pretend the past week didn’t happen. And for once, I have an opportunity to do the former.”
“The case was that bad?” You asked softly. You tried to soothe him, gently brushing back his sleep-tousled hair from his forehead, but his gaze dropped.
“Can you please just come here?” His voice was small as his big eyes found you again, his arm reaching for you once more and this time you let him pull you back into the warmth of his chest.
“So I’m not allowed to get up and make you breakfast?” You muffled into his shirt.
His arms wrapped even tighter around you. “I can make my own breakfast. And yours too while I’m up.”
You tried to lift your head up, but you found it pinned beneath his chin, breath fanning over the flushed skin of his neck. “What happened to doing nothing?”
“I am doing nothing.” He retorted, and though you couldn’t see his face you could tell his eyebrows had pinched. After so long, you could practically hear it in his voice, in the way his inflection rose ever so slightly. The perfect foundation for teasing him.
“Well,” you began, smiling against his neck, “‘doing nothing’ implies lying here motionless. Not getting up, not moving, not talking- definitely not making us both breakfast. Literally ‘doing nothing’. Unless of course you meant it figuratively- but that’s not what you said so…”
“Are you-“ Spencer let out a sharp laugh, his chest jostling beneath you. “Are you really arguing semantics with me right now so that I’ll let you make me breakfast?”
“Depends.” Finding your strength, you untangled yourself from his grasp just enough to hover your face over his again. “Is it working?”
“No.” He laughed again, a grin growing on his face much to the misfortune of his split lip. “But it was a very cute attempt.”
A tiny drop of blood emerged from the cut, making you cringe with concern as you lifted your thumb to it and swiped it away. As the sun continued to flood the room, the graze on his cheek seemed darker, angrier where it intruded his skin. Even the way he clung to you felt pained, desperation worsening his aching bones as he fastened you to him like he’d fall apart without you. Whatever happened must’ve haunted him. He was often a little over protective, a little obsessive over your safety. But it wasn’t often that he was afraid to let you out of his sight, especially in your own apartment.
“You want me to come with you?” Your hand drifted to his cheek, sweeping over the raw skin as gently as you could. “Make breakfast together?”
Beneath you, Spencer’s chest deflated like he was exhaling all the terror that had flooded his lungs over the past week. He took your hand from his cheek, bringing it to his lips and pressing a thankful kiss to your knuckles. “Please.”
“Alright.” You flashed him a smile, kissing his lips before pulling away with a teasing glimmer in your eyes. “You can do that thing where you hug me from behind like a koala and pretend to be helpful while I do all the work.”
“What?” He squeaked, following you as you hopped out of bed. “I do not do that.”
You turned the corner into the kitchen, laughing as he followed at your heel like a puppy. “You totally do. I bet you the last pancake in the stack that you do.”
“Deal.” He scoffed. “I can’t wait to eat that last pancake.”
SAVE THE DATE - a prof!reader x Spencer Reid event
YOU'RE INVITED! Join Spencer Reid and prof!reader as they prepare for the upcoming wedding—going shopping together, ironing out their fake dating story, and growing closer along the way. I will post one fic every other day, for a total of five fics, all of which will be added to the series masterlist, slotted in between parts to fit the main timeline.
Please note, they ARE NOT the ones getting married—just attendees… as a fake couple…
SAVE THE DATES:
Thursday, July 23
Saturday, July 25
Monday, July 27
Wednesday, July 29
Friday, July 31
PINK IN THE NIGHT masterlist | main masterlist | event tag: esoterika's save the date
good morning or night! I hope your day has been lovely so far. I had an idea for a short Matt writing, if you’d be willing.
have you ever seen the post online about this woman (lives in an apartment complex) who gained a crush on her blind neighbor? She started wearing the same perfume everyday and always using the wrong key first to unlock her door, so that he’d know it was her. And I just thought that was adorable. How would Matt react to a situation similar to that?
a/n: thank you so much for your request :) i'm so sorry it took me this long to get to it. life has genuinely been insane lately. adulting amirite. anw, I hope u like it! havent written in a while so this may be absolute shit. hah.
Matt knew something was up.
The new neighbour in apartment 6B had never been this clumsy before. He's sure of it because she's been occupying his thoughts far too much as of late.
Can you blame him? The guy has heightened senses. He doesn't want to listen to your botched impression of Frank Sinatra while you sweep your floors. It's just that… the sound waves happen to make it to his ears. He can't help it!
These observations, ones his brain had filed away way before you'd even introduced yourself, are what make him question why you've gotten… louder.
He's heard your (several) keychains jingle as you unlock your door, every day at five p.m. He's memorised the subtle scents of your vanilla deodorant and lavender shampoo. The scruff of your converse and the drag of your untied laces against the floor are enough to alert him of your presence.
Yet, ever since you finally worked up the courage to have your first conversation with him, things… changed.
You'd been there a week, spending most of it unpacking and decorating and making several trips downstairs to throw out boxes because of course the elevator doesn't work, when you finally mustered up the courage to introduce yourself.
You'd never been a very social person. Quiet, reserved, the kid in the back of the class diligently working on their assignment. You like keeping to yourself. You were sure you'd go a month without even knowing your (hot) neighbour's name if it weren't for the two of you meeting in the hallway.
You'd stepped out in your pajamas, about to head downstairs for your pizza delivery, when you saw him coming upstairs. That hard set of his jaw, dark red glasses reflecting the ceiling light, suit slightly rumpled from the workday, and… was that a bruise under his eye?
Whatever. You're not here to stare at attractive men. Get your pizza and go.
But then the end of his cane just happened to bump against your foot.
“Oh, sorry,” you muttered awkwardly, stepping back. The way he tilted his head to the side, like a curious puppy, was unfairly attractive.
“No worries. You're my new neighbour, right? 6B?” Matt replies smoothly, with the annoying confidence of a man who knows he's irresistible.
You blinked, red in the face, instinctively fixing your hair before realising how embarrassingly stupid that is. “Yeah. I just moved in a week or so ago.”
His smile is more of an amused smirk. You've never felt so observed.
“Matt,” he says, extending his hand for you to shake. You notice the callouses on his hands before you remember to say your own name. It's annoying how attractive he is. How even his voice as he tests your name on his tongue sounds like it belongs in a rom-com (or on pornhub). How his tie is just slightly loosened, the curve of his pink lips, the stubble on his face, his slender fingers. You're starting to feel like a pervert now.
After the most awkward conversation of your life (awkward on your part, amusing on his), you decide you just have to get his attention.
Typically, in movies, you'd watched women dress themselves up to get their love interest’s attention. Clearly, that won’t work for this scenario. Scandalous tops and pretty hair-dos won't cut it.
So, you focus on the other senses.
You start wearing high heels instead of converse. You spray on so much perfume it gives you a headache the first time. You ‘accidentally’ drop your keys while unlocking your door. Essentially, you turn yourself into a nuisance just for an opportunity to spark conversations with Matt.
And somehow, it seems to work.
It had taken a while, and a lot of convincing from Foggy and Karen, but Matt finally admitted to himself that you might be doing this for him. The timeline matches up. You'd never answered phone calls in the hallway or smelled that… strong before.
And besides, Matt knows what he's doing. That evil little fucker knows he's charming enough to get into anyone's pants, pre-established crush or not. So, he starts conversations with you. He knows damn well by now that you're too awkward to do it yourself.
