summary: the three times you decided to flirt with pope cody and the one time you decided to take it one step further.
content/warnings: in my mind this takes place like during s4 but there's nothing really specific about it, pope calls himself andrew in his mind, canon typical violence/drinking/drugs, all the cody boys are here but mostly craig, reader is drinking alcohol and has hair/wears dresses/heels/perfume, sub!pope, fingering, a good ol handy, a little dirty talk, unprotected piv, creampie, really just an unseen amount of fluff from me tbh NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 10.2k (oops)
notes: omg my popey.... i love him so much. i got carried away with the plot (kinda a first tbh) but i wanna take care of him so bad. i need to bite his arms. only slightly proofread so proceed at your own risk
credit: gif taken from this set by @wesandresons :)
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The first time Andrew met you, it was in his bedroom.
Throughout Andrewâs life, many people have come and gone through the doors of Smurfâs house. It would take another lifetime just to count them all.Â
The parties started when he was young and never ended. The faces blurred together for Andrew now, not that he could really bring himself to care all that much in the first place. Just like Craigâs girlfriends or Smurfâs boyfriends, nobody was ever really a permanent fixture in Andrewâs life. Not if they werenât family.
He knows that everyone thinks that heâs different. That heâs weird. He notices their looks when he lingers around the pool, in the kitchen, when heâs just sitting on the couch. His own brothers even, a lot of the time. Everyone eyes him like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for him to go off.
Andrew doesnât really mind, though. Or, if he did, he'd become numb to the feeling a long time ago. In fact, heâs probably become numb to a lot of feelings. But Andrew doesnât know any other way to be. Heâs just Pope and he has been for a very long time.
This party in the Cody household wasnât different from any other. Booze, drugs, and a big mess Andrew would definitely have to clean up later. The music is loud, bass turned up too high, and Craig is attempting to jump off the roof into the pool again. Amidst the cheers, Andrew thinks about the rest of his brothers and wonders for a moment where exactly it went so differently for him, or if he was just simply born that way.
His brothers seem okay with being in the spotlight. Even his nephew seemed to fare better than him, assimilating perfectly into every situation that arose, especially when people were involved. Andrew was never like that.
J must have gotten it from Julia.
Andrew was never a people person. He was always out of place, like the Cody that just didnât quite belong, all jagged edges. The parties always send him into the corners of his mind that he didnât really like venturing into.
The pounding of the bass is getting to him.
He pulls open the door to his bedroom hoping for a moment of silence, when heâs greeted with a pair of bare feet hanging off the edge of his bed. The figure doesnât stir when he enters, so he creeps in further and shuts the door quietly. He turns his head, scanning now that he has a better view of who exactly is in his room.
Youâre laid on his bed, eyes shut, hugging your phone to your chest like a stuffed animal. Youâve clearly come to escape the crowds of the party, same as him. Andrew canât help as his eyes drag up your legs all the way up to where your short dress shows just a little too much of your thighs. He notices your heels as well, placed nice and neat beside the bed.
âWho are you?â It comes out a bit more gruff than Andrew anticipated and your eyes finally flutter open. It takes you a minute to notice him but when you do youâre shooting up to your feet, spine rigid. Itâs cute, he thinks, the way you panic. You startle like a small puppy.
âOh my god,â you squeak, clearly embarrassed. Your hands fall to adjust the hem of your short dress, much to Andrewâs disappointment. He gives you a once over; itâs half assessing what exactly youâre doing in his room and half just taking you and your skimpy outfit. âIâm so sorry. Is this your room?â
Andrew gives a small nod and you wring your hands nervously. Youâre taking him in now, a Cody brother here in front of you, live and in the flesh.
âSo which one are you?â you ask, head cocked. Now that you know this is his room, he notices you assessing him in a different light. People always do âit didnât bother Andrew much anymore but with you he feels a twinge of shame in his stomach. âDeran? Or, umâŚâ
Andrew knows that youâre searching for his name. His nickname. It had to be since there was a short list of people who called him by his real name. Pope Cody is known by everyone in Oceanside. Andrew Cody, on the other hand, is not.
âAndrew.â he supplies, voice softer than before. Now youâve been added to that very exclusive list. You repeat his name back to him, voice a little warm, no doubt from one of the many drinks that the Codyâs provided. Then you introduce yourself and Andrew attempts to burn your name into his memory.
âOkay, Andrew. Are you hiding too?â Now that he hasnât kicked you out, you take a seat on the edge of his bed. He notices the compression of where your body laid just a few minutes before on his neatly made and pressed sheets but doesnât say anything. He likes the sound of your voice too much to interrupt you. âOr just making sure nobody is defiling your room.â
âIâm not hiding,â he replies, crossing his arm over his chest. The strap of your dress falls and Andrew tries not to get distracted. âThis is my house. Iâm free to go where I please.â
âFair enough. Iâm hiding,â you shrug. A beat of silence passes and you pat the spot next to you, inviting him to sit on his own bed. Andrew is curious enough to oblige, sitting on the other end of the bed, putting distance between you. He doesnât miss how your shoulders drop slightly in disappointment. âMy friend is here with Craig and theyâve conveniently disappeared... I donât even want to know what theyâre doing.â
âI have a few guesses.â Another one of Craigâs girlfriends. The giggle of a girl coming from Craigâs room that Andrew had heard when he was walking by suddenly made a lot more sense.Â
He wills himself not to flinch when you scoot closer to him, closing the distance he deliberately put between the two of you. Andrew was interested, too interested, and that worried him.
Pope Cody wasnât allowed to want.
âIs it okay if I stay here with you?â you ask, and Andrewâs heart flips. He clears his throat, hoping that you donât see the blush thatâs creeping itâs way up his neck. âIâm just not really sure how long itâs going to take and I would much rather be in here.â
With you, hangs unspoken in the air.
âSure.â Andrew likes the way you smile when he answers, a small flash of teeth. You scoot even closer and tuck your bare feet under you. Youâre so close now that your knee is nudging his thigh. He can smell your perfume from here and itâs heavenly compared to the sweat and chlorine laced air outside. âI donât really want to be out there either.â
âSo, Andrew,â His name sounds like honey when itâs falling from your lips and he wonders how often he can make you say it. The feeling that settles in his chest when you say it is too addicting for him to live without it now. âNot really a party person?â
âNo. But my brothers are.â He gestures vaguely to the door, the music pounding on the other side of the wall and then his hands retreat back to his lap. He can feel your eyes on him, but not in the usual way he always tends to notice. You scan him with a kind of curiosity that he hasnât felt in a long time.
âIâm not really a party person either,â you agree, glancing at the door he had just gestured towards. You look a little sad, even. It makes Andrewâs fingers twitch.âMy friend said she needed some moral support coming to meet this guy. So I came, and then she ditched me like an hour ago.â
âSounds like youâve got a shitty friend.â Andrew says plainly and heâs caught off guard when you let out a laugh.Â
âYeah, I guess,â You shrug, shoulders still shaking with remnants of laughter. Andrew has turned his head fully now to look at you but he doesnât really understand why youâre laughing. âBut maybe itâs like fate, or something.â
âFate?â Andrew echoes, even more confused than before. You lock eyes with him and he has to resist the urge to break it, enthralled enough by your gaze to ignore the awkward feeling settling in his chest.
âYeah. Like maybe itâs fate that she left? Because then I wouldnât have hidden in a cute guyâs room and got to talk to him.â He can tell that your mind is elsewhere, but his eyes are still on you. Thereâs a dreamy look painted on your face and heâs so distracted he almost misses the fact that you called him cute. Almost.
He opens his mouth to respond but your phone beats him to it, the shrill sound of your ringer filling the empty room. You look at him sheepishly and turn your head to answer as if that would give you the privacy you were looking for. It doesnât work because as soon as you hit accept, he can hear what he assumes is your friendâs voice on the other side of the line.Â
You get up and he watches you nod along to the conversation. Youâre not doing a lot of talking, but your friend definitely is; he can tell by the murmur of her drunken chatter and the sound of the music pulsing on the other side of the line. Youâre kind enough to let her continue on for a bit longer before you let her know that youâre coming, donât move!Â
Then youâve turned back to Andrew, tapping your phone on your palm as you try to find the right words to say. You look genuinely apologetic âfor what, Andrew doesnât know. The silence stretches long, and Andrew is the first one to break it.
âYou donât have to stay,â he says plainly. You donât really owe him anything, although the look on your face makes him feel otherwise. You take a step closer, poised like you want to take a seat next to him again. Andrew wants you to, but he wonât admit that part out loud.
âI know. I want to-â you start, but your phone starts buzzing like itâs possessed, cutting you off. A quick glance is all it gets; youâre quickly scanning the messages before returning your attention to him. Your phone doesnât stop vibrating. âItâs hard to leave when youâre looking at me like a lost puppy.â
Andrew chooses to ignore that comment, instead turning to grab your shoes from the side of the bed next to him. He offers your heels to you, arms outstretched, closing the distance between you just like you had before. You give him a small smile as you take them from him, fingers brushing his just a beat too long. The way it sets his nerves alight is also something that he chooses to ignore.
âThank you,â you say, slipping your strappy heels back on. Andrew looks everywhere but you as you bend down to tie them up, feeling the blush creeping up once again. Once youâre straightened up he gives you a small smile in return, watching as you pull your phone back out again. âSorry for messing up your bed. Iâll make it up to you next time.â
You say it so definitively, like you somehow know there will be a next time. Before he can reply, youâre giving him a shy wave goodbye, sliding out the door. The music leaks in for a moment when you open it, blending in with the cheers of partygoers outside. When you close it heâs back to the silence of his room, alone. He had come in there looking for a moment to himself but now that youâre gone, he canât help but want the opposite.
Andrew really hopes that there will be.
â
The next time Andrew met you, it was in Deranâs bar.
He could count on one hand the amount of times he actually sat at Deranâs bar for any other reason besides work. It was rare that he ever got to enjoy a beer, much less have a moment of free time. But between Deranâs insistence and Craigâs staggering frame, Andrew agreed to stay for one drink.
Heâs on the dregs of his beer when he notices Craig straighten up in his seat and saunter over to the front door of the bar. Andrewâs head turns and suddenly heâs glad he came, perking up the same way his brother had just moments ago. A girl comes out to greet Craig, looking like his usual type, and he slings an arm over her shoulders, steering her towards the bar with a sly smile.
Then you walk in and Andrew almost falls off his stool in surprise. Youâre dressed differently than when he first met you, softer and more casual. Both of you look like youâve just come from the beach, donned in shorts and tanks, hair curled from the salt water in the air. It makes his heart skip a beat.
You walk in far more hesitantly than your friend, like youâre not too sure if you belong or where to put yourself. Andrew can empathize with the feeling. He watches as you scan the bar; maybe for your friend, or maybe for another place to hide. You lock eyes with him once you finally notice his presence at the bar and you begin to make your way over. Andrew isnât sure if he should break eye contact but he canât help it, eyes darting away before they make their way back to yours.
âFancy meeting you here,â You take the seat next to him, flashing him a grin. Andrew mumbles something under his breath, but youâre not deterred. In fact, you scoot your stool closer to his. Youâre laying it on real thick, but he has to admit that he kind of likes it. âYou come here often?â
âYou know Pope?â The moment is interrupted by Deran, who sets down a full glass of beer in front of you. Heâs got a bemused look on his face, eyes darting between you and his brother. Andrew tries his best not to frown, especially at the use of his nickname when you only know him by Andrew. From the expression on your face, he can tell that heâs failing. Your eyes flicker with some kind of recognition, like you were suddenly recalling the name that you had forgotten the last time you met.
âYeah, I do,â you nod, not even acknowledging the fact that his own brother had just called him by a completely different name. You gesture to his empty glass, the one that he had set aside to fully focus on you when you approached. âAnd I think I owe him a drink.â
âYou do?â It slips out of both Deran and Andrewâs mouths, disbelief on both their faces. It comes out a bit rougher for Andrew, while Deran inquires like you just told him that unicorns were real. You handle both questions with grace.
âWell, I said Iâd make it up to you next time,â You smile, pulling the glass that Deran set down closer to you. His brother leans in closer, clearly interested in what exactly was going on between the two of you. Andrew tries to shoot his brother a glare before you look back at him but he doesnât have enough time. âSo, are you going to have a drink with me, or what?â
âYeah.â Andrew says, perhaps a bit too eagerly as Deran snickers under his breath. He slides him a beer as well, a knowing look painted all over his features. Andrew takes it with a scowl, but his expression softens when he looks back at you. You bring the beer to your lips with a smile and Andrew canât help but smile back.Â
Two and a half beers later, Andrewâs face is a lot warmer and you are a lot closer. Youâre so close that he can feel your shoes scuffing the edge of his newly polished boots, but he canât bring himself to care. He likes when you giggle at his jokes; the way that your eyes shine. Andrew can feel his brothersâ eyes on the two of you; he even catches his nephew looking his way a few times.Â
But for the first time in a while, Andrew doesnât really want to shrink away. Heâs tuned out the background noise, even your friendâs obnoxious drunk laughter at Craigâs pretty mediocre jokes. Because, in reality, Andrew is not the type of guy that a lot of girls like. And Pope especially, is not. But here with you, he lets himself believe that maybe just this once, heâs allowed to have something just for him.
âI like your smile,â You break the silence the two of you were sharing once the conversation you were having earlier came to an end. Andrew hadnât even realized that he was smiling. He had really just been using the silence to soak in your presence; you still smell the same as you did when you met the first time. Wearing the same perfume that you left on his sheets and pillows just a few weeks ago. He didnât want to admit how many times he shoved his face into them, chasing your scent before it faded. âItâs cute. I like your teeth.â
There it was again. That word. Cute. Itâs not a word anyone used to describe Andrew, probably not since childhood. Or possibly maybe never. He almost wants to swing his head around to see if the rest of his family had heard.
âYou really think Iâm cute?â He canât help but ask. It might be the beers or the way you look at him or the fact that he can feel your body heat, but his brain is a bit fuzzy. You look over at him, eyes a bit glazed over from the alcohol. Now he can feel you examining him again, looking him up and down.
âI guess cute isnât really the word for a guy like you.â His heart sinks at that, wondering what you really think about him now that you know Pope and not just Andrew. He knows the stories that circle around Oceanside about him and heâs not sure if heâs ready to hear the ones that youâve heard.
âA guy like me?â Andrew echoes, trying his best not to sound so sad. His mood perks up when he feels the heat of your gaze taking him in, seemingly a bit unguarded, presumably from all the alcohol.
âYeah. Youâre all built andâŚâ You look around, trying to place a word to describe him. Then you lay a hand on his arm and Andrew stiffens for a moment but he softens quickly, leaning into your touch. You look pleased that he allowed you to do that, smiling like youâre ready to take a bite of him right then and there. âI donât know. Strong. Thick. Handsome.â
Andrew is sure that heâs red all the way up to the tips of his ears. Heâs also pretty sure that he saw Craig choke on his drink at your comment a few stools down from you, but he decides thatâs a later problem.Â
âThanks,â he says gruffly and itâs really the only word that he can get out of his mouth, embarrassingly. You shoot him a smile, and itâs all sweet and a little too enticing. Andrew wouldnât be surprised if he was leaning into you, ass halfway off his stool.
âSorry, Iâm being a bit forward, arenât I?â you say, swirling whatever was left of your beer. He tries to shrug nonchalantly but it doesnât really work. âI just get flirty when Iâm tipsy.â
âSo you donât think us meeting again is fate?â Heâs teasing, half smile tugging on the edge of lips. You giggle and Andrew basks in the sound. He canât remember the last time someone made him feel like this. The last time he wanted to be so close to someone.
âI never said that,â Youâre hiding a cheeky grin behind your glass and Andrew desperately wishes that he could see it. âYou do believe in fate then?âÂ
Andrew has to think about it for a moment. Heâs not sure, really. Lots of fucked up shit has happened in his life and it would be cruel world if that was the fate that the universe had in store for him. Then again, heâs done some terrible things as well, so maybe it was what he deserved.
âI donât know,â he answers truthfully. Andrew stares into his drink and reflects on all of the things heâs done, the crimes he committed. Julia. Cath. They swirl around in his mind, weighing on his conscience. Then he looks at you and they all seem to float away. âMaybe.â
âWell, let me know when you decide.â He thinks that you can probably sense his hesitancy or the spiral that it sends him down when he thinks about it too hard, so you pump the breaks. He almost canât stand the way youâre looking at him, eyes wide open and curious. Andrew is unsure of which version of him that youâre seeing or what exactly is going through your head. He doesnât have the courage to ask.
âOkay.â he says, a bit too distracted by the pieces of hair that have fallen in front of your face as you turned to take another sip, shielding his view. His hand flexes as he resists the urge to push them away.
Then, like you could read his mind, you tuck them behind your ear and shoot him another look. You open your mouth to say something, but youâre interrupted by Craig, who is steering your friend in your direction. Andrewâs hand flexes again as this time he suppresses the urge to hit Craig for cutting in.
âShe just puked in the plant over there, and Iâm pretty fucked up, soâŚâ Craig isnât subtle in what heâs asking and Andrew notices the worry flicker across your face as you take in your friend, who can barely stand up on her own without his brother gripping her shoulders. You mutter under your breath and he thinks he hears you basically cursing out Craig.
âOkay, just⌠take her outside. Iâll be out in two minutes.â you say, and Craig stumbles off, your friend in tow. Then you turn to Andrew, an apologetic look on your face thatâs becoming all too familiar to him now.
âIs she going to be okay?â His gaze wanders to the door swinging shut behind the pair. You wring your hands nervously, standing up from the stool. Gathering your things a little frantically, you shrug. Andrew deflates a bit as he watches.
âYeah, I think so. Sheâll probably just puke into her purse on the way home or something,â Once youâve gathered everything in your arms you give a deep sigh, turning your full attention towards him. He notes that you seem a little deflated too, but heâs not sure if itâs because youâre leaving him or because your friend and Craig seem to be deeply irresponsible individuals. âIâm sorry. Again.â
âItâs okay.â Your lips curl with a small smile, still tinged with a bit of anxiety. Itâs cute when you lift your free hand up in a small wave, the same way you did last time, and then youâre gone. Your perfume is still lingering in the air when Andrew turns back around and itâs his turn to smile. It melts when he sees Deran standing behind the bar, a smug look on his face.
âYou got it bad, man.â
â
After that, Andrew sees you a lot more often.
Your friend and Craig seemed to have made things very exclusive, because now sheâs basically living at Smurfâs house. Which means that, since youâre her best friend, she invites you over quite frequently.
You two havenât been able to have a moment alone since that night at the bar, much to Andrewâs disappointment. The brothers have been busy planning a job, which meant that he was in and out pretty often. His mind was elsewhere though, distracted by the way you brushed arms in the hallway on his way out or when your eye contact lingered longer than usual.
So, maybe that was why the job went a little awry.
They got what they needed to, but not without a fight. The boys trail into the backyard one after the other, everyone bruised and cut up. It always annoyed Andrew when his brothers were impulsive; he was the one that was always suffering the consequences.
He quickly notes that youâre laid out next to the pool in your swimsuit, your body shimmering with sweat under the sweltering sun. Andrew watches a bead of sweat drip from your neck to the valley between your breasts. Time slows as he watches, licking his lips. He barely has time to drag his gaze away before Deran is wheeling on Craig.Â
âWhy are you always pulling this crap?â Deran almost has a finger in his face, gesturing angrily. Craig just rolls his eyes in response, pushing past him and giving him a glare. Andrew can see the tension tight in their shoulders as they both seethe.
âI donât know what youâre talking about, dude.â Craig shoots back, making his way back to the house. Tension has been high between the two lately, just like always, trapped in a toxic cycle.
It seems to snap for Deran, especially after the job, and he jumps on Craigâs back, knocking him over. The commotion is loud, Craig hitting the ground with a loud thud. Deran throws the first punch and Craigâs skull cracks hard against the pavement. Craig is quick to recover though, probably due to his size, and itâs a full blown fist fight in seconds.
The two exchange blows for a minute before Andrew and J rush forward to pull the two of them apart. They donât put up much of a fight and the two of them stalk off in different directions; Craig into the house and Deran out of the yard. J shakes his head and follows after Craig, hands shoved into his pockets.
A quick glance proves that the pool chair you were on just moments ago is left empty, your drink still sitting on the ground next to it. He assumes that you snuck out once his brother hit the floor, probably wise enough to know how the situation was going to unfold. He can see your figure in the window padding around the kitchen, blurred from the distance.
Andrew closes the sliding door behind him when he enters the kitchen and he finds you there, skimpy bikini and all. Youâre rummaging through the fridge and he takes the opportunity to take in the view before you shut the door. Â
Youâre holding the carton of orange juice when you turn, finally taking in Andrewâs state. The cut on his eyebrow, the bruise beginning to bloom on his cheek and his torn up knuckles. You make your way towards him, your brow furrowed in concern.
âAre you okay?â He hides his hand instinctively when you ask, which you definitely notice. You rub the back of your neck with your free hand, a bit sheepish. âI heard, uh, your brothers fighting.â
âOh.â Andrew frowns as embarrassment clouds his thoughts. Will this deter you from coming back? He really hopes not. Heâs silent as his eyes follow you as you grab yourself a glass and begin pouring.
âYeah, oh.â You shoot a glance in the direction of J and Craigâs rooms, eyebrows raised. âSo, back to my question. Is everything okay?âÂ
Andrew contemplates his answer for a second, not sure how much detail to go into. You eye him in the same way that you always do and he is suddenly keenly aware that this is the first moment alone youâve had together in ages. Pushing that thought aside, he settles on two words: âItâs complicated.â
âRight,â you scoff, making your way around the kitchen island. Andrew canât help but watch you move, all bare shimmering skin and he shifts a little as all his blood flows downwards. He sucks in a sharp breath as you settle in beside him, resting your arm on the counter. Your sweat and tanning oil smears all over the stone island but heâs too focused on how close you are to be bothered by it. âThatâs why you guys all look like shit. Did you guys get in a fight or did you guys do that to each other?â
âLike I said, itâs complicated,â he repeats and you set your glass down, a serious look on your face.
âAndrew, I know who you guys are,â you say and now heâs shifting uncomfortably instead, the sentence shattering any sort of lust filled haze he was just on the precipice of falling into. âI can keep a secret, donât worry. I just⌠want you to be careful, okay? Thatâs all.â
âIâm always careful,â he replies and you huff in disbelief, but it also seems like you canât help but smile. Itâs a nice sight and it even makes him brave enough to take a step closer to you, finally being the first to lessen the gap between you two.
The proximity and the way you look up at him has the haze settling in once more. Andrew wants to reach out and toy with the strings of your bikini bottoms but he thinks better of it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he almost has to physically shake his head to rid himself of the thought.
âIâm sure you are,â You scan him up and down, examining his cuts and bruises. Though, Andrew swears that he can feel your gaze linger on his arms and his chest. It makes a shiver run down his spine. âBut if this is you careful, Iâd hate to see when it gets messy.â
âI donât do messy,â he emphasises, his mind wandering back to the oily smudge youâve left on the counter. You give a familiar giggle and your hand comes to rest on his arm, and he immediately forgets all about it again. This is the first time youâve broken the touch barrier between the two of you on purpose and Andrewâs stomach flips at the thought. The heat of your hand is searing through his shirt and heâs glad you canât feel the goosebumps that are rising under your palm.
âI know, Andrew. Iâve watched you clean,â you joke. Andrew loves hearing you say his name, his lips parting as you do so. He tries to pull his mind away from all the different things he would do to you to keep hearing it slip from your lips.Â
âWhereâs your friend?â he asks, desperate to change the topic to anything but him and his familyâs line of work. You let out a sigh, making your way back to the fridge. The door swings open and you start rummaging through the freezer like you lived at the house. Really, at this point, you kind of do.
âIâm not sure,â you say, voice a bit muffled from behind the freezer door. âHer and Craig are probably doing lines off each otherâs chests or something.âÂ
You pull out a bag of frozen vegetables, shutting the door behind you and approaching Andrew once more. You hold it out to him and he cocks his head in confusion. Rolling your eyes, you grab his bad hand and place the bag on top of his knuckles, still bloody. The cold dulls the stinging that Andrew had learned to ignore too early on in life.
âWhy do you hang out with her?â He all but blurts out, but he can't help it. There was plenty of time for Andrew to watch you two interact when you were over, and you seemed more like a tired mother than a best friend. Plus, Andrew figured that if he could keep you distracted with conversation, you wouldnât let go of his hand just yet.
âSheâs been my best friend since, well, foreverâŚâ Pressing the bag into his knuckles further, your hand grips his gently and he canât help but look at you while you fiddle with the frozen bag. âAnd if I donât take care of her, who will?âÂ
âI know the feeling.â Andrew says sincerely. He canât remember a time in his life when he wasnât a protector, an enforcer, a guard dog. You look up at him now, eyes soft. He feels his gaze soften in return, lips parting.
âI can see that,â you hum like youâre contemplating his words. âIs there someone taking care of you?â The question catches him off guard and he almost jerks his hand back reflexively.
âI don't need anyone to take care of me.â It's a statement that doesn't fully ring true; he thinks about the people who have tried and what heâs lost. It's better off this way, perhaps. But he also thinks you probably wouldn't like that answer.
âEveryone needs someone, Andrew.â Coming from anyone else, he thinks he would refuse. But from you, he feels a bit more inclined to agree. You sound sincere, he feels. Or he just likes you too much to think about disagreeing.
Maybe he does need someone, but no one was ever up for the job. At least no one that knew him âall of him.
A door slams in the distance and you flinch at the loud noise. Not a moment later your friend is rushing past the pair of you, clad in a similar bikini to yours. Sheâs crying though, mascara streaking as she pushes her way into the backyard. Andrew watches as your head turns to follow her, eyebrows pinching in concern. She sits down on one of the lounge chairs outside, shoulders shaking as she cries silently. You look back at Andrew with a frown and just like always, he knows you have to go.
Maybe his fate is that the universe just wants to cockblock him forever?
âShe and Craig probably got into another fight,â you sigh, chewing your lip. You take his uninjured hand and place it on top of the bag, looking up at him. Your face is stern as you speak, like heâs a dog that got caught chewing on the couch legs. âKeep it iced, okay? Iâll talk to you soon.â
You pat his hand gently, soft smile on your lips. You always say that. Soon. Like you know that you're going to cross paths again. That heâs a permanent fixture in your life.
He watches you walk away, eyes on your swaying hips in your cheeky swimsuit bottoms. Heâs still staring when you sit down next to your friend, rubbing her back comfortingly.Â
Andrew stands alone in the kitchen, half hard, frozen bag of vegetables still pressed to his torn knuckles. The worst part is, heâs not even sure what exactly had made him hard; the sight of your body in your tiny swimsuit and the feeling of your hand in his or watching you take care of your friend so tenderly.
Yeah, Deran was right. He is so fucked.
â
If Andrew thought that he couldn't get you off his mind before that afternoon, now you were all he thought about.Â
When he was making lunch, when he was cleaning his guns, when he was fisting his cock in the shower, trying to keep quiet. All he could think about was you. Your perfume, your smile, your body. Your touch. He wanted to feel it all over his body, soft skin against the raised bumps of all his scars.Â
So the fact that you werenât around as often anymore made things more difficult for him. Your friend and Craig seemed to be on the rocks, which means she was around less and less. Which means that you were barely around.
You said youâd talk to him soon and then promptly stopped being invited around, and the thought of how exactly he would get to see you again had him pacing. He didnât want to scare you off, so he had to pivot towards more conventional methods. Which meant waiting around until Craig had finally got bored enough to start texting your friend back again.Â
Weeks passed and he rarely saw you, just in flashes; by the pool, walking through the front door, lounging on the couch. He barely had the chance to look in your direction lately, much less have any type of conversation with you. The distance made him hungry, desperate enough to try to flip the odds in his favour.
âWhat about a party?â He suggests to his family one afternoon, all of the Codyâs crowded in the living room. All three of them turn their heads, looking at him like heâs grown an extra limb. The room is silent as they all try to process the words that came out of his mouth. âWhat?â
âPope wants to throw a party.â Deran states, like saying the words out loud may help him truly understand them. âWhy?â
âDonât worry about it,â He crosses his arms over his chest, aware that heâs become a bit too defensive just a beat too late. All pairs of eyes are still on him and he shifts on his feet uncomfortable. âJust do it.â
âYou wonât hear me complaining, man.â Craig says on his way out, clapping a hand on Andrewâs shoulder before he goes. The remaining Codyâs watch him go, and then eyes are back on him. He doesnât want to answer any other questions, so he turns on his heels before they can ask any and follows his brother out.
