Best friend. Fake girlfriend. Secret keeper. You knew your role In Deran Cody’s life. Everything was perfect until Andrew Cody showed back up and made you forget it. Now everything is unraveling, and there’s no one left on your side.
CW: Pope Cody x Reader, F! Reader, Deran Cody x Reader (friendship), Cody Family Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Codependency, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, They Should Not Be Doing This, But They Do Anyway, Betrayal, Guilt Complex, Pope Cody Needs Therapy, Deran Cody Needs a Hug, Reader is Going Through It™, Everyone is a Little Bit Toxic, SMUT, Minors Do Not Interact, This Started as Smut and Became Feelings, No One Is Making Good Choices Here, I Blacked Out Writing This, Mentions of OCD, Homophobia, No Use of YN, No Physical Description of Reader, Canon Typical Violence Towards Reader
A/N: I edited this on a treadmill.
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It’s late afternoon at the pier, the kind of hour when the sunlight begins softening into gold and the ocean turns pale silver under the long reflection of the sky.
The light doesn’t hit anything directly anymore. It glances. Skims. Turns everything a little softer than it really is.
The boardwalk is crowded the way it always is this time of day. Tourists drift past in slow clusters, sunburned shoulders brushing against one another. Kids run between the benches with dripping ice cream cones, their laughter sharp and bright as gulls cry overhead.
Somewhere nearby, someone is frying something heavy in oil, and the air smells like saltwater, sunscreen, hot sugar—and something faintly metallic beneath it all. Like heat sitting too long on skin.
The surf shop is closing for the night. Adrian left an hour ago with Deran after the two of them got into a half-serious argument about a repair job that needed to be finished before the weekend rush rolled in. Their voices had carried down the boardwalk, sharp and familiar, fading piece by piece until they disappeared completely into the noise of the crowd.
Now the shop sits quiet behind you. Boards stacked in clean rows. The floor swept. The last traces of resin dust brushed into the trash, leaving that faint chemical sweetness lingering in the air.
Everything in its place. Everything normal.
You pull the door closed and lock it with a soft metallic click, slipping the key into your pocket as you step out onto the wooden planks of the boardwalk.
The breeze coming off the water cools the back of your neck, slipping over the thin sheen of sweat drying there from the work you’d been doing in the shop.
You turn toward the parking lot and That’s when you see him.
At first he’s just another shape standing near the far edge of the lot, where the narrow alley cuts behind the row of shops.
A man in a dark hoodie. Head down. Talking to someone you recognize immediately.
Drew.
A small-time dealer who drifts in and out of the pier every few weeks, selling painkillers, fake Xanax, and whatever else gullible tourists are willing to buy from a stranger leaning against a trash can with a too-easy smile.
Your eyes move over the stranger automatically. Cataloging. Dismissing. Just another guy. Just another exchange you saw daily.
Then they stop. The bandages. White gauze wraps thickly around the side of the man’s face, disappearing beneath the collar of his sweatshirt. The edges are already stained Yellow and Dark and Seeping.
Like whatever is underneath it hasn’t stopped moving.
Your stomach tightens.
A cold sensation begins creeping slowly up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, like something crawling its way into your body.
The man shifts slightly. Turning his head just enough for the afternoon light to catch the exposed edge of his jaw.
And you see it.
His skin is Blistered. Wet-looking. Red and raw like melted wax clinging unevenly to bone, the texture wrong in a way your brain doesn’t want to process.
Your breath stops.
For one suspended moment the world around you disappears and You’re back in your kitchen. The water in the pot is rolling, the sound loud enough to fill the entire apartment.
The weight of boiling water leaving your hands. The arc of it. The moment it hits. The sound he made—That high, tearing scream that ripped through the apartment as he stumbled backward, hands clawing at his own face like he could peel the pain away.
The way the mask came with it. The way the skin followed. The way he ran.
Your fingers curl slowly into fists at your sides.
The man shifts again. And his eyes lift. They land directly on you. Recognition hits both of you at the exact same moment.
His entire body locks.
Fear flashes across what’s left of his face—pure and immediate and animal.
Then he runs.
You don’t think. Your body moves before your mind catches up. Your feet are already pounding across the pavement.
“Hey!”
The word tears out of you, sharp enough to cut through the noise of the boardwalk.
He bolts toward the alley behind the shops, shoving past a pair of startled tourists who curse after him as they stumble.
Your heart slams violently against your ribs.
Adrenaline floods your veins so fast it almost makes your vision blur at the edges.
You hear Andrew’s voice somewhere in the back of your mind.
You’re safe.
But safe doesn’t mean helpless. And you’re done being the person who hides.
Your shoes slap hard against the pavement, breath already burning in your lungs.
He glances back once.
That’s his mistake.
His foot catches on the uneven edge of the pavement and he slams shoulder-first into the brick wall of the alley with a dull, jarring thud before pushing himself forward again with a desperate grunt.
But the alley is narrow and A row of dumpsters blocks the back wall like a dead end.
Nowhere to go.
He realizes it too late.
When he turns around—You’re already there.
Your chest is heaving by the time you stop.
Each breath comes sharp and ragged, your lungs burning from the sprint, adrenaline still flooding your bloodstream so violently it makes everything around you feel too bright, too sharp, too loud.
The alley hems you in on both sides with stained brick walls and dented dumpsters, trapping the heat of the late afternoon sun until the air itself feels stale and used.
Rotting.
Somewhere beyond the mouth of it, the boardwalk keeps moving.
Tourists laughing. Music drifting faint and tinny from a shop radio. The ocean breathing in and out like none of this matters.
Your hand moves automatically to the back of your waistband.
The gun feels heavier now than it did the day he pressed it into your palm. Heavier with knowledge. Heavier with memory. The metal is cold against your skin when you pull it free, grounding in a way nothing else is.
For one quick, dizzy second you think about the last time you held it like this. About the sound it made. About what it meant.
But your hand doesn’t shake. Not this time.
You level it at him.
“Get on the ground.”
The man freezes Completely.
His eyes flick from your face to the gun and back again, and you watch recognition settle there for the second time.
Slower now.
Clearer.
Fear blooming across what’s left of his expression as he finally understands exactly who you are.
“You—”
Your voice cuts him off like a blade.
“On the ground.”
The words come out low and hard. A beat passes. Then, quieter, more dangerous “You know what happened to your friend.”
That does it. He drops immediately.
Hands flat against the pavement. Knees hitting hard. Face turned away like even looking at you might be enough to get him killed.
Because you already killed his partner. Because he watched it happen. Because he knows now, in some deep feral part of himself, that you are not the easy mark they were promised when they kicked through your door.
You step closer.
The gun stays steady in your hand.
And for the first time since that night, the fear inside your chest doesn’t feel like it’s driving you anymore. It isn’t dragging you around by the throat. It isn’t making your decisions for you.
You’re controlling it.
You chose Andrew.
You chose this life.
And you are not going to be hunted inside it.
The alley smells like salt and hot asphalt and rotting garbage baking in the sun. And underneath it, Something else.
The man’s breathing comes fast and uneven, his fingers splayed wide against the pavement like he’s trying to hold himself together.
The bandages shift when he speaks.
Up close, it’s worse. Angry red skin stretched too tight.
Glossy.
Swollen.
Infected.
You can smell it now. It’s not strong But there. That sick, unmistakable sweetness of rot under heat. The sight of it sends something dark and ugly through your chest.
Not joy. Not exactly. But something close.
You take another slow step toward him.
“You remember me?”
He lets out a shaky laugh that collapses halfway through. “Yeah,” he says. “I remember.”
You tilt your head slightly, studying him.
“Good.”
The alley goes quiet again. Just the distant crash of the ocean. The hum of life continuing ten yards away.
And here you are. A gun in your hand a man at your feet.
You swallow once.
“Why did you break into my house?”
“It was a job,” he blurts, the words tumbling over each other in his rush to fill the silence before it turns on him. “We were just doing a job.”
A job. Like that makes it smaller. Cleaner. Like violence is something you can clock in and out of.
Your stomach twists.
“What kind of job?”
He hesitates and you lift the gun. Just enough. The shift is subtle but he feels it.
His body reacts immediately.
“Okay—okay—”
He sucks in a breath that sounds like it hurts “Someone wanted you roughed up a little.”
Roughed up.
Your jaw tightens. The phrase feels ritualistic. Like a euphemism passed down. Soft words for something brutal. A way to make harm sound smaller than it is.
“Scare you,” he rushes on. “Make you leave town.”
Drive you out.
The phrasing lands deeper than it should. Something old in it. Territorial. Like clearing something from land that doesn’t belong.
Your voice lowers. Dangerous now. “Why me?”
His eyes flick up. Fear again. Real this time.
“I don’t know—we’re not paid to ask questions.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears. A steady drum. Like something counting.
“Then who paid you?”
He swallows and looks away.
“I just know it came from up top.”
Your brow furrows.
“Up top?”
He nods quickly.
“Yeah. Someone named Smurf wanted you out of the picture.”
Everything goes still. Not quiet but Still. Like the world just… pauses.
The alley. The ocean. The air in your lungs. Even the sound of your own breathing seems to drop away, replaced by something heavier.
Something deeper.
For one suspended moment, all you can hear is your heartbeat. it’s Not frantic or panicked. It’s still somehow beating steady and heavy. Like something waking up.
And suddenly the pieces slide together.
Not slowly.
Not logically.
Instinctively.
The warning in the hallway. The package at the bar. The men kicking through your door like it already belonged to them.
Pope’s voice in the dark.
She won’t stop.
Your stomach drops. This whole time it wasn’t random. It wasn’t bad luck. It wasn’t a mistake. It careful was selection.
You.
Chosen.
Marked.
Removed.
By Smurf. Not just a woman sitting at the head of a table. She was Something else entirely.
Something older. A center point. A figure everything bends around.
She doesn’t react. She doesn’t ever just strike. She decides. And then the world moves accordingly. She is a queen in a system that doesn’t need a crown to function.
Your chest rises slowly.
You feel it now.
The shape of it. The structure underneath everything. Not chaos or chance. A kingdom.
Unspoken.
Unwritten.
But real.
And Smurf, fucking Smurf sits at the center of it like something that has always been there.
Your hand lowers slightly with the gun still aimed. But your mind is somewhere else now.
You’re Reframing. Re-seeing.
Every moment. Every interaction. Every soft word.
Baby.
Sweetheart.
It was never affection or kindness. It was always about Control. Ownership. Assessment.
You were never just around her. You were inside her territory. And now you truly understand why Pope was afraid, afraid for you.
Not of her temper.
Not of her anger.
But of her reach.
Of the way she moves pieces without ever touching them. Of the way her violence becomes… distant, Delegated.
You shake your head once in a Small and Disbelieving wave.
“Jesus.”
The man shifts slightly on the ground.
“You gonna—”
Your eyes snap back to him and The gun lifts again.
He freezes on Instant.
“If I ever see you again,” you say, your voice low and steady, “I’ll fucking kill you.”
The words don’t echo. They settle in his chest, Heavy and final.
This isn’t a threat, it’s a promise.
And somewhere deep inside something in you recognizes it for what it is. Not reaction or fear.
A line drawn in blood whether it’s spilled or not.
You take one slow step closer. The gun aimed at the back of his head. “Do you understand?”
“Yes—yeah—yeah, I understand—”
“Good.”
Your pulse steadies and Something inside you clicks into place.
“Get the fuck out of town. And never come back.”
He runs.
You let him.
Because this wasn’t about him. Not really. He was just… a message. A symptom. A piece moved across a board you didn’t know you were standing on.
The alley falls quiet again and your arm lowers slowly. For a moment you just stand there. Feeling the echo of what just happened settle into your bones.
Then your hands start to shake. Not from fear, because you’re not scared anymore.
But you’re shaking from the weight of what you just learned.
Smurf.
The name doesn’t just echo now. It roots and Threads itself into everything that came before. Into Everything that’s coming next.
You slide the gun back into your waistband and your fingers linger there a second longer than they need to.
Then you pull your phone from your pocket.
Andrew’s name sits at the top of your recent calls.
Your thumb hovers over his contact.
You could call him.
You know he’d answer.
He always does.
Your chest tightens slightly. Because now you understand something you didn’t before.
This wasn’t something circling him. It wasn’t danger that followed him like bad luck. It was something he was born into. Something built around him. Something he was raised inside like a system he never chose.
Like blood.
Like gravity.
You stare at his name for a long moment.
Then lower the phone.
Not yet. Because something inside you has shifted. Not broken. Shifted.
For the first time since this started you’re not just reacting. You’re seeing.
This isn’t random. This isn’t bad luck. This isn’t something that just happened.
This is structure. This is power. This is war. And now—you know exactly who started it.
Besties. I live I promise. I travel for work and I’ve been in and out of my city/state for the past several weeks. The free time I have has been spent enjoying the start of Spring and socializing whenever I can since my time home has been so limited. I promise to find some time and finish this story for yall as soon as I can 🌶️💕
Hey, hope you’re doing well. I’ve been loving your pope fic and was just wondering if it’s possible for you to add the next link at the end of each chapter? Just so it’s easy to flick through, no worries if not
Hey bestie! Thank you for loving Pope and for joining us at the temple of Andrew “Pope” Cody. There’s free juice near the refreshment table, please help yourself. I do have links for each chapter (previous and next) below the gif, but I’ll try to take some time this week to add them at the end too. 😘
Best friend. Fake girlfriend. Secret keeper. You knew your role In Deran Cody’s life. Everything was perfect until Andrew Cody showed back up and made you forget it. Now everything is unraveling, and there’s no one left on your side.
CW: Pope Cody x Reader, F! Reader, Deran Cody x Reader (friendship), Cody Family Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Codependency, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, They Should Not Be Doing This, But They Do Anyway, Betrayal, Guilt Complex, Pope Cody Needs Therapy, Deran Cody Needs a Hug, Reader is Going Through It™, Everyone is a Little Bit Toxic, SMUT, Minors Do Not Interact, This Started as Smut and Became Feelings, No One Is Making Good Choices Here, I Blacked Out Writing This, Mentions of OCD, Homophobia, No Use of YN, No Physical Description of Reader, Canon Typical Violence Towards Reader
AN: I’m so sorry for the horny thoughts to start this chapter off. We’re almost at the finish line my babies. I hope I’m not disappointing yall with where I’ve taken this tale. ily you all much 😘
Previous Chapter Next Part
You’re on top of him, your knees bent against the mattress, the muscles burning from the slow, steady rhythm you’ve been holding. You ride him deliberately, rolling your hips in a hypnotic pace, your hands spread across his chest. Your fingers dig lightly into the firm muscle there, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him beneath you.
He lies under you with his mouth slightly open, watching you like you’ve hung the moon itself in the sky. His hands grip your hips, strong but patient, letting you set the pace, letting you take what you need from him.
A sharp gasp slips from your lips when he connects with something deep inside you. The sensation pulls a low groan from your throat when you repeat the movement, your hips circling slowly again.
For a moment the two of you are completely lost in it. The room fades away. The world narrows to breath, skin, and the quiet sounds you pull from each other.
Your eyes drift back to his face, drawn there by the look he’s giving you. There’s something almost peaceful in it. Relaxed in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
You reach down and brush your fingers gently across his lips when he groans again. Instinctively, he presses a soft kiss to your fingertips.
You push his upper lip up slightly with your thumb and he lets you, obedient and unguarded beneath you. The sight makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with pleasure.
You admire the way his teeth sit just slightly crooked. Not perfect.
But perfect to you.
Everything about him is.
You press your fingers into his mouth and he responds immediately, sucking them in as his tongue slides along them, coating your digits in warmth before you slowly pull them free again with a soft pop.
Your hand drifts down between your bodies to where the two of you are joined.
His eyes follow the movement instantly.
Hungry.
He doesn’t look away as your fingers begin to move, helping yourself along toward the edge you can feel building.
His response is immediate.
His hands tighten on your hips as he pushes up into you eagerly, the movement pulling a small, surprised squeak of pleasure from your throat.
His eyes move back to your face immediately.
The intensity of his gaze makes your breath hitch, your jaw falling slack as your pace begins to quicken without you meaning it to. The slow rhythm you had been holding slips away as your hips start moving faster, chasing the heat building low in your stomach.
Neither of you looks away.
It becomes its own kind of tether between you. Something silent and electric stretching through the space where your bodies meet.
Your fingers continue their movement, helping yourself along as you rock against him harder now. The mattress shifts beneath you with each motion, the sound of skin and breath filling the room.
Andrew groans beneath you, the sound deep and rough in his chest.
Your name slips from his lips.
Soft.
Unsteady.
There’s something so vulnerable in the way he says it that your chest tightens painfully for a second. The guarded man you know so well is gone in this moment, replaced by something open and unprotected that almost makes you want to cry.
Your hands tighten against him as the tension coils tighter and tighter inside you, the two of you still locked in that unbroken gaze as the moment rushes closer.
“I love you,” he groans, the words barely making it past his lips.
The confession hits you like a spark against dry air.
Your breath catches as the words settle in your chest, and the feeling that follows crashes over you all at once. A broken cry slips from your throat as you press down against him, your body tightening as the wave finally breaks.
For a moment the world disappears.
Your toes curl against the sheets, your breath trapped somewhere high in your chest as the rush of it steals the air from your lungs.
Andrew feels it all.
The way your body tightens. The way your breath stutters against him. The way the moment rolls through you in trembling aftershocks.
It pulls him with you.
His hands clamp around your hips, gripping you hard enough to leave bruises as he follows you over the edge. His eyes screw shut, his head falling back against the pillow as the last of the tension breaks loose from him in a rough, unguarded sound.
For a few seconds neither of you can move.
You remain there, still straddling him, your breathing uneven as the aftershocks slowly fade. The room feels warm and hazy, the air thick with the quiet aftermath of it.
Andrew’s hands loosen slightly on your hips, though they don’t leave you.
His chest rises and falls hard beneath you as he blinks slowly, like he’s trying to bring the room back into focus again.
You rock gently against him once more as the last waves of warmth settle through your body.
And when he finally opens his eyes again, the look he gives you is softer than anything that came before it.
You lean down suddenly, crashing your lips against his.
“I love you. I love you,” you babble against his mouth, the words spilling out breathless and unsteady, like you can’t get them out fast enough now that they’re finally there.
Andrew exhales softly beneath you, one of his hands sliding up along your back, his palm warm and steady against your skin as he pulls you closer. His other hand follows, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades as the two of you try to catch your breath.
Your forehead bumps lightly against his as you laugh weakly, still hovering over him, both of you a little dizzy from the rush of everything that just passed between you.
He presses another kiss to your lips, slower this time. Gentler.
His hands stay on your back, grounding, holding you there while your breathing slowly begins to steady together in the quiet room.
The apartment is quiet in the way places sometimes become after something terrible has already happened.
You haven’t returned to your house.
You don’t think you ever will.
Andrew and Deran fixed your door late last night, working quietly beneath the yellow porch light while the neighborhood slept around them. They’d offered to take you back afterward, said you could grab some clothes, anything you might need for the next few days.
But you’d refused. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You couldn’t step over that threshold again and hear the familiar creak of the third stair beneath your weight. Couldn’t stand in that doorway and see the new lock sitting where the old one had splintered apart.
And you definitely couldn’t look at the floor beside your bed.
You know it would still be there.
That small section of carpet that would always look just slightly darker than the rest, no matter how much someone scrubbed it.
So you stayed at Andrew’s place. He didn’t question your decision. Didn’t ask how long you planned to stay or whether it was temporary.
He just moved over and made space for you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he had been waiting for you there his entire life.
Sunlight slips through the blinds in narrow bands, stretching across the bed and the rumpled sheets where the two of you lie tangled together.
Your cheek rests against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.
For a moment the world feels small.
Just this room.
Just him.
Andrew’s hand slides slowly across your scalp before he presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head.
You tilt your face upward slightly, and his fingers move instinctively to your chin.
Careful. He avoids the bruise there without even needing to look at it, guiding your face until your eyes meet his.
For a moment neither of you says anything.
Your hand drifts slowly across his shoulder, your fingers tracing the familiar line of a scar that runs along the muscle there. You follow it absently, the raised skin warm beneath your fingertips, a path you’ve learned by heart.
Andrew watches your hand move.
The quiet between you stretches comfortably at first.
Then the thought slips out before you can stop it.
“Let’s leave.”
Andrew goes completely still beneath you.
It’s subtle.
But you feel it immediately.
The way his body stiffens. The way his breathing pauses for half a second too long.
For a moment he doesn’t respond.
The quiet stretches between you, filled only by the slow rhythm of your breathing and the distant hush of the ocean drifting through the open window.
“Leave?” he repeats finally.
Slowly. Like the word itself feels unfamiliar in his mouth.
“Yeah.”
You push yourself up slightly, your hands resting on his chest as you look down at him now.
“Just… go.”
The words feel bigger the moment they leave you. Real in a way they hadn’t when the thought first formed in your head.
“We could go somewhere else,” you say quietly. “Somewhere quiet.”
Your fingers slide slowly across his chest, absentminded.
“Start over.”
You shake your head faintly.
“None of this has to follow us.”
Andrew watches you carefully. Too carefully.
The idea lands somewhere inside him.
Something real.
Something dangerous.
You can see the moment it touches something in him.
His jaw tightens.
“It’s not that simple.”
Your stomach sinks.
“Why not?”
Andrew exhales slowly and then sits up.
The movement breaks the closeness between you instantly. The warmth of his body disappears as he swings his legs off the bed, his back turning toward you.
You feel the distance immediately.
“Because I’ve got shit I’ve got to do.”
You stare at him.
“Like what?” you ask quietly.
A beat.
“For Smurf?”
His head shakes sharply.
“No.”
He turns toward you again.
The silence stretches between you. Heavy now.
Then Andrew says the thing that’s been sitting behind his ribs this entire time.
“I can’t take care of you out there.”
Your brow furrows.
“What?”
He gestures vaguely toward the world beyond the apartment walls.
“I don’t have anything,” he says quietly. “No job. No money that isn’t tied to Smurf.”
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head faintly.
“I’m a felon. For robbery.”
The words sound bitter when he says them out loud.
“Guys like me don’t exactly get hired anywhere that pays enough to take care of someone.”
His eyes flick toward you for half a second.
Then away again.
“They don’t give people like me jobs good enough to build a life with.”
The words land heavy in the room.
Failure sounds different when it comes from someone who rarely admits it.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
You watch him quietly.
Your expression softens.
“You wouldn’t have to do it alone,” you say gently.
His shoulders tense.
“And I don’t need you to take care of me.”
Your voice steadies as you continue.
“I just need you with me.”
You take a small breath. “That’s all I want.”
A beat.
“To be with you.”
Andrew is already shaking his head.
“I’m not ready.”
The words fall between you like something solid and heavy. Final in a way you weren’t prepared for.
You slide slowly out of the bed. The cool air brushes across your skin where his warmth had been moments before.
“I’m not asking you to choose today.”
Andrew watches you from the edge of the mattress. His expression is tight now. Like something inside him is pulling in two opposite directions at once.
“But someday,” you say quietly, “you’re going to have to.”
“Or what?” Andrew asks suddenly.
His voice is tighter now.
Sharper.
His eyes narrow slightly, something uneasy flashing behind them.
“You’re going to wake up one day and realize I’m not worth all this?”
The words land harder than he intended.
But he doesn’t take them back.
“I thought you said you chose me,” he continues, tension threading through every word. “That you wouldn’t leave.”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“That’s all bullshit now?”
Your chest tightens immediately.
“No, Andrew.”
Your voice softens.
“I choose you.”
You step closer without thinking. “I fucking love you.”
The words come out steady. Certain.
“I always will.”
The space between you suddenly feels fragile. Like something delicate balanced on the edge of breaking.
“But there’s going to come a day,” you say quietly, “where I might have to choose me too.”
The silence that follows is different.
Heavier.
Not anger.
Something closer to fear.
Andrew looks at you like the ground beneath his feet just shifted. Like the future he’s been trying not to imagine suddenly became real.
Andrew bends forward and grabs his jeans from the floor, pulling them on quickly. Movement. Anything to keep him from sitting with the weight of what you just said.
Anger rolls off him in quiet waves.
Not aimed directly at you.
At the whole situation.
At the reality of it all.
Because somewhere deep down, he knows you’re right.
His eyes flick once toward your face. Toward the fading bruise on your chin. Toward the quiet fear that still lingers in you when the apartment goes too quiet. Toward the fact that you can’t even go back to your own home.
And every piece of it traces back to him.
His jaw tightens.
“I gotta go to the house.”
He doesn’t look at you when he says it.
The door closes behind him a moment later.