He compliments your perfume. Asks you questions and actually listens—with that annoyingly sexy smirk and tilted head. He ‘bumps into’ you at the corner store.
Matt beams the day you show up at his door with a box of cookies, shifting your weight on your feet, your heart racing as you thrust the box into his hands. “I, um, made extra. So, I thought I might share. …They're chocolate chip!”
He makes sure his fingers brush yours when he accepts the box. Prolongs the moment because hearing your heart beat faster and your words get clumsier as you take him in—soft gray t-shirt, sweatpants hanging loose, messy hair, and dear god, he's not wearing his glasses. You can't believe the universe deprived you of his beautiful eyes for this long. They're brown with the tiniest hint of green around the edges, almost go—
He clears his throat. You blink.
“Sorry— what were you saying?”
Matt has to bite back a chuckle. He almost feels bad for you, you poor thing. You're so flustered you don't know what to do with yourself. He can't imagine the other ways he could affect you.
So, in a moment of impulsivity, and probably far too many hormones, he gestures to his apartment with his head. “Please, come in. We can share.”
Chocolate chip cookies aren't the only thing the two of you share that night.
And the best part? You so confidently think this had been your doing, that those extra lengths you'd gone to were what got his attention. As if he hadn't been noticing you since the day you moved in.
He lets you have it. You need to work on your self esteem anyway.
one of these days my body is going to give up on my mind. they've been in a toxic, push-and-pull relationship since before they knew each other's names. the kind where one is too stubborn to give up on the self-destructive one. the mind doesn't seem to have any plans to stop. it'll try and try, listen to the body, attempt to fuel and fix and rest and treat, but one tick and the mind runs to the safety of darkness again. to the familiarity of anguish.
because what is safety if not what you're comfortable with? if not what you've known all your life? if not what is familiar? the mind has attempted to listen. it's tried to believed that one just needs to accept happiness in and let it sit before it starts seeping into every corner rather than looming over the mind in one big chunk. but how long? is it truly worth it to sit there, in a state of discomfort, of anxiety, just for the chance that the mind may hold out long enough? it's not as if the happiness would override the anguish during its spreading process. the darkness will always remain in the cracks and crevices, in the nooks and crannies that the light can not reach. even if, some fateful day, happiness spreads just enough to start feeling warmer than the dark, who's to say it won't climb back out again? who's to deny the darkness of its home? the home its lived in all its life and has now suddenly been evicted from? because, what, it doesn't belong? why would it have been there in the first place then?
who's to say joy and anguish aren't inherently similar? both represent abstract concepts, can be categorised by the close-minded into simply good and bad. but if the dread's been there long enough that it aches the second factory-engineered-serotonin tries to fight it, you wonder who the true villain really is. isn't depriving one of their home, convincing them they don't belong, a bad thing?
please write more dad!harvey it brought me to tears and you write it so well!!
𝑆𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟. ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚.
when Harvey walks into the office on his day off in a three-piece suit, your daughter on his hip like it’s nothing unusual, the firm’s best-kept secret quickly becomes everyone’s favourite gossip.
꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Thank you, anon. Genuinely, that means a whole ton. I’ll likely write more when the mood strikes again—he’s not done with me yet, so there’s probably more of him coming eventually.
︶⊹︶︶⠀†⠀︶︶⊹︶
By eleven o’clock on a quiet Thursday morning, Pearson Specter was running on the subdued energy of people who had come in voluntarily and regretted it almost immediately.
Associates moved through the bullpen with coffees in hand, senior partners barked instructions through half-open office doors, and the steady hum of printers and phones carried across the thirty-second floor.
Then Harvey Specter stepped out of the elevator carrying a baby.
At first, no one reacted properly because the sight made so little sense that it took several seconds for anyone’s brain to catch up. Harvey looked exactly as he always did—immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, polished shoes, expensive watch, coat folded over one arm, expression composed with the effortless confidence that usually preceded either a million-dollar deal or someone getting fired.
The only difference was the small child balanced comfortably against his shoulder, one tiny hand fisted in the lapel of his suit jacket.
Donna looked up from her desk, smiled automatically, and then froze so completely that the smile remained suspended on her face like a glitch.
“Harvey,” she said slowly, as though testing whether he was real.
“Donna.”
“Why are you here?”
“My partner’s working.”
That should have been the shocking part, but somehow it wasn’t. The truly catastrophic detail arrived a second later, when Harvey adjusted the baby higher against his shoulder and the golden band on his left hand caught the light.
Donna stared.
Not because she had never seen the ring before, but because she suddenly realised she had seen it hundreds of times and had somehow never questioned it. Harvey had been wearing a wedding ring long enough for everyone’s brain to quietly file it under things that belong to Harvey, alongside tailored suits and impossible confidence.
“You’re married,” she said, sounding personally betrayed by the discovery.
Harvey frowned faintly, as though she had just informed him the sky was blue. “Yes.”
“Since when?”
“A while.”
“That is not a time frame.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but the baby chose that moment to lift her head, revealing enormous hazel eyes and a soft pink bow tied into dark hair that looked suspiciously familiar. She blinked sleepily, looked up at Harvey, and said, with the solemn importance unique to toddlers, “Dada.”
Donna made a strangled noise that sounded like every maternal instinct she possessed colliding at once.
Harvey’s entire face changed. The sharp edges softened, the habitual guard dropped away, and he smiled down at her with an ease that almost nobody inside the firm had ever witnessed. “Morning, sweetheart.”
Tiny fingers immediately reached for his tie and grabbed it with triumph.
“Oh my God,” Donna whispered, now fully committed to her emotional crisis. “You have a daughter.”
“Still true.”
Only then did she properly notice what the little girl was wearing.
A white frilly dress with delicate embroidered flowers along the hem, white frilled socks, and tiny pink shoes polished to an almost absurd shine. Everything matched. Everything fit. Everything was somehow immaculate despite the fact she was currently chewing thoughtfully on the end of Harvey’s tie.
Donna narrowed her eyes. “Who dressed her?”
“I did.”
“No, seriously.”
“Donna.”
“Harvey, that outfit has coordination.”
He looked down at his daughter with unmistakable pride. “I’m capable of matching colours.”
“On a baby?”
“Different size. Same principles.”
By now the entire bullpen had quietly stopped pretending not to stare. Associates whispered behind computer screens, secretaries exchanged looks, and one junior lawyer nearly walked into a glass wall while trying to get a better view. Harvey ignored all of them with the ease of a man who had spent his career being watched.
He simply shifted his daughter onto one arm and headed for your office.
You were halfway through revising a contract when your door opened without a knock.
“You said you’d be fifteen minutes,” you said without looking up.
“I got distracted.”
“Harvey, you left forty-five minutes ago.”
“Traffic.”
“In the elevator?”
Only then did you glance up, and the rest of the sentence disappeared from your mind.
Harvey stood in the doorway looking entirely too pleased with himself, your daughter balanced on his hip and dressed like she belonged in the catalogue of a very expensive children’s boutique. The pink bow sat perfectly in her hair. Her shoes matched it. Even her socks had been folded neatly.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Well. Someone looks adorable.”
Your daughter squealed, immediately reaching for you.
You crossed the office and kissed the top of her head before Harvey set her carefully onto the leather sofa. Instead of immediately climbing onto the furniture like a tiny gremlin, she remained where he placed her, legs swinging happily while he crouched to straighten the skirt of her dress and adjust one sock that had slipped slightly lower than the other.