So thatâs how he ended up here.
This party was the same as the rest. Andrew wasnât around for most of it; he had some loose ends to tie up for his family and he always elected to be out of the house whenever there was something going on, especially now that he had the choice. When he returns, he sees the same damage as always; trash in the pool, people passed out on the lawn, empty solo cups and wet footprints littered across the hardwood floors.
And Andrew does what he always does. Starts cleaning up. He wasn't really sure what his plan was, if he's being honest. He knew you always liked to linger once the parties were done, to make sure your friend was okay. Andrew was hoping that you were a creature of habit with this idea. Seems like right now, it's just delegated him to the role of janitor with no reward.
He starts out by the pool; toeing the stragglers to wake up and get off his property, sifting the garbage out of the pool and throwing the random discarded bikini tops into the trash bag right after it. Itâs already the late hours of the morning when he finishes up outside. The neighbourhood is silent besides the sound of the chlorine water softly lapping at the tiles of the pool. Then he makes his way inside and starts tossing out everything in the kitchen, trying not to think about exactly what was occurring when he was gone to make this sort of mess.
âDo you need some help?â A small voice asks and he whirls around on instinct. He turns to face you and he almost wants to drop the black trash bag heâs holding out of shock. Andrew gives you a once over and you look so similar to the first night that he met you that it makes his heart skip a beat in his chest. A short dress and barefoot, except this time your heels are nowhere to be seen. You seem a bit groggy, dark make up smudged around your eyes. He oscillates between dwelling on how beautiful you are and wanting to get on his knees to see exactly what you got on under your dress.
âItâs late.â Is what he says instead, continuing his job of cleaning up. Thereâs a thousand unsaid things with those two words and it seems like you somehow know him well enough to answer all of them.
âCraig said I could crash on the couch,â you say, beginning to collect some of the empty cans off the kitchen counter. Andrew tries to level a look at you, to let him do it, but you give him a look straight back and continue. âAnd I want to help you. Doesn't seem like anyone else is.â
He accepts that and you two clean in silence for a few moments, working alongside each other. His eyes canât help but follow you as you flounce around the kitchen, picking things up and tossing them into the bag into his hand. And then you speak. âSo, why am I the only one helping you?â
He furrows his brows, pausing for a second as your words catch him off guard. Andrew glances over at you once more and youâre looking at him expectantly. He canât help but feel compelled to answer, although your big fluttery eyes may play a small part in that. Trying to ignore the blood rushing downwards, he answers. âWhat do you mean?â
âUm, I mean thereâs like, at least two or three other people who live in this house,â He can basically hear your frown as you speak, unceremoniously throwing another piece of trash into the bag. âWhy am I the only one helping you clean up? The mess of a party that they threw?â
Andrew has never really thought about it before. He supposes this has always been his role, cleaning up after his family. Solving their problems. Making the bad things go away. Doing the messy work.
âI donât need any help,â he says simply, voice gruff. He tries to ignore the heat of your disappointed eyes on him as he turns around, but he can still hear your loud sigh. You notice that heâs trying to avoid your gaze, so you catch his forearm in your hand. His muscles twitch under your touch, warmth seeping through your skin. Andrew slowly drags his gaze up from your hand on his arm to your face and he canât help but soften. âI got it.â
âI just meant that youâre always taking care of everyone else, Andrew,â you explain, hand still on his arm. Your voice is soft in the way that he likes; a tone that seems to be reserved just for him. âCleaning up after everyone. Making sure they donât kill each other. Craigâs told me that youâve bailed him out plenty of times.â
Andrew frowns. He doesnât like the idea of his brothers talking about him when heâs not around, especially to you. He scowls at the thought, tying off the full garbage bag and placing it aside. He tries to pull away to grab another bag and continue, but your grip tightens on his arm.
âIâm serious. Just leave it for them to deal with for once,â You pull him back towards you, but he feels conflicted. He doubts anyone would actually do it if he left it for them to do âheâs seen the state the house gets into when heâs gone. Andrew hesitates for a moment, but all thoughts fade from his mind when your hand slips from his forearm into his palm, fingers twining with his. All he can do is stare while his brain tries to catch up to whatâs happening. âCome on.â
You pull him along and it doesnât take much effort to have him following. Continuing to stare, heâs got half a mind to hope that his mouth isnât hanging open. He realizes where youâve taken him in Smurfâs just a beat too slow as he enters the room.
His room.
He turns to face you slowly and the expression on your face is unreadable as you shut the door behind you. It reminds me of the first time that he saw you all that time ago. The room is silent for a moment as you two take each other in. Andrew hopes that you canât hear the shaky breath that he lets out from across the room.
âSit,â you command, gesturing to the bed. Andrew doesnât waste any time obeying, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. His hands rest on his thighs, clenching and unclenching anxiously. You approach him slowly, closing the distance until heâs face level with your torso. The position has him blushing âheâs sure his face must be red. He tilts his head up to look at you and you take one step closer. His legs part naturally to accommodate you, bracketing your figure.
âWill you let me take care of you, Andrew?â you ask, hand sliding into his hair. He struggles to not let out a groan, blood rushing straight to his dick. Heâs so distracted by the feeling of your nails scratching along his scalp as he leans into your touch that he barely even registers the question.
âOkay.â It comes out quiet and breathy, but it feels loud in the silent room. He watches the ends of your lips curl up into a smile, his eyes fluttering. You take the hands that were settled on his thighs and place them on your hips. Taking the opportunity to appreciate your body, his hands run over your curves slowly as he sucks in a sharp breath. He doesnât break eye contact with you as he does so, too enraptured to take his eyes off you. It makes him twitch in his jeans when you lean a little closer, breath fanning over his face.
A few moments pass as you let him feel your body; heâs practically drooling at the feeling. Once youâve decided heâs had his fill you climb into his lap, straddling him. Heâs sure you can feel how much he wants you, the heat of your clothed pussy on his jeans making him all the more hard.
You barely give him a second to breathe before youâre catching your lips in his, your mouth parting instantly. The kiss is slow and sensual and it has him letting out a broken whimper into your mouth. That seems to spur you on, fingers gripping the front of his shirt to kiss him even deeper.Â
Andrew doesnât even know how many times he imagined doing this with you. At this point heâs lost count, but this was beyond anything that his mind could ever put together. The smell of your perfume envelopes him and your body is so warm under your thin dress that it sets his nerves alight.
He canât help just taking a bit more, big hands gripping your hips and grinding you against him. The small moan you let out as he does so has his hips bucking. Hands still roaming, he instinctively slips his tongue into the kiss. The fact that you continue to rock your hips against his once he lets go of your waist makes him dizzy. The kiss is wet and desperate and all Andrew wants is to get closer, greedy hands grabbing.
Then he feels your fingers drift to the hem of his shirt and he lifts his arms, allowing you to pull it off. The sensation of your nails dragging across his chest sends a shiver down his spine. His hands had settled on your thighs, gripping so tight that heâs sure heâs leaving marks. He feels bad, but then he decides that heâll kiss them as an apology later, if youâll let him.
You stop grinding and scoot backwards a little, moving further down his lap. He opens his mouth to ask why, but then your hands are at his belt buckle and the words die in his throat. Youâre quick to undo his jeans, wasting no time in pulling him out and taking him into your hands. Your hands are much softer than his rough and calloused ones, warm against the hot flesh of his length. His head tips back as you begin to stroke him slowly, eyes to the ceiling as he lets out another shaky breath.
He had always imagined what your touch would feel like wrapped around him like this, letting himself imagine it was you touching him instead of himself when he was alone. The way you twist your wrist languidly, like you know exactly just how to get him going, has his mind going blank.
âDo you like that?â You mutter, tucking your face into his neck now that heâs made the space. The way you kiss slowly up the sensitive skin of his neck makes his mind fuzzy. He canât seem to get the words out, so he gives a slow nod instead. âGood.â
The praise makes his hips stutter, fucking into your fist. You let out a small laugh, presumably at how desperate he is for you. A low moan escapes his mouth as you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, swiping away the precome leaking from the tip. Your touch disappears for a moment and he tips his head back forwards to you, looking at you through hooded lids. He watches as you spit into your palm and resume your actions, his jaw dropping open ever so slightly. Andrew feels drunk, the slick shlick of you stroking him filling the room.
He thinks you can tell that heâs getting close. He knows that his hips wonât stop rising to meet your touch: a dead giveaway. Itâs almost embarrassing how fast you get him there, cock leaking in desperation as he whines. Your hand slips away and he groans out loud at the loss of sensation. His mind is still fuzzy and he almost misses your fingers wrapping around his wrist, guiding his hand across your body and under your dress. Looking down at where your hands meet, his breathing almost stops when you dip his fingertips past the waistband of your lacy panties.
âDonât you want to feel how wet I am for you, Andrew?â you breathe into his ear. The words affect him deeply and he lets out a strangled noise, but he canât bring himself to be embarrassed with you on top of him like this.
âYes,â he says, voice hoarse. He sounds absolutely wrecked as he swipes a finger along your wetness, sickly slow, brows furrowing as he watches your lips part at his touch. Youâre dripping for him; he can feel the wet patch youâve left on your panties against his knuckles as he slides a finger into you. Itâs your turn to moan, and he swears at the sound, âFuck.â
He pumps his finger in and out slowly, basking in the feeling of you sucking him right in. You surge forward and capture his lips in yours, kissing him breathlessly. You let out a whimper into his mouth as he slips another finger alongside the first. His breath catches in his throat as he feels you flutter around his digits, velvet walls pulling him in even deeper.
Andrew loves having you like this, your dress bunched around your hips, giving him a full view of your pussy covered in lace as you grind your clit into the palm of his hand. Itâs all too much for him; he drops his head to your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your perfume. He thinks of all the times heâs touched himself to the scent of you; whether that be from the sheets from the first time he met you or the way that it lingered in his room after a conversation with you, long after youâve gone.
His pace quickens and he can feel your legs shaking against his while your hips buck, practically riding his hand. Youâre mewling now, coming apart on his fingers the same way you do in his dreams. He feels you clamp down around him and he can tell youâre going to cum seconds before you tell him. He can barely hear it, words lost in your soft whimpers. A rush of wetness is slick against his palm as you let out a moan so loud that Andrew remembers there are other people in the house.
Eyes never leaving yours, he pulls his fingers out from your panties and brings them to his mouth. The way you taste has his eyes almost rolling back into his head, licking up the cum that had dripped down his fingers. He wants to get his head between your legs real fucking bad and eat you until the sun comes back up or until youâre begging him to stop. His cock aches with the desperate need to fuck you, eyes trailing down to your chest as you pull off your dress and toss it aside. He decides to save it until later. Maybe round two?
Heâs appreciated your body countless times as you tanned by the pool, but the view of you on top of him, being able to touch you the way he wants, has his blood running hot in his veins. He could die under you right now and heâd die a happy man.
You push him down onto the bed with a soft push and his back lands against his freshly pressed sheets. Lifting your hips, you pull his jeans and boxers down, leaving them to pool at his ankles where his feet are still planting firmly on the floor. He kicks them off and moves further up the bed, loving how you giggle as he jostles you.
Your tongue swipes across your lips and you settle yourself into position, the lace of your panties scratching intoxicatingly against his cock. Mesmerized, he watches as you hook your fingers into your panties and pull them aside, not even bothering to remove them before lowering himself down onto his length.
The two of you let out a needy noise as you sink down, taking him to the hilt. You look absolutely beautiful, the sight of you absolutely fucked out for him making his cock impossibly harder. His hands fly to your hips as you begin to grind again, much like you were earlier.
He lets out a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes hungry. Youâve spread your cum across the short hairs at the base of his dick, whining as you chase your high. You get tired of the grinding and lift your hips, bending forward and resting your forehead against his. His eyes are on yours as you slam your hips back down, eyes fluttering shut.
The pace you set is brutal, hips pistoning as you ride him. The force of it has the frame of his bed swaying, headboard making impact with the wall every time you drop your hips. That combined with the volume of both the noises you two make as you ride him is more than enough to hear through the wall or the door.Â
âSo good, baby. Feels so fucking good,â he coos, lost in the way you fuck him. The wet slap of skin on skin is absolutely sinful, echoing in the room and mingling with the heavy breaths you let out. Heâs got one hand on your ass and the other on your breast, overwhelmed with the need to memorize every part of your body. âBeen fucking dreaming about your pussy.â
âOh my god, Andrew,â you whine, hips moving fast. He can feel you clenching around him, trapping him in your cunt like a vice. He can barely keep his eyes open, lids low from the pleasure. Youâre squeezing him so fucking tight that he swears his vision is going white. You straighten up and place a hand on his broad chest, using it as leverage to hit a whole new angle.
Andrew feels himself brush against your walls and it has his jaw dropping open as his entire body shaking at the feeling. Heâs close but youâre closer, nails digging into his flesh and your moans grow more high pitched, picking up the pace. You donât stop moving your hips when you cum around him, barely able to keep yourself upright. The feeling of you tightening around him and the sight he catches of your cum glistening around the base of his dick has him moments away from falling over the edge.
âMâgonna cum,â he slurs, hands around your waist to hold you in place as he fucks up into you now. Still sensitive from your second orgasm you squeal, falling even farther forward into his chest. Soft grunts are punched from his chest every time his hips meet yours, taking what he needs from you.
âI want it so bad,â you babble mindlessly, voice dripping with pleasure. Heâs never heard you like this before, but now he canât imagine ever living without it. His thrusts are messy now, determined to hear you beg some more. âPlease, I need it.â
âYeah?â He barely even notices himself speak, too busy fucking into your pussy to think of anything else. Heâs so close that his arms are shaking, thick muscles twitching in anticipation. He almost wants to cry, overwhelmed by the way heâs buried so deep inside you. âYou want me to pump you full of my cum, baby?â
âPlease,â you whine, voice cracking with need. The sound of it has Andrewâs hips faltering as he does exactly that, swearing sharply as he does so. His entire body jerks from the feeling, so wracked in pleasure that he canât control it. You let out a moan alongside his as he fucks him cum back into you, nice and slow. Once the overstimulation gets to him his hips come to a stop, sweat beading on his forehead.
You fall limp on top of him, the deep rise and fall of your chest matching his. He wraps his two big arms around you instinctively, pulling you closer against him. Andrew basks in the quiet, punctuated by nothing other than your quiet breathing, closing his eyes.
âYou okay?â Your voice is muffled against his chest, warm breath fanning over his skin. Heâs got a hand running absentmindedly up and down the bare skin of your back, still sticky with sweat. âThat wasnât too much?â
âNo,â he rumbles, voice soft. His fingers are still skimming as allows himself to take in the moment for just a beat longer. Then heâs got you under him, flat on your back. He loves the way you look up at him, legs still wrapped around his waist. He noses his way into your neck, noticing that his scent is intermingling with yours the more time you spend with him. His hands begin to roam once more and he can feel his blood rush downwards when you look at him with your big curious eyes. âNot enough.â
If Andrew had any say in it, you two were in for a long night.
â
In the morning, Andrew is the first to wake up. He always had trouble getting to sleep, sometimes staring at his ceiling for hours in the night, but the warmth you brought to his bed had pulled him under within minutes.
He turned his head to face you, eyes flicking over your face as the amber light of the sun painted your face. You were clad in one of his shirts, the plain black looking much better on you than it ever did on him. Andrew shifts slowly so as to not wake you and slides out of bed.
The walk to the kitchen is quiet, like it usually is in the morning considering the fact that the rest of his family regularly kept late hours, so he was surprised to find Craig, already seated at the bar, tucking into a bowl of cereal. He looks up and sees who it is, his face twisting into something much more smug as he takes another bite.Â
Andrew is quick to pull a face back, not interested in hashing out his night with Craig, who clearly wants to hear all the details. Instead, he starts to clear the mess that his brother had left out while he assembled his breakfast. Craig waits a beat, like he expects him to change his mind, but Andrew stays silent.
âPope, man-â he starts, but a door creaks shut in down the hall that distracts him, leaving the unfinished sentence in the air. Then you turn the corner, still only in his shirt, and Andrew realizes that it wasnât the noise that caught Craigâs attention. Your hair is still mussed and youâre rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you approach him. You wrap your arms around his wide torso and his arm settles at your waist. Natural as if youâve done it a million times before. Andrew allows himself to smile at the feeling, not even caring that his brother is watching with a shit eating grin on his face.
Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump â and absolutely hates him for leaving.
Tags/Notes: established relationship, groveling and forgiveness, acts of service, nurse!reader, pregnant!reader, getting back together, ft. trinity as a menace and dennis as a cutie
Content: pregnancy, pregnant sex (fingering), shaving scene
A/N: im not good at math <3 sorry i haven't posted in three weeks lmao
Word Count: 14.3k
The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasnât sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.
On his first day back, heâd been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.
You found out about Robbyâs sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeksâ notice for a relationship youâd honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didnât think to ask you, didnât think to check in, didnât even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home youâd basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.
He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?
You didnât answer.
You donât plan to.
The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.
Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurseâs station and scans the shift board. âAnd whereâs my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?â
Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. Sheâd always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so sheâs not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, âShe transferred months ago. Iâm sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.â
His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you â your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. âTransferred? Where? Why?â
âNot my business,â Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, âThey need you in exam six.â
As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that donât see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robbyâs eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, âSheâs working at the hospitalâs satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.â
Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, âThanks for the info.â
She adds, âSmart moneyâs on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.â
Robby grits his teeth. âThey werenât that close.â
âWhatever you say, cap.â
The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once heâs working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. Theyâve gained confidence during his absence, which heâd expected, but thereâs something else. To put it briefly, thereâs a lot of scowling and itâs definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones heâd come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.
In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, âWhatâs wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says âignore meâ on my back or something I didnât notice?â
She snickers, âMaybe theyâre just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didnât come back for six months.â She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, âGive them some time; itâll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.â
He nods slowly and swallows, hoping thatâs all this is. âRight, sure.â
The truth doesnât even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they arenât quite ready to forgive him for that.
â
Itâs almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. Youâre behind the check-in desk today and you canât help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and youâre desperate to put your feet up.
Youâre on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. Youâd started modified work duty this month and itâs driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, âIâll be with you in just one moment.â
âNo worries, gorgeous.â
Your focus snaps.
Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robbyâs eyes. âYou pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?â
Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadnât expected you to act so hostile â in his mind, youâre still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home â and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, âI just wanted to stop by and see you.â
You set your jaw and cut back, âWell I didnât want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesnât affect your decisions.â
He sighs. âYouâre still mad at me.â
You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. ââStillâ implies that eventually Iâll stop, which wonât be happening.â
âCâmon sweetheart, you canât-â
âDonât.â Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. âJust- just donât.â After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, âYouâre officially eating into my lunch, so Iâm gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. Iâm happy either way.â
Robby presses, âLet me at least buy you lunch.â
You extend your hand and reply without emotion, âSure, give me $20 and Iâll happily spend it.â
Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. âPlease.â
Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isnât going to leave without talking to you alone first. Youâre going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but youâd hoped to at least be in control of it.
âFine. Buy me lunch.â Youâre almost laughing as you mutter, âLetâs see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.â
Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.
Robbyâs next words are breathless and desperate. âYouâre pregnant.â
âGlad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.â
He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. âHow- how far along?â
âTake a fucking guess, Doctor,â you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurseâs station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the âonly employees past this doorâ sign and give him a mock pout. âWait outside if you care so much.â
Robby debates for a second and says weakly, âItâs my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.â
You give him a look that reeks of âthatâs what I thoughtâ and say, âThen get back to the hospital. Iâm immune to being left behind now.â
Itâs not your hatred that hurts. Itâs your apathy.
He sends you texts. You donât reply.
He leaves you voicemails. You donât listen.
After a few more days of silence, heâs got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. Heâs been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, âSheâs pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.â
âAh.â Jack studies his best friendâs face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, âFuck.â
Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. âYeah. Fuck.â
âAnd she doesnât want anything to do with you now.â Itâs not a question. Itâs the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. âI donât blame her.â
Robby balks, âYou said I should go on the trip.â
âBut Iâm not your girlfriend.â
âAnd thank god for that.â
âYou didnât talk to her about leaving?â
âI didnât realize I needed her permission.â
âYou didnât. But you shouldâve wanted it.â Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, âYou told me before you left that sheâs the one. What the hell is wrong with you?â
âA lot. Thatâs why I had to go,â Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. âLook, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better â about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now thereâs going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.â Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, âThe whole time I was gone, I thought sheâd be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured sheâd still want me.â
âDelusions of grandeur,â Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. âSheâs so far out of your league youâd have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?â
âBecause she always waited for me,â Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. âShe- she was always there. She always stayed.â
âAnd you repaid her by leaving.â
Robbyâs voice drops to an ashamed whisper. âI didnât realize she loved me enough to care that I left.â
âBut she did.â
âShe did.â Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you â the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. âShe was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.â
âAlright, Socrates, pack it in.â Jack claps a hand on Robbyâs back and summarizes, âYou fucked it up and you need to fix it.â
âI fucked it up and I need to fix it,â Robby confirms. âBut how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?â
âShe doesnât want you to say sorry,â Jack replies. Itâs effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. âShe doesnât want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.â
âFlatterer.â
âShut up. Iâm saying sheâs spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While youâre god knows where, sheâs figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurseâs salary. So I know she doesnât want what you used to be for her.â
Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, âYouâre really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.â
âShe wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesnât want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesnât have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and youâre showing up for her.â Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, âLetâs get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.â
At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didnât steal from your personnel file. Itâs a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but itâs still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where youâd taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.
When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, heâs never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. âWhat are you doing here, Dr. Robby?â
His brows furrow as he explains, âI was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.â
Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. âYou girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didnât mean anything to you.â
âWoah, Jesus,â Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. âIs that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.â
âNot hostile, just professional.â
âYou were definitely hostile.â
Trinity glares. âFile a complaint.â
She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. âIs she here?â
Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows heâd never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. âYup.â
âShe lives with you and Whitaker now?â
âYup. Saving money until the last minute.â
âGod.â Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. âCan I- Can I just come in and see her?â
Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, âDo you want to see Robby?â
Your voice is immediate. Thereâs more hurt in it than heâd heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. âHeâs here?â
âAt the door.â
Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, âGet rid of him.â
Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. âYou heard the woman. Go home.â
âFuck, fine. Itâs getting late anyway; she should sleep.â With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. âCan you give this to her at least?â
Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, âWhat is it?â
âItâs ten thousand dollars.â
She rolls her eyes. âFuck off, Robby.â
Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, âHeâs the worst. Iâll kill him at work tomorrow.â
You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. âNo need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?â
âYeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.â You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, âRobby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-â
âIâll take it.â You smile softly at her and add, âThanks, Trin. You shouldnât have to deal with my drama.â
âYou deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,â she points out with a conspiratorial grin.
Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Heâs been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. âWhatâs going on?â
Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, âRobby showed up.â
Dennis shakes his head. âBastard.â
âYou donât have to say that,â you reply with a laugh. âI know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.â
âTrinity would kill me,â he mutters.
She punches him on the arm. âAnd Iâd be right! We donât defend shitty men who-â
âRobbyâs not a shitty man; you know that,â he interrupts her. âHe handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesnât make him a shitty person.â
âYouâre too forgiving, Nebraska.â
âAnd youâre not forgiving enough.â
You sigh sharply, âAnd I need to go to sleep.â
âAt least open up the letter for us,â Trinity insists. âMy nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I wonât be able to sleep without it.â
Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, âIâm sure itâs just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-â Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. Thereâs a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, âItâs a check for ten thousand dollars.â
âOh my god, I thought he was being a dick,â Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent â not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. âWhy the hell would heâŚ?â
With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.
I donât know whether or not when youâll let me back into your life.
Thatâs up to you. I accept it. I respect that itâs your choice.
But Iâm not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I canât do that. You know about my father. Iâm never going to become him. I hope you believe that.
So this isnât a bribe to take me back. I promise it isnât. Itâs not an apology. Iâm still working on that.
Itâs for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctorâs appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vinoâs, anything you need until theyâre born. Iâm not going to let you want for anything. If money is all youâll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please.
I promise I wonât abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more.
And I promise I love you. Both of you.
I hope youâll Please, let me prove it.
Love,
Sincerely,
Yours,
M.
All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robbyâs painstakingly scrawled words.
Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, âSee? Heâs good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.â
Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. âShe could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.â
Dennis argues, âHe didnât know she was pregnant.â
You whisper, âDo I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?â
Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, âDo you really want any man besides him?â
You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. âI need sleep. IâllâŚFuck. Iâll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell Iâm doing with my life.â
Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. âLove you, sunshine. Goodnight.â
You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robbyâs that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.
In his home across town, all Robby knows is that heâs never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.
In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.
I figured you might want your things back from my place. Iâm sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I donât want to make anything worse. M.
Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, âHeâs groveling.â
âWhat do you think I should do?â
âI think you should let him grovel.â
Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, âI donât want to be cruel. Iâm not going to keep his own baby from him.â
âOf course not. But thatâs not what weâre talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your co-parent or sperm donor or whatever. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?â
âOf course I do,â you sigh, âbut I justâŚI donât trust him anymore. How could I?â
âIâm just saying,â she reasons with a shrug, âif his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe youâll end up with a private plane or something.â
âRobbyâs got money, but he doesnât have that kind of money.â
âAs far as we know,â she replies with a snicker. âLook, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.â
You laugh and polish off the bear claw. âYouâre a menace, Trinity Santos.â
âMy specialty.â She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. âNow do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?â
âItâs a beautiful morning; I donât mind the bus.â
âMaybe Robby will get you a car.â
âYeah,â you snort, âmaybe.â
Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, âIs this from Michael Robinavitch?â
âYeah, he said youâd be expecting it.â He checks the order on his phone and reads, âThe delivery instructions said âtell her I know for a fact she doesnât eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.â Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.â
You shake your head and sigh. âYeah, he can be.â
And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things â extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in â to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.
Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that heâs back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell heâll even take a DM at this point. But you donât. Itâs agony. If nothing else, Trinityâs dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.
Then.
After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. Youâre a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: âCan we talk?â
âYes,â Robby answers too fast. âOf course we can. Do youâŚwant to go somewhere else?â
âNo. I donât.â You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, âYou said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. Thatâs not the problem.â
Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. âTell me.â
Confirming his every fear, you whisper, âI donât trust you enough to raise a child with you.â
Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, âYou donât want me to be involved with my own kid?â
âOf course I want you to be in her life; thatâs not- thatâs not what I meant. But I donât know if I can trust you to be her dad â her momâs partner â and not just her biological father.â
The world tilts slightly.
Robbyâs breath catches in his throat.Â
Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, âItâs a girl?
You canât help the way that softens you. You can see the universe heâs building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.
You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.
âYeah,â you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, âsheâs a girl.â
âWow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-â He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. âHave you picked a name yet?â
You shake your head and admit, âI have some favorites, but it wouldnât feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. Sheâs not just mine.â Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you canât bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures youâd set aside, always hoping youâd be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. âHere. Yours to keep.â
Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, âSheâs got your nose.â
You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, âAnd your huge feet.â
His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; heâs too choked up to add anything else. Once heâs finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like heâs about to propose, and gazes up at your face. âIâll do anything to be yours again.â
Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. âI canât just pick up where we left off.â
âI donât expect you to. I donât want that.â He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. âI know we canât exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.â
âOkay,â you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, âTrinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.â
âAbsolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.â
Your eyes narrow. âThat fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?â
âIâll pick you up at ten.â
You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. âSold.â
With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, âAre you okay?â
âYour daughterâs beating the shit out of me,â you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, âDo you want to feel?â
Robbyâs voice is ragged and desperate like youâve never heard it. Itâs heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream heâs ever had. âPlease.â
You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.
âHoly shit.â Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like sheâs saying hi. âThatâs the most amazing thing Iâve ever felt.â
You roll your eyes and try not to smile. âPlease; youâve felt a million babies kick.â
âBut this is-â He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. âThis is different. Is she always this active?â
âIn the evening, yeah. Like she can tell Iâm done with work and itâs playtime.â You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. âSheâs gonna terrorize us.â
âUsâ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robbyâs chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. âWouldnât have it any other way.â
Youâre halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. Heâd overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and youâd noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.