And the space he leaves behind feels larger than the apartment itself. Like something important just stepped out with him.
_____
The Cody house is quiet when Andrew pushes through the front door.
Not the usual kind of quiet. Not the lazy, late-morning quiet that settles in after a long night.
This one feels different.
The kind of quiet that presses against the walls. The kind that makes the air feel thick, like someone has been sitting perfectly still for a long time waiting for something to happen.
The screen door creaks softly behind him as it swings shut.
Andrew barely notices.
His mind is still back in the apartment.
Still replaying your voice.
Let’s leave.
The words won’t stop echoing. They follow him down the hallway, slipping between his thoughts no matter how hard he tries to push them away.
Just… go.
Start over.
The idea keeps circling back like something dangerous. Like something that almost makes sense.
Andrew exhales slowly through his nose as he steps into the kitchen.
And sees Smurf sitting at the table.
A mug of coffee rests in front of her, steam curling lazily into the air. The morning light spilling through the window frames her perfectly, soft and warm like something out of a magazine ad for a happy family kitchen.
For a moment the whole scene looks almost normal. Peaceful.
Like the kind of house people grow up in.
Like the kind of place families belong.
She looks up the second he walks in.
“There you are, baby.”
Her voice is calm and Gentle. Like she hasn’t been sitting there waiting for him.
Andrew doesn’t respond. He crosses the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the table, dropping into it heavily across from her. The legs scrape softly against the tile.
Smurf watches him carefully. Her eyes move over his face the way they always have.
Reading him. Mapping the places where he’s strongest. And the places where he isn’t.
“You didn’t sleep much.”
It isn’t a question.
Andrew shrugs faintly, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck.
“I’m fine.”
Smurf hums softly and lifts her coffee.
“Of course you are.”
She takes a slow sip, her eyes never leaving him over the rim of the mug.
Then she lowers it again.
The ceramic clicks softly against the table.
Her fingers curl around the mug, warming slowly against it.
“I was thinking about something.”
Andrew doesn’t look up. “Yeah?”
Smurf tilts her head slightly, studying him.
“You remember when you were little?”
Andrew’s brow tightens faintly.
“You used to bring home wounded animals.”
His eyes flicker slightly now. A memory brushing somewhere at the edge of his mind.
“You’d find them out in the yard. Broken wings. Limp legs. Strays nobody wanted.”
She smiles faintly at the memory.
“You always believed you could fix them.”
Andrew finally looks up at her. Suspicion flickers there now.
Smurf sighs softly, like the thought itself carries weight.
“And sometimes you did.”
Her fingernail taps lightly against the ceramic mug. A quiet, rhythmic sound.
“But sometimes…”
She lifts her eyes slowly to meet his.
“…they healed up and ran away anyway.”
Andrew’s jaw tightens. “That’s not the same thing.”
Smurf lifts one shoulder in a small, gentle shrug.
“Maybe not.”
The words drift into the space between them and settle there.
The kitchen grows quiet again. Long enough that the ticking of the clock above the sink becomes noticeable. Long enough for the steam from the coffee to thin into nothing.
Then Smurf leans forward slightly.
“You’ve got a good heart, Andrew.”
The words are soft.
Sincere.
Almost proud.
“It’s one of the things that makes you different from your brothers.”
She studies him as she says it, like she’s pointing out something rare.
Something valuable.
Another pause follows.
“But good hearts can get people hurt.”
Andrew’s voice comes out lower now. “She didn’t ask for any of this.”
Smurf nods slowly. The sympathy in her expression is so natural it would fool anyone who didn’t know her better.
“I know baby.”
Her voice softens further.
“That poor girl.”
Andrew watches her carefully now. Waiting. Because he knows there’s always something else coming.
But she isn’t accusing. She isn’t pushing. She’s just… thinking.
“That kind of fear changes people,” Smurf continues quietly.
“Once someone sees the kind of world we live in…”
Her eyes lift and meet his again.
“…most people decide they don’t want any part of it.”
Andrew doesn’t answer But the muscle in his jaw tightens again.
Smurf notices.
For a moment she says nothing, letting the thought settle into the room like dust drifting slowly through sunlight.
Then she softens again.
Her voice lowers just slightly.
“I’m just saying, baby… we’ve seen people try to leave this life.”
A small pause.
“And we know how that turned out.”
Silence fills the kitchen.
Andrew’s fingers curl slowly against the edge of the table. The wood creaks faintly beneath the pressure.
Smurf leans back in her chair.
Not pressing or rushing him. Just letting the thought sit there.
“You’re a good man, Andrew.”
She smiles softly.
“And good men deserve someone who’s going to stay.”
Her gaze drifts toward the window for a moment, where the late morning light washes across the yard.
Then her eyes return to him.
“Not someone who runs the first time things get hard.”
Andrew exhales slowly. Something tightens deep in his chest. Because part of him knows exactly what Smurf is doing. And part of him is terrified she might be right.
Smurf sees the conflict flicker across his face.
Just for a second.
But that’s enough.
She lifts her coffee again, hiding the small curve of her smile behind the rim of the mug.
_____
By the end of the day, the brothers have heard it all. Not facts. Nothing solid. Nothing you could write down or point to.
Just the kind of restless street noise that starts moving through Oceanside when someone begins asking the wrong questions in the wrong places.
Most of it comes from Smurf’s sources.
People who have been around long enough to know better than to ignore when the Codys start sniffing around.
Rumors travel differently in a town like this.
They don’t move in straight lines.
They slip sideways.
Through liquor stores and beach bars and late-night parking lots where men lean against trucks and trade pieces of information like loose change.
A guy with burns.
Bad ones.
Half his face wrapped in gauze.
Paying cash and looking over his shoulder like something is following him. Like something is hunting him.
One bartender at a dive on Mission tells them some weirdo came in a few nights ago asking if anyone had oxy.
Not a prescription. Not a bottle. Loose pills. Street stuff.
The bartender swears the guy kept one hand pressed against the side of his face the entire time. Like the air itself hurt to touch.
Another lead comes from a kid who works the gas station down by the pier.
He says a burned-up dude came in around midnight trying to buy peroxide and gauze with crumpled bills that smelled like sweat and gasoline.
The kid says the guy wouldn’t even look him in the eye. Just grabbed the supplies and disappeared before the receipt even finished printing.
The details shift depending on who tells it. But the shape of the story never changes. A man badly burned. A man hiding. A man still alive.
Pope doesn’t say much while the stories move through the air around them.
He sits in the driver’s seat of his truck.
Quiet.
Still.
His eyes drift from one brother to the next as the rumors pass back and forth.
Craig talking louder than necessary, the way he always does when something ugly gets too close to home.
Baz already halfway through figuring out what it means, piecing the information together like he’s building something in his head.
Deran leaning back in the passenger seat, arms folded, listening harder than he lets on.
But Pope already knows the part that matters.
His fingers curl slowly around the steering wheel.
Because the picture forming in his mind looks different from the one they’re talking about.
Your apartment.
The broken door.
The cooling pot on the floor.
You standing there alone.
The bruise blooming dark along your chin.
The way your hands had still been shaking when he wrapped the sheet around the body on your floor.
Pope exhales slowly through his nose.
Someone ran out of that apartment alive.
That thought sits wrong in his chest.
Heavy.
Unfinished.
Because that means somewhere out there, someone knows exactly where you live — and has every reason to keep you quiet.
Craig is still talking.
Baz is asking questions.
Deran says something about checking the pier again.
But Pope stays quiet. Because his mind has already moved somewhere else.
Back to his apartment.
Back to the way you looked standing in the doorway when he left that morning.
Like you were trying to be brave.
Like you were pretending you weren’t still scared.
His jaw ticks and nose flairs. For a moment a darker thought creeps in.
Maybe you were already gone.
Maybe you had packed a bag and run as far away from him as you could.
Maybe you had finally understood what being tied to someone like him really meant.
Pope’s fist slams into the dashboard.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The crack of it fills the truck.
Craig stops talking mid-sentence.
Baz glances over.
Deran shifts slightly in his seat.
The brothers fall silent immediately. Not surprised. Just waiting for it to burn itself out.
Pope finally stops. The radio screen on the dash is shattered. His hand is bleeding.
He barely notices.
He sits there breathing heavily through his nose, his grip tightening against the wheel as the anger coils tighter and tighter in his chest.
Because one thing is already certain in his mind.
If that man is still in town—Pope is going to find him.
And when he does…the man will pay for what he did to you.
For what he did to both of you.
For the distance he put between you.
Pope sits there breathing hard through his nose, staring straight ahead at the windshield. The truck is quiet now. Too quiet. No one in the cab says anything.
But Smurf’s voice is still there.
Low.
Patient.
Sliding through his thoughts like something that had always belonged there.
We’ve seen people try to leave this life.
His jaw tightens.
His fingers flex once against the steering wheel, blood from his knuckles smearing faintly along the leather.
Pope swallows.
Your face flashes through his mind again.
The bruise on your chin. The way your voice had softened when you told him you loved him. The way you had said let’s leave like it was something simple. Like it was something he could just pick up and do.
Like the life he lived wasn’t tied to a hundred things that couldn’t be undone.
His chest tightens Because part of him wants to believe you. Wants to believe that somewhere out there there’s a place where the two of you could exist without all of this.
Without Smurf.
Without the jobs.
Without the blood that seems to follow him no matter where he goes.
Pope’s grip tightens again. The steering wheel creaks faintly beneath the pressure.
His breathing slows, but the anger underneath it doesn’t.
It just settles deeper.
Heavier.
Because right now there is only one thing in his mind that makes sense. and he’s going to make sure no one ever gets close enough to hurt you again.
____
He doesn’t make it back to the apartment until after midnight.
The hallway outside is quiet, the building half-asleep around him. The faint hum of an old refrigerator somewhere down the hall drifts through the thin walls, mixing with the distant crash of the ocean beyond the street.
Pope pushes the door open and steps inside.
The hinges groan softly before he lets it swing shut behind him.
It closes harder than he means it to.
The sound cracks through the apartment like a gunshot.
Pope freezes for a second.
He stands there in the dim light of the living room, his chest rising and falling too fast, the air in his lungs still tight from the hours he’s spent driving through half of Oceanside.
He runs a hand over the back of his neck.
Trying to slow his breathing.
Trying to shake off the tight coil of anger that’s been sitting in his chest all evening.
Lead after lead.
Dead ends.
Rumors that dissolved the second he got close enough to touch them.
Every street he turned down.
Every door he knocked on.
Nothing.
And the thing that sits wrong in his mind now—the thing he can’t stop circling back to—is how all of Smurf’s leads had gone nowhere. Every one of them.
Which leaves a different possibility sitting quietly in the back of his head.
Had it really been random? A robbery gone wrong.
Some desperate idiot kicking in the wrong door.
A random act of violence that had just happened to land on yours. The thought makes something in his chest twist.
Because it doesn’t feel random.
None of it does.
He chased it anyway. All night. Part of him refusing to let the man have another night out there walking around.
Because somewhere in this city a man with half his face burned off is still breathing. Still walking.
While you were afraid to sleep in your own house.
While you couldn’t even bring yourself to go back inside it.
And every piece of it—every single part—feels like it traces back to him.
His fault.
But if he’s honest with himself, that isn’t the only reason he stayed out so late.
Part of him was afraid to come home. Afraid to walk through this door and face you after the way he walked out that morning. Afraid that you might already be gone.
The thought sits heavy in his chest.
He stares down at the floor, breathing slowly through his nose, still trying to push it away.
He doesn’t hear the soft padding of bare feet across the floor behind him.
Not until your arms slide around his waist.
The sudden warmth of you pulls him out of the spiral.
Pope goes completely still.
Your hands settle against his stomach, holding him there like you’ve done it a thousand times before.
“Hey,” you murmur softly behind him.
Your cheek presses lightly between his shoulder blades.
The tension in his shoulders eases just slightly at the sound of your voice.
“You’re okay,” you say gently.
“It’s okay.”
The words come automatically.
Instinctively.
The same quiet reassurance you’ve been offering him whenever the world outside this apartment tries to follow him home.
Pope exhales slowly.
The fight drains out of him all at once.
His head dips forward slightly as he leans back into you, letting himself fall into the warmth of your arms like something that has finally found somewhere safe to rest.
Your hands move slowly along his sides.
Soothing.
Without thinking.
“Come on,” you whisper.
You take his hand and guide him gently toward the bedroom.
Pope moves with you without question.
The tension that had been sitting beneath his skin all evening loosens with every step.
The room is dim. The only light comes from the small lamp beside the bed.
You left it on earlier while you thumbed through a book he doesn’t remember buying and knows he’ll never read.
You had been waiting for him.
You turn toward him once the bedroom door closes behind you.
For a moment he just stands there.
Shoulders still tight.
Breathing uneven.
Like his body hasn’t quite realized it’s safe yet.
Your hands reach for him gently.
You start with his jacket. You slide it from his shoulders, folding it automatically before setting it aside.
Then his shirt.
Your fingers move slowly, unhurried, peeling the fabric away as you press soft kisses against the skin you uncover.
His collarbone.
The edge of his shoulder.
The place just beneath his jaw.
There’s nothing rushed about it.
Nothing heated.
Just closeness.
Just care.
You ease him back onto the bed, pulling the sheets down as he settles into the mattress.
Your fingers drift absently across his chest for a moment before you turn away.
“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly, reaching for your wrist. He tries to pull you down into the bed beside him.
You smile softly and catch his hand before he can pull you down, pressing a quick kiss into his palm.
Your eyes linger there for a moment.
On the blood crusted over his knuckles. The faint swelling beginning to bloom across the skin.
You don’t mention it.
You just turn his hand slightly in yours and press another gentle kiss there too, softer this time, your lips lingering for a second longer against the rough scrape of dried blood.
Then you look back up at him and smile again.
“Give me one second.”
Pope watches you quietly as you move around the room.
His breathing slowly begins to steady.
You take the time to fold each piece of clothing, placing them neatly where they belong.
The way he always does.
The quiet ritual of it startles him more than he expects.
You noticed him. You paid attention to him.
Most people laugh when they see the way he keeps things. The way he lines objects up. The way every drawer in his apartment looks untouched. No one had ever tried to understand.
But you did.
You never made him feel strange for it.
Pope’s chest tightens slightly as he watches you smooth the last shirt into place.
When you finally climb into bed beside him, he reaches for you immediately.
His hands come up to your face as he pulls you into a hard kiss, the sudden intensity of it catching you off guard for half a second.
There’s something desperate in it.
Relieved. Like he needs to feel that you’re still here. His arms wrap around you tightly, pulling you against him with a strength that almost knocks the breath from your chest.
You hold him just as tightly in return.
Your hand slides up into his hair, fingers moving slowly through it as you press your mouth close to his ear.
“It’s okay,” you murmur softly.
You don’t even remember what you start talking about.
Little things.
The shop.
Something Adrian said earlier in the week.
A dumb story about a tourist who tried to buy a surfboard and thought the wax was candy.
It doesn’t matter.
Your voice just fills the quiet space between you.
Slow and Steady.
Your fingers move lazily along his arm, across his shoulder, tracing the familiar lines of him while you speak.
At first he stays tense. But slowly—little by little-his body begins to loosen. His grip on you softens. His breathing evens out against your neck.
And eventually, somewhere between one quiet story and the next, Andrew not Pope finally falls asleep in your arms.
After a mass shooting at PittFest leaves you injured and stranded in the ER, a long, chaotic night introduces you to the night attending at PTMC. Turns out he might have stitched up something else you didn’t even know was hurt.
CW: Mass Shooting, Gun Violence, Injury / Gunshot Wound, Reader! Injured, Blood, Medical Trauma, Active Shooter Situation, Panic / Fear, Trauma Aftermath, Child in Danger, Strangers to Something More, Meet Cute in the ER, Hurt/Comfort. Slow Burn Potential, Croissants Are Plot Relevant, Jack Abbott x F! Reader, No Use of YN, No Physical Description of Reader, This Chapter is Pure Smut, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
gif not mine credit goes to the creator
AN: I’m making cartoon heart eyes at peepaw again. This is pure smut and the last chapter. Enjoy ya sluts (affectionate) I will forever be taking requests for Baker!Reader x Abbott
Your apartment was quiet in a way the arcade hadn’t been.
No neon. No clatter of machines. Just the low hum of the city through the windows and the soft thud of the door closing behind you.
Jack didn’t say anything as you kicked off your shoes and tossed your bag onto the counter. You dropped the pastry box onto the coffee table before turning back to him, suddenly aware of how quiet the apartment felt.
For a moment the two of you just stood there.
Looking at each other.
The tension that had been building since the pinball machine still hung between you like a live wire.
You laughed softly, a little breathless.
“Well,” you said, “that was—”
Jack crossed the room before you could finish the sentence.
One second you were standing there. The next his hands were on your waist and you were being guided backward toward the couch like he had already decided exactly where this was going.
You hit the cushions with a surprised little laugh that barely had time to exist before he leaned down and kissed you.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t careful.
It was the kind of kiss that had clearly been waiting for hours.
Your hands flew up instinctively, grabbing the front of his shirt as he bent over you, his mouth warm and insistent against yours.
And god—He still tasted faintly like chocolate. And pistachio. You made a soft noise against his mouth that you definitely hadn’t planned on making.
Jack froze for half a second when he heard it. Then his grip on your waist tightened. His knee slid onto the couch between yours as he leaned over you more fully, his body settling against yours in a way that made your brain go pleasantly blank.
Your fingers slid up into his hair, tugging slightly without thinking.
He groaned quietly into the kiss.
The sound vibrated through your chest.
You broke the kiss just long enough to breathe.
“Jack—”
He kissed you again before you could say anything else. Slower this time. But somehow deeper.
His hand moved up your side, fingers spreading across your ribs like he was making sure you were really there.
Your head tipped back into the couch cushions as he kissed along your jaw, his breath warm against your skin.
“You taste like pistachio,” you murmured.
He huffed a quiet laugh against your neck.
“That’s your fault.”
Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt, pulling him closer.
“I regret nothing.”
Jack lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His hair was a little messier now. His eyes darker than you’d seen them all night.
That crooked half-smile tried to appear again. But it didn’t quite make it. Because he was clearly having a very hard time pretending this was casual anymore.
“Good,” he said quietly.
Then he kissed you again.
And this time neither of you were pretending to be patient about it.
He pulled back just long enough to shrug his jacket off, letting it fall somewhere on the floor beside the couch.
For a moment he hovered over you again, breathing a little heavier now, his eyes searching your face like he was making sure you were still right there with him.
You were.
Very much so.
Your hands slid up to the front of his shirt, fingers catching on the first button.
Jack watched you for half a second before one corner of his mouth lifted.
“You’re very focused all of a sudden.”
“Shhh,” you murmured, working the button loose. “Important work happening.”
The next one followed. Then the next. Each one revealing another inch of warm freckled skin beneath the dark fabric. The faint line of his collarbone. The solid rise of his chest.
You made a quiet, appreciative sound.
Jack huffed a breath of laughter that turned into something rougher when you leaned forward and pressed your mouth to the base of his throat.
“Careful,” he murmured.
You ignored him completely.
Your lips traced slowly down the side of his neck, warm and deliberate, pausing just long enough for him to feel every second of it.
His head tipped back slightly.
Your fingers slipped the last button free.
The shirt fell open. You sat up just enough to push the fabric back from his shoulders, your mouth following the line of exposed skin along his collarbone.
Jack’s hands had found your waist again at some point, gripping lightly as if he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them while you explored.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath when your lips brushed lower across his chest.
You smiled faintly against his skin.
“Still taste like pistachio,” you said softly.
Jack groaned softly and pulled you back into a kiss. Harder this time. The kind that made the rest of the room disappear.
His hands slid to the hem of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric before he paused just long enough to glance down at you.
You lifted your arms without hesitation.
The shirt was gone a second later, tossed somewhere behind the couch.
His hands returned to your waist immediately, big and warm and certain as he pulled you closer, settling you into his lap like it was the most natural place in the world for you to be.
Your breath caught when his mouth left yours.
The warmth of his lips moved along your collarbone, slow and deliberate, like he was discovering every inch of you. You tipped your head back with a soft sound, your fingers sliding into his hair again as he kissed the curve of your shoulder.
The city hummed faintly outside the windows, the couch creaked softly beneath your shifting weight, and his mouth found yours again in a slower, deeper kiss that made your chest feel tight in the best possible way.
You shifted in his lap without thinking, your hands sliding down his shoulders as you leaned closer.
Jack exhaled quietly against your mouth, the sound low and rough with the effort of holding himself together.
You rocked your hips against him, and his hands tightened hard at your sides, fingers digging into your waist like he needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack let out a low, rough groan against your skin, his breath warm where his mouth had just been. His thighs shifted beneath you, parting just enough to pull you closer, closing the space between your bodies.
The movement drew you against him in a way that made the air feel suddenly thinner, the heat between you impossible to ignore.
You weren’t even sure when you ended up on your back.
One moment you had been wrapped around him on the couch, kissing him breathless, and the next the cushions were pressed against your spine and Jack was above you, his weight settling between your bare legs like he had always belonged there.
Your legs had instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer as your bodies moved together
Your jaw hung open as you tried to pull in air that wouldn’t quite come.
His mouth moved against your skin, kisses scattered along your throat and collarbone, warm and unhurried, like he was savoring every inch of you. Your fingers slid up his arms, gripping the solid muscle there as he shifted closer.
Then his thumb found your clit sending a sharp, electric spark through your whole body.
Your breath caught immediately, your back arching slightly off the couch as his thumb moved in slow, steady circles that made your mind blank out for a moment. The rhythm was deliberate. Patient. And for some reason it pulled a strange, dizzying memory from earlier in the night.
The blinking lights.
The chiming machines.
The pulse and rhythm of the arcade floor.
Your head tipped back against the cushion as the sensation built, a quiet sound slipping out of you before you could stop it.
You were close.
So close.
Your nails dug deeper into his arms as if holding onto him might anchor you against the rising tide rolling through your body. Jack’s breathing had gone heavier now too, warm against your neck, his hips falling into a steady rhythm that matched the one building inside you.
The room felt warmer.
Closer.
A thin sheen of sweat had begun to gather on both of you, your bodies moving together in instinctive tandem, chasing the same crest of sensation that hovered just out of reach.
Your legs tightened around him as the pressure inside you climbed higher.
And higher.
And higher.
Until you weren’t sure if you were breathing anymore at all.
“Fuck,” you groaned as one of his deeper movements sent your vision flashing white at the edges. Your body tightened instinctively around him, the sensation pulling a rough, unfiltered moan from Jack that only seemed to stoke the heat building between you.
The tension between you snapped tighter with every breath, every shift of his hips, every desperate pull of air that felt like it wasn’t enough. Your grip on him tightened, your body already trembling with the edge of it, the feeling rising faster than you could slow it down.
You came in a rush of white-hot sensation, the air punched from your lungs with the force of it.
“Jesus—fuck,” Jack groaned, feeling you shudder beneath him as the last waves of your climax rolled through you. He held you close, trying to steady himself, but it only took a moment more before the tension snapped.
He buried his face against your shoulder with a rough exhale as he followed you over the edge, the tension finally breaking between you. A moment later you collapsed together in the aftermath, breathless and trembling in the quiet that followed
You were both breathing hard. Heat lingered in your skin, leaving you a little dizzy as you tried to steady your breath.
Jack groaned softly, pressing a few lazy kisses along your collarbone.
You turned your head toward him and brushed a kiss against his lips, which he returned eagerly.
“So,” you said after a moment.
His eyebrow lifted slightly. “So?”
You smiled. “You sleep with all your patients?”
Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. “I usually charge extra for this.”
You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Bill my insurance.”
He grinned and leaned down to kiss you again.
You lay there together for a while, the quiet of the apartment settling back in around you.
Your breathing slowly steadied. The city hummed faintly outside the windows, distant traffic rolling by like waves against the night. Jack was still half draped over you, his arm warm and heavy across your waist as if he hadn’t quite decided he was ready to move yet.
You ran your fingers lazily through his hair.
After a moment you reached toward the coffee table and grabbed the little pastry box you’d tossed there earlier. It was a little crushed now from the night’s adventures.
You popped it open.
Inside sat the last corner of the pistachio croissant. You held it up triumphantly.
“Winner gets the last bite.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
“You’re just remembering that now?”
You took a bite before he could respond.
He stared at you. “You’re a dirty cheater.”
You chewed slowly, savoring it. “Skill issue.”
Jack shook his head, laughing under his breath as he leaned over and stole the last tiny piece from your fingers anyway.
You gasped. “Hey!”
“Shared victory,” he said.
