Summary: Andrew being clingy when he's sick
(I KNOW he gets all clingy when hes sick)
You’re standing by the window, looking out at the backyard pool where Baz and Deran are arguing. The Cody brothers were out for two days because of a job. It seems like it didn't went too well.
You hear footsteps behind you. You don’t even have to turn around to know it’s him.
Andrew steps up directly behind you. He doesn't say a word. He just leans forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder.
"Hi. How did it go?" you murmur, reaching back to find his nape.
His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back until you’re flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, taking a deep breath.
"Come to bed," he rasps. "Miss you."
You turn around in the circle of his arms and your heart aches at the sight. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair is pushed back and there’s a tension in his jaw that looks painful.
"Are you okay?" you ask softly, cupping his face. "Hey," you reach up to steady him. "You’re burning up."
"I'm fine," he rasps, though a harsh cough into his sleeve suggested otherwise. He doesn't pull away. He leans into your palm, closing his eyes tightly as if your touch is the only thing keeping the noise in his head at bay. "Too much noise," he mutters. "Too much... Smurf. Just... I'm just... cold."
"You're sick, baby," you say firmly. His skin is flushed and slick with a light sweat. "Maybe you caught a cold. Come."
He let you lead him toward his room, his footsteps heavy and uncoordinated. Usually, Andrew was the one watching over everyone else but right now, he looks like a man who had completely run out of fuel.
When you got him to the bed, he collaps onto the edge of the mattress, his head hanging between his shoulders. You knelt between his knees, unzipping his hoodie and peeling it back.
"Smurf's gonna want a debrief," he mutters.
"Smurf can wait," you counter, pulling a dry shirt over his head. "You can't form a thought in this state."
You stand up to check his temperature again, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. He winces at the contact, but then he reaches out and grabs your wrist, holding your hand against his skin. He closes his eyes, a long breath escaping his lips.
"Hands... cold," he whispers. "Feels good."
"That's the fever, Andrew."
You manage to get him under the blankets. As you turned to go fetch some water and medicine, his hand catches your shirt.
"Don't go," he whispers.
"I'm just getting you some aspirin. I'll be right back."
"No, stay," he insists.
Your heart squeezes.
"Okay," you whisper, softening. "I'll stay."
You climb into the bed beside him. He immediately rolls over, burying his face against your chest, his hot breath soaking through your t-shirt. He lets out a long sigh, his body relaxing.
"You’re staying here until that fever breaks. No jobs, no Smurf, no debrief." you say, running your fingers through his messy hair.
He humms a tired sound of agreement.
"Strict," he mumbles against your chest.
"I know, mh" you lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head. "Rest, my baby."
He doesn’t respond, his breathing already deepening into a feverish sleep.
Later, as you try to shift to reach for the glass of water on the nightstand, his arms tights around your waist.
He groans, a pathetic sound that vibrates against you and buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck.
"Andrew, let go for a second," you whisper. "You need to drink something."
"No," he mumbles, his voice muffled by your skin. "Don't move."
He was acting very clingy. Every time you move an inch, he follows, dragging his body across the mattress to close the gap.
He was completely submissive to the sickness, letting you handle him.
"You're being very needy," you tease softly.
"Hurts," he admits, a rare confession of pain that made your chest ache. "Just... keep your body here."
He reaches up, his hand trembling slightly as he guides your palm to his cheek. He nuzzled into it. In this state, he was completely yours to take care of.
"Does a tea sounds okay?" you ask.
"Maybe." He whispers, his arms locking around your back again.
"Okay. I have to go to make the tea—"
"No," he insists, his grip becoming a permanent fixture. "Stay here. Hold my head."
You laugh quietly, finally giving in and curling up against his burning side. The second you settle, he lets out a long breath of relief. He tuckes his head under your chin, his nose pressing into your collarbone, and finally goes still.
"Tea later," he humms, his voice trailing off into sleep. "Don't... don't leave when I'm asleep. Promise."
"I promise, baby. I'm right here."
He doesn’t answer, his body finally going slack as the fever exhaustion takes over. Even in sleep, his arms stays locked firmly in your body.
summary: your boyfriend proves that loving you is as easy as breathing.
pairing: jack abbot x girlfriend!reader
tags: afab reader, pre-established relationship, an age gap mentioned but not specified, reader described as having longer hair, domesticity, fluff, acts of service jack abbot, talks of failed last relationships (reader), just some cutie stuff
word count: 1.5k
notes: gentle jack abbot my love
“I’ll handle it, honey.”
A common statement inside of your household, however it never seems to fall from your lips. Instead, your boyfriend seems to be holding it hostage, consistently ready to fix whatever problem you may have. Even when you complained about a problem and already told him about the solution you’d planned in your head, he had handled it before you could even get home from work.
Once you were within the four main walls of your shared apartment, you didn’t have to worry about a single thing. Jack worked nights and yet still managed to get everything done during the day while you were gone, leaving your clean laundry folded on the bed and an empty sink. When you complained about the fact that you felt like you weren’t helping at all, he simply kissed you on the forehead with a hand on your bicep and told you that you helped by just sitting down and looking pretty.
This morning, as a test, you had written out a to-do list for yourself and kept it private. It was filled with things you hadn’t yet brought to the attention of your acts-of-service boyfriend, such as unclogging the shower drain or finally putting away the stack of books that had just been accumulating in the corner of your bedroom as you purchased more and more. Things he wouldn’t even be able to think of without you mentioning it.
Work is gruesome, as it usually is. Jack’s outside of your apartment when you get home, t-shirt pulling taut around his shoulders as he leans down to grab the numerous packages sitting on your doorstep. His face lights up when he sees you, sitting up straight so that he can loop his index finger into your beltloop and bring you closer for a welcome home kiss. “Hey, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your mouth. “How was your day?”
You reach to grab one of the packages, trying to help him from having to hold them all, but he skillfully manuvers away from your reaching hands and opens the front door for you instead. When you stop to give him a stern look, he just nudges the back of your ankle with his foot, gesturing with his head for you to step inside.
Surrendering on this fact, you sigh, stepping into the apartment. You’re quick to shed your bag and hang it up, kicking off your shoes and abandoning them next to the door. Seeing Jack eye them out of the corner of your eye, you lean down to grab them, setting them down on the shoe rack. “Exhausting,” you admit.
He places the packages on the kitchen counter, stacking them neatly. A palm flattens against the granite as he turns to look at you, the muscle of his bicep just begging to be let out the confines of his shirt. “Want me to run you a bath?” He asks.
You laugh at the pure incredulousity of the moment. Months ago, you had been dating guys your age, worshipping the small things like opening doors or paying for your drinks. You had been fighting about feeling insignificant, about having to pull them away from video games long enough to have an at-home dinner with you, about feeling ignored when you hung out with their friends.
And now there’s Jack Abbot. Older than you, sure, but he was everything you had been asking for on every birthday wish. He spoke about you when you weren’t there, had you plastered upon everything that everyone would see (his home and lockscreen, your initials engraved on the inside of his watch) and chose to hang out with you over everyone else. His phone was abandoned on the kitchen counter from when you got home until the both of you went to bed, the ringer on so he didn’t have to check it just in case anything from the hospital came in.
Everyone who had been with you throughout the trials and tribulations that was dating in the modern age had told you the same thing – the perfect one will come by when you least expect it. Of course, you didn't believe them. It was hard to have hope in the later days when every person you became slightly interested in treated you so horribly, like you were just another person rather than you.
But then Jack came about. A charming smile, a calmness about him, an empathetic soul that you thought only existed in books and movies written by women. He had courted you kindly, although carefully, not wanting to come off as some older creep who wanted you just for your youth. Your first date had been filled with flowers and butterfly feelings, showing off everything Jack Abbot was rather than a facade of everything you wanted him to be.
You smile as you step closer, leaning up to kiss him again. A “thank you” to something he did without knowing he did it. “It’s alright, baby. I’ll probably just quickly shower before dinner.” And then you kiss him once more, just because you want to.
“Alright,” he concedes. He places a final kiss on your forehead, hand playfully swatting your ass as he steps away. “I’ll get dinner started so you don’t have to cook while you’re hungry.
Shaking your head, you laugh as you step into your shared bedroom. You don’t close the door when you strip off your work clothes, a girlish giggle leaving your lips when Jack playfully whistles from the kitchen. After fixing him with a matching glare, you finally disappear into the bathroom, closing the door behind you to keep the steam from seeping out.
Once you’re in the shower, you look down at the shower drain, remembering your list from this morning. A task for tomorrow morning, you decide, a good way to spend your day off when Jack is at work. For now, you’d have to deal with a little bit of water pooling around your feet while you washed off the grime of the day.
Except the water never catches. Instead, it flows down the drain easily, never staying in the tub for longer than a moment. Shock flows down your body the same way the shower spray does, your jaw dropping.
You finish up quickly before hopping out, drying off and wrapping yourself in the fluffy robe Jack had bought you the moment you had complained about not wanting to get dressed as soon as you got out of the shower. After ensuring you won’t drip water all over the apartment, you bombard your way into the kitchen, where your boyfriend is happily cooking while humming some old rock tune to himself.
“Did you unclog the shower drain?” You ask, letting your tone be as accusatory as it wanted to be.
Jack glances over his shoulder at you, the wrinkles around his eyes softening at the look of you all bundled up. He remembers your question and looks up at your face, shrugging. “Yeah. I noticed it wasn’t draining as well, only took about two minutes to do.” His horrible habit of brushing off everything he did comes roaring to a head, his focus turning back to the stove.
“Jack,” you whine. You sidle up behind him, arms wrapping around his waist from behind and placing your cheek between his shoulder blades. His hand grabs yours, lifting them up slightly so you weren’t accidentally burned. “You didn’t have to do that. It’s my hair.”
He laughs softly, the sound rumbling beneath your cheek. “I’m insulted that you think my luscious locks wouldn’t help clog the shower drain,” he deflects. “Oh, I also put away those books in the bedroom. I’m not sure if it’s exactly how you organized them, so let me know if you need me to move them.”
That just pulls another groan out of you, turning your head to press your face fully into his skin. “You’re so annoying. I was going to do both of those things tomorrow.” Your voice turns whiny as you trail off, fingertips pressing into his abdomen.
“But I did them today so now you don’t have to. You can enjoy your day off the way you’re supposed to.” Jack steps away from the stove, grabbing your hands so that he can turn around and pull you into his chest. He places a gentle kiss on your hairline, smiling into your hair. “Sittin’ pretty and spending my money.”
Your brow knits as you look up at him, hands sliding down to his waist. “You’re mean.”
“I love you,” he responds easily. Still grinning like a child on Christmas morning, he tucks a strand of your wet hair away from your face before tilting your chin up, placing a lingering kiss on your lips. “Can’t be mad at me for lovin’ you, sweetheart.”
As he intended, you relax into his touch, chasing his lips when he pulls away. Then, you pout, huffing your indignation. “Fine. But only because I love you, too.”
“I know.” Jack laughs at your petulant look, swatting your ass again. “Now get out of the kitchen so I can feed my woman.”
Being the Cody’s on-call emergency nurse isn’t easy. A dislocated shoulder turns into late night gunshot wounds and before you know it, you’re part of the family. After a rough night, Pope needs some TLC. And who else can help him if not his favorite nurse? You’re the only one who can stitch him up, physically and emotionally.
masterlist
Word Count: 12.3k (was supposed to be 5k. oops.)
Warnings: existential crisis, does this count as a slow burn?, plot points from seasons 3 and 4 (just some dialogue and a job that goes bad), pope “kicked puppy” cody shows up on your door step, medical inaccuracies probably idk, descriptions of medical care including needles and stitches, poor craig literally cannot catch a break lmao, Smurf™, porn with feelings, reader smokes weed, cannon typical violence and pope being used to do the family’s dirty work, angst, he’s referred to as pope until one scene and then he’s andrew, pope lowkey has a competency kink, SMUT (18+), oral (f receiving), squirting, missionary, pope just wants to make you feel good, unprotected piv sex, pope has a praise kink and likes to suck titties (shocking, i know), breeding kink if you squint, cockwarming, no use of y/n for reader, can you tell my favorite trope is 'you take care of him when he's hurt and he falls in love with you'
A/N: pope fic time!! i need you to know that i called my mother about how to do stitches for this btw (she works in healthcare). I really really hope it’s enjoyable for you all! I’m sorry if I wrote anyone a little OOC. I need my man :c i wanna give him a kiss on the forehead and a bath and clean clothes and tell him its gonna be ok :c.
You walked into the ER waiting room with irritation already stirring in your stomach. You were supposed to be at home, taking a scented bath, drinking wine and reading your new book an hour ago. But one of the night nurses called out and his replacement wouldn’t be there for another two and a half hours. You drew the short straw, having to stay behind. Mainly because the rest of the nursing staff had lives, kids, responsibilities. And you didn’t. You had moved away from your hometown of Oceanside back when you went to nursing school, and all the responsibilities that remained there. You got tired of seeing the same people, hearing about the same couples break up and get back together again. So when you got a scholarship to go to a different nursing school out of state, you took it readily. Too bad when you graduated the only clinic to offer you a job was an ER in Wildomar. Only an hour away from the life you tried to leave behind. You didn’t hate it. It was close enough that you could go home and see your parents’ dog, far enough that you could have your own life. But if it were up to you, you’d be long gone by now. At least you never saw any of the unsavory characters from high school.
That’s what you thought, anyway, until you looked at the next name on the call list. Your steps faltered. ‘Liam Broker.’ You knew that name. A shiver crawled up the bottom of your spine. Liam didn’t exist. He wasn’t a real person. It was their alias. The Codys. Whenever they needed to fly under the radar, especially when they needed medical care after some dubious activities, they used that name. Sure, it could be a real guy, you really hoped it was, but when you turned around to call the name, all hope was lost. There they were, Deran and Craig, sitting in your ER. Your mouth went dry and you pressed your eyes shut. You took a deep breath before making yourself known to them. Deran was slumped in the shitty ER chair, bouncing his knee and nibbling on the skin of his thumb. Craig’s head was tossed back, counting ceiling tiles and trying not to move his arm.
“Mr. Broker,” you made a point to emphasize the name. “You can come back now.” Both of their heads snapped to look at you. You stood in front of them, death grip on the clipboard Craig had filled out.
“No shit.” Deran huffed, raking his gaze across you. Craig furrowed his brow. Like he kinda remembered you, but not from where. You and Deran were friends in high school. You ran in the same circles, smoked on the beach with the same people, and even rode along in the car he stole for his 16th birthday. You weren’t best friends, but you were close enough. He was a formative part of your teen years. You had an argument three days before you left for school. You couldn’t remember exactly what was said, but you remembered feeling so distraught that you never wanted to see him again. You walked them back to a room.
“Alright, dislocated shoulder?” You murmured, eyes scanning the chart. Craig was perched on the table, swinging his feet absentmindedly. He nodded.
“Yea,” He scratched behind his ear. “I’ve had it dislocated before, but it’s not going back in.”
“That happens,” You acknowledged, washing your hands in the sink before putting on a pair of gloves. “After so many home alignments, you’ve gotta have a professional do it.” Your eyes flicked to Deran. “Do I want to know how this happened?” They both hesitated for a moment and then shook their heads. You sighed. “Alright, take off your shirt, Craig.” The man startled slightly, looking at Deran. Surely confused about how you knew his real name. Deran just gave him a look and a small nod. Maybe easing his nerves, telling him they weren’t about to be arrested. Craig did as he was told. You gently examined the shoulder. “No wonder it didn’t work,” you muttered “It’s a posterior dislocation. You gotta get a different angle.” You readjusted your position and grabbed onto Craig’s bicep. With a quick push, you heard the joint slot back into place. He sucked in a breath, but exhaled in relief after a moment. You peeled off your gloves and tossed them in the bin. “I’ll tell the doctor we were able to get it back in. She’ll prescribe you some pain meds. For your use only.” You quirked an eyebrow and Craig nodded. “She should be in shortly.” You pulled back the door and left. Your heart was hammering against your sternum. The first time you had seen any of the Codys in years. You had survived. But you weren’t done yet. You made it a whole five steps down the hall before you felt a gentle hand pull you back by the wrist. You whirled around, ready to throw a punch, but you were met with Deran’s face. His brow was furrowed and his mouth was parted slightly, like he hadn’t quite decided what he was going to say yet.
“Hey,” was what he settled on. You shook your head in amusement.
“Really?” You scoffed, but you felt a smile dawning “That’s what you’re going with? Hey, Deran.”
“I, uh, didn’t know you worked here.”
“Clearly.”
“How was school?” Deran’s arm fell from yours and he shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders rising slightly.
“It was good,” you answered honestly. Your voice didn’t hold any anger or resentment. “I’m a nurse now, so…y’know, I’d consider that a success.”
“That’s awesome.” Deran grinned.
“What about you?” You asked “How’s surfing? I know you wanted to go pro. You were really good.” Deran’s face fell slightly. A momentary lapse in his facade before the mask was up again.
“Yea, I, uh. I just do it for fun now. It got too stressful.” His words didn’t convince you. You sensed there was a lot more to that story, but you didn’t ask. Didn’t really want to. It wasn’t your business. “I’m working in, um…I work for…” He gestured to the air around him. You understood.
“Family business?”
“Yea.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” You knew that Deran and his brothers were doing some shady shit in high school. Sometimes their mother would pull them from school for a few days. The next time you would see Deran, he would have bruises on his arm. He always said he was surfing and a rogue wave caught him. But after the third time, you had a hard time believing him. After you saw Smurf tucking a gun into Deran’s waistband in the school parking lot, it made you question if they were involved in gang activities. You brought up your concerns to your father, who had some connections to a few of the neighborhoods, but the moment the Cody name was said, he clammed up, made you promise you wouldn’t get yourself too involved with them. The night of prom, when you and Deran had snuck away from the main afterparty to smoke a joint, he had confided in you that he was scared he’d be stuck in Oceanside forever, working for his mom (he never elaborated what that meant, but you guessed). You assured him that he was talented, and he was. He was by far the best surfer you’d ever seen. But it seemed that his fears had come true and you truly felt sympathy for him. You had been lucky, getting out when you did. Of course, you had ended up back where you started, but you technically could leave whenever you wanted. You sensed that Deran didn’t have that luxury.
Deran nibbled on the inside of his cheek. “Listen,” He inhaled, setting his gaze anywhere but your face “I’ve…I’ve missed having you around. You’re, like, one of the only normal people in this place. I’m sorry for, uh, our fight before you left. I really am. I actually own a bar down in Oceanside. If you’re ever in the area, I still owe you that drink from when you stole that handle of Tito’s for me.” A smile twitched onto your lips.
“Yea,” you said softly, “Yea, I’ll stop by when I’m in town next.” Deran let out a laugh of relief.
“Yea?” He seemed genuinely happy “Okay, cool. Yea, sick I’ll, um, I’ll see you around then. I should probably make sure Craig doesn’t raid the cabinets.” He gave you a nod and slipped back into the room. You stayed put until the latch of the door clicked. You took a few deep breaths. Your mind swirled with thoughts. Did you really want to get yourself re-involved with them? You shook away the existential crisis that crept into the edges of your mind. You still had three hours left of your shift, and you heard elevated voices from the waiting room. You had other things to think about.