After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, âI want you to audition to be my husband.â
One side of Robbyâs lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. âShall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?â
You hum teasingly, âThereâll be whatever I want; thatâs the whole point.â
âThis has Trinity Santos written all over it.â
You shrug and relent, âShe may have had a hand in the concept.â
His fork wavers in the air. âShould I fear for my life?â
âNo more than you usually do around her,â you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), âFor the next two weeks, Iâm going to tell you what I need from you and youâre going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and Iâll accept.â
Right away, Robby nods and confirms, âConsider it done.â
You raise a challenging eyebrow. âThat easy?â
He puffs up his chest a bit. âIâm an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.â
âIs that so?â
âIâm 100% confident.â
âGreat. Love that.â You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, âThe first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.â
That night, Robbyâs phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but heâs been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, âHi, mama.â
âHey, Michael.â He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, âCan you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.â
Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, âYou mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?â
âThat would be the one.â Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, âIâve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.â
Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. âYou still donât have a car?â
âIâm living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,â you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, âIce cream. One hour.â
He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. âSee you soon.â
Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. Itâs Whitaker, for some reason.
Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.
With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion youâd put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.
Noted. Thanks for the tip.
Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.
Iâm rooting for you.
If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.
Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. Itâs quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesnât even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. Youâre visibly exhausted and need a shower and youâve never been more beautiful.
Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.
âMichael David Robinavitch,â you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, âis that a minivan?â
âBrand new Chrysler Pacifica,â he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like itâs a sports car. âMost safety and security features in its class. Ainât she a beaut?â
With a shy smile, you confirm, âYou got rid of the motorcycle?â
Robby shrugs modestly. âNot very practical when you have kids.â
âKids. Plural.â
He cuts you a look thatâs all cocky and loving. âYeah. Plural.â Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, âTwo gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully thatâll last you until after my next shift.â
You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, âYou want some?â
Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. âI think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.â
You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. âTry telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.â
âThus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.â
âThank you for that, by the way,â you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, âFuck, this is so good. Are you sure you donât want any?â
âIâm happier watching you eat it,â he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. Itâs the first time heâs seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since heâs been back. âIs there anything else I can do for you tonight?â
âYeah, actually,â you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, âI want to hear about your trip.â
Robbyâs brows go up; he genuinely hadnât expected you to want to talk to him at all. âReally?â
âYup.â You pat the couch next to you. âPrincess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.â
Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, âI didnât have sex with anyone while I was gone.â
You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. âYou didnât?â
âOf course not.â He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, âI thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.â
âGirls donât wait for men who donât even text while theyâre gone,â you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than youâd wanted.
âI know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didnât see anything clearly. Couldnât.â Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, âBut someone Iâm trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I wonât get into all that yet.â
You give him a pointed look. âAny particular reason youâre rubbing my feet?â
He shrugs innocently and reasons, âYouâre pregnant; Iâm sure theyâre killing you all the time.â
âItâs just interesting timing,â you muse, âconsidering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer heâs been wanting.â
âA man has to have some secrets,â he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, âAll I really did on my trip was think.â
You tease, âSounds horrible.â
âIt was, a lot of the time.â Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. âI didnât go because I needed a vacation. I needed toâŚreset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.â
Your mouth falls open. âYou wrote in a journal?â
âStill do,â he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. âIt helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally â see how stupid they can get, how untrue â when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.â
âThatâs really good,â you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. Heâs not sure if youâre talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesnât care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, âTell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.â
Robby knows youâre about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heatherâs miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.
âŚlead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peaceâŚgrant me grace, kindness, and mercyâŚbestow upon us abundant kindnessâŚ
After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesnât stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, âSomeday Iâll take you all the beautiful places Iâve seen. Youâre going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.â
Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, âNow this is what I like to see, Rob.â
Robby whispers back, âBe quiet. Sheâs out like a light.â
âYou were just talking to her.â
He corrects, âI was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.â
She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. âYouâll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.â
Robbyâs eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. âMichael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?â
You groan, âI want to shave my legs and I canât reach anymore.â
He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. âSounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?â
Your voice perks up just a little. âTwix. Several.â
âYes, maâam.â
âAnd a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.â
âI think I can manage that.â
Half an hour later, youâre in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini â much to Robbyâs eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity â while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You donât miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.
âYouâve got a real jungle going down here,â Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if heâs prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then heâs not going to miss a single hair. âGonna need a weed wacker for those shins.â
You glare at him. âI will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.â
âIâm just saying you couldâve asked me a week ago.â
âI didnât have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.â
âBut you do now?â He raises a suspicious eyebrow. âHot date?â
âWith the OBGYN, yup. Sheâs a real hunk.â
He gives you a very pointed look at that. âDo you want me to trim your bush?â
âMichael!â
âI know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.â
âI will not hesitate to splash you.â
Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas â he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman â he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. âThat was a sincere offer. Iâm not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.â
Sounding far too flirty for Robbyâs sanity, you reply, âAnd you always told me you like unruly.â
âBut itâs your body,â he replies. Earnest. Insistent. âIâm not going to push it, but itâs on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks canât exactly be fun.â
After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. âYouâre making it really hard to stay mad at you.â
His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love youâre afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, âI want you to be mad at me until you donât need to be anymore.â
You scoff, âYou want me to be mad at you?â
He swallows hard and amends, âI want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.â
And you want to kiss him.
You hate him â and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, âOkay.â
âOkay?â
Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, âLetâs trim the bush.â
He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, âCrap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.â
You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.
As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, âTell me if you want me to stop. Itâs okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN wonât care what your vulva looks like.â
You snicker, âI know. Get to it, doc.â
Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then he curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. âSorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.â
You laugh, âItâs okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.â
âYouâve never been more attractive,â he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesnât let it hang. He gives a sharp soldierâs nod and gets to work, using his precise doctorâs fingertips to guide his motions. âYou know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.â
You wince. âJesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?â
He shrugs. âFreak sex accident, Iâm assuming. Thatâs half the job.â Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. âAlright, no more jokes, Iâve gotta focus when Iâm relying on touch.â
You roll your eyes. âYes, sir.â
You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michaelâs touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as his confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. Heâs not doing it on purpose â that much is clear from how heâs got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what heâs doing â but itâs working you up nonetheless.
Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. âMichael?â
Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, âHm?â
Like a guilty child, you admit, âYouâre turning me on.â
Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. âShit, Iâm sorry. I swear I wasnât trying to do any-â
âNo, itâs- itâs okay,â you assure quickly. âI just havenât been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. Iâm a littleâŚpent up. I didnât want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.â
Robby hesitates. Thereâs a war in his eyes. You watch his adamâs apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.
Ultimately, he doesnât say a thing, just waits for you to lead.
You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby youâve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but heâs different, too. Thereâs a calm to him you havenât seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.
For the first time, youâre in charge. You get to decide.
So you decide.
Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, âWould you mind, um, helping me out with that?â
His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. âAre you sure?â
âI donât want to change anything with where weâre at right now,â you clarify, speaking slow, like youâre worried about a nervous cat darting, âbut I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldnât be too weird.â
âWeird?â Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. âNo, it wouldnât be weird.â
âWhat would it be, then?â
He takes in a shaky breath and replies, âIt wouldnât have to be something.â Sitting down by the tub again, he says, âI said Iâd do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.â He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like itâs a challenge. âIâm not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.â As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, âJust tell me if you want me to stop. This isnât about me.â
You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesnât seem like thatâs changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.
When he can tell youâre wanting more â letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off â he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. Youâre wet and begging and heâs not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased âoâ and Robbyâs borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. Heâs not sure if itâs the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-
Woah, asshole.
Calm down.
He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesnât stop, doesnât slow, doesnât race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until youâre tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as itâll allow.
All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, âThere you go. Thatâs it.â
When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint fluttery aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. Youâre too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes.Â
To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, âReady to get out? Iâll help you up.â
Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didnât kiss you, didnât ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. Thatâs so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. âThat would be good. Thank you.â
Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, âAnything. Any time.â
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
In the morning, Robbyâs securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when heâd expected. He may have snooped on your calendar â it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him â and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so heâd asked Jack to stay a few hours late and heâd do the same at night.
He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. âWhat can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?â
âLaying it on thick already,â you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. âWould you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she canât now.â
Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinityâs working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, âDo you need a ride or am I invited in?â
âItâs your baby, dumbass,â you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, âI want you there.â
âYou do?â
Thereâs a beat of silence where heâs worried heâs pushed too far. But then you say, âYeah, I do. I wish you couldâve been there for the first few.â
With a deep breath, he replies, âMe too. Iâd give anything to go back and-â He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. âIâll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?â
âSee you soon, Michael.â
âLo- See you, sweetheart.â
When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. Heâs wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and heâs got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it soâŚtousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.
Robby canât suppress the very similar thoughts heâs having at seeing your outfit. Youâre wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.
Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, âMichael, you look-â sexy as all fuck â-very handsome.â
He puffs up his chest. âGotta look good; itâs my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.â
You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. âShe canât see you through my organs, babe.â
You donât notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesnât call attention to it. He just makes sure youâre buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.
As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, âWhat happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?â
âMr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows youâre having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,â he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. âThrow in a side of sweet potato fries and Iâm pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.â
You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. âWhatever you say, doctor.â
When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, âIâm sorry; I wasnât thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?â
You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. âItâs okay. Really. I mean, youâre gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so itâs not exactly a secret, right?â
âFair point,â he concedes. âYou know theyâre gonna make it a whole thing, right?â
âOf course I do.â
âThere might even be cake by the time weâre done.â
âGod forbid.â
âAlright, fuck it.â Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. âLetâs announce our lovechild to the world.â
âThey probably already know; Trinity isnât the most tight-lipped person,â you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.
âJack didnât know until I told him.â
âBecause heâs such a notorious gossip.â
Robby canât even respond because, as soon as youâre through the staff entrance, Danaâs staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, âHoly hell, you are extremely pregnant.â
âNot extremely,â you balk as if itâs a ridiculous idea, â30 weeks.â
Dana seems to notice Robbyâs presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. âThirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch sheâs growing?â
You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, âYeah, that would be my little girl.â
âA girl!â Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. âThis one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?â
âYes, mom.â
âGood. As he should.â
Robby cuts in gently, âWeâve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.â
âYeah, good fuckinâ luck with that,â Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurseâs station to get a look at you and Robby. âHave fun, lovebirds.â
Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, âCan you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I donât do well with public interrogations.â
âYour wish is my command,â he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.
Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, âAlright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, Iâm wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: Iâm in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but weâre figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; Iâm not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?â
Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. Thereâs an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, âHeâs got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.â
You squeeze his bicep gently. âThanks, Dr. Abbot.â
âNo problem.â Then he points at your bump and adds, âThatâs Uncle Jackie to you, miss.â
You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. âUncle Jackie, huh?â
He grins and boasts, âI was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.â
The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. âYeah, she will. Weâre lucky.â
And suddenly so much love washes through your body youâre not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. Heâs the right man for you. For her. Youâre swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you canât stop watching Robbyâs smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way heâs looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.
Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, âAlright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, letâs back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.â
You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. âBaby shower gifts. Please.â
âWhat? You donât want a shower?â
âI just donât know who would put it together; I donât really have the time.â
Robby scoffs, âAs if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the catâs out of the bag.â
âGood point,â you concede, trying to suppress the smile that wonât stop threatening your cheeks.
Maybe itâs just luck or maybe itâs the presence of one of the hospitalâs more important doctors standing behind you, but youâre in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.
Sheâs borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. âDr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.â
âGood to be back,â he replies carefully, shaking her hand. âIâm guessing youâve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.â
âThat would be an accurate assessment, doctor.â
Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. Itâs what he does when heâs hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, âCall me Michael, please.â
âWeâll see.â
You snicker, âAddie, I promise heâs putting the work in.â
âFine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.â Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasnât there for the other appointments, âShe was a little small at our last scan, so Iâm gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.â
Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. âHas there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?â
You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. âNope, sheâs been a total champ. Iâm the problem between the two of us.â
Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell itâs more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. âWhat does that mean?â
You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, âIâm just anemic; I passed out early on. Thatâs how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.â
Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. âYouâre taking iron now?â
You roll your eyes. âAnd eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.â
Robbyâs ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, âBaby girlâs growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. Sheâs no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?â
When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, âMichael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say âI told you so.ââ
He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. âI would never. Iâm just glad to hear our girlâs healthy â and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.â
You cringe at the thought. âLucky she takes after me on that front.â
So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, âCan we see her now?â
Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, âYeah, of course. Thereâs her side profile; sheâs perfectly posed for us. Iâll turn on the doppler, too.â
Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the babyâs heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.
You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered youâre there. âIsnât she beautiful?â
âSheâs perfect,â he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. âHow could I ever leave you? I canât believe I let myself miss this. Youâre so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.â
Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, âMikey.â
He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each otherâs shoulders and thereâs nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.
Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.
From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasnât pushed the issue yet, but you know itâs going to reach a tipping point.
That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. Itâs your day off, so youâre treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.
Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As heâs supervising Mohanâs work on an elderly womanâs obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.
While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, âIs that mama?â
Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. âShit, yes, it is. She wouldnât call me during weather like this if it wasnât important. Do you mind if I-â
Mohan chuckles, âI think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.â
Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospitalâs chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. âHey, sweetheart, whatâs going on?â
He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. âCan you come pick me up?â
Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. âWhere are you?â
âA bus stop in East Liberty,â you sniffle out. âThe buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didnât pick up and Iâm soaking wet and freezing and I canât-â
âBreathe for me, honey. Itâs okay. Iâve got you.â Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. âWhich bus stop?â
As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. âIâll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?â
âI- I donât know. Iâm all frazzled,â you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you canât stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. âThere was this guy who wouldnât leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my boyfriend or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.â
Anger flares in Robbyâs chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurseâs station, barely pausing to see her reaction â just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod â before he shoves out of the door into the rain. âAre you alone now? Are you safe?â
âIâm okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-â
âBreathe, baby, breathe. Iâm getting in the car right now.â
A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robbyâs ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: âWould you stay on the phone with me?â
âOf course.â He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. âIâm right here with you. Just keep talking and the timeâll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?â
âYeah, I was.â You sniffle again and try to smile. âI bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. Itâs really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.â
âYou gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?â
âDefinitely.â You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, âThe whole âbig man carrying babyâ thing is very sexy. Iâm sure itâll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.â
Robby snorts. âYou know perfectly well there are only two chicks Iâm interested in picking up the rest of my life.
âRest of your life, huh?â
âIf theyâll have me.â He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. âAlright, Iâm only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman Iâve ever seen a ride, okay? Sheâs soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.â Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. âHey, stranger, can I give you a lift?â
You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, âYou turned on the seat warmers for me.â
âI also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; Iâm a real gentleman,â he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.
Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. âYeah, actually, you are.â
Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.
Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, âIâm sorry for interrupting you at work; Iâm sure things are swamped there.â
Despite the fact that his phoneâs been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, âNothingâs more important to me than your safety.â He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, âIâm sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasnât thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.â
You tell him softly, âItâs okay, Michael.â
âIs it?â
âYeah, it really is,â you murmur back. âYou missed the exit, by the way.â
Robby shakes his head. âIâm taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.â
You avert your eyes and admit, âThat sounds really nice, Mikey.â
âI like hearing you call me that again,â he says gently. âThank you.â
âThank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.â
Robby chuckles, âYes, maâam.â
As soon as Robby has you inside, heâs helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, âWould you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?â
âI did not give you mono,â he laughs, âbut I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.â
He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, âYou had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?â
âAlright, whatever.â Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. âDonât you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. Iâll be back once Iâve got the soup boiling.â
You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. âYes, sir.â
âDonât play dirty with me.â
âI would never.â You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, âIâm more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.â
He leans down and kisses the top of your head. âGood girl.â
âNow whoâs playing dirty?â
âI would never.â
Robby slips out of the bathroom and you justâŚrelax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.
God.
God.
Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that youâve forgiven him.
Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he mustâve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, âMove in here, sweetheart, please. I canât- I canât function not knowing if youâre okay. Not knowing where the babyâs going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-â
âMichael.â Itâs a whisper, a tender one at that. âI donât want to feel like Iâm trying to fit into your life.â
âI donât want to make you feel that way; I swear.â He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. âIâd like to apologize now. If youâd let me.â
You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. âIâm ready. Go ahead.â
âThank you.â After a deep breath, Robby starts, âLook, Iâm not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-â He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. âI needed to grow up. I know Iâm a little old for that, but I think itâs the closest thing to true. Iâm sorry I told you instead of talking it through. Iâm sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?âÂ
Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, âWhat Iâm the most sorry for is that I didnât ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway wouldâve been so much better if I shared them with you.â
He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, âI swear Iâll spend every single one with you from now on. Iâll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and youâll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything Iâve ever had. You are everything now.â
The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, itâs you and itâs Robby and itâs the storm.
Then you lean forward. You hold Robbyâs face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.
And you kiss him.
Itâs slow, so gentle, and heâs holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, âI want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.â
Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. âOkay.â
You smack him on the chest and laugh, ââOkayâ? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!â
âWell Iâm being serious. Letâs move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. Iâve got savings to get us through as long as we need. Iâll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.â
You roll your eyes and scoff, âDonât be ridiculous.â
âIâm not,â he assures seriously. âIf youâre taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.â
âFine.â You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. âI want a puppy.â
Robby grips his heart like youâve stabbed him. âIf you really want one â when the babyâs old enough that I wonât have a panic attack having a dog around her.â
âDeal.â You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. âI want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.â
He melts under your touch and smiles. âOkay.â
You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. âAnd I want my own craft room in the house.â
Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, âOkay.â
âI want a hot tub.â
âOkay.â
âAnd a soaking tub.â
âOkay.â
âManicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.â
âOkay, okay-â he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried â-very okay.â
Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, âAnd I want you to fuck me. Right now.â
Robbyâs lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch â slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear â is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, âOkay.â
Pookie I request,, spit slut Dennis. I am gonna be vague because I know you will run with it.
NOW GO
im going im going!! Im on a bit of a spit kick..me thinks. I think this came out really well, you say slut? I deliver.
warnings: spit and lots of it, drooling, kissing, car make outs. idk man standard mari appropriate grossness.
kissing dennis before you both go up to your shared apartment. right after pulling into the nearly empty parking garage. it was innocent really you just wanted to feel the comforting weight of his mouth on yours. leaning over the scuffed center console to press a quick kiss to his soft pink lips.
âone more?â he requests looking at you, fluttering his lashes and puckering up his lips in question, with a hopeful glint shimmering in his eye. you smile lopsidedly at the cute display, leaning back in to plant another soft one on him.
the second you come back from it heâs already asking for more.
âanother?â this time you unbuckle your seatbelt and scoot closer in the passenger seat. resting your elbow on the console to give him a kiss once more, holding it longer than before but not long enough to be salacious. as you go to move back though, he lightly grasps the neckline of your jacket. gripping the soft material before your lips can even fully leave his. fingers flexing down onto the fabric like itâs reflex, not forcing just asking you to stay.
with his lips skimming over yours he looks into your eyes, gaze full of need, holding a deep want that threads through his irises. eyes moving from yours to your mouth every few seconds. unable to focus on either for too long before heâs looking at the other.
âkiss me..again, pleaseâ
itâs breathy, desperate even, ghosting over your mouth in a small puff of warmth. wetting his lips he keeps his eyes locked on yours. his plead is granted, adjusting yourself, fingers splaying over the radio to your right. you move closer, lips slotting to his perfectly, theyâre slick from his tongue but you donât mind, you fight the urge to lick it into your mouth.
the minute you settle into it, he whines, lacing his fingers into the fabric of your zip up a little harder. tugging you into him with more force. moving against you with fervor each dip of your head causes him to release a moan. the disconnecting and reconnecting spreading heat from him to you transferring it with ever kiss. every time you or he himself pull away heâs bringing you closer chasing your lips with a groan. you feel it, the wetness from his mouth spreading into yours, the warmth dripping from the seams of your mouths. running down your chin.
his tongue darts out licking over the spit from your lips and taking it back into his. it makes him shudder, the raw heady taste of you on his soft palate. he suppresses a whimper.
coaxing you to open up for him, he tilts his head, pressing closer. the line of your mouth splits but not wide enough, not as much as he needs it to be.
so he moves his hand from your collar to skim up over your cheek. grazing the skin there with his thumb tenderly before heâs digging it into the side of your chin. squeezing your jaw open.
âopenâopen up for me baby.â
itâs barely audible under the wet noises between the two of you. almost a whisper, muffled as he pushes the words into your waiting mouth along with his tongue.
itâs almost slimy, the warm salvia covering it viscous immediately running from him to you. and you accept it gratefully jaw falling open while he has his way with you. nipping at your bottom lip, tugging it with his teeth until you wince. all the while panting letting little whimpers out into the quiet atmosphere of the car.
his free hand joins the other on your face. pulling you forward by your cheeks until youâre almost bent over the consoleâ thatâs doing nothing but getting in the way. itâs wet, all of it is. his mouth, yours, your panties. the way heâs basically feeding his spit to you messily. at one point his hand even dances over your neck, to feel the muscles contract while you swallow down what he gives you.
itâs a mess of desperation and saliva. with your mouth now cracked open heâs free to suck your tongue into his mouth. engulfing your mouth with his, spit slicked lips encasing the tip of the muscle pulling it deeper.
you break away every so often, just to see the webs of saliva branch between the two of you. the feverish kiss even creating bubbles of the liquid as you both gasp and moan pathetically into each other.
âyâtaste so good, my god.â he rasps.
drool slips freely down the sides of each respective mouth. and you wouldnât have it any other way. dennis feels it drip down onto his wrist soaking the material of his sleeve but he could care less. a thin trail making its way down his chin and seeping down his neck. the sloppy nature of it all doing wonders for him, arousal burning under his skin and he needs more. more of you, more of the mess. pulling sway for only a moment to speak.
âshitâ câmere, climb across.â
then immediately dividing back in to capture your lips once more. listening you quickly clamber up over the seats and awkwardly fall into his lap narrowly avoiding hitting your head on the ceiling. his hands never leaving your cheeks, ass resting directly over his bulge, you grind down on him. eliciting a conjoined moan from the both of you.
he finally pulls away, face flushed in the low light overhead. head resting on the seats behind him, a picture of erotism painted across his features. eyes lidded, blinks slow, chin and cheeks smeared with a mixture of your spit and his glisten. chest heaving as he lays his head against his shoulder, blue eyes rolling over you.
licking his lips one of his hands come down gripping your hips to slide you closer. fingers breaching the line of your jacket going under to thumb at your skin. your hands flatten on his chest feeling the erratic pump of his heart beneath his ribcage.
saying nothing the other one reaches behind you to cut the power of the car. the lights going out the moment the key is turned, the low comforting hum of engine now dead. the space encased in an inky darkness. his once visible form now completely obscured in the night. even with your eyes wide open you see nothing, the only sound being the greedy intake of air you both take.
you feel him move closer, adjusting in his seat, arms wrapping around your body to pull you flush to him. noses brushing in the dark, it makes you shiver, every sense heightened as if an blindfold had been placed over your eyes.
suddenly his tongue comes out to lick over your closed lips. his hand moving from your back, over your breast and to the zipper of your hoodie. his words wisp over your now slick ones.
âI donât think Iâll make it up to the apartment, sorry.â
Sorry one more and Iâm done. Hippo in a onesie with a coffee(bc why wouldnât he have a coffee) and fairy wings.
Happy writing!
john shen//idiots in love//"it's themiddle of the night"//first time together
my first shen blurb everyone be nice. some dialogue from an @corvase prompt post to get things going!
wc: 1.5k
Shen grins when he sees you strutting into the ED with your cutesy backpack and pink sneakers, opening up his arms for one of your trademarked sunshine hugs. You skip into his arms and squeeze him tight, just long enough to write off as strictly friendly. He overdoses on the fresh scent of your strawberry shampoo when you nudge up onto your tiptoes to nestle briefly into his neck. He pulls back with a goofy smile. âWhat are you doing here? Itâs the middle of the night.â
âI can tell time, loser,â you chuckle as you poke him in the chest. âI switched to night shift for a while.â
âWhy?â John tilts his head to the side. âYou hate working nights.â
You give him a wink and a lilting voice. âYeah, but I donât hate the company.â
Considering it, he nods slowly. âYeah, weâre a good time, I guess. Me and Abbot have this competition going about who can diagnose the most patients before sunrise.â
You roll your eyes as Lena snorts out a laugh behind him at the nursesâ station. âI meant you, dummy. We work well together, donât you think?â
John straightens up and rolls his shoulders back as the mini compliment from you makes him feel way too good about himself. âYeah, definitely.â
The shift goes smoothly. Like you expected, itâs easy to fall into step next to Shen. Your work bestie Trinity had told you that crushes made it impossible to work together, but your experience with John has been the opposite. Maybe itâs because youâre so attuned to his every movement. You always know when he wants which scalpel, when he needs to let him, when heâs overdue for his breaks.
And it always feels mutual. Thatâs part of why your crush blew up in the first place back when you were both residents together. Heâs always going out of his way to get by your side and offer you help. Not that you need it most of the time.
That dynamic is highlighted when a gnarly car accident comes through. The driver hadnât been wearing his seatbelt and heâs incredibly lucky that the worst he got was a faceful of glass. Youâre the closest to the bay, so you jump right in to triage him, not even noticing that Shen is quickly coming up behind you to see if thereâs anything he can do for you. Not for the patient. For you.
You study the nearly unconscious patientâs face and neck lacerations with your lips in a tight grimace, gently maneuvering the skin around for better visibility, trying to make a determination on the right methods moving forward to address his disastrous breathing.
âCICO,â you sigh in confirmation as you rummage through a nearby drawer for a kit, eyebrows furrowed as you focus yourself. âGonna have to cric him.â
âRight here?â Shen steps closer. Knowing youâre new to your job as an attending and to the night shift, he offers, âYou want me to take over?â
All confidence and sweetness despite your blood-covered gloved hands, you tell him, âDonât worry, John; Iâve got it.â With the kit set up and ready, you murmur the steps under your breath as you take yourself through them, not a single doubt in your mind that youâre perfectly capable of the procedure under pressure. âPrepare, position, palpate. Identify, incision, insertion.â
Shen watches in amazement as you quickly and perfectly perform an effortless cricothyroidotomy, zero shake or hesitation in your hands. Itâs just as good as Abbot or Robby would do with two decades of experience on you. To him, you look like a damn angel, saving a life like itâs your first nature.
âAlright,â you tell the nurse assisting once youâre satisfied with the placement and his O2 measurements are going up, âget him up to surgery.â
When you turn around, humming under your breath and snapping your gloves off, John watches in awe. Beside himself, he glows, âThat was fucking incredible. Marry me.â
Your head whips back toward him. âWhat?â
âWhat?â
You trash your gown and shove him gently on his chest. âWhat?â
He shakes his head and stammers, âI was- Uh. I was joking. Just, that was- Great work, doc.â
âOh. Okay.â Your cheeks heat up at the nervously delivered praise. When Shen tells you that youâve done a good job, no matter how he says it, it means twice as much as if it came from anyone else. âThank you.â
He stares at your gently parted lips. Your smiles are addictive. Suddenly, he just canât take it anymore. With a nod toward the ambulance bay, he asks, âWanna grab some air with me? I think weâre both overdue for our fifteens.â
Eager for any moment alone with him, you nod and follow him out the door. He heads around a corner, out of sigh of any of your fellow doctors, and stops so short you nearly walk right into his chest.
âOkay, be honest with me.â John puts a hand on each of your shoulders and your eyes widen at the contact. It feels a lot more intimate than the quick hugs and occasional pats on the back or arm squeezes you share inside the hospital walls. âDo you know?â
Nibbling your lower lip, you try to read his expression and ask, âKnow what, exactly?â
âThat I like you.â
Your eyes go from saucers to dinner plates. âYou like me?! Like, like like me?â
âOh my god, we really are as bad as Lena says,â he groans. After a deep breath, he levels you with a warm gaze and says seriously, âI want to go out with you. Can I go out with you? Or, er, would you go out with me? Breakfast today, if you arenât busy.â
Your heart takes flight in your chest. âIâm not busy.â
âGood. Great.â His smile is inescapably cute. After a sweet, tense pause, he asks, âI know this is kind of in the wrong order, but Iâd really like to kiss you now.â
Youâre unable to come up with anything to say as you suddenly wonder if this has all been a dream. A perfectly executed patient save followed by your longtime crush confessing that he likes you back? Thatâs not the kind of thing that happens in your real life. But you can feel his warm breath on your cheek as he cups your face and you can see his soft eyelashes and you can almost taste the kiss already.