“There,” he said, leaning back to admire his work before looking up at you with the smug satisfaction of a man presenting evidence in court. “See? I’m capable.”
You folded your arms, taking your time as you inspected both him and the child. “You dressed her yourself?”
“Every piece.”
“Including the bow?”
“Took two attempts.”
“And the shoes?”
“Matched them intentionally.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. “I genuinely expected you’d show up with her wearing one sock, your pocket square, and whatever jacket was closest to the door.”
Harvey looked deeply offended. “That is an outrageous accusation.”
“You once forgot your own suitcase on a business trip.”
“I remembered the important things.”
“Like what?”
“You.”
The answer arrived so easily, so matter-of-factly, that it caught you off guard despite years of marriage. Harvey merely loosened his tie where tiny fingers had wrinkled it and sat beside your daughter, lifting her onto his lap as though the motion were the most natural thing in the world.
She settled against his chest immediately, one small hand patting the fabric of his vest while he absently smoothed her hair.
Outside the glass walls of your office, people were absolutely staring. By Monday morning the entire firm would know that Harvey Specter was married with a daughter, and apparently enough paternal devotion to spend his day off colour-coordinating a toddler’s outfit.
Inside the office, though, none of that seemed particularly important.
Harvey looked at you over your daughter’s head, the wedding ring on his hand catching the afternoon light, and smiled with a softness that belonged to almost no one else.
“So,” he said, entirely unaware that he had just become the biggest piece of gossip Pearson Specter had seen in years, “are you impressed yet?”
Harvey leaned back into the sofa, one arm draped along the backrest while the other remained securely around your daughter, who had become entirely fascinated by the buttons on his waistcoat.
Her tiny fingers worked with determined concentration, occasionally managing to slip one free before Harvey quietly fastened it again without so much as glancing down.
You watched him for a moment before returning to your desk, gathering together the loose pages you had abandoned the moment they'd walked through the door. There was little point pretending you were about to return to work.
Harvey had never been particularly good at simply dropping by, and today, with your daughter perched comfortably on his lap, there wasn't a chance either of you would be discussing anything remotely legal.
"So," you said, sinking back into your chair and turning it slightly towards them, "how did nursery go?"
Harvey's eyes lifted immediately, the corners of his mouth softening into something that barely qualified as a smile and yet somehow meant infinitely more than the cocky grins he handed out in courtrooms.
"It was good."
"'Good'?"
"It was..." He paused, searching for a word he didn't often have to search for. "Better than I expected."
You smiled knowingly. "I told you she'd settle."
"I know."
"You were convinced she'd cry the entire morning," you said, unable to keep the knowing smile from your face as you watched him absentmindedly smooth another invisible crease from the skirt of her dress.
Harvey's eyes flicked up to yours, a faint crease forming between his brows in immediate protest. "I wasn't convinced."
"No?" You leaned back slightly in your chair, folding your arms with quiet amusement. "You packed three comfort toys."
"They all serve different purposes," he replied without missing a beat, as though that explained everything.
One eyebrow arched almost instinctively.
Harvey caught the look and, instead of backing down, merely adjusted your daughter's dress where it had slipped from one shoulder, his expression remaining infuriatingly sincere.
"They're emotionally distinct."
A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and the corner of Harvey's mouth betrayed him, lifting into the smallest smile despite the fact he was clearly trying to maintain his dignity.
"I was being prepared."
"You were panicking."
"I was not panicking," he said, the denial arriving just a fraction too quickly to be convincing.
"You asked the teacher six different questions before you'd even taken your coat off."
"I wanted to know the staff-to-child ratio." Harvey shrugged lightly, as though that were an entirely reasonable concern, one hand absently rubbing slow circles against your daughter's back while she continued to fiddle with the buttons on his waistcoat.
"You asked whether they sanitised the crayons."
"They put everything in their mouths," he defended, looking genuinely baffled that this required any explanation at all.
"And then," you continued, unable to resist dragging out the evidence against him, "you asked whether the climbing frame complied with safety regulations."
"It looked high."
"It was about two feet tall."
Harvey glanced down at your daughter, who chose that exact moment to enthusiastically throw one leg over his lap in an attempt to investigate his watch instead.
"Two feet," he repeated quietly, almost to himself. "For someone her size, that's still... proportionally significant."
You simply stared at him.
He had the grace to avoid your eyes and llet out a slow breath through his nose, somewhere between accepting defeat and refusing to admit it. "I was doing due diligence."
"You were hovering."
"I was parenting."
Your daughter, blissfully unaware that she had become the subject of debate, abandoned Harvey's waistcoat in favour of reaching up to pat his cheek. The gesture was clumsy, little more than an enthusiastic slap cushioned by impossibly small fingers, but Harvey reacted as though she'd handed him something precious.
His expression softened immediately.
"Okay, wow."
She giggled.
The sound filled the office with an ease that expensive furniture and polished glass never could.
You found yourself watching Harvey more than you were watching her.
He wasn't performing. There was no audience he was trying to impress, no carefully crafted persona sitting across from you in one of his immaculate suits. His shoulders had relaxed against the sofa, his tie sat ever so slightly crooked where small hands had tugged at it all morning, and there was something almost impossibly gentle in the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked circles against your daughter's back.
"So?" you prompted quietly.
He looked back at you. "She made a friend."
"A friend?"
"Mhm."
"Already?"
"There was another little girl." He nodded towards your daughter, who was now trying with immense concentration to fit two fingers into one of Harvey's cufflinks.
"They apparently spent half the morning following each other around."
"Following?"
"The teacher said neither of them really played with anything." He smiled to himself, eyes dropping fondly to the little girl in his lap. "They just... kept making sure the other one was still there."
Your own smile became softer. "That sounds like her."
Harvey nodded once. "There was painting."
"Oh?"
He looked faintly resigned. "I've washed blue paint out of one of my shirts."
"Only one?"
"She was surprisingly accurate."
"Harvey Specter complimenting a toddler's paint accuracy."
"You didn't see her technique."
"I'd have paid to hear you say that sentence five years ago."
"I would've laughed in your face."
"I know."
He looked back at you then, and whatever dry retort he'd been preparing seemed to disappear before it reached his mouth.
Instead, he simply watched you.
There was an openness to his expression that almost no one else was ever afforded. His eyes lingered on your face with the same quiet certainty they always had when it was just the two of you, as though the rest of Manhattan had ceased to exist somewhere beyond the office walls.
It was ridiculous, really.
Harvey, whose entire career had been built on confidence so absolute it bordered on arrogance, was looking at you with the biggest, softest puppy eyes imaginable.
There was no calculation behind them.
Just affection, exhaustion from an early morning with a toddler and the unmistakable look of a man who had stumbled into a life he had never expected to want, only to discover he couldn't imagine existing without it.
"I think..." he began quietly, almost as though admitting it to himself before anyone else, "I think she likes it there."
You tilted your head.
"And how do you feel about that?"
He exhaled through a small smile, glancing down as your daughter yawned dramatically before instinctively curling herself closer against his chest.
"I hate it."
You laughed. "I knew it."
He let out a quiet sigh through his nose, lowering his gaze to where your daughter had begun absentmindedly tracing tiny circles over the fabric of his waistcoat with one finger.
"I spent three hours wondering what she was doing," he confessed, his voice softer now, stripped entirely of the confidence that usually accompanied every sentence he spoke.
"Harvey," you said gently, the fond exasperation in your voice making it abundantly clear that this revelation surprised you far less than it probably should have.