Sure enough, as the weeks went by, the encounter with the Codys drifted to the back of your brain. You hadn’t been back to Oceanside since their visit. You weren’t exactly avoiding Deran, you just really didn’t have the time between shifts to make the drive only to sit at a bar. So the sun rose and fell and you didn’t pay any attention to the tug in your heart that you couldn’t put a name to. It was an emotion you were familiar with, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was. It felt like a pulling sensation, like there was a string connected to your soul urging you down a path. You’d felt it frequently when you were in school. You had once considered it homesickness, a feeling that you didn’t belong in your current position in life. But a trip back home never quelled it for long. The feeling had been tamed for months, but Deran’s visit stirred it up again. You needed something different. You were pretending to be normal, with a normal job, a normal apartment, a normal life. But it just wasn’t cutting it anymore.
Some nights it was all you could think about. You were cuddled up on your couch with a beer sweating untouched on your side table. You stared out your window at the streetlamps flickering. You remembered that night, a few days before you left for school, when you had called Deran to hang out one last time. He pulled up to your house with a car you knew didn’t belong to him. You had rode down the highway for hours, picking up some shitty burger and talking about anything you could think of. When he dropped you back at your house, you had said what was lingering between you. You vaguely remembered how the fight started. You had told him you found an apartment just off campus and that he had a spot on your couch whenever he needed it. He was confused and you said you knew his family was…different. If he ever decided it wasn’t for him, he could call whenever and you’d pick him up. Deran had gotten defensive. He took your words as saying he didn’t belong in his family. You tried to soothe the flames but it was too late. He exploded. You couldn’t remember what exactly he said, what you had said in retaliation, but you did remember slamming the door of the car and running to your room, crying until your throat and eyes were raw. You hadn’t seen him since. The truth was you always missed Deran. He was kind. He was real, unafraid to talk about the realities of growing up in a town like Oceanside- whereas everyone else you knew tried to wave off any criticisms saying it was a ‘unique’ place to live. You needed his friendship in nursing school. During the long nights and even longer mornings. You missed the way he could make you laugh in any situation. He was the one who got you through your first breakup by baking you (burnt) brownies and only half-joking to beat the kid up. When your ex walked into school the next day with a black eye, you gave Deran a hug, even though he denied knowing anything about it.
The internal battle of whether or not to let him back into your life was raging in your mind. You wanted your friend back, but you had decidedly left Oceanside for a reason. Your skin crawled when you were there for too long. Like you were trying too hard to fit into a sweater two sizes too small. Reaching out to Deran felt like a betrayal to yourself. You had worked so hard to get out, just to go back. But then again, you weren’t the same person you were as a teenager. You had grown in inexplicable ways and just because you wanted to reconnect with a friend did not mean you were throwing everything away. You tossed your head back onto your couch and took a swig of the room-temperature beer. You watched as a cat trotted down the sidewalk, dipping into the bushes. If only the universe would give you a sign or some-
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.
Your brow furrowed. Was your…phone…ringing? When was the last time that happened? You scrambled to find it, flipping your blanket onto the floor and searching the couch. You heard your phone clatter out of the blanket and you tentatively grabbed it. An unknown number. Maybe it was one of the new night shift nurses needing something again. You pressed the accept button and raised it to your ear.
“Hello?” You heard your name gasped out on the other side. Your body stiffened. “Deran? How..How did you get this number?” He ignored your question. He just said your name again.
“I really need your help,” his voice was shaky “I…fuck, something happened, something went wrong. Craig he’s, he was shot, I don’t know if… I can’t help him. He needs help.”
“Okay, take a deep breath,” You tell him, already scrambling to get your shoes on. “Send me your address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Deran sent you an address and you plugged it into your GPS. “I’ll be there in forty minutes, okay? Keep pressure on the wound and do not let him fall asleep. Can you do that?”
“Y-Yea I can do that. Please hurry.”
“I’m leaving now. I’ll see you there, it’s okay, I’m on my way.” You hung up and rushed to your bathroom, throwing open one of the cabinets and grabbing the make-shift triage kit your mom made you buy when she learned you’d be living by yourself. You had thought it was stupid at the time, but it seemed that mothers really did know best. You were in your car in less than a minute, tearing down the streets as fast as you could.
You pulled into the Codys’ driveway thirty-two minutes later. You were thankful no cops were out because you were going at least twenty over the speed limit the entire time. You had never actually been to the Cody house. You had heard about the intense parties they threw, but you were never invited (as if your parents would even let you go if you were). It was a gorgeous house, but you decided you would admire the architecture after Craig was stable. You turned off your car and grabbed your kit. A young man you didn’t recognize was waiting for you. Nervous energy rolled off him in waves.
“He’s in the kitchen,” The kid said, bringing you through the front door and into the house. You took a sharp inhale when you walked into the kitchen. There were bloodied rags scattered around the floor. Craig was sprawled across the island, his jeans in a pile on the ground. Deran was pressing a fast-saturating kitchen towel against the side of Craig’s thigh. Deran’s eyes were panicked. Craig was taking short breaths. Deran seemed to relax slightly when he caught sight of you. You blinked at the scene. You didn’t know if your skills were that good.
“Well, baby, aren’t you going to do something?” Your eyes shot up from Craig to the woman who was leaning against the stove. You recognized her. Smurf, dressed in a floral silk robe, hair perfectly pressed, leaning with her hands crossed over her chest. The woman’s voice was smooth and unhurried, like her dying son was more of an inconvenience than a tragedy. You snapped yourself out of your daze and gave a curt nod. You placed your kit on the kitchen island, next to where Craig was laid out.
“Hey, Craig,” You said, voice a touch louder than it needed to be, but Craig’s eyes were glassed over. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, man.” A small smile cracked his ashy lips. Okay, that was good, he could hear you. “I’m going to look at the wound, alright? Might be a bit uncomfortable.” He gave a weak nod. You shifted down to where Deran was pressing against his brother’s leg with all his might. “Good job,” You told him, quiet enough just for him to hear “I’m going to lift the towel, okay?” Deran nodded, but didn’t move his hands. You gently loosened his fingers and lifted the towel in a way that would shield Craig’s view. You saw one entry wound on the outside of Craig’s thigh, about six inches above the knee. You rolled his leg slightly and let out a breath when you saw an exit wound. “Okay,” you sighed, giving a nervous smile “Good news is that it’s through and through. And it missed the bone. So no surgery for you tonight. You’re still bleeding, but it doesn’t look like the femoral was nicked, so we’re going to do a tourniquet before I start doing anything, okay? S’not going to feel nice.” You felt Smurf’s burning gaze on you. You ignored it. You asked Deran to get Craig’s belt from his jeans on the floor. You wrapped the leather around Craig’s upper thigh, tightening it until the bleeding slowed. Craig spat out in pain and Deran rushed to his side, grabbing his hand and mumbling something into his ear. Thankfully, the tourniquet worked. The blood slowed to a trickle. You wiped the sweat off your brow with the sleeve of your shirt. You muttered to yourself, forming a treatment plan. You wiped your hands free from blood on the kitchen towel. You opened the triage kit and got the saline solution. You worked quickly, flushing the wound before dressing it. You noticed that Craig’s face was starting to regain some color. When the wound was properly wrapped, you loosened the tourniquet. When blood didn’t soak through the bandages, you let out a sigh of relief. You turned to the sink, washing your hands and watching the red water swirl down the drain.
“Okay,” you said, hands only shaking a little bit. “That dressing should be good for the next few days. Lots of rest, obviously, and keep your leg elevated when you’re sitting. Don’t get it wet until it’s scabbed on both sides. Showers only when it does.” You turned to Deran. “Come by the hospital tomorrow, I’ll get you some antibiotics. If he gets a fever or you notice a lot of swelling or he bleeds through the bandage, hospital. Immediately. Got it?” Deran mumbled his agreement. You stood there for a moment. You noticed a man standing on the other side of the kitchen. His jaw was set, eyes locked on you. Assessing you. Sizing you up. You suddenly felt very self-conscious. Your gaze met his and a spark tingled your lower spine. Had he been standing there the entire time, just staring at you? You felt your chest tighten, but you forced yourself to remember your patient. You placed a calming touch on Craig’s non-injured knee. “I don’t want to be your nurse again, okay? Stay safe. And drink some water.” Craig laughed and relaxed his head against the island.
“No promises.” He croaked out. Deran laughed airily, like it was more of a stress reliever than actual amusement. The kid who had let you in clapped Craig on the shoulder and Smurf hummed before leaving the kitchen, the kid following her. The man at the other end of the kitchen tilted his head.
“Drive safe,” he said. His voice was gruff but pleasant, like gravel crushing under tires. He blinked at you once more before pushing himself off the wall and walking away. You looked at Deran but he shook his head. Don’t ask. You collected your things into the triage kit and clipped it back closed. Deran walked you back to your car. You shivered in the night air, but you couldn’t tell if it was because it was chilly or because of the high-adrenaline situation you had just handled.
“I really appreciate you coming tonight.” Deran said, opening the door to your car.
“Does this happen often?” You asked. There wasn’t any judgement in your voice, just strict curiosity. Deran lifted his gaze behind you, bouncing slightly on his feet.
“Sometimes,” he allowed, “Usually if it’s bad we go down to Mexico.” You nodded, chewing the inside of your lip.
“Next time, call me,” You told him. “I’ll be here.” Deran looked as surprised as you felt. Did you really say that?
“You sure?”
“I don’t want you to die. Not after I just got you back.” Your eyes found your sneakers. You noticed then that you had mismatching shoes. You put them on too quickly to care. Deran put a hand on your shoulder.
“Okay,” he smiled. “I will.”
“Goodnight, Deran. Keep an eye on him.” You climbed into your car and closed the door. You pulled out of the driveway and began the drive home, riding in silence with nothing but your thoughts. A very dangerous feeling was swirling in your body. You loved that he called you of all people. It was something dangerous, almost (definitely) illegal, but you were the correct choice for the job. You noticed that the tugging feeling in your chest had vanished. You had never felt so alive. You wanted to do it again. That also happened to be the night you first met Pope Cody.
═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═
A year passed. True to his word, Deran called you about a month later. The kid, who you learned was his nephew J, got into a fight with some gangbangers and needed stitches. So you were on their step an hour later, suture kit in hand. That was the dance. They called, you showed up. You treated all of the boys, except one. You heard Pope was, well, an ‘interesting’ guy. More animalistic. He preferred to slink off by himself when he was hurt than have someone help him. Which was odd considering he was the one who got hurt the most. At first, it hurt your feelings. You had felt like they didn’t trust you. You noticed a truck following you a few weeks after the night Craig got shot. It lingered outside your apartment building a few intersections down. You saw it in the parking lot of the ER when you worked late. A grey Ram with the same license plate. You had seen it in the driveway that night. You knew they were doing recon on you, but you didn’t mind. You knew you were clean. The tail lasted a few weeks and then you didn’t see the truck again.
Most of your calls weren’t necessary, checkups after alley fights or disinfecting small cuts. You could tell the guys enjoyed having you around. The more you were there, the more you let your personality show and over the course of a year, you considered yourself friends with the Cody boys. One night at Deran’s bar, he slipped you a wad of cash. He told you to find a new apartment. One closer to them. They didn’t always have an hour to wait for your services. You scoffed, rejecting the money. But you moved into a new apartment anyway, halfway between the Cody house and the hospital. You had been adamant that you would not be accepting monetary exchange for your triage skills. That was too illegal for you. You preferred to say it was like doing a friend a favor. Craig always insisted on finding a way to pay you back for your work on his leg, so you had settled on an agreement. Weed. High quality, too. And when you smoked the premium bud on your porch overlooking the ocean, the thought of patching up criminals under the table felt a lot less stressful. Your social life improved, too. You finally received your first invitation to a Cody party in the form of a text from Craig, followed by a cat picture with its thumbs up. You laughed and immediately accepted.
You sat on one of the loungers by the pool. The music echoed through the yard, bass vibrating your bones in an enjoyable way. Deran flopped onto the wicker couch beside you. The arm candy on Craig’s left scoffed slightly and nestled closer to him. You took the last sip from your beer and relaxed against the chair. The party had a good turnout, people splashing around in the pool and dancing by the speakers. But you weren’t looking at them. Your eyes only had one target: Pope. He fascinated you. The way he would linger at the edge of gatherings, much like he was at that moment, eyes scanning the crowd. He was always alert, twitchy in the most adorable way. You had gained a fondness for Pope. The way he held his arms tight against him. The way his mouth twitched when one of his brothers said something stupid. And especially the way he would clench his fists when he caught Craig running his eyes over your body.
You knew Craig found you attractive, but you had made it clear that it would never result in anything. Craig respected it, but you still caught him looking at your ass when you walked past from time to time. You didn’t mind it. You considered it a confidence booster. But Pope, for some reason, wasn’t exactly thrilled with his brother ogling you. And you thought it was endearing. You figured it was probably just some code of honor. Pope seemed like a man who stuck to his own moral code, and maybe the objectification of women was something he strongly opposed. Deep down, though, you hoped it was something more. At first, you cared for him the way you might care for an abandoned dog. You wanted to clean him up and give him a warm meal. And you still did, but your increasingly frequent encounters with him turned your pitiful admiration into something more akin to a crush. Pope was a handsome man. You had caught him in the bathroom trying to stick a bandaid on the back of his shoulder a few months ago. It wasn’t going well. His beautifully plump biceps got in the way. You clicked your tongue at him and applied the bandage. He just blinked at you before giving a gruff ‘thank you’ and pushing past you into the hall. The sight of him with his shirt off was enough for the physical attraction to settle in your abdomen, but you really wanted to get to know him more. You could sense there was a lot more to him than met the eye. He was the muscle of the family operation, you knew that. Of all his brothers, he was always the one with the most bruises, the bloody knuckles. It should have scared you, but it didn’t- it only made you more curious because you saw the gentleness in him. You had gone surfing with the brothers one morning (technically they were surfing and you were watching them on the beach) when Pope saw a kitten stuck in a tidepool. He ran from his brothers and scooped up the tiny scrap of fur, only putting it down when the people he called from the ASPCA showed up to collect it. That showed you he wasn’t an evil man, just misunderstood. You were determined to understand him.
Pope was no different at the party, gaze flicking from the people in the pool to the people by the gate. He gripped the throat of his beer bottle tightly enough that you could see his knuckles begin to whiten. He sat on a low line of stones belonging to a fountain. A small stream of water trickled behind him. You tilted your head in curiosity. Pope hadn’t blinked in over a minute.
“Does he always do that?” You asked to no one in particular, but Craig followed your gaze. “The staring, I mean.” Craig just chuckled and took another drag of his joint.
“Yea,” He confirmed “Pope’s got a bit of a staring problem. I can tell him to knock it off if you want.” You shook your head. Part of you wanted to laugh. Craig tell Pope to do something? Unlikely.
“No, it doesn’t bother me, I was just curious.” Your eyes flicked to the beer bottle in his hand. It was empty, and had been for a while. You rose to your feet and went to the cooler on the other side of the couch. You dropped into a squat as you dug around and pulled out 2 beers. Deran watched you closely. He leaned over the arm of the furniture to talk to you under the noise of the party.
“Careful,” he warned. You looked up, brows furrowed in confusion. Deran bounced his leg. He had a serious look on his face. “He can be…unpredictable.” You didn’t need to ask who he was talking about.
“I thought he liked me.”
Deran chuckled and looked out to the party. “Especially if he likes you.” You let out a noise of amusement.
“I’ll be safe. Promise.” You held out your pinky to him. You made several pinky promises in high school. Only some of which you broke. The man smirked and reached out his hand, linking his finger to yours. You stood up and grabbed the two beers, giving Deran a nod and weaving your way through the party. It was packed, bodies swayed and fused together, neon necklaces blinking in the night. You genuinely didn't know how Smurf had so many connections with the younger people of Oceanside. She had a lot of issues, but damn did she know how to throw a good party.
You emerged on the other side of the mass of people. Pope was still sitting on the rocks, eyes glazed over. “Mind if I sit?” Pope’s eyes snapped up to you. He looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected the question to come from your mouth. He blinked at you and shook his head. You plopped yourself beside him. You handed him one of the beers. “That thing’s been empty for, like, an hour. Figured I’d get you another one.” Pope looked at the bottle. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand. His eyes went back to the party. With a purse of your lips, you set the fresh beer on the stones between the two of you. You took a sip of your drink. “Who are these people?” You asked him.
“Fuck if I know.” He scoffed. “They always just…show up whenever Smurf has a party. Word moves fast in a town like this.” You hummed in agreement and looked over your shoulder to take in a better view of the fountain you were sitting on. A little stream of bubbles caught your eye. You gasped and whirled around fully to face the water. The movement made Pope jump slightly. He clutched his beer closer to his chest and looked at you with wide, startled eyes.
“There’s a turtle!” You cooed, smiling widely at him. “Look!” Without thinking, you grabbed his bicep to get his attention. You pointed at the corner of the fountain, where a little pointed nose poked from the water. You watched as it ducked back under the surface. You turned to see if Pope had seen it, but his eyes were locked on you. Or rather, your hand, where it was still gripping the meat of his arm. It was hard to tell in the dark lighting, but you could’ve sworn you saw a twinge of red blush creeping up his neck. You realized your mistake at once. Pope had a thing about personal space. You removed your touch quickly. “I’m sorry,” You tucked your hands into your lap. “I got excited. There was this pond in my backyard growing up. I loved seeing what kinds of critters would show up.”
“S’alright.” He murmured, voice annoyingly monotone, blinking away whatever he had been thinking. A beat passed. “Do you like it? The fountain?”
“Oh, yea!” You grinned “I like the whole ‘overgrown’ vibe it gives.” The fountain was made of mossy stone bricks, with algae and a few water flowers skimming the surface. You knew it had to be a curated look. The Codys were never sloppy.
“I made it.” Pope said. “When I got out of prison. I took a sledgehammer to the old one and built this one from scratch.” You sensed pride in his words. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought he was trying to impress you. He set his empty bottle down in the grass and picked up the one that had been waiting for him.
“It’s nice to have a project,” You agreed. “Sometimes you just need to forget the real world and dedicate yourself to a task.”
“Is that why you patch up felons for fun?” Pope took a sip of his beer.
“Yea, sure.” You giggled “Something like that.” But it was exactly like that. Your work with the Codys gave you a purpose outside of work. You had something to do now besides just trudging through work and collapsing face first on your bed, just to repeat it all again the next day. A weird hobby, but a hobby nonetheless. “I just like having patients who don’t complain about every little thing I do. It’s not like you have much of a choice. ” You had meant it as a lighthearted comment, but Pope’s brow furrowed.
“People complain?” His face was a picture of confusion. “About you?” You shrugged.
“Sometimes.”
“Why?” He huffed “You’re a great nurse. You’re smart and capable and…nice.” His voice got quieter at the end and his fingernails scraped at the label on the sweaty bottle.
“Well,” You sighed, “when people are in pain, they don’t always think before they speak. It’s not personal.” You bumped your knee lightly against his. “It’s nice to know I’m appreciated here, though.”
“We’d be dead without you,” Pope continued. “And that’s not even flattery, that's just fact.” You held out your beer.
“Cheers to that.” You clinked your bottle against his and the two of you drank. You could feel him relaxing a bit next to you. Still looking out into the crowd, but not as jumpy. “Deran says you’re usually in your room during these things.”
“I don’t like parties.” Pope confirmed.
“Why are you out here then? What’s so special about tonight?” His eyes briefly moved from the party to your face. His lips moved a bit, like he was thinking of an answer.
Pope couldn’t tell you it was because of you. He knew you’d be here and he had hoped to talk to you. He wanted to make sure you were doing okay, that none of his brother’s asshole friends bothered you. Because he liked you. More than liked you. You were all he thought about while he stayed up at night, sometimes looking at the ceiling, sometimes with his hand down his pants. Pope wanted to get to know you, learn if he consumed your thoughts the way you consumed his. But he couldn’t tell you that. So, instead, he said, “The weather’s nice.”