You flopped back against the couch cushions dramatically.
Jack’s arm tightened slightly around you as he pressed a quiet kiss to the top of your head.
Outside, the city kept moving. But inside the apartment, everything felt warm and easy and exactly where it was supposed to be.
Best friend. Fake girlfriend. Secret keeper. You knew your role In Deran Cody’s life. Everything was perfect until Andrew Cody showed back up and made you forget it. Now everything is unraveling, and there’s no one left on your side.
CW: Pope Cody x Reader, F! Reader, Deran Cody x Reader (friendship), Cody Family Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Codependency, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, They Should Not Be Doing This, But They Do Anyway, Betrayal, Guilt Complex, Pope Cody Needs Therapy, Deran Cody Needs a Hug, Reader is Going Through It™, Everyone is a Little Bit Toxic, SMUT, Minors Do Not Interact, This Started as Smut and Became Feelings, No One Is Making Good Choices Here, I Blacked Out Writing This, Mentions of OCD, Homophobia, No Use of YN, No Physical Description of Reader, Canon Typical Violence Towards Reader
AN: where Smurf continues to Smurf.
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Smurf is the first to break the silence.
The shift is subtle.
Her shoulders loosen slightly, the tension leaving her posture as that familiar, practiced warmth slides back into her expression.
Her voice softens when she speaks, the motherly tone settling over the room like a blanket.
“I have a few contacts I’ll reach out to.”
Like it’s nothing.
Like problems like this are simply small inconveniences to be tidied up before lunch.
She rises slowly from her chair, smoothing her hands down the front of her blouse as she steps away from the table. The sound of her heels against the floor is quiet but deliberate as she crosses the room.
No one stops her.
No one speaks.
They all watch.
She moves toward Pope, stopping just close enough to reach him.
Then her hand lifts.
Her fingers touch his face gently.
Light.
Almost tender.
They brush along his jaw, ghosting over the exact place your hand had rested only a few hours earlier.
The gesture looks affectionate, maternal. But the message beneath it is something else entirely. A quiet reminder. That he belonged to her first.
“You look tired, baby,” she says softly.
Her fingers linger against his jaw a moment longer than they need to, brushing lightly along the line of his cheek as though she’s simply checking on him the way a mother might after a long night.
Her touch is gentle but there’s something probing in it.
“Running on fumes?”
Pope doesn’t move under her hand.
Doesn’t lean into it.
Doesn’t pull away either.
He just stands there, letting her finish the gesture the way he always has.
Smurf’s thumb grazes his cheek once more before her hand drops slowly back to her side.
Then she exhales, the sound almost weary.
“I sure hope she’s worth it.”
The words are soft. Almost sympathetic. But they settle across the room like a blade sliding between ribs.
She turns slightly, letting her gaze drift around the room toward the others as if inviting them to share the concern.
“One body is manageable,” Smurf says quietly.
“But if someone starts asking questions… if the wrong people start sniffing around…”
Her eyes return to Pope.
“That doesn’t just affect you, baby. It affects all of us.”
The implication hangs there.
Carefully placed.
Not anger.
Not accusation.
Just quiet disappointment.
The kind meant to make everyone in the room look at Pope and wonder if he’s starting to lose his judgment.
Then she steps closer again.
Close enough that the others might see the movement, but not close enough to hear the shift in her voice when she leans slightly into his space.
Her tone drops.
Lower.
Private.
“You’ve always had a soft heart, Andrew.”
She smiles gently.
“It’s one of the things I love most about you.”
A small pause.
Her fingers brush his arm lightly as she adds—“But people know how to take advantage of that, baby.”
Pope doesn’t respond.
He just stands there, his eyes fixed on Smurf.
But his jaw ticks once.
Small.
Barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it.
And Smurf is always looking.
For a moment neither of them moves.
The room breathes around them. Baz shifting his weight by the counter. Craig’s foot tapping lightly against the couch arm. Deran watching from his chair with that quiet alertness he gets when something in the family starts to tilt.
But Pope’s attention stays locked on Smurf.
And maybe her words land deeper than he wants them to.
They always do.
Smurf has a way of speaking that makes everything feel clear when she explains it. Like she’s just helping him see the truth he couldn’t quite piece together on his own.
And when she does that, the rest of the world tends to blur around the edges.
Questions soften.
Doubts fade.
Until the version she’s offering starts to feel like the only one that makes sense.
Deran is the first one to break the silence.
The tension in the room has started to feel strange. Too quiet. Too focused on something no one else can quite see but he feels the implications, the direction Smurf is pointing, and it’s directly at you.
The silent exchange between Smurf and Pope makes the back of his neck prickle.
He shifts forward in his chair, clearing his throat slightly as he looks toward the others.
“We should start looking for this asshole.”
His voice cuts into the moment, practical and grounded, like he’s deliberately dragging the conversation back onto solid ground.
“Make sure he doesn’t go running his mouth about his friend.”
Craig straightens a little on the couch at that, interest lighting up his face again.
Baz glances over from the counter, the corner of his mouth twitching like he appreciates the shift away from whatever weird family psychology was starting to happen in the room.
J shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck uncomfortable at the promise of more violence.
Deran leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now.
“If this guy’s walking around with half his face burned off,” he adds, “someone’s gonna notice him.”
His eyes flick briefly toward Pope.
“Better we find him before somebody else does.”
Baz lets out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck like the whole morning has already become more complicated than he’d hoped.
“Yeah,” he mutters after a moment. “You’re right.”
He pushes himself off the counter and straightens, slipping easily back into the role he usually takes when something needs organizing.
“We should start looking.”
His eyes move across the room, already assigning people in his head.
“Craig and Deran, I want you—”
“I’ll go with Pope.”
Deran cuts him off before he can finish.
The words come out quick. Firm.
Like the decision had already been made the second Pope walked through the door.
Craig turns toward him immediately.
“Is that—”
Pope moves before the question can finish.
For the first time since Smurf touched his face, his gaze finally breaks away from her.
It’s subtle, but everyone in the room feels the shift when it happens.
Like someone just loosened a wire pulled too tight.
Deran had thrown him a rope.
And Pope grabs it.
“It’s fine,” he says simply.
He pushes away from where he’d been standing.
“Let’s go.”
There’s no hesitation in it. No looking back for approval.
He turns toward the door without another word.
Deran stands quickly, the chair scraping lightly across the floor as he pushes himself up.
He follows after Pope, already moving toward the door, tossing a quick nod over his shoulder to the rest of the room.
“Later.”
Craig watches them go, his eyebrows pulling together slightly as the door swings open and then shuts behind them.
The house settles again.
Craig glances toward Baz.
“Is that a good idea?”
Baz watches the door for a second longer before exhaling.
He shakes his head slowly.
“I have no idea, man.”
The two brothers drift away from the tension almost instinctively.
Craig pushes himself up off the couch and claps a hand onto J’s shoulders, steering him toward the hallway with a casual shove that breaks the lingering quiet.
“C’mon,” he says, already pulling him along. “Gonna teach you how to do some scouting, little bud.”
J doesn’t protest. He lets himself be dragged down the hall, casting one last quiet glance toward the kitchen before disappearing around the corner with his uncles.
Their voices fade quickly.
The house settles again.
Smurf remains standing in the center of the room for a moment, her posture relaxed, her expression perfectly composed.
But the soft smile she had been wearing a moment ago is gone now.
Her eyes drift toward the front door where Pope and Deran disappeared.
___
Deran follows Pope out to the truck, the gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes as they cross the drive. The morning air is cool, carrying the faint smell of salt drifting in from the ocean.
Pope unlocks the truck without a word and climbs in. The door shuts with a heavy thud.
Deran slides into the passenger seat a second later.
For a moment neither of them speaks.
Pope pushes the key into the ignition and turns it. The engine rumbles to life beneath them. As it does, Deran drags a hand through his hair, pushing the messy strands back off his forehead, the motion restless.
“Is she really okay?” he asks finally.
Pope keeps his eyes forward.
“She’s scared,” he says after a beat. “But she’ll be okay.”
Deran nods slowly, absorbing that.
“Where is she?”
“My place.”
The truck idles for another second before Pope shifts it into gear. Gravel spits lightly beneath the tires as he pulls away from the Cody compound.
Deran looks out the windshield for a moment, thinking.
Then—“Can I see her?”
Pope doesn’t answer immediately.
The truck rolls toward the end of the drive, the compound shrinking behind them. For a moment Pope glances in the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking back toward the house one last time before he turns the wheel and guides the truck down the street.
His jaw tightens slightly.
Then he looks back at the road.
“That’s up to her, man.”
___
You hadn’t moved much since Andrew left.
At first you stayed in the bed, listening to the quiet settle back over the apartment after the door shut behind him.
But eventually the stillness became too heavy.
So you got up.
Now you pad slowly around the apartment, moving without much direction. Barefoot. Aimless.
You haven’t spent much time in Andrew’s place before.
He always preferred yours. Said it was warmer. Said it had more personality.
But now, walking through his apartment, you realize how much of him lives here anyway.
You see it everywhere.
In the sharp, wrinkle-free hand towels folded perfectly beside the sink.
In the spotless baseboards that run clean and white along the walls, not a single scuff or dust line in sight.
In the careful order of everything.
Nothing out of place.
Nothing left messy.
It’s the kind of neatness that doesn’t come from wanting things to look nice.
It comes from needing control.
From needing the world to stay predictable in the small ways when the bigger ones never are.
You trail your fingers lightly across the back of the couch as you pass, the fabric cool beneath your hand.
Andrew is everywhere in this place.
In the quiet.
In the stillness.
And you don’t feel as alone.
You had texted Adrian earlier that morning.
Told him you were taking the day off.
Flu.
He’d replied almost immediately, concerned in that easygoing way of his, offering to bring you soup and crackers and whatever else people usually bring someone who’s sick.
You’d turned him down. Told him you’d had a violent bout of puking and didn’t want anyone catching whatever you had.
That had been enough.
Adrian wasn’t the type to push when someone asked for space. He’d sent back a quick feel better and told you to text him whenever you were ready to come back to the shop.
Since then the apartment had been quiet.
So when your phone rings—The sound startles you. Sharp and Sudden.
Your heart jumps into your throat as you rush toward the counter where you left it, hope already rising in your chest before you even see the screen.
Maybe it’s Andrew.
Maybe he’s calling to say he’s on his way back.
Maybe they found the man who ran.
Maybe it’s already over.
Maybe he’s calling to tell you that two of you will leave all of this behind. Leave Oceanside. Leave the Cody world and the danger and the constant sense that violence is always just a few inches away.
Maybe you’ll find somewhere quiet. Somewhere small. Maybe Andrew would even adopt a cat with you.
Probably not.
But maybe.
Your hand closes around the phone.
And you freeze.
Because the name lighting up the screen isn’t Andrew.
It’s Deran.
You hesitate for a moment before answering.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” Deran says calmly on the other end.
His voice is steady and Familiar.
“I’m with Pope. He told me what happened.”
A pause.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” you say.
The words come automatically now. So automatic you’re starting to feel tired of hearing them come out of your own mouth.
There’s a small silence on the other end of the line.
Then Deran speaks again.
“I want to see you.”
Your heart skips.
Deran wants to see you?
The thought lands somewhere strange in your chest. Because despite everything, despite the fallout and the awkward distance that followed, Deran has always been one of your closest friends. Your best friend and God you had missed your fucking friend.
And suddenly the idea of seeing him feels like A small, fragile piece of normal. Part of you desperately wants it. Wants to cry on someone’s shoulder who isn’t already carrying the weight Andrew is.
Wants to let Andrew rest for a moment instead of holding both of you together.
Your voice softens.
“I would really like that.”
“We’re on the way,” Deran says. “Be there in fifteen.”
Then the line goes dead.
You lower the phone slowly from your ear, staring at the blank screen for a moment as the quiet of the apartment settles back around you.
Fifteen minutes.
Your heart starts beating a little faster.
Andrew and Deran.
Together.
Coming here.
You hadn’t expected that.
You glance around the apartment, suddenly aware of the stillness again. The untouched couch. The folded blanket draped neatly over the armrest. The faint smell of Andrew hanging in the air.
For a second you just stand there, phone still in your hand, trying to decide what exactly you’re supposed to do in fifteen minutes.
Clean something?
Sit down?
Pretend you haven’t been pacing the apartment like a ghost for the last hour?
Your fingers tighten slightly around the phone.
Then you exhale.
Fifteen minutes.
And suddenly the quiet doesn’t feel quite as empty as it did a moment ago.
__
The knock comes sooner than you expect.
Not loud. Just two quick raps against the door. Still, your stomach flips.
The sound echoes through the quiet apartment in a way that feels too sharp, too sudden after the hours of stillness you’d been drifting through.
For half a second you just stand there, staring at the door like it might open on its own.
Then you move.
You cross the apartment quickly, bare feet whispering against the floor as you reach for the handle and pull the door open.
Andrew is standing there first.
Deran just behind him.
For a second none of you say anything.
The moment stretches.
Andrew’s eyes move over you immediately. Scanning. Checking.
The way they always do when something might be wrong.
Your face. Your jaw. Your arms.
The faint bruise already forming along the edge of your chin.
He takes it all in silently, cataloging the damage the way he does with everything else. Making sure you’re still in one piece.
Deran is watching you too, but his expression is different. Less controlled. More… uneasy. Like he’s not entirely sure what he’s walking into.
You step aside.
They come in.
Andrew moves automatically once he crosses the threshold, reaching back to close the door behind him. The lock clicks into place without him even looking at it.
Habit.
His eyes move through the apartment quickly, sweeping the room in a practiced glance even though he already knows it’s clear.
Deran lingers closer to the door.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts and rocks slightly back on his heels like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with the rest of his body.
For a moment nobody speaks.
The quiet hangs between the three of you, thick with everything that hasn’t been said yet.
Then Deran clears his throat.
“You really okay?”
The question comes out softer than you expected.
You nod.
“Yeah.”
The word leaves your mouth automatically. But you hear the exhaustion in it the second it’s spoken.
Deran notices too.
His mouth tightens slightly.
He exhales through his nose and runs a hand back through his hair, pushing it off his forehead as he tries to organize whatever it is he came here to say.
“I uh…” he starts.
Then stops.
You can practically see the gears turning in his head. Deran has never been great at emotional conversations.
“I know I’ve been a dick to you,” he says finally.
The words come out blunt.
Awkward But honest.
Andrew glances sideways at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face at the admission.
Deran shrugs one shoulder slightly, still not looking directly at you.
“I didn’t handle it great.”
You lean back against the counter behind you, folding your arms loosely across your middle.
“You were scared,” you say quietly.
Deran’s head lifts a little.
“Yeah.”
A dry, uncomfortable laugh slips out of him.
“Yeah, I was.”
He rubs the back of his neck again.
“I just… felt like everything was closing in at once,” he admits. “Like everyone was trying to drag something out of me before I was ready to deal with it.”
Your chest softens.
“I should have told you,” you say.
The words come slower now.
More careful.
Your eyes drift briefly toward Andrew.
“ I should have been honest with both of you.”
Andrew shifts slightly where he’s standing. The sentence lands somewhere inside him. You can see it in the way his shoulders tighten for a second before settling again.
Deran notices too.
His eyes move between the two of you as he absorbs that. Then he steps forward.
Slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
This time it’s quieter. More certain.
You don’t hesitate. You step forward and wrap your arms around him. “Please don’t apologize. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
Deran hugs you back immediately, pulling you tight against his chest like the apology had been sitting in him longer than he realized.
For a moment neither of you says anything.
The tension that had lived between you for months dissolves quietly in the simple pressure of it. Just two friends remembering that they still care about each other.
Behind you, Andrew stands near the couch.
Watching.
He doesn’t look angry.
He doesn’t look upset.
But there’s something uncertain in his expression.
Something thoughtful.
Smurf’s voice echoes faintly somewhere in the back of his mind.
You’ve always had a soft heart, Andrew.
People know how to take advantage of that.
His jaw tightens slightly.
Then you pull away from Deran.
You turn.
Andrew is still watching you.
And suddenly the distance between you feels strange. Too big. You cross it without thinking.
Your hands come up to his face, your fingers sliding along his jaw as you pull him down into a kiss.
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt as you hold him there for a moment, grounding yourself in the familiar feel of him.
When you pull away, your forehead rests lightly against his.
“I missed you,” you murmur.
It’s barely been a few hours.
But it feels like longer.
Andrew exhales slowly. Some of the tension drains out of his shoulders. His hand slides around your waist, pulling you a little closer without thinking. Automatic.
And as he holds you there, the quiet warmth of you pressed against him begins to cut through the lingering noise in his head. The fog Smurf had stirred there starts to thin.
Her words lose their shape.
Their certainty.
Until the only thing that feels solid again is the weight of you in his arms.
Behind you, Deran watches the two of you quietly.
He doesn’t interrupt.
He just leans back slightly against the counter, arms loosely folded across his chest as he studies the moment unfolding in front of him.
It doesn’t feel like a problem anymore. Deran had spent months convincing himself this was messy. Complicated. A disaster waiting to happen. Only concerned with himself and the effect this had on him.
But standing here now, watching the way Andrew’s hand settles instinctively at your waist, the way your body leans toward him without thinking, something about it feels… different.
Clearer.
Andrew looks at you in a way Deran hasn’t really seen before. Not like he’s protecting something. Not like he’s guarding it. Like he’s holding it.
And the way you look back at him—Like the rest of the room barely exists.
Deran’s brows lift slightly as the realization settles into place.
Oh. Oh, shit.
He watches Andrew’s thumb brush lightly against your side.
The way Andrew’s shoulders have finally relaxed.
The way the tension that followed him in through the door has completely disappeared now that you’re standing there in front of him.
Deran lets out a quiet breath through his nose.
Then he shakes his head slightly.
Andrew notices the look.
His eyes flick toward Deran, narrowing just a little.
“What’s with the face?” he asks.
Deran stares at him for another second.
Then a slow grin spreads across his mouth.
“Oh my god,” he says.
He points between the two of you.
“You’re in love, bro.”
Andrew rolls his eyes immediately.
“Shut up.”
But he doesn’t deny it.
Not even a little.
Deran laughs softly, shaking his head again like he’s still trying to process it.
“Jesus.”
Behind Andrew, you feel something warm loosen in your chest and For the first time since last night—You find yourself smiling.
After a mass shooting at PittFest leaves you injured and stranded in the ER, a long, chaotic night introduces you to the night attending at PTMC. Turns out he might have stitched up something else you didn’t even know was hurt.
CW: Mass Shooting, Gun Violence, Injury / Gunshot Wound, Reader! Injured, Blood, Medical Trauma, Active Shooter Situation, Panic / Fear, Trauma Aftermath, Child in Danger, Strangers to Something More, Meet Cute in the ER, Hurt/Comfort. Slow Burn Potential, Croissants Are Plot Relevant, Jack Abbott x F! Reader, No Use of YN, No Physical Description of Reader, Sexual Tension, Mention of PTSD Attack
gif not mine credit goes to the creator
AN: Dr. Parker Ellis mentioned because I need more of her.
Next Part
The truck pulled up right on time.
You were already standing on the curb, fiddling with the small box in your hands and hoping the gesture wasn’t too cheesy when headlights rolled across the building, the soft rumble of an engine breaking the quiet of the evening street.
The truck that pulled up was exactly what you might have expected him to drive. Dark. Practical. A little worn in the way things get when they’re actually used instead of just owned.
Jack stepped out a second later. All black. Black jeans. Black shirt. Black jacket. The same dark boots you vaguely remembered from the hospital floor.
You blinked. Did he own anything with color?
He spotted you then and smiled, that familiar crooked half-smile settling onto his face like it belonged there.
He walked around the front of the truck and opened the passenger door for you without hesitation. Very traditional.
“I was expecting the horse and buggy.”
He smiled faintly. “Letting them take the night off.”
You raised an eyebrow as you stepped closer to the truck.
“Well,” you said, “this feels fancy.”
He rested a hand lightly on the doorframe as you climbed up, steadying you automatically the same way he had outside the hospital doors.
“What?” he said. “Guys don’t do this anymore?”
You tossed him a smile over your shoulder.
“Not the young ones.”
He leaned in toward the door, one eyebrow lifting.
“Funny. Very funny.”
He closed it gently once you were settled, then walked around to the driver’s side. When he climbed in, his eyes immediately dropped to the small pastry box sitting in your lap.
Wrapped with a neat little ribbon.
His eyebrow lifted.
“What’s that?”
You tried very hard to look casual as you held it out to him.
“Open it.”
He glanced at you once before pulling the ribbon loose and lifting the lid.
Inside sat a single pistachio croissant.
Perfectly golden. A dusting of powdered sugar. Chocolate peeking through the flaky layers.
For a second he just stared at it. Then he looked up at you with a smile that was warmer than the one he usually wore.
“You brought me a croissant.”
“You waited long enough for one,” you said. “And I made you a croissant.”
He looked back down at the pastry.
“Can I eat it now?”
You leaned back in your seat, pretending to consider it. “I would say you’d ruin your appetite,” you said thoughtfully, “but my ego would be absolutely devastated if you didn’t.”
He laughed quietly under his breath and picked it up.
You watched. Very calmly. Very normally. Definitely not like someone observing a once-in-a-lifetime scientific experiment.
He took a bite.
The flaky layers cracked softly as he bit through them, chocolate and pistachio filling pulling slightly as the pastry gave way.
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
“Wow.”
You sat up straighter immediately.
“Good wow or polite wow?”
“Very good wow.”
Relief flooded through you so fast it made you laugh.
He took another bite, slower this time. A little bit of chocolate smudged faintly along his fingers. Without thinking, he licked it away.
And for reasons you absolutely could not explain, something in your brain completely short-circuited. You stared. Open-mouthed.
Jack noticed. His hand paused halfway back to the pastry box. “…What?” He laughed, placing the rest of it safely back in the box, saving the rest for later.
You blinked quickly and forced yourself to look away.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You sighed looking back, your eyes immediately locking on his lips. “You’ve got a little bit,” you said, smiling as you reached toward him.
He didn’t flinch or move back. Just sat there with that small amused smile as you wiped a bit of chocolate from the corner of his lip.
Without thinking, you popped your finger into your own mouth, tasting the chocolate.
For a second the truck went completely quiet.
Now it was Jack’s turn to stare. Entranced.
Your brain caught up with you about half a second too late. Oh. Oh no.
You blinked and looked away quickly, suddenly very interested in the dashboard.
Jack cleared his throat. Once. Then again.
He shifted slightly in his seat, one hand coming down to adjust the hem of his jacket… and maybe his jeans… in a way that was just subtle enough to pretend it meant nothing at all.
He reached for the ignition and started the truck like the last ten seconds hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t just watched you lick chocolate off your finger in the passenger seat of his truck. Like it didn’t drive him absolutely crazy.
The engine rumbled to life.
Neither of you spoke for a second.
Then Jack glanced over at you, one hand resting on the steering wheel, that familiar crooked half-smile tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth.
“You look nice,” he said as he turned onto the road.
You smiled over at him. released you hadn’t ruined everything in 2 seconds flat from a poor impulse decision.
“I haven’t gotten to wear anything besides an apron in so long,” you admitted. “I’m just happy it all still fits.”
Jack glanced at you briefly, the corner of his mouth tugging up again.
“Well,” he said, voice calm and certain, “it does.”
Something warm settled in your chest at the simple way he said it, like it wasn’t a compliment he had to think about. Just an observation.
You leaned back in your seat, watching the city lights slide past the window as the truck rolled through the evening traffic.
For a few minutes neither of you said much, the quiet settling easily instead of awkwardly. The low hum of the engine filled the space between you, comfortable in that way silence sometimes is when it doesn’t feel like it needs fixing.
Then the conversation started up again, simple and easy.
You asked how long his shift schedule had been wrecked after PittFest. He told you about the ridiculous amount of coffee the department had gone through that night. You told him about the security guard who had practically tackled the pastry box when you walked into the hospital the other day.
He laughed at that.
A real one.
The kind that made his shoulders loosen a little as he drove.
Streetlights flickered across the windshield as the truck moved deeper into the city, the two of you slipping into that strange, effortless rhythm that sometimes happens when you meet someone who feels familiar far too quickly.
Like the conversation had been waiting for you both to show up.
______
He’d told you where he was taking you shortly after the drive started.
You’d managed to wedge it out of him after a little persistence.
The arcade bar glowed like a neon fever dream when you pulled up.
Apparently the idea had come from one of his residents, who had suggested he try taking the beautiful baker somewhere from this century.