"I checked my phone every ten minutes."
"You weren't supposed to stay outside."
"I didn't." The answer came quickly, almost defensively, though the slight shift in his posture suggested he already knew exactly where this conversation was headed.
"You drove around the block."
Harvey's jaw tightened just enough for you to notice. "...Maybe."
"Twice."
Silence.
He finally looked back up at you, wearing an expression that could only be described as mildly sheepish, a remarkably rare look on Harvey Specter, as one shoulder lifted in a small, almost apologetic shrug.
"I was nearby."
"You were surveilling a nursery."
"I was ensuring operational excellence," he replied with all the composure of a man attempting to argue a completely indefensible case, gently tucking a loose strand of your daughter's hair back behind her ear as though that somehow strengthened his position.
"It was a nursery, Harvey."
"It was my daughter."
The answer came so simply, so matter-of-factly, that every trace of humour dissolved almost immediately.
He looked down at the little girl curled comfortably against him, his thumb instinctively brushing over the small hand resting against his chest before he spoke again, quieter this time.
"I just wanted to be close if she needed me."
That, more than anything else he'd said all morning, explained why he'd never really driven away. Instead of the legendary closer, the city's best attorney, or the man whose name alone could intimidate an opposing counsel, all you saw was your husband.
A father trying to understand that loving someone this much meant accepting they would keep growing without asking permission.
"You know what happened when I picked her up?" he asked after a moment, his voice quieter than it had been all morning.
You shook your head, watching him instead of prompting him to continue. He rarely volunteered moments like this without being asked.
Harvey glanced down at your daughter for a second before looking back up at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. "The teacher opened the door..." He paused, letting out a small breath through his nose. "She spotted me before anyone said anything."
His expression softened in a way that would have been unrecognisable to anyone outside that office.
"She just..." He gave the faintest shake of his head, almost amused by his own inability to describe it. "Dropped whatever she was doing and came running over like I'd been gone for a month instead of three hours."
A quiet chuckle escaped him, low and almost disbelieving.
"Didn't even look back."
He looked down at the little girl sleeping against his chest, instinctively brushing his knuckles over her back with absent tenderness before speaking again.
"She practically launched herself into my arms." His smile widened, small but completely genuine. "Nearly knocked me over, actually."
His eyes lingered on her for another beat before lifting to meet yours again.
"I've spent my entire career chasing wins." He shook his head once, the admission coming easier than he'd expected. "Nothing's ever made me feel like that did."
please write more dad!harvey it brought me to tears and you write it so well!!
𝑆𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟. ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚.
when Harvey walks into the office on his day off in a three-piece suit, your daughter on his hip like it’s nothing unusual, the firm’s best-kept secret quickly becomes everyone’s favourite gossip.
꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Thank you, anon. Genuinely, that means a whole ton. I’ll likely write more when the mood strikes again—he’s not done with me yet, so there’s probably more of him coming eventually.
︶⊹︶︶⠀†⠀︶︶⊹︶
By eleven o’clock on a quiet Thursday morning, Pearson Specter was running on the subdued energy of people who had come in voluntarily and regretted it almost immediately.
Associates moved through the bullpen with coffees in hand, senior partners barked instructions through half-open office doors, and the steady hum of printers and phones carried across the thirty-second floor.
Then Harvey Specter stepped out of the elevator carrying a baby.
At first, no one reacted properly because the sight made so little sense that it took several seconds for anyone’s brain to catch up. Harvey looked exactly as he always did—immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, polished shoes, expensive watch, coat folded over one arm, expression composed with the effortless confidence that usually preceded either a million-dollar deal or someone getting fired.
The only difference was the small child balanced comfortably against his shoulder, one tiny hand fisted in the lapel of his suit jacket.
Donna looked up from her desk, smiled automatically, and then froze so completely that the smile remained suspended on her face like a glitch.
“Harvey,” she said slowly, as though testing whether he was real.
“Donna.”
“Why are you here?”
“My partner’s working.”
That should have been the shocking part, but somehow it wasn’t. The truly catastrophic detail arrived a second later, when Harvey adjusted the baby higher against his shoulder and the golden band on his left hand caught the light.
Donna stared.
Not because she had never seen the ring before, but because she suddenly realised she had seen it hundreds of times and had somehow never questioned it. Harvey had been wearing a wedding ring long enough for everyone’s brain to quietly file it under things that belong to Harvey, alongside tailored suits and impossible confidence.
“You’re married,” she said, sounding personally betrayed by the discovery.
Harvey frowned faintly, as though she had just informed him the sky was blue. “Yes.”
“Since when?”
“A while.”
“That is not a time frame.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but the baby chose that moment to lift her head, revealing enormous hazel eyes and a soft pink bow tied into dark hair that looked suspiciously familiar. She blinked sleepily, looked up at Harvey, and said, with the solemn importance unique to toddlers, “Dada.”
Donna made a strangled noise that sounded like every maternal instinct she possessed colliding at once.
Harvey’s entire face changed. The sharp edges softened, the habitual guard dropped away, and he smiled down at her with an ease that almost nobody inside the firm had ever witnessed. “Morning, sweetheart.”
Tiny fingers immediately reached for his tie and grabbed it with triumph.
“Oh my God,” Donna whispered, now fully committed to her emotional crisis. “You have a daughter.”
“Still true.”
Only then did she properly notice what the little girl was wearing.
A white frilly dress with delicate embroidered flowers along the hem, white frilled socks, and tiny pink shoes polished to an almost absurd shine. Everything matched. Everything fit. Everything was somehow immaculate despite the fact she was currently chewing thoughtfully on the end of Harvey’s tie.
Donna narrowed her eyes. “Who dressed her?”
“I did.”
“No, seriously.”
“Donna.”
“Harvey, that outfit has coordination.”
He looked down at his daughter with unmistakable pride. “I’m capable of matching colours.”
“On a baby?”
“Different size. Same principles.”
By now the entire bullpen had quietly stopped pretending not to stare. Associates whispered behind computer screens, secretaries exchanged looks, and one junior lawyer nearly walked into a glass wall while trying to get a better view. Harvey ignored all of them with the ease of a man who had spent his career being watched.
He simply shifted his daughter onto one arm and headed for your office.
You were halfway through revising a contract when your door opened without a knock.
“You said you’d be fifteen minutes,” you said without looking up.
“I got distracted.”
“Harvey, you left forty-five minutes ago.”
“Traffic.”
“In the elevator?”
Only then did you glance up, and the rest of the sentence disappeared from your mind.
Harvey stood in the doorway looking entirely too pleased with himself, your daughter balanced on his hip and dressed like she belonged in the catalogue of a very expensive children’s boutique. The pink bow sat perfectly in her hair. Her shoes matched it. Even her socks had been folded neatly.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Well. Someone looks adorable.”
Your daughter squealed, immediately reaching for you.
You crossed the office and kissed the top of her head before Harvey set her carefully onto the leather sofa. Instead of immediately climbing onto the furniture like a tiny gremlin, she remained where he placed her, legs swinging happily while he crouched to straighten the skirt of her dress and adjust one sock that had slipped slightly lower than the other.
“There,” he said, leaning back to admire his work before looking up at you with the smug satisfaction of a man presenting evidence in court. “See? I’m capable.”
You folded your arms, taking your time as you inspected both him and the child. “You dressed her yourself?”
“Every piece.”
“Including the bow?”
“Took two attempts.”
“And the shoes?”