═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═
You had been dead asleep when your phone’s ringtone tore through the haze of your dreams. You scrambled to groggily accept the call and when you heard Deran’s voice, you were instantly awake. The job had gone bad. Well, technically, the job itself was fine. The boys had cosplayed EMTs in order to rob soundboards from a music festival. One their drive home, the ambulance was hit. And they were hurt. Bad.
You got to the Cody house the same time as they pulled into the driveway. Deran opened the driver’s side door and practically fell out of the truck.
“What the fuck happened?” You hissed, wrapping Deran’s arm around your shoulder to help him up.
“Semi truck ran a stop sign,” His voice was wet and bloody. His lip was split down the middle and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Must’ve bit his tongue.
“A semi truck hit you?” Your eyes were wild. You deposited Deran on one of the pool chairs. You helped him sit back and looked up to see Pope and Craig helping each other follow behind you. You shook your head in disbelief and took a deep breath. Your eyes immediately went to Pope. He had deep gashes on his arm and neck. Blood darkened the hair at his temple and you could tell it hurt to walk. He looked so disheveled, so raw. So hot. The uniform clung to his body and you felt desire curl in your belly. You shook it off immediately, shame burning in your veins. You were objectifying a man who needed medical attention. Your medical attention. Pope and Craig sat together on another lounger next to Deran’s. You wiped your forehead of the sweat that was already beginning to gather there. “Okay,” You huffed, mainly to yourself “Okay.” You did a quick inventory. Craig looked superficially fine, but he had that dazed look in his eyes that told you he probably had a concussion. Deran got the worse of it, glass stuck in his nose and several lacerations all over his body. You assumed he was driving.
Suddenly, Pope wasn’t on the chair anymore. You looked around for him. He was limping toward the house. “Pope!” You called after him “You-”
“I’m fine!” He growled, teeth bared. “I’ve gotta make a call.” His voice was deep, almost sinister, and final. He tore the sliding door open and practically fell into the kitchen, disappearing from view. You pressed your eyes together and let out a frustrated grumble, but returned your focus back to Deran. You worked quickly, picking the glass from both Deran and Craig’s wounds. You had to give Deran a few stitches in his lip and several bandages across his face, but he was a good sport about it. Craig just needed a sling for his arm, which was broken and would need a cast from urgent care in the morning. He hadn’t vomited and was generally aware, so you weren’t too worried about the concussion, but you still made him talk to you while you worked on cleaning the scrapes on Deran’s shoulder.
Headlights pulled you from your conversation. You looked at Deran, silently asking if they were expecting someone. From the way he tensed beneath you, you assumed they were not. Before Craig could get up, the sliding door opened. Pope emerged from the house, bandages on his arm and neck. A fine enough job, but the bleeding hadn’t been contained. He walked towards the gate, steps uneven and face furious. J appeared from the driveway. His brows shot up as he saw the state of his uncles.
“Holy shit.” He whispered.
“Nice of you to join us,” Pope bit out, words laced with venom. “Have a nice drive back?”
“I couldn’t just leave,” J reasoned, shrugging with his hands in his pockets “It would have looked suspicious.” Pope let out a humorless laugh.
“Suspicious.” He echoed, slinking into J’s personal space. “You know what looks suspicious, J? The fact that the driver of the semi knew who you were.” He pressed an accusing finger into J’s chest. “Told me to ‘say hi to my nephew.’ You know anything about that?” To J’s credit, the boy looked genuinely taken aback.
“No.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Pope hissed, shoving J away from him. “I told you what happens when you lie to me.” After the push, Pope swayed slightly, staggering before catching himself. You were on your feet in an instant, approaching him from behind in case you had to stabilize him. He shot you a look over his shoulder that told you to back off. You didn’t.
“You’re still bleeding,” You said calmly, pointing at his back, where a dark patch had begun to seep through the clean shirt he’d put on.
“M’not.” He grumbled, but he seemed less sure. More dazed. Pope took another step. And almost fell to the ground. You were able to tuck your arm under his armpit, hand splayed on his chest, and hold him up long enough until J got his other side. The two of you pulled him to the nearest chair. J gave you room and you began tugging at his shirt. “Get off f’me,” He barked at you, starting to get up. You put your hands on his chest and pushed him back into the chair.
“Andrew. Sit. Down.” Your voice was firm, commanding. Your jaw was set and you held his gaze steadily. Pope blinked up at you in surprise. You had used his name. His real name. He swallowed and nodded. Pope straightened his spine, flinching as he slid one of his hands across his lower back. When he pulled his hand away, blood coated his fingers. Suddenly, the earth shifted beneath him and he gripped the table beside him, breath coming out in short huffs.
“I think there’s some broken glass,” He rasped out. “I didn’t feel it before.” J got the triage kit while you helped Pope get his shirt off.
“Next time,” You growled at him, eyes still harsh, “let me take a look at you before you go sulk in the bathroom.” Pope’s gaze fell from you and he gave a little nod. You scoffed and shook your head, directing him on how to get the best angle and removing the tiny shards of glass that were embedded in his skin.
By the time you finished making sure everyone was cared for, you were exhausted. You were standing in the kitchen, washing your tools and hands of the blood that stained them. The overhead lights were too bright, your vision was a little fuzzy, and the entire night felt like a strange dream. But that was okay, because all three men were stable. Craig and Deran had left to fake a car accident that gave them plausible reason to go to the hospital in the morning. J had slipped out a few minutes after Pope’s attention was no longer on him. And Pope was sitting at the dining table outside, staring at the reflections that danced across the pool. You let your eyes follow the curve of his shirtless torso. You had told him to keep it off for the night, to let his wounds breathe. His bandages were fresh (you had replaced the shoddy ones he’d put on) and you didn’t see any blood blooming across the gauze. A good sign. If only he had let you do it in the first place. Your nose twitched with irritation. Stupid, stubborn man. You scrubbed harder at the skin of your hands, only stopping when they were rubbed raw and the blood was washed from under your fingernails. You sighed and turned off the faucet. The embrace of sleep called to you and you felt your eyelids droop. You leaned back against the counter and rubbed at your eyes. When you brought your hands down, Pope was standing inside, giving you one of his looks. You hadn’t heard him come in. You really tried to grasp what emotion he was trying to convey, but it was lost on you.
“What?” You asked, harsher than you meant to. He flinched. Barely, but enough to notice. Pope just stood there, wringing his hands and looking at you with those large, sad eyes. You exhaled through your nose. “I should go home.” You pushed yourself off the counter and grabbed your keys. Pope moved to block your exit.
“No.” His voice was soft, almost intimately so.
“No?” Your eyes crinkled in confusion. “What do you mean, no?”
“It’s late,” he said simply “You can stay here. If you want.” You looked behind you to see the time on the microwave. It was 4 am. You rubbed a hand over your face. Pope had a point. You were falling asleep washing your hands. You probably shouldn’t drive. He seemed like he had his mind made up and, honestly, you really didn’t have the energy to fight him on it. You gave him a small nod. Pope’s eyes lit up, half expecting you to refuse him, and gestured for you to follow him. You did. He took you down an unfamiliar hallway and turned into a room you instantly recognized as his. You’d never seen it before, but it was so unmistakable Pope’s. No clutter, not even a wall decoration. Just a bed with neatly tucked in sheets and a dresser that had a picture frame laying face-down on it. You were too busy taking in the space to notice that Pope had begun striping the bed. A new pair of sheets rested on the bedside table.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” You protested weakly. You could hear the exhaustion fraying the edges of your voice.
“Don’t be ridiculous, everyone needs clean sheets.” He tucked in the corners of the fresh white linens before standing back and admiring his work. You couldn’t tell him that you didn’t want clean sheets. You wanted to be able to smell him as you fell asleep. Having your skin against the same fabric as his made your legs tingle. But that was probably just the sleep deprivation talking.
“Thank you.” you said instead. He gave an acknowledging noise and gathered the old sheets in his arms. He began to walk out, but you brushed your hand against his shoulder. “Hey, I’m…I’m sorry I was so rude earlier. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. It was unprofessional.” You took a deep breath, debating if you should continue. “I just don’t enjoy seeing you hurt. I hate watching you suffer. Knowing I can help you but not being able to. I hate it. I get it if you have a hard time asking for help. But it’s what I’m here for. I want to help you, Pope.” I want to take care of you. That was what you wanted to say. I want to be there for you. Please let me be there for you. A tense moment of silence expanded between the two of you. Pope’s bottom lip disappeared under his teeth.
“Don’t be sorry, I…” He trailed off. You could tell he had a lot he wanted to say, but didn’t quite know how to string the words together. He shook his head. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Pope walked out of the room. You realized then that you had taken his bed. You were about to follow him and ask where he planned on sleeping that night, but the hall lights turned off, plunging the room into darkness, and you took that as a sign that Pope was done with you for the night.
═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═
Several weeks passed and you didn’t hear anything from the Codys. Based on Pope’s interaction with J that night, you assumed there was some family tension. And you were happy with staying away from that. You had texted Craig and Deran to check up on their healing progress and it was going well. But outside of that, life had been normal. The California summer was in full swing, and you were sprawled out on your bed, comforter kicked to the floor and starfishing under your ceiling fan to keep as cool as possible. A task that was working fine enough until you heard a knock at your door. Your head snapped up and adrenaline shot through your body. You checked the time on your phone. It was only 9 pm, but it was still an odd hour for visitors- especially considering you never got any. Pope had warned you about this, that enemies of his family and other dangerous people might come seeking you out in the dead of night. But would they knock? You swallowed your anxiety and crawled out of bed. Quietly, you tiptoed across the floor of your apartment to look out the peephole of the door. You relaxed instantly when you saw the familiar face. You unlocked the door and gently swung it open. The warm night air brushed against your thighs and you could smell the dew beginning to collect on the grass.
“Pope?” You said groggily, rubbing at your eyes. “What are you doing here?” You noticed that his car wasn’t anywhere to be seen. “How’d you get here?” You lived at least three miles from the nearest bus stop. Pope didn’t say anything and you were able to get a look at him as awareness started to sweep sleep from your brain. His cuts on his neck and arm were almost healed, but he had a new gash above his eyebrow. Blood painted the side of his face. A face that was contorted in despair. His eyes were massive dark spots and they were fixated on you. You were suddenly hyper aware that you were only wearing a large t-shirt and sleep shorts that barely covered your ass. You shifted self-consciously. Pope’s chest was rising and falling with quick, panicked breaths. One of his hands was pressed to his abdomen and the other was clenching and unclenching rapidly. He looked beaten, physically and emotionally.
“I’m sorry,” He choked out. His voice was shaky and wet. His eyes darted around and his body was tense. “I…I didn’t know where else to go. I can’t go back to that house. You’re the only one I…You’re the only one I trust to help me.”
“What happened?” Pope didn’t reply. His lip quivered and a sob shook through him. His free hand rose to his face to cover his mouth. Tears welled in his eyes and he let out another sobbing breath. “Oh, Andrew.” Your face fell and your heart swelled. You threw your arms around his neck and pulled him close to you. His face fell to the crook of your neck and he cried against you. You felt the wetness of his tears on your skin. You held him tightly, running comforting strokes over his back and his hand gripped onto the fabric of your shirt. “It’s okay,” You soothed. “It’s okay.” You stood there for what could have been minutes or hours, in the doorway of your apartment, just holding him. The only sounds were his sniffles and the occasional car driving past. When he was ready, Pope pulled back, but his hand still fisted the back of your shirt. Shiny streaks of tears stained his cheeks and his breathing was still hiccuping. Your hand gently disentangled him from your back and you walked him inside your apartment. You closed the door and locked it. You led him by the hand to your couch, where you told him to sit while you got your medical supplies. After you deposited him, he sat there for a moment, blinking and arm still outstretched. He flexed his hand, confused that your warmth was no longer in his palm.
When you returned, you were holding your kit. You unpacked it on the coffee table. Nylon threads, a hooked stitching needle, disinfectant, water, a washcloth, bandages, and a dose of lidocaine that had been too easy to snatch from the medicine cart at the hospital. After mixing some water and disinfectant solution, you sat back on your knees, looking up at him from your position on the ground. Pope was pressing his hand to his side and you could see the deep red that was beginning to slip through his fingers. You laced your fingers around his and gently removed his palm.
“Gonna take a look, okay?” You told him and he nodded. Sweat was beginning to bead at his temples. You lifted the side of his shirt with care and sucked in a breath when you saw the slash that cut through the side of his abdomen. Likely a knife wound of some kind. You put on your gloves and disinfected the cut, running your fingers along the edge of the wound to assess its depth. Pope shivered beneath you. “Okay,” you breathed “Looks pretty straightforward. You’ll need stitches, but it didn’t cut deep enough for more than one layer.” You gave him a tight smile “Doable.” Pope’s eyes were half-lidded as he looked down at you and his jaw was slackened slightly. He really was beautiful, even with the bruises and blood and despair splashed across his face. You took the dose of lidocaine and took the cap off the syringe. You offered him one of your hands to hold. He took it without hesitation. “Squeeze if you need to. You won’t hurt me. It’s gonna sting a bit, okay?”
“Okay,” his voice was breathy, ragged, and he squeezed your hand tighter. You pressed the needle below the wound and plunged the syringe down. Once he was sufficiently numbed, you prepared the sutures. It took some convincing to have Pope let go of your hand, but after assuring him that, yes, both hands were needed for the stitches, he grumbled and released you.
You stitched him up quickly and efficiently, looping the thread over the gash and pulling tight. At the half-way point, Pope’s legs were shaking from the shock. You squeezed his knee reassuringly. “We’re about halfway done, alright? You’re doing so well for me.” Pope froze beneath you and his breath hitched. He blinked hard and turned his face from you. You noticed he was holding his breath. “Breathe for me, Pope. In and out. I’m almost done, I promise.” His neck reddened and his jaw clenched, but he did as you said.
“Good.” You soothed. Pope looked at you. He had the same look in his eyes as he did when he was on alert, like he was trying to read you. You ignored it. After another line of stitches, you tied off the thread and shucked off your gloves. “All done!” You tossed your gloves and the needle into a red biohazard bag. You pulled yourself up onto the couch and grabbed the washcloth from the coffee table, wetting it with the water and disinfectant solution. You gently turned his face to get a better look at his temple. “You gonna tell me what happened?” You used your pointer finger to dab at the cut above his eyebrow.
“Smurf’s usin’ me as her little…attack dog again.” His voice was shaky, coming down from his adrenaline high caused by the stitches. “That’s all I am to her. I mean just look at me.” His gaze settled heavy on his knuckles and he flexed them. They were bruised purple and scabbed over. “Everything I touch gets mangled and bloody. And the worst part is I don’t even know why I do it. At some point I did but…the more I think about it, I can never remember a reason. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s just…who I am. That's all I am.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.” he bit back “And if you keep…if you keep getting close to me you’re gonna realize that one day. You’re gonna realize what I am. I…I hurt people. She sent me after this guy ‘nd I beat him in front of…in front of his kid. Who does that? I’m a monster!” His voice was gravelly, growing louder with each word. Pope’s lip quivered and his anger morphed into a kind of despair.
“You’re not a monster.” Your voice was unwavering. “You don’t scare me, Pope,” You told him. And you meant it. Your free hand went to rest on his forearm and he flinched slightly. But he didn't pull away. “You could never scare me. You’re so much more than that and it kills me that you don’t see it.” His lips pressed together and his brow twitched. The muscles at the corners of his mouth pulled upward and then relaxed, and you saw him swallow. He looked like he was on the verge of tears. He took a few deep breaths.
“Please,” Pope choked out, voice barely above a whisper. His gaze moved from where it was burning a hole in your carpet to capture your eyes in an equally blazing way. His eyes were wide, pleading, dark, and wet. His eyebrows tilted up ever so slightly, the way a dog would when begging for scraps at a table. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, pressing his palms together tighter. As if it was the only way to stay grounded in the moment. “Call me Andrew.” You tilted your head, lowering your hand from his face.
“Andrew,” Your voice was equally as soft. You raised the washcloth again, gesturing for him to turn his head so you could regain your angle. But he didn’t move, keeping your eyes locked with his. You could feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. Maybe caused by the adrenaline crash after fighting for his life. Maybe caused by the way the air had shifted slightly between you two. Not too intense, just enough to notice. It shifted from the simple relationship of patient and nurse to something more charged. Something more intimate. You swallowed. He stared into your soul, searching for something with his eyes. Those eyes. Big and wet and dark as ink. You knew Pope- Andrew- had a staring problem. And from a distance, you didn’t mind it, but up close, it was intimidating. His face was blank and you couldn’t tell what was churning in that mind of his. Andrew’s gaze held the normal edge that you were used to, like an animal unsure of its next move. But underneath it, there was something softer. Squishier. A hesitance that was so unlike the man you knew. Like he was waging a war with himself and he wasn’t sure what outcome he preferred, whether he won or lost.
Suddenly, his lips were on yours. It was a cautious kiss, slow pecks testing the waters. You inhaled sharply. Surprise jolted through you, but soon melted into bliss as you pressed your face against his. You dropped the washcloth to the ground and brought your hands to his face, holding his cheeks. They were still sticky with dried tears. You felt the stubble against his skin. You hadn’t really noticed that it was there until just now. He was usually so clean-shaven, neatly kept like the rest of his appearance. But he must not have shaved that morning and the thought of seeing him disheveled, seeing him broken down to his most intimate forms, made your heart tumble with yearning. Andrew slowly raised his hand and traced his fingers down yours, as if he was checking to make sure you were real. Like you were actually touching him like that.
You poked your tongue out, testing the waters even further, giving him a chance to back out if all he needed was something gentle. Andrew exhaled sharply as he opened his lips and let your tongue into his mouth, breath fanning across your nose. You felt his fingers dance across your waist and settle on your upper thigh. Your kisses became more open and less controlled. Your lips worked against his and he nipped at your mouth before soothing the bite with his own tongue. The kiss got sloppy fast, both of your breathing becoming shallow and more needy. His tongue ran against yours and Andrew whimpered slightly as he sucked on your bottom lip. His grip became harsher, digging into the meat of your thigh and pulling you closer to him. You ignored the burning in your lungs for as long as you could, but you eventually had to pull away from him, gasping for breath and feeling a string of saliva still connecting the two of you. Your eyes fluttered open. Andrew was looking at you, hungry, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen and red. Pants were coming through his parted lips and his nose twitched. The sight sent a shock of arousal down your spine before pooling as heat in your lower abdomen. You needed him. Your hands slid down his face and neck before settling on his chest. Andrew sucked in a breath at your touch. He tensed slightly under your fingers, and something told you it had been a long time since he felt a touch like this. Gentle. Nonthreatening. Needy.
Andrew held your gaze as he slid off the couch and onto the floor, kneeling between your legs. His fingers slid up your thighs and hooked into the waistband of your shorts. You could see the painfully hard outline of his cock pressing against the fabric of his jeans. He looked up at you with reverence, lips parted and eyes wide. Like he was about to start praying at an altar. You wiggled your hips forward and felt the wetness beginning to collect between your folds. All you wanted was to feel his tongue in you. Feel his lips suckle on your clit and watch his face as he tongue-fucked you to your release. But you reigned yourself in. Your hands rested on his.
“Wait,” You whisper. Andrew let out a frustrated whimper. How could you deny him this? When it was so clearly the only thing he wanted? “Andrew, we don’t have to. You had a rough day a-and I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret. We can just talk if that’s what you want.”