As Jack had quoted Dr. Ellis, “Don’t fumble this.” He’d looked almost bashful repeating it, clearly a little embarrassed that his residents had apparently taken a personal interest in his love life.
Rows of machines blinked and chimed across the room. Old pinball tables. Racing games. A battered air hockey table shoved between two cabinets. The place hummed with music, laughter, and the mechanical clatter of buttons being smashed with reckless enthusiasm.
The air still carried the smell of tacos from the food truck outside, the two of you having demolished a pair while waiting in line to get in.
For a moment it was just noise.
Then a pinball machine somewhere across the room cracked sharply, the metal ball ricocheting against the cabinet with a sound that was a little too sudden. A little too familiar.
Your shoulders tightened before you even realized it.
The room didn’t change, but something in your chest did. Your pulse ticked faster. Your eyes flicked automatically toward the door, toward the corners of the room, mapping exits without meaning to.
Jack noticed.
You didn’t even see him look at you, but suddenly his hand was resting lightly at the small of your back. Not gripping. Not drawing attention. Just there.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You forced a breath out through your nose, trying to shake off the spike of adrenaline.
“Yeah,” you said, a little too quickly.
His thumb moved in a slow, absent circle against your back, the motion calm and steady.
“Arcades are loud,” he said gently. “We can bail if you want.”
You glanced around the room again. The laughter. The lights. The ridiculous glow of a racing game in the corner.
Your heart was still beating a little faster than normal, but it wasn’t spiraling.
Not with him standing there.
You shook your head.
“No,” you said, softer this time. “I wanna stay.”
Jack studied you for half a second longer, like he was double-checking the answer.
Then he nodded once.
“Alright.”
His hand slid down to lace briefly with yours as he steered you toward the pinball machines.
“Let’s see if you can beat me.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “I didn’t realize they had video games when you were growing up.”
Jack glanced down at you, unimpressed.
“They did,” he said calmly. “We just had to carve them out of stone first.”
You snorted. “Yaba-daba-do.”
“Careful,” he said, already feeding a few bills into the machine.
The table lit up when he pressed the start button, flashing colors across his face as the steel ball dropped into play.
You leaned against the side of the machine, watching him casually. Your breathing was still a little tight, but the distraction was welcome.
He launched the ball.
Then immediately started dominating the machine like he had been training for this exact moment his entire life.
Flippers snapping with perfect timing. The ball ricocheting between bumpers in controlled chaos. Points climbing rapidly across the glowing display.
Your eyebrows crept upward.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “What the hell.”
Jack didn’t even look at you.
The ball zipped up a ramp and Jack nudged the machine just slightly, saving it from dropping straight down the center.
The score exploded upward.
Your jaw dropped.
“You’re hustling me.”
He finally glanced at you.
That crooked half-smile appeared.
“Skill issue.”
The ball finally drained and Jack stepped back from the machine. The score was ridiculous. You had never seen one so high.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
“…You’re good.”
“Your turn now, chef.”
You cracked your knuckles dramatically.
“Fine.”
Your turn lasted approximately twenty seconds. The ball dropped straight down the middle.
Jack made a sympathetic noise. “Oof.”
You turned slowly. “Oh, you’re going to regret that.”
A few minutes later you found yourselves at the air hockey table. The puck slammed across the surface with a sharp clack as you sent it flying toward him. You felt calmer now, the earlier tension finally fading. The noise of the arcade easier to handle with him in front of you.
Jack blocked it easily.
“You’re competitive,” he observed.
“You started it.”
He flicked the puck back with frightening precision. You barely managed to stop it.
“Oh my god,” you said. “Do you secretly train for this between patients?”
He shrugged. “Helps with hand-eye coordination.”
The puck shot across the table again. You smacked it back hard.
“Winner,” you declared, “gets the last bite of the croissant.”
Jack’s brow lifted slightly.
“High stakes.”
He smiled.
The puck slid across the table. You leaned forward, ready. Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours for just a second. Then he scored.
You groaned. “Oh come on!”
He rested casually on his paddle.
“Score”
You pointed at him. “If you win because you’re old and have better reflexes from decades of practice, that doesn’t count.”
“Pretty sure that’s exactly how winning works.”
You slammed the puck toward him again.
“Shut up and play, grandpa.”
Your second attempt at the pinball machine was going… poorly. The ball shot down the middle again and you groaned, throwing your head back in frustration.
“This thing is rigged.”
Behind you, Jack chuckled.
“It’s not rigged,” he said. “You’re panicking.”
“I am so not panicking.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Here.” He stepped closer behind you, hands resting lightly on the edge of the machine as the next round started. “Let me help.”
The ball launched.
His hands moved over yours, guiding your fingers onto the buttons as the metal ball ricocheted across the table again.
His chest brushed your back. One arm close enough that the warmth of him wrapped around your sides. His voice dropped slightly as he spoke near your ear.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Watch the rhythm.”
The ball shot down a ramp.
“Now.”
Your fingers hit the button. The flipper snapped up just in time to send the ball flying across the board again.
“Oh!” you laughed.
“There you go.”
His breath brushed lightly across the side of your neck as he leaned closer to see the board. You felt it immediately. The warmth of it. The way it made the back of your neck prickle.
Your shoulders shifted back just slightly, leaning into him without really thinking about it.
Behind you, Jack went very still. Then he let out the smallest, roughest little exhale. Almost a groan.
The ball ricocheted wildly across the machine. You didn’t even try to stop it as it approached the bumpers, keeping your fingers clear of the buttons.
It dropped straight down the center.
Game over.
The machine chimed cheerfully.
You turned slowly in the narrow space between the cabinet and Jack. He was already looking down at you. For a second neither of you moved.
Then you stepped closer and slipped your arms loosely around his neck.
His hands found your waist almost immediately, resting there like they belonged.
You looked up at him.
“I don’t wanna play anymore.”
Jack’s crooked half-smile appeared again, but there was something different in it now.
Best friend. Fake girlfriend. Secret keeper. You knew your role In Deran Cody’s life. Everything was perfect until Andrew Cody showed back up and made you forget it. Now everything is unraveling, and there’s no one left on your side.
CW: Pope Cody x Reader, F! Reader, Deran Cody x Reader (friendship), Cody Family Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Codependency, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, They Should Not Be Doing This, But They Do Anyway, Betrayal, Guilt Complex, Pope Cody Needs Therapy, Deran Cody Needs a Hug, Reader is Going Through It™, Everyone is a Little Bit Toxic, SMUT, Minors Do Not Interact, This Started as Smut and Became Feelings, No One Is Making Good Choices Here, I Blacked Out Writing This, Mentions of OCD, Homophobia, No Use of YN, No Physical Description of Reader, Canon Typical Violence Towards Reader
AN: Thank you for suspending belief with me and abandoning all reason that reader has the least nosy neighbors on the planet.
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You don’t know if it’s still night. Or morning. Or days later.
Time stopped making sense somewhere between the gunshot and the moment you drove away leaving Andrew in the red glow of your brake lights with the body in the back of his truck.
Now you’re curled in Andrew’s bed, the covers pulled tight around your body like they might somehow keep the rest of the world outside. Like fabric and walls and locked doors might be enough to hold back the consequences of what happened.
Your eyes are fixed on the far wall.
But you aren’t really seeing it.
The paint.
The shadows.
The soft gray light creeping in through the blinds.
None of it sticks.
Instead your mind keeps pulling you back to the same image, over and over again.
Your bedroom floor.
The man lying there.
The way his chest rose and fell in uneven jerks, each breath weaker than the last, until eventually the movement slowed… and then stopped altogether.
You keep hearing that final breath.
A thin, broken sound that still echoes somewhere inside your head.
You keep feeling the warmth of his blood slipping between your fingers, thick and slick against your skin as you tried to push him away.
You had stood under the hottest water you could stand in Andrew’s shower for what felt like hours afterward.
Steam filled the bathroom until the mirrors fogged over and the air felt too heavy to breathe. The water beat against your shoulders and ran in red-tinged rivulets down the drain while you scrubbed your hands again and again.
Soap.
Water.
Repeat.
Your nails dragging against your own skin. Over and over. Certain there was still blood somewhere on you that you couldn’t reach.
Somewhere under your nails.
Somewhere caught in the lines of your palms where you couldn’t quite see it.
Even now your hands still feel dirty.
Even now you keep rubbing your fingers together beneath the blanket like you might find it again.
Your nails scrape lightly across your skin, the faint rasp barely audible in the quiet room.
But in your mind—you can still feel it. The moment your hand came up. The resistance. The sudden, sickening give.
Your stomach twists.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
Because even though the blood is gone—Your body still remembers.
The slick warmth.
The shape of it.
The horrible, impossible softness of something that should never have been in your hand.
The apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that presses against your ears until every tiny sound feels too loud. The distant hum of a refrigerator. The soft whisper of tires passing somewhere outside. The slow tick of a pipe in the wall.
Everything feels suspended.
Like the world is holding its breath.
And you’re stuck in the moment just before it exhales.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there when you finally hear it.
The front door.
The sound is small. Ordinary. The faint scrape of the lock turning followed by the quiet shift of the door opening. But your entire body goes rigid beneath the blankets.
For a split second your mind goes somewhere dark before it can stop itself. Your breath catches in your throat, your muscles tightening as every nerve in your body snaps awake.
Then come the footsteps.
Andrew’s footsteps.
Heavy, Slow, and Tired.
The door closes behind him with a dull click that echoes faintly through the apartment. The sound settles into the quiet like a stone dropped into still water.
You hear him moving through the rooms.
One at a time.
The low creak of the floorboards beneath his weight. A drawer sliding open somewhere in the kitchen. Something set down carefully on the counter. The soft metallic rattle of keys or a knife or something you can’t quite place from this distance.
Maybe he’s checking the locks. Maybe he’s making sure no one followed him back. Or maybe it’s simply habit.
Andrew has always moved through spaces like he’s mapping them, quietly cataloging every door and window and shadow like a man who learned a long time ago that survival depends on knowing the shape of the room you’re standing in.
You lie perfectly still in the bed.
The covers are pulled high around your shoulders now, wrapped tight like a shield.
Your eyes burn from staring at the wall for so long.
But you can’t make yourself move.
Not yet.
Eventually the footsteps reach the hallway.
They slow slightly as they approach the bedroom door.
Then the handle turns.
The door opens quietly.
Andrew steps inside.
You can hear the exhaustion in the way he moves before you even see him. The slow drag of his steps. The heavy shift of his weight as he crosses the room.
There’s the soft rustle of fabric as he pulls his shirt off.
The dull, hollow thud of his boots hitting the floor one at a time.
Your breath catches without you meaning it to.
The sound is small, barely more than a hitch of air leaving your lungs.
But Andrew hears it.
A second later the mattress dips as he climbs into the bed behind you.
The movement is careful. Slow. Like he’s trying not to disturb you even though he already knows you’re awake.
One of his arms slides around your waist automatically. Big, warm, and solid.
He pulls you gently back against him, your spine fitting against his chest like the two of you have done this a thousand times before.
The warmth of him settles into your back.
Your hand lifts without thinking.
You reach back and grab his forearm, your fingers wrapping tightly around the thick muscle there. Your grip tightens instinctively, pressing hard into his skin like you need to anchor yourself to the weight of him.
Like you need to make absolutely sure he’s really there.
Your eyes burn.
“I’m so sorry,” you mumble.
The words come out muffled by the pillow, barely more than a breath.
Andrew doesn’t hesitate.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”
His voice is low behind you, rough with exhaustion. The kind of tired that settles deep into a person’s bones after a night like this.
“You defended yourself,” he adds quietly. “You did good.”
Your throat tightens.
“I killed someone.”
The words feel heavier once they’re spoken out loud, like they take up space in the room now that they exist.
For a moment there’s only silence behind you.
Then Andrew’s voice again.
Steady.
Certain.
“He would’ve killed you.” A small pause. “Or worse.”
The implication settles between you like a shadow neither of you needs to name.
And that’s what finally breaks you.
The tears slip free before you can stop them, sliding hot and silent into the pillow beneath your cheek. Your shoulders tremble once, then again, the tight knot in your chest finally loosening enough for the grief and shock to spill through.
Andrew shifts slightly behind you.
His chin nudges gently against the back of your neck, the rough scrape of stubble brushing your skin.
Then his mouth follows.
He presses a soft kiss there. And another. Slow. Careful. Not urgent or demanding.
Just quiet reassurance, offered in the only language he’s ever really known how to speak.
His fingers begin tracing slow circles along your arm, the same steady motion he always uses when he’s trying to calm you down.
It’s instinctive with him. Quiet. Patient. Like he understands that sometimes the body remembers fear longer than the mind does.
Little by little, your muscles begin to loosen beneath his touch.
The warmth of his chest pressed against your back. The weight of his arm draped across your waist. The slow, even rhythm of his breathing against your neck.
You turn slowly in his arms until you’re facing him.
The movement pulls you closer, your knees brushing his as the blankets shift around you.
His face is tired in the dim light.
His eyes heavy.
But the moment they land on you, something in them softens.
Like seeing you steady there in front of him settles something inside his chest.
Your lips find his.
The kiss is soft.
Softer than it has any right to be after everything that’s happened tonight.
Your hands slide up his shoulders, wrapping around him as you pull yourself closer, pressing your body against his like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.
Like if you let go—everything will fall apart again.
You deepen the kiss slowly, pulling him closer.
You need to feel him.
Everywhere.
Your fingers slide into his hair, curling into the soft curls at the back of his head. The familiar texture steadies you in a way you didn’t realize you needed, grounding you when your skin still feels too tight, too raw from everything that happened.
A quiet sound slips from you as you pull him down, urging him closer.
Closer.
Your legs shift beneath him instinctively, making room for his body without even thinking about it. What you need isn’t really the act itself.
It’s the weight of him.
The solid warmth of him pressing you gently into the mattress, reminding your body that you’re still here.
Still breathing.
Andrew shifts slightly above you, bracing himself on one arm as he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His nose nudges yours gently.
“We don’t have to,” he murmurs.
His voice is softer than usual. Careful. Like he’s afraid of pushing you somewhere you’re not ready to go.
Your hands tighten slightly in his hair.
“I want to,” you whisper, the words shaky but certain. “I need you. I—”
Your breath catches.
“I need you to touch me. Please.”
Andrew exhales slowly, the sound quiet in the dark as his forehead rests against yours for a moment.
Then he lowers himself the rest of the way over you. His body settles against yours, warm and solid, the familiar weight of him pressing you gently into the mattress. One of his hands slides along your side, steady and grounding, like he’s reminding both of you that you’re still here.
Still breathing.
Still together.
Your fingers remain tangled in his hair, holding him close.
The room is quiet except for the soft rhythm of your breathing and the distant hush of the ocean drifting through the open window.
Andrew kisses you again.
His lips move against yours like he’s memorizing you all over again, like the world outside this room has faded down to nothing but the two of you and the fragile quiet between heartbeats.
Your hands slide down his back, pulling him closer.
You feel him hesitate for a moment.
Not uncertainty.
Care.
The kind that checks without words if you’re still sure.
You answer by kissing him again.
Your forehead presses to his. Your breath mingles with his. The tension in your body slowly begins to unravel beneath the steady warmth of him. His hand finds yours where it rests against his shoulder, threading your fingers together and squeezing gently.
Outside, a breeze stirs the curtains.
Inside, the world narrows to the quiet space between two bodies trying to remember how to breathe again.
Andrew murmurs your name softly against your skin.
The sound of it makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
You pull him closer, arms wrapped tightly around him, like the night tried to take something from you and you refuse to let it win.
He kisses you again.
Slow.
Patient.
The rhythm of it begins to steady you. Your breathing evens out before becoming unsteady again for different reasons.
The shaking fades.
Little by little, the fear loosens its grip.
You stay tangled together beneath the covers, moving slowly and quietly, like neither of you wants to disturb the fragile peace that has settled over the room.
It isn’t hurried.
Just closeness.
The quiet reassurance of skin and breath and warmth, the way your bodies instinctively find comfort in one another. Hands and lips move gently, familiar with the places they belong, anticipating the others needs before either of you has to speak them aloud.
There’s a softness to it now, a quiet rhythm that belongs only to the two of you. The outside world feels distant, held at bay by the warmth of the blankets and the steady presence of each other.
His fingers tighten slightly against your back as the feeling finally crests between you, the tension dissolving all at once. The two of you cling to each other through it, breathless and spent.
Within minutes the two of you settle again, wrapped together beneath the covers, the room falling quiet except for the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing as you hold each other close.
Andrew presses one last soft kiss to your temple before pulling you tighter against him.
His arm wraps firmly around your waist, holding you there like something precious.
Like something he refuses to lose.
And eventually, with your face tucked against his chest and his breathing slow and steady against your hair—You finally fall asleep.
Still in his arms.
___
Morning arrives quietly.
Soft light slips through the thin blinds of Andrew’s bedroom, cutting pale stripes across the walls and the rumpled sheets. Dust drifts lazily in the beams of sunlight, turning slowly in the still air.
Somewhere outside, a car rolls past on the street below.
A gull cries over the ocean.
The world has continued moving.
It feels strange.
You wake slowly, surfacing from sleep in pieces.
For a moment your mind is empty, caught in that soft space between dreaming and waking where nothing hurts yet.
Then your body starts talking.
Your jaw aches where the man’s fist caught you. A dull soreness pulses there every time you move it. Your shoulders feel tight, like the muscles have been clenched for hours and never fully let go. Even your hands feel stiff, the memory of gripping something too tightly still lingering in your fingers.
And then the memories come back.
Not all at once.
Just flashes.
The door exploding inward.
The splash of boiling water.
The gun in your hands.
The sound it made.
Your breath catches.
For a second the room tilts slightly, and you feel that familiar edge of panic creeping back toward your chest. The kind that makes your lungs forget how to work.
But then you feel it. The arm around your waist. Heavy. Warm. So very Andrew.
He’s still asleep behind you, his body curved around yours like a shield. One of his arms lies draped across your middle, his hand resting flat against your stomach beneath the blanket, fingers loose and relaxed.
Even in sleep he’s holding you. Protecting you.
His breathing is slow and deep against the back of your neck, the steady rhythm of it brushing warm across your skin.
You stay still for a moment, just feeling that weight, letting it anchor you back into the present.
Last night wasn’t a dream.
But neither is this.
You hadn’t realized how tightly you were wound until you feel the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.
Your breathing begins to follow it without you meaning to.
In. Out. In. Out.
The rhythm settles something inside you that had been vibrating all night.
You stare quietly at the wall for a while, letting the quiet of the morning seep into the room.
The air smells faintly like laundry detergent and salt drifting in through the cracked window. Ocean air. Clean sheets. A hint of the soap Andrew uses that still lingers on your skin.
His clothes are scattered across the floor where he dropped them sometime in the night. Boots tipped on their sides. His shirt half hanging off the edge of a chair.
Too exhausted to bother putting anything away.
You shift slightly beneath the blankets.
The movement wakes him almost instantly.
Andrew inhales sharply behind you, his arm tightening reflexively around your waist before his mind fully catches up with where he is.
The instinct to protect you is immediate..
Even half-asleep. He doesn’t speak right away. You feel him take in a slow breath behind you.
Then another.
Like he’s checking the room with his senses before his eyes even open.
His chin nudges gently against the back of your shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
His voice is rough with sleep, deeper than usual.
You nod before remembering he can’t see it.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
It isn’t entirely true.
But it’s closer than it was a few hours ago.
Andrew stays quiet for a moment, like he’s deciding whether to push further or let you sit with it.
Then his hand shifts slightly against your stomach beneath the blanket, his thumb tracing a slow, absent circle there.
The motion is soft.
Thoughtless.
Comforting.
“Your jaw’s gonna bruise,” he murmurs after a moment.
His voice is still thick with sleep, low and rough in the quiet room.
You let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh.
“You should see the other guy.”
Andrew huffs softly behind you. A quiet sound of approval.
You roll slowly onto your back so you can look at him.
The movement pulls the blanket down slightly, letting the morning light spill across both of you.
His hair is a mess, dark curls flattened on one side from sleep. One stubborn lock sticks up near his temple like it refused to stay where it belonged. His eyes are still heavy with exhaustion, but they’re alert now, already moving across your face the way they always do.
Checking.
Scanning.
There’s a faint shadow beneath them.
You know he didn’t sleep much and your chest tightens a little at the thought.
“Did you get any rest?” you ask quietly.
Andrew shrugs one shoulder.
“Enough.”
That probably means no.
You reach up without thinking and brush your fingers gently along the line of his jaw.
The stubble there scratches lightly against your skin.
He leans into the touch automatically, his eyes closing for half a second before opening again.
Like even that small contact pulls something steady back into him.
For a moment neither of you says anything.
The silence between you feels different this morning.
Full of everything that happened.
Everything that almost happened.
Everything that could have been lost.
You pull him into your chest without thinking.
Your arms wrap tightly around his shoulders, drawing him down against you with a quiet urgency, like the simple act of holding him might somehow keep the world from touching him again.
For a second he resists.
Not consciously.
Just instinct.
Andrew Cody has spent most of his life bracing against people, not leaning on them.
But then the tension leaves him all at once. He melts into your embrace. His forehead presses against your collarbone, the weight of him settling there slowly, carefully, like he didn’t realize how badly he needed somewhere to rest until you offered it.
His breath warms the skin of your neck as he exhales.
Your fingers slide into his hair, threading gently through the soft curls at the back of his head. They’re warm from sleep, slightly tangled where they pressed against the pillow.
You smooth them back slowly, your hand lingering there, cradling the shape of his head.
Then you lean down and press a slow kiss to the crown of it.
Then another.
And another.
Each one soft.
A quiet promise spoken without words.
You hold him tighter, your arms firm around his shoulders, your palms spread wide across his back as though you could somehow shield him from everything that follows him when he walks into the world.
The way he did for you.
The quiet in the room stretches around the two of you, soft and undisturbed except for the faint hum of the morning outside the window.
Your heart aches as you hold him there.
For the things he’s seen.
For the things he’s done.
For the boy he must have been once, before the world hardened around him like armor.
Before survival meant becoming something sharp.
Something dangerous.
Something useful.
Before Smurf molded him into a weapon and called it love.
You feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing against your chest.
Heavier now.
Tired.
The weight of the night finally catching up with him.
Andrew doesn’t say anything.
He just stays there in your arms, letting himself rest for a moment in a place where no one is asking anything from him.
No orders.
No expectations.
Just warmth.
Just quiet.
Just you.
Finally you swallow.
“Andrew?”
“Yeah.”
Your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to, the words barely lifting above the soft hush of the room.
“Is this… going to keep happening?”
You don’t have to explain what you mean.
The broken door.
The blood on your floor.
The man who stopped breathing in your bedroom.
He shifts slightly on top of you, adjusting the way his arms are wrapped around your body but not letting go. His hand moves slowly along your collarbone, the pad of his thumb brushing back and forth in a quiet, absent rhythm.
He doesn’t answer right away.
You can feel it when it happens.
That subtle stillness that settles over him when he’s thinking.
Calculating.
Andrew Cody has never been impulsive the way the others are. When something threatens the people he cares about, his mind moves quietly through possibilities the way a mechanic studies an engine. Piece by piece. Problem by problem.
Something tried to break into your life.
He’s already figuring out how to break it back.
“I’m gonna handle it.”
Your stomach tightens.
The words are calm. Simple. Too simple.
“Handle it how?”
Andrew doesn’t answer that directly.
Instead his hand lifts slowly and comes to rest against the side of your face. His fingers trace lightly along your temple, brushing your skin in a gesture so gentle it almost hurts to feel.
“You’re safe,” he says simply.
You study his face. See the quiet certainty in his eyes. See the way he doesn’t rush to explain himself or soften the edges of what he’s saying.
You know him well enough now to hear what he isn’t saying.
Andrew Cody doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. Which means somewhere inside his mind, pieces are already moving.
Names.
Faces.
Routes.
Plans.
Someone tried to come through your door.
Someone tried to touch something that belongs under his protection.
That mistake will not happen twice.
You exhale slowly, the tension in your chest loosening just enough to breathe again.
Then you lean forward and press your forehead gently against his.
Andrew’s arms tighten around you immediately.
Instinct.
Like his body recognizes the need before his mind even has time to question it.
For a moment you just stay like that.
Tangled together in the blankets.
Your breath warm against his skin.
Listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
Alive. Both of you.
Outside the window the sun climbs a little higher, pale morning light spilling across the bed as the world continues quietly moving forward.
_____
The Cody house smells like stale coffee, cigarette smoke, and the faint sweetness of whatever incense Smurf burned earlier that morning to make the place feel less like a bunker and more like a home.