“Matched them intentionally.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. “I genuinely expected you’d show up with her wearing one sock, your pocket square, and whatever jacket was closest to the door.”
Harvey looked deeply offended. “That is an outrageous accusation.”
“You once forgot your own suitcase on a business trip.”
“I remembered the important things.”
“Like what?”
“You.”
The answer arrived so easily, so matter-of-factly, that it caught you off guard despite years of marriage. Harvey merely loosened his tie where tiny fingers had wrinkled it and sat beside your daughter, lifting her onto his lap as though the motion were the most natural thing in the world.
She settled against his chest immediately, one small hand patting the fabric of his vest while he absently smoothed her hair.
Outside the glass walls of your office, people were absolutely staring. By Monday morning the entire firm would know that Harvey Specter was married with a daughter, and apparently enough paternal devotion to spend his day off colour-coordinating a toddler’s outfit.
Inside the office, though, none of that seemed particularly important.
Harvey looked at you over your daughter’s head, the wedding ring on his hand catching the afternoon light, and smiled with a softness that belonged to almost no one else.
“So,” he said, entirely unaware that he had just become the biggest piece of gossip Pearson Specter had seen in years, “are you impressed yet?”
Harvey leaned back into the sofa, one arm draped along the backrest while the other remained securely around your daughter, who had become entirely fascinated by the buttons on his waistcoat.
Her tiny fingers worked with determined concentration, occasionally managing to slip one free before Harvey quietly fastened it again without so much as glancing down.
You watched him for a moment before returning to your desk, gathering together the loose pages you had abandoned the moment they'd walked through the door. There was little point pretending you were about to return to work.
Harvey had never been particularly good at simply dropping by, and today, with your daughter perched comfortably on his lap, there wasn't a chance either of you would be discussing anything remotely legal.
"So," you said, sinking back into your chair and turning it slightly towards them, "how did nursery go?"
Harvey's eyes lifted immediately, the corners of his mouth softening into something that barely qualified as a smile and yet somehow meant infinitely more than the cocky grins he handed out in courtrooms.
"It was good."
"'Good'?"
"It was..." He paused, searching for a word he didn't often have to search for. "Better than I expected."
You smiled knowingly. "I told you she'd settle."
"I know."
"You were convinced she'd cry the entire morning," you said, unable to keep the knowing smile from your face as you watched him absentmindedly smooth another invisible crease from the skirt of her dress.
Harvey's eyes flicked up to yours, a faint crease forming between his brows in immediate protest. "I wasn't convinced."
"No?" You leaned back slightly in your chair, folding your arms with quiet amusement. "You packed three comfort toys."
"They all serve different purposes," he replied without missing a beat, as though that explained everything.
One eyebrow arched almost instinctively.
Harvey caught the look and, instead of backing down, merely adjusted your daughter's dress where it had slipped from one shoulder, his expression remaining infuriatingly sincere.
"They're emotionally distinct."
A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and the corner of Harvey's mouth betrayed him, lifting into the smallest smile despite the fact he was clearly trying to maintain his dignity.
"I was being prepared."
"You were panicking."
"I was not panicking," he said, the denial arriving just a fraction too quickly to be convincing.
"You asked the teacher six different questions before you'd even taken your coat off."
"I wanted to know the staff-to-child ratio." Harvey shrugged lightly, as though that were an entirely reasonable concern, one hand absently rubbing slow circles against your daughter's back while she continued to fiddle with the buttons on his waistcoat.
"You asked whether they sanitised the crayons."
"They put everything in their mouths," he defended, looking genuinely baffled that this required any explanation at all.
"And then," you continued, unable to resist dragging out the evidence against him, "you asked whether the climbing frame complied with safety regulations."
"It looked high."
"It was about two feet tall."
Harvey glanced down at your daughter, who chose that exact moment to enthusiastically throw one leg over his lap in an attempt to investigate his watch instead.
"Two feet," he repeated quietly, almost to himself. "For someone her size, that's still... proportionally significant."
You simply stared at him.
He had the grace to avoid your eyes and llet out a slow breath through his nose, somewhere between accepting defeat and refusing to admit it. "I was doing due diligence."
"You were hovering."
"I was parenting."
Your daughter, blissfully unaware that she had become the subject of debate, abandoned Harvey's waistcoat in favour of reaching up to pat his cheek. The gesture was clumsy, little more than an enthusiastic slap cushioned by impossibly small fingers, but Harvey reacted as though she'd handed him something precious.
His expression softened immediately.
"Okay, wow."
She giggled.
The sound filled the office with an ease that expensive furniture and polished glass never could.
You found yourself watching Harvey more than you were watching her.
He wasn't performing. There was no audience he was trying to impress, no carefully crafted persona sitting across from you in one of his immaculate suits. His shoulders had relaxed against the sofa, his tie sat ever so slightly crooked where small hands had tugged at it all morning, and there was something almost impossibly gentle in the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked circles against your daughter's back.
"So?" you prompted quietly.
He looked back at you. "She made a friend."
"A friend?"
"Mhm."
"Already?"
"There was another little girl." He nodded towards your daughter, who was now trying with immense concentration to fit two fingers into one of Harvey's cufflinks.
"They apparently spent half the morning following each other around."
"Following?"
"The teacher said neither of them really played with anything." He smiled to himself, eyes dropping fondly to the little girl in his lap. "They just... kept making sure the other one was still there."
Your own smile became softer. "That sounds like her."
Harvey nodded once. "There was painting."
"Oh?"
He looked faintly resigned. "I've washed blue paint out of one of my shirts."
"Only one?"
"She was surprisingly accurate."
"Harvey Specter complimenting a toddler's paint accuracy."
"You didn't see her technique."
"I'd have paid to hear you say that sentence five years ago."
"I would've laughed in your face."
"I know."
He looked back at you then, and whatever dry retort he'd been preparing seemed to disappear before it reached his mouth.
Instead, he simply watched you.
There was an openness to his expression that almost no one else was ever afforded. His eyes lingered on your face with the same quiet certainty they always had when it was just the two of you, as though the rest of Manhattan had ceased to exist somewhere beyond the office walls.
It was ridiculous, really.
Harvey, whose entire career had been built on confidence so absolute it bordered on arrogance, was looking at you with the biggest, softest puppy eyes imaginable.
There was no calculation behind them.
Just affection, exhaustion from an early morning with a toddler and the unmistakable look of a man who had stumbled into a life he had never expected to want, only to discover he couldn't imagine existing without it.
"I think..." he began quietly, almost as though admitting it to himself before anyone else, "I think she likes it there."
You tilted your head.
"And how do you feel about that?"
He exhaled through a small smile, glancing down as your daughter yawned dramatically before instinctively curling herself closer against his chest.
"I hate it."
You laughed. "I knew it."
He let out a quiet sigh through his nose, lowering his gaze to where your daughter had begun absentmindedly tracing tiny circles over the fabric of his waistcoat with one finger.
"I spent three hours wondering what she was doing," he confessed, his voice softer now, stripped entirely of the confidence that usually accompanied every sentence he spoke.
"Harvey," you said gently, the fond exasperation in your voice making it abundantly clear that this revelation surprised you far less than it probably should have.
"I checked my phone every ten minutes."
"You weren't supposed to stay outside."
"I didn't." The answer came quickly, almost defensively, though the slight shift in his posture suggested he already knew exactly where this conversation was headed.
"You drove around the block."