So you nod. âIâd like that, too.â
He smiles wide. âAwesome.â
You giggle nervously. âYeah, awesome.â
John swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and nods once like heâs giving himself a pep talk in his head. And then you both close the distance between each other. Youâre not surprised that he tastes like sugary, creamy coffee before his lips even part against yours. It makes you smile into the kiss, pressing him against the stone wall with your hands fisted in his scrubs.
He makes a surprised, pleased little sound when his back hits the wall. You really, really want to be kissing him. The reality seems to kick him into gear. His hands go to your waist and then one slides around to your back, sliding low. Lower. Stopping just too high for your taste.
So you whine a bit pathetically into his mouth and he laughs and squeezes your ass hard, playful, the sort of gesture youâd always imagined from him. You gasp softly and he takes the opportunity to claim your mouth with his tongue, less gentle now that youâre working him up. All he can think about is how good itâll be to do this again when he can just keep doing it.
Itâs over too fast when you hear the telltale rasp of your boss.
âHey lovebirds,â Abbot calls from the door of the ambulance bay, âIâm down two ER attendings in here and I could really use some help if you donât mind!â
John shouts back, âBe right there.â He gives you one more quick peck and ensures, âBreakfast after shift change?â
âDefinitely. Letâs get back in there.â
You start to turn away from him, but he gently catches your wrist and pulls you in once more, his lips tender and unhurried. He just needs a little more before returning to work. With his forehead pressed to yours, he murmurs, âGod, youâre pretty.â
You try not to literally squeal from how hard youâre swooning. âThank you.â
Then he squeezes your hand gently, nods back toward the ED, and leads you inside to fall in line with the chaos once more.
As he passes the nursesâ station, Lena claps Shen on the shoulder. âYou finally kiss her, kid?â
His cheeks glow red as he notices the way several nearby nurses and residents are leaning in closely, pretending not to listen. âAh, yeah.â
âThank god,â she sighs, âI could really use the $100 from the pool.â
Hell was the journey but it brought me heaven - A.C
â Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader â
(previous part) (next part)
summary: After a life shaped by violence, Andrew finds something he was never meant to have: love. That is, if he can protect it from his world.
word count: 42.2k
c.w: graphic violence, blood, religious imagery, kidnapping, torture, trauma/ptsd, implied past child abuse, murder, smut (piv, unprotected sex).
a/n: me to my wife "It's gonna be 20k at best". as you can see, it was a lie. thank you so much to her for proofreading it. dealing with the 1000 blocks rule was a nightmare, so please forgive how it looks.
âŞâŞâ¤ď¸âŹ Thank you so much for reading!
Andrew wakes up, gently pulled upward from the dark.
At first, he doesnât know why his body feels so different: no jolt, no sharp inhale like heâs surfacing from underwater, and more importantly, no agonizing screams from the ghosts in his head. No echo of Smurfâs voice into his ear, telling him that he only matters when he is useful, no Julia, no Cath, no BazâŚjust him and the undeniable feeling of warmth and gentleness enveloping his body.
For a disorienting second, he doesnât move, doesnât open his eyes. He lies perfectly still, too anxious that the absence of dread might be the sign of another delirium. After all, his mind has built kinder lies than this in the past: mornings where he woke up believing he was out of harmâs way, that somebody was alongside him, that he would at last be spared, only to open his eyes and discover nothing there but air. Andrew implores.
(Please. Not like the other times. Let this be real. May mercy, for once, choose him. He would take every punishment. Trade all he possesses. His remaining years. His blood. His soul. Live an eternity in the noise of his ghosts if he could just keep this single second of bliss untouched.)
Something shifts below him, and only then does he truly register it: the warmth is not a trick of his mind, not another tender cruelty meant to vanish the second he trusts it. ItâsâŚyou.  You and your body, receiving him like he has always belonged there. His cheek is pressed just above your breast, his ear resting over your heart, each inhale from your chest lifting his head in small motions. He feels the rhythm: the pulse under his skin, the expansion of your ribs, the heat radiating from you into him.
 (One. Two. Three. Four. Your heart answers his, beating leisurely. Bare skin against bare skin, he feels like a man who is wandering into a cathedral with mud on his boots.)
The longer he lies there, the more details surface: your thigh draped loosely over his hip, one of your hands tangled lazily in his curls, probably falling asleep holding onto them and never loosening your grip. He wants to etch every detail of your body someplace within him where nothing can distort it. He inhales deeply. You donât smell your usual shampoo and soap, no, that version of you belongs to the sunlight and the outside world. This morning, Andrew gets to know the one that is bare in his sheets. You feel musky, like the earth after a rainstorm when the air turns heavy and thick. It takes him a few more moments to grasp that itâs the scent of sex.
He slowly opens his eyes, bracing for the possibility that the illusion would fracture, leaving him alone once more, but nothing moves. You remain where you are: lashes resting against your cheeks, lips slightly parted in sleep and your hair spilled messily across the pillow. His hand, which had clutched your waist and â he notices with guilt â left a bruise from holding on too tightly in the bliss of last night, shifts now to brush the thin gold chain at your collarbone, thumb sliding along the heart-shaped pendant. Â He doesnât understand how he ended up here. How a man like him gets to wake up like this, to touch you like this.
(Profane hands that have broken things. People. Fingers that know how to stitch wounds closed and how to open them. He feels like he should apologize. Wash and scrub himself raw before touching you again. Impious hands on consecrated skin.)
And yet here they are, resting on you as though designed for this all along. Moving upward by a few inches, pressing his palm into the mattress to lift his weight enough so he doesnât disturb you, Andrew hovers above your body to study the shape of your face in the morning light that slips in through the blinds. How it paints your features in golden lines like sky itself marvels at his own creation.
He lowers himself until his nose finds the curve of your neck, breathing you in once more, slower. He can distinguish the salt that lingers in the faint traces of sweat and saliva where his tongue had traveled last night along your collarbone and throat. He recalls how, spent and trembling, you had pulled him down, guided him to your breasts and how, overwhelmed by the sentiment of being the one held, he had kissed every inch of skin he could reach. He lets his lips trace a path of unhurried kisses along the delicate line of your bones: where your jaw meets your neck, the smooth curve of the shoulder and the sensitive hollow beneath it, before going downward to your sternum.
(He wants to know you through every sense he has. To map this morning with his lungs and mouth. To memorize the striae of your skin, the birthmark under your left breast that he had found last night. To learn the language of your body. The world can have the composed version of you. He gets this one in his bed.)
He tries not to disturb you, to keep his caresses light, but your body responds anyway with a drowsy protest, brows knitted and fingers tightening unconsciously in his hair. âMmâŚAndrew,â you mumble, voice hoarse with sleep, burying your face against his shoulder. âitâs too early.â
He goes perfectly still at the base of your neck, lifting his head just enough to have a look: your eyes are shut, yet thereâs a smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. âSorry,â he whispers.
You crack one eye open, unimpressed. âLiar.â
He huffs a quick breath, no longer attempting to suppress his smirk. âMaybe.â
Squinting up at him, your hand slides from his curls to his chin, thumb stroking sluggishly along his cheek. âMorninâ,â you murmur.
âMorning.â You tug him down by the back of his neck to kiss him, lips already parted in expectation. He stays dumbfounded for a beat, then two. He gets to have this. To experience kisses in the morning with a woman who reaches for him. To have someone in his life who really wants him for the man, not the weapon. To be just like his brothers in this simple, ordinary way. To be loved and to love back. He melts into the embrace, one hand braced against the mattress to keep on crushing you with his weight, the other settling on your ribcage.
Your mouth moves against his lazily, before travelling along his jaw and back to his lips, grinning. âWe barely slept,â you breathe in-between, voice low and satisfied, âand I entirely blame you for it.â He feels heat climbing up his neck. âYouâre blushing,â you observe, elated, pulling back just enough to see it for yourself. Before he can protest or deny, you shift beneath him and, with a push at his shoulder, roll him onto his back. He lands there, momentarily dazed, curls falling across his forehead as he blinks up at you.
(He could stop you. Reflexes honed by years of training and jobs. He knows how to pin someone. How to reverse leverage. However, the woman he loves is naked. And he is not good at refusing her anything.)
You climb and straddle him, knees on either side of his hips and hands shifting up his chest as you lean, hair spilling around your faces like a curtain, kissing him again. He tilts his head, meeting you, afraid to respond too avidly as his fingers wander along your body, avoiding the breasts. âAndrewâŚâ you murmur against his lips, âyou know you can touch me, right?â He nods once quietly, but his hands refuse to budge. âHey, hey,â you smiled gently, palms coming up to cradle his cheeks, âitâs okay. Just because we made love yesterday doesnât mean we have to do anything more today.â
(Made love. Not a transaction. Not something timed and watched by Smurf through the half-open door. Made love. Not fuck. The phrase is beautiful. Better than anything he has associated with sex. How you say it easily. Love.)
âThereâs no need to rush,â you continue gently. âWe can just stay like this.â
He clears his throat, the sound rough. âItâs not that I donât want it. I justâŚâ He exhales, frustrated with himself, with his body. âI donât alwaysâŚit doesnât alwaysâŚcooperate.â He braces himself for the awkwardness, the disappointment. Instead, there is only your smile.
âOh, Andrew,â you say quietly, leaning down to press a peck to his mouth. âLast night was amazing but we kinda strained ourselves. And if we add up that you barely sleep on a regular weekâŚI think your body is allowed to rest.â
âYouâre not disappointed?â he asks quietly, still searching your face for pity.
âDisappointed? Andrew. Honey. Iâm naked on top of the man I love. Iâm pretty I won at the lottery of life.â
His throat works to respond but you plant another kiss on his lips. Pulling back, your gaze gravitates to his jaw. âOh,â you giggle.
âWhat?â
You reach up and swipe your finger just below his ear, near the hinge of his jaw, shimmers on the pad of your thumb. âSorry but youâve got a little souvenir,â you tease.
He frowns. âFrom what?â
âMe. I kissed you there.â He touches the spot automatically, trying to feel it. âDo you want me toâŚ?â
âNo,â he replies quickly before shrugging, eyes lowering for an instant. âI can keep it. Itâs fine.â
âAndrew,â you say half amused, half incredulous, âyouâve got my lip-gloss all over you.â
âI donât mind.â
(Itâs not about the gloss. Itâs about the mark. The mark you left on him. Other people will think and proclaim that you are his. Popeâs girl. The title will shield you from harm and men. The truth they wonât understand is he is yours. Blessed by the simple fact that you chose him.)
âFine,â you whisper, dragging your thumb gently across his lips to smooth some of the shimmer down so itâs less obvious without erasing it entirely. A faint sheen still catches the light whenever he turns his head. Satisfied, you shift, sliding off his hips and curling into his side instead, tucking yourself against him as his arms close around you. Head resting over his chest, leg draped across his thigh, your fingers trace idle, absent shapes along his skin while you hum contentedly. âYouâre very quiet,â you comment, nails scraping lightly over his sternum as you tilt your face up to look at him.
He studies the ceiling for a moment before answering. âIâm always quiet.â
âNot like this.â
(He doesnât ask what you mean. He knows. There is the silence he wears as an armor. Carved from years of swallowing words so they could not be used against him. The one that makes him efficient. And there is this one. The silence when he is full. When he isnât waiting for something to go wrong.)
He lowers his gaze back to you and your cheek resting on his heartbeat, looking content, serene. He doesnât know how to explain aloud the way it is brand-new for him. That right now, in this bedroom, he feels like standing in the aftermath of a storm, realizing that the sky has no intention of collapsing. That Smurf wonât ever be able to ruin this. Before he can try, the quietude is interrupted by a small, unmistakable growl that makes you freeze, blood rushing all along your neck and face. âPretend that you heard nothing.â
âYouâre hungry.â
You peek up at him, an embarrassed smile on your face. âMaybe.â
(Hungry. You made him happy. Held him. Let him sleep. Fed a part of him he didnât know how to name. Called it âmake loveâ. Now youâre hungry. The equation feels simple. You fed his soul. He will feed your body.)
âIâll make breakfast,â he responds, already moving deftly beneath you and mentally inventorying whatâs in the kitchen.
âAndrew, itâs okay. Iâm not going to faint if we wait a bit longer.â
âYouâre hungry,â he repeats.
Your body slides off his with a reluctant noise, the air cool against his bare skin. He stands up too, taken aback when you cup his jaw and press your mouth to his softly, lingering for a beat. âMorning,â you murmur once more.
His hand goes instinctively to your waist. âMorning.â Pulling away slowly, his fingers trail down before he turns toward the dresser and opens the top drawer, retrieving a pair of black boxers. He steps into them without ceremony in the same quiet ritual he performs every morning.
You, however, ignore your own clothes on the chair entirely. Instead, you reach past him, your bare arm brushing his back in the process, and grab one of his shirts, softened from years of wear and faded in places. You slip it over your head, the fabric falling down your frame and settling just past your hips. Then you bend, unbothered by his staring, and fish out another pair of his boxers, stepping into those as well. He goes very still. You smooth the shirt down over your hips and look up at him innocently. âWhat?â
âThatâs mine.â
You step closer, barefoot against the floor. âWell,â you whisper, hooking one finger into his waistband, tugging him closer by an inch. âGuess weâre sharing now.â
âYou can keep it,â he manages to say.
(You can have them. His clothes. His truck. His house. His name. His heart. Lay claim to all of it and he would not protest. Let this be the altar he chooses willingly. Take what is his and make it holy.) âCome on,â he adds quietly.
You narrow your eyes playfully. âYou gonna cook?â
âYes.â
âEggs?â
âYes.â
âSunny side up and not letting the bacon touch it?â
âYes.â
You beam. âGod, I love you.â
ââââââââââ
Andrew was fourteen. Smurf called him into her bedroom, not raising her voice. She never needed to, each summon traveling through the walls to his spine. âBaby,â she said when he stepped inside, her smile already in place all bright and practiced. She was sitting at her vanity, brushing out her blond hair, gold bracelets chiming at her wrist while her room smelled like a heavy perfume and cigarette smoke. âClose the door.â
He did. He stood straight, hands at his sides, shoulder squared in the way she liked, waiting. There was a man in town who has been âmessing the business,â she told him. A supplier who thought he could shave a percentage off the top and not get noticed. A man who forgot who was running this coast. She said it lightly, like it was gossip, like other mothers might mention a neighbor who borrowed sugar and never returned it.
Andrew listened. âI need you to remind him,â she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror, âthat we donât tolerate disrespect.â She turned on her stool, crossing one leg over the other, studying him like she was appraising a weapon she kept polished and hidden under the bed. âYouâre my good boy, right?â she asked gently, tilting her head. He nods. âThatâs what I thought.â
They drove together in silence, just the two of them. She didnât explain much more. She didnât have to. He knew what âremind himâ meant. The man was waiting behind a storage unit near the marina, pacing, already defensive when he saw Smurf step out of her car with her oversized sunglasses. âJanine,â he started. âWe can talk about this.â
She didnât even look at him, just at Andrew, her Pope. A slight tilt of her chin and thatâs all it took before he stepped forward. The first hit was almost anticlimactic, just a fist to the gut that folded the man in half with a startled wheeze. The second was harder. The third started to make him bleed. There was shouting: from the man, from the seagulls overhead, from somewhere far away. But not from Pope. He knew where to hit to make it hurt, to keep someone conscious long enough to understand what was happening to them. Knew how to stop just short of permanent damage because that was what Smurf preferred: a pain that lasted, a reminder to not fuck with the Cody family. The man went down and Andrew followed. Another strike. And another.
His whole world narrowed down to the impacts and the dull satisfaction of the noise inside his head finally going quiet. When he stopped, the man was bleeding from the mouth, one eye swelling shut, curled on his side in the dust. Andrew stepped back automatically, looking at the ground, waiting.
Smurf approached slowly, heels crunching over the gravel, sunglasses still in place. She crouched beside the man and removed them, folding them neatly before tucking them into her neckline. âYou see,â she said conversationally, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. âI hate when people mistake my generosity for weakness.â The man tried to speak but it came out wet. She leaned closer, voice lowering. âIf I have to do this again, I will.â Her hand brushed along the manâs lips, wiping away a smear of blood with her thumb before deliberately smudging it across his cheek. âAnd next time,â she added, almost fondly, âmy boy wonât stop where he did.â She looked up at Andrew with a radiant smile. âMy guard dog is very loyal. Arenât you baby?â
âYes.â
Smurf stood, brushing dust from her clothes. âLetâs go,â she said lightly. On the drive home, she hummed along to a cheerful tune on the radio, reaching over to squeeze Andrewâs thigh. âYou did good,â she told him. The words felt like a reward, not yet understanding that his mother was building him brick by brick.
Back at the house, Julia was on the couch, Craig perched on her lap and trying to read his first book. She looked up when they entered. Her eyes flicked briefly to Andrewâs knuckles, already reddening, then to Smurf. Â She didnât ask questions. She never did. Andrew washed his hands in the kitchen sink, the water running pink for a few seconds before clearing. He scrubbed harder than necessary, until the skin stung. He didnât comprehend why he felt like he needed to erase his bones.
That night, Smurf kissed his mouth before bed. âMy protector,â she whispered.
He lay awake long after the house went quiet, staring at the ceiling, replaying the afternoon and the manâs face. The sound of the bone cracking under his skin. The way the noise in his head had gone silence when he was hitting. Smurfâs hand on his thigh in the car, how she had called him good.
He wondered if that was what love felt like.
ââââââââââ
You follow him into the kitchen clothed in nothing but his shirt and your smug smile. The fabric hangs loosely around your waist, collar falling just enough to expose the dim constellation of marks he left along your neckline that you make no attempt to conceal.(no, youâre too pleased of them. thatâs why you picked this precise shirt. if he can walk around with your lip-gloss smeared on his mouth and chest, you can fucking parade. fair is fair.)
Andrew moves through the kitchen, already absorbed on his task. He opens the refrigerator, takes out the bacon and the carton of eggs, lining four of them up on the counter in a straight row before he even grabs the pan. You lean against the doorway and simply observe. Thereâs something nearly ritualistic about the way he acts, hitting each egg on the exact unchanged spot on the post. Same slant, same pressure.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
The shells go neatly into the trash, before he rapidly rinses his fingers under the faucet and dries them thoroughly. The pan gets on the stove, the flame adjusted with precision and lowered right before he adds oil, bottle back into the cabinet the instant heâs done with it.
(the more you spend time with him, the more you realize this isnât just preference. itâs what makes him feel balanced, structured. he likes knowing where things are. that they go back where they belong. that the fridge door closes all the way. that the seal gets checked with an extra push. lining up objects seems to line up his mind.)
You step near him silently, acknowledging the invisible bubble heâs created around the stove. You grab plates and forks from the cupboard, adding paper towels to the pile because you already know heâll want them and arranging everything on the table.  He doesnât speak while he cooks. But you can distinguish that silence now and how itâs not dismissal or detachment, he is simplyâŚin it. Entirely absorbed in the task: spacing the bacon strips evenly on the separated pan so they donât overlap, adapting the heat, glancing back at the eggs to make sure the whites set properly.
You place your hip against the counter, tilting your head to watch him.
(he looks outrageously domestic like that. barefoot, making breakfast without being asked. how andrew cody went from ex-convict and criminal to husband of the year is still beyond you. but you know better than to complain.)
(also: youâre still a bit glad he hasnât brought up the wedding dress comment from last night. not that youâre scared. fuck no, youâd marry him yesterday if you could. but this little bubble youâre in right now? you love it.)
And the worst part about the whole breakfast-making thing? He is doing it in nothing but his boxers. Back broad, shoulders eased, curls still mussed from sleep. You donât hesitate. You step closer and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades, your hands flattening on his stomach. He stiffens for half a second at the contact before relaxing. You start drawing kisses along his spine and going upward, until your mouth discovers the spot just behind his ear, making him inhale sharply. âYouâre distracting,â he murmurs.
âOh, am I?â you hum against his skin, utterly unapologetic, fingertips stroking the edge of his boxers.
âCareful,â he stammers, glancing down at the stove. âHot pan.â
âMm.â You press another kiss on the same spot watching, delighted, goosebumps ripple across his shoulders. âSeems under control to me.â
The bacon pops abruptly in the pan. Before you even register it, his hand drops to your hip, determined and instinctive, nudging you a few inches to the other side of his body without disrupting the movement of his other hand flipping the bacon. You blink. (oh. okay. thatâs actuallyâŚhot. you donât know which 101 boyfriend class he took but itâs definitely not the same one the rest of the male population attended.)
You settle again, undeterred, resting your chin on his shoulder so you can observe what heâs doing. His forearms make most of the work, flexing with each maneuver of the spatula under his freckled skin, making it particularly tough to concentrate on anything remotely close to breakfast.
(you might be drooling a little.)
âYou know Iâm a grown woman, right?â you whisper after a moment.
âOil pops,â he answers simply, the bacon snapping again to illustrate his point. âWouldnât want you to get burn.â
âAndâŚyou canât?â
He shrugs. âI donât mind it.â
Your fingers, which had been resting loosely at his waistline, start tracing patterns along his stomach with the lightest drag of your pads, refusing to utter another word to this sentence. (you donât ever want to know why he wouldnât mind getting burnt. youâve seen enough of the scars scattered across him to understand that pain is an aspect of his life he learned to accept long before you ever met him.)
He lifts the eggs cautiously with the spatula, sliding them onto the plates with precision so the yolks remain perfectly intact. Same with the bacon, arranged neatly beside them. You step away, retreating to the table so he can have the space to finish his ritual: the stove knob turned off and checked twice, the pan moved to the sink, the quick wipe of the stovetop. Only then does he turn toward you, plates in hand. And suddenly, you grasp that this whole breakfast is him trying. You can see it in the small frown carved between his eyebrows and the tremor in his hands as he sets the plates down on the table like heâs afraid of ruining the moment.
He loves you. Truly. Yes, he told you so last night but that was mid-sex. This, is different. Just him, you and the certainty landing heavy in your chest: Andrew Cody would burn the entire world, including himself if it meant protecting you. (probably not the right moment to tell him youâd do the same. ready to burn and destroy whoever attempts to rip Andrew away from you. which is insane considering youâve never punched anyone in your life. youâve seen the guns the Cody brothers keep hidden in the house. never dared touch them. wouldnât even know where the safety is. still. you would figure something out.)
âEat,â he orders gently.
âAye aye, sir,â you reply enthusiastically, your fork going straight into his plate to rob a piece of bacon.
He pauses halfway through sitting down beside you, brows furrowing like heâs struggling to understand the reasoning behind this. âYouâŚyou have bacon.â
âI know,â you say brightly, biting into it anyway and chewing with exaggerated satisfaction while keeping your eyes on his face. âYours tastes way better.â
He studies you for a second longer, still frowning in pure confusion. Then, instead of protesting, he quietly pushes his plate a few inches to the side towards you. The gesture is tentative and careful, like offering without fully knowing if heâs doing it right. Â You open your mouth to tell him itâs not necessary, that it was just teasing, that he doesnât have to surrender his breakfast for this but before the words come out, he picks up his fork and reaches over, stealing one of your own pieces.
You lean back in your chair, observing him with growing amusement as he attempts to act casual about it. Trying very, very hard. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, probably comparing this moment with the way his brothers are around the people they see. But Craig wouldnât even be here right now. No, he would send the girl home before breakfast while Deran would act like this whole thing was effortless without the intent of calling back. Andrew looks like heâs carefully following instructions from a manual he doesnât quite understand. And thatâs infinitely better. âGood?â you ask.
He swallows. âYeah.â
âBetter from my plate?â A pause. He nods once, more confidently this time. âWow, look at you.â
âWhat?â
âSharing the germs and all,â you tease.
He looks down at the food, then back you. âI donât mind your germs.â
You try to hide your grin, but it still creeps across your face as you sneak another bite of his bacon, which he retaliates with a mouthful of yours. You gasp, pointing your fork at him in mock outrage. âNow careful mister, if itâs war you want, war youâll have.â
âYou started it.â His voice is calm, but thereâs laughter in his eyes. The stiffness in his shoulders loosens, the crease between his brows fades, his movements stop being so cautious. You can see it happening in real time. Heâs relaxing. And you realize, seeing him like this, that heâs learning. Learning how to be Andrew.
Your foot nudges his under the table. âI think weâre good at this.â
âAt what?â
You gesture between the two of you with your fork. âThis.â He follows the motion with his eyes: the table, the plates, your leg brushing his under the table. Something softer settles in his expression, a small grin forming just enough for the dimples to appear.
âYeah.â
And the thing isâŚthe smile doesnât fade.  Not when the plates slowly empty. Not when you both linger at the table afterward, your legs tangled beneath it while you ramble about work, Andrew listening like every word matters. He barely interrupts, just the occasional quiet âyeah,â or a small nod, his hands resting on his thighs while his eyes drift between your face and your hands as they move when you talk. And every time you catch that smile still there, your brain goes stupid. (seriously, it should be illegal for a man like him to smile like that while you monologue about someone trying to pay in Canadian dollars.)
The smile stays. And itâs still there when you take his hand and tug him toward the bathroom, still there when it fills with steam, still there when the two of you step beneath the spray of the shower, warm water trickling over your shoulders as your bodies naturally find their way into each otherâs space. You reach for the bottle of soap resting on the shelf and squeeze some in your palm. âTurn around,â you murmur.
He does without hesitation, your request apparently carrying more weight than you thought. Your hands move slowly, working the lather over his warm skin, a small sound escaping Andrewâs lips as your palms glide down the length of his arms and over the muscles that flex instinctively beneath your touch. He leans into the contact without realizing it, another whimper coming out when your thumbs press tenderly into the knots near his shoulder blades. You shift around his sides now, soap trailing paths across his ribs and stomach. Â He watches your face the entire time. Like he still canât quite believe youâre here.
He lets you wash him completely without protest. And when you reach for the shampoo bottle next, he tilts his head forward automatically, the gesture so instinctive it almost makes you kiss him against the glass wall. Instead, you pour a little of the content into your hand and work it into his curls, massaging his scalp. Andrewâs shoulders drop immediately. âYou have really nice hair,â you murmur.
He opens one eye halfway. ââŚYeah?â
âMhm.â Your thumbs circle slowly near the base of his skull. âVery nice curls.â Another hum escapes him. âAnd youâre being very good right now.â His breath stutters faintly at that. You conceal a smile, rinsing the shampoo out and guiding the water through his hair until the foam disappears fully. âYouâre doing great,â you add softly.
His eyes stay shut. Like heâs storing the words somewhere deep inside himself. Once youâre done, he reaches for the soap. âCome here.â His movements are slower than yours, but thereâs a tenderness to them that makes your chest sting a little. His palms travel across your back, down your arms, over your sides. Every touch deliberate, every inch of skin treated like worth remembering. âYou smell good,â he whispers.
âThatâs your soap. Are you complimenting yourself right now?â you laugh.
His mouth twitches. âMaybe.â The kiss that follows is clumsy with water and bubbles, but you wouldnât trade it for anything in the world. Eventually, you both step out, wrapping yourselves in clean towels as the steam continues to fog the mirror and moving around the bathroom in the awkward dance of two people sharing this type of space for the first time. Andrew opens the cabinet, pulling out a toothbrush from a sealed pack and holding out to you without a word.
âMine?â He nods once. All done, the brushes go into the same cup, side by side, his red against your green. You stare at them for a second. âHow about we watch something?â you suddenly ask.
âWhat?â
You shrug, nudging your hip against his. âHeard there was some new documentary on Nat Geo, sounds good to you?â For a second he just looks at you. The dimples follow quickly after.
âSounds good.â
ââââââââââ
A week after meeting his brothers, Craig had texted you to âcome byâ, which in his language apparently meant âthere will be fifty people there and we will all end up hopping in the pool fully clothed or fully nakedâ. Â You showed up with a six-pack you could barely afford on a barista wage and the vague understanding that this was purely how friendship with Craig worked: loud, chaotic and a little intense.
Someone had dragged speakers into the backyard, shitty music blasting from them while people you didnât know were everywhere: on the patio, inside the house, perched along the edge of the pool with their feet in the water. Craig spotted you instantly. âYo, there she is!â he shouted from a lounge chair, jumping up and crossing the yard in three long strides, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you straight off the ground.
You almost dropped the six-pack. âCraig!â you yelped, laughing as your feet dangled helplessly before he set you back down.