The scent hangs in the air the way it always does here. Layered over years of late nights and early mornings, whispered conversations and slammed doors, laughter that never quite covered the tension underneath it.
It clings to the walls.
To the furniture.
To the people who live here.
When Pope pushes the front door open and steps inside, he feels it immediately.
The attention.
Every pair of eyes in the room lifting toward him at once like they’d been waiting for the sound of that door all morning.
Baz is leaning against the kitchen counter with a half-empty coffee cup resting between his fingers. His posture is relaxed, one ankle hooked casually over the other, but his eyes are sharp as they track Pope’s movement across the room.
Craig is sprawled across the couch, one leg bouncing restlessly where it hangs off the arm. The television murmurs quietly behind him, forgotten. His gaze flicks up immediately, curiosity and irritation mixing across his face.
Deran sits slouched in one of the chairs near the window, looking like he hasn’t fully woken up yet, but his eyes sharpen the second Pope walks in. The lazy posture doesn’t fool anyone who knows him.
J stands near the far wall, quiet and watchful the way he always is. His arms are loosely folded across his chest, his expression unreadable as he studies Pope like he’s trying to piece something together.
And at the center of it all—Smurf sits at the kitchen table.
Perfectly still.
Hands folded loosely in front of her.
Like she’s been sitting there for hours.
Waiting.
The screen door creaks softly as it swings shut behind Pope, the thin clap of it closing echoing faintly through the room.
For a moment no one speaks.
The silence settles thick and heavy, the weight of the previous night hanging in the air like a storm that hasn’t quite broken yet.
Baz is the first one to crack.
“What the hell was that last night?”
His voice slices across the room, sharp with irritation, the kind that always creeps into his tone when something throws off the careful structure he likes to keep around the family’s work.
Pope doesn’t answer right away.
He steps fully inside and reaches back, pulling the door shut behind him. The latch clicks into place with a dull metallic sound that seems louder than it should in the quiet room.
Baz pushes off the counter slightly, straightening as he gestures toward Pope with the neck of his beer.
“You bail on a job,” he continues, his irritation growing as he speaks, “Craig calls me at two in the morning needing a ride, and nobody knows where the hell you went.”
Craig lifts a hand lazily from the couch in half-hearted agreement, his brow furrowing as he looks between them.
“Yeah man,” he mutters. “You just peeled out.”
The tension in the room starts to build slowly, irritation moving through the space like static in the air. Baz’s patience is already thinning. Craig looks more confused than angry. Deran’s eyes move quietly between the two of them, taking everything in without saying a word.
But before anyone else can jump in—Smurf’s voice cuts cleanly through the room.
Calm and Measured.
Dangerous in the way it always is when she sounds the most reasonable.
“You had a job to do, Andrew.”
Her tone carries no accusation. No raised edge of anger. Just quiet expectation. The kind that assumes obedience.
Pope doesn’t react to it.
He doesn’t even look at her right away.
Instead, he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls something out.
The movement is slow.
Deliberate.
He tosses it onto the kitchen table.
The object skids across the polished surface, spinning once before sliding to a stop directly in front of Smurf.
A wallet.
It lands with a soft slap against the wood.
For a moment no one moves.
Then Pope speaks.
“I buried this guy in the desert last night.”
The words fall into the room like a brick dropped into still water.
Silence follows immediately.
Two seconds.
Maybe three.
The kind of silence that pulls the air tight in your lungs.
Baz is the first to move again.
His forehead creases as he leans forward and snatches the wallet off the table, flipping it open with his thumb as if the answer might somehow be written inside.
“Are you serious right now?”
His voice sharpens as he scans the ID, irritation bleeding into disbelief.
“Right before a job?” He lets out a short scoff, shaking his head as he looks back up at Pope. “What, he owe you money or something?”
Craig straightens a little on the couch now, curiosity starting to outweigh the laziness in his posture. Deran’s gaze drifts slowly between Baz and Pope, quiet but attentive.
Across the table, Smurf hasn’t moved. Not an inch. Her hands rest lightly against each other, fingers folded neatly together like she’s sitting through a polite conversation instead of a family argument.
But her eyes never leave Pope.
Watching him.
Studying him.
Measuring every word before he says it.
Pope’s voice stays level when he answers.
“He broke into a house last night.”
Baz glances up again, clearly not following.
“Okay?”
Pope doesn’t blink.
“She killed him.”
The words settle into the room before anyone quite knows what to do with them.
For a moment Baz just stares at him, the statement hanging there while his brain catches up.
Then his brow furrows.
“Who the hell is she?”
And then something clicks. Recognition flashes across his face as the pieces line up in his head. Because there’s only one person Baz can think of who would send Pope driving into the desert in the middle of the night to dispose of a body for outside of their family.
He says your name out loud, confusion creeping into his voice.
Across the room Deran straightens immediately. The lazy slump disappears from his posture as he leans forward in the chair, eyes sharp now.
“Is she okay?”
Pope nods once.
“She’s not hurt.”
Deran exhales quietly, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly.
Across the table Smurf leans back in her chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap with a soft sigh that sounds almost maternal.
“Oh that poor girl,” she murmurs gently.
Her eyes never leave Pope.
“Is she safe? Where is she now?”
The concern in her voice is warm enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know her well. Soft and Protective. Exactly what a mother should sound like.
Pope doesn’t even glance in her direction.
“She’s fine.”
The words land flat and Final.
A brief pause stretches between them before he adds, quieter but firmer— “She’s gonna stay fine.”
Now Pope’s gaze shifts across the room, moving slowly from face to face.
“I want to know who they are and why the fuck they picked her.”
Craig straightens on the couch immediately.
“They?”
“One got away,” Pope says.
His voice stays calm, but the weight behind the words settles into the room like a warning.
“He ran after she burned off half his face.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
Even Baz stills slightly.
Pope glances directly at Craig.
“Shouldn’t be hard to find.”
Craig’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline.
“Damn.”
A crooked grin spreads across his face and he nods once, clearly impressed. “Badass.”
Baz shifts his weight where he stands at the counter, his eyes sliding between Pope and Deran as he reads the tension the way he always does when something interesting starts brewing.
Then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“You seeing her now, man?”
Pope turns his head toward Deran.
The look isn’t confrontational. Just direct. Then he glances back toward Baz.
“Yeah.”
The answer lands simply.
No apology.
No explanation.
Just fact.
Every set of eyes in the room shifts toward Deran.
Deran notices immediately.
He rolls his shoulders slowly, like he’s trying to shake off the sudden spotlight, his expression settling into something deliberately neutral.
He hadn’t expected your name to be dragged back into this house.
Not like this.
His first instinct is the old one. The familiar Cody reflex. Call you something ugly. Make a joke. Puff his chest a little in front of his brothers and pretend it doesn’t matter.
But the look on Pope’s face right now kills that instinct before it ever leaves his mouth.
So Deran chooses his words more carefully.
“I don’t care,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair again like it’s nothing. A small shrug follows.
“Plenty of other chicks.”
Craig either doesn’t read the tension in the room—or he simply doesn’t care.
He leans forward on the couch, elbows on his knees now, looking between Deran and Pope with open curiosity.
“Is that why you broke up with her?”
The question drops into the room with the blunt weight only Craig can manage.
Baz’s eyes flick sideways immediately, sensing the shift before anyone says another word. Deran’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again.
Pope doesn’t answer.
He just stands there.
Still.
Watching.
Craig glances between them again, realizing a little too late that he might’ve just stepped into something deeper than he meant to.
“…What?” he mutters defensively. “I’m just asking.”
Smurf doesn’t react.
Not outwardly.
She’s still watching Pope.
Very carefully.
Her expression remains soft, almost indulgent, the faintest smile still resting at the corner of her mouth like she’s listening to nothing more than a family conversation unfolding over breakfast.
But her eyes are sharp.
Calculating.
Because something in the room has shifted in a way she didn’t anticipate.
Andrew didn’t come in defensive.
He didn’t make excuses.
He didn’t let the situation disappear quietly the way most problems in this family do.
He walked through the door, dropped the truth directly onto the table, and made it clear exactly where he stood.
And Smurf understands something now she hadn’t fully grasped before.
Andrew didn’t just drift back toward you. He didn’t fall into it. He chose you.
And that kind of choice—The kind made openly, in front of everyone—Is the one thing Smurf has never tolerated inside this family.
Smurf holds out her hand without looking away from Pope.
It’s a small gesture. Barely a movement of her fingers. Baz doesn’t question it. He simply passes the wallet into her waiting palm.
Smurf turns it over once, the leather creasing softly beneath her thumb as she studies it. Then she opens it with quiet precision, flipping it back to the identification tucked inside.
For a moment her eyes settle on the photograph.
Studying the man’s face. A face she already knew.
The room stays still around her.
No one interrupts.
No one rushes her.
Finally she closes the wallet again, folding it shut with a soft snap, and places it neatly back on the table.
Her fingers remain resting lightly against it for a moment afterward, the square of worn leather sitting perfectly centered between them.
Then her gaze lifts slowly back to Pope.
Her expression is calm.
Thoughtful.
The quiet look she gets when something inside her mind has already started rearranging itself.
Her voice is soft when she speaks.
Almost affectionate.
“I’ll get it handled, baby.”
A small beat passes. Then she tilts her head just slightly.
“Did you clean up?” she asks.
Her tone is casual. Almost absent-minded. But the question lands heavy in the room.
Not because of what she said.
Because of what it means.
Every person in the house understands exactly what she’s asking.
Pope doesn’t look away from her.
“Spotless.”
The answer comes just as steady.
Simple and certain.
Neither of them breaks eye contact.
For a moment the rest of the room might as well not exist.
Baz still leaning against the counter.
Craig shifting slightly on the couch, his foot bouncing restlessly against the armrest.
Deran watching carefully from his chair, his eyes moving slowly between the two of them.
J silent by the wall, taking it all in the way he always does.
But the air in the room belongs to Smurf and Pope now.
A quiet standoff.
Mother and son.
Two people who know exactly how dangerous the other one can be.
How many chapters are planned of Hold Fast so far? Just wondering!
I’d really like to wrap this story up with around 12–13 chapters total. I actually already have most of it written, I just need to flesh a few things out and go back through to edit what’s there. Honestly, I could probably write 30 more chapters if I let myself, but I’m trying to cut back on how much I’m writing purely for fun right now and focus on things I actually need to get done (laundry)
After a mass shooting at PittFest leaves you injured and stranded in the ER, a long, chaotic night introduces you to the night attending at PTMC. Turns out he might have stitched up something else you didn’t even know was hurt.
CW: Mass Shooting, Gun Violence, Injury / Gunshot Wound, Reader! Injured, Blood, Medical Trauma, Active Shooter Situation, Panic / Fear, Trauma Aftermath, Child in Danger, Strangers to Something More, Meet Cute in the ER, Hurt/Comfort. Slow Burn Potential, Croissants Are Plot Relevant, Jack Abbott x F! Reader, No Use of YN, No Physical Description of Reader
gif not mine credit goes to the creator
Next Part
The emergency department looked different the next time you saw it. Not calmer. Not really. Just… less haunted, less blood for sure.
The fluorescent lights still buzzed overhead, monitors still chirped their steady little heartbeats, nurses still moved through the halls with the same purposeful speed. But without the heavy weight of mass tragedy pressing against the windows, the place felt less like a battlefield and more like a machine.
A tired one. But a functioning one.
You stood just inside the entrance holding a pastry box that was almost comically large.
Two trays deep.
Lemon bars, muffins, danishes, a few chocolate twists, and—sitting right in the center like a crown jewel—six pistachio croissants dusted with powdered sugar and stuffed with a layer of dark chocolate.
You had spent far too long arranging them. Purely for professional reasons.
Definitely not because you had a vague hope that a certain emergency physician might notice.
You shifted the box against your hip and stepped further into the ER.
A few heads turned and you were waved by to enter by the security guard after a peak into the box, and a muffin secured for his troubles.
Food had that effect in hospitals.
You followed the familiar layout of the department until you spotted the nurse’s station.
And there he was.
Doctor Abbott sat hunched slightly over a chart, one elbow propped on the counter, the other hand rubbing slowly at the bridge of his nose. His hair looked even more disheveled than the last time you’d seen him, like sleep had become a distant rumor sometime around residency.
For a moment you just watched him. He looked… tired. Not the surface-level kind. The deep, marrow-level exhaustion that came from too many nights stitched together without enough daylight in between.
One of the nurses spotted the box in your arms and lit up instantly. “Oh my god,” she breathed. “Is that—”
“A thank you,” you said with a small smile.
That got Abbott’s attention. He glanced up slowly. For a second his eyes looked unfocused, like he was still somewhere else entirely. Then they landed on you and Recognition flickered. Followed by that familiar crooked half-smile.
You stepped up to the counter and set the pastry box down with a soft thud. “As promised,” you said, sliding the lid open.
The smell of butter and sugar drifted into the air instantly. A nurse behind the desk made an actual noise of joy.
Abbott leaned forward slightly, peering into the box like he was assessing a complicated lab result.
“Wow,” he said quietly.
You pointed a finger at him.
“And,” you added, “according to your very well written notes, I’m due for stitch removal.”
His eyes lifted back to you. For half a second he just looked at you.
“Bribing your way to the front of the line with a treat?” he asked.
You smiled and batted your eyelashes at him in the most exaggerated, ridiculous way you could manage.
“Did it work?”
He scoffed softly.
Then he pushed away from the counter and straightened up, stretching his shoulders like someone who had been sitting too long.
“Follow me, chef.”
He led you down the familiar hallway, past the same humming monitors and curtained bays you remembered from that long night.
The ER looked less chaotic now. Still busy. Still full. But the edge had dulled.
He stopped at one of the curtained rooms and pulled the fabric aside.
“Hop up,” he said, gesturing toward the bed.
You set your bag down and climbed onto the exam table, wincing faintly as your shoulder shifted under the fabric of your shirt.
Abbott pulled on a pair of gloves as he stepped inside.
“Oh,” you said suddenly. “You’re doing it?”
He glanced up.
“I’m sure you’re busy,” you added quickly. “I mean, I could have just—”
“I make it a point,” he interrupted calmly, snapping the glove into place around his wrist, “to follow up with my patients whenever possible.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest do a small, confusing flip. Like it meant more than just good bedside manner.
He stepped closer and gently tugged the edge of the bandage away from your shoulder.
“Well,” he said after a moment of inspection.
“Looks like you managed to avoid gangrene.”
You exhaled dramatically.
Tragic,” you said solemnly. “I was really hoping for the dramatic amputation storyline.”
Abbott glanced up from your shoulder.
You continued, completely straight-faced “Would’ve sold the hell out of some danishes.”
For a second he just looked at you. Then that crooked half-smile slid back into place, slow and inevitable.
“Unfortunately,” he said, snipping another stitch with a soft metallic click, “you’re going to have to peddle those pastries another way.”
You sighed dramatically.
“Unbelievable. I come in here looking for a medically endorsed marketing strategy and all I get is competent care.”
“That’s where you went wrong,” he said calmly. “You came to the emergency department.”
Another stitch slipped free under his fingers.
The thread tugged lightly against your skin as he pulled it out, his touch steady and careful in that absent-mindedly gentle way he had when he was focused.
“Besides,” he added after a beat, “dramatic amputations are overrated.”
You blinked.
Your eyes flicked down automatically then, following the angle of his stance for the first time with actual attention instead of adrenaline haze and exhaustion.
The subtle shift in the way he balanced his weight. The quiet mechanical line beneath the fabric of his scrubs. The prosthetic peeking just slightly below the hem.
You froze for half a heartbeat. Mortification slammed into you like a truck. “Oh my god,” you breathed. “I’m so sorry—”
The apology came out too fast, tripping over itself.
Abbott cut you off immediately. Not sharply. Just matter-of-factly. “Relax.”
He snipped another stitch.
“Mine wasn’t a marketing strategy.”
The dry edge of it landed perfectly between reassurance and deadpan humor.
Your shoulders sagged with relief.
“Okay,” you muttered. “Good. Because that would’ve been a wildly inappropriate business model.”
Another stitch came free. Abbott finally glanced up again, that same crooked smirk ghosting across his face.
“If it makes you feel better,” he said, “the recovery time alone really cuts into productivity.”
You huffed out a surprised laugh.
“That feels like a bad Yelp review waiting to happen.”
“Two stars,” he said calmly. “Do not recommend.”
You shook your head, still a little embarrassed but smiling now despite yourself. “Noted. I’ll stick to pastries.”
Abbott removed the final stitch and dropped the thread into the tray beside him.
“Well,” he said, inspecting your shoulder one last time.
You leaned back slightly against the exam table as the last bit of tension finally left your shoulder.
“Oh my god,” you groaned in relief. “That feels so much better. Those things were getting itchy.”
Abbott let out a quiet huff of amusement under his breath.
He stood and snapped his gloves off, the latex making that sharp little pop before he dropped them into the waste bin beside the tray.
“Keep using the ointment I prescribed for the next few days,” he said, already slipping back into that steady, clinical tone that seemed to sit naturally in his voice. “It’ll help with the scarring.”
You nodded, gently rolling your shoulder like you were reacquainting yourself with it.
“Thank you, Doctor Abbott.”
He paused. Just for a second. Then he said it. “Jack.”
It came out almost before he could stop it.
Like the word had slipped past whatever internal gate usually kept his professional distance intact. His mouth twitched slightly afterward, the faintest hint of embarrassment crossing his face as he rubbed a hand briefly along the back of his neck.
“You can call me Jack,” he added. “If you want.”
You tilted your head, considering that for a moment.
Then you smiled.
“Okay… Jack.”
The name settled strangely comfortably on your tongue. You gave him a thoughtful once-over, like you were testing something.
“It suits you.”
His brow lifted. “Really?” he asked. “Like in the beanstalk kind of way?”
You snorted.
“Nah.”
You slid off the exam table and grabbed your bag from the chair beside the bed.
“In the reliable kind of way.”
Jack blinked at that. Just once. Like the comment had landed somewhere deeper than he expected. For a moment he didn’t say anything, just watching you adjust the strap of your bag over your shoulder.
Then that familiar crooked half-smile returned.
“Careful,” he said dryly. “You keep saying nice things like that, people might think I’m approachable.”
You shrugged.
“Too late.”
Outside the curtain, someone called his name down the hallway. The ER was still moving. Still humming. Still full of other people’s emergencies. But for a brief second longer, he stayed there in the small curtained room with you.
And the night didn’t seem quite so heavy anymore. For either of you.
You stepped out first after he pulled the curtain open for you, the fabric swishing softly behind you as it fell closed again. The hallway lights felt brighter after the muted glow of the exam bay.
Jack followed a step behind.
The two of you made your way back toward the nurse’s station together, slipping back into the quiet current of the department. People moved around you in practiced paths. A tech hurried past with a tray of supplies. Someone down the hall called for imaging.
Life in motion again.
When you rounded the corner, you immediately saw the aftermath.
The pastry box sat on the counter.
Open.
Devastated.
The staff who had been crowding it seconds ago scattered the moment their attending appeared back at the station, suddenly very interested in charts, monitors, literally anything that didn’t look like butter-laced evidence.
What remained in the box was… minimal. Crumbs. A few flakes of pastry. A light snowfall of powdered sugar across the cardboard.
You slowed, clearly impressed.
Jack stopped beside you.
His expression shifted into something that looked like faint disappointment layered over long-suffering familiarity.
You reached forward and lifted the lid again, peering into the box like a forensic investigator searching for survivors.
“Impressive,” you said.
You nudged a lone almond sliver with your finger.
“Do you feed these guys?”
Jack folded his arms loosely across his chest, watching the staff pretend very hard not to notice the conversation happening five feet away between their attending and the bringer of sweets.
“From time to time,” he said evenly, “we let them out of their cells for a gulp of water and a protein bar.”
One of the nurses coughed suspiciously loud into a chart.
You glanced up at him, fighting a smile.
“That explains the feeding frenzy.”
Another glance inside the box confirmed your suspicions.
“Wow,” you added. “They didn’t even leave you one.”
Jack looked down at the empty pastry box.
Then he looked at the staff.
Then back at the box.
There was a quiet moment where the entire nurse’s station seemed to hold its breath.
Finally he reached in and plucked out the lone almond sliver you’d discovered earlier.
He examined it briefly.
Then popped it into his mouth.
“Problem solved.”
You laughed.
“Very generous of them.”
“Extremely,” he said dryly.
Behind the desk, one of the nurses sheepishly lifted a napkin.
“I saved half a danish,” she offered weakly.
Jack raised an eyebrow.
“Did you?”
She slowly lowered the napkin back down.
You shook your head, smiling.
“Next time I’ll bring a bigger box.”
Jack glanced sideways at you at that.
“Next time?”
You shrugged casually, sliding the empty pastry lid closed with a soft tap.
“Well,” you said, brushing a bit of powdered sugar from your fingertips, “you didn’t get your croissant… and I definitely put my whole foot in my mouth earlier. Seems like i owe you.”
Your eyes flicked briefly downward, toward his leg, then back up again with a sheepish little grimace.
“So I could swing by again.”
He watched you for a moment. Not suspicious. Just… considering. “You don’t have to,” he said.
“I know,” you replied easily.
Then you met his eyes again.
“But I want to.”
Something shifted in his expression. Small. Quiet. But there.
His brow lifted slightly, that familiar crooked half-smile returning like it had been waiting just beneath the surface the whole time.
Behind you, someone at the nurse’s station pretended very loudly to shuffle paperwork that absolutely did not need shuffling.
Jack glanced over.
Half the staff immediately scattered in different directions, suddenly very busy with charts, computers, anything that looked remotely professional.
He cleared his throat and looked back toward the station, cheeks faintly pinking in a way that suggested he knew perfectly well they were all still watching.
Then his attention returned to you.
He hesitated for a second.
Just long enough to gather whatever nerve this apparently required. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “I could offer something better?”
You tilted your head. “Oh?” you teased. “You suggesting there’s a better bakery than mine?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said quickly.
A beat passed.
Then he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little less like the unflappable ER doctor and a little more like a guy standing in a hallway trying not to trip over his own words.
“But… maybe we could go out for a beer,” he said. “Or dinner. Whatever you’d prefer.”
You blinked at him.
“Are you asking me out?”
“Yeah,” he said simply.
A smile crept across your face before you could stop it. “When are you off next?”
“Friday.”
You considered that for exactly half a second. “I can make Friday work,” you said. “And for the record…”
You nudged the empty pastry box with your finger. “I like both beer and dinner.”
That crooked smile returned, just a little wider this time. “Good,” he said.
Best friend. Fake girlfriend. Secret keeper. You knew your role In Deran Cody’s life. Everything was perfect until Andrew Cody showed back up and made you forget it. Now everything is unraveling, and there’s no one left on your side.
CW: Pope Cody x Reader, F! Reader, Deran Cody x Reader (friendship), Cody Family Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Codependency, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, They Should Not Be Doing This, But They Do Anyway, Betrayal, Guilt Complex, Pope Cody Needs Therapy, Deran Cody Needs a Hug, Reader is Going Through It™, Everyone is a Little Bit Toxic, SMUT, Minors Do Not Interact, This Started as Smut and Became Feelings, No One Is Making Good Choices Here, I Blacked Out Writing This, Mentions of OCD, Homophobia, No Use of YN, No Physical Description of Reader, Canon Typical Violence Towards Reader, Detailed Descriptions of Violent Acts
AN: I truly struggled with the end of this chapter and hope this isn’t a disappointment to you all. Every single comment, like, and reblog has had me over the moon and truly given me a spark to continue writing and working to try and make you all happy(ish) Not too happy tho, we angst here. Also, fuck Smurf.
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
The apartment smells like garlic and butter.
You’re standing at the stove in an oversized T-shirt and soft pajama shorts, your hair still damp from the shower. The TV murmurs quietly in the background — some cooking show you’re only half paying attention to while you stir the pot in front of you.
It’s quiet. Comfortable. For once, your nerves aren’t buzzing from anxiety but from joy.
The wooden spoon taps lightly against the rim of the pot as you taste the sauce, frowning slightly before adding another pinch of salt.
The second pot begins to rumble softly. The water rolls into a steady boil, bubbles breaking against the surface in slow, heavy bursts.
You glance over, satisfied. “Finally.”
You turn toward the counter, reaching for the box of spaghetti waiting beside the stove.
And then—The stair outside your door creaks. Your whole body stills.
That step. You know that step. Your heart jumps before you can stop it. But it’s too early. Andrew said he was working tonight.
You slowly set the spoon down beside the stove. The TV keeps talking in the background, cheerful and oblivious.
You move toward the door quietly, wiping your hands on a kitchen towel. Another creak. Closer now.