“Won’t regret it,” He insisted, gripping the fabric of your shorts in his fingers “I’ve wanted to do this for so long. Needed you for such a long time.”
“But your stitches. I-”
“Shut up.” He sighed, tugging on your shorts. “Please. Let me taste you.” You opened your mouth before closing it. You had run out of excuses. You lifted your hips and let him pull your shorts down. Andrew lifted your ankle and pulled the garment off you. His eyes darkened when he saw you weren’t wearing underwear. They felt too constraining in the heat of the night. You shimmied forward on the couch so that your pussy was level with his face. He licked his lips and you felt like you were about to die from how badly you needed him. He pulled you down closer to him, burying his face between your folds and taking a deep inhale. The first swipe of his tongue against you made you toss your head back against the couch with a sigh. Andrew flattened his tongue and dragged his jaw upwards, licking a broad stripe up your entire sex. He wrapped his lips around your clit and gave a harsh suck, making your thighs clasp against his ears. His hands pressed your legs closer to him, urging you to squeeze his head between your legs- a position he would die in if you’d let him. He teased you, swirling the point of his tongue around your bundle of nerves until you were gasping before swiping the muscle down the length of your cunt, dipping into your hole just enough for you to feel a pleasant burn then letting it slip out and flatting it against you. The cycle was brutal. The band in your belly tightened and loosened. It was like he knew exactly how to work your body right up to the edge and how to let you down gently while still sending bursts of pleasure through your body. You were completely lost in the pure bliss Andrew blessed you with. Your hand flew to his hair, tugging lightly on his curls and pressing your thighs tighter against him as he moaned into your wetness. You could see a wet spot forming on the tent in his pants and he bucked against the air. And yet Andrew was so lost in you, too- your taste, your feel, your smell- that he really didn’t notice his own discomfort.
When he finally slipped two of his fingers into your hole, curling up against the spongy spot, while also furiously licking at your clit, your moans grew louder. Your juices ran down his knuckles and he pressed a third finger into your heat. Your breathing was more ruined, eyes screwed shut as you chased your release. You didn’t notice, but Andrew’s gaze was locked on you, memorizing every little twitch of your mouth, every little noise that fell from your lips. A moment he’d like to relive every night for the rest of his life, if you’d let him. Even if you didn’t, he’d be jerking himself off to it for eternity, only imagining how you looked in that moment. You were glowing, a light sheen of sweat shining on your face and a mix of spit and slick coating your inner thighs. He curled his fingers again and reveled in the way you clenched against him. You rutted against his face. It wasn’t intentional, really, just a primal need. You used his face to get yourself off, and Andrew’s eyes drifted closed, immersed in the sensation of being reduced to an object for your own pleasure. It wasn’t long before you felt your abdomen tighten. You pressed your legs even tighter against him. The feeling of his fingers, his tongue, and his other hand rubbing soothing circles on your thigh was too overwhelming. You came with a cry, throwing your head back and pulling Andrew’s face deeper into you. You felt a wetness rip from your pussy, squirt coating Andrew’s face. You were too lost in your pleasure to care. You shook against him, riding out the last traces of your orgasm on his tongue. You breathed heavily, eyes slowly opening to look at him. Andrew sat back and looked at you, swiping a finger through the squirt that coated his chin. Embarrassment rose in your chest, and you shifted so that you were sitting up.
“I’m…so sorry,” You gasp, still slightly out of breath. “I didn’t mean to…do…that.” Andrew made sure you watched as he sucked his fingers clean. His eyes were dark with lust, lips puffy and slicked. You could see the curls at the back of his head plastered against the column of his neck by sweat. He didn’t say a word, just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled up on top of you, laying you down on the couch. One of his arms braced himself next to your head and the other fiddled with the button on his pants. You helped him pop it and tug the zipper down. Andrew kicked off his jeans and pulled his boxers down just enough for his cock to jump out. You licked your lips hungrily as he guided his length to your entrance. He slid his dick through your folds, coating his tip in your juices before slowly pushing into you. The burn was instant and you sucked in a breath, grabbing his biceps to steady yourself as he pushed deeper into you. You both groaned in unison as Andrew bottomed out and his other arm came down, caging your head beneath him. He kissed you again as he rolled his hips slowly, swallowing your moans.
“You okay?” He asked, drawing your bottom lip between his teeth. You nodded.
“You’re just…” You gasped “You’re so big.” He kissed up your jaw and behind your ear.
“M’sorry,” He whispered, “Jus’tell me if it’s too much.”
Andrew set a slow pace at first, like he was scared that releasing his full strength would hurt you. The slow drag of him against you was sinful. Addictive. Dangerous. You wanted- no, you needed more. You wrapped your legs around his waist and dug your heels into his ass, urging him to fuck you harder. He obliged, shifting from rolling his hips to snapping in and out, forcing moans from deep in your chest. Andrew’s breaths were coming out in short puffs, sweat dripping down his face as he put all of his energy into fucking you into the cusions of your couch. After a particularly loud moan spilled from your lips, he shoved two of his fingers in your mouth. You realized instantly that they were the same two fingers that had curled inside of you only moments before.
“Shhh,” Andrew grumbled “Don’t wanna wake the neighbors. You gonna be a good girl f’me and keep quiet?” You nodded emphatically and Andrew swirled his fingers against your tongue, gathering your spit before withdrawing and immediately rubbing circles around your clit with the wettened digits. Your core tightened around him at the feeling and your nails clawed down his back. He shuttered and groaned at the sensation, humping harder against you. His hip bone was grinding into yours, and your shoulder was beginning to ache from the awkward position, but you felt so full and so content that you didn’t dare complain. You would rather die than lose the sensation of Andrew inside of you. Andrew looked down at you with pure awe. You were his Goddess beneath him, allowing him the highest honor of being able to not only touch you, but to bring you to the verge of inexplicable pleasure for the second time. Each one of his thrusts purged a small, high-pitched moan from him.
“Feels so good,” You whine, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder. Your second orgasm was building fast. You could tell Andrew was getting close, rhythm becoming uneven.
“Yea?” He whined. The sound was heartbreaking, high pitched and broken and small. “I make you feel good? ‘M I doin’ a good job fucking you?” It wasn’t dirty talk, but a genuine question. He needed to hear it, the sounds coming from you weren’t enough.
“So good. You fuck me so good Andrew.” He mewled at your words, burying his face in your neck and moaning into your skin.
“Gonna fill you up. Wanna have you squirting on my face every day for the rest of my life,” He rambled “Wanna feel you come around me over and over again. Squeezing me so tight. S’like you were made for me. Only me.”
“Fuck, please, Andrew!” You moaned, words coming out breathy with every thrust into you “Only you!” Your words spurred him on. He pulled your shirt up just high enough where one of your breasts was on display. Andrew bit his lip at the sight, eyes locked on the smooth curves of your tit. His mouth captured your nipple, tongue swirling and lips sucking as he snapped his hips into you. Andrew’s teeth grazed the bud and the band in your belly snapped, causing a squelching sound to fill your living room as you came on his cock. Andrew wasn’t far behind, small whimpers and moans mixed in with short pants as he emptied himself into you while still latched onto your nipple, gasping out small ‘thank you’s as he did. He pushed as far into you as physically possible, emptying his seed right against your cervix.
Andrew collapsed on top of you, face nuzzled into your neck and peppering kisses against your sweaty skin. Your fingers scratched at his scalp, grounding both of you as you came down from your high. Your legs were shaking and your walls were still fluttering. Andrew began to pull out but you let out a needy whine and squeezed your heels into his rear, begging him to stay put. He let out a little huff of amusement and lifted his head, pressing kisses to your forehead, eyelids, nose, and eventually mouth. He swiped an eyelash from your cheek and looked down at you with a glowing smile. The two of you stayed there for a few moments before he broke the silence.
“Thank you,” he croaked out, voice raw from his moans. “For letting me in tonight.” You smiled at him, pressing your lips to his in a series of short kisses.
“Any time.” You hum. “Seriously, though, no strenuous activity for a few days. I don’t want to redo your stitches. I’m pretty proud of them.”
“No promises,” He mumbled. “Might just have to pop one so I can come back and see my favorite nurse.”
“Y’know,” you drawl “I do offer a bedside service. If you're interested.”
“Yea?” He laughed airily, “What’s that gonna cost me?”
“Dunno,” you shrugged, pressing another open-mouthed kiss to his lips. Your hands ran up his shoulders and nestled into his hair. You felt his cock twitch inside of you when you started playing with the curls. “But I’m sure we can get creative with the payment plan.”
summary: 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. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: ANGST!!!, mentions of murder, SMURF & BAZ!!, julia mentions, manipulation, mentions of parental abuse (smurf and readers father), gun use once, readers trauma is mentioned, mentions of grooming/SA, deran gets mean at one point to reader, petty!reader, heartbroken!reader, slightly insecure!reader, possessive!pope, jealous!pope, J redemption arc, marijuana use, drinking, soft!reader, crying, pope being used for violence, fighting, blood, i’ll put attempted murder just in case, SMUT!! (oral f!receiving, subby!pope, soft sex, unprotected piv, reader talks him through it), some domesticity, reader stands on business. word count: 18.7k amalia’s love note: GUYS ITS HERE!!! i’ve never been more excited to published something, i worked so hard on this omg. it took me about two weeks to finish everything and that’s with working on the smaller fics in between. it’s about to get so much more angsty and i cannot wait. finally have decided that this will be a fix it fic for pope!! PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
You sighed, taking your keys out of the ignition before grabbing the takeout food you bought for everyone. Pope knew you were coming after your shift at the bar, bringing food back like Smurf asked. So it was weird that the front porch light wasn’t on like he always left it when he knew you were coming over.
It was weird, but you didn’t think much of it when you pushed the front door open. The second you stepped inside, you heard yelling coming from the kitchen. You froze immediately.
“You said no one saw anything.” Baz said angrily.
“No one did, dude,” Deran shot back, setting his beer down hard on the island.
“Then why are the cops asking questions?” Smurf asked sharply.
“Maybe because Pope had to go and tell the cops he was her boyfriend,” Deran said bitterly, still very obviously hating the idea of the two of you being together in any capacity. No matter how happy his older brother seemed with you, Deran couldn’t shake the constant dread sitting in the back of his mind. He kept waiting for the moment you figured out what his family really was. Waiting for the moment you looked at all of them differently and walked away. And selfishly, he didn’t know what the hell he’d do if he lost you too. “Of course they’d come here looking for her.”
“They’re looking for her because of the tapes,” Pope said flatly. You shifted quietly, moving closer to interrupt them before Craig spoke.
“And what happens when our girl finds out her two boys killed Nate and his father?” Smurf asked calmly.
You froze completely, the bag of takeout slipping from your hand and hitting the floor loudly. Every single head in the room snapped toward you. You were positive all the blood had drained from your face.
Pope said your name quietly, immediately taking a careful step toward you. You took one back for every step he took toward you.
Your eyes burned instantly as they left Pope and landed on Deran. Sweet, reckless Deran. Your best friend. The guy who took you flying down the coast on the back of his bike while you screamed and laughed into the ocean wind. The guy who blasted music too loud and drove too fast just to make you smile after a bad day. The guy who always let you crash at his place no questions asked after fights with Nate. The guy who never once hesitated to stand between you and your boyfriend when things got ugly. You’d seen how angry Deran could get before. You’d seen how protective he became over the people he loved. But murder?
And maybe you should’ve been more horrified about the man you were sleeping with killing someone. But the truth was, you weren’t even sure you actually knew Pope the way you thought you did. He was always gentle with you. Always patient. Always weirdly careful with you, like you were something fragile he didn’t trust the world with. But you weren’t really his girlfriend. Sure, he’d told you the first time you slept together that you were his now. But how much did words like that actually mean coming from someone like Pope Cody?
“Bambi…” Deran said carefully as he stepped forward.
“You killed Nate?” you whispered, taking another step backward until your back hit the front door. Your stomach dropped when you saw Baz instinctively reach behind his back before Craig bumped his shoulder slightly, shooting him a warning look that made Baz stop.
Pope couldn’t look at you.
You couldn’t stop looking at him.
“It’s not what it sounds like,” Deran said, though even he didn’t sound convinced by that.
“Okay,” you breathed out shakily before looking back at Pope. “Andrew?”
His eyes finally lifted to yours and your heart cracked at the insecurity written all over his face. Like he already knew the second you walked out that front door, he’d never see you again.
“They hurt you.”
“They didn’t deserve to die,” you whispered, wiping quickly at the tear that slipped down your face.
“Everybody dies, baby,” Smurf said smoothly. “Our actions always have consequences.”
You heard the threat underneath her words instantly. It sounded sweet enough on the surface, but you weren’t stupid. Keep your mouth shut and you’d be fine.
“Is that what this is?” you sniffled, looking around at all of them. You noticed J couldn’t even meet your eyes either, and somehow that hurt almost as much as everything else. “You… you kill people?” you whispered. “Is that why you were in prison?” You laughed bitterly to yourself, shaking your head. “Of course I slept with another murderer.”
You missed the stunned looks that flashed across everyone’s faces at the confession.
Deran stepped forward immediately, grabbing Pope roughly by the shoulder. “You slept with her?” he snapped, shoving him hard. Pope shoved him back instantly.
You stared at them in disbelief. “That’s what you’re mad about right now?”
Neither of them answered.
You scoffed loudly before storming forward and shoving Deran away from Pope yourself. You almost missed Craig muttering “oh shit” under his breath as you pushed Deran again.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you yelled at him before turning toward Pope. “You too, Pope. What the hell?”
Pope’s head snapped up so fast at the name it almost startled you. You’d never called him Pope before. Not once. Not to his face. And judging by the way his entire body seemed to tense, he hated hearing it come from you. It made him look sick. Like hearing you call him that suddenly made him feel exactly like the criminal everyone else saw him as.
Neither of them said anything.
You laughed bitterly, throwing your hands into the air. “I’m done,” you said finally, looking directly at Deran. “I quit the bar.”
Deran looked genuinely panicked at that.
You grabbed your bag before looking back at Pope one last time. “Don’t call me. Either of you.”
“Now baby,” Smurf said smoothly as she stepped in front of the door, “you’re smart enough to know I can’t let you walk out of here that easy.”
You laughed quietly at that, tears still running down your face. “Yeah actually, I’m more than aware of that.” You looked around the room again slowly. “You think I don’t understand what this is? I hear all of you casually talking about murder and suddenly I’m just supposed to trust you’ll let me leave?”
“No one’s gonna hurt you,” Deran said immediately.
You looked at him so fast it almost made him flinch. “You killed two people.”
Silence filled the room again.
Your chest heaved painfully as your eyes found Pope once more. He still couldn’t fully look at you. Like seeing fear on your face was physically destroying him.
“You promised me you’d never hurt me,” you whispered.
“I won’t,” Pope said instantly, finally forcing himself to meet your eyes again. The desperation in them almost made your stomach twist. “Bambi, I swear to god I would never hurt you.”
“But other people?” you asked shakily. “That’s okay?”
Pope’s jaw tightened hard. “They hurt you.”
“Stop saying that like it makes this better!” you cried. “You don’t get to just kill people because they hurt me!”
“They would’ve kept hurting you,” Pope snapped back, his voice suddenly louder and rougher than you’d ever heard it. “You think Nate would’ve stopped?”
“That wasn’t your decision to make!”
“No one else was doing anything!”
The room went dead silent after that.
Because that was the truth.
Nate hit you for years. Controlled you for years. And every single time you tried to leave, he dragged you back in somehow.
And Andrew… strange, obsessive Andrew, saw bruises on you once and decided no one would ever touch you again.
The realization made you feel sick. Because some part of you understood it. And that terrified you more than anything else.
You looked away from him quickly, shaking your head. “I can’t do this.”
“Bambi-”
“No,” you whispered sharply. “No. I can’t.”
Smurf watched the entire interaction carefully before speaking again. “Like I said sweetheart, actions have consequences.”
You looked at her slowly. “You know what’s funny?”
The room went quiet again.
“You stand there acting like some sweet concerned mother, but they’re the ones doing all your dirty work.”
Smurf’s expression hardened instantly.
J muttered quietly, “Oh no.”
“No really,” you laughed bitterly. “You threaten people while your sons get blood on their hands for you. You don’t scare me, Smurf. You’re just a coward with people willing to do your violence for you.”
“Watch your mouth,” Baz warned immediately.
“Or what?” you snapped. “You’ll kill me too?”
“Enough,” Pope said sharply.
You looked at him immediately. And somehow he looked more devastated than angry. Like every word coming out of your mouth was tearing him apart piece by piece.
“I can promise you the last thing I want right now is to be a part of this fucked up family. So if you’ll excuse me,” you said, shouldering past Smurf before slamming the door hard behind you.
Smurf watched you slam the door, a slow smirk spreading across her face. “What’d I tell you, baby?” she said, turning toward Baz like she’d just won an argument the two of them had been having privately for months now.
Baz leaned back against the counter, eyes lingering on the front door for another second before finally looking at Smurf. “Girl’s got balls, I’ll give her that.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Deran snapped immediately.
Smurf looked almost entertained by his reaction. “Oh relax, baby. I’m complimenting your little friend.”
“She just found out we killed two people!” Deran yelled. “And you’re standing there fucking smiling?”
“She’s not going to run to the cops,” Smurf pointed out calmly. “Didn’t threaten us. Didn’t scream she was gonna turn us in. Didn’t even ask for proof. Most of the girls you boys drag through this house would’ve been hysterical.”
“Maybe because she’s in shock at how horrible her taste in men is,” Craig scoffed, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he leaned back in his chair.
“No,” Baz interrupted quietly. “Smurf’s right.”
Deran stared at him in disbelief. “Seriously?”
Baz shrugged slightly. “Normal people hear that kinda shit and panic. Cry. Throw up. She stood there and called Smurf a coward to her face.”
A small smile tugged at Smurf’s mouth again. “Just like Julia used to.”
The room went still instantly.
J’s expression hardened immediately from where he stood near the hallway, his jaw tightening so fast it almost clicked. Even Craig looked uncomfortable after that one.
Deran looked disgusted. “Don’t do that.”
“What?” Smurf asked innocently.
“You don’t get to compare her to Julia,” Pope said flatly. “She’s nothing like her.”
Smurf ignored him completely, moving slowly toward the island. “Pretty little thing. Sweet. Naive. Always trying to see the good in people.” She laughed softly to herself. “I mean hell, after all this she’ll probably still think there’s something redeemable about you, baby.” Her eyes flicked toward Pope before she continued. “But push her hard enough and suddenly those claws come out. Same exact look Julia used to get when somebody backed her into a corner. That little fire under all the sweetness.”
J abruptly shoved himself away from the wall. “Stop talking about my mom like that.”
Smurf looked at him calmly. “I loved your mother, J.”
J laughed once bitterly, shaking his head. “Yeah. Sure you did.”
Nobody said anything as he grabbed jacket off the counter. The tension in the room shifted instantly watching him move toward the door.
“J-” Craig started carefully.
But J ignored him completely.
“She’s nothing like her,” he muttered angrily, more to himself than anyone else before yanking the front door open. “And maybe leave dead people the fuck alone for once.”
Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.
Pope still hadn’t moved. He stood staring at the front door like if he looked hard enough you might suddenly walk back through it. His breathing looked uneven now. Too sharp. Too controlled. Like he was barely holding himself together in front of everybody.
Smurf noticed immediately. Of course she did.
“She’ll come back, baby. Don’t you worry.”
Pope finally looked at her. “You don’t know her.”