âYou made it!â he smiled, already thieving a beer from you. âCanât believe you got out of your cave, doll. How does it feel to be human again?â
âHey, hey,â you whispered to Craig, curling your finger to beckon him closer. âHow about you shut it, doll. Some of us have real jobs.â
âOh, sheâs feisty tonight!â he exclaimed, completely unaffected, taking a long swing of the liquor. âI like this version of you.â
âYou like every version of me as long as they bring alcohol,â you shot back.
âTrue.â He slung an arm over your shoulders and dragged you through the backyard crowd to the side of the house where a ladder was placed against the wall. âGonna jump from up there,â he announced proudly, already planting one foot on the first rung. âGood luck kiss?â
âIn your dreams, Craig,â you snorted, shaking your head.
He threw his hair back dramatically. âCold. Absolutely fucking cold. If I die, youâll have it on your conscience, doll.â
âAnd Iâll be so sad,â you replied, wiping fake tears. âNow get climbing, Craigo.â
He didnât demand further encouragement. Within seconds he was up the ladder, beer bottle somehow still in hand, several people in the yard beginning to notice what was happening. âCraigâs on the roof!â someone shouted, a cheer rising instantly while you stepped back near the edge of the pool, folding your arms. (these men are idiots. nice and funny, yes. but also idiots.no doubt who the middle child was.)
He downed the rest of the drink and tossed it away, launching himself off the roof with absolutely no hesitation. He hit the water hard, drenching everyone standing nearby, including you, who jumped back with a startled sound as cold water sprayed over your legs. Craig resurfaced in the middle of the pool, triumphant.
And that was when you sensed it. That strange pull of attention where your neck felt warm before you knew why. You turned your head to see Andrew, standing near the back door of the house. He wasnât laughing, wasnât cheering or drinking. His arms hung slackly at his sides, shoulders still and his posture rigid compared to everyone else around him. He felt like a rock in the middle of the current. And his eyesâŚthey were on you. Not the pool or Craig. You. The moment your eyes met his, there was a shift in his expression, like he realized you had caught him staring. For a split second, you expected him to look away. He didnât. You broke eye contact first. (donât look back, donât look back. be cleverer than that.)
A few seconds passed before Craig returned alongside you, dripping water and grabbing another bottle from a cooler. âHey,â you said quietly enough for only him to hear.
âSup?â
âYourâŚbrother. Heâs been looking at me.â
Craig peered at his brother, still at the same place, still watching. He shrugged. âYeah, thatâs just Pope.â
You frowned. âHeâs not partying.â
âDoesnât really do that.â
âNo drinking either?â
Craig took a sip from his bottle. âNah.â
You studied Andrew once more, how he hadnât shifted an inch even as several people squeezed past him, smoking weed and laugh-tripping. âIs he always like that?â you asked.
âPretty much.â Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, âGot a little worse after prison though.â
You blinked. âPrison?â Craig nodded. âFor what?â
Craig waved his hand vaguely. âSomeâŚthing. Look, my broâs weird, âkay? Always has been, always will. Youâll get used to it.â
Later that night, you got home a little buzzed.
The quiet of your apartment felt disturbing after the anarchy of the Codyâs house. You stumbled into bed, tossing onto one side, then the other, incapable of erasing Andrewâs eyes from your mind. You ended up looking at the ceiling. (this was so stupid.)
After a few minutes, you sat up abruptly. Your laptop sat on the small desk across the room. You hesitated for maybe three seconds before swinging your legs out of bed and padding across the floor. The screen glowed in the darkness when you opened it. You sat down slowly, fingers hovering above the keyboard.
(you are absolutely not doing this.)
A pause.
(okay, you are absolutely doing this.)
You typed before you could talk yourself out of it.
Andrew Cody.
The results appeared instantly, but most of them were boring: property records, a few local mentions about a skatepark in town. You clicked one, nothing useful. Another, still nothing. Then, a small article from 2013 popped halfway down the page. The headline was short.
Local Man Sentenced in Robbery Case
Your stomach tightened as you read the whole thing: Andrew D. Cody, 36, had been sentenced to six years in Folsom State Prison following a robbery involving multiple suspects. Authorities confirmed that no weapons were used during the incident. Three accomplices have not yet been identified, if you have informa-
You shut your laptop before finishing the sentence, leaning back in your chair and staring at nothing. Folsom. Robbery. Six years. (you had heard of Folsom. even people who had never been near a prison knew that name. one of the worst prisons in the state. maybe the country. you had read enough over the years to know that prisoners there were packed like animals and treated like even less. that men coming in were getting outâŚas someone else.)
Your brain tried to reconcile the information with the image of the quiet man in the doorway watching you like the rest of the room didnât exist. Six years. (he probably got out before. that happened, right? good behavior, reduced sentencesâŚnot that you would ask him. god, no. âhey andrew, quick question, I googled you and saw you went to prison, care to elaborate?â. yeah, great opener.)
You pushed yourself up from the chair and walked back toward the bed. The apartment felt so much smaller and quieter suddenly. Â You slid under the covers, staring up at the ceiling again. Folsom. Six years. Robbery. Three accomplices. (you were sure you could guess two of them.)
The article lingered somewhere at the edge of your mind, but it wasnât what kept you awake. No, it was the image that kept returning vividly of Andrew Cody, standing there, and looking at you like he had been doing it for much longer than just this evening. And the strange realization that the thought didnât scare you nearly as much as it probably should have.
ââââââââââ
âAndrew! Look!âYour voice cuts through the noise of the skatepark like sunlight breaking through clouds, all bright and excited and utterly impossible for a weak man like Andrew to ignore. Not that you need to call for his attention. He is always watching. His vision is beginning to blur at the edges, the lack of blinking drying his eyes, but he refuses to look away.
(He doesnât care. He canât. He has been attempting to blink as little as possible the past one thousand six hundred and twenty seconds. He counts your pushes on the board. One. Two. Three. He doesnât like three. Odd numbers feel unfinished and crooked. But he refrains from asking to do just one more for his peace of mind.)
You turn near the edge of the bowl, wheeling along the lip instead of dropping in.
(Not yet. But he knows you. Knows the obstinate woman you are. Soon enough youâll want to try it.)
You roll back to him, your face catching the light, his attention moving to the line above your eyebrow. The stitches he removed a few days ago left only a pale mark, hardly noticeable unless someone knew where to look. He knows and tracks it instinctively. He remembers standing in your bathroom with tweezers, his heart pounding harder than it ever had throughout the jobs, delicately snipping the thread and pulling each stitch free. You had sat on the edge of the sink, observing him patiently, a warmness blooming inside his chest the entire time. You hadnât been worried, not even a little. Just calm and trustful that he would not mess it up, that he would take care of your fragile skin.
(He still recalls each stitch. The way the skin had opened when you tumbled. The blood. The sound. He still hears it sometimes. Replays it when he wants to punish himself. To remember that you will carry that scar on your face forever because he was too slow. Too far away. TooâŚ)
âI think Iâm getting better! What do you think?â Your voice pulls him back. Youâve rolled to a stop in front of him, one foot to the ground, the other still resting on the board, face a shade deeper from the effort and the sun.
âYouâre good,â he replies, remembering Craigâs advice âYou gotta speak, man. Chicks donât like dating a brick wallâ and how he had patted his back after saying it. Andrew had taken notes. âVery good. IâmâŚproud, sweetheart.â
(Did he say it right? Too much? Too little? His brothers had told him a lot of things. Craig had insisted women liked compliments. Deran had just said to bring condoms. Neither of them explained what to do with his hands.)
His palms hover ineptly on the side of his jeans as he studies your face closely.
(Signs of failure. That he is not a good boyfriend. That he said the wrong thing. That his solace will be taken away from him.)
But your grin only broadens, your fingers lifting to your necklace, thumb rubbing along the little heart pendant. Andrew feels his brain short-circuiting a brief instant. The woman he loves, the one he gets to date, the one who chose him, is in front of him, coy, because of what he said. You glance down a moment, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, before looking back up at him through your lashes. âProud?â
âYes,â he answers quietly. âYou did well.â
âAnd?â
Andrew blinks. âAndâŚ?â
You tilt your head, eyes glinting in amusement. âThatâs it?â
âYouâre good atâŚâ he clears his throat, suddenly very aware of the heat rising along the back of his neck, ââŚmany things. Youâre balanced on the board,â (You understand him wordlessly.) âYouâre veryâŚdetermined.â (Stubborn. Annoyingly so. Especially when you refuse to sleep until he puts his head on your chest.) âAnd your foot placement is better now.â
Your mouth twitches. âOkay,â you whisper, leaning a little closer. âBut if I want a lessâŚskateboarding coach-compliment and more a boyfriend-compliment?â (He thinks of what Craig would say. Immediately discards the idea. Craigâs compliments often involve the words âhotâ and âbangableâ. You deserve more than that. To hear that you are his sun. Warm enough to make him forget the cold places in his head.)
âYou look happy,â he replies quietly, studying your face again.
 âWell,â you say, almost shy now, âitâs because I am, mister Cody.â
âIâŚI like seeing you happy.â
Your fingers tighten around the pendant, thumb brushing the little heart again. Andrew is enraptured by the movement. He thinks of that night during the job, when he saw it on the velvet cushion, how small it had looked compared to the diamonds around it. How he had wanted you to have something from him, even if you were not his. (Back when he thought it would just be that. A gift. A thing you might wear occasionally. A thing that would make him feelâŚcloser. Like he left a small mark somewhere in your life without disturbing it too much.)
You continue rocking the board back and forth under your foot, observing him patiently, probably expecting him to continue. Andrewâs mouth opens. Closes again. (There are other things he wants to say. The things he canât say aloud. How every time he buries himself deep into you, the noise stops. Everything: the ghosts, the shouting, the old memories scratching the inside of his skull, they go silent. And thereâs just you. So, he stays there for hours. Until the room grows dark and the only thing he can feel is the rhythm of your fingers running through his hair. How you never complain, never push him away. You even whisper that heâs doing good.)
He clears his throat, trying to come up with words safer to say. But before he can continue, you unexpectedly lean forward and press a quick kiss to his cheek. âMaybeâŚmaybe I should go back to skating now,â you whisper.
Andrew nods. âOkay,â and when you start to wheel away, he adds automatically. âIâm watching.â
You turn your head back to him, chuckling. âThat, I have no doubt honey.â Then you push off again. (One. Two. Three. Odd. He tries to let it go.)
You ride along the edge of the bowl first, testing your balance before going downward and climbing back up, a little more confident with each pass. He inspects everything: the shift of your weight, the bend of your knees, the corrections you make with your hips when the board wobbles. The rest of the skatepark fades to the edges of his awareness. All he sees is you. (He guards his sun. Thatâs what it feels like every morning when he wakes up. That the world handed him something impossibly bright and said, âdonât let anything happen to itâ.)
You slow down after a few more back and forth, coming back to him, sneakers scraping the concrete as the board stops, your eyes sparkling with stubborn pride. âDid you see that! That was good, right?â you ask, breathless. âNo longer looking like a total rookie?â
âIt was good.â
You lean closer. âSay it again.â
âIt wasâŚgood?â
Your nose wrinkles with your grin. âNo. The other thing.â
Andrew pauses, before it occurs back to him. âIâm proud of you.â Your entire face lights up, and before he can process whatâs occurring, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him down into a kiss, right there, in the middle of the skatepark. He still isnât entirely sure how he ended up in a life where a woman like you embraces him proudly in public, but his freezing state lasts one heartbeat before his palms move to your waist and neck.
Someone whistles nearby, probably one of the teenagers who come up every weekend. Andrew barely hears them, all he registers is you. Your mouth, your breath, the softness of your tongue against his. The way the kiss lingers just a little longer than would be considered appropriate, even in Craigâs standard. When you finally pull back, your foreheads almost touch, your breath mingling with his. âCan we go?â
âGo?â (He is confused. You told him this morning before work that you really wanted to try skating again today. That you needed it after the accident. That you had been thinking about it for days. Youâve barely been here an hour. You donât want to stay?)
Your fingers slide onto his shirt. âYeah.â Your voice drops in a low murmur. âSomewhere quieter.â
âYou donât want to skate anymore?â he asks carefully.
You shake your head. âWe can go back tomorrow. Letâs drive somewhere.â
âWhere do you want to go?â he asks, instantly taking your hand in his and the board in the other.
You lean up, brushing another quick kiss against the corner of his mouth. âYour place, my placeâŚwhichever you prefer.â
âThe house is closer.â (Seven minutes if traffic is clear. Nine if the light on Mission Avenue is red. Five if he sends laws to hell.)
Your smile curves at that, like you can hear the calculation happening inside his head. âThen the house it is.â Your fingers tighten around his hand, tugging him toward the parking lot, walking faster than before. Fast enough that he has to lengthen his stride to keep up, the skateboard now tucked under his arm. When you reach the car, he opens the passenger door automatically, the movement practiced after the number of times he drives you around. To work, to the grocery store, to the beach, wherever you want him to take you. You climb in, tossing your bag on the floorboard while he walks around and slides the skateboard into the trunk. He takes a second longer than necessary before closing it, just to keep his impatience down. âHey,â you say after he settles in. âIâm proud of you too, Andy.â
Andy. Andy. Andy. He doesnât hesitate. His hand moves to the back of your neck and he leans across the space between the seats, not caring about the painful twist of his body it requires from him. Your mouth meets his immediately, like you were waiting for it.
(He is your Andrew. Your honey. Your Andy.)
He counts the sounds he draws out from your lips.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Even number. Better.)
ââââââââââ
Moving Craigâs furniture had been a terrible idea. Not because you didnât want the things. There was a never-used television, a bunch of recent game consoles, speakers that were undoubtedly costing four digits. Those were worth it. When you lived on a baristaâs salary, âfreeâ had a kind of beauty that couldnât be argued with. No, the terrible part had been the lifting.
âOkay,â he had exclaimed thirty minutes earlier while dragging a leather chair down the hallway. âOne more trip.â It had not been one more trip. Now, your shirt clung damply to your back, sports shorts sticking unpleasantly to your thighs, and sweat rolling down your temples, which had very likely reached an impressive deeper shade. You didnât even want to question your current state of odor. Craig looked worse. His shirt had been discarded halfway through transporting the television in his car (which, considering the man, was not that surprising. always a good occasion to remove clothing.), leaving him barefoot in the kitchen, bare-chested and sweaty, his long dark hair tied up roughly. âMan,â he huffed opening the refrigerator and leaning halfway inside it, âwant something to eat?â
You wiped the back of your hand across your forehead, realizing just how soaked you truly were. âYeah, that would be cool.â
He emerged holding food wrapped in plastic. âHere.â You accepted it without question. (you were too hungry and exhausted to be suspicious.)
But the instant you took the first bite, regret struck with immediate and undisputable force: the texture was wrong, the taste even worse. Your brain tried desperately to identify the flavor and fell somewhere between ârotten eggsâ and âit had once been turkeyâ. Craig was watching you expectantly. âGreat!â you managed with a smile, mouth still full. But your eyes intuitively drifted across the kitchen to land on Andrew, who was at the counter, assembling a sandwich silently, fully absorbed on his task: bread laid out side by side, mayonnaise spread in four slow strokes to cover each slice, cheese trimmed to fit the edges, two slices of ham placed with a vigilant symmetry. (patterns. you realized he liked patterns. or at least that he seemed serene when things followed one.)
Over the past two months you had started noticing things like that: the way he sometimes counted under his breath, the way he lined up objects when he set them down, adjusting them until they felt correct, the way every text he sent ended with âAndrew.â as if you might forget who you were speaking to if he didnât sign it properly. The way he observed everything around him without ever seeming to move much himself. You had known him just long enough now to stop being intimidated by the silence, to realize it wasnât emptiness.
Andrew Cody looked still most of the time, but everything was in his eyes. You had seen amusement there, concern, confusion, a gentleness that seemed almost embarrassed to exist. And right now⌠Right now, he was glancing up at you. Just a second. Enough for his gaze to flick to the food in your hand, then back to your face, reading the desperate plea you mouthed silently, âHelp.â The corner of his mouth twitched. It was quick, almost invisible, but unmistakable. And that was all it took. A laugh bubbled up your throat so suddenly you had to bite down on it before it escaped, turning it into something halfway between a cough and a choke.
âYou good man?â Craig asked, patting your back. Andrewâs stare traveled to Craigâs hand on your back, watching the gesture before returning his attention to the counter. (you briefly wondered how the hell you got there. how you went from âdollâ and âsugarâ accompanied by a suggestive smirk and the occasional half-serious invitation to stay the night toâŚâmanâ and âbroâ and a thump between the shoulders like youâre part of his crew. the flirting had stopped almost overnight. you thought it might have been the day he saw you and Andrew sitting side by side at the beach, quietly talking and staring out the ocean.)
You nodded quickly, giving Craig a thumbs-up while still trying not to swallow the first bite. âYeah,â you managed through the mouthful. âGood. Great. Amazing.â (awful. you hate it. youâre fairly certain that death tastes sweeter than this.)
Craig grinned, satisfied. âKnew it.â His phone buzzed loudly on the counter and, glancing at the screen, he muttered. âItâs Renn. Fuck.â He answered as he walked toward the sliding glass door. âYeah yeah, hold on a sec.â Before stepping outside, he peeked a look at the two of you: you against the counter, Andrew pretending to focus on his sandwich. You could feel the slow smirk spreading across his face when he added, âDonât eat it all. I want some when I get back.â
âYeah,â you said immediately, âno problem.â You waited precisely three seconds after the door shut, lunging for the trash. You spat the bite out and rinsed your mouth under the tap before stepping up to the counter, right next to Andrew and his still amused expression. âAndrew. Your brother just tried to kill me.â
âYou trusted Craig with food,â he corrected, like that explained the whole thing. (whichâŚsure.)
âOkay, fine,â you conceded with a laugh. âIt was suicide.â His expression didnât change much when his eyes dropped to the sandwich in front of him, staring at it with a frown before reaching for the knife. Slowly, carefully, like everything he seemed to do in life, he cut the sandwich diagonally in half, sliding the plate toward you. ââŚYou serious?â He nodded once, the faint crease between his eyebrows deepening at the idea you might doubt him. âYouâre giving me half your sandwich?â
âYouâŚâ he took a small breath. âYou can have it all if you want.â
(eating the entire sandwich he had just spent twenty minutes assembling? you were sure people could go to hell for less than that.) You shook your head quickly. âNo way. Half is perfect.â The first bite made you close your eyes in pure delight, a tiny sound of pleasure escaping your lips treacherously. (okay, hey. would it be really unreasonable to walk up to Craig and say âIâm kidnapping your brother to marry him and live off his orgasm-worthy sandwiches forever. Donât mind?â)
âThis is really good,â you said, still chewing. âYou just saved my poor empty stomach from starvation and food poisoning.â He didnât respond, though his shoulders had relaxed. You both ate silently your half of the sandwich, watching each other. (maybe he was doing it out of habit. or maybe that was what made him, him. and you were nothing but a fierce competitor in this silent staring contest. maybe even a little of a cheater.)
You leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, his eyes immediately flicking to the empty plate on the counter. âThank you,â you murmured. You pulled back with a grin. âIt will be our little secret.â
Eyes traveling briefly between you and the glass door where Craig was still talking on the phone outside, Andrewâs voice came lower and rougher than before. âOur little secret.â
ââââââââââ
âIsnât your boyfriendâs name Andrew?â
Youâre reasonably confident your head has never snapped up so rapidly in your entire life. Youâre still halfway bent over, one arm buried inside a cardboard box of syrup bottles on the floor of the back room, the abrupt motion making you feel dizzy. âUm. YeahâŚwhy?â you reply carefully.
Behind you, Deon and Maira exchange the sort of look people get when they know something you donât. Which, from experience, is never a good sign. You hastily straighten up, discarding the inventory sheet and dusting your hands on your apron while trying to read their faces. Maira is leaning against the doorway, the sleeves of her hoodie pushed up to the elbows, her smile suspiciously wide. Deon, next to her, his apron no longer tied to his waist, has one elbow casually perched up on her shoulder. âOh my god,â Maira laughs, nudging him. âIt is him!â
âWho is âhimâ?â you ask, attempting your absolute best to keep your voice natural. (no need to panic. or get too excited. this could be nothing. maybe itâs a random customer named Andrew. Andrew is a very common name. there are millions of Andrews. millions. statistically speaking, at least three of them probably exist withing a five-mile radius.)
Deon jerks his chin toward the front of the shop. âThereâs guy out there asking for you.â
At those words, your stomach performs an impressive acrobatic trick. âWhat guy?â
Maira raises an eyebrow. âThe postman. He wants to know if youâre free for dinner,â she replies dryly. âAre you listening! The guy youâve been yapping about for the past, what? Two months? Three?â
Deon interjects. âThink itâs closer to four.â
ââŚWhat?â
âScary,â he responds, counting on his fingers. âCurly hair. Built like a sex god. Very quiet.â
Maira nods enthusiastically. âYes! And he said your name!â
âIs heâŚâ you clear your throat. âIs he at the counter?â Both of them nod enthusiastically in perfect synchronization. (okay. stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. thereâs no need to panic. itâs justâŚa perfectly normal situation. just a guy whose name is Andrew, who sounds like Andrew and who probably is Andrew.) âHow do I look?â you ask, panicked and hands flying to your hair.
âGreat,â Deon reassures you, stepping forward to help you rearrange the apron strings that twisted themselves behind your back. âYou are gorgeous, you are confident, you have a great ass. All is well!â
âThanks Dee.â
âYouâre welcome, Sponge Cake.â He pats your shoulder. âNow come on May, tell her sheâs super hot to impress her man.â Maira snorts but plays along, placing a hand over her heart. âYouâre super hot,â she declares flatly. âAnd heâs gonna fall on his knees when he sees you. Probably gonna ask you to marry him on the spot because of your wonderful brewing technique.â
 âThat was the least convincing pep talk Iâve heard. And that comprises the day I told my dad I was dropping out of college and he said, âas long as youâre happyâ.â
âIâm a nursing student!â she exclaims. âMy encouragement style is mostly âplease donât dieâ.â
Deon claps his hands. âOkay, now go!â You hesitate a brief instant, aware of your heart pounding intensely once again.
(why are you so nervous? itâs Andrew. your Andrew. youâve literally seen him naked every day for the past thirty-two days. not that youâre counting. but since youâve started dating and he realized you were taking the bus, he has so far: picked you up from work. dropped you off at work. waited in the truck outside work.)
Yet Andrew has never crossed the threshold. Which means this is the first time heâs visiting you in your little universe. Your cafĂŠ. Your register. Your apron (that will forever smell like vanilla syrup after you poured half a bottle on it eight months ago).
âOkay,â you mutter to yourself. âYou are gorgeous. You are confident. Youâre not gonna fall. Itâs gonna be fine.â You push through the swinging door, and there he is. Andrew stands at the counter, hands flat on the wood as he studies the menu board above the expresso machine, eyes proceeding with the lines of drinks and options. And you know, you know, from the stiffness in his shoulders and the tremor in his forearms, that he is struggling not to feel overwhelmed. (eighteen drinks. four milk options. twelve syrups. three sizes. anyone would be.)
âHi,â you say softly as you step behind the counter.
The moment he hears your voice, his whole face and posture seems to unlock, the tension along his spine easing like a knot untied. âHi,â he breathes.
âYou okay?â
He nods. âYeah.â His eyes flick between the menu and you. âYou haveâŚa lot of options.â
Extending your hand across the counter, the tips of your fingers brush the back of his hand. âItâs okay,â you reassure him. âI donât know what half of those are.â
That earns the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. His voice drops lower, careful. âCan you make something like what we drink at home?â
The word âhomeâ lands deep in your chest. âYeah,â you murmur. âOf course. What size?â
Andrew hesitates. Itâs subtle, but you recognize the signs instantly: the dim flare of his nose, the way his jaw clenches when he feels like heâs taking too long to respond. ââŚNormal?â
âOkay. Normal it is,â you smile, grabbing the medium cup and walking up to the machine, letting the familiar routine settle your hand. (youâre fine. totally fine. your boyfriend just casually used âweâ and âhomeâ in the same sentence. no need to cry right now.)
Behind the swinging door that separates the back room from the counter, you can feel Deon and Maira trying to eavesdrop. You hear the sound of their shoes squeak against the tile and their whispers. You ignore them and grab the black marker near the register. Technically, youâre supposed to write the customerâs name. Just the name and nothing else. Your hand hesitates a brief instant above the cup. The first letter is the toughest to write, heart thumping so loudly youâre convinced Andrew can hear it. You continue nonetheless.
Honey
The word sits there in your handwriting: the real one, not the usual rushed barista scrawl. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you add a small heart next to it. One beat. Itâs how long you stare at it before sliding the cup under the machine.
Behind you, Andrew clears his throat. âOh my god, yes. Sorry,â you stammer, turning back to him. âI swear Iâm not usually this...â
âAm I bothering you?â he asks suddenly. Your head snaps up. His hands have clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff. âI can go if you want.â
âNo!â you exclaim, startling him. You clear your throat, trying to regain some composure. âNo, Iâm very happy to see you here. Iâm just surprised. The good kind, I promise.â
The small exhale coming out of him is endearing, like he expected your reply to be yes, to reject him from this side of your life. Like he doesnât know that every part of it has been making space for him since the moment he walked into it. He shifts his weight, gesturing toward the pastry display. âCan I alsoâŚget one of those?â
Your eyes follow his finger to the glass. âYeah, of course!â
âThat one, please,â he whispers.
You lean back to see that heâs pointing at the cinnamon roll. âOkay, perfect. AndâŚdo you want that for here or to go?â you ask, punching the order into the register.
He glances around the shop, taking in the small tables, the windows looking out onto the street, the student typing. âFor here. Please.â
Before you can move, the swinging door bursts open, Deon sliding behind the counter like he hasnât been listening to the entire conversation. âGot it,â he intervenes, grabbing the metal tongs and placing the roll on a small plate. âDeon,â he adds, offering a hand across the counter. âI work with this one.â
Andrew hesitates, the gears in his head turning and certainly going: germs â counter - stranger. He shakes it anyway. âAndrew.â
âOh, I know,â Deon laughs, shaking his head. âTrust me I know.â (how about poisoning your coworkerâs coffee?)
The tray gets filled with his drink and plate, Andrewâs gaze dropping to the cup, fingers turning it until the word you wrote rotates into view. Honey. For a moment he doesnât budge. His eyes stay there, on the letters, undoubtedly checking twice their existence. The corner of his mouth twitches. He picks it up guardedly, like it contains something fragile. Itâs the only thing he takes from the tray. Checking briefly on Deon, who is suddenly incredibly invested in reorganizing a stack of napkins, Andrew clears his throat. âItâsâŚâ he murmurs, sliding the tray containing the plate back to you.
âWhat?â
âItâs for you.â
You stare at the plate, then at him. âFor me?â
âYou didnât eat a lot at lunch.â
âSoâŚyou bought me food?â The faint frown in between his eyebrows returns. You recognize it now: how his brain is probing the moment for mistakes. How it must loop the same questions. Did he misinterpret something? Was that incorrect? Did he embarrass you? Before the worry has time to grow roots, you add, âThank you.â
The change is immediate, the words fully settling in: his shoulders loosening, his whole expression softening and his breathing quieting. He nods once, picking up the cup and stepping away from the counter like someone trying not to disrupt a carefully balanced structure and chooses the table by the window. Not because itâs comfortable. Because it faces the door. You know that instinct, he told you about it once, late at night, when you asked him about his scars. He doesnât pull out his phone to scroll or check the time, no, just sits there, looking out at the street, where nothing interesting ever happens: just a bookstore, a florist and a bank. Deon bumps your shoulder. âGo talk to him.â
âIâm working.â
âSo what? The guy came here to see you! And donât tell me itâs just to drink cause who in their right mind pays four dollars for a black coffee?â
Maira pushes the door open with her hip and grabs you by the shoulders. âPut on your big girl pants,â she says warningly. âWe got the counter.â
You look at the two of them then back at Andrew. Who hasnât moved. Still watching the street and holding the cup and waiting. You grab the roll and walk toward the table, where Andrew looks up at you when you slide into the chair next to him. Not startled. More likeâŚa man who sensed you getting closer. He is still holding the cup, his thumb brushing the edge of the little heart. âHey,â you say softly, tearing off a piece of the roll. âWhat are you looking at?â
âThe street.â
Your smile creeps back. âWhy?â
He takes a slow sip of coffee before replying. âIâm waiting.â
âFor what?â
âYou.â
âButâŚâ youâre pretty sure your brain stutters, âI finish in an hour.â
âI know.â
âYouâre gonna sit here an hour?â
He nods calmly. âYes.â (I love you, I love you, I love you.)