Your stomach tightens.
“Andrew?” you call, a little uncertain.
No answer. Your hand reaches the door handle. For half a second you hesitate. Then the door explodes inward.
The force of it slams into your shoulder and sends you stumbling backward as two men in ski masks rush inside.
You scream on pure instinct. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, feet scrambling across the tile as you shove yourself backward, trying to put as much distance between you and the doorway as possible.
One of them grabs for you and you swing wildly, feet kicking, fists flying, nails clawing at whatever skin you can reach.
“Get her!” one of them snaps.
You kick hard, your heel connecting with someone’s shin. The man holding you grunts and stumbles but doesn’t let go.
The other one lunges forward, trying to clamp a hand over your mouth. You twist violently, jerking your head away.
“Stop fighting!”
You slam your foot forward with everything you have. Your heel connects solidly with the second man’s knee.
He staggers, the impact knocking him off balance with a sharp grunt.
The first man’s grip loosens for half a second and That’s all you need. You shove off him, twisting hard and throwing your weight forward to break free.
Your back slams hard into the kitchen counter.
The impact knocking the breath from your lungs.
Your chest heaves as you stare at them, frozen for a split second, like a deer caught in headlights — instinct screaming at you to run, but your body pinned in place by the sudden violence of it all.
Across the kitchen the two men regain their footing. They start toward you again. Slower this time. More deliberate. Irritated now.
Whatever they expected when they kicked your door in, it clearly wasn’t a fight.
The pot behind you is still boiling. You can feel the heat of it at your back before your brain even catches up.
Without thinking, you grab it.
The metal burns hot against your palm as you swing around just as the first man lunges for you again—You throw the pot straight into his face.
Boiling water erupts across him, splashing over his arms and neck, soaking the black fabric of the ski mask.
For a split second the mask clings to his skin.
Then he screams.
A raw, animal sound tears out of him as the heat hits, his hands flying up instinctively as he stumbles backward, clawing at the soaked fabric now plastered against his face.
You don’t stay to watch. You run. Bare feet slipping on the tile as you sprint down the hallway toward your bedroom.
Behind you—“You fucking bitch!”
Heavy footsteps pound after you. A hand catches the back of your shirt just before you reach the door.
You scream again, twisting violently.
The man slams you into the hallway wall and you both go down hard. Your nails rake across the only exposed skin on his face, his eyes. You feel skin tear under your fingers.
He howls as your thumb jams straight into his eye pushing forward into the gummy cavity—but not before a fist slams into your chin.
Your head whips backwards. The back of your skull cracks against the wall hard enough to make your vision flash white.
For a moment the world disappears. Sound drains out of the room like someone pulled a plug. You sit there dazed, blinking against the blur swimming in your vision.
Then his screaming comes back. Distant at first. Then louder. Enough to drag you back. Enough to remind you you’re still in danger.
He is hunched in front of you now, doubled over, one hand clamped hard against his face as he staggers blindly across the floor. His shoulders shake with every broken scream that tears out of his throat, his body twisting as if he’s trying to pull himself away from the pain clawing through him.
You stare at him.
Frozen.
Your breathing shallow. Your heart hammering so hard it makes your vision pulse at the edges.
Then something wet slides slowly down your wrist.
Your gaze drops.
Your hand is still raised where you gouged him.
Your fingers are curled slightly, your nails digging into the soft flesh of your own palm like you’re still holding onto something.
And then you see it.
For a second your brain refuses to understand what you’re looking at.
But the shape is unmistakable.
The slick, glassy curve.
The pale cord of tissue stretched thin beneath it.
His eye.
Caught beneath the edge of your nail.
Your stomach lurches violently as the realization hits you all at once.
His eye socket is stuck under your nail.
You don’t have time to process it.
No time to stare.
No time to recoil.
Horror tries to bloom in your chest, thick and suffocating, but survival crushes it before it can fully form.
The man is still screaming.
A broken, animal sound tearing out of him as he staggers blindly toward you, one hand pressed uselessly against the ruined side of his face. Blood seeps through his fingers, dark and slick, dripping onto the floor in uneven splatters as he stumbles.
Your instincts snap back into place and you shove him back as hard as you can.
Your hands slam against his shoulders and the weight of him lurches backward, his footing already gone. He crashes sideways into the wall with a dull, sickening thud, the impact knocking another strangled cry out of him.
You don’t wait to see if he gets up.
You turn and run.
The gun.
The gun.
Your hands are shaking so badly you almost drop it when you grab it from the nightstand.
You hear him coming down the hall. Fast.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
You flick the safety down exactly the way Andrew showed you.
The door bursts open.
The man lunges for you.
You fire.
The shot explodes through the room so loudly it rattles your skull. The bullet hits him in the stomach. He stumbles but keeps coming.
You fire again.
The second shot slams into his gut and This time he drops. Hard.
The room goes silent.
Your arms are shaking so badly you can barely hold the gun. The man lies on the floor gasping, clutching his stomach.
Blood spreads slowly across the carpet.
“Holy Shit,” you whisper.
You take a step back. Then another. Your stomach turns violently and you vomit where you stand.
Your whole body shakes, knees wobbling under you as the man groans weakly on the floor.
The tears come next. Hot and unstoppable. You gasp as you clumsily step over him, the gun barely steady in your trembling hands.
You spin and run back toward the kitchen, the gun still raised even though you know you couldn’t hit anything right now if you tried.
The door is still wide open. Through it you see the first man stumbling across the yard toward a car parked near the alley.
His mask is gone now.
Even from the doorway you can see the damage — angry red blisters already rising across his cheeks and neck where the boiling water hit, skin slick and shining under the yard light.
He moves like he can barely see, one hand clutching his face while the other fumbles for the car door.
He yanks the door open and throws himself inside. The engine roars and The car peels away.
Gone.
Your breath comes in short, frantic bursts. The house feels wrong now. Too quiet. Too still.
You turn slowly back toward the hallway and make your way toward the bedroom again, every step hesitant, like the floor might give out beneath you.
The man you shot is still there. Where else would he be? You fucking shot him.
He was still breathing. The sound is wet and shallow, each breath rattling somewhere deep in his chest.
You rush to him and drop to your knees.
“Oh my god, oh my god—”
Your hands press against his stomach instinctively, trying to stop the blood pouring through your fingers.
It’s warm.
Too warm.
“Don’t move,” you say desperately. “Just—just hold on.”
Your voice shakes so badly you barely recognize it. Your stomach heaves again. You turn your head just in time before vomiting onto the floor again.
“Fuck—”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and press harder against the wound.
Blood slicks across your palms.
“Stay with me, okay? Stay with me.”
His eyes roll back. His breathing slows. One shallow inhale. Another. Then—Nothing.
Your hands are still pressing against his stomach when you realize he isn’t moving anymore.
The silence is deafening.
You slowly pull your hands away. They’re covered in blood. Your whole body starts shaking.
Your phone. Where was your fucking phone.
You scramble to your feet and stumble toward the kitchen counter, grabbing it with slick fingers and nearly dropping it twice before you manage to unlock it.
Your hands smear blood across the screen. You don’t even notice. You hit Andrew’s name.
It rings once.
He answers immediately.
“Yeah.”
Your voice breaks the second you hear him.
“Andrew—”
The word collapses in your throat.
“I—I”The panic hits all at once. You start crying.
“I didn’t mean to—there were two of them and they came through the door and I—”
Your stomach flips again and you gag, swallowing it back until you realize something warm and sticky has smeared across your cheek.
His blood.
It’s on your face. Across your jaw. You freeze for a second, the realization hitting harder than the smell of it. “I think he’s dead,” you whisper.
On the other end of the phone—Silence. Then Andrew’s voice. Low. Dead calm.
“Are you hurt?”
“No—I’m—”
“Did you call the cops?” he asks quickly. “You hear any sirens?”
“No—no I didn’t,” you choke out. “I don’t—I don’t hear anything.”
A beat. Then—“Stay there,” he says immediately. “Lock everything. Don’t move until I get there.”
Your breath shudders.
“I’m so fucking scared, Andrew.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
The line goes dead.
—
Andrew lowers the phone slowly.
For a moment he just sits there.
The quiet hum of the truck engine fills the cab. Craig is in the passenger seat, half turned toward him, waiting.
They’d been sitting there for the better part of twenty minutes already, parked across from a squat little stucco house with a sagging fence and a rusted gate. The kind of place no one would notice if the lights flicked on at two in the morning. The kind of place people assumed was empty until someone kicked the door in.
Just a scouting run. Nothing fancy. Watch the routine. Check the lights. See if the owner kept a dog.
Standard work that Smurf wanted done. Had insisted Pope and Craig do it tonight.
Craig had been talking a minute ago — something about the back window, about how easy it would be to slip in if the guy forgot to lock it again. Andrew hadn’t really been listening. Not until the phone rang.
Now the night outside feels different.
He sits there, the phone still in his hand, your voice echoing in the back of his head.
I think he’s dead.
Craig glances over.
“What?”
Andrew doesn’t answer.
His hand is still wrapped around the phone, his knuckles tight enough to turn pale against the steering wheel.
He exhales slowly through his nose. Once. Controlled. Then he leans over Craig and pushes the driver’s door open.
“Get out.”
Craig blinks.
“What?”
Andrew doesn’t look at him.
“Get out of the car.”
Craig turns toward him fully now, frowning.
“Are you serious right now? We’re literally working, man.”
Andrew finally turns his head. His expression is flat and Cold. The kind of look Craig’s seen before — right before something bad happens to someone else.
His voice leaves absolutely no room for argument.
“Get out of the car.”
Craig studies his face for half a second longer. Something in Andrew’s eyes makes the irritation drain out of his expression.
This isn’t a mood. This isn’t a disagreement. Something happened. Craig scoffs under his breath anyway, reaching for the door handle.
“Smurf’s gonna be pissed.”
Andrew doesn’t hesitate.
“Fuck Smurf.”
Craig mutters something under his breath as he climbs out, the door slamming behind him.
Andrew is already shifting into gear before Craig’s feet fully hit the pavement. The truck tears out of the lot. Gravel sprays behind him as he floors it, the engine roaring as the house they’d been watching disappears in the rearview mirror.
—
You hear the truck first.
The engine roars into the lot outside your building, tires grinding to an abrupt stop. The driver’s door slams before the vehicle has even finished settling.
Then—Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Coming up the stairs.
Your whole body locks.
For half a second your brain betrays you again, fear surging through your chest like the attackers somehow came back.
Like the nightmare isn’t finished yet.
Then—Andrew’s hand hits the door. Hard. “Open it.”
Your breath breaks in your chest.
You hurry to the door.
The lock is useless now, the frame splintered where it was kicked open earlier. Instead you drag the small kitchen table away from the door where you shoved it earlier, the legs scraping loudly across the floor as you pull it back.
You yank the door inward.
The moment you see him standing there in the doorway — broad shoulders filling the frame, chest rising and falling hard from taking the stairs two at a time — your body finally gives out.
The strength you’d been clinging to for the last few minutes simply dissolves.
“Andrew—”
His name barely makes it out before your voice breaks completely. The word collapses in your throat as you stumble forward and throw yourself into him.
Your arms wrap around him desperately, fingers twisting into the back of his shirt like if you loosen your grip even slightly he might vanish too.
Like everything holding you together might vanish with him.
The crying hits all over again.
Hot.
Ugly.
Uncontrollable.
Your face presses into the solid heat of his chest as your breath comes apart in harsh, shaking bursts.
Andrew doesn’t say anything. Not a soft word. Not a reassurance.
Instead his arms close around you, big hands spreading across your back as he pulls you firmly against him. His grip is strong and steady, the kind of hold that feels less like comfort and more like something anchoring you to the ground.
His chin presses briefly against the crown of your head while he holds you there. Letting your breathing crash unevenly against his chest.
You feel it immediately.
The tension in him.
The stillness.
Andrew isn’t just holding you.
He’s already working. Already looking past you. Already reading the room.
“What happened?” he asks quietly.
Your voice trembles so badly the words feel like they’re slipping apart before they can reach your mouth.
“They came through the door.”
Your hand lifts weakly, gesturing somewhere toward the kitchen behind you, but the rest of the explanation refuses to form.
“There were two of them and they—”
Andrew moves you aside gently. Not pushing you away. Just repositioning you behind him.
Protective.
His hand brushes your shoulder for the briefest second as he passes, a grounding touch before he steps fully into the apartment.
His eyes sweep the room once. Fast and efficient.
The broken door.
The splintered frame hanging crooked where the lock gave way.
Water pooled across the kitchen tile.
The overturned pot.
Then—The blood.
Andrew moves down the hallway immediately.
No hesitation.
You follow without thinking, arms wrapped tightly around yourself like you’re physically holding your body together. Each step feels wrong. Like the house you knew has been replaced by something unfamiliar. Something darker.
When Andrew reaches the bedroom doorway he stops.
The man lies exactly where you left him.
Andrew studies the body in silence.
Not shocked.
Not horrified.
Just… calculating.
Then he steps inside. And you see it. The shift. The man you love disappears behind something else entirely. His posture changes. His shoulders square. Every movement becomes deliberate and precise.
Controlled.
Professional.
He crouches beside the body and presses two fingers against the man’s neck. Checking for a pulse. His expression doesn’t change when he finds none. Instead he lifts the man’s shirt carefully, exposing the wounds beneath. Blood darkens the fabric, spreading outward across the stomach where the bullets entered.
Andrew’s eyes move automatically.
Entry points.
Angle of impact.
The way the body fell.
Distance.
Trajectory.
Your stomach twists.
You’ve seen the brothers come home bloody before. Heard the stories passed around in low voices after jobs went sideways. Caught flashes of the violence that seems to follow them everywhere they go, clinging to them like a long shadow stretching across every room they walk into.
But you’ve never stood inside it like this.
Never been close enough to feel the weight of it settling into the walls around you.
And you’ve never watched Andrew move through something like this up close.
He moves through the room with a quiet certainty that sends a strange chill through your chest. Every motion is calm. Efficient. Measured. Like he’s reading the scene the way someone might read a map they’ve traveled a hundred times before.
Like he understands this world down to the bone.
Like the chaos and blood and broken things scattered across your bedroom floor are simply another problem to solve.
Like this world makes perfect sense to him.
When he finishes checking the body, he stands again, wiping his hands slowly on the dead man’s shirt. The motion is absent, almost thoughtless, like he’s done it enough times that his body remembers the habit even when his mind is somewhere else.
Then he turns toward you.
His eyes find yours.
And stop.
For a second neither of you moves.
You realize you’ve been staring at him. Not recoiling. Not horrified.
Just… seeing him.
Seeing the shift that came over him the moment he stepped into the room. The quiet control settling into his posture. The steady focus in his eyes. The terrifying competence in the way he handled everything without hesitation.
Like some deeper part of him woke up the second things turned violent.
Andrew sees the look on your face.
His jaw tightens almost immediately.
Something shutters closed behind his eyes.
He looks away first.
“You shouldn’t have to see this,” he mutters.
You blink.
“What?”
“This.”
He gestures vaguely around the room.
The body.
The blood.
The wreckage.
“This is my shit.”
His eyes flick briefly back to you, but there’s distance in them now.
“I told you it was dangerous.”
Your chest tightens.
He thinks you’re disgusted.
You can see the conclusion forming behind his eyes before he even says a word. The way his shoulders shift slightly, the way that careful distance slips into his posture like armor being pulled back into place.
He thinks you’re watching all of it and finally understanding something he’s always been afraid of.
That this life didn’t stay outside your door.
It followed him straight into your home.
Straight into your bedroom.
That this—the broken door, the blood on your floor, the corpse where you sleep—is his fault.
And now you’re going to leave.
You step toward him immediately.
“Andrew.”
He doesn’t answer.
His gaze stays fixed somewhere past you, like if he looks too closely he’ll see the exact moment you decide you’ve had enough.
You reach out and grab his arm, forcing him to look at you.
The second his eyes meet yours you see it clearly.
That flicker. That quiet expectation. The bracing. The moment before rejection.
You shake your head before he can retreat into it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say quietly.
“I meant what I said. I’m choosing you. Every damn time.”
His brow furrows slightly. Like he’s trying to decide whether you mean it. Like part of him has already prepared for the opposite.
Then something shifts behind his eyes.
Not relief.
Not exactly.
Something deeper.
You step closer.
“I’m not scared of you,” you say softly.
Your hand finds the front of his shirt, curling lightly into the fabric over his chest.
For a moment he just stands there, looking down at you. Then his hand lifts slowly and covers yours where it rests against him.
Your fingers are still trembling.
He feels it immediately.
His thumb presses down once, squeezing your hand in a quiet grounding gesture.
A small, silent promise.
Then he exhales and looks back down at the body on the floor.
Andrew stands over it for a long moment, his eyes moving slowly across the room.
The floor.
The walls.
The hallway behind you.
He’s mapping everything now. Every drop of blood. Every surface you might have touched. Every mistake that could still be undone.
Then his eyes return to you.
They move over you slowly this time, taking everything in the way he always does when something matters.
Blood has begun to dry along your fingers, darkening in thin lines across the creases of your skin. It streaks across your wrists where it ran down your hands earlier, the stains uneven and tacky now as the air begins to set them.
There’s a faint smear along your cheek too, something you must have brushed there without realizing when you wiped your face.
And now it’s on him.
Where you grabbed his arm.
Where your hands pressed into his chest when you threw yourself against him at the door.
Dark marks against the fabric of his shirt.
Against his skin.
For a moment he just looks at it.
At the blood.
At you.
Like the sight of it on you lands harder than the body on the floor ever did.
Andrew moves toward you.
Slow and Careful.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
Your eyes lift to him immediately.
You suddenly feel small standing there barefoot in the hallway, shaking beneath the hallway light.
He reaches for your hands.
Gently.
His fingers wrap around your wrists and turn them over slowly, lifting them into the light like something fragile he’s afraid might break. His thumbs move across your palms with careful pressure, tracing the lines of your skin while he inspects them for cuts, for glass, for anything that might have slipped in while everything was happening.
His brow tightens slightly as he checks between your fingers, the pads of his thumbs brushing across your knuckles.
Making sure you’re not hurt.
Only when he seems satisfied does he loosen his grip.
“Come here.”
Then he guides you toward the bathroom, one steady hand resting at the small of your back as he leads you down the short hallway.
The faucet turns on.
Cold water rushes over your hands as he holds them beneath the stream, his fingers steady around your wrists.
The blood begins to slide away in thin pink ribbons down the drain. You’re shaking too badly to hold them still. Andrew steadies them for you. His thumb brushes slowly across the back of your hand.
“Breathe,” he murmurs.
You try. Your chest shudders as the air comes in uneven pulls.
He dries your hands with a towel, carefully wiping between your fingers, making sure the last traces of blood disappear. He brings a clean corner across your cheek, cleaning there too.
Then he looks at you again.
“You listening?”
You nod.
He gestures toward the bedroom.
“I’m gonna take care of this.”
Your stomach flips.
Andrew sees the reaction move across your face.
His voice softens just a fraction.
“You don’t gotta watch.”
You swallow But you don’t move.
He disappears down the hallway.
For a moment the house feels strangely hollow without him there, the silence broken only by the faint sounds drifting back toward you. Closet doors sliding open. The soft scrape of hangers shifting along a metal bar. The muted rustle of fabric being pulled free.
Your pulse thuds in your ears while you stand there, trying not to look at the shape on the floor.
A moment later Andrew returns.
He’s carrying a clean bedsheet from your linen closet, the pale fabric folded over one arm.
His expression hasn’t changed.
He moves with the same quiet, controlled efficiency you saw earlier, like his body has slipped fully into a rhythm it knows by heart. There’s no hesitation in the way he crosses the room, no wasted movement.
He spreads the sheet across the floor beside the body, the fabric whispering softly against the tile as it unfolds.
Then he crouches.
One hand grips the man beneath the shoulders, the other bracing against the weight of him. With a single practiced motion he rolls the body onto the sheet.
The impact lands with a dull, heavy thud that echoes through the room.
You flinch.
The sound of the body hitting the floor reverberates through you before you can stop it, a sharp reflex that makes your shoulders jerk. Your breath catches for a second, the reality of it all crashing back in.
Andrew notices.
You see it in the quick flick of his eyes toward you.
But he doesn’t stop.
He keeps moving, steady and deliberate. He gathers the edges of the sheet and pulls them up around the body, wrapping the fabric tightly, folding it over itself again and again until the shape beneath it begins to lose its definition.
Arms disappear.
Legs vanish beneath the layers.
The outline of a man slowly collapses into something indistinct.
Less human.
Just weight.
Just a problem to move.
Andrew stands, lifting the bundled body with a quiet grunt of effort.
Your eyes widen. “Andrew—”
“I got it.”
He carries the weight down the hallway like it’s nothing. Like he’s done this before.
The night air rushes in through the broken door as he disappears outside.
You stand frozen in the hallway, your brain struggling to catch up with the reality of what’s happening.
This is real. You’re part of it now.
A few minutes later you hear the truck door slam outside.
Andrew comes back in.
He moves straight toward you.
Your breathing has picked up again.
He notices immediately.
His hand comes up, cupping the back of your neck.
“Hey.”
You look up at him your eyes are glassy and dazed.
“You okay?”
You nod automatically.
You’re not.
But you nod anyway.
Andrew studies you for another second.
Not just a glance. A careful look, the way he does when he’s trying to read something that hasn’t been said out loud yet. His eyes move over your face, the tremor still sitting in your shoulders, the way your breathing hasn’t quite steadied.
Then he reaches into his pocket.
His hand comes back out and he presses something into your palm.
Cold metal touches your skin.
Keys.
They settle into your hand with a faint clink as your fingers close slowly around them, the edges pressing into your palm like they’re heavier than they should be.
“My place.”
You blink.
“Go there,” he says quietly. “Wait for me.”
“What are you gonna do?”
His voice stays calm.
“I’m gonna clean this up.” A beat. “Then I’m gonna take a drive.”
You know exactly what that means.
The desert.
He lifts your chin gently with two fingers so you’re looking at him. “Doors lock automatically,” he says. “Alarm’s already set.”
You nod again.
Your voice is small.
“Okay.”
Andrew leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.
After a mass shooting at PittFest leaves you injured and stranded in the ER, a long, chaotic night introduces you to the night attending at PTMC. Turns out he might have stitched up something else you didn’t even know was hurt.
CW: Mass Shooting, Gun Violence, Injury / Gunshot Wound, Reader! Injured, Blood, Medical Trauma, Active Shooter Situation, Panic / Fear, Trauma Aftermath, Child in Danger, Strangers to Something More, Meet Cute in the ER, Hurt/Comfort. Slow Burn Potential, Croissants Are Plot Relevant, Jack Abbott x F! Reader, No Use of YN, No Physical Description of Reader
gif not mine credit goes to the creator
AN: Please read the warnings on this kids. I’ve been waiting my whole life to exchange fictional banter with this old man.
Next Part
PittFest was exactly what the news coverage that evening had described it as. A blood-soaked nightmare.
The first shot cracked through the air and you didn’t even look up.
You were still behind your booth, fussing with the pastry display like the world depended on it. Turning empty spaces into neat little rows so the gaps from sold-out items didn’t look so obvious. Sliding croissants forward. Re-centering the lemon bars. Hiding the empty tray that had once held the raspberry hand pies everyone had been obsessing over since nine that morning.
You remember thinking it sounded like a car backfiring somewhere in a distant parking lot. It was Annoying and Loud But normal.
It had been a good day.
The kind vendors hoped for when they woke up before sunrise to haul folding tables and coolers and pastry boxes across the city. The kind of day you let yourself believe meant maybe, just maybe, you weren’t going to drown under invoices and butter prices and whatever new “small business expense” the universe decided to invent for you this week.
People laughing. Kids walking around with powdered sugar on their faces like they’d stuck their heads into a bag of flour. Someone down the street playing music too loudly through a speaker that crackled on the bass notes. The air smelled like kettle corn and coffee and summer heat baking against asphalt. Sun on your shoulders. Sweat at your hairline. That sticky, sweet film festivals leave on everything.
The second shot was when the screaming started.
You looked up just in time to see the crowd shift. Not scatter. Not yet. First it just rippled.
Confusion spreading through the crowd like a stone dropped in water. Heads turning. Conversations stuttering. A strange collective hesitation where no one quite understood what they had heard, because nobody wants to be the first person to say it out loud.
Gun.
Then the third shot rang out And the panic detonated. Bodies rushed past your booth in a screaming wave. Someone knocked over a table. Someone else tripped and disappeared beneath a surge of running legs. The sound of shoes pounding pavement mixed with shouting and the rising pitch of people crying for help, a hundred voices climbing for the same air.