Harvey's jaw tightened just enough for you to notice. "...Maybe."
"Twice."
Silence.
He finally looked back up at you, wearing an expression that could only be described as mildly sheepish, a remarkably rare look on Harvey Specter, as one shoulder lifted in a small, almost apologetic shrug.
"I was nearby."
"You were surveilling a nursery."
"I was ensuring operational excellence," he replied with all the composure of a man attempting to argue a completely indefensible case, gently tucking a loose strand of your daughter's hair back behind her ear as though that somehow strengthened his position.
"It was a nursery, Harvey."
"It was my daughter."
The answer came so simply, so matter-of-factly, that every trace of humour dissolved almost immediately.
He looked down at the little girl curled comfortably against him, his thumb instinctively brushing over the small hand resting against his chest before he spoke again, quieter this time.
"I just wanted to be close if she needed me."
That, more than anything else he'd said all morning, explained why he'd never really driven away. Instead of the legendary closer, the city's best attorney, or the man whose name alone could intimidate an opposing counsel, all you saw was your husband.
A father trying to understand that loving someone this much meant accepting they would keep growing without asking permission.
"You know what happened when I picked her up?" he asked after a moment, his voice quieter than it had been all morning.
You shook your head, watching him instead of prompting him to continue. He rarely volunteered moments like this without being asked.
Harvey glanced down at your daughter for a second before looking back up at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. "The teacher opened the door..." He paused, letting out a small breath through his nose. "She spotted me before anyone said anything."
His expression softened in a way that would have been unrecognisable to anyone outside that office.
"She just..." He gave the faintest shake of his head, almost amused by his own inability to describe it. "Dropped whatever she was doing and came running over like I'd been gone for a month instead of three hours."
A quiet chuckle escaped him, low and almost disbelieving.
"Didn't even look back."
He looked down at the little girl sleeping against his chest, instinctively brushing his knuckles over her back with absent tenderness before speaking again.
"She practically launched herself into my arms." His smile widened, small but completely genuine. "Nearly knocked me over, actually."
His eyes lingered on her for another beat before lifting to meet yours again.
"I've spent my entire career chasing wins." He shook his head once, the admission coming easier than he'd expected. "Nothing's ever made me feel like that did."
the cody family decide that a day at the beach, in the height of summer, is the perfect way to unwind after a job well done. pope, despite his best efforts, finds himself unable to keep his eyes off you.
PAIRING: pope cody x reader. WORD COUNT: 3.8k
NOTES: reader's gender is never explicitly stated, though a masc/trans man reader is heavily implied. references to and use of weed (alongside other substances—looking at craig), soft and affectionate pope, kissing, plenty of quiet pining, and pope behaving very much like a neglected puppy who's suddenly discovered affection when he's stoned.
By midday the beach had become one endless stretch of gold and white, the summer sun bearing down hard enough that the sand felt molten beneath bare feet.
The ocean glittered almost painfully bright beneath the cloudless sky, every cresting wave throwing fractured sunlight back across the shoreline. Somewhere further down the coast, music drifted lazily on the breeze, mingling with the distant cries of children and the occasional shriek of gulls circling overhead in search of something unattended to steal.
For once, nobody was bleeding, arguing over money, or planning a robbery.
As far as Cody family outings went, it was practically a holiday.
Craig had claimed the largest patch of sand available and was currently stretched across it like a corpse washed ashore, sunglasses crooked on his face and a half-empty beer balanced precariously against his stomach. Every now and then he would sit upright long enough to contribute something profoundly unhelpful to whatever conversation was happening around him before immediately collapsing again.
Deran occupied the shade of a battered umbrella nearby, one knee drawn up as he worked methodically at rolling a joint. The concentration on his face might have suggested he was handling explosives rather than weed.
J sat beside him, arms draped loosely over his knees, expression carrying the familiar detached look that suggested he'd rather be almost anywhere else.
You were sitting a little closer to the waterline, letting the occasional cool breeze cut through the heat gathering beneath your skin.
And Pope? Pope was trying very hard not to look at you.
The problem was that you kept moving.
You'd shift position, drag a hand through your hair, laugh at something Craig said, turn your face toward the ocean—and every single time, Pope's eyes found you before he could stop them.
He'd got better at catching himself over the years. Not remarkably good… but better.
Unfortunately for him, Deran had noticed approximately forty-five minutes ago.
"You know," Deran remarked eventually, licking the edge of the paper before sealing it, "if you're gonna keep staring, you could at least try being subtle about it."
Pope's head snapped around immediately. "I'm not staring."
The response came far too quickly.
J didn't even bother looking up. "Sure."
Pope frowned. "What?"
The younger shrugged. "Nothing."
"The ocean's over there," Deran continued, gesturing vaguely toward the water. "You've spent more time looking at them than the actual beach."
A muscle jumped in Pope's jaw. For a moment he looked genuinely offended, then his gaze flickered briefly in your direction before returning to Deran.
"The ocean's just water."
The silence that followed was immediate. J lowered his head while you pressed your lips together.
Deran simply stared, finally he barked out a laugh.
"Jesus Christ."
Pope looked irritated now, as though he couldn't understand why everyone suddenly found him amusing.
"What?"
"Nothing," Deran said, still grinning. "Forget it."
A few seconds later he lit the joint, smoke curling lazily upward into the summer air. The scent drifted across the small circle almost immediately.
Pope recognised that look.
The same one Deran always got right before deciding somebody else's business was about to become his entertainment.
"No."
Deran hadn't even offered it yet. His grin widened. "I didn't say anything."
"You were gonna."
"Maybe."
"No."
The joint was extended toward him anyway. Pope stared at it suspiciously.
Deran waggled it once. "C'mon."
Pope looked at the joint, then at Deran, then back at the joint again. The expression on his face suggested he'd been handed a live grenade. "No."
"You ever actually tried it?"
"No."
"Then how do you know you don't like it?"
"I know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's enough of one."
Deran leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Across from him, J accepted the joint when it was passed his way, taking a hit before exhaling slowly toward the ocean. Pope glanced between the three of you, visibly annoyed that everyone seemed to be participating in a conversation he wasn't fully understanding.
Craig suddenly sat upright. "Anybody got coke?"
Nobody answered while Craig sat there for several seconds. A seagull landed nearby.
The bird stared directly at him. Craig stared right back.
Then, with complete seriousness, he pointed at it. "Don't."
The seagull remained where it was which made Craig all but narrow his eyes. "You know what you did."
The bird looked unimpressed.
A moment later Craig lay back down again. The crisis apparently resolved.
Pope watched the entire exchange happen. Then rubbed a hand across his face, "this family is insane."
"You say that like you're not part of it," Deran replied, immediately offering the joint again.
This time Pope hesitated. Not because he wanted it. Mostly because refusing had somehow become more exhausting than accepting.
The heat had settled heavily across his shoulders. The distant crash of the waves blended together into a steady rhythm. Everybody else looked relaxed.
Even you.
Especially you.
Your head had tipped back slightly, eyes half closed against the sunlight, looking more content than Pope could remember seeing you in weeks.
Something softened in his chest at the sight.
And before he could think better of it, he reached over and took the joint. The reaction was immediate.
Deran sat forward. "Oh, look at that."
"Shut up."
J laughed. Even you looked surprised.
Pope glared at all of them before taking a cautious drag. The coughing fit arrived almost instantly. His shoulders jerked, his eyes watered.