âThatâs ridiculous,â you whisper, resting your hand on his thigh under the table.
That earns you a tilt of his head. âWhy?â
âBecause you could go home.â
Andrew considers the idea for a split second. You can witness the thought across his face before he shakes his head. âI like being here.â
You gesture vaguely around the cafĂŠ. âThis place is boring.â
But Andrew is not looking at it, just you, one hand still around the coffee, the other traveling to yours on his thigh and lacing them together. âNo,â he says quietly. âIt isnât.â
ââââââââââ
Andrew was eight. Sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet with a plastic bowl of marbles spread out in front of him, Andrew was not playing with them, no, he was sorting them.
(Green in one row. Blue in another. Then yellow. Clear ones last. One. Two. Three. Four.)
He arranged them cautiously along the dark lines of the carpet pattern, making sure each marble touched the next but did not roll away. That was the best thing he had discovered so far, through trial and error, to ease the pressure in his rib cage without breaking anything. Across the room, the television aired a movie Smurf had left running before walking out with a man. On the screen, someone screamed while another man bled on the floor, gunshots cracking every few seconds in the empty house. Smurf said it was important to see how things worked. Julia sat beside him with her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on them. But she wasnât watching the movie. Her focus was set on him.
âAndy,â she said quietly. He didnât answer, too busy adjusting a marble that had rolled too far from the others. âAndy.â He glanced up. His twin sisterâs hair was knotted, falling into her eyes. In moments like this, she appeared older than eight, an old soul that had seen too much of the world and how rotten it might be for kids like them. âRemember the pool?â Of course he remembered. How Smurf had laughed when the boy called him weird, how she leaned down and purred in his ear to show him what happened to people who said things like that. The water had been cold and the boyâs hair slippery in Andrewâs hands. He could still hear the screams when the head went under: the kidâs voice bubbling into the water, Julia shouting behind him, Smurf laughing somewhere above it all. How he hadnât felt anything but the sense that he was doing what he had been told. âThat was bad,â Julia whispered.
Andrew studied the row of green marbles. âSmurf said it was fine.â
âSmurf says lots of things.â From down the hallway came the cry of a baby, small enough that the sound was weak and uneven, the sound of a being that had not yet understood that his mother would never answer. Julia shook her head, anger flashing across her small face. âShe didnât even check on him.â
Andrew stood, feet carrying him to the nursery room and the babyâs noise growing louder with every step. Craig lay in the crib with his tiny face scrunched and red, fists waving helplessly through the air. His cries calmed the moment Andrew leaned over the rail, climbing onto the lower run to lift him carefully. He tried to hold him the way he had witnessed people do in the hospital when Smurf brought the baby home: one arm under the body and the other supporting the back of his head. Craig quieted almost immediately, the howling breaking into small hiccups as he pressed his cheek against Andrewâs shirt.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Andrew swayed him. He wasnât sure if he did the right thing. All he knew was that Craig cried. Crying meant sadness. He didnât want his baby brother to be sad.)
âHe loves you,â Julia murmured from the doorway, watching them. Andrew looked down at the baby. Craigâs tiny fingers clung to the fabric of his shirt, innocent eyes fixed on him with the absolute trust only babies possessed: a love that came easily and without question, unaware of the faults in the person it chose.
(Andrew loved him too. If someone hurt his brother, he would hurt them back. He already knew how to punch. How to break. How to make someone bleed. For the people he loved, he could learn how to do worse.)
âWe should leave,â she said suddenly.
Andrew looked up. âLeave where?â
âAnywhere! Somewhere that isnât here.â
He stared at his brother once again, at the small hand gripping his shirt. âSmurf would be mad.â
âSheâs already mad all the time!â Julia stepped further into the room, her voice dropping to a whisper like the house itself might be listening. âShe makes you do things. Bad things.â
(The pool. The boy under the water. Smurf laughing. Smurf laughing. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted Craigâs hiccups.)
âI saw the bus station when she drove past it last week,â she continued softly. âPeople leave there. They go to different towns.â Andrew attempted to picture it: a bus, a road, a place where Smurf wasnât. Where nobody praised and applauded when someone drowned. His brother had fallen asleep, warm and heavy in his arms. Andrew contemplated taking him. âHe canât come,â Julia spoke quietly, as if she had overheard the thought. âHeâs too small.â Andrew couldnât answer.
Later, Julia discovered a backpack in the hallway closet and stuffed it with the things that seemed important: crackers from the kitchen, two apples, a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and a twenty-dollar bill she had hidden weeks ago under her bed. Andrew folded Craigâs baby blanket and slipped it inside. His twin sister didnât ask why. They departed after midnight. The house was silent then, the television finally dark and Smurf still gone someplace with a man whose name Andrew did not know. Outside, the night air was chilly and Andrew instantly held onto Juliaâs hand to walk down the street.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the cracks in the pavement.)
Julia kept whispering about plans animatedly. âMaybe we can stay near the ocean! Or somewhere with trees. Or a big city. Andrew listened but kept counting. The bus station waited under a buzzing yellow light, making them both halt when they reached it âWe did it.â
(His sister sounded happy. But the world felt too large here. Too open. One. Two. Three. Four.)
And then, abruptly, the way most vile things in Andrewâs life occurred, he heard a resounding noise inside his head: Craig crying, alone in the crib. Andrew felt frozen on the spot. Julia turned toward him. âWhat?â Andrew stared back down the street they had come from.
(Craig was still there. Craig couldnât climb out of the crib. Couldnât open doors. Couldnât stop crying if nobody came. Sad. Sad. Sad.)
âHeâs alone,â he managed to reply.
Juliaâs face crumpled. âWeâll come back for him later.â Andrew imagined that.
(Craig waiting. The crying. The empty house. Smurf leaving him there. Sad. Sad. Sad.)
He shook his head, his voice quiet but unmovable. âNo. Heâs our brother.â
Julia shut her eyes, seeming very small all of the sudden. âOkay.â
The walk back was silent, but Andrew counted every step of it. The house waited at the end of the street, looking exactly the same as when they had left it. But something had changed. Because now, Andrew understood what he hadnât before.
The house was not a house.
It was a mouth.
And they were walking back into the place that would swallow them both whole.
ââââââââââ
Two weeks after he came to the cafĂŠ, you understand.
Why Andrew chose the table by the window. Why he sat facing the street instead of the wall. Why his eyes kept drifting to the street. At the time you supposed it was just one of his habits, one more quirk among the many you had started noticing and loving: the way he aligned every product in the bathroom until the labels faced the same direction, the way he checked door locks twice before bed. It could have been caution, or anxiety, or something he learned in prison.
Now you know. The television hums in the living room, Friends playing to an audience of exactly one person: you. The house is dim except for the light of the screen, your feet tucked beneath you on the couch, an empty mug resting on the coffee table and your hands hiding inside the pocket of Andrewâs hoodie. (he said theyâd be back before midnight. it is way past midnight.)
The issue with loving a man like Andrew Cody is feigning ignorance. Because you know. Not everything, never everything, but enough. âThe less you know, the safer you are from the cops.â They have repeated that sentence to you so many times it has practically become a household rule, a silent pact that exists between the four of you like an invisible line across the floor: you donât cross into their world and they try, as much as they can, to keep it from touching yours.
You respect that. Mostly. But knowing something in theory is not the same as sitting alone in a quiet house while the clock moves closer and closer to one in the morning. Not when the man you love is out there in the city doing a dangerous job. You hide your hands into the sleeves of the hoodie you borrowed weeks ago and never gave back. You will, you keep telling yourself. When it wonât smell like him anymore. When it will just be you left on it. (he swore heâd come back.)
And the way he said it had been so quiet, so certain, that you believed him. Because Andrew rarely promises things. You had been standing in the kitchen, making your coffee and pretending to be much calmer than you really were when he stepped closer, his hands finding your waist. âHey,â he murmured.
You recall smiling a little. âWere you staring at me again?â
His thumbs brushed lightly against your sides. âI like looking at you.â
You reached up and adjusted the collar of the fake security uniform he had pulled on for the night. âJust come back to me.â
And when he pressed a kiss to your forehead, and whispered back, âI will,â you trusted him. (he promised.)
The television audience bursts into laughter the moment you catch it: the metallic click of a key turning in the front door. Your head snaps toward the sound. For a brief second, your brain refuses to process what your ears are telling you, the moment stretching oddly long as the laugh track from the show continues behind you, bright and oblivious to the sudden rush of panic in your chest. But the handle really turns and your body moves before your mind catches up, feet dropping from the couch to the floor as you stand quickly, relieved.
Itâs sharp and immediate, your lungs remembering how to breathe because theyâre back. Andrew came back. Craig comes in first, loud as always, carrying two heavy black duffel bags slung over his shoulders. Deran follows close behind him, halfway through dismantling one of their guns, hands still gloved. âJesus Christ, that was close man, I canâtâŚâ Craig stops mid-sentence when he notices you in the middle of the living room, the expression crossing his face quick but unmistakable: guilt. It sits on him awkwardly, like he tried to wipe it off before walking in but didnât quite manage. âHey.â (you donât like that face. you donât want to know why thereâs guilt there. you only want one thing.)
âHey,â you reply, but your eyes move past them, searching for the last brother entering the house. Andrew closes the door cautiously behind him, one hand remaining against the wood for a beat. And another. Something about that slight pause, the way he stays there, shoulders hunched and breathing heavy, sends a thread of unease to crawl down your spine. He looksâŚwrong. Your brain begins detecting details faster now: the arm close to his side, the way he moves slower than his brothers, the curls damp and sticky to his forehead. The unnatural paleness of his face. (donât panic. if you panic heâll shut down.)
Craig and Deran are already proceeding through the house, vanishing down the hallway to stash the bags and weapons in places the cops, or even you, will never find. But Andrew doesnât follow. He takes two steps into the living room, passing by you without registering your presence. Then three. His hand reaches out, gripping the arm of the couch like he abruptly needs something solid to hold onto. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. âHoney?â
He lifts his head when he hears your voice, turning back to you. For a moment, his eyes donât quite focus. His breathing remains wrong, too shallow and uneven. But he forces a soft expression onto his face anyway. âHey,â he murmurs.
You step closer, freezing when you distinguish it: the dark stain spreading across the side of his shirt. You always knew it would happen one day. But itâs always âone dayâ until it becomes âtodayâ. The blood is darker than you anticipated, almost black under the dim light, soaking slowly through the cotton of his uniform. Andrew notices where your eyes went, hand travelling instinctively to press against his side, attempting to cover it. Your throat tightens. âWhat happened?â
âNothing.â (of course.)
He lowers himself onto the couch with careful control. Except you are watching closely enough to see the truth: his jaw clenching when he sits, his breath catching halfway through. Your feet move before you can stop them, kneeling in front of him. âLet me see.â
âIâm fine.â
âAndrew,â you reply, calm and firm, leaving no room for discussion. âMove your hand.â
He hesitates. You see the instinct fighting inside him: endure it, downplay it, pretend it isnât happening. You lean closer, lowering your voice. âMove your hand. Or I will move it for you.â His eyes search your face for several seconds before he exhales through his nose and lets his hand drop from his side. The cotton of the uniform is soaked along his ribs. Your stomach flips again, but you swallow it down as you reach for the hem of his shirt again. âOkay. Good. Youâre doing good. Now, lift your arms.â It isnât loud, but itâs unmistakably an order. You feel guilty for doing this, but you know that Andrew Cody has spent most of his life obeying commands and that he will follow yours too. He lifts his arms just enough for you to peel the shirt up and see the wound beneath: how the blood glistens along the cut, still seeping. You straighten abruptly. âOkay, stay here.â
âWasnât planning on leaving,â he mutters faintly.
You rush to the kitchen before he can see your hands shaking, pulling open every drawer until you find what you need. Scissors. Towel. Alcohol. When you return, Andrew has shifted and you didnât hear it. Heâs no longer sitting upright, no, heâs stretched out across the couch, one arm hanging over the edge, eyes half-closed like the effort became too much. Your pulse spikes. âAndrew.â
âYeah,â he mumbles.
You kneel beside the couch and slide the scissors under the edge of the uniform. âDonât move.â
âNo worries.â
You cut the shirt open delicately, exposing the wound. âYouâre late,â you say suddenly.
âWhat?â
âYou promised weâd finish the season tonight.â
He frowns. âSeason?â
âFriends,â you reply, reaching for the towel and pressing it against his ribs, your shaking getting worse. âWe had four episodes left. Phoebe was going to give birth.â
Andrew exhales slowly, eyes drifting toward the television still on. âRight.â
âYou said weâd watch it after,â you continue lightly, casual. Almost like youâre bothered and not beyond frightened.
âSorry.â
You keep talking while your hands work, pressing the wound and forcing a teasing tone into your voice. âOh, you should be. Do you know how long I waited? I had to rewatch those of last night and almost started the next episode without you.â
Andrewâs eyelids droop. âIâll make it up to you.â
âYou better.â
You glance up at him. His eyes are drifting again. âAndrew.â He hums and your hand moves to his shoulder, shaking him. âHey. No sleeping.â
He blinks slowly. âTired.â
âNo, youâre not. You donât fall asleep okay?â His head tips to the side. âAndrew.â He doesnât respond, his eyes rolling back. âHey, hey, hey. No, no. Look at me. Come on,â you shake him harder, realizing that his breathing slows, âAndrew, baby, look at me.â Your voice cracks. âAndrew?â No response. You grab his shoulder. âAndrew, wake up, please.â The head rolls with the gesture, heavy and unresisting. Still nothing. âPope, wake up! Itâs an order!â You scream desperately, the word tearing out of your throat.
The hoodie is warm with his blood now, soaked through where your hands press against the wound, but you donât let go. You press harder instead, like force alone could keep the life inside him from slipping away. âCraig! Deran! Help!â Your voice cracks again as it echoes through the house. âCraig!â You turn your head toward the hallway, toward the garage, toward anywhere they might still be. âDeran!â
You pray theyâre still here. That they havenât left yet and that theyâre close enough to hear you. Because a part of your brain is already trying to rewrite the last ten minutes, trying desperately to replace this moment with something else, something normal. You should be on the couch right now, half-asleep against Andrewâs shoulder while the two of you finish the last episodes of Friends. Or he could be resting his head over your lap, staring at you instead of the television like he always does. You should be tugging him in bed to kiss him until your lips were numb. Should be making love until the only thing he utters is your name. Andrew should be alive and warm beside you instead of lying motionless under your hands. But no one wakes you up.
âYou promised,â you sob, your forehead pressing against his chest who slowly rises, your fingers gripping his shirt to hold him here. âYou promised youâd come back.â Only silence replies to you. âPlease donât do this.â Your voice breaks completely now. âPlease.â Behind you, the television audience erupts into another burst of laughter. And in the middle of that cheerful noise, with your hands covered in his blood and your heart breaking open in your ribs, you understand a thing that makes the terror swallow you whole. Andrew Cody isnât answering you anymore.
ââââââââââ
âI hope youâre taking off the shirt for me.â
He paused halfway through pulling the shirt over his head, one arm still caught in the sleeve as he turned toward the sliding doorway that opened to the backyard. You leaned against the doorframe, observing him with the sort of easy smile that constantly made his heart squeezing in his chest. Andrew finished removing the shirt and tossed it onto one of the lounge chairs beside the pool without looking. âYouâre gonna have to focus,â he replied.
Your eyebrows lifted. âOh, I am,â you grinned, stepping outside and letting the screen door slide shut behind you, âI just didnât realize that the focusing came withâŚsuch nice scenery.â
He didnât smile but felt the warmth creeping up the back of his neck anyway as he turned to the punching bag hanging from the metal frame Craig once used for pull-ups, steadying it with one hand. He wished this moment were something else, simpler, ordinary. Just a boyfriend showing off. What belonged in the kind of life where teasing led to laughter instead of preparation for violence. But that wasnât the existence he had.
He loathed that it had come to this, the cold logic sitting in the back of his mind and reminding him of the things he knew all too well: that he had enemies, men who knew his name, his brothers, men who would not hesitate to aim for whatever hurt the most if they sought to reach him. And the thing that hurt the most was standing shoeless in his backyard, smiling at him.
(And if that day came and he had not prepared youâŚStop. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four.)
He forced the spiral down the way he had learned to do as a kid, breathing slowly through his nose until the numbers lined up in his head and the tautness in his chest loosened enough that he could turn back toward you without allowing any of it to display on his face. âYou ready?â he asked.
You tilted your head. âDefine ready.â
Andrew gestured toward him. âCome here.â
You strode forward without hesitation or apprehension, just the faith that had constantly been when it came to him. He reached for your wrist, closing his hand around it firmly enough to demonstrate but not enough to hurt. âSomeone grabs you,â he coached. âFirst, donât panic. Second, donât try to pull straight back.â
âWhy?â
âBecause theyâre stronger than you.â
Your eyes narrowed. âHey! Keep the mean talk and tonight you sleep on the couch.â
Andrew ignored that part and transferred his grip on your wrist, directing your arm so you could observe the angle. âYou rotate here,â he explained, guiding the motion toward the base of his thumb. âThatâs the weak spot. âkay?â You twisted your wrist the way he indicated you, hand slipping free. âAgain.â He seized your wrist once more. You repeated the action, faster this time, the angle a touch incorrect at first before you corrected it halfway through and slipped free. He nodded. âAgain.â
You did it three more times, movements gaining confidence with each attempt, the hesitation giving way to instinct. The fourth, you twisted free so quickly he barely felt it, looking almost pleased with yourself. Andrew let go and stepped back to the punching bag. âNext thing.â
Your eyes followed him, a small sigh escaping you as you walked over. âYou know, when you said, âtraining sessionâ, I have to admit it wasnât quite what I pictured. Especially when you took off your shirt.â
He grabbed the bag to steady it and gestured toward it. âJust punch.â
The first hit landed with a thud that barely made the bag sway. Then the next. And another. You werenât graceful about it. Your stance shifted too much, your shoulder rolling forward awkwardly, but you kept trying anyway, stubborn in the way you were about everything that mattered to you. âOkay,â he acquiesced after a moment. âThatâs enough.â
You stretched your fingers, wincing. âGood. Cause I absolutely hate that.â
âItâs not over,â Andrew interjected, stepping in front of you. âPunch me.â
You stiffened. âNo.â
âYou wonât hurt me.â
 âI refuse,â you protested, arms crossed. Andrew didnât budge, holding your bewildered stare with the same persistence he used when waiting for Craig to finish one of his ridiculous arguments. âAndrew.â
âDo it.â
âFuck,â you muttered, lifting your fist and punching his chest.
He grabbed your wrist instantly. âYouâre hesitating.â
âWell yes!â you huffed, exasperated. âBecause I love you!â (The words still felt unreal every time he heard them.)
âDonât hesitate.â
Your jaw tensed at that, pulling your hand free to hit once more. This time, the impact landed properly against his chest with a solid sound. âFuck, did that hurt?â
Andrew shook his head. âNo, I told you.â
Fingers lingering against the spot you had hit before leaning forward, you pressed a quick kiss where your fist had gone. âDonât ever make me do that again,â you murmured.
(He wants to vow that you wonât. But the world he lived in didnât spare saints. And if the day ever came when he wasnât there to stand between you and the men who might want to hurt himâŚ)
Andrew raised his gaze to the open sky above the backyard.
(Please. Let this knowledge never be necessary. Please never let the world touch you the way it has touched him. Let him always be there first.)
Because if the day ever came when you had to use what he was teaching you, Andrew wasnât sure there would be enough left of him to forgive the sky for it.
ââââââââââ
Everything is a blur.
Moving like fog inside his skull, swallowing time and moments whole so that Andrew can never tell where one hour ends and another begins, whether he has been here minutes or days. Only that he drifts up and down through layers of pain and noise and darkness like heâs sinking beneath the water and occasionally brushing the surface long enough to gulp air before the current drags him under again.
There are voices. They come and go, distant waves crashing beyond the edge of his consciousness, too far to make out, then closer, then gone again. Deranâs voice is the easiest to recognize despite the muddle, loud and furious even when he is trying to whisper. âItâs all your fucking fault!â
Another voice answers him, fearful and shaky. Craig. Andrew attempts to open his eyes then, to comfort him, to tell him it was not his fault, but the effort collapses before it truly arises, his body heavy and unresponsive, limbs weighed down by the feeling of sand being poured into his bones.
Pain exists too. It pulses somewhere along his side, blooming through his ribs every time he breathes, but even that sensation feels distant, dulled, as if it belongs to someone else. Everything is bizarre there, moments sliding into each other without edges, the world flickering in and out like a weak signal struggling to stay connected.
He descends again in the shadows.
-
The next thing he registers is a voice. Your voice. It arrives differently from the others, softer but sharper all the same, cutting through the fog. âAndrewâŚâ Your voice breaks, and he craves nothing more than to hold you, to comfort you, to tell you he is here. âPlease, stay with me.â He attempts to respond but his mouth doesnât budge. Warmth presses against his skin, a compression against his ribs that sends a ripple of flames through his body despite the haze, and he realizes vaguely that hands are holding him down or holding him together.
(Your hands. He knows them by heart now.)
There are more voices. A stranger. He wants to tell him to go away, to leave his family alone. That he desires to die in peace with the voice of his angel close to him. But the stranger keeps speaking. âHold him.â âHeâs losing a lot.â âKeep pressure there.â
Hands run over him. Bandages. Cloth. It tenses around his ribs and the pain slices abruptly enough to drag him halfway toward the surface before the darkness swallows him once more. But despite it allâŚyour voice remains.
Even when everything else fades.
-
Time dissolves. He floats. At some point, he becomes aware of the smell: wrong, metallic and thick. Blood fills the air, intense and unmistakable, mixing with something sharper he gradually recognizes as alcohol and antiseptic. The scent coats the inside of his lungs every time he inhales, yanking him closer to consciousness whether he wants it or not.
He perceives voices again. His brothers. They are arguing beyond the edge of his vision, the words warped by distance and the cloud inside his head. âYou shouldâve done more!â
âI know! But I didnât ask him to do this!â
âYou know thatâs what he does! And that almost killed him!â
His body refuses to stir, the stinging in his ribs throbbing harder now and tugging a rope of fire through his chest. He sinks. But a gentleness interrupts all this chaos. The voice of his angel. âStop it, boys.â The room goes quiet, your voice trembling, but the authority in it lands that even Deran doesnât contest it. âPlease, stop. Youâre not helping.â
Silence stretches for a moment.
(He wants them to keep fighting. To keep shouting. To break things if they have to. Anything to prove him that the world still exists outside his skull because the silence inside feels too much like being buried alive.)
But a hand brushes tenderly through his hair, pushing the curls away from his forehead with a care so familiar that his body recognizes it before his mind can follow. âAndrew,â you whisper, the word reaching him like a line thrown into the deep water. He senses the soft pressure of your lips on his forehead, âyouâre okay, now.â He desires nothing more than to have faith in your words.
-
Time folds in on itself.
Sometimes he drifts so far that nothing exists at all, the world melting into a blank and merciful quiet where even the pain canât track him, and other times the edge of things returns in scattered pieces: your voice nearby, the gentle stroke of your hands, the rhythm of your breathing rising and falling beside him.
At one point, he feels the bed shift beneath his weight, the mattress dipping as someone moves beside him, warm water touching his skin. A cloth follows it, sliding slowly across his chest, and it takes several seconds for the disjointed fragments of sensation to have a meaning.
You are cleaning him. The fabric travels over the dried blood along his stomach and ribs that ache even through the haze. He hears himself make a sound, small and weak and unfamiliar that barely resembles a voice. Your hand pauses instantly. âI know,â you murmur, fingers smoothing over his hair before returning to their work. âI know, honey.â
You move slowly, patiently, like every inch of him matters while Andrew floats there, half aware, half gone, your hands traveling across his skin. A peculiar discomfort curls in his chest. Not pain, no. Shame. Because you witness him like this: fragile, damaged, helpless. The same hands that have choked men, held knives and guns, broken bones without remorse now lie useless at his sides while you wash blood from them.
He doesnât deserve the way you handle him, and yet your hands never dither to cleanse the blood from his shoulders, chest and the long smear of it throughout his stomach. When the cloth leaves his body, the absence registers instantly and he starts counting the seconds until your return.
(One. Two. Three. Fou-)
Your breath strokes his temple as you lean close to wash his hair, warm water trickling within his curs while your fingers comb gently as you wipe away the last traces of blood from his scalp. Water runs down the side of his face, but you are already there to steady his head. His whole world now narrows to the sensation of you.
(His angel is kneeling in the dirt. Lowering herself to touch what is ruined. Washing the sins from a body that has no right to ask for forgiveness.)
Your voice breaks the thought. âThere you go.â Andrew feels a palm cup the side of his face, lips finding the tip of his nose. âAll handsome again.â The words are meant to be light, teasing even, but your voice trembles, betraying the exhaustion and terror underneath. He canât open his eyes to tell you he hears you and that the sound of your voice is the only thing pulling him out of the shadows.
That his angel is still beside him, and as long as she refuses to let go, even death must await.
-
When Andrew finally wakes for real, the confusion is gone. Pain remains, of course. It rests deep along his ribs like a smoldering coal, flaring brighter each time he breathes too deeply or shifts even minimally against the mattress, but itâs a clean pain now, contained, no longer the distant echo of something happening to someone else.
No, this time itâs a clear and undeniable signal from his own body. Which means he is here. Alive.
The ceiling above him comes slowly into focus: the familiar crack running across the plaster, the discoloration where the paint never quite dried evenly after the last repair, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains across the room.
Heâs in the house.
Andrew lies still for a long moment, hollow and drained. Memory sluggishly returns the same way everything else has since he was shot: in fragments that find their places. The couch. The smell of blood. Your voice screaming his name. Your palms against his side. The room spinning while you begged him not to close his eyes.
Andrew swallows, turning his head to try to forget. You are there. The chair alongside the bed has been pulled close enough that your knees touch the mattress, folded into it like your body simply stopped wherever exhaustion caught you, hand still wrapped around his and your thumb on the inside of his wrist, checking his pulse. Your head rests on the edge of the mattress, face wan. The skin around your eyes is swollen and in a deep shade of purple, hinting at him how you must have shed tears long after your body had nothing left to give.
He keeps studying the lines of your features the way he has done a thousand times before when you were laughing, or reading, or concentrating on a simple task of your daily life. But this is different. This is the face of someone who has witnessed horrors and survived them.
He recalls the sound of your voice breaking when you shouted his name, your fingers refusing to stop the pressure against the wound even when the blood soaked through your sleeves. Andrew stares at the ceiling once again. The room is quiet now. The whole house is quiet. Even the world outside the windows seems to be holding its breath.
The existence he has lived, the one that had been crafted by Smurf, the jobs, the violence, the endless cycle of danger and escape had constantly been his only to carry. Not anymore. Now thereâs you. And loving you means something different than what he has known his whole life. More than shielding you and promising to come back. It means making sure you never have to go through another night like that.
Andrew turns his hand slowly in yours, the gesture small but sufficient for your eyes to flutter open. For a second you look confused, disoriented. Then your gaze finds his, relief and disbelief spreading across your face. âAndrew,â you whisper, the name cracking. You sit up too quickly, your free hand reaching for his face and brushing his cheek as your eyes fill up. âYouâre awake.â
Andrew manages to nod, still observing intently your face and the fear and exhaustion lingering behind your relief, the way your fingers tremble even while you smile at him. This is what nearly breaking you looks like. He canât live with that, not ever again. He squeezes your hand, making you inhale sharply like the smallest proof of life still feels impossible. One last look at you is enough to realize there was never a choice to make.
Because if loving you means saving you from the life he livesâŚthen he will burn that life down with his own hands.
ââââââââââ
He exhaled loud enough for you to hear on what must have been the fifth time. âYouâre gonna hurt your back.â
You grinned without turning around, chin resting on your bent knees. âIâm comfy.â A small pause ensued, the kind that suggested he was contemplating whether it was worth arguing again. (it was not. he should know it by now.)
âYou could sit up here.â
âI like the floor.â
Another sigh. âYouâre stubborn.â
You tipped your head back just enough to glance at him upside down. âOh, so youâve noticed?â
Andrew was sitting on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under him and the other planted firmly on the floor beside you. The remote rested forgotten beside his thigh. His attention had been pulled away from the episode the instant you had walked into the room with the brush.
Which came in contact with your hair after you felt him hover tentatively above your head for a while. âHold still,â he murmured.