“Yes I do.” Smurf smiled slightly. “That girl’s already attached to this family whether she likes it or not.”
“She’s not like us,” Deran said immediately.
Baz glanced toward him. “You sure about that?”
“She’s a good person.”
“So was Julia once,” Smurf said softly.
Deran scoffed angrily. “Jesus Christ, will you stop doing that?”
“No one thinks this is funny,” Baz said calmly when Deran looked at him too.
“The girl just found out you psychos murdered her ex-boyfriend and you’re all standing around talking about her like she’s some fucking recruit!” Craig snapped, almost defensive of you even though you weren’t there anymore. He’d genuinely liked having you around. The way you always poured his drinks exactly right without him asking. The way you always had something smart to say back when he talked shit. The way the house felt lighter when you were in it.
“She didn’t leave because she was scared of us,” Smurf said calmly.
“Oh c’mon,” Deran scoffed. “She absolutely was scared.”
“She was scared of herself.”
Deran stared at her in disbelief. “Do you even hear yourself? She’s scared of herself? She’s done nothing wrong here.”
Everybody in that kitchen saw it though. You were horrified. Shocked. Upset. But underneath all of it was something else. Something that made the entire situation worse. Understanding.
Pope suddenly moved fast enough that everybody looked at him.
“I’m going out.”
Smurf’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Pope.”
“I can’t listen to this shit right now.”
And there it was. Not anger. Pain. Real fucking pain. Pope looked wrecked. Completely hollowed out by it. Like every second you were gone was physically scraping him apart from the inside out.
Deran immediately followed him out of the house. “Pope,” he called after him.
Pope stopped beside his truck without turning around. “She called me Pope,” he said suddenly, almost like he was talking to himself instead of Deran.
Deran sighed quietly. You always called him Andrew. Always. The fact that you switched back the second you looked at him differently clearly tore straight through him.
Deran softened slightly as he stopped beside the truck. “Hey-”
“No.” Pope shook his head hard, finally turning enough for Deran to see how destroyed he looked. “She looked scared of me.”
The sentence landed heavily between them.
Pope never wanted to sound vulnerable. But right now he sounded devastated.
Deran rubbed both hands down his face roughly before leaning against the truck. “I told you this was gonna happen.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Pope mumbled quietly to himself.
Deran swallowed hard at that because he genuinely didn’t know how to answer. “She’s too good for this family,” he muttered finally. “For us.”
You stared at the ceiling of your apartment, the same one Pope and the boys had helped you move into a week ago. There were still boxes scattered everywhere and unfinished furniture lying about. None of that seemed important anymore. What seemed important was figuring out how you were supposed to go about your life now.
You’d quit your job at the bar, which was single-handedly paying for you to live, and now the money felt dirty. You’d thought it was weird after a few months of working there that Deran had upped your pay. Clearly, he was getting money from somewhere. Was it blood money? You had half a mind to take it out of your bank, wrap it up in a neat envelope, and send it on its merry way back to him with a little note that said, “Fuck you.”
You could. You knew you could. You could call your dad right now, put on your best pastel Sunday dress, and play the perfect daughter he’d beat into you.
You stared at his name in your contacts when you heard a knock on your door. Your phone fell onto your face as you jumped.
“Fuck,” you said, getting up.
You were nervous as you approached the door, worried it was Baz and Craig just so happened not to be around to tell him to cool it. Worried it was Smurf and she was angry about what you said.
Regardless, you opened the door cautiously. J was the last person you expected to see. Your eyes softened at his upset expression.
“J?” you said, opening the door wider. You looked down the hallway before motioning for him to come in. “Are you okay?”
He walked into your apartment, not saying much at first. His silence unnerved you.
“Um, are you hungry?” you said, locking the door behind you. “I was trying to think of what to make for dinner.”
“I’ll eat whatever,” he said, looking around your apartment. “Didn’t unpack much since we brought all this stuff in,” he added, sitting on your makeshift couch that consisted of couch cushions on the floor.
You laughed lightly. “Might not need to unpack.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” J asked, watching you move around the kitchen.
His mind had been in an internal battle the whole bike ride over here. J didn’t like Smurf romanticizing or weaponizing his mother’s memory, especially when it was used to explain or justify his family’s behavior. He was angry because you reminded him of her in the parts he didn’t get to keep. Smurf was wrong about you. You weren’t naive in the way she thought. You were observant. You were choosing kindness, not lacking awareness. His mom had been like that too. She just kept choosing the wrong people.
You stopped for a second before turning around and putting a pot of water on the stove. You shrugged, glancing back at him.
“I was thinking about moving home.”
“I thought you grew up here?” he asked.
“I did, with my mom,” you said, sorting through grocery bags by the fridge and pulling out pasta. “My parents were separated so I, uh, lived here during the school year, spent summers with my dad in LA.”
J frowned at the new information. “How come you never talk about them?”
“My parents?” you clarified, and when he nodded, you continued with a helpless shrug. “My mom died when I was sixteen and she made sure my dad wasn’t really around before she died. He remarried, had other kids. His housekeeper took care of me most of the time when I was over. After my mom died, he bought her apartment in Oceanside so I didn’t have to live with him full time.” You paused. “I think having a daughter who reminded him of everything he hates ruined his new perfect family image.”
“Was your mom good?” he asked, quieter now, like he wanted to know everything.
“She tried to be. She got dealt a shitty hand. Was an addict, so when she wasn’t using she was searching, and when she was using she was too far gone to really know I was there. But she never missed my birthdays,” you said, pouring the pasta into boiling water.
“My mom was like that,” J said, not elaborating. “I watched her die. Watched them try to save her.”
You nodded. “Same.” You swallowed. “It’s a horrible feeling, you know? Not being able to save them. But once they’re gone, you can’t help but wonder if they’re at peace now.”
J looked up, his eyes shining with understanding. Real understanding for the first time since his mom died.
Maybe he hadn’t known why he came to you after Smurf’s comparison, or maybe he’d agreed with it. He knew Smurf was already mentally slotting you into the family, and he understood exactly what that process looked like before you even realized it was happening.
“You shouldn’t leave town,” he said suddenly. “But you also shouldn’t hang around my family.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that,” you muttered, draining the pasta.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” he started, choosing his words carefully. But his heart hurt. You reminded him of his mom. The better parts of her. The parts he saw so rarely it almost didn’t feel real. Sitting here with you, it felt selfishly like he was getting something back. A connection he lost. He knew he couldn’t keep it. He knew you might not listen. But he’d sleep better knowing he warned you.
“But you need to understand what they are.”
That made you look at him fully.
“They’re not good people,” he continued. “And it’s not just individual stuff. It’s all of them. Together. That’s what makes it worse.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, like he was forcing himself to stay grounded in what he was saying.
“Smurf doesn’t just control them,” he said. “She built them. She decides what matters and what doesn’t. And they listen, even when they act like they don’t.”
You stayed quiet.
“Baz and Craig…” he continued, hesitating only briefly. “They’re involved in things they don’t talk about. Not just shady business. Things they keep off the table because if you say it out loud, it becomes real.”
Your stomach tightened slightly at that, but you didn’t interrupt.
“Deran…” J exhaled through his nose. “He’s volatile. He’s fine until he’s not. And when pressure hits, he doesn’t ease off. He breaks things. People. Whatever’s closest.”
You looked down at your hands for a second, then back up. “And Pope?” you asked quietly.
J’s silence lasted longer than with the others. That alone answered you more than words could’ve.
“When he thinks he’s protecting someone,” J said finally, “it escalates fast. There’s no middle ground. It’s either nothing… or too much.” The room felt smaller after that. “And it’s not separate,” he added, voice tightening slightly. “That’s the part you need to understand. They don’t switch it off. It’s how they function. It’s the whole system. Smurf, them, all of it. It’s not individual choices. It’s how they survive.”
You nodded slowly, absorbing it in pieces instead of all at once.
J stood up like he’d already said more than he meant to.
At the doorway, he stopped. You didn’t push him. That mattered more than anything else. But something in him stayed stuck there anyway.
Not what Smurf had said out loud. What she meant. Because when he looked at you, he didn’t see someone naive. He saw someone who kept choosing the wrong people. People who needed more than they could ever give back cleanly. And it hit him, sharp and quiet, that his mom had been the same.
Not in the same way. But enough. Enough that it lingered. Enough that it hurt. And something else followed it, darker and more certain. If Smurf thought she could shape you into another version of that story, she was wrong. Because he wasn’t going to let it happen again. Not with you. Not with anyone she decided belonged to her. He didn’t say it out loud.
But it settled anyway, firm and irreversible. When he finally took Smurf down, when he stripped everything she built apart piece by piece, you wouldn’t be left behind in it.
You’d come with him. Not as part of their world. Not as something to be claimed. But as someone he was going to get out before the house swallowed you the way it swallowed everyone else. A life Julia didn’t get. A life you hadn’t even realized you were already in danger of losing.
He left without saying anything else. And for the first time since everything started, the silence in your apartment didn’t feel like uncertainty. Just space. And somewhere outside it, J Cody decided he was done watching it happen twice.
Deran wiped down the bartop slowly as his brothers talked over one another nearby, the familiar rhythm of the bar carrying on around them like nothing had changed. Music hummed low through the speakers, glasses clinked somewhere near the pool tables, and the smell of beer, salt air, and fried food clung heavily to the room. Normally it grounded him. Tonight it just made him feel tired.
It had been a few weeks since the night you found out about him and Pope.
A few weeks since everything cracked open.
Deran hadn’t quite felt right since then. None of them had, really, though everybody handled it differently. Craig buried it beneath jokes and women and enough weed to sedate a horse. J had pulled away almost entirely, quieter now in a way that felt colder than before. Not that any of them blamed him. Smurf dragging Julia into things had crossed a line even by Cody standards. But Pope was taking it the worst. Deran glanced down the bar toward him automatically.Pope sat hunched slightly over his beer in complete silence, fingers wrapped around the bottle while his eyes tracked the grain of the wooden countertop beneath him like he could disappear into it if he stared hard enough. He’d barely spoken since they got there. Barely moved either. Just drinking slowly and stewing inside his own head.
At least he’d finally left the house tonight. That alone had taken effort. Deran knew Pope had been driving by your apartment. Knew because Craig saw his truck parked outside twice already. Knew because Pope got this specific look on his face anytime somebody mentioned your name now. Like wanting you and resenting you had started living side by side inside him.
Unlike Pope, Baz and Craig had mostly moved on from the whole thing. The cops never came around asking questions again. Smurf wasn’t worried anymore, and if Smurf wasn’t worried, the rest of the family usually followed suit whether they should or not.
You, meanwhile, had disappeared. You stayed true to your word to J about not leaving town, but that was about it.
You hadn’t shown up for work since quitting. Hadn’t answered half their texts. Hadn’t come by the bar. Deran never officially replaced you anyway, stubbornly keeping your name penciled into schedules he knew damn well you weren’t coming back for. Every week he’d rewrite it again out of habit. Out of hope maybe.
He knew you needed money. Knew your pride wouldn’t let you call your father unless things got really bad.
“Hi Deran,” a bright voice chirped beside Craig suddenly, yanking him from his thoughts.
Deran looked up to see Kelsey and Stefani stumbling toward the bar already tipsy, both of them smiling too brightly in that way girls did when they were halfway drunk and fully committed to making it everybody else’s problem. He was so used to seeing them attached to your hip every weekend that the sight of them without you made something uncomfortable settle in his stomach immediately. “Kelsey…” he greeted cautiously.
Craig stood behind them raising his eyebrows dramatically before giving Deran an exaggerated thumbs up behind their backs. Baz smirked into his drink while Pope didn’t even bother looking up.
“I know things are like totally weird between you and Bambi right now for whatever reason,” Kelsey started dramatically, leaning against the bar, “but I really hope that doesn’t affect our free drink policy.”
“Let it go, Kels, you’re not his type.”
They all looked up instantly at the sound of your voice. Pope’s head lifted first. His eyes found you immediately. And stayed there.
You stood near the front entrance with a scowl already painted across your face like you regretted coming the second you walked through the door. You looked gorgeous in a way that made Pope feel physically irritated. Not soft gorgeous. Dangerous gorgeous. Like you’d gotten dressed with the sole intention of proving to yourself you were still desirable despite everything that happened.
Tight black lacey top. Tiny skirt. Heels that made your legs look endless. And his jacket.
You were wearing his fucking jacket.
Pope felt his jaw tighten instantly seeing it wrapped around you.
You walked toward the bar with narrowed eyes. “Can we please go next door to the Rip instead?”
“Why would we do that when we can drink for free here?” Stefani complained. “Right, Deran?”
“Drinks are on me,” Deran muttered automatically, already reaching for three beers.
You stepped forward immediately and pushed them back toward him with a tight fake smile. “Mm, I don’t want your pity drinks, Deran.”
“Damn,” Craig snorted loudly. “Who the hell is this and what’ve you done with Bambi?”
“Oh wow, I didn’t even see you there,” Stefani said dramatically toward Craig.
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost looked painful. “Whatever.”
Then you moved past them toward the back of the bar.
Deran looked after you immediately. Hopeful despite himself. “Hey ba-”
“Don’t,” you interrupted sharply, holding one hand up before turning toward the wall of liquor behind the bar.
The entire group went quiet. You reached for the most expensive bottle of whiskey Deran had sitting on the shelf before holding it up slightly toward him with raised eyebrows. “It’s on the house right?”
“Uh yeah,” Deran answered, visibly stunned.
He’d genuinely never seen you like this before. Not in the three years he’d known you. Even during your worst moments you usually stayed soft around the edges. Nervous laughter. Awkward smiles. Constant caretaking.
But tonight you looked hurt in a way that had started hardening into anger. And somehow that worried him more.
“Great!” you cheered sarcastically before taking a long swig straight from the bottle.
Craig whistled under his breath. Pope looked furious. Not at you. At himself. At the family. At the fact you looked at all of them now like you finally understood exactly what they were.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand before turning and walking straight out the back door toward the beach.
Nobody stopped you. At least not immediately. Maybe you were dumb. Maybe you really were naive the way Smurf kept saying.
But you couldn’t stop yourself from walking downhill toward the shoreline anyway, whiskey bottle dangling loosely from your fingertips while your heels sank unevenly into the sand. The cold night air whipped around you harshly, carrying saltwater and fog with it as waves crashed violently against the rocks below.
Your chest still hurt. You hated that they still affected you this much.
You took another swig from the bottle, face twisting bitterly at the burn before climbing over the stone wall separating the beach path from the rocks below. Your heels nearly slipped once, forcing you to steady yourself with one hand before finally dropping down onto a large rock near the shoreline.
The ocean stretched endlessly in front of you, black and violent beneath the moonlight. You stared at it quietly. Then laughed once to yourself. Because somehow this was your life now.
Falling in love with Pope Cody.
What a fucking disaster.
You stared up at the moon hanging low over the ocean, bright enough to silver the waves beneath it. Its beauty struck something ugly and jealous inside you. It was ironic really, how alone you felt while looking at something so permanently isolated. The moon had nobody. Nothing. Just endless distance and people admiring it from far away without ever truly touching it.
Maybe that was why it hurt to look at. This whole situation was so fucked up. You were in love with a murderer. And the worst part was you’d tried so hard not to repeat the same patterns that had ruined your life before. You’d promised yourself years ago that you wouldn’t keep ending up tangled up with emotionally volatile men. Men who exploded. Men who scared you. Men who made you feel like you constantly had to monitor the room before speaking.
Yet somehow you’d landed here anyway.
With Pope.
Maybe your life was just meant to derail itself around men who didn’t know how to hold their own emotions without crushing everyone around them in the process.
You watched the waves slam violently against the rocks below you, sea spray misting across your bare legs and dampening the tips of your heels. Somewhere farther up the beach you could still hear faint music drifting from the bar, muffled laughter carried by the wind. Your friends were up there getting drunk and dancing and pretending life was simple.
Meanwhile you sat alone on a rock spiraling over whether the man you loved would eventually become the thing that destroyed you.
Everything good lately had started curdling into something painful. And somehow almost every road led back to Smurf and the Codys.
You took another long sip from the whiskey bottle, wiping aggressively at your eyes afterward like you could physically shove the emotion away before it settled too deep. Why did you always do this to yourself? Why did every bad situation somehow end with you blaming yourself for not handling it better?
You didn’t even know exactly what the Codys did. Not fully. But murder was definitely somewhere on the list now.
You were curious. Of course you were. Anybody would be. But every time you imagined finally knowing the truth, really knowing it, your stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Because once you knew, there was no pretending anymore.
Another swig burned down your throat and your vision softened slightly around the edges. The cold wind rolled off the water harder now, making you pull the jacket tighter around yourself automatically.
“You shouldn’t be down here.”
Your eyes closed briefly at the sound of his voice.
“Go away pope,” you muttered bitterly before taking another drink. The soft swish of liquor settling inside the bottle sounded weirdly comforting now.
He hated when you called him that. It made something vicious crawl beneath his skin every single time. He let out a slow breath through his nose before stepping closer. “Your friends are looking for you.”
You scoffed loudly before standing too fast, the sudden movement making the world tilt dangerously beneath you. Your heel slipped against the damp rock and Pope lunged forward instantly, hands already reaching for you before you could fall.
But your palm shot out first, catching yourself against the stone.
You burst into laughter immediately afterward, loud and breathless and just drunk enough to find the whole thing hilarious.
Pope didn’t laugh. His chest was still tight from almost watching you crack your skull open on the rocks.
You gathered yourself carefully, stepping down from the rocks one at a time until you finally planted your feet firmly on the sand directly in front of him.
“You’re drunk,” Pope said, reaching for the bottle automatically.
You pulled it back against your chest immediately. “Nu uh.”
He stared at you flatly.
You shove against his chest a second later barely moved him at all. It was almost embarrassing honestly. His body didn’t budge an inch beneath your hands. Still, you turned around and started walking back toward the bar anyway. You could feel him following behind you the entire way.
Every few seconds his eyes flicked away from your body just long enough to scan the street around you before landing right back on you again. Watching your heels carefully on the pavement. Watching the sway of your hips beneath his jacket. Watching to make sure you didn’t trip or stumble or disappear out of his sight for even a second. Possessive. Protective. Obsessive.
All tangled together so tightly inside him now there barely seemed to be a difference anymore.
Your heels clicked sharply against the sidewalk, steadier now than they’d been on the rocks because truthfully you weren’t nearly as drunk as he thought you were. Buzzed, definitely. Emotional, absolutely. But not incapable.
“I would like for you to leave me alone,” you said suddenly, stopping so abruptly Pope nearly walked into you. You turned to face him fully beneath the dim streetlight.
The wind pushed your hair across your face while his jacket hung off one shoulder slightly, exposing the thin strap of your top. Pope’s eyes dropped there automatically before dragging slowly back up toward your face.
“You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.
“I do.”
“No you don’t.” The certainty in his voice irritated you instantly.
You laughed once under your breath. “See, that’s exactly the problem with you.”
Pope frowned slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You decide what i’m feeling before I even say it.”
“I know you.”
“No. You know parts of me.”
His jaw flexed hard at that.
You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, whiskey bottle dangling loosely from your fingertips while you tilted your head up toward him. “And you know what’s really annoying?” you murmured softly.
Pope went completely still.
“What?”
“You follow me around like you’re angry at me,” you whispered, eyes flicking briefly toward his mouth, “but you look at me like you wanna ruin my life.”
Something dark shifted behind his eyes immediately.
His hand moved before he seemed to think better of it, fingers brushing lightly against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
“You shouldn’t say shit like that,” he muttered.