Somewhere behind him, Craig let out a triumphant cheer loud enough to startle a flock of birds into the air. "There he is!"
Pope was still coughing. You were laughing now, just enough that the sound carried warmly over the noise of the waves.
And despite the fact that his lungs felt like they were on fire and Deran was already insufferable about being right, Pope found himself staring at you again anyway.
Because apparently even being stoned wasn't enough to stop that.
The beach had fallen into that strange lull that arrived after several hours of doing absolutely nothing; Craig had stopped arguing with wildlife and appeared to have drifted into a beer-induced nap, Deran was lazily scrolling through his phone beneath the umbrella, and even J had surrendered to the general mood, stretched out on his towel with his eyes half-closed.
Pope, meanwhile, was sprawled on his back in the sand, one arm tucked beneath his head and the other dangling over his stomach, the remains of the joint smouldering quietly between his fingers.
Whatever little experiment Deran had talked him into had clearly taken effect.
Pope wasn't suddenly chatty or giggling at nothing.
If anything, he looked more like someone who'd finally unclenched muscles he'd forgotten he'd been carrying tight for years.
His eyes tracked your movement lazily as you wandered back from the shoreline, seawater still dripping from your calves. The ocean had left a sheen across your skin that caught the sunlight every time you moved, and Pope found himself watching those droplets slide down your legs with the same concentration another man might reserve for a documentary.
The fact that he was doing a terrible job of hiding it no longer seemed to concern him.
You dropped down onto the sand beside him with a grunt, reaching automatically for the joint in his hand. "Pass it here."
The request was simple enough.
Normally, Pope would've handed it over without a second thought. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched. You barely had time to register the expression before his arm lifted.
The joint disappeared upward, your fingers closing around empty air. For a moment you simply stared at him.
Pope stared back.
Then, to your complete disbelief, he smiled. Just a small, crooked thing that sat strangely on his face, softened by the sunlight and whatever remained of the weed in his system.
"No."
You blinked. "No?"
"No," he repeated, sounding entirely pleased with himself as he stretched his arm a little higher.
The movement forced you to lean further across him. Immediately you became aware of Deran watching.
The bastard was practically vibrating.
"Pope."
His smile deepened. "You don't need it."
"I don't need it?"
The disbelief in your voice only seemed to amuse him further.
The hand that wasn't occupied holding the joint drifted lazily toward your waist, settling there with such absent-minded ease that it felt less like a decision and more like instinct.
His palm rested against your side, warm from hours spent beneath the California sun.
Pope didn't seem remotely aware of the fact he'd done it. Or perhaps he was. It was difficult to tell.
The weed had left his thoughts written plainly across his face in a way that was normally impossible to read.
"No," he said after a moment, giving your waist a small squeeze as though emphasising his point. "You'll hurt your lungs."
A short laugh escaped you. "That's your excuse?"
"It's a good excuse."
"You're literally smoking it."
"Yeah."
Pope said it with complete seriousness, his brow furrowing slightly as though he genuinely couldn't understand why that was relevant.
The sight was ridiculous enough that you found yourself laughing again. "You don't seem too concerned about your own lungs."
"My lungs are different."
The words came after several seconds of intense consideration, as though he was carefully working through an incredibly complicated equation.
You waited. "So your lungs are different."
"Yeah."
"How?"
Pope's gaze wandered briefly, drifting out toward the ocean where sunlight fractured across the waves in glittering sheets of gold. For a moment he looked thoughtful.
Then his eyes returned to you and something softened there. Something that had probably been sitting beneath the surface all afternoon.
"Yours are prettier."
The silence that followed was immediate.
The waves were still rolling onto shore. Children were still shouting somewhere in the distance. A radio continued crackling faintly from further down the sand.
But within your little circle, everything seemed to stop.
Deran lowered his sunglasses, J opened one eye, even Craig somehow sat upright.
Pope, completely oblivious to the damage he'd just inflicted, continued looking at you as though he'd merely commented on the weather.
"What?" he asked eventually.
Deran made a strangled noise. "Pope."
"What?"
"You can't just say stuff like that."
The confusion on Pope's face deepened, his hand firmly on your waist.
The joint remained held stubbornly out of reach. "You asked."
"That doesn't mean—"
"You did ask."
The fact that he wasn't wrong only made it worse.
You rubbed a hand across your face. Somewhere beside you, J let out a low laugh. "You broke him."
"I didn't break anybody."
"You absolutely did."
Pope glanced toward J before immediately looking back at you again, as though everyone else on the beach had become significantly less interesting.
His thumb brushed absent-mindedly against your side, the movement small enough that you doubted he even realised he was doing it.
"I'm not giving you this," he informed you after a moment, lifting the joint slightly. The declaration sounded bizarrely possessive.
"Why?"
"Because."
"That's not an answer."
"It is."
You leaned forward again, making another attempt to steal it.
Pope reacted instantly.
His arm lifted higher while his hand tightened around your waist, anchoring you against him with a lazy sort of determination. The movement brought you close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
Close enough to see the faint freckles scattered across his nose. Close enough to watch his smile appear again. That same soft, unguarded smile, yhe kind nobody ever got to see.
Not really. Not Pope: infamously known as the man who spent most of his life looking perpetually one bad day away from violence.
Yet here he was, half-stoned beneath the summer sun, holding you close with one hand while protecting a half-finished joint with the other as though it were some priceless treasure.
And judging by the look on Deran's face, everyone else was just as shocked by it as you were.
The standoff over the joint continued for another minute or so, neither of you particularly invested in winning anymore.
At some point the argument had stopped being about the weed altogether.
You'd made another half-hearted attempt to steal it. Pope had blocked you with surprising speed for somebody currently operating on very little urgency. You'd complained. He'd ignored you. Deran had offered increasingly unhelpful commentary from beneath the umbrella while J watched the entire thing unfold with the detached fascination of somebody observing an unusual animal in captivity.
Eventually Pope looked down at the dwindling remains pinched between his fingers and seemed to reach a decision. Without warning, he placed the last of the joint between his lips and pushed himself upright.
The movement was slightly clumsy, his balance wavering for half a second before correcting itself. Sand slid from his shoulders and forearms as he stood, sunlight catching against skin that had grown warm and golden over the course of the afternoon.
You frowned up at him. "What are you doing?"
Pope didn't answer immediately. Instead he finished the last drag, exhaled toward the sky, and then flicked the remaining roach into one of the plates they’d had.
Then he held out both hands.
You looked at them, then at him, then back at the hands.
"What are you doing?" you repeated.
A smile tugged faintly at one corner of his mouth. "We're going swimming."
The statement was delivered with the absolute certainty of a man announcing an unavoidable fact of nature.
You barked a laugh. "We've already been swimming."
"We're doing it again."
"Pope—"
"We're doing it again."
Before you could protest further, his fingers had already curled around yours.
The grip wasn't forceful. It didn't need to be.
Pope had always possessed a certain single-minded determination once he'd settled on something, and whatever barriers usually existed between thought and action appeared to have dissolved entirely beneath the combined influence of summer sunshine and weed.
You barely had time to plant your feet before he started walking. "Pope."
Nothing.
"Andrew."
Still nothing.
The grin spreading across his face only widened as he continued dragging you across the sand. Behind you, Deran's laughter erupted immediately.
"Oh, this is gonna end badly."
Craig sat up just long enough to point after the pair of you. "Take him under!"
"Thank you, Craig," J muttered.
The ocean rushed closer with every step.