The first slow pass of the brush slid through your hair. He didnât tug or rush, halting when he found a knot, fingers replacing it to untangle the strands before continuing, the back of his hand stroking your neck every now and then. Each movement was methodical, thoughtful, like he was solving a problem one piece at a time.
The television audience burst into laughter, neither of you reacting. You simplyâŚsat there, paying attention to the noiseless rhythm of the brush traveling on your head. You leaned into it without thinking. âYouâre good at that,â you complimented after a moment. He hummed, not quite answering. âNo, seriously,â you insisted, smiling to yourself. âYouâve done this before.â
His hands paused for half a second before starting to divide the hair into three even sections. âYeah.â
You pivoted just enough to throw him a quick look over your shoulder, but his eyes remained focused on the braid forming between his fingers. âWho?â you asked.
âJulia.â The name landed quietly in the room. You knew it already. The basics, at least. That she had been his twin, that she was gone now, that her absence resided inside him. The wound that would never be allowed to heal properly. Andrewâs fingers proceeded steadily, crossing the strands over each other. âShe liked braids,â he added after a moment. âTwo of them.â
âLike pigtails?â
âYeah,â he pulled one section tighter before crossing it once again. âSaid they stayed out of her face better.â
You grinned. âSmart girl.â Andrew didnât respond, but you could sense the corner of his mouth lifting behind you. âHow old were you when you used to do that?â
The weaving came to a standstill. âKids.â
âThatâs pretty young to learn how to braid.â
âShe showed me. Our mother wouldnât help.â (yeah. from what youâve gathered about that woman, that tracked.)
You waited, giving him the space to continue if he wanted to. About Julia. About his mother. About anything from his past that gave him those nightmares. He didnât. The plait resumed instead, his fingers moving a little slower, like he was savoring the feeling long buried in his memory. âShe liked it tight,â he added quietly. âSaid it lasted longer that way.â
You nodded, even though he couldnât see you. âWhat was she like?â
Andrewâs hands stilled again, long enough for you to notice. âShe wasâŚâ he cut himself short, searching for a word and abandoning it almost immediately. âJulia.â
The braid was almost finished now, the strands neatly woven together down your back, and the gentle tug you felt each time he crossed another section âHey,â you said quietly, âyou donât have to talk about her if you donât want to.â
Andrew tied off the end of the braid with the elastic he had slid around his wrist earlier. âI know.â
You reached back and pulled it over your shoulder before resting against him. He didnât protest this time, no, his arms moved, sliding under yours and around your waist, dragging you altogether onto the couch for your back to rest against his chest. His chin came to rest on your shoulder. (fine, maybe it was better than the floor.)
You played absently with the end of the plait. âI think we could have been friends.â He didnât answer right away. His nose brushed the side of your neck when he shifted, his breath warm against your skin. One of his hands found yours, fingers lacing together. The question slipped out before you could stop yourself. âYou think she would have liked me?â The room went quiet again except for the television that you both didnât pay attention to. The answer came like it was never a question in his mind, his other hand settling over your stomach as he pulled you closer to kiss behind your ear.
âShe would have loved you.â
ââââââââââ
âHold still.â Your hands slide guardedly around his arms before he can protest further, steadying him as you step closer, careful not to press where the bandage sits beneath the fabric of his shirt.
âOkay, honey,â you murmur. âSlow.â
Andrew allows the help. Itâs not something that comes effortlessly to him. For most of his life, assistance has been another word for weakness, something Smurf had trained out of him the same way she had trained hesitation out of him, to take pain silently and keep running. But this is different. Because whenever he peers down at your hands holding onto him, helping him walk, he sees the tremble of your fingers and how you keep glancing up at his face, checking his pulse in the middle of the night to assure yourself that he is still there. Alive.
âReady?â you ask. He acquiesces once. The first step into the hallway is slow. The second even slower, his arm draped around your shoulders while your own remains wrapped around his waist, guiding him through the house as the floorboards creak beneath your combined weight. âBetter today, right?â you question, the hand that isnât around him lifting to brush the back of it across his forehead. âNo fever? Howâs the pain?â
Andrew tilts his head toward the touch, letting you examine him like that, the cool sweep of your skin against his skin before your hand drops again.
(Itâs the sixth time today. Not that he minds. His angel counting his pulse like beads on a rosary, making sure that death hasnât come back to finish its work. Hell will take him eventually. It wonât matter. He has already tasted heaven.)
âIâm fine,â he answers.
Your eyes narrow in warning. âThat was not the question.â
âItâs better,â he corrects.
You seem to accept it, or at least decide that pushing further right now would only make him retreat into silence, a quiet, âOkay. Better is good,â escaping your lips. He moves carefully. Not because he canât walk, he can, but because the wound along his ribs reminds him with every breath that bodies have their limits, even his, and ignoring them now would mean disappointing the woman currently holding half his weight. âSlower, please,â you remind him (or his body) gently.
âI am.â
âNo, not that.â
Andrew glances at you, frowning. âWalking?â
âBreathing.â
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your lashes to dull the pain. Good thought. It works. A distant heat is better than a blade.)
âSee?â you whisper happily. âMuch better.â
He doesnât point out that the improvement has very little to do with the mechanics of breathing and everything to do with the fact that you are still here, beside him, in the house that nearly became his grave. The hallway opens toward the living room and its long windows that overlook the trees, Andrewâs eyes drifting there automatically, cataloguing every detail the way he always does: doors closed, locks intact, nothing disturbed. The result of the training Smurf carved into him before he was old enough to grasp what it represented.
But something else draws his attention next: the couch. Or ratherâŚwhat remains of it.
The large red sectional sits in its traditional place near the glass table, but the cushions along one side are absent, stripped away to expose the interior frame underneath them and the material that once covered the spot where he collapsed seven days ago has been removed entirely, leaving raw foam where the blood had sodden too deep to clean. The cushions are now stacked unevenly against the far wall while a blanket has been thrown over the exposed section in a hurried attempt to hide it.
Andrew stops walking, his gaze lingering on the couch. âWhatâs wrong?â you demand, tightening your grip around his waist.
(There had been so much blood. And your voice shattering somewhere above him. Screaming for his brothers. Screaming at them. To help him. To rescue him. This is the part that remains with him at night. The terror. The pleading. Thinking that he would die there and that you would witness it. He doesnât know if that will ever leave him or be another ghost along the way.)
His arm shifts around your shoulders. âYou didnât clean it.â
Your eyes flick toward the furniture and then away again so hastily it would have escaped anyone elseâs notice. But not his. âIâŚI tried,â you reply quietly. âBut the blood soaked through the cushions and IâŚI didnât want to throw the whole thing away. I meanâŚCraig and Deran said that I could get rid of it, but I didnât know about you since it belonged toâŚâ you swallow, cutting before the cursed name can come out, âSo I just took the worst part off.â
Despite the silence, Andrew hears the word anyway. (Smurf. The house is full of things that belonged to her. Furnishings. Walls. Memories that crawl through the floorboards like insects.)
He recalls Smurf sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, bracelets chiming while she observed the room like it was a chessboard, her sons scattered across it like obedient pieces. Pawns and knights and whatever she needed them to be. Each of them pretending they had chosen the square she had already decided they would die on.
He had stood exactly where he stands now, younger and quieter, waiting for her next move. Waiting to learn whose blood would prove he was still useful. âWeâre getting rid of it.â
You blink, clearly not expecting that answer. âReally?â
âYes.â
âButâŚâ your eyes go back toward it uncertainly, âI thought maybe it meant something to you since it wasâŚâ
âI never liked it.â The sentence comes out calm and certain. âAlways been uncomfortable.â
(Not the real reason. It sits deeper. Tangled in the memories of Smurfâs voice. Smurfâs orders. Smurfâs kisses. Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts his breaths before focusing back on you.)
âGood,â you exhale with a smile. âI hated it so fucking much. I didnât know how to tell you it was the most horrendous couch Iâve ever seen.â The corner of his mouth twitches. Itâs small, brief enough that you almost miss it, but your face brightens anyway like you had been waiting days for that tiny gesture. âSee,â you murmur triumphantly. âThereâs my smile. Now come on Andy, a few more steps and weâre in the kitchen.â
Andrew lets you guide him forward again, the two of you advancing past the living room while the furniture remains behind, a discarded relic of something rotten by time and love. He doesnât look at it.
(And plans on never doing so ever again. Soon he will drag it outside and burn it until thereâs nothing left but ash. Exorcise the altar of his old religion.)
âOkay,â you pull one of the stools out before he can argue, hands close enough to catch him even though he hasnât stumbled once since leaving the bedroom. âSit.â Andrew lowers himself carefully, one hand braced against the counter while the muscles along his side flare around the wound. âYou okay?â you ask.
âYes.â
âSure?â
âYes.â
âNo, becauseâŚIâm still scared youâre about to pass out.â
âI wonât.â
You squint at him, a few seconds stretching between you before you sigh dramatically and plant both hands on the kitchen island. âYouâre so bad at this, you know?â
âAt what?â
âBeing taken care of. Youâre a veryâŚvery bad patient,â you reply, a smile making its way on your face. âAnd honestly, I donât know how nurses do it.â Reaching out, your fingers brush lightly along his jaw before you lean forward and press a kiss against his mouth, half for affection, half for reassurance. Andrew can almost taste it.
âI thought you liked playing nurse,â he murmurs against your lips.
âOh, I do.â You peck another kiss on his lips. âBut that was funnier in bed.â
(It was. How you had stuttered the first time you suggested it. How, on top and breathless, you had proposed his fireman outfit next time. And how there hasnât been a next time.)
The memory turns sour. He despises the wound. Not just because it slows him downâŚbut it has also placed a distance between the two of you he cannot seem to be able to close.
He had tried. Three days ago, when the worst of the fever had faded and you were lying beside him in the bed, careful not to be too close, Andrew had murmured the suggestion on the pillow. But your hand had come up, two fingers pressing against his lips.
âNo,â you had whispered. âWeâll wait.â
Andrew didnât mention it again. Even right now. Instead, he watches you as you pull back from the kiss, your fingers still resting against his jaw while the playful expression slowly fades into thoughtfulness.
âBut seriously,â you add after a moment, âif you need somethingâŚyou ask me, okay? Anything.â
âI will.â
You study him, probably searching for signs of lies, before finally seeming satisfied enough to step away. âGood.â You glance toward the refrigerator. âI was thinking about going to the store. Weâre running out of milk.â
(He knows what it is. Itâs subtle, but he recognizes it. You want him to ask for help so you can aid. Not because he needs it. Because it makes the fear in your chest settle a little. Helping means heâs alive. His angel keeping vigil.)
Andrew tries to think. âWe need eggs.â
He hasnât seen your face brighten like that since the day. âOkay. Eggs. Perfect.â
âAnd coffee.â
âBut we already have coffee here.â
âMore coffee, please.â
(He would go willingly bankrupt on coffee if it meant seeing you light up like that.)
You grab his truckâs keys from the counter, running back to him and pressing a quick kiss against his temple. âDonât move, okay? Iâll be back in twenty minutes,â you say, walking to the front door.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the seconds until the car disappears behind the gate.)
Andrew remains seated, listening to the fading sound of the engine long after it has gone, the house settling back into its usual quietness around him. Then, he exhales through his nose and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen lights up, the page he had been staring at the night before is still open where he had left it when you stepped out of the shower, wrapped in steam and one of his shirts, pretending to scroll through something meaningless. Houses for sale. Rows of them scroll beneath his thumb: white siding, narrow drivewaysâŚHe keeps moving.
(Not Oceanside. Too close. Too many men who know his name. Too many memories that could follow him in the dead of the night.)
He adjusts the search radius to two hours. Three at most. Far enough that the old life would have to work harder to find him, but not so far that Craig and Deran would become strangers. He wonât disappear, no. But he will throw the board in the fire and start a new game. One where he is no longer a pawn waiting to die for someone elseâs victory.
The results refresh with new houses appearing. He studies each image: front yard, windows, distance from the road, blind spotsâŚHe moves past them. A white house near a freeway. No. A narrow bungalow with cracked siding. No. He scrolls again. There is no budget filter selected: Craig and Deran had handed him a cut of the job big enough that he hasnât decided what to do with most of it. They stated it was because he took the worst of the risk that night, but he knows better. His brothers gave it to him because they were scared. Scared of seeing him bleeding out on Smurfâs couch.
Somewhere in the haze of that night, between the pain, the blood and your voice, he remembers a single clear thought. If he didnât make it, at least Craig and Deran would take care of you. They would make sure you never had to worry about rent or food or the thousands of small things that made your lifeâŚyours. They would show up when things broke, fix what needed fixing, keep the world from being too hard on you.
The knowledge had been strangely comforting in those final drifting minutes before the darkness. But he didnât die. And now the money sits there waiting, untouched. Until now. He keeps scrolling until the fourth house appears on the screen and Andrewâs thumb pauses.
The photo shows a house tucked into the edge of a quiet valley, oak trees stretching wide above the roof. The siding is painted a deep green, nearly the same color as the leaves surrounding it, the kind of place that looks like it belongs exactly where it stands instead of fighting the land for space. Ojai. He taps the listing. More photos appear: a kitchen filled with light and windows open toward the trees, a living room without heavy furniture choking the space but sunlight stretching across the wooden floors. The backyard appears next: wide and flat behind the house, bordered by oaks. No steep slopes. No crowded neighbors. Just open ground beneath the branches. Large enough for a ramp. AndâŚthree bedrooms.
Andrew goes still.
(Three. Three. Three. Odd number. But good number.)
He doesnât know when the thought first started appearing in his mind, but sometimes, in the quiet instances between sleep and waking, he sees it. A small figure running through a house like this. Curly hair that refuses stubbornly to be tamed no matter how many times he tries and a laugh that sounds like yours. He never sees the face clearly, doesnât know if itâs a boy or a girl.
Just that they have his curls and your smile. The idea sits in his chest, all fragile and impossible at once, and if that day ever comes, if a sinner like him is allowed that kind of grace, Andrew finds himself hoping they inherit everything from you. Your kindness, your softness, your light. Everything that makes youâŚyou. Let them have his hair if they must. But the rest of him: the violence, the darkness that follows his blood like a curse. He hopes that part stops with him.
His eyes move back to the house. Ojai. Population 7,527. Close enough to the ocean that he could still drive there if he needed the sound of the waves and far enough for Smurfâs ghost to lose the trail. Because the truth isâŚHe cannot let this house swallow you the way it swallowed Julia. He will not watch these walls poison you the way they poisoned her.
His thumb presses the save icon, the small star beside the listing turning gold. Andrew leans back on the chair, the phone still resting in his hand, observing the images of the house.
(Three bedrooms. Three. Three. Three.)
You brought heaven into his life the moment you walked through the door. The least he can do now is build a haven strong enough to keep it.
ââââââââââ
âNo one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.â
The words landed before Andrew even recognized that Baz had spoken them. Maybe they had been shouted. Maybe they hadnât. He couldnât recollect the volume of them, only the certainty. The way Baz said it like a fact. Something obvious. Something that didnât require explanation because everyone already knew it was true.
For a moment he didnât move, hands staying exactly where they were, resting against the edge of the table.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you.)
He tried to blink, to shake the sentence loose from his head.
(Ever.)
The word seemed to echo louder than the rest.
(Ever.)
He inhaled slowly through his nose.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
The argument about Lena had already started evaporating around the edges of the moment, the details slipping away almost instantly. It could have been about Bazâs new girlfriend. Or about food. Maybe about him interfering too much. About him acting like she was his. He couldnât recall the exact words anymore, and it didnât matter now. What mattered was the sentence.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)
He had spent most of his life trying not to ponder about that possibility. Not for lack of wanting it. But desiring had always been treacherous in this house, Smurf having a way of seizing those wants and twisting them until they became something ugly and humiliating. That she could hold between her fingers and turn until it broke.
So, Andrew learned early not to voice those thoughts out loud but still, they emerged sometimes. A small kid running through a room, someone small enough that he could pick them up with one arm. The image had never lasted long, pushed away before it could take shape.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
But now Baz had said it. Out loud. And Baz wasnât just anyone. Not some stranger on the street throwing words around without knowing what they meant. Baz grew up with him. In the same house, the same rooms, with the same suffocating rules. Saw him when he lost control. When he hit things too hard. When the anger came too fast and too sudden. Saw him being Pope. The part of him that never seemed to come back clean.
But Baz also knew what Andrew was like when the world went quiet. And if Baz believed itâŚthen maybe it had always been true.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)
Andrew swallowed, throat dry. He focused on the counter once more: on the scratches carved into the wood, on a water ring left by someoneâs glass.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Counting usually worked, it pushed things away. But the sentence kept slipping back between the numbers.
(One. Two. Three. Four. No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever. One. Two. Three. Four.)
He attempted again but the words followed the rhythm of the counting.
(No one. One. Is ever. Two. Gonna have. Three. A kid with you. Four. Ever.)
Andrew shut his eyes briefly, the vision of Lena appearing instantly, uninvited. Her small hand gripping his when they crossed the street, the sound she made when she laughed, all sudden and loud. He had spent more nights taking care of her than Baz had. More mornings making her breakfast. More afternoons picking her up from school. But now Bazâs voice slid into the space where those memories resided.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)
He didnât argue. Didnât ask Baz what he meant because somewhere deep inside him, beneath the counting and the silence, a thought had already taken root.
Who would want that life?
Want a child with a man like him?
Maybe it had never been a possibility in the first place.
And hours later, back in Smurfâs house, when the lights were off, and the rooms had gone silent, the words still followed him into the dark. The kind that sounded less like an insult and more like a curse.
No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.
ââââââââââ
The alarm rang ten minutes ago but you have not yet swallowed it.
The phone lies face-down on the nightstand where it had vibrated against the wood earlier, the familiar tone meant to remind you of what you have done every morning for years: a small ritual as ordinary as brushing your teeth or tying your hair up before work, yet your hand remains motionless instead of stretching toward the blister pack, waiting patiently beside the glass of water.
Andrew is awake. You sense it in the fluctuations of his breathing, the subtle tension that travels through him when consciousness returns. But he stays exactly where he is, curled against you with his back along your chest, legs tangled together beneath the sheets, one of your arms draped around his waist while the other has your fingers running through the thick curls at the base of his neck.
Youâve discovered quite early in your relationship that Andrew sleeps best like this. Not holding you. Being held.
It had surprised you the first time he drifted into it without thinking, turning until he rested against you, his head tilting so your pads could slip into his hair, and the second you began scratching down his scalp, his entire body had relaxed so instantaneously and helplessly you almost giggled. Now it is routine. Every night, he feigns to just settle for a moment. Itâs never just a moment. Your thumb traces slowly behind his ear, nails scraping gently along it as his breathing deepens, savoring the sensation while your gaze drift to the nightstand once more and to the packet of pills that remains there.
Andrew shifts a little against you, one hazel eye opening to glance toward the bedside table before flicking back to you. âYou didnât take it?â he asks, voice still rough with sleep.
You hum tenderly, digits combing through his curls as he angles himself a little further in them while you watch the morning light creep along the ceiling. âNoâŚNot yet.â
He goes still for a moment in that silent, cogitating state youâve learned signifies heâs noticing everything and speaking nothing. âYou always take it when you wake up.â
âI know.â
His fingers glide absently along your forearm where it crosses his chest, tracing small idle patterns on your skin. âYou forgot?â
âNo.â
He turns his head so he can completely look at you now, not blinking much, not moving muchâŚjust that steady, intent gaze that makes it feel like every word you say is being placed carefully somewhere in his mind where none gets lost.
Your pads continue their movement because if you halt, heâll notice, and if he notices heâll start thinking too hard, and if he starts thinking too hard the quietness of this morning will evaporate under the weight of all the things Andrew Cody has learned to fear wanting. âYou didnât forgetâŚ?â he questions after a moment.
You shake your head against the pillow. âNo.â
Silence sinks between you while his thumb keeps dancing along your forearm, back and forth, back and forth, his favorite thing to do every day to ground himself in the fact that youâre there. He peeps once more toward the nightstand and the tablet before going back to you. And this time you perceive it: the uncertainty, the carefulness when his chest rises before he speaks.
âYou think about stopping them?â he murmurs.
âMaybe...I meanâŚâ you exhale, the words seized someplace amid your chest and throat. Your fingers remain exploring his curls, half because you know he adores that and half because it gives your hands work while your thoughts stumble over themselves. (why is this suddenly so tough to say. itâs not like you hadnât envisioned this conversation a dozen times in your mind over the past week. weeks if you were honest with yourself. envisioned it playful. casual. blurted out during breakfast or after sex.)
But now that youâre actually here, with Andrew warm and quiet in your arms, the words feel enormous. Andrew notices. (of course he does.) His thumb pauses mid-pattern. âYouâŚdonât want to take it today?â he rasps.
You swallow. âMaybe, yeah.â
The words fall into the room, fragile and that could collapse if either of you gets too loud and for a long minute Andrew doesnât speak, doesnât budge in your limbs, doesnât even breathe. They seem to travel through him, lodging in the cautious machinery of his mind where every possibility must be examined before it is trusted. He stares at the ceiling before his eyes return to you. âYou didnât forget,â he repeats.
âNo.â
Adamâs apple bobbing, his hand resumes its repetitive path. âBut if you donât take it,â he says slowly, the sentence forming piece by piece, âthen that meansâŚâ he stops.
The term stalls inside him, and you sense it: that hesitation that belongs only to Andrew, that instinct not to assume anything good too quickly. You tighten your arm around him, pressing a small kiss to the back of his shoulder. âIt means weâd see what happens,â you murmur.
His eyes close momentarily. âAnd what happens,â he breathes, âcould be a baby.â
Your heart stutters a little hearing him voice the word. âYeah.â
The expression on his face is so unguarded it makes your chest ache. Thereâs hope there, fragile and almost fearful to exist. âYou want that?â he asks.
You nod. âI think I do.â
âWith me.â It comes quieter this time, like stepping onto a rope he isnât certain will hold the weight of his emotion.
You smile gently, sliding your palm down from his curls to the side of his shoulder so you can guide him onto his back, the two of you untangling a split second before you follow him, straddling his hips without breaking the warmth between your two bare bodies. âYes.â
âYou want thatâŚwith me?â His eyes flick away, ashamed by how much the answer matters.
The vulnerability in the question cracks something wide open inside your chest. Andrew Cody is many things: careful, observant, frighteningly composed every time the world goes wrong. But he is not a man who asks for reassurance unless the answer truly matters to him.
(And right now, it so clearly does.)
You see it in the way his eyes shine, the faint wetness gathering along his lower lashes, trying very hard not to let it spill over. In the manner his mouth closes afterward like he already regrets questioning because good things, in Andrewâs existence, have continuously had a habit of vanishing the moment he reached for them.
âOh, honey.â Your voice softens as you bend down before he can retreat in his self-hatred, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, his templeâŚlittle kisses scattered across his skin while you cradle the nape of his neck. âOf course.â Another kiss. âYes.â Another. âYes.â
His breath shudders out of him, something long trapped inside his lungs that found a way, free. His hands come up slowly along your back, afraid of holding you too tightly, that the pressure might somehow break the fragile miracle of you lying there above him and speaking those words. âYouâre sure?â he rasps.
âSo fucking sure.â Your mouth travels down the line of his jaw and lingers there, warm touches alongside him while your fingers slip back into his hair and gently tug, the motion making his eyes flutter closed.
âI want you to be the father of my kids,â you mutter against his throat, the words knocking the air out of him. âI want little versions of you running around.â Another kiss. âWith your curls.â Your lips brush the faint freckles dotting his shoulder. âAnd your cute freckles.â
His hands clench on your waist. âYou donât knowâŚwhat youâre signing up for,â he says softly, but the protest is weak, almost wonder-struck.
You chuckle on his chest. âOh, I do.â You lift your head enough to observe him all over again while your hand slides deliberately by his torso, tracing the lines of him. âAnd if you want five kids,â you confess, âIâll give you five.â His eyes widen but you continue. âIf you want seven,â you press a kiss at the center of his chest, âIâll give you seven.â You move lower, your mouth brushing above the month-old scar where the bullet injured him. âAnd if you want ten,â Your lips skim his stomach. âIâll give you ten.â
The laugh that evades him then is quiet and breathless and so full of disbelief that it makes your chest ache. You donât reckon hearing him laugh like that before. âYouâd be pregnant for a decade,â he hums.
âHm. Pretty sure it would be worth it.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You push back up on his body, your hands trailing the same path your mouth just traced, your nose rubbing his. âBut seriously, all I know is that I want them with you. No one else.â
His gaze searches your face like heâs still trying to find the trick in it, still attempting to locate the moment where youâll laugh and say youâre joking, but all he finds is you looking back at him like the future youâre describing is the most obvious thing in the world. âYou wouldâŚdo that?â he whispers.
âA whole baseball team of kids? For you?â you smile softly, a kiss ending on his lips. âIn a heartbeat.â The second kiss loiters, deep and unhurried, your bodies fitting together naturally as his arms pull you closer. You use this moment to tug at his tousled hair, earning a whimper from his mouth while yours progresses down his jaw, your voice dropping to a low sound. âSoâŚâ
âSo?â he grunts.
âWhat if,â you ask against his ear, âwe tried now.â
His breath hitches. âRight now?â
Your fingers guide his head deeper into the pillow while you hover above him, biting his jaw. âWhy not?â
Andrew looks up at you as if heâs still struggling to comprehend how this morning became real, how the conversation that had started with an alarm and a pill you hadnât taken has somehow veered into this. âOkay.â
âOkay?â You echo, rolling your hips on him, a soft breath that sounds like relief leaving him. Your hand slides down his chest, palm flattening beside his healing scar. âWeâre gonna have to be careful,â you remind him.
His gaze drops on it, then back to your face, nodding. âIâŚI trust you.â
And with each caress that worships his body, he makes small sounds in the back of his throat. âLook at youâŚâ you coo softly, âso sensitive this morning.â
Andrew closes his eyes briefly, breathless and helpless. âDonât stop please.â
(and who are you if not someone who refuses to starve him any longer)
(yes, maybe itâs a little reckless after only a few months to be entertaining this. Most people would call it too soon.)
(a baby after, what? three months? but this man under you is not most people. and the way he looks at you right now makes the entire concept of caution fucking laughable.)
(he can burn and destroy for the ones he loves. that doesnât frighten you.)
(if anything, it makes you ache for him. no one ever taught him the other side of it. no one ever showed him what it feels like to be loved like that in return.)
âLetâs make our baby.â Your whispered command ghost over his lips, your chest pressed together as your eyes locked on his, pupils blown wide with want.
âYes,â he begs like a prayer. âAnything you want, please.â He pushes himself upright beneath you, bringing you with him until youâre sitting securely in his lap, and your hands rise to his shoulders, nails pressing into the firm muscle there as you steady yourself.
A sharp gasp leaves you when his mouth latches on your breast. Andrew makes a small sound in return, almost awed, his hands tightening at your waist while his forehead rests on your chest, the heat of his mouth causing you to arch into him. One of his hands goes from your hip to run his knuckles against your heated core, his other splaying gently over your ass in an attempt to not grip you too hard. He is pure tension beneath you, energy wound tight in every line of his body and waiting to be freed. And as you look at him, really look, you comprehend deep into your bones that this man, with all his shadows and all his gentleness, is someone you would follow anywhere life chose to twist and bend.
Because Andrew handles you like time has not yet promise you forever. Like he is attempting to carve this moment inside his brain. His palms travel reverently across your skin, like you are not solely a woman in his arms, but the entire sky he has finally been allowed to reach. âAndrew.â His name comes out strangled. Youâre on fire, body tipping dangerously close to the edge while he licks you slowly, savoring you and ignoring his name.
And you sense it a few seconds later: Andrew reacting to your body betraying how close you are with a tremble that runs through him, absorbing every small change in you as if it were occurring inside his own skin. He peers up at you, the sound of your name departing him, the syllables stumbling from his mouth like they belong there. (because they do.)
Even when his breath grows uneven and the muscles in his shoulders tense beneath your fingers, his eyes stay on you with that same unblinking intensity you have come to recognize as uniquely his. Andrew likes seeing you. NoâŚhe needs to.