“Why?” you asked innocently. “Makes you wanna do something stupid?”
Pope stepped closer instantly, crowding into your space until the whiskey bottle pressed lightly between both your bodies. His breathing had changed again. Slower now. Heavier. “You’re drunk,” he said again, though it sounded rougher this time.
“And you’re staring.”
“You’re wearing my jacket.”
Your mouth twitched slightly despite yourself. “You noticed?”
Pope looked at you like he wanted to bite you.
Your stomach flipped hard. For one dangerous second you almost let yourself lean into him. Almost let him kiss you. Almost let yourself forget why you were angry in the first place.
Because this was the problem with Pope. Even at his worst he could still make your body betray you. His hand tightened slightly against your waist before sliding upward just enough to brush beneath your hair at the back of your neck. Like he was trying not to scare you while simultaneously wanting to consume you whole.
“Andy,” you whispered softly.
The sound of it nearly undid him.
His forehead dipped briefly against yours and for a second neither of you moved. The ocean crashing behind you. Your breathing uneven between you both. Him smelling like beer and cigarettes and salt air.
Then reality crashed back in hard enough to hurt. You stepped backward abruptly. Pope’s hand dropped immediately.
“No,” you said quieter this time, shaking your head once like you were trying to convince yourself too. “No, I’m still mad at you.”
Pope’s expression darkened instantly.
You swallowed thickly before forcing yourself to step around him. “I meant it. Leave me alone.”
Then you walked back toward the bar without looking back again.
This time he let you go.
But he still followed you inside anyway.
Of course he did.
The noise of the bar swallowed you immediately once the door opened again, warm air crashing against your cold skin while music vibrated through the walls. Nobody stopped you as you crossed the room and slid onto an empty stool at the far end of the bar by yourself.
Deran noticed immediately. Craig too.
You ignored both of them. Instead you stole another sip straight from the whiskey bottle before setting it heavily on the bartop.
A minute later Pope returned to his original seat like nothing had happened. Silent again. Beer in hand. Eyes fixed on the counter. But every few seconds you still caught him looking at you from across the bar.
Drinking your sorrows had seemed like a great idea at first. Just enough whiskey to quiet your thoughts down for a few hours. Just enough noise and smoke and music to drown out the sick feeling that had been living in your chest ever since everything fell apart.
But the second your phone lit up against the bartop with your father’s contact photo glowing across the screen, the idea shifted from casual self-destruction into something dangerously real.
The bright light from the screen reflected against the whiskey bottle in front of you, sharp enough to sting your eyes a little. For a second you just stared at it ringing there while the noise of the bar blurred into background static. Your stomach twisted hard. Because of course he was calling now. Not when you were struggling quietly. Not when you quit your job. Not when your life first started spiraling.
Deran shouldn’t have been paying as much attention to you as he was. He knew that.
But guilt had a way of keeping his eyes locked on you no matter how hard he tried to act unaffected. Not guilt over Nate. Never that. Nate deserved worse than what happened to him. No, the guilt sat heavier than that. Dirtier. Because despite everything, he knew the Codys had hurt you. Maybe not intentionally at first, maybe not all at once, but they had. They’d dragged you into their orbit and watched you slowly start drowning in it. And Deran knew he helped pull you under.
So he definitely shouldn’t have noticed your phone lighting up from halfway down the bar. And he definitely shouldn’t have slammed the glass he was drying onto the counter hard enough to make everybody look over when he saw who was calling you.
“Jesus dude,” Baz muttered, following Deran’s line of sight toward you with a slight frown.
You picked your phone up slowly, watching it ring for another second before flipping it face down and immediately taking another long swig straight from the whiskey bottle instead. The liquor burned all the way down your throat, harsh and familiar, but not enough to stop the tight feeling building behind your ribs.
“Not going to answer him?” Deran asked, voice edged with something that sounded almost bitter.
You laughed softly under your breath before turning slightly on your stool to look at him. “Why do you care?”
Deran started wiping down the bartop again, movements rougher now. More aggressive. Craig was still distracted by Stefani practically hanging off his shoulder and trying to steal sips from his drink, leaving only Baz and Pope paying close attention to the conversation unfolding.
Pope hadn’t taken his eyes off you once since you came back inside.
You could feel it even without looking at him directly. That heavy stare sitting against your skin like a hand.
“Your dad is a dick,” Deran said flatly.
“Wow okay,” you replied dryly. “Thank you. Thank you so much Deran for always being honest with me.”
Your father was one of the only things you never really talked about. Not deeply anyway. But Deran knew enough. Knew enough to hate him. You’d told him pieces over the years during late nights closing the bar together. Tiny ugly truths slipped carelessly into conversation that painted enough of a picture without ever needing the full story. Stories about screaming matches. About impossible expectations. About all the scary things he’d do to you. And somewhere along the way Deran developed a genuine hatred for the man without ever even meeting him.
To say your father was Deran’s least favorite person in your life would’ve been an understatement.
“I’m just saying maybe you shouldn’t run back to daddy’s money the second your life gets a little hard,” Deran shrugged, pretending the words weren’t intentionally cruel.
Like he wasn’t trying to provoke you. Like he didn’t know exactly where to stab. Craig’s attention snapped toward the conversation immediately at that, mostly because both your friends whipped around in visible shock at what Deran had said. Even Baz winced slightly.
“God, I hate you,” you whispered, shaking your head slowly in disbelief.
The hurt in your voice made Deran immediately pause his movements. Like he regretted it the second it came out.
The silence after that felt awful.
You wiped furiously at your cheek before anybody could see the tears gathering there, refusing to look at any of them now. Instead your eyes fixed on the neon beer signs glowing against the opposite wall while embarrassment crawled hotly up your throat.
You felt humiliated suddenly. Like everybody could see right through you. Without another word you grabbed your purse and walked straight out of the bar.
Pope’s eyes followed you immediately.
You barely made it a few storefronts down before collapsing into the first empty chair you found outside another little beachside spot. A mildly attractive guy sat nearby smoking alone, and honestly you probably were bothering him, but you were too emotionally exhausted to care anymore.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to impose I just-” you dragged both hands down your face tiredly before pointing vaguely back toward the bar, “do not want to be in there right now.”
The guy looked you up and down slowly enough to make your eyes roll almost immediately. Still, you said nothing.
“You look sad.”
That was not what you expected him to say.
You blinked once before watching him bring the joint between his lips again. A second later he held it out toward you in offering.
“I’m okay,” you declined gently, opening your purse instead and pulling out your own joint. “Do you have a light?”
The guy handed you his lighter and your fingers brushed briefly against his as you took it. You sparked the joint carefully before taking a long drag, shoulders finally loosening the slightest bit as smoke filled your lungs. Then you leaned back in the chair, staring out toward the dark street ahead of you while the buzz in your head softened around the edges.
“Thanks.”
“You from around here?” the guy asked.
You laughed softly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yup. You?”
“No just visiting.”
You hummed in response before taking another hit, smoke curling from your lips slowly as ocean air mixed with the smell of weed and saltwater around you.
Silence settled between you both for a second.
“I’m not sad.”
“Huh?” the guy asked, slightly confused.
“You said I looked sad, I’m not sad.” You stared out at the streetlights ahead of you. “Do you ever feel like you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing with your life?”
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was the emotional exhaustion finally catching up to you. But you knew you’d probably never see this guy again, which weirdly made honesty easier.
“Every day,” he admitted. “But you know what helps?”
You hummed lightly taking another hit.
“Living in the moment, so I raise you this question.” the guy said turning to face you.
You tilted your head to look at him, your eyes undoubtedly bloodshot and glassy. Your crossfade thrummed pleasantly through your veins now, warm and fuzzy and dangerous in the way only substances and loneliness together could be.
“What is it you want right now?” he asked, waiting for your answer.
You thought for maybe two seconds before saying, “I want to forget everything.”
The man held his joint up in cheers to which you giggled and tapped your own against his.
The man stood up, joint in between his lips as he stared down at you and held his hands out. “Then let’s fucking forget everything!”
You laughed loudly as you took his hand, letting your joint fall to the ground as you stomped it out. You let him lead you back into Deran’s bar not even caring about who you’d see in there anymore. It was only a bit later now, late enough that the bar had turned into a madhouse of tourists who wanted to get high on drugs you couldn’t pronounce and find someone to fuck before sunrise. Music pounded through the walls hard enough to feel in your chest, lights flashing across sweaty bodies packed too tightly together.
He wrapped his arm around your shoulder pulling you into his side as he opened the door. “After you,” he said.
“And they say chivalry is dead,” you snarked.
“Well that’s just the Wisconsin farm boy in me.”
Of course Pope noticed you enter. But he kept his mouth shut when he saw you tucked beneath someone else’s arm. He felt the overwhelming need to pull you away from him immediately, to drag you right back outside and ask what the fuck you thought you were doing. But you’d made it very clear you wanted nothing to do with him tonight. So instead he sat there silently unraveling.
“Wisconsin huh?” you said pulling away from the guy slightly to look up at him. Deran came to take your orders but you ignored him completely. “America’s dairyland,” you whistled.
The guy gave you a weird look before smiling and looking at Deran. “Yea i’ll have a beer and whatever she wants.”
He looked down at you expecting you to tell Deran what you wanted but you just batted your eyelashes as Deran silently placed your usual old fashioned on the bar in front of you.
His jaw was tight the entire time.
“So are you like farm royalty or…” you said, your finger running over the edge of the glass lazily.
“Farm royalty huh?” he asked holding up his beer to cheers. “To forgetting.”
You smiled brightly. “To forgetting!!”
You clinked your glass against his and took another long sip while Pope watched from the other end of the bar with a look in his eyes that should’ve probably terrified you more than it did.
The two of you talked for a few more drinks while you tried not to let Pope’s stare bother you. Tried not to notice how still he’d gotten. How tense. Like he was holding himself together by force.
When the song suddenly shifted into a Pitbull song you gasped dramatically.
“Oh my gosh I love this song,” you said excitedly grabbing the guy’s shoulders. “Let’s dance!”
Without hesitation you grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor, your high definitely letting you let go more than usual. Weed always made you more outgoing, more touchy, more reckless. And with this man standing behind you as you danced wildly with your hands in the air and your hips swaying freely, for a few blissfully stupid minutes you couldn’t find a care in the world.
If only Pope felt the same. From where he sat it was like watching you in slow motion. He couldn’t look away from the man’s hands as they slowly worked their way beneath your jacket. His jacket. You looked happy.
“Holy shit,” one of your friends yelled, slapping the other’s arm. “Look at her go!”
“GO BITCH!!!”
You threw your head back and laughed loudly before turning around in the guy’s arms, your foreheads resting against each other as you closed your eyes for a moment.
Maybe it was when he leaned in.
Or when you leaned in.
But suddenly the guy was ripped off you so violently he slammed backward into a booth hard enough to rattle the table.
“What the fuck?” you yelled at Pope immediately, shoving him away from the guy.
Your heart was pounding now, anger crashing through the haze of alcohol instantly. You rushed over toward the guy. “I’m so sorry, are you okay?”
The guy stood up and even though he was taller than Pope, he wasn’t more intimidating. Not even close.
“You didn’t say you had a boyfriend,” the guy cleared his throat awkwardly.
“No I don’t,” you said quickly, looking over your shoulder toward Pope. “I really don’t.”
Pope gave you a blank stare that made heat pool low in your stomach despite yourself. Like he was testing you. Waiting. Watching to see what you’d choose.
“Maybe,” the guy said backing away slightly, “but I don’t think I wanna deal with that.”
The guy moved behind you with his hands raised slightly as you watched him leave through the crowd. Then you turned around so fast your hands slammed hard into Pope’s chest. “You always ruin everything!” you shouted angrily before storming out of the bar again.
Pope followed immediately. “You can’t just let people touch you like that.”
“UGH,” you snapped angrily, spinning around in front of him beneath the neon glow outside. “I can do whatever I want pope I don’t belong to you.”
You looked at him then. At the way he stood there breathing too hard like every nerve in his body had been set on fire since the second he saw another man touch you. At the way his hands flexed at his sides like he physically didn’t know what to do with them. At the darkness sitting behind his eyes now, deep and ugly and possessive in a way that should’ve scared you more than it did. But you were angry, humiliated and crossfaded enough to stop making good decisions. And maybe some cruel little part of you wanted to see just how far you could push Pope Cody before he finally snapped.
“Don’t you?” he repeated quieter this time, stepping even closer.
The street behind him buzzed with noise from the bars and tourists stumbling down the sidewalks, but suddenly all you could hear was your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
You laughed once under your breath. Not because anything was funny. Because you knew exactly what you were about to do “This is your problem!” you said softly.
Pope’s jaw tightened. “What.”
“You get obsessed, you think you have this right to me that you don’t. You don’t even ask what I want.”
“I’m not asking, I know.”
“No,” you agreed, eyes dragging slowly over his face. “You usually just take.”
Something dangerous flickered across his expression at that. His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. And there it was. That tension again. Hot and sharp and unbearable.
You stepped closer deliberately until your chest almost brushed his. “You dragged that guy off me like I did something wrong.”
Pope leaned down slightly, voice low enough to make heat crawl up your spine. “Maybe he should’ve stopped touching what’s mine.”
Your stomach twisted hard. God. You hated how much that did for you.
“You don’t own me,” you whispered.
Pope stared at you for one long second before saying, “I think your body is saying otherwise.”
That pissed you off immediately. Because he was right. You shoved him hard in the chest, but he barely moved. “Get in the fucking car.”
Pope blinked once. The command clearly caught him off guard. “What?”
“You heard me.” You started walking toward his truck without checking if he followed because honestly you already knew he would. “Unless you wanna keep having this conversation in public.”
By the time you reached the truck your pulse was racing so fast it hurt. Pope rounded the driver side but before he could even unlock it properly you grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the door hard enough to make the truck shake slightly.
Pope looked genuinely stunned for maybe half a second. Then your mouth crashed into his. Violent. Desperate. Mean. You kissed him like you were trying to punish him for ruining your night while simultaneously giving him exactly what he wanted. Your fingers tangled hard into his curls, tugging just enough to pull a rough sound from deep in his throat.
“Fuck,” Pope breathed against your mouth.
You kissed him harder. Your body pressed flush against his now, trapping him between you and the truck while his hands finally landed on your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself anymore.
“No,” you snapped breathlessly when one of his hands started sliding lower. “You don’t get to be in control right now.”
Pope’s eyes darkened immediately. That should’ve warned you to stop. Instead you climbed right into his lap the second he got the passenger door open, knees settling on either side of him as the truck door slammed shut behind you.
The truck cab instantly felt too small. Too hot. Pope stared up at you breathing heavily, hands gripping your thighs so tightly it almost hurt. And you loved it. Loved having him beneath you for once instead of towering over you like he usually did.
“You know,” you murmured against his mouth while slowly rolling your hips down into his lap, “you get really fucking scary when you’re jealous.”
Pope’s head fell back briefly against the seat with a strained groan. You smiled sweetly. Then kissed down his throat just to feel him tense beneath you.
“You followed me around all night,” you whispered against his skin. “Watched me dance with somebody else. Watched another man touch me. Pope’s grip on your thighs tightened painfully. “And you hated it.”
“I still hate it.”
You hummed softly before biting his jaw hard enough to make him curse. The sound went straight through you “You know what I think?” you whispered. Pope dragged his eyes back up to yours slowly. “I think you like when I’m mean to you.” That got a reaction. A real one.
Something in Pope’s expression shifted instantly, restraint thinning dangerously.
“You should stop talking.”
“Why?” you taunted softly, rocking against him again intentionally. “Hit a nerve?”
Pope suddenly grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you hard enough to shut you up. All tongue and teeth and frustration.
His other hand slid up your spine, pulling you tighter against him while your breathing turned uneven almost immediately. You could feel exactly how affected he was beneath you now and the realization sent a vicious thrill through your chest.
Because this was Pope. Quite terrifying Pope. And you had him losing his mind.
You pulled away just enough to breathe, lips swollen, hair messy from his hands. Pope looked wrecked already. Eyes dark. Chest heaving. Hands gripping you like he thought you might disappear.
You smiled softly then. Fake sweet. Then you climbed off his lap.
Pope blinked up at you, visibly disoriented. “What’re you doing?”
You fixed your skirt slowly like you hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes driving him insane on purpose. “I’m leaving.”
His expression hardened immediately. “Don’t start this shit.”
“Oh relax,” you said lightly, reaching forward to smooth his curls back teasingly. “You’ll survive.”
Pope grabbed your wrist before you could pull away. “Don’t fuck with me.”
And there it was. That edge underneath him again. That dangerous little crack in control.
You looked down at his hand on you before meeting his eyes innocently. Then you leaned down and kissed him one last time. Slow this time. Soft enough to confuse him.
Your lips barely brushed his when you whispered: “I told you to leave me alone.”
Then you patted his cheek twice. And climbed out of the truck before he could stop you.
Pope stayed frozen in the passenger’s seat watching you walk away in his jacket with swollen lips and shaky legs while every violent thought in his head fought for dominance.
You didn’t even look back. Just strutted straight toward the bar entrance before throwing the door open dramatically “Ladies!” you called loudly to your friends like nothing had happened. “We’re going home.”
You’d done a fine job at avoiding the Codys like the plague. Almost four weeks now.
Four weeks of ignoring texts from Craig, dodging Deran’s calls, pretending you didn’t notice Pope’s absence in your life. Four weeks of throwing yourself into unpacking boxes you’d already unpacked and reorganizing cabinets that didn’t need reorganizing just so you wouldn’t have to sit alone with your own thoughts for too long.
Pope hadn’t called since the night at the bar. Which somehow felt worse. Because Pope wasn’t the type to back off unless something inside him had changed. And every time you thought about that night, about the way you climbed into his lap just to wind him tighter and tighter before leaving him there frustrated and humiliated, it made you want to crawl into a hole and die.
You were so mean to Pope. You always got this way. It was like the second you felt betrayed by someone you loved, some uglier version of yourself clawed its way to the surface desperate to regain control before they could hurt you first. You pushed and tested and provoked until the other person snapped or left or proved exactly why loving them had been a bad idea to begin with. And then afterward you sat alone trying to convince yourself you’d won the imaginary battle in your head.
You hadn’t though. You never did.
The realization sat heavily in your chest as you stared blankly out your apartment window, knees pulled up against your chest on the couch while rain tapped softly against the glass outside. Because if you were being honest with yourself, really honest, you knew exactly where it came from. Your father. Everything always circled back to him eventually.
Your first example of love had been a man who made you afraid of breathing too loudly in your own house. A man who treated affection like a privilege that could disappear the second you disappointed him. One minute he’d buy you expensive gifts and kiss the top of your head and call you his perfect girl. The next he’d smash plates against walls because you looked at him wrong. And somehow those two versions of him always existed at once. That was the confusing part.
People always thought abusive men were monsters every second of every day. Like there weren’t moments where they smiled softly at you across the dinner table. Moments where they tucked blankets around your shoulders when you fell asleep on the couch. Moments that made you stay. Your father specialized in those moments. He made you feel loved right before making you feel terrified. And that fucked you up more than if he’d just been cruel all the time. Because then maybe you would’ve stopped craving his approval.
Instead you spent your entire childhood trying to earn softness from a man who only gave it out in scraps. The memory hit you suddenly. it was Unwelcome, you hated thinking on it, but it was the most prominent memory you had with your father. You were eight years old sitting cross-legged on the floor of his office while he drank whiskey straight from the bottle after another fight with your mother. You remembered the smell first. Cigarettes and bourbon and expensive cologne. You remembered how wildly his mood had swung that night, laughing one second and dead-eyed the next.