Cool blue water stretched endlessly toward the horizon, glittering beneath the afternoon sun like shattered glass. The waves rolled in slow and steady, hissing softly across the shoreline before retreating once more.
The instant icy water splashed against Pope's ankles, he let out a surprised laugh. The sound almost disappeared beneath the crash of the surf.
You heard it anyway.
Pope rarely laughed, not properly. Most people spent years around him without hearing it.
The sound made something warm settle in your chest. Unfortunately, it also distracted you long enough for him to continue hauling you further into the water.
"Oh, absolutely not."
Pope glanced over his shoulder. His hair had fallen into his eyes, dark curls pushed messily across his forehead by the sea breeze.
"What?"
"We are not going any deeper."
"Why?"
"Because."
"That's not an answer."
The immediate use of your own argument against you was infuriating. "You don't even like the ocean."
"I like it today." The response arrived without hesitation.
Pope seemed entirely unaware of how strange those words sounded coming from him.
You stared and he stared back. Then he shrugged. "I like everything today."
The admission slipped out so casually that it almost caught you off guard.
For a moment all you could do was look at him. At the relaxed posture, the softened expression, the way his fingers remained hooked through yours as though letting go hadn't even crossed his mind.
Pope shifted beneath your gaze. "What?"
"You are ridiculously stoned."
His laugh returned. Soft and embarrassed. The corners of his eyes crinkled.
Before you could admire it for too long, however, a wave surged toward the shore and crashed directly into your thighs.
The cold hit like a punch. You yelped.
Pope immediately started laughing harder.
"There it is."
"Oh, shut up."
"There it is."
His shoulders shook with another laugh. The sight was so unusual you almost forgot to be annoyed.
Instead, you scooped a handful of seawater and launched it directly at his chest.
The reaction was immediate.
Pope jerked backward, staring down at his soaked shirt in genuine disbelief. For a second. Then two.
Slowly, his gaze lifted toward yours. "Oh."
You took a step back. "No."
"Oh."
The smile that spread across his face was all the warning you received.
"Andrew."
He lunged. You barely managed to dodge before water exploded around both of you.
The next several minutes dissolved into complete chaos.
Every time you splashed him, Pope retaliated twice over. Every retreat only encouraged pursuit. Waves crashed against your legs while both of you stumbled through the surf, nearly losing your footing every few seconds as the ocean shifted beneath your feet.
At one point you managed to shove him hard enough that he staggered backward into an incoming wave.
The look of betrayal on his face was immediate. You doubled over laughing.
Pope, soaked from head to toe and blinking seawater from his eyelashes, pointed at you. "You did that on purpose."
"Obviously."
His expression narrowed and then he launched himself forward again.
You shrieked as he caught you around the waist. Neither of you had enough balance to make the manoeuvre successful. A second later both of you crashed into the water together.
The ocean swallowed everything. When you resurfaced, sputtering and wiping seawater from your eyes, Pope emerged beside you.
His hair was plastered to his forehead. His shirt clung to every inch of him, and despite all of it, he was smiling.
Not the small smiles he'd been trying and failing to hide all afternoon, not the awkward half-smirks. A genuine one. Bright enough to transform his entire face.
For a moment he simply looked at you. The noise of the beach faded into the background: The shouting, the music, even Deran and Craig yelling commentary from shore.
None of it seemed particularly important.
Pope's expression softened as he stood there waist-deep in the water. Then he reached out and brushed a wet strand of hair away from your forehead.
The gesture felt oddly careful after all the chaos.
His hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary. "There," he said quietly, still smiling. "You look better."
As though you hadn't both just spent ten minutes trying to drown each other.
For a moment neither of you moved. A gull wheeled overhead. The world carried on exactly as it had before.
Yet somehow everything felt quieter.
Pope's hand remained lightly against the side of your face where he'd brushed your hair back, seawater dripping from his fingertips. His smile had faded into something softer now, something smaller and infinitely more dangerous simply because it was real.
He was looking at you in that way he'd been looking at you all afternoon.
No, longer than that. Weeks. Months, maybe. The difference was that today he didn't seem particularly interested in hiding it.
You watched his gaze drift briefly toward your mouth before immediately returning to your eyes.
Then it happened again. A quick glance, barely a second.
Pope swallowed. The movement was visible in the column of his throat.
His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, not pulling you closer, simply resting there as though he needed somewhere to put it.
"You got salt all over your face," he said quietly.
The excuse was terrible. You both knew it.
A smile tugged at your mouth. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You gonna do something about it?"
Pope stared at you and the challenge hung there between you.
For a second and then another.
His expression shifted into something almost boyish, the last remnants of his usual caution finally overwhelmed by sunshine, seawater, and whatever chemical courage Deran had managed to get into his system.
Before either of you could overthink it, Pope leaned forward.
The kiss itself was brief, barely more than a peck. Just a quick press of his lips against yours before he immediately pulled back again.
It was over almost as soon as it began. The sort of kiss that might have gone entirely unnoticed by anybody not paying attention.
Unfortunately for both of you, the Codys were paying attention.
A roar erupted from the beach. "Holy Shit!" Craig's voice carried over the water like a foghorn.
Pope physically flinched.
"What the hell?" Deran shouted, already on his feet beneath the umbrella. "FINALLY."
"Oh my God," J muttered, though the grin spreading across his face suggested he was enjoying this significantly more than he wanted anyone to know.
Craig was practically beside himself. He'd somehow managed to spill half his beer while celebrating. "Let’s Go, Man!"
Several nearby beachgoers turned to stare. Craig pointed at the pair of you from across the sand. "I called it!"
"You did not call it," Deran shot back.
"I absolutely called it."
"You call everything."
"And I was right!"
The argument immediately dissolved into shouting.
Pope closed his eyes, a long, suffering sigh escaped him. The reaction only made things worse.
"He’s blushing!!"
"Oh my God, he is."
"I didn't think he could do that." The commentary was relentless.
Pope looked moments away from marching back to shore and drowning all three of them personally.
You, meanwhile, were trying, and failing, not to laugh.
The sound escaped anyway.
The sight of Pope standing there soaked to the bone, glaring at his family with the expression of a deeply betrayed man, was simply too much.
His eyes immediately flicked back toward you. The irritation vanished almost instantly.
"There is literally nothing wrong with any of them," you managed.
Pope stared.
Then he looked toward the beach again, where Craig had started pumping his fist in the air like somebody had just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl.
His expression deadened. "They're insane."
"You are related to them."
"I know." The words emerged with genuine despair.
That only made you laugh harder.
A reluctant smile began tugging at the corners of his own mouth in response, despite his best efforts to suppress it. The expression lingered there as he looked at you.
Painfully, hopelessly fond.
As though the kiss hadn't actually changed anything. He'd already been carrying all of this around for so long that putting it into action had simply felt natural.
His hand found yours beneath the water.
The movement was subtle enough that nobody on shore noticed.
While Craig and Deran continued arguing and J shook his head in resignation, Pope intertwined his fingers with yours and squeezed once.
The gesture felt strangely intimate compared to the kiss. His gaze never left your face.
"They're gonna be annoying about this for months."
You glanced toward shore. Craig was now attempting to convince Deran to place bets on when the wedding would happen.
"Months?"
Pope considered this, then groaned. "Years."
The laugh that escaped you was bright enough to draw another smile from him, and for the first time all afternoon Pope didn't seem particularly concerned by the fact that everyone could see it.
THANK YOU FOR READING!
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