And the gunfire didn’t stop.
You dropped instantly, ducking behind the folding table of your booth.
Your heart slammed so violently in your chest you were sure someone nearby could hear it over the chaos. It didn’t feel like a heartbeat. It felt like a warning siren trapped in your ribcage.
You had no idea where the shots were coming from. Didn’t know if running meant escape Or running straight toward the line of fire.
So you stayed. Frozen. Every muscle locked in place, your mind reduced to one blunt directive: don’t move.
Until a small voice broke through the chaos.
“Help!”
You turned. A little girl stood a few feet away, stranded in the middle of the moving tide of bodies. Maybe five. Maybe six.Tears streaked down her cheeks, her little sneakers planted stubbornly in place while the world stampeded around her. She looked impossibly small against all those adult bodies and swinging elbows and flying bags.
“Mommy!” she cried. “Mommy!”
Something inside you snapped into motion. You had never thought of yourself as particularly maternal. Definitely not brave.
You were a college dropout who had cruised from career to career before finally deciding, apparently against all financial wisdom, to open a bakery in the year of our lord Ozempic.
But instinct didn’t ask for a résumé. It didn’t ask if you were qualified. It just pushed you out from behind the table and into the open like your body belonged to something older than fear.
You had barely taken two steps when something hot tore through your shoulder. For a split second you thought someone had shoved you. Just the force of someone crashing into you while they ran.
Then the pain arrived. White-hot. Electric. Like lightning had shot straight through your arm and exploded under your skin.
Your vision flashed white at the edges. Sound went thin and far away, like your head had been dunked underwater. Your stomach dropped hard and cold.
You staggered but you kept moving. You grabbed the little girl around the waist and hauled her back with you, half dragging, half carrying her as you dove under the table again.
“Hey—hey—hey, it’s okay,” you whispered frantically, pulling her against you as the sound of gunfire echoed down the street. “It’s okay. We’ll find your mom and dad, okay? You’re okay.”
You weren’t sure if you were talking to her or to yourself. She clung to you instantly. Small arms wrapping around your neck as she sobbed into your chest.
Her little body trembled like a leaf caught in a storm, each shake jolting through you like a metronome counting down something terrible.
You pressed your back against the metal leg of the table, trying to make yourself smaller. Trying to shield her. Trying to become a wall.
When a hand suddenly landed on your shoulder. You screamed. Not just from fear. The touch sent a jagged bolt of agony tearing through your body, bright and immediate, like your nerves had been peeled open.
You twisted around to see a police officer crouched beside you.
“Where are you shot?” she asked quickly.
Shot? The word barely registered. You followed her gaze down to your shoulder. Your shirt was soaked through. Dark. Heavy. Thick with blood. You hadn’t even noticed. Adrenaline had made you stupid.
“I—I don’t know,” you said breathlessly, gesturing toward the girl clinging to you. “She lost her parents.”
Trying to redirect attention away from yourself. Surely the care of this child was a job for an actual adult. Not someone who spent most of their days arguing with flour suppliers and calculating butter margins, pretending that spreadsheets and sugar were enough to make a life.
The officer glanced at the girl before pressing a hand to her radio.
“Shooter’s moving away,” someone crackled through the speaker.
The officer stood and grabbed your arm.
“Come with me.”
“What about—”
“Bring her.”
You scooped the girl up the best you could.
Your shoulder screamed in protest as you lifted her, the movement pulling sharply against the wound, but you held her tight against your hip anyway. The pain had a rhythm now, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, sending heat down your arm like it was trying to set you on fire from the inside.
You tried to keep her away from the blood soaking through your shirt.
Everything after that blurred.
People shoved into the back of a Good Samaritan’s van. Someone crying. Someone praying. The doors slammed shut and suddenly you were moving.
Sirens somewhere in the distance, slicing the air like knives. Streetlights streaking through the windows in bright bands. The city outside looking normal in that horrible way cities do during tragedies, like the world doesn’t even notice you’re breaking.
Your brain felt wrapped in cotton. You were afraid and confused, sad too. And underneath it all, a boiling, helpless anger that sat in your stomach like a stone.
The little girl slowly quieted in your arms during the ride. Aside from a few scrapes on her knee and elbow, she didn’t seem injured.
Maybe she had simply cried herself out. Your heart ached looking at her. Too young. Too young to be this afraid. Too young to see how cruel the world could be.
You tightened your grip on her without thinking.
She nestled closer to your side, small fingers fiddling with the bracelets on your wrist. Cheap metal links and beads and one charm that read lucky, the kind of thing you bought impulsively at a craft market because it made you smile.
Her little fingers worried it like a rosary.
The repetitive motion soothed both of you in a strange, fragile way, like if you could just keep the pattern going you could keep the night from swallowing you whole.
Eventually the van doors flew open.
Doctors appeared above you like angels under fluorescent light, faces washed out in that bright glare, eyes sharp, mouths already forming questions.
They pulled the worst injured out first. Then someone reached for the little girl on your lap.
She screamed. “NO!”
Her arms locked around your neck as she thrashed against the doctor trying to separate you. Panic turned her body into something feral, all elbows and desperation.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” the doctor said gently. “We’re just going to help you and mommy—”
“She’s not mine,” you blurted quickly. “She lost her parents.”
The doctor didn’t even pause.
“Is she hurt?”
You shook your head. “I don’t think so.”
Her eyes flicked down to your shoulder, where blood had started dripping down your arm again, fresh and slick now that you were moving.
“Where are you hit?”
“Shoulder, I think,” you said. “It’s not bad. I can wait.”
Even as you said it, you heard how insane it sounded. You could taste iron in the back of your throat, like your body was reminding you what was leaving.
She slapped a colored hospital band around your wrist before you could protest further.
“Let’s get you inside.”
They helped guide you out of the van and into the emergency department.
Chaos didn’t even begin to describe it.
The screams from PittFest had followed you here.
The air smelled like antiseptic and blood, sharp and sterile over something warmer and metallic underneath. Doctors rushed past pushing stretchers. Nurses shouted vitals across the room. Somewhere a monitor flatlined and someone yelled for a crash cart, the words cracking like a whip.
Everything was too bright. Too loud. Too close.
The little girl began crying again. Loud, terrified sobs that echoed through the emergency room, cutting through the noise like a siren.
The blood. The shouting. The panic. Even in her tiny body she understood this wasn’t normal.
You held her tighter.
“Hey,” you whispered softly against her hair. “Hey… it’s okay. I’m right here.”
Even though your shoulder burned.
Even though your hands were shaking.
Even though you had no idea what you were supposed to do next, or if there even was a next that made sense.
⸻
Time passed.
You weren’t sure how much.
Long enough that the screaming in the ER dulled into something lower. More controlled. Like the building itself had taken a breath and decided it couldn’t afford to fall apart.
The frantic surge of the first wave settled into the relentless rhythm of emergency medicine.
Stretchers still rolled past. Nurses still moved quickly. But the sharp edge of panic had softened into grim focus, the kind of focus that belongs to night shifts, to people who know dawn is coming whether you’re ready or not.
Someone eventually sat you in a chair against the wall.
You had learned the little girl’s name was Marybeth.
Her favorite color was green.
And she loved butterflies most of all.
She said it like a secret, like if she spoke about butterflies out loud then the night might remember there were still gentle things in the world.
A social worker had crouched beside you earlier, speaking softly while scribbling notes onto a clipboard.
She kept her voice gentle, like gentleness was a tool in her pocket.
“What’s your mommy’s name, sweetheart?” she asked. “Do you know your address? Your phone number?”
Marybeth’s face crumpled like the questions were too sharp to hold. She answered what she could. Details minimal but specific enough that they could lead somewhere.
The social worker didn’t push. She just nodded, wrote something down, and glanced up at you like she was taking stock of the situation in the same quiet, practiced way everyone in this building seemed to.
“We’re waiting on police,” she explained. “Most officers are still tied up with the active shooter.”
The words should’ve sounded unreal.
They didn’t.
“They’ll come when they can,” she continued. “If her parents aren’t located, they’ll take her to… wherever they’re staging families.”
A beat.
“In the meantime,” she said, shifting her weight, “I can bring you to one of the waiting rooms. It’s quieter. There are snacks. Toys.”
Marybeth reacted like the suggestion was an insult with A furious shake of her head. No. Her little hand fisted tighter in your shirt like she could anchor herself there, like if she let go for even a second she’d disappear again.
Even though you were covered in blood. Even though you were propped against the wall in a daze, shoulder burning, eyes too dry, brain too slow.
The social worker’s gaze moved to you then, eyebrows lifting in a silent question.
Are you okay with this?
You swallowed and Nodded.
“It’s okay,” you said, voice rough. “We can wait together if she wants.”
The social worker gave a small, grateful nod, like you’d just made her job easier in a night full of impossible choices.
“All right,” she murmured, softer now. “We’ll do it that way.”
And you stayed right there with Marybeth pressed into your chest, waiting for the next step to arrive like everything else tonight had: late, loud, and out of your control.
At some point she cried herself into exhaustion.
Now she was half asleep against your chest, warm and heavy, her small body curled instinctively toward yours. There was something ancient in the way kids fold into safety, like they’re born already knowing where to put their trust.
One tiny hand remained tangled loosely in the bracelets on your wrist.
Every now and then she sniffled. You shifted slightly, careful not to wake her. Your shoulder pulsed in slow, rhythmic waves.
The adrenaline that had carried you through the last hour had long since burned away, leaving behind a deep, throbbing ache that spread down your arm and into your fingertips. Your hand felt swollen. Your whole right side felt wrong.
Your shirt had dried stiff with blood.
It clung to you like a second skin, heavy and crusted, pulling when you breathed too deep.
But every time someone passed, they were rushing somewhere more urgent.
So you stayed quiet. Nighttime had a way of doing that. Of making you smaller. Of convincing you that if you just stay still enough, you won’t take up space someone else needs.
Then a man stopped in front of you. He moved with the quiet certainty of someone who had spent most of his life walking through disasters. Dark scrubs. A stethoscope draped around his neck like it had lived there for days.
His dark hair was slightly disheveled, the kind of messy that came from pushing tired hands through it between patients, Peppered with streaks of grey and sliver.
There were shadows beneath his eyes. Not careless. Just exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t slow him down.
He crouched down in front of you, lowering himself easily so he was level with the little girl.
One forearm rested loosely on his knee. Posture relaxed. Attentive. Like he had done this exact thing a thousand times before.
His voice came out low and steady.
“Well,” he said gently, careful not to startle her, “I heard you clear across the ER earlier.”
Marybeth blinked groggily up at him.
“You’ve got a serious set of lungs on you,” he continued, a thread of dry humor in his tone. “Maybe your mom will take you to audition for American Idol someday.”
You winced. Not entirely sure if it was your shoulder or the line.
“You know that show’s been off the air for like… a decade, right?”
He glanced up at you. Really looked at you for the first time. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to have teeth through the fatigue.
Then one corner of his mouth lifted. Not a full smile. Just a crooked half-smirk. “Tough crowd.”
You shifted Marybeth slightly higher on your chest. “I’m just saying.”
He leaned back against the wall beside you, like the ER wasn’t screaming around him, like he could carve out a pocket of calm with nothing but posture and stubbornness.
“Maybe I’ve got every season saved on my TiVo.”
You snorted. “TiVo? What decade do you think this is?”
“Oh, I still use a horse and buggy,” he said dryly.
It should’ve been ridiculous. And it was. But the way he said it, deadpan and unbothered, it almost sounded like confession. Like he’d lived long enough in the dark that a little anachronism didn’t scare him.
Marybeth sighed softly and burrowed deeper into your shoulder.
The doctor’s expression softened when he looked at her. Then his gaze dropped. To your shoulder. To the dark stain spreading across your shirt. The change in him was immediate. Relaxed posture gone.
Professional now, the way the night turns people into instruments.
“How you doing, mom?” he asked quietly. “Mind if I take a look at that shoulder?”
“I’m not a mom.”
He blinked once. “Sister?”
“Nope.”
“Babysitter?”
“Total and complete stranger.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“She got separated from her parents during the shooting,” you said quietly. “We’re waiting for the police.”
He studied you for a moment. Not in a judgmental way. Just… assessing. The way you’d seen people look at storm damage on the news. Calculating what broke, what held, what shouldn’t have survived but did.
Then he nodded slowly. “Well,” he said, “I guess that makes you one of the heroes today.”
You laughed softly, the sound thin around the edges. “Hardly.”
You gestured toward the chaos around the ER.
“I think that title belongs to you guys.”
His eyes dropped back to your shoulder.
“No one’s looked at this yet?”
You shook your head. “There were people worse off.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“…No.”
His jaw tightened slightly. Not anger. Something else. A quiet irritation at the universe. At triage. At the way good people always try to make themselves smaller.
He dragged a stool closer and sat down in front of you. “Mind if I take care of it now?”
You nodded. “Yeah. That’d be great.”
He pulled on gloves and carefully peeled the fabric of your shirt away from the wound.
Air hit it and Pain exploded through your shoulder. You sucked in a sharp breath, the sound turning sharp in your teeth.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“You don’t need to apologize,” you said weakly. “I don’t think you’re the one who shot me.”
That crooked half-smile flickered again.
“I promise you,” he said, examining the wound carefully, “if I had shot you, I would’ve stitched you up sooner.”
You watched him work. His hands were steady. Precise. Gentle in that efficient way that made it feel more intimate than it had any right to.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
You told him. He nodded once.
“I’m Doctor Abbott,” he said.
He reached for the suture kit. “This is probably going to sting.”
“Will it hurt more or less than getting shot?”
“Less.”
“Then I’m game.”
He cleaned the wound carefully, disinfectant cold and biting, the smell sharp enough to cut through the fog in your brain.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I run a bakery,” you said. “It’s not far from here. Honey & Crumb.”
His eyebrow lifted. “The place with the pistachio croissant things?”
You blinked at him.
“Doctor Abbott,” you said slowly, “didn’t take you for a pastry guy.”
Another small smirk, a little sharper, like you’d hit something true. “ER runs on two things,” he said, threading the needle. “Caffeine and sugar.”
“Marybeth!”
The voice cut across the emergency room.
It wasn’t loud in the way the ER had been loud all night. Not the frantic shouting of doctors or the sharp commands of nurses calling out vitals.
This voice carried something else. Panic. Hope. Desperation. Like someone had been holding their breath for hours and finally found a crack of air.
You lifted your head just slightly. Across the room, near the social worker you’d spoken with earlier, a woman stood in the open space between two trauma bays. Her hair was disheveled, her shirt half untucked like she had been running for hours. Her eyes moved frantically across the room, scanning faces, searching through the chaos.
“Marybeth!” she cried again, her voice cracking.
The little girl in your arms jolted upright.
For a second she looked disoriented, still half caught between sleep and the nightmare of the last hour. Then her eyes locked onto the woman across the room and recognition hit instantly.
“Mommy?” she whispered.
The sudden movement pulled against your shoulder and you winced sharply, a fresh throb of pain radiating down your arm, but you forced yourself to stay perfectly still so you didn’t jostle her.
Across the room, the woman saw her.
“Oh my god—Marybeth!”
She broke into a run.
Marybeth didn’t wait. The little girl scrambled out of your lap as fast as her small body could manage, bare little sneakers slapping against the hospital floor as she bolted toward her mother.
The two of them collided halfway across the ER. The woman dropped to her knees as Marybeth launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around her mother’s neck. The force of it nearly knocked them both over, the woman sinking fully onto the floor as she pulled her daughter tight against her chest.
“Baby—oh my god—baby—”
She clutched the girl like she was afraid someone might try to take her away again.
Marybeth buried her face into her mother’s shoulder, both of them crying openly now, the kind of sobs that come from terror finally breaking loose.
Around them, the ER continued moving. Stretchers rolled past. Monitors beeped. Doctors and nurses hurried by. But for a moment, that small pocket of the room felt strangely still.
You found yourself smiling despite everything. The relief washed over you so suddenly it made your chest ache. The pain in your shoulder faded into the background, replaced by something warmer.
Something lighter.
The woman pulled back just enough to look Marybeth over, frantic hands checking her arms, her face, her hair.
“Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?”
Marybeth shook her head, still hiccuping through tears. The woman’s gaze lifted then. And landed on you.
For a moment her face simply held shock. Then understanding. She carefully helped Marybeth to her feet before walking over, still clutching the girl tightly to her side.
Up close, her eyes were red from crying.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you so much.”
The words tumbled out like she couldn’t say them fast enough.
“I couldn’t find her. I looked everywhere—someone said she got taken to a hospital and I thought—” Her voice broke again. “I thought…”
You felt heat creep up your neck under the attention. You shrugged awkwardly, glancing down toward your lap, down toward your hands that were still faintly shaking like they hadn’t gotten the memo that it was over.
“She found me, honestly,” you said quietly. “I just… held onto her.”
Marybeth squeezed her mother’s hand tightly. “I stayed with the lady,” she announced proudly, pointing at you.
The woman’s eyes filled again. “Thank you,” she repeated softly.
You nodded once, unsure what else to say.
Behind you, Doctor Abbott had gone still.
For a man who had spent the entire night moving quickly from patient to patient, he suddenly seemed content to pause.
Just long enough to watch the reunion unfold.
His hands rested loosely on his knees where he sat beside you, the suture needle still poised between his fingers.
There was something softer in his expression now. A quiet kind of approval. Not flashy. Not sentimental. Just the look of someone who had seen a lot of terrible endings tonight and was grateful, for once, to witness a good one.
After a moment he cleared his throat lightly.
“Well,” he said in that dry, steady voice of his, “I’d call that a successful discharge.”
Marybeth sniffled.
Her mother laughed weakly through her tears.
And you finally let out the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since the moment the first gunshot cracked through the air, like your lungs had been clenched around it this whole time.
The mother lingered a moment longer. Long enough to thank you again. And again. The words seemed to spill out of her like they had been building pressure inside her chest all night. Gratitude layered over exhaustion, over shock, over the kind of fear that leaves your hands shaking even after the danger has passed.
Marybeth stayed glued to her side now, fingers tangled into the fabric of her mother’s shirt like she planned to keep hold of her forever.
Before they left, the little girl tugged free for just a second.
She padded back toward you on quiet feet, her eyes still shiny from crying but brighter now, steadier. You instinctively leaned forward, ignoring the pull in your shoulder.
She wrapped her small arms around you in a quick, fierce hug. The kind children give when they mean it with their whole body.
“Bye,” she said softly.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Bye, kiddo,” you murmured, careful not to squeeze her too tightly with your good arm.
Her mother called her name gently from the doorway. Marybeth scampered back to her side, and this time when they walked away, they didn’t look back.
You watched them go. Mother and daughter disappearing together into the night.
Only when they were fully gone did the room seem to rush back in, like someone had turned the sound back up.
You let out a small breath. Then laughed quietly to yourself, the sound half hysterical, half relieved. “They grow up quick, huh?”
Across from you, Doctor Abbott didn’t look up right away. He was focused on your shoulder again, his hands steady as he worked. The needle moved with practiced precision, his fingers guiding the thread through skin with the calm efficiency of someone who had done this thousands of times before.
Only after tying off the stitch did he glance up. His expression held that same crooked, dry sort of amusement you’d noticed earlier.
“Yeah,” he said. A beat passed as he reached for the next suture. He pulled the thread through with careful tension before continuing. “Usually takes more than two hours though.”
Your laugh came out a little louder this time.
The motion made your shoulder protest, but the warmth of it pushed the pain somewhere distant, as if your body finally remembered it was allowed to feel something other than terror.
Doctor Abbott shook his head faintly, the ghost of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as he continued stitching.
For a moment, the chaos of the ER seemed to settle into the background.
Just the quiet pull of thread. The soft clink of instruments. The steady, stubborn presence of a man who moved through nights like this as if they were his natural element, like darkness was something he understood better than daylight.
Doctor Abbott tied off the last stitch with a small, precise tug of the thread. The needle disappeared back onto the tray beside him with a soft metallic clink.
He sat back slightly on the stool, studying the line of sutures across your shoulder like a mechanic checking his work.
Across the ER, the noise of the night carried on.
A gurney rattled past. Someone called for a respiratory consult. A monitor beeped steadily somewhere down the hall.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then he reached for a strip of gauze and taped it carefully over the stitches, fingers brushing your skin with a touch that was purely practical and still managed to feel like something else in the aftermath.
“Anyone picking you up?” he asked.
The question was casual, but the way he glanced at you said it wasn’t entirely small talk.
You shifted in the chair.
“Does Uber count?”
One of his eyebrows lifted. “Would hate to see the surge charges right now,” he said dryly.
You huffed out a laugh. “What, they don’t offer mass shooting discounts?”
He paused mid-motion, for half a second his mouth twitched like he was deciding whether to scold you or laugh. Then the corner of his mouth won. He peeled off his gloves, snapping them into the trash beside him.
“You got a friend you can call?” he asked.
You hesitated. Your fingers fidgeted with the bracelets Marybeth had been playing with earlier, like you needed something to hold onto besides the chair.
“I’ll figure it out.”
Doctor Abbott didn’t respond right away. He studied you again, the same way he had earlier when you told him Marybeth wasn’t yours. Like he was quietly running calculations in the background. Like he was weighing the cost of letting you walk back into the night alone.
His posture shifted slightly, elbows resting loosely on his knees as he leaned forward.
“You lost a lot of blood tonight,” he said matter-of-factly. “Got shot. Sat here holding a kid for who knows how long.”
A beat.
“You’re not exactly in peak Uber condition.”
You smiled faintly. “I’ve had worse nights.”
That crooked half-smile returned. “I doubt that.”
He stood then, unfolding from the stool in a slow, easy motion. He was taller than you had realized sitting down, broad-shouldered beneath the rumpled scrubs. The overhead lights caught the faint gray threading through his dark hair, the kind that comes from years of night shifts and stress and running on caffeine and stubbornness.
For a second it looked like he might say something else. Like there was another thought sitting just behind his eyes. Instead, he turned and reached for a clipboard resting on the counter behind him.
“Sit tight,” he said.
Your brow furrowed.
“For what?”
He scribbled something quickly onto your patient papers, his handwriting quick and efficient, the pen scratching across the page. He handed the clipboard off to a nurse passing by without even looking up.
Then he glanced back at you.
“Why don’t you stay here and rest up a bit before heading out.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “How much is that going to cost me?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, voice calm, steady. “I’ll take care of it.”
Something about the way he said it sent a strange little shiver down your spine. Damn.
Did he have to say it like that? Like it wasn’t even a question. Like it was already decided. Before you could come up with something smart to say back, he was already moving again.
Doctor Abbott slipped back into motion like he had never stopped, disappearing into the organized chaos of the emergency department. A nurse intercepted him halfway down the hall, talking quickly while he listened, already reaching for a chart.
Just another patient. Just another crisis. Just another night. And suddenly you were alone again. You sat there with fresh stitches pulling gently at your shoulder, a borrowed hospital blanket draped loosely around you that still smelled faintly like disinfectant and laundry soap.
Across the ER, the rhythm of the night continued. Monitors beeped and Voices overlapped.
Somewhere a trauma team rushed a gurney through swinging doors.
But for the first time since PittFest, the world felt… still.
Your body was finally catching up to the night. The adrenaline gone. Leaving behind exhaustion so deep it settled into your bones. You pulled the blanket a little tighter around yourself, like you could cinch the dark at the edges and keep it from getting back in..
⸻
You didn’t realize you had fallen asleep.
Not really.
One moment you’d been staring across the emergency room, watching the steady blur of doctors and nurses moving through the night like some strange choreography of urgency and exhaustion. A rhythm made of rubber soles and rattling gurney wheels, of clipped voices and distant alarms. People orbiting each other in tight patterns, avoiding collisions by instinct alone.
The next, the world had gone quiet.
Not because it actually quieted. The ER never truly did. But because your body finally stopped trying to keep up with it.
It simply decided it was done.
Your chin must have dipped at some point. Your eyes must have closed. You must have let go without meaning to, like a fist unclenching after hours of holding on too tight.
A gentle touch nudged your arm.
Not urgent or rough. Just enough to pull you slowly back to the surface.
You blinked awake, groggy and disoriented, the fluorescent lights overhead blurring together for a moment before the room slowly came back into focus. The air felt colder than it had earlier. Or maybe you were just less numb now.
A nurse stood beside you, balancing a small paper cup of water in one hand and a wrapped sandwich in the other.
“Hey,” she said softly, like she had done this a hundred times before. “You hungry?”
Your brain took a second to catch up with the question.