You remembered the gun. God. You could still see it so clearly. The heavy silver revolver spinning across his desk while your stomach twisted itself into knots.
“You know what Russian roulette is?” he’d asked casually like he was explaining a board game.
You remembered trying to laugh nervously because you thought he was joking. He wasn’t. You remembered the sound your own heartbeat made when he pressed the gun into your small trembling hands. Remembered him smiling while you cried.
“C’mon baby,” he’d said gently. “Trust me.”
Trust me. The words made bile rise in your throat even now.
You’d spent your entire life being taught that love looked like fear. That loving somebody meant managing them carefully enough to survive them. Appeasing them. Fixing them. Calming them before they exploded. And worse, a horrible part of you equated instability with depth. Because safe men never felt real to you. Safe men felt temporary. But men like your father? Men like Pope? They consumed space. They made your pulse jump.
Made you feel chosen in terrifying overwhelming ways that rewired your entire nervous system. That was the problem.
Pope terrified you sometimes. Not because you thought he’d wake up one day and hit you. It was deeper than that. You were scared of how completely he could consume you if you let him. Scared because Pope loved like a drowning man grabbing onto something solid. Desperate. Devoted. Possessive in ways that should’ve sent you running but instead made something damaged inside you feel wanted. Needed. And that was dangerous for somebody like you.
Because you’d been raised to believe your value came from how much pain you could endure for other people. How much you could fix. How much you could save.
You thought about the look on Pope’s face the night at the bar after you climbed out of his truck. Not angry. Not really. Wounded. And suddenly the shame hit you harder. Because underneath all your teasing and cruelty that night, underneath the little power games and the way you intentionally pushed him until he unraveled, the truth was embarrassingly simple.
You wanted proof. Proof he’d chase you. Proof he cared enough to lose control over you. Proof that somebody could want you so badly they’d stay even after you acted awful. It was toxic. Manipulative even. And you hated that part of yourself. But it was hard to unlearn survival tactics you built as a child. Your father taught you that men only paid attention when things became explosive. So now part of you created explosions without even realizing it.
You closed your eyes hard. Because the worst part was you loved Pope. Really loved him. Not the fantasy version. Not the idea of saving him. Him.
The awkwardness. The intensity. The way he watched people too closely because he was constantly trying to understand how to be normal. The way he touched you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go too long. The terrifying parts too. The violence living under his skin. The paranoia. The damage. You saw all of it. And somehow you loved him anyway. Maybe that made you insane. But for the first time in your life, loving somebody didn’t feel conditional.
Pope didn’t love you because you were useful. Or pretty. Or obedient. He loved you because you were you. Messy and emotional and difficult. And maybe nobody had ever loved him like that either. That realization cracked something open inside your chest.
Because underneath all his anger and possessiveness and volatility, Pope was still just a man desperately trying to figure out how to be loved without fearing it would disappear. And you understood that feeling more than anyone probably should. You rubbed both hands over your face tiredly.
Because if this was going to work, if you were really going to love somebody like Andrew Cody, you couldn’t keep approaching him from a place of fear and pettiness every time you felt vulnerable.
You couldn’t weaponize affection. Couldn’t keep testing him until he broke just to reassure yourself he cared. Pope already lived his whole life believing love only came attached to violence and manipulation.
You refused to become another person who reinforced that.
And maybe that meant accepting something terrifying too. You couldn’t fix him. No matter how badly you wanted to. No matter how deeply you loved him. You couldn’t heal wounds that old for him. But maybe you could love him enough that he stopped believing he was impossible to love at all.
And maybe that was the real difference between you and your father. Your father loved people like possessions. You wanted to love Pope like he was human.
Deran was getting real fucking tired of hearing Pope hit things. The gym Smurf had him fighting out of sat tucked behind an auto shop, hidden enough that cops only showed up when somebody forgot to pay them off. Illegal cage fights. Bare knuckles sometimes. MMA other nights. Cash-heavy crowds packed shoulder to shoulder around chainlink fencing while men beat each other bloody for entertainment and quick money.
Smurf called it “productive.” Said it kept Pope focused. Deran called bullshit.
Because Pope wasn’t coming home calmer anymore. He was coming home worse. Meaner. Quieter. Walking around with split knuckles and bruised ribs and that terrifying empty look in his eyes like he’d left parts of himself in those cages and forgot how to get them back. And Smurf kept feeding it.
Every time Pope got restless. Every time he got too attached. Every time his moods started centering around you again. Another fight. Another envelope of cash. Another reminder that violence was the only thing he’d ever really been useful for in that family.
Craig leaned against the bar counter watching Deran slam his phone down for the fourth time in ten minutes. “She’s still not answering?”
“No shit she’s not answering,” Deran snapped. “I basically told her to fuck off last time we talked.”
Craig winced slightly. “Nah what you said was worse bro.”
Deran dragged a hand down his face aggressively before grabbing the phone again.
Craig looked toward the office where Pope had locked himself in an hour ago after coming back from the fights with a busted lip and somebody else’s blood dried across his shirt. “You think he’s gonna go tonight?”
Deran’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.” Because Pope always went when Smurf asked. That was the problem.
The office door suddenly slammed open hard enough to shake the wall. Both brothers looked up immediately. Pope walked past them without a word, movements sharp and twitchy, already wrapping fresh tape around his knuckles again despite the bruising underneath. His face looked wrecked. Split eyebrow. Swelling across his jaw. There was fresh blood staining the white tape around his hands like he’d reopened cuts that never healed properly. And the scariest part was how calm he looked. Not angry. Not yelling. Just… gone somewhere deep inside himself.
Craig watched him disappear toward the back exit before muttering quietly, “Yeah, this is getting bad.”
Deran didn’t answer. Because he knew. He was close with Pope. He knew the difference between angry Pope and detached Pope. Detached was always worse.
Across town, you were elbow deep in espresso grounds and oat milk when your phone buzzed again inside your apron pocket. The coffee shop smelled like vanilla syrup and burnt coffee beans, soft indie music humming overhead while customers typed away on laptops pretending to work.
Your life had felt almost painfully normal the past few weeks. You’d clung to that. You wiped your hands on a towel before pulling your phone out during a lull between customers.
DERAN (12 missed calls)
DERAN: answer your fucking phone
DERAN: seriously bambi
DERAN: i know you’re ignoring me
DERAN: please call me
The last message had been sent two minutes ago. Something uncomfortable twisted in your stomach immediately. Because Deran didn’t say please. Not unless something was wrong. You waited until your manager disappeared into the back before slipping outside through the alley beside the shop and calling him.
He answered before the first ring finished “Finally.”
You frowned instantly. “Jesus Christ, what happened?”
Deran leaned back against the counter hard enough to hurt. Relief hit him embarrassingly fast hearing your voice. “Are you busy?”
“Yeah,” you said cautiously. “Why are you calling me like somebody died?”
Craig watched from nearby while Deran rubbed at his forehead. “Pope’s getting bad again.”
Your stomach tightened immediately at the name. You hadn’t heard from him once since the bar. Not one call. Not one text. Part of you had been relieved. Another part had hated it.
“What do you mean bad?” you asked slowly.
Deran hesitated. Because how the fuck was he supposed to explain this to somebody still halfway outside their world? “He’s fighting again.”
You frowned. “Like… fighting with people?”
Craig snorted quietly in the background. Deran shot him a glare before continuing. “No. Like actual fights.”
“What does that mean?”
Deran exhaled sharply through his nose. “Smurf’s got him doing cage fights again. Illegal MMA shit.”
“What?” You genuinely sounded horrified.
Deran stared out toward the empty beach beyond the windows before speaking again. “He’s been going almost every night.”
“Why would she do that?”
Because violence made Pope easier to control. Because bloody and exhausted meant obedient. Because Smurf knew exactly how to weaponize every broken thing inside her oldest son. But Deran couldn’t exactly say that out loud. “It makes money,” he muttered instead.
You leaned back against the brick wall outside the coffee shop, trying to process that image in your head. Pope in a cage somewhere beating people bloody while strangers screamed around him. Your chest hurt unexpectedly. “Is he okay?”
Craig barked out a humorless laugh from somewhere near the phone. “No,” Deran answered flatly. “He’s not.”
Your eyes closed briefly. You hated how immediate your concern still was. How quickly your brain shoved aside your own anger the second you realized he was hurting. “Why are you calling me?” you asked quietly.
Deran went silent for a second. Because he hated the answer. Hated admitting it. “You’re the only person he’d listen to right now.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.” Deran’s voice sharpened slightly. “I don’t like it either, alright? But every time you’re around he calms the fuck down.”
You swallowed hard. “That’s not my responsibility.”
“I know.” And the fucked up thing was Deran actually meant it. None of this should’ve been your responsibility. But because of him you’d gotten tangled into all of them anyway.
You slid down the alley wall slightly until you were crouched against the brick. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
Deran looked toward the back exit Pope had disappeared into earlier. “Just… come talk to him.”
Your expression tightened immediately. You laughed softly under your breath, exhausted already. “Deran, I don’t even think he wants to see me.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist harder.
“He’s getting worse without you around,” Deran admitted finally, quieter now. “And if Smurf keeps feeding into this shit…” He stopped himself roughly before finishing. “I don’t know.”
The silence that followed felt heavy. Because you didn’t know either.
The address Deran texted you looked abandoned. That should’ve been your first clue to turn around and go home.
You sat in your car for almost five full minutes staring at the warehouse across the street, fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter every time another person disappeared through the rusted side entrance. Music thumped faintly through the walls hard enough to vibrate the pavement beneath your shoes when you finally stepped out of the car. Everything about the place felt wrong. Not dangerous in an obvious way. Worse. Like everyone here already understood the rules except you.
Your stomach twisted harder with every step toward the entrance. Men twice your size brushed past you carrying stacks of cash and cheap beer bottles, cigarette smoke thick enough outside the building to sting your eyes. Nobody stopped you at the door. Nobody asked questions. One guy just glanced at you briefly before waving you through like girls wandering into underground fight rings happened every day.
The second you stepped inside, the noise hit you all at once. Screaming. Music. Bodies packed shoulder to shoulder around a massive chainlink cage set up in the center of the warehouse floor beneath blinding industrial lights. Your chest tightened instantly. Blood. There was blood everywhere. On the mat. On people’s shirts. On the guy currently being dragged half-conscious from the cage while the crowd screamed for more. You stood frozen near the back wall trying to process what the hell you were even looking at. This wasn’t some shitty little bar fight. This wasn’t drunk guys throwing punches in parking lots.
This was way too organized. People were betting and Yelling odds. Passing around stacks of money while another fighter climbed into the cage. Your heart pounded harder when you spotted Craig first leaning against a railing near the front. Then Deran. Then Smurf. She sat calmly near the cage wearing cream linen and gold jewelry like this was some fucking charity event instead of an illegal bloodsport. Her expression stayed perfectly composed as she spoke quietly to a man beside her, entirely unbothered by the violence happening ten feet away. Your skin crawled. Your breath caught violently in your throat as Pope stepped into the cage.
For a second your brain genuinely refused to connect him with the man walking beneath those lights. Because this wasn’t your Andrew. Not the one who sat beside Lena’s bed at night. Not the one who let you play with his curls while he looked at you like touching you hurt him. Not the man who kissed you like he was starving for softness.
This version of him looked terrifying. Shirtless beneath the fluorescent lights, sweat already glistening across bruised skin layered with old scars you’d never fully seen before. His knuckles were taped bloody white. Fresh bruises bloomed purple across his ribs and jaw from previous fights. There was a split healing cut across his eyebrow that reopened slightly the second he flexed his face. But it was his expression that scared you most. Blank. Not hyped up like the other fighters. Just empty. Like violence switched something off in him instead of on.
“Oh my god,” you whispered without realizing it.
Deran turned immediately at the sound of your voice. Relief crossed his face so fast it almost disappeared before you could fully register it. He pushed through the crowd toward you quickly. “You actually came.”
“What the fuck is this?” you hissed immediately, horrified eyes darting back toward the cage. “Deran what the fuck is he doing?”
Deran rubbed a hand over his mouth roughly. “I told you.”
“No, you said fighting. You didn’t say…” Your voice trailed off helplessly as the bell rang.
The fight started violently. The other guy swung first and Pope barely reacted before driving a fist directly into his ribs hard enough you heard the crack from where you stood. The crowd erupted. You flinched back into Deran instinctively. It was obvious you weren’t meant to be here.
Pope didn’t hesitate. He just kept going, Hit after hit after hit. Like he’d done this too many times to even think about it anymore.
You watched in horror as the other fighter stumbled backward bleeding heavily from his mouth while Pope followed without mercy, slamming him against the cage hard enough the fencing rattled violently. “Oh my god,” you whispered hand coming you to your mouth.
Deran stayed quiet beside you. Because there was really nothing to say.
Pope ducked another swing before driving his elbow into the man’s jaw with a sickening crack. The guy dropped instantly to one knee. The crowd screamed louder, But Pope didn’t stop. Even after the man clearly couldn’t defend himself anymore. after blood started pouring across the mat.
Something ugly twisted in your stomach as Pope grabbed him again and drove another punch into his face hard enough the man collapsed fully this time.
People around you were cheering. Smiling. Betting more money. And all you could think was, this man held you like you were fragile. This man let you trace freckles across his shoulders while he fell asleep beside you. And now you were watching him nearly beat another human being to death without changing expression once.
“Why isn’t anyone stopping it?” you asked quietly.
Deran’s jaw tightened. Because he knew that tone in your voice. The fear. “The ref will stop it.”
“He’s unconscious.”
As if on cue, the fight was finally called. Too late. Way too fucking late. The crowd exploded into cheers while Pope stepped backward breathing heavily, blood smeared across his chest and fists. He barely acknowledged the screaming around him. Didn’t celebrate. Didn’t react. Just stood there staring blankly at the body being dragged away. Then his eyes lifted. And landed directly on you. Everything in him stopped.
You saw it happen instantly. That terrifying detached expression cracked apart so fast it almost gave you whiplash. Pope stared at you through the cage like he genuinely thought he might be hallucinating.
His chest still heaved from the fight. Blood dripped slowly from his knuckles onto the mat. And somehow he looked more vulnerable in that exact second than he had the entire time you’d known him.
You didn’t realize you were moving until you were already pushing through the crowd. People shouted around you as you shoved them. Someone tried handing Pope money through the fencing. But all you could focus on was him.
Pope climbed out of the cage slowly without taking his eyes off you once. Up close it looked even worse. His mouth was bleeding. One eye already swelling. There was blood across his shoulder that definitely wasn’t all his.
You stopped directly in front of him. For a second neither of you spoke.
Pope stood in front of you breathing hard enough his chest still rose unevenly. The warehouse still screamed around you, but Pope looked completely disconnected from all of it now. Like the second he saw you, he came crashing violently back into himself.
Your anger dissolved almost immediately. Not because what you’d just witnessed wasn’t horrifying. It was. You couldn’t get the sound of bone cracking out of your head. But standing this close to him now, seeing the blood dripping slowly from his split knuckles, seeing the way his pupils still looked blown wide and unfocused beneath the fluorescent lights, you realized something awful.
Pope wasn’t enjoying this. He looked hollow. Used up. Like somebody had wound him up too tight and pointed him at another human being until there was nothing left inside him except instinct and adrenaline.
Your expression softened before you could stop it. “Hey,” you said quietly.
Pope swallowed hard. His eyes moved frantically across your face like he was checking whether you were scared of him now. Whether this finally changed things. Whether seeing him like this ruined whatever still existed between you. And maybe it should’ve. Maybe any sane person would’ve run. But instead your hand lifted carefully toward his face.
Pope went completely still when your fingers brushed lightly beneath his bruised jaw. The crowd disappeared around him.
“You’re hurt,” you whispered.
Pope stared down at you with something dangerously close to panic buried beneath the numbness. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice rough and wrecked from disuse.
“I know.”
Behind him the cage door slammed shut again. Another fight starting. Another round of screaming. You barely noticed.
“Andy,” you said softly, “let’s go home.”
Something in his expression cracked slightly at the word home.
“Well there she is.” Smurf’s voice cut smoothly through the noise as she approached from behind.
Your shoulders stiffened instantly. Pope’s entire body tightened beneath your touch on instinct alone.
Smurf looked immaculate compared to the carnage surrounding her. Her eyes drifted briefly over Pope first. Then settled on you.
“You missed a good night, baby,” she said lightly.
Your stomach twisted. Because somehow that sentence felt far more disturbing than the fight itself.
Pope stepped subtly closer to you without seeming to realize he was doing it. Smurf noticed that too. Of course she did.
“He’s done,” you said before Pope could speak.
Smurf’s gaze slid back toward you slowly “Excuse me?”
“He’s hurt.”
Smurf smiled faintly. “He’s fine.”
“No,” you said more firmly this time, “he’s leaving.”
Deran stilled somewhere behind you. Craig looked away immediately. Because nobody talked over Smurf like that. Especially not over business. And this was business. Money. A lot of it. Pope had become the main event again these past few weeks. People came specifically to watch him fight because Pope didn’t fight like other men. There was something terrifying about the way he detached during it. Something brutal people paid good money to witness. And you were pulling him out early.
Smurf’s expression barely changed. But in her head- Oh. There it was. Not just attachment. Influence. You weren’t just distracting Pope anymore. You were disrupting control. Her eyes flicked toward Pope, fully expecting him to correct you. To stay. To obey.
Instead Pope looked at the floor and muttered quietly “I wanna go.”
The realization settled cold and immediate inside Smurf’s chest.
You had become more dangerous than she originally thought. Not because you were manipulative. Not because you were lying. But because Pope listened to you.
And men like Pope only truly listened to people they loved. Smurf smiled anyway.
“Well,” she said gently, “if that’s what you want, baby.”
Pope didn’t answer her. You reached carefully for his hand instead. His fingers immediately closed around yours so tightly it almost hurt. Like he thought if he let go, somebody would drag him back into that cage.
The drive to Pope’s place was painfully quiet. You drove because his hands were too wrecked and swollen to grip the wheel properly anymore.
Pope sat in the passenger seat with his head leaned back against the window, blood drying across his skin in dark streaks beneath passing streetlights. He hadn’t spoken once since leaving the warehouse.
You kept glancing over at him at red lights anyway. Every time you did, he looked further away somehow. You didn’t know this version of him. The silence in the truck didn’t feel angry. It felt exhausted. Like whatever kept Pope stitched together finally started tearing at the seams. When you finally pulled into the driveway of his apartment, Pope still didn’t move.
The engine ticked softly after you shut it off. Neither of you said anything. Then quietly he mumbled “I scared you.”
Your chest tightened immediately. You turned toward him fully. “Andy-”
“I saw your face.”
His voice sounded distant. Like he already decided the answer before asking the question. “You looked scared of me.”
You swallowed hard because lying to him suddenly felt cruel. “I was scared,” you admitted softly.
Pope nodded once. Like that confirmed something terrible inside him. Then suddenly he laughed. A horrible sound. Small and broken and completely humorless. “Smurf likes it,” he muttered staring out the windshield. “When I fight.” You stayed quiet. Because you didn’t know what to say to that. “She says it helps me.” Another laugh. “Gets the bad shit out.” Your throat tightened painfully. Pope finally looked at you then and the expression on his face nearly shattered you. Because there he was. Not Pope. Andrew. The deeply damaged little boy buried underneath all that violence and blood and terror. “She keeps putting me back in there,” he whispered. “And I keep doing it.”
The confession sounded accidental. Like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud. You reached for him immediately. Pope broke apart the second you touched him. He folded into himself silently, forehead dropping against your shoulder while one shaking hand gripped your jacket hard enough to wrinkle the fabric beneath his fingers. You felt the first harsh breath leave him. Then another. Then suddenly he was falling apart against you completely. Years of rage and confusion and manipulation bleeding out silently in the front seat of your car while he tried desperately not to make noise. It was devastating. And yet here he was shaking against you like he physically did not know how to hold himself together anymore.
Your own eyes burned instantly. “Oh, Andy,” you whispered, wrapping both arms around him carefully despite the blood. “Honey…”
Pope made this awful broken sound against your neck like the nickname hurt him. Like your kindness hurt him. You held him tighter anyway.
Inside Pope’s apartment was quiet in a way the Cody house never was. You didn’t realize how badly Pope needed that silence until the second you got him inside. The door barely shut before he started pacing. Not aggressively. Restlessly. Like his skin didn’t fit right anymore. You stood near the kitchen watching him move back and forth across the small living room. He dragged both hands through his curls hard enough to yank at the roots, breathing uneven beneath the fluorescent kitchen light.
Pope looked wrecked. Like seeing you at the fight forced him to finally look at himself clearly for the first time in weeks.
“Andrew,” you said softly.
Pope stopped moving immediately. His back stayed toward you though. “I shouldn’t’ve let you see that.”
Your chest tightened. “You didn’t let me see anything.”
“Yes I did.” His voice turned rougher now. “I knew Deran called you.”
That surprised you. You frowned slightly. “Then why didn’t you stop him?”
Pope laughed once under his breath. A miserable sound. “Cause part of me wanted you there.”
You stepped closer carefully. “Come sit down.”
Pope stood still another second before finally obeying quietly, lowering himself onto the couch like his body suddenly weighed too much to carry anymore.
You disappeared briefly into the bathroom before returning with a first aid kit and a damp washcloth. Pope watched you silently the entire time. You sat beside him gently, knees brushing his thigh as you soaked the cloth with warm water. “Hands,” you murmured.
Pope immediately held them out toward you. The sight almost broke your heart. His knuckles looked destroyed. Skin split open across swollen bone, dried blood gathered beneath his nails. You cleaned them carefully anyway, your touch impossibly soft despite the damage. Pope flinched once.
“Sorry,” you whispered immediately.
“I’m okay.”
You looked up at him then. At the bruising blooming beneath his eye, the emptiness sitting behind those hazel eyes tonight.
At the shame. God, there was so much shame in him.
“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Pope muttered quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m hurt.”
Your expression softened painfully. “You are hurt.”
“No.” He shook his head once frustrated. “I mean wrong. Like there’s something wrong with me.”
You carefully wrapped gauze around his hand before answering. “Andy,” you said softly, “there are a lot of things wrong with everybody in your family.” That actually got the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was gone almost instantly. “But you?” You glanced back down at his injuries. “You’re not evil.”
Pope’s jaw flexed hard immediately. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“You saw what I did to that guy.”
Your hands paused briefly. Then continued cleaning blood from his wrist. “Yes.”
Pope stared at you in disbelief. “You should be scared of me.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Maybe.”
Pope shook his head harder now, frustration bleeding through the numbness. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
His breathing changed. Faster now. Agitated. “That wasn’t fighting,” he muttered. “I couldn’t stop.” You stayed quiet. Pope rubbed a hand violently over his face before continuing. “When it starts I just…” He swallowed thickly. “Everything goes quiet.” He said pointing at his head harshly. Your chest ached listening to him. “And then I hurt people.”
The words sounded less like a confession and more like a punishment. Like he needed you to hear the ugliest parts of him before deciding whether to stay. You set the first aid kit aside slowly. Then reached up carefully and touched his face. Pope immediately went silent. “You know what I saw tonight?” you whispered. His eyes lifted toward yours reluctantly. “I saw a man everyone keeps using until he doesn’t know who he is anymore.” Pope’s expression cracked slightly. “She keeps putting you in situations that make you hate yourself,” you continued softly. “And then she convinces you that hate is proof you deserve it.”
“Don’t,” Pope said immediately, tension returning to his shoulders. “Don’t talk about Smurf like that.” He wasn’t angry. He was Conditioned. You recognized it instantly. The automatic defense. The fear underneath it.
Your thumb brushed lightly beneath his swollen cheekbone. “She hurts you.” Pope looked away sharply. You knew then. Not because he admitted it. Because he couldn’t. His silence said enough. Your eyes burned suddenly. “Oh, Andy…”
Pope looked exhausted by the sound of his own name. “She says I’m broken,” he whispered finally. “She says people like me ruin things.”
Your throat tightened so painfully you almost couldn’t speak. “Well,” you whispered, “I love you.”
Pope froze. The apartment went dead silent. You felt his entire body tense beneath your hand like the words physically struck him. And maybe they did. Because nobody had probably ever said that to Andrew Cody without conditions attached. You swallowed thickly before saying it again softer this time. “I love you.”
Pope stared at you like he genuinely didn’t understand the sentence. Then suddenly his eyes filled so fast it nearly shattered you “No,” he said immediately, voice breaking apart. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say stuff you don’t mean.”
“I mean it.”
“You can’t.”
Your face crumpled slightly. “Why?”
“Cause you saw me.”
The devastation in his voice made your own tears spill instantly. You moved closer without thinking, both hands cupping his face carefully despite the bruises. “Yes,” you whispered fiercely. “I saw you. I saw all of you.” Pope’s breathing turned uneven again “I’m still here.” He looked completely lost now. Like love felt more frightening than violence ever could. “I’m gonna take care of you,” you whispered, forehead pressing gently against his. “Okay?” Pope shut his eyes hard. “And if you want,” you continued shakily, “we’ll leave.” That made his eyes open immediately. You brushed your thumb against his cheek gently. “We’ll get out of here. Away from Smurf. Away from all of this.” Your voice cracked slightly. “I don’t care where we go.”
Pope looked almost frightened by the idea. Not because he didn’t want it. Because he did. You could see it all over his face. The desperate starving want of it. Freedom. Softness. Someone choosing him over the family for once. But Smurf had spent his entire life making sure freedom felt impossible. “She won’t let me,” he whispered.
The words made something cold settle in your stomach. Not she won’t like it. She won’t let me.
You wrapped your arms around him immediately. “Yes she will,” you whispered fiercely into his hair. “Because I’m not leaving you here to die for her.”
Pope broke again completely after that. One second he was holding himself together by threads. The next he was burying his face against your neck with both arms wrapped around your waist so tightly it almost hurt, shaking hard enough the couch creaked beneath both of you. You held him through all of it. Through every ugly broken piece.
The next few days had been tough. It was like Pope was going through withdrawals from every emotion he’d spent his entire life burying. Every feeling that had been shoved down, ignored, beaten back, or weaponized against him seemed determined to claw its way to the surface all at once. Some days he was angry. Some days he was numb. Some days he barely spoke at all. Other days he talked until his voice grew hoarse, as if years of silence were finally catching up to him.
You’d been there for every moment of it, never pushing him, never judging him, never making him feel bad for falling apart. You simply sat with him through it. Sometimes that meant sitting on opposite ends of the couch in complete silence while he stared at a wall for three hours.
Sometimes it meant listening to him talk until two in the morning. Sometimes it meant waking up because you’d rolled over in bed and realized his side was empty, only to find him smoking on the balcony while the rest of Oceanside slept. It broke your heart every single time, because for the first time you were seeing just how much pain one person could carry before it started crushing them beneath its weight.
Things would be okay. You kept telling yourself that. Even after he told you all his ugly truths. How he killed Cath for Smurf. How his family pulled robberies, heists, and laundered money through businesses that looked legitimate from the outside.
It didn’t take you long to realize Pope had never really been treated like a son or a brother. He’d been treated like a weapon. The muscle. The enforcer. The executioner. The one they pointed at problems until those problems disappeared. Looking back, suddenly so many things made sense. The way his brothers instinctively looked at him whenever things got dangerous. The way Smurf spoke to him. The way people reacted when he entered a room. You realized his blank stare wasn’t actually blank at all. It never had been. It was full of things. Fear. Shame. Grief. Loneliness. Guilt. A lifetime of desperately wanting somebody to choose him over what he could do for them.
He told you about Julia more than anyone else. Every story somehow found its way back to her eventually. He told you how he wasn’t there for her. How he should’ve protected her. How he should’ve left with her when she asked. How he still wasn’t there for J now. The guilt sat inside him like a living thing. Then he told you about Smurf. Really told you. Not the vague comments or half-finished explanations he’d offered before. The truth. The whole ugly truth. You sat beside him on the couch while he stared at the floor and explained things in a detached voice that somehow made everything worse. He talked about her touching him. About how confused he’d been. About how nobody noticed. Or maybe they did and just didn’t care enough to stop it. He told you about being the weird kid growing up, the one everybody whispered about when they thought he couldn’t hear them. The one who never quite fit. The one who only ever really belonged beside Julia. He told you how he got his nickname. Told you about every fight he’d ever lost and every fight he’d ever won. Every mistake. Every regret. Every horrible thing he’d done because somebody told him it was necessary.
Then he told you why he killed Nate. Why he killed Nate’s father. Why he’d never once regretted it. And somehow, you didn’t hate him. Maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe there was some deeply damaged part of your brain that should’ve been more alarmed than it was. But every time he talked about it, all you could focus on was the reason behind it. The absolute certainty he’d had that nobody would ever hurt you again if he had anything to say about it. It was terrifying. It was unhealthy. It was probably one of the biggest red flags a person could wave. Yet every time you thought about it, your chest hurt with affection. Because nobody had ever protected you before. Not really.
Certainly not your father. Your father had spent your childhood teaching you that love and fear were the same thing. That safety was temporary. That the people who were supposed to protect you could become the people you feared most.
Pope had learned the exact same lesson. Just from a different monster. Maybe that was why you understood him so well. Maybe it was why you couldn’t bring yourself to run, even now. The two of you were damaged in ways that fit together a little too neatly.
The apartment had slowly started feeling different. Lighter somehow. Not because the problems were gone. If anything, there were more problems than ever. Smurf still existed. The family still existed. The crimes still existed. Everything ugly and dangerous was still waiting outside the front door. But inside the apartment there was something else now. Peace. Tiny moments of it. Enough to make a difference. You started noticing changes in Pope. Small things at first. The way he actually slept through the night sometimes. The way he occasionally smiled without immediately looking guilty afterward. The way he’d stopped flinching every time his phone rang. The way he’d started reaching for you without thinking. A hand finding your knee while you watched television. His fingers brushing yours while you cooked. His arm settling around your waist in bed while he slept. As if somewhere deep down he was finally starting to believe you weren’t going anywhere.
That morning, you stood barefoot in the kitchen making breakfast. Sunlight spilled through the window above the sink, turning the entire apartment gold. The smell of coffee filled the room while bacon crackled softly on the stove beside you. Pope had left before sunrise, which wasn’t unusual anymore. You didn’t ask where he went. That conversation had happened days ago.
“If it’s illegal,” you’d told him while pointing a spatula directly at his chest, “I don’t want to know.”
Pope had looked genuinely conflicted by that. “What if it’s important?”
“It probably isn’t.”
“What if it is?”
“Andy.”
His mouth had immediately snapped shut. You’d pointed the spatula at him again.
“If it’s illegal, I don’t want to know.”
“What if it’s only a little illegal?”
You’d laughed so hard you’d nearly dropped the coffee pot.
Now, standing alone in the kitchen, the memory made you smile despite yourself. You were halfway through flipping a pancake when you heard the front door open. Without turning around, you called out, “You remembered coffee, right?” No answer. You frowned slightly. “Andy?” Still nothing. Finally, you glanced over your shoulder.
Pope stood frozen in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. He wasn’t carrying coffee. His hair was a mess from the ocean wind. His shoulders looked tense. Exhausted. Not physically exhausted. Emotionally exhausted. Like he’d spent the entire morning fighting some invisible battle and barely made it home afterward. Your smile softened immediately.
“What happened?” He didn’t answer. Just stared at you. For several long seconds neither of you moved.
Then suddenly he crossed the room.
You barely had enough time to put the spatula down before his arms wrapped around your waist. Hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to tell you exactly how badly he needed this. Your breath caught as he buried his face against your shoulder and simply stood there. Holding you. Like you’d become the only place he knew how to rest. You immediately covered his forearms with your hands. “Oh.”
His grip tightened.
“What happened?” you asked softly.
A long silence followed. Then finally “Nothing.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s a lie.”
Another pause. “Maybe.”
Despite yourself, you smiled. Pope’s face remained buried against your shoulder. “You wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
The answer seemed to surprise him. You felt him shift slightly, like he’d been expecting you to push harder. To pry. To demand answers. Instead you simply stood there with him while the kitchen filled with the smell of burnt pancakes.
Several minutes passed before he finally spoke again. “You gonna keep making breakfast?”
“No.”
His head lifted slightly. “Why?”
“Because you’re hugging me.”
Pope actually thought about that for a second. Then nodded. “Okay.”
He made absolutely no effort to let go. A laugh escaped you.
“Andy.”
“Hm.”
“The pancakes are burning.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yeah.”
You shook your head, smiling helplessly as you looked down at the man currently holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him together. For years Pope Cody had been everybody else’s weapon. Everybody else’s problem solver. Everybody else’s monster. Standing here in the middle of his kitchen, with sunlight warming the apartment and his arms wrapped around your waist, he didn’t look like a monster at all. He looked tired. He looked lost. He looked like somebody who had spent his entire life surviving and had no idea what to do now that somebody was finally offering him a place to rest. You reached behind you, turning the stove off holding Popes face in your hands. “Tell me what you need,” you said softly.
Pope leaned forward, leaning his head into your hand. “Need to know I can do something good.”
You thought for a second, your hands running through his curls. “You make me feel good,” you said suddenly.
He looked at you, and you watched the way his shoulders sagged at your words, a breath leaving him like he'd been holding it for years. His hands came up to rest on your hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles through the thin cotton.
“Yeah?” His voice was rough, almost a whisper against.
“Yeah, Andy.” You let his name hang soft in the air between you. “You always make me feel good. Every time.”
He looked at you again, and there it was, that flicker of doubt he tried so hard to hide. Pope Cody, the man everyone whispered about, the one they called a monster, a killer, something wrong. But here, in the dim light of your kitchen, he was just a man who needed to hear he could be good at something. That something.
You cupped his face tighter, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Come here, Honey.”
He let you guide him, sinking to his knees on the worn rug in front of the couch. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing the hem of your sleep shirt higher. You stepped back until your calves hit the couch cushion, then let yourself fall onto it, legs parting naturally.
Pope didn't wait for an invitation. He leaned in, mouth pressing a wet kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, working his way up. His stubble scraped against your sensitive skin, and you shivered, letting your head fall back against the cushion.
“That's it,” you breathed. “Just like that, Andrew.”
He grunted in response, a low sound that vibrated against your skin. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you to the edge of the couch, and then his mouth was on you, right where you needed him.
The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate. He wasn't rushing. He was learning. You felt him explore, taste, test what made you gasp and what made you sigh. Your fingers found his curls again, threading through the auburn curls, tugging gently.
“Oh, fuck,” you whispered. “That's good, Honey. That's so good.”
He looked up at you, eyes dark and focused, his mouth still working. He didn't stop, but he pulled back just enough to murmur, “Yeah? Am I-am I doing good?”
Your heart clenched. You tugged his hair lightly, making him look at you fully. “You're doing perfect, Andy. You're making me feel so good. Don't stop.”
He didn't. He buried his face deeper, tongue circling your clit with a steady rhythm, then flattening and dragging up slow. Your hips rocked against his mouth, and he let you, one arm wrapping around your thigh to keep you open, the other hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast.
“That's it,” you said, voice breathy. “You know exactly what I need. You always do.”
He groaned against you, the sound muffled but eager. His fingers found your nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, and you arched into his touch.
“You're so good at this, Andrew.” You were babbling now, but you meant every word. “You make me feel so safe, so fucking good. No one else-god, right there, Honey-”
His tongue moved faster, more insistent, and you felt the coil tightening low in your belly. Your grip on his hair tightened, and you panted, “Don't stop, don't stop, I'm-I'm gonna-”
He doubled down, sucking your clit into his mouth while his fingers worked you open, and you let go, crying out his name as the orgasm washed over you in waves. You pulsed against his mouth, and he drank it all in, licking you through it until you were oversensitive and trembling.
When you finally stilled, he pulled back, chin glistening, and looked up at you with something raw and vulnerable in his eyes. His lips were slick, his breathing heavy.
You reached down, pulling him up by his shirt until he was hovering over you, his weight a familiar comfort. You kissed him slow, tasting yourself on his lips.
“That was perfect, Honey,” you murmured, stroking his jaw. “But I need more.”
His eyes darkened, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. “Whatever you need.”
You shifted beneath him, guiding him to lie back on the couch, you on top now, straddling his hips. His hands immediately found your waist, thumbs tracing the curve of your hipbones. You could feel him hard through his jeans, pressing against your damp core.
“Let me take care of you now, Andrew,” you said softly, reaching between you to unbuckle his belt. He watched you, breath held, as you tugged his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It stood thick and hard, pre-cum beading at the tip.
You lined yourself up, sinking down onto him slowly, an inch, then another, your walls stretching to take him in. He let out a shaky groan, his head falling back against the cushion.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word rough and reverent.
You paused when he was fully seated, giving yourself a moment to adjust. His hands roamed up your back, slipping under your shirt, gripping your skin like he was afraid you'd disappear.
“Am I doing good?” he asked again, quieter this time, searching your face.
You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “You're doing so good, Andy. You feel so good inside me. So deep.”
He grunted, hips twitching up involuntarily, and you moaned at the movement.
“That's it,” you whispered. “Let me feel you.”
You started to move, slow, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding against him in a rhythm that made both of you gasp. His hands slid down to grip your ass, guiding you, helping you find the angle that made your breath hitch.
“Right there?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Yes, Honey, right there. Don't stop.”
He thrust up to meet you, each motion deep and unhurried, filling you completely. The sound of skin against skin mixed with your soft moans and his guttural groans. You could feel the orgasm building again, slow and sweet this time, not the sharp peak from before but a warm, rolling wave.
“You feel so good,” you said, your voice trembling. “You make me feel so full. So loved.”
His eyes locked on yours, and there it was, that desperate need to believe you. “Say it again.”
“You're good, Andrew. You're so good to me.”
He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and buried his face in your neck as he fucked up into you, his rhythm losing control as he neared his own edge.
“I'm close,” he muttered against your throat, his voice cracking. “Can I, please, can I-“
“Come for me, Honey,” you whispered, kissing his temple. “Let go. I've got you.”
He groaned your name, a broken, desperate sound, and spilled inside you, his body shuddering beneath you. The feeling of him pulsing, of his warmth flooding you, pushed you over the edge too, and you cried out, clenching around him as your second orgasm rippled through you.
You collapsed against him, both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat. His arms stayed locked around you, holding you close. After a long moment, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said, barely audible.
You lifted your head, brushing the hair from his forehead. “For what?”
“For letting me be good.”
Your chest tightened. You cupped his face, making him look at you. “You are good, Andy. You always were. You just needed someone to see it.”
He dropped his forehead to yours, breath ragged. “I see it when I'm with you.”
You stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, the apartment still warm, the morning soft around you. And for a little while, the weight of the world didn't touch either of you.
prguitarman
titsay
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
theartofmadeline