Your stomach turned faintly at the thought of food, a slow roll of nausea that made your throat tighten.
You shook your head.
But your mouth felt like it had been lined with dust.
“Can I… have the water though? Please.”
She smiled at that.
“Yeah, of course.”
She held the cup carefully while you leaned forward and took a few small sips. The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly like the paper cup it came in, but it hit your throat like mercy. Like something simple and clean in a night that had been nothing but blood and noise.
Your throat loosened a little.
Your head cleared just enough to remember where you were.
The nurse set the sandwich down beside you anyway, like she knew you might change your mind later. Like she knew bodies are stubborn and survival has rules, even when you don’t feel like playing along.
“How’re you feeling?” she asked.
You thought about it.
Your shoulder throbbed in a slow, dull rhythm under the bandage. Your body felt heavy, like every muscle had decided to clock out at the same time. Your skin felt too tight. Your hands still had that faint tremor, like your nerves were still trying to run.
But you were alive.
And Marybeth had found her mom.
That was more than what some people were getting tonight.
“I’m okay,” you said quietly, because anything else felt too big to say out loud.
The nurse nodded like she’d heard that exact answer from a hundred people who weren’t okay, not really, just functioning.
“Anyone you want me to call?”
You hesitated.
Images flickered through your mind. Your mom’s face. The way her voice would spike if she heard even half of this. The immediate panic that would follow if she heard the words gunshot and hospital in the same sentence. The flood of questions you didn’t have the energy to answer.
You shook your head quickly.
“No, that’s okay.”
A beat passed, the nurse still watching you gently, patiently.
“Do you happen to have a phone charger I could borrow?”
The nurse laughed softly.
“Yeah, we’ve got a drawer full of them. I’ll grab one for you.”
She disappeared for a moment, weaving easily through the organized chaos of the ER. When she returned a few minutes later she held out a charger like she had just retrieved it from a treasure chest.
“Here you go.”
She crouched down beside you to plug it into the wall, then helped guide the cord toward your phone, which was clinging to life somewhere in the low single digits. A thin red battery icon and a warning that felt almost insulting, like your phone was also judging your life choices.
Your screen flickered to life as the battery icon lit up.
“There we go,” she said, patting the chair lightly before standing again. “Try to rest, okay?”
You nodded.
But this time, sleep didn’t come.
Instead you sat there with the charger cord stretched across your lap, scrolling slowly through the wall of missed calls and messages lighting up your phone. The world demanding proof you were still in it.
Friends.
Family.
Neighbors.
People checking in.
People who had seen the news.
People who had already started imagining the worst.
You typed the same response over and over until the words started to blur.
I’m okay.
Yes, I’m safe.
No, I’m not hurt badly.
Your thumb hovered over your mom’s contact for a long moment. You could almost hear her picking up, the sharp inhale she’d try to hide, the way she’d immediately start bargaining with the universe.
You swallowed.
Then you sent a quick text to your sister instead.
I’m fine. Please don’t call Mom yet.
The little typing bubble popped up almost instantly. You exhaled slowly and leaned your head back against the wall again, letting the quiet hum of the emergency room settle around you. The night shift had its own sound. Not silence, never silence. Just… endurance.
You were halfway through answering another text when the room shifted.
Not in a loud way.
The ER never truly quieted, but the rhythm had changed again. The sharp panic of the first wave had long faded into something steadier now. Controlled chaos. The kind that hummed through the night shift like electricity through old wires, keeping everything moving even when the people inside it were running on fumes.
You rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand and blinked down at your phone screen.
Your sister had sent back three rapid-fire messages.
Are you serious??
You got SHOT?
I am absolutely calling mom.
You groaned softly, the sound scraping out of you.
Then you typed back with the last remaining shred of authority you had left in your body.
Do not call mom. PLEASE 🙏
The typing bubble appeared again immediately. then disappeared. You were about to respond when a voice spoke beside you.
Low. Calm. Dry in that familiar way that somehow managed to sound both tired and completely in control.
“How ya feeling, hero?”
You looked up.
Doctor Abbott stood beside your chair, one hand holding a patient chart. For a moment you were honestly surprised to see him. You had assumed the night had swallowed him whole.
The ER seemed like the kind of place where doctors like him just kept moving until the sun came up. Like they belonged to the dark more than the daylight, stitched into it, part of its machinery.
“If I were a hero,” you said slowly, stretching your stiff neck, “I’d probably say something like, ‘Oh, all in a day’s work. I’m fine. Bring on more gunshots.’”
You rubbed your face tiredly, fingers dragging down your cheeks like you could pull the exhaustion off. “But to be completely honest,” you added, voice rough, “I feel like shit and I’m ready to crash.”
He glanced briefly at the chart in his hand before looking back at you. “Well,” he said, “you’re ready to be discharged if you’re up for it.”
A pause.
“Did you eat?”
Your eyes drifted toward the sandwich the nurse had left beside you. Still untouched. Still making you feel nauseous.
“Can I please just do it tomorrow?” you groaned quietly. “I’m so tired. I just wanna crawl into my bed and sleep for the next twenty-three days straight.”
Abbott’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “Can’t deprive the city of their pistachio croissants, chef.”
You blinked at him.
“Wow,” you said. “You’re really committed to that pastry thing, huh?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, and this time he didn’t dodge it. “I’ve got a real sweet tooth.”
The words landed with the same calm directness he used for everything else, which somehow made it worse. Or better. You couldn’t decide. Like he was stating a diagnosis. Like he was letting you in on something on purpose.
You smiled at him, suddenly feeling a little shy. “I’ll make sure you get one.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Special delivery?”
You straightened a little in your chair, suddenly feeling a flicker of energy return, like your body remembered you were still capable of being a person.
“It can be arranged,” you said. “I know a guy.”
His mouth twitched again.
“Think of it as my way of saying thank you,” you added, “for not letting me die or get a gnarly infection.”
Abbott’s gaze flicked briefly toward your shoulder.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
You narrowed your eyes, because of course that’s what he said. Of course he didn’t let you have anything clean or simple.
Then you leaned back in the chair again.
“Okay,” you said. “I’ll hold off on the croissant delivery until after the gangrene window.”
That got an actual laugh out of him. Short. Quiet. But real.
For a moment the two of you just stood there in the strange, dimmed glow of the ER night shift. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. Somewhere down the hall a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm.
For a second, you were grateful your own wasn’t hooked up to one.
Because if it had been, it probably would’ve betrayed you immediately. The sudden stutter in your pulse would’ve lit the screen up for the whole department to see, announcing in bright, clinical numbers exactly what Dr. Abbott’s crooked little smile had just done to your heart.
“Did you call your Uber?” he asked after a moment. “Or maybe a friend?”
You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand, trying to blink away the fog that had settled there. The adrenaline had long since burned out of your system, leaving you with that strange, hollow exhaustion that comes after something terrible.
“All my friends are probably passed out right now,” you said. “I’ll Uber.”
Doctor Abbott gave a small nod, like that answer made sense. You went through the motions after that. The discharge paperwork. The clipboard passed from one nurse to another. Sign here. Initial there.
Someone checking your bandage again. Someone else handing you a small packet of instructions you knew you’d probably read tomorrow when your brain worked again.
The ER moved around you constantly, stretching to make room for the next patient, the next crisis, the next person whose worst night had just arrived at their doors.
But Doctor Abbott seemed to live inside it with practiced ease.
He moved from room to room like he understood the rhythm of the place better than anyone else, slipping through the chaos without ever seeming rushed. Like the night itself had shaped around him.
And without really meaning to, your eyes kept finding him.
Across the room when the nurse handed you your discharge papers.
Again a few minutes later while he spoke quietly with another patient as someone checked your vitals one last time.
Then leaning against the edge of a counter when you finally pushed yourself up from the chair.
The movement made the room tilt slightly.
“Easy,” the nurse beside you said quickly, reaching out to steady your elbow.
You gave her a tired smile. “Thank you.”
Once your feet were under you, you started toward the exit. Slowly. Carefully. Your body still felt like it belonged to someone else.
Doctor Abbott fell into step beside you without saying anything.
Not in a way that felt intrusive.
More like he was just… part of the hallway now.
Part of the quiet machinery of the place, guiding you the last few steps through it. Making sure you were steady as you passed from their care and back into the real world.
“So,” he said after a few steps, his voice quiet in the half-lit corridor. “About the pistachio croissant.”
You hummed tiredly. “Mmhmm.”
“You ever make them with chocolate?”
You glanced sideways at him.
“Aren’t doctors supposed to stay away from sugar?”
“I think that’s the dentist.”
“Oh,” you said smiling. “My mistake.”
The automatic doors ahead slid open with a quiet mechanical sigh as the two of you stepped into the small waiting bay near the hospital entrance.
Your Uber was still a few minutes away.
Outside, the night air pressed softly against the glass doors. And somehow, standing there beside him, the night didn’t feel quite as heavy anymore.
Abbott leaned one shoulder against the wall, hands slipping loosely into the pockets of his scrubs.
The overhead lights caught the tired lines in his face more clearly now. Up close, you could see the weight of the night sitting in his eyes. The kind of exhaustion that came from carrying other people’s worst days over and over again.
“You okay?” you asked quietly.
He glanced over at you, a flicker of surprise crossing his expression. You shrugged a little, already half apologizing for the question.
“It’s had to have been a lot for you,” you said. “All of you.”
He considered that for a moment.
Then gave a small nod.
“Maybe not today,” he said. “But we’ll be okay.”
You smiled softly at that.
“Good.”
The headlights of a car turned into the drop-off lane outside. Your phone buzzed in your hand.
Your Uber.
Abbott pushed himself off the wall as the car rolled to a stop. Before you could reach for the door handle, he stepped forward and opened it for you.
As you stepped past him, his hand briefly brushed the small of your back. Barely there. Just steadying.
You carefully lowered yourself into the back seat, trying not to pull at the stitches in your shoulder. The driver glanced back over his shoulder.
“Name?”
You confirmed it with a tired nod.
“Yeah.”
Then you looked back up at Abbott standing beside the open door.
The fluorescent light from the entrance haloed faintly behind him, casting half his face into shadow.
“Thank you for everything,” you said. “See you around, Doc.”
For a moment he just looked at you.
Then that familiar crooked half-smile appeared again.
“Try not to get shot again,” he said.
“I’ll do my best.”
He closed the door gently.
The car pulled away from the hospital entrance, the glowing building slowly shrinking in the rearview mirror.
But as the city lights slid past the window, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the night had just introduced you to something you’d be seeing again.
Best friend. Fake girlfriend. Secret keeper. You knew your role In Deran Cody’s life. Everything was perfect until Andrew Cody showed back up and made you forget it. Now everything is unraveling, and there’s no one left on your side.
CW: Pope Cody x Reader, F! Reader, Deran Cody x Reader (friendship), Cody Family Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Codependency, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, They Should Not Be Doing This, But They Do Anyway, Betrayal, Guilt Complex, Pope Cody Needs Therapy, Deran Cody Needs a Hug, Reader is Going Through It™, Everyone is a Little Bit Toxic, SMUT, Minors Do Not Interact, This Started as Smut and Became Feelings, No One Is Making Good Choices Here, I Blacked Out Writing This, Mentions of OCD, Homophobia, No Use of YN, No Physical Description of Reader, Canon Typical Violence Towards Reader
AN: hey siri, play Criminal by britney spears
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
You wake slowly.
At first it’s just the quiet that reaches you.
Not the soft, comfortable quiet of a lazy morning, but the kind that sits too still in the air, like something important has slipped away while you weren’t looking. The kind of silence that presses lightly against your chest and waits for you to notice it.
Your eyes remain closed for another moment as you listen.
No shifting weight beside you.
No slow, steady breathing warming the back of your neck.
No heavy arm slung lazily across your waist the way Andrew tends to do when he falls asleep behind you.
Just the distant hush of the ocean outside and the pale gray morning light slipping through the curtains in soft stripes across the bed.
Your eyes open.
The space beside you is empty.
Cold.
Your stomach drops instantly.
“Andrew?” you call, your voice still thick with sleep.
No answer.
You push yourself upright too quickly, the sheet sliding down your chest as that familiar spike of panic crawls up your spine like ice water.
Your mind goes straight to the worst places without hesitation. Maybe he had regrets.
Maybe waking up beside you had been too much after everything the two of you had said last night.
Maybe it had felt real in the dark, in the quiet of the early morning hours when the world felt smaller and easier to ignore. But daylight is different. Daylight makes things real. Maybe last night had been a mistake he didn’t know how to walk back from.
Or worse—Maybe Smurf had come.
Maybe she’d shown up sometime in the middle of the night and pulled him right back into her orbit while you slept like an idiot.
You swing your legs off the bed, your heart already starting to pound as the thoughts spiral faster than you can stop them.
“Andrew—?”
The word dies halfway out of your mouth.
You stop in the doorway of the living room.
He’s in the kitchen.
Barefoot.
Shirtless.
Standing in front of your counter with that focused, faintly irritated expression he gets when something isn’t arranged exactly the way he thinks it should be.
He’s rearranging your cabinets.
Three mugs sit lined up neatly on the counter beside him. Two plates stacked beside them. A cutting board placed carefully next to the sink. Your toaster has been moved to the other side of the outlet like its previous location offended him personally. The dish rack has been rotated ninety degrees for reasons that exist only inside Andrew’s head.
He pauses for a second, staring into the cabinet like he’s solving a puzzle.
Then he glances up and notices you standing there.
“Morning.”
Like he didn’t just take five years off your life.
Relief hits you so suddenly your knees almost buckle.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. Your eyes burn instantly and before you can stop it tears spill down your cheeks.
Andrew freezes completely. He stares at you like you’ve just started speaking another language.
“Hey—” he says quickly, already stepping toward you. “What’s wrong?”
You laugh through the tears, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand.
“I thought you left.”
His brow furrows.
“I didn’t leave.”
He gestures vaguely toward the counter behind him.
“I was making coffee.”
Like that should be obvious.
You shake your head, half crying and half laughing now.
“And redecorating?”
Andrew glances back at the kitchen like he’s only just remembered what he was doing.
The mugs.
The toaster.
The cabinet doors still hanging open.
His eyes flick between your face and the kitchen behind him like he’s trying to determine which problem needs fixing first.
“Hey—hey, stop,” he says awkwardly, stepping closer and placing his hands on your shoulders. “Don’t cry.”
You sniff hard.
“I’m not crying.”
“You are.”
You wipe your cheeks again with the back of your hand.
“I thought something happened.”
He studies your face for a second.
Something shifts behind his eyes. The tension in his shoulders loosens just slightly as the realization settles in.
Then he gestures vaguely over his shoulder. “I can compromise about the air fryer.”
You stare at him.
“What?”
“I moved it,” he says, nodding toward the counter. “But I can move it back if you want.”
You let out a helpless laugh. “You think I’m crying about the air fryer?”
“You’re upset about something.”
You step forward and grab the front of his shirt, tugging him down slightly.
“You’re an idiot.”
You press a quick kiss to his mouth.
“But you’re my idiot,” you murmur softly. “And I love you.”
Andrew goes completely still. For a moment he just looks at you. He doesn’t say it back. You don’t think he’s ever said it out loud.
Instead his hand lifts slowly, settling at the back of your neck. Warm. Steady.
He pulls you back in.
This kiss is slower.
Deeper.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
Like he’s answering in the only language he really knows how to speak.
Your lips move together quietly, the soft gray morning wrapping around the two of you.
When you finally pull back he exhales through his nose, the breath low and quiet.
“I gotta go soon.”
“I figured.”
You study his face for a moment, memorizing it the way you always seem to when you know he’s about to disappear back into the world that exists outside your front door.
Then you lean up and pepper one more quick kiss against his mouth.
He lingers for half a second before stepping away, turning toward the door where the small duffel bag he brought sits slouched against the wall.
You wander back into the kitchen while he moves around behind you, the soft shuffle of his footsteps grounding you again in the quiet space.
The coffee pot is still warm.
You pour yourself a cup, wrapping both hands around the mug and letting the heat soak into your fingers before taking a careful sip.
Your nerves have only just started to settle when Andrew steps back into the kitchen.
Something in his hand catches your eye.
Your stomach drops before your brain even catches up. It’s a gun.
“Andrew—”
“Take it.”
You recoil instinctively, stepping back like the thing might burn you if you get too close.
The mug lands on the counter with a soft clink as you set it down quickly.
“No fucking way.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t even know how to hold that thing.”
“That’s why I’m showing you.”
Your panic spikes immediately.
“Andrew, I can’t—”
“You can.”
His voice stays calm.
Firm.
That particular tone he uses when he’s already decided something and the conversation is just a courtesy.
He reaches out slowly and takes your hand, guiding it forward before placing the gun carefully into your palm.
It’s heavier than you expected. Solid. Cold. You stare at it like it might go off on its own.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Watch what I do.”
You force yourself to focus. To take every single word in and commit it to memory.
“This is the safety.”
He flips a small switch with his thumb.
“Up is safe. Down means it’ll fire.”
He adjusts your grip gently, repositioning your fingers.
“You don’t touch the trigger unless you’re ready to shoot.”
You swallow hard.
“It’s already loaded.”
“Great,” you mutter weakly. “That makes me feel so much better.”
One corner of his mouth almost lifts.
“You keep it by the bed.”
“Andrew—”
“It’ll make me feel better.”
That stops you. You look up at him. Really look. At the quiet seriousness in his eyes. The way he’s already thinking about things you don’t even know to worry about yet.
The jobs.
The people who might come looking for him.
The life he’s spent years surviving in.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the grip.
“Okay,” you say softly.
Because this is what you wanted. Him and everything that comes with him.
His shoulders loosen just slightly. He reaches up and brushes his fingers across your cheek, lingering there for a moment.
“Good.”
Then he leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.
Just another small, quiet way Andrew Cody says what he doesn’t know how to say out loud.
I’m trying to build something with you and I love you too.
⸻
A few weeks later, the seasonal farmer’s market was in full swing.
Bright canvas tents stretched in long rows along the edge of the boardwalk, their faded colors fluttering lazily in the salt breeze. The fabric snapped softly overhead every time the ocean wind rolled in, carrying the distant crash of waves and the sharp cry of gulls circling above the pier.
Morning light spilled across the stalls in warm gold.
Fruit glowed under the sun like small treasures laid out for inspection. Oranges piled high in rough wooden crates. Strawberries bleeding red into shallow wicker baskets. Pale bundles of herbs tied neatly with rough twine, their scent rising into the air every time someone brushed past.
Tourists drifted through the aisles in slow, easy clusters.
The kind of people who had nowhere urgent to be.
Flip-flops slapped lazily against the pavement. Someone nearby laughed too loudly over a plastic cup of iced coffee. A child dragged sticky fingers across a tray of peaches while their mother apologized halfheartedly to the vendor.
The air smelled like citrus and basil and warm sugar drifting from a nearby pastry stand.
Smurf moved through it all like she belonged there.
A woven basket hung lightly from the crook of her arm, swaying gently with each step. Her smile appeared automatically whenever someone recognized her — soft, warm, practiced in the way that made people feel like they’d been remembered.
Like they mattered.
She paused at one stall and lifted a bundle of rosemary, turning the stems slowly between her fingers as the vendor chatted idly with someone beside her.
She liked places like this.
People relaxed here. People lingered. People talked too much. And when people talked too much, they told you things without realizing they were doing it.
She was reaching for another bundle when a voice spoke behind her.
“Janine?”
She turned smoothly.
One of her tenants stood there — sunburned and cheerful, the kind of man who always paid his rent a few days late but believed charm made up for it.
“Oh hi,” she said warmly. “How are you?”
“Good, good.” He grinned easily. “Hey, I saw your son the other day.”
Smurf tilted her head slightly, curiosity settling just behind her eyes.
“Oh yeah?” she asked lightly. “Which one?”
“Pope, right? Big guy.”
She nodded without hesitation.
“That’s my baby.”
“He looked good,” the man said. “Honestly I was glad to see it. Heard he’d been locked up for a while.”
Smurf gave a small, sympathetic smile.
“He served his time,” she said gently. “Ready to flip his life around.”
The tenant chuckled.
“Looks like he already is.”
“Oh?” she asked, like the comment barely registered.
“Yeah. Saw him down by the beach a few days ago.”
Smurf’s fingers stilled around the herbs just for a moment.
Andrew Cody didn’t wander or hang around. Andrew Cody worked. Or he waited for work.
“My baby boys and their hobbies,” she said with an easy laugh.
The man grinned.
“Might be less about the hobby and more about that cute girl he was talking to.”
Smurf’s smile didn’t falter.
“Pretty sure she works there,” he added cheerfully. “They made a good-looking pair.”
He said it like a compliment. Because a mother should be happy about something like that.
Smurf’s fingers tightened slightly around the rosemary stems again.
Then the smile returned.
She thanked him politely, paid for the herbs, and continued down the aisle as if the conversation had meant nothing at all.
But inside her mind, the pieces had already begun sliding quietly into place.
Andrew near the pier.
Near a surf shop.
Talking to a girl.
And now another woman.
Interesting.
Andrew had never been the type to date. He barely tolerated people most days. The only time she had ever seen that particular softness settle into his eyes had been with you. And she had made sure that problem had been put to bed.
Smurf stepped out from beneath the line of tents and into the open stretch of sunlight along the boardwalk.
From there the pier stretched long and narrow out into the pale blue water. The surf shop sat halfway down the strip, its faded sign rocking gently in the breeze.
She adjusted the basket on her arm and began walking.
Slowly.
Curiously.
If Andrew had found himself another little distraction, she needed to know what kind of problem she was dealing with.
Because Andrew didn’t attach easily. And when he did—it had a habit of becoming inconvenient.
The ocean breeze lifted her hair as she moved down the boardwalk, her eyes settling calmly on the row of shops ahead.
No rush.
No urgency.
Just a mother taking a morning walk hoping to meet the girl who had captured her son’s attention again—And she had every intention to find out exactly who that was.
⸻
Inside the surf shop, the air smelled faintly of resin and salt.
You propped the last sanded board onto the rack for Adrian to finish in the morning, wiping the fine layer of dust from your hands onto the back of your shorts. The open door let the ocean breeze drift lazily through the space, carrying the distant rumble of waves and the low murmur of tourists moving along the pier outside.
Adrian had taken off a few hours earlier with Deran.
The two of you had talked before they left. Briefly. Carefully. Not the way you used to. But the edges were softer now.
Time had started sanding down the sharper parts of the wound you’d left behind when you betrayed his trust. The tension between you didn’t spark quite as violently anymore. It sat quieter now — something you could stand near without flinching.
It gave you hope. Hope that maybe one day he’d laugh with you again the way he used to.
That maybe the two of you could find each other somewhere new.
Not where things had been left shattered on the floor.
But somewhere close enough that it still felt familiar.
Maybe one day you could even tell him. About you and Andrew. About the way Andrew held you every night until you fell asleep.
The way his big hands traced slow circles along your arms without even thinking about it.
The way he kissed your eyelids so gently sometimes it made your chest ache. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he held you too tightly.
Surely one day Deran would understand.
Surely one day he would see that you hadn’t meant to hurt him. That the only reason you had done what you did was because you had fallen completely, hopelessly, head over heels in love with Andrew Cody.
Surely one day he would want that for you. For both of you.
You weren’t sure But you hoped.
The bell above the shop door rang softly over the music playing through the speakers.
“Be right there,” you called, pushing the board into place before walking toward the front of the shop.
You rounded the corner—
And stopped.
No one was there.
The door swayed gently on its hinges, the bell still chiming faintly as it settled.
“Hello?” you called.
Nothing.
You stepped toward the counter, glancing toward the racks of boards, the small clothing display near the window.
Empty.
You huffed quietly.
“Kids,” you muttered under your breath.
Probably someone messing around. Running in, ringing the bell, taking off down the boardwalk before anyone could catch them.
Why would you think anything else?
Why would you assume something darker?
You and Andrew had been careful.
So careful.
No compound.
No bar.
No family.
No one knew so you didn’t give it a second thought.
____
Outside the shop door, Smurf Cody stepped back onto the boardwalk.
She had only needed one glance through the open doorway. One look at you standing inside the shop.
The salt wind tugged lightly at her hair again as she moved away from the entrance, blending easily into the slow drift of people along the pier.
Her expression never changed.
But her phone was already in her hand. A short message typed out. No greeting or explanation.
Just a name.
Then another message beneath it.
Need someone handled.
Quiet.
She hit send and Somewhere across the city, a phone buzzed in the pocket of a man who owed her more favors than he could ever repay.
Smurf slipped the phone back into her purse and continued walking down the pier like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn’t just tipped over the first domino.