Your nails press deeper into his shoulders as your body tilts forward, Andrew releasing your nipple from between his lips while your inhales stammer closer as his knuckle keep circling and pressing your clit. You huff a soft snort that is half laughter, half protest. âAndrew.â
âHm?â
âThatâs not how weâre gonna have a baby.â
The corner of his glistening mouth lifts against your skin. âI know,â he replies, pushing the tip of his finger into your heat, âJust want you to feel good first.â
âHoney,â you moan, tugging on his curls so he has to look at you properly, âThatâs so fucking sweet. But right now,â the second finger makes you shut your eyes in pleasure as your entire body shook, your core nearly dripping with desire to be filled by him, âRight now, I really, really need you, âkay?â
Andrewâs darken hazel eyes find your face the second you ask, wide and attentive, already watching the way your lashes fall closed and the way your mouth parts on the words. He nods without hesitation, the swollen head of his cock replacing his fingers in, his gaze focused utterly on you, your pleasure being the only thing anchoring him in the moment. âOkay,â he breathes, all thick solid muscles taut as he lays back in bed, letting you take control. His panting gets labored as you rock your hips back and up, taking him fully. His hand is at your hip, holding you down to allow you to grind your hips freely. âI love you,â he whispers, keeping his hooded gaze on you. âIâll take care of you both. I promise.â
His soft words cause your cunt to clench around him, lights prickling at the edge of your vision. âI know you will,â you reply, increasing the pace of your hips. âGonna spoil us rotten.â
âYeah,â he says, a ragged breath escaping as he thrusts up, making you moan out his name. âIâll give you everythingâŚeverything I have. You and our baby.â
âOursâŚthey will be just ours,â you reply in wonder. âI love you, please donât stop.â Words fall from your lips in fragments you barely recognize as language anymore, because all you can see is him: the man underneath you, the man whose gaze holds yours with such fierce, unguarded intensity that the rest of the world feels like it has simply fallen away. There is only Andrew.
His hands clinging onto your skin like he craves the proof of you, like he is mooring himself to something physical while the universe tilts dangerously on its axis around the two of you, your bodies moving with urgency. His words keep reaching you through the storm of sensation, low murmurs against your skin, your name leaving him again and again like a vow he cannot stop repeating. The space of the bed becomes its own small universe where nothing exists except the pull of him, the steady heat of his hands, the way his eyes refuse to leave yours even when his breath falls short.
You are sparks colliding in the dark. Galaxies brushing against each other. You are a kaleidoscope of collapsing stars, breaking apart and reforming in endless patterns that only the two of you can see. Wave after wave crashes through you, dragging you somewhere deep and bright and terrifyingly alive, and Andrewâs name spills from your mouth in a long, trembling sound that feels less like speech and more like surrender. You feel every line of him. Every breath. Every ounce of the strength he uses so carefully when he holds you.
For one suspended moment you feel like nothing at all, like your edges have dissolved completely. And in the same breath you feel like everything.
ââââââââââ
The first thing Andrew noticed was the manâs eyes.
Not the voice, not the laugh among the cluster of guys at the far end of the bar, not the beer bottle turning between his fingers under the light hanging above the counter, but the eyes: narrow, calculating, fixed across the room with a patience that Andrew recognized instantly because he had seen it before in men who believed they had time.
That the thing they were surveying would eventually wander close enough to take.
Andrew had been standing against the wall near the pool table, a beer untouched in his hand. At first the room had been just that: noise, movement. Just an ordinary night in his brotherâs barâŚuntil his gaze snagged on the wrong detail. The man was looking at you. You were with Craig at the pool table, courtesy of Deran who had recently brought it after he âpurchasedâ (stole) it from another bar.
One hand braced on the felt, you leaned forward to line up your shot, the hem of your dress high on your thigh when you bent while Craig gave you instructions that you were clearly ignoring judging by the way you laughed and nudged him out of the way with your hip before striking the cue ball. Craig cheered and the room kept moving. But the man didnât.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
You straightened with a grin, raising the cue stick happily, and Andrew felt the familiar, unwelcome awareness rise in him of cataloguing like he had learned as a kid: tracking the way people watched you when you laughed, when you bent over the table, when you pushed your hair behind your ear.
(Too graceful for a place like this.)
That thought irritated him. You were just Craigâs friend. Craigâs sweet, beautiful, kindhearted friend who kept showing up beside him without making a big deal out of it: at the skatepark asking for another lesson, at parties finding him in the crowded room to stay against the wall so he wouldnât be lonely. Who treated him like he was simply Andrew instead of the strange, broken thing most people eventually decided he was.
Andrew shifted his weight while his eyes drifted once more toward the corner of the bar where the man stood now half-shadowed, and the longer Andrew observed, the more certain he became that the manâs attention had not wandered once away from you. Not to Craigâs loud voice, not to the cluster of drunk girls laughing at a table, not even to Deran who handed him another drink. Just you.
The manâs stare stayed fixed in that heavy manner Andrew identified clearly, the kind that stripped a person down piece by piece and kept going with a lazy tilt of his head when you moved forward to line up another shot.
His jaw clenched. Not because of the dress or the way the fabric rode up. None of the Codys cared about that. Craig didnât, he had already clocked Andrewâs interest and promised that he wasnât stupid enough to get in the middle of it. And DeranâŚDeran had never looked twice at a woman in his life. But the man cared. Andrew could see it in the way his fingers stopped turning the neck of his beer bottle when you spun with joy, the way his mouth pulled into a slow, private smile like he had already chosen something.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
The man thought he was watching prey, that the world belonged to him. Probably the type who hid in dark corners and took his time, anticipating for the moment a girl would drink too much or wander outside alone. Scanning over the room, Andrew logged distances.
(Door to the alley. Six steps. Seven if someone stepped into his path.)
The bar was loud enough to swallow any possible noise. Andrew imagined crossing the room calmly, just another man walking through the bar, pausing beside where the stranger sat and telling him it was time to leave. And if the man refusedâŚThe alley behind Deranâs bar was narrow and dark without cameras. His brother had refused to put them, something about how the things that happened back there didnât belong on a tape.
He envisioned the manâs confusion when the door shut behind them, the instant when realization hit that the predator had drifted too close to a creature larger than him. Andrewâs hands closing around his throat, pushing more and more until the struggling stopped and the body went slack. Until the space inside Andrewâs chest that had started squeezing the moment those eyes settled on you finally went silent again.
(It would take six minutes. Maybe less.)
Afterward would be plain and simple: Craig would help, Deran too. They always did. They would wrap the body, load it into the truck, drive far enough out of the city for the lights to disappear behind them with only the desert, and the man who thought he had spotted something soft and easy across a pool table would vanish into a hole in the ground so deep and nameless that nobody would ever remember him. His gaze didnât leave the man who smiled when you laughed. If the man didnât stop observingâŚif those eyes didnât travel away from youâŚhe might take them himself.
Warmth touched his arm, the contact so unexpected that his body jerked a little before he even grasped what had happened. You. Your hand rested against his forearm, eyes a little glassy with the soft buzz of alcohol. âAndrew?â He blinked. The bar rushed back into focus around him. âYou okay?â you asked, thumb brushing the sleeve of his shirt. Andrew glanced past you to the man who was still here, still watching, still⌠âAndrew,â you repeated gently.
His attention snapped back to your face. âYes.â
You tilted your head. âI asked if you could drive me home?â The words came out a little sheepish, probably because of the hour and that you were drunker than you had intended to be. âCraig is staying,â you added. âAnd Deran obviously isnât leaving, soâŚâ
âYes.â
You smiled. âThank you.â
The walk to the truck felt longer than it actually was. Andrew remained a step behind you the entire way, his instinct reminding him to look at the parking lot, at the possible shadows between the cars. The man never came out. But still, he kept monitoring.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Sliding into the passenger seat with a quiet sigh, you leaned your head back against the seat while he started the engine. For a moment, neither of you spoke, you watched the passing streetlights across the windshield while Andrew drove, occasionally looking in the rearview mirror, searching the empty road behind them for headlights that never appeared.
âYouâre very quiet tonight,â you murmured eventually.
Andrew shook his head, dragging his attention back to the present. âYou had fun?â
You nodded sleepily. âCraig cheats at pool, you know that?â
âItâs Craig.â
âTrue,â you chuckled, your eyes closing for a moment before reopening. âNext time we play against him together, âkay?â
Andrew glanced at you then, just for a second, watching the way your head tipped against the window and the faint smile lingering at the corner of your mouth, the easy warmth of a person who had spent the evening with friends and drinking a little too much, trusting the world to remain harmless.
(Too trusting.)
But he only nodded. âOkay.â
Back at your place, you unbuckled slowly, fumbling with the latch before laughing quietly at yourself. âOkay,â you said, turning toward him. âI can make it from here.â
âYou sure?â
âNo worries, Iâm a grown woman, I can still walk.â Andrew was going to protest to at least walk you to your door when you inclined across the seat. The kiss settled between his cheek and the corner of his mouth, soft and messy while your hair brushed his jaw. âThank you, Andrew,â you murmured. Then you were out of the truck, your steps a little unsteady but determined as you walked toward the entrance. He kept counting until you were inside, safe.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
He could leave. He should. But he didnât. Because the man at the bar had stared at you like you were a prey to catch and ravage. And men like that didnât always give up when the night ended. Andrew shifted in the driver seat, his gaze fixed on the front door of your building. Minutes passed. Then more. No one came. But still, Andrew stayed. Eventually the sky began to pale at the edge of the horizon and only then did he start the truck.
But the next night he came back.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
He didnât tell you. His angel didnât need to know someone was out there keeping the wolves away.
ââââââââââ
âWait, waitâŚyouâre doing what?â
Craigâs voice bounces off the kitchen walls in that familiar half-laughing, half-confused tone he constantly has when his older brother says something important too calmly like itâs nothing more than a grocery list. Andrew doesnât answer right away. Itâs easier to stare at them than to repeat himself and the words he had been rehearsing in his head for a week.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He has to do this.)
âIâm leaving,â Andrew declares.
Silence follows. Not the empty one, that doesnât exist with the three of them, but the dense thoughtful kind that falls between brothers who have spent their entire lives in the same house and recognize when a sentence is about to change their routine. Craig leans back against the marble counter, eyebrows raised with a grin spreading across his face, probably waiting for the punchline that will never come while Deran, who seems way more serious and focused, stands with his arms folded across his chest.
âLeaving the house?â Craig asks.
Andrew shakes his head. âThe jobs.â
Craig squints. âYou mean, likeâŚtaking a break from them?â
âNo,â his voice stays level. âIâm done.â
Craig straightens slowly, the grin fading from his face as the words land properly this time, his gaze flicking briefly toward Deran like maybe the younger brother will say something first but nothing comes out. Deran studies Andrew with an air that shows he has been expecting this conversation for a while. Andrewâs eyes drift out the glass door to the backyard and the patch of darkened dirt where the couch had burned. Or what used to be a couch.
He can still see it clearly in his head: you, near the pool with a hammer in your hands while the three of them dragged it outside, swearing under their breath about how heavy the thing was. It had always been heavy. Heavy with years. Heavy with every job planned there, every lie told there, every order Smurf had given from the center cushion. Andrew had transported that couch before, when he was younger. Back when Smurf redecorated every few years and the boys were expected to move the furniture obediently. Even then it had felt like lifting a thing larger than a couch, perhaps the center of the house itself.
And you, all fierce and shaky with joy, were waiting to swing the hammer down into the wooden frame.
Crack. The sound echoed through the backyard.
Again. The frame splintered.
And again. Wood split open like a bone.
âFuck her!â you had shouted, breathless with laughter as you raised the hammer once more. The three brothers had heard people curse their mother before: neighbors, enemies, the occasional drunk who didnât know betterâŚbut never like that.
Craig had choked on a guffaw and cheered, Deran had stepped forward next, grabbing the hammer from your hand before bringing it down hard on the armrest. And Andrew had observed the dismantlement of the last throne Smurf ever sat on.
Then Craig dragged the broken pieces into a pile, Deran poured lighter fluid over the wood and youâŚyou lit the match. The flames climbed rapidly, the couch cracking as the wood inside it gave away under the heat, collapsing on itself while sparks ascended into the darkening sky. You were standing there in the glow with a wild, triumphant grin on your face when you grasped Andrewâs hand to yank him closer and kiss him like the victory belonged to both of you.
(His angel defeating the curse. Freeing the three boys they used to be. The ones who had once believed this house was theirs before it became Smurfâs kingdom and they grew to be the weapons she stored indoors.)
The memory lingers for a second longer before focusing back on the kitchen and his brothers still staring at him. âI got shot and-â
Craig snorts. âYeah, man, thanks but we noticed.â
Andrew doesnât smile. âAnd I could have died.â He keeps his eyes on the countertop, on the scratch running through the marble where Baz once dropped a knife a lifetime ago. Another ghost carried by the house. âI know we say that all the time. That danger comes with the jobs.â
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Andrew exhales slowly through the nose. âWhen I was laying thereâŚâ his fingers rest flat against the furniture, ââŚall I could think about was her. And how I wouldnât get to know.â
Craig tilts his head. âKnow what?â
(One. Two. Three. Four. He has to focus on the counter. The scratch.)
âWhat it feels like,â he says slowly, âto live a life with someone who loves me.â
Deran studies his oldest brotherâs face, shaking his head with a slight smile. âSounds like youâre announcing more than just leaving.â
(Breathe in. Breathe out. One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe in. Breathe out.)
âI found a house,â Andrew confesses.
Craig lets out a laugh, dragging a hand down his face. âOf course you fucking did.â
âItâs in Ojai,â he adds.
âOkay thatâsâŚwow. Thatâs not exactly down the street.â
Andrew nods. âItâs quiet.â
(Thatâs crucial for him. Quiet means no sirens at three in the morning. No strangers showing up at the door. No jobs planned over the same kitchen where theyâre standing now.)
He hesitates for a moment before adding, his voice a little rougher than before. âThat doesnât mean IâmâŚgone.â Craig looks up. Andrew shifts his weight. âIâm not disappearing,â he continues. âYou can come over. Iâll come here. Weâre notâŚâ He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. ââŚnot that.â
Deranâs mouth twitches while Craig observes him, shaking his head with an amused expression. âPope,â he replies, softer now. âYouâre our brother.â
Deran acquiesces. âNot exactly something you can move out of.â
Craig bumps his shoulder against Andrewâs, the warmth of it grounding in a way he hadnât realized he needed. âYeah, you could move to the moon and it wouldnât change that.â
For a brief moment the three of them are simply there. Brothers. Then he clears his throat abruptly, remembering he is Craig and honesty can only last so long. âAnyway,â he says, pushing off the counter, âyou already bought it?â
âYes.â
Craig shakes his head. âJesus, Pope.â
(One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe in. Breathe out. He canât react to the name.)
Deran watches him cautiously. âYou told her?â
 âNo, not yet.â
Craigâs eyebrows shoot up. âYou bought a house,â he repeats slowly, âand she doesnât know about it?â
Andrew finally looks up from the marble. âIâm going to tell her.â
Craig stares for another second, then lets out a snort under his breath. âMan,â he mutters, pushing his hand through his hair, âplease call me when you do, so I can see that.â
(His brother doesnât understand. But thatâs alright. To Andrew itâs simple. He loves you. You love him. You want children. This house cannot be the place those children grow up in. The rest follows logically.)
âThereâs more.â
Thereâs a collective exhausted groan to these words. âOh fuck,â Craig mumbles. âOf course there is.â
Reaching into the pocket of his pants where the small red box feels heavier than it should and that had sat there the entire conversation, Andrew places it on the counter, opening the box. The diamond catches the sunlight, a brief sharp flash of light across the marble to which his brothers whistle with variations of âholy shitâ, leaning over the counter to examine it.
Andrew attempts to close the box with two fingers but Craig immediately slaps his hand. âNo, no, leave it open.â Andrew pauses, allowing his brother to stare at it once again. âFucking Jesus Christ.â
Deran tilts his head. âHow many carats is that?â
He shrugs. âDonât know.â
âWhat do you mean you donât know?â Craig questions, straightening up.
âI didnât ask.â
His brother stares like he has personally offended him. âYou didnât ask.â
 âNo.â
Craig turns to Deran in disbelief. âHe didnât ask.â
Deran is still studying the ring, turning the box slightly so the diamond catches the light again. âThat thing is not small.â
âMust be at least two carats,â Craig ponders, bending closer.
âMore,â Deran replies without looking away.
âThree?â
âLooks like three.â
Craig looks at Andrew. âHow much did it cost?â
âI didnât check.â
Craig nearly chokes. âWhat? You didnât check?â
âIt was for her.â
Even Deran starts laughing. âSo, what? You walked into a jewelry store, pointed at the most expensive ring, and said âthat oneâ?â
âYes.â
(He doesnât add the rest. Doesnât mention that the ring had been bought seven days after you got together. That he walked past three other jewelry stores before finding one that felt quiet enough to think. That the woman behind the counter tried to show him a dozen different rings and he ignored every single one until he saw that one sitting under the glass.)
(Doesnât tell them that he didnât need to guess your size. That he had just measured silently one of the rings in the small dish beside his sink while you slept.)
Deran is still peering at the ring box when he states it with a smile. âSmurf would have hated her.â
Craig snorts. âOh yeah,â he replies, pulling out beers from the fridge and tossing one to Deran before setting a third in front of Andrew. âWould have fucking despised her.â
The youngest leans back against the counter, taking a sip. âShe wouldâve tried to tear her apart in about five minutes.â
âFive minutes is very generous, bro.â
Andrew shakes his head, certain. âShe wouldnât have succeeded.â
Craig glances at him and grins. âNo,â he admits. âShe wouldnât have.â
For a moment the three of them stay there in the kitchen, the afternoon light pouring through the glass door before Craig looks at the ring box again. Then at Andrew and Deran. He lets out a slow breath through his nose before raising his bottle. âWell,â he declares thoughtfully, âIf Pope can pull this offâŚâ He gestures vaguely toward the ring. ââŚthere might actually be hope for the rest of us.â
Deran laughs. âDonât get ahead of yourself.â
Craig bumps his shoulder lightly. âIâm serious, man. Look at him.â
Andrew raises an eyebrow.
Craig tilts his beer toward him. âOur big brother,â he says. âRetiring from crime. Buying houses. Proposing.â
Deran lifts his bottle too. âWellâŚto Pope getting married.â
âAndrew.â
Craig clinks his bottle against Deranâs. âFine,â and taps it against his. âTo Andrew.â
ââââââââââ
The bell above the entrance rang quietly when Andrew stepped in. He paused just inside the doorway, letting the door close behind him while his eyes adjusted to the dim lights of the place.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
He had already walked past three jewelry stores that afternoon: the first had been too noisy, the second too crowded (Too many voices. Too many strangers brushing past each other.), and the third had windows too exposed to the street. Andrew hadnât liked the idea of standing under bright lights where anyone could observe him from the street. This one felt better. Like a place where he could think. A woman behind the counter looked up with a polite smile when she noticed him. She was older, silver hair pinned back and glasses sliding down her nose.
âCan I help you?â she asked.
Andrew nodded, walking toward the counter. âIâm looking for a ring.â
Her expression softened the way peopleâs faces probably did when they heard that sentence. âAnâŚengagement ring?â
âYes.â
The word sat in the air between them.
(Engagement. Ring. Engagement. Ring.)
The woman smiled warmly. âWell, thatâs wonderful. Do you know what kind she might like?â
He shook his head, quietly replying. âNo.â
âWell, thatâs alright! We can look together!â
She unlocked the glass case and began pulling out velvet trays one by one, placing them on the counter delicately. Rows of diamonds under the lights: round, square, clusters, thin bands, thick onesâŚShe began explaining the settings, the cut, the metals, but Andrew barely heard the words.
(Not that he needed to. Courtesy of his profession.)
He examined each ring and imagined your hands, wrapped around a coffee mug when you were half awake in the mornings. Sometimes sticky with sugar from the pastries you stole from the cafĂŠ. Other times tangled in his hair.
(He pictured one of the rings sitting there on your finger. While you are standing in the kitchen barefoot and opening the fridge. Brushing your teeth at the sink. Tucking your hair behind your ear while you read. Reaching across the table to steal the last piece of toast from his plate.)
âThis one is a classic solitaire,â she said gently. Andrew nodded politely but didnât touch it. Another tray immediately came. âThis one had side stones.â Another. âThis setting is very popular right now.â He continued to listen but his eyes kept drifting across the case, searching.
(It had to be the best one. Anything less wouldnât make sense. Something bright enough to keep up with you.)
The woman slid another velvet tray onto the counter. âThis one is very elegantâŚâ
Andrewâs gaze moved past it. And then it halted. The ring wasnât on the tray she had just placed down. It sat apart under the glass in the display case beside them, resting alone on a small velvet stand like it had been waiting patiently the entire time. Three stones. The center diamond larger, oval and clear with two smaller ones flanking it. Andrew stepped closer to it and watched the light above the counter strike the stone and scatter back in return. The realization didnât arrive like excitement but like an answer.
(Like the universe had placed it there for him to find.)
The woman followed his gaze. âOh,â she said softly, opening the case and lifting the ring carefully with a small pair of tweezers before setting it on the velvet pad between them. Up close the diamonds looked almost alive under the lights. Three stones. The first one was you, bright and warm. Impossible not to notice when someone entered a room. The second was him, standing beside you, keeping watch. The thirdâŚAndrewâs breath paused.
(The third could be the future. The future with small fingers wrapped around yours. A little voice in the kitchen while you made coffee and Andrew made pancakes in the mornings. Someone learning to skate.)
(Too soon. You hadnât talked about that. He hadnât asked. He didnât even know if he was allowed to hope for it.)
(Three stones.)
(Of course it would be this one. The answer had simply been waiting there for him to see it.)
âYes,â Andrew said quietly.
The woman looked up. âSorry?â
Andrew pointed once. âThatâs the one.â
ââââââââââ
You know Andrew will be a fantastic father. You recognize it in the way he handles the little boy who fell on the other side of the skatepark.
Thereâs the sound before anything else: the sharp smack of small knees hitting the ground, followed by the wavering inhale children make when theyâre hesitating between laughing and crying. Andrew turns instantly. Jogging across the park, he is already crouching before the boy has even shed a tear, his voice low and calm in a tone he reserves for children and frightened animals.
You observe him from where you stand, near the edge of the ramp, one foot remaining on the brand-new skateboard Andrew gave you yesterday after you came back from a shitty day at work. Andrew crouches in front of the boy, checking the kidâs elbow, the other brushing off his knees while he murmurs something that makes the boy sniff and nod bravely. You smile without meaning to. (of course heâll be good at this.)
Itâs no longer just a thought, itâs a certainty deeply anchored to your chest. Youâve seen the way Andrew watched children at the park when they skate past him, too fast and fearless, his eyes tracking them with that attention he gives to the ones he wants to protect. This sentiment is in all he does. In the way he always shifts you to the inside of the sidewalk when cars pass, his hand resting at the small of your back. In crowded places where strangers press too close, his fingers finding yours inevitably. In the quiet patience he has when you ramble about meaningless stuff, listening with attention. (you think youâll do it tonight.)
The idea slips into your minds, probably waiting there all along. (you imagine Andrewâs face when requesting him to drive to the store. his confused frown. his eyes widening when he realizes what youâre asking him to buy. the two of you waiting together in the bathroom afterward, hand in hand while the minutes pass. Andrew counting under his breath.)
Your chest warms at the thought. Across the skatepark, the little boy is giggling now, wobbling back onto his board while Andrew steadies him cautiously with both hands, making sure the wheels are balanced before letting go. (yeah. heâs going to be fantastic.)
Your fingers brush absentmindedly over your stomach, just a split second of anticipation, a smile on your face.
The movement is so sudden your brain doesnât grasp it at first. One moment, the sun is warm on your face, the sound of wheels mixing with childrenâs laughter, Andrewâs voice across the park.
The next, something closes around you from behind. Hard. A pair of arms wrap around your waist with a crushing force, lifting you straight off the ground before you even have time to turn your head. The world tilts. Your skateboard rolls away from your foot.
âWhat-â The word barely leaves your mouth, a hand slamming over it, large, rough. Your scream dies against the palm on your lips. Your brain scrambles to catch up with what your body already knows. Someone is holding you. Your feet kick wildly in empty air, your elbows jerking backward to hit the solid muscles behind you, but the man doesnât loosen his grip. If anything, he tightens it, dragging you backward across the concrete so quickly your shoes barely graze the ground. Another set of hands grabs your legs.
(no. no, no, no. please, no.)
Your entire body lurches sideways, disregarding the violent rhythm of your heart against your ribs. You twist violently, nails clawing for anything you can reach, but the men move with efficiency: one arm pins your torso against a chest that smells like sweat and motor oil while the other man lifts your legs like you are nothing but a ragdoll.
(Andrew. heâs right there. just across the park. you only have to scream. now.)
A fabric presses against your face, the smell hitting you instantly. Strong. Chemical. Your lungs pull it in before you even gather whatâs happening. When you do, your face instantly attempts to pull away but the hand only constricts more your mouth, forcing the cloth harder against your nose.
The world spins. Body jerking in their grip, panic floods your veins as your brain tries desperately to stay awake but the skatepark blurs more and more in shades of purple and green. The open door of a truck. Dark inside. Andrew. You try to shout his name, but your tongue feels heavy. Â Your arms suddenly wonât listen to you. Your vision tunnels. The sunlight disappears.
One more breath of the bitter chemical smell. And the world goes black.
-
Consciousness returns all at once. The first thing you notice is that everything is wrong. Your body feels wrong. Your arms ache, a deep burning pain that stretches from the shoulders down to your wrists, legs cramped and stiff beneath you, folded in an impossible position that, when the truck jolts over a bump in the road, sends a bolt of pain straight through your spine. Your head throbs. The air smells stale. A mix of gasoline, dust and sweat.
You attempt to open your eyes but nothing changes, just complete darkness. You recognize with the sensation on your face that you have a thick and suffocating bag on, each inhale rebounding against the inside of the cloth. Heart stuttering, you try to move your wrists, but only pain answers. A thing bites into your skin. Plastic. Your hands are pulled behind your back, wrists crossed and locked together so firmly that when you twist them, the band only cuts deeper, digging into the skin like a knife.
Zip ties.
Legs shift next, desperate for balance, but they donât move freely either, something tight around your ankles so that when the vehicle makes a sharp turn, your entire body slides helplessly across the metal floor until it slams against the wall.
Voices wander ahead of you. Men. At least three. Talking. You canât understand what theyâre saying. (think.) Andrewâs voice appears in your mind, calm and steady the way it always is when he is explaining a rule. âDonât panic.â For a moment, you focus on breathing the way he trained you. (in. out. slow. in. out. slow.) The pulse is still rapid but your thoughts begin scrambling for something solid to hold onto. For the things Andrew taught you in the backyard. (how to twist your wrist when someone grabbed you. how to strike the nose. the throat. the knee. how to shoot if you ever needed to.)
You try to recall, to force your body to follow the movements you practiced. Your wrists twist against the plastic restraint. Nothing happens. You try again. Push one hand outward. Pull the other inward. But the zip tie only gets even more restrictive. (okay. think.)
Your fingers press against the plastic band, searching for any gap, any weakness, anything you might be able to slip through if you turned your hands the right way. There isnât one and your shoulders only burn from the strain of the position. Andrew never showed you how to escape this. He instructed you how to fight, to run, to hit, but thisâŚHands tied. Legs bound. Bag over your head. Thereâs nothing you can do without vision, nothing you can do if you canât stand. Fear starts creeping through you in slow, icy waves.
(what if they ki...no. donât think that. Andrew would want you to fight.)
The certainty arrives with surprising strength.
(he would want you to stay calm. to wait. to watch. to look for the moment when they make a mistake.)
You can hear the men laughing in the front of the vehicle, relaxed, like this is nothing to them. You force your breathing to slow once again. (you will fight. the first chance you get. Andrew taught you that much.)
You might not know where they are taking you, not know how far youâve gone. But one thought, quiet and unshakable, settles inside your mind. Andrew will notice youâre gone. That something is wrong. And wherever these men think theyâre taking youâŚAndrew will find you.
-
He knows how lucky he has been. How the dices of his existence have stayed on the same face long enough for him to forget what it feels like when they turn.
(Lucky. Thatâs what he has been. Not in the way people would get the word. No, Andrew has never confused luck with comfort. Luck to him has always meant survival. Luck meant a job that went wrong but not wrong enough. Luck meant walking away when someone else didnât.)
But the kind of luck he has been living in lately is entirely different, quieter and more fragile and infinitely more dangerous to lose. Because for the past few months, Andrew Cody has been waking up next to you, breathing the warmth of your skin and the rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his cheek, feeling your fingers slipping into his hair. Every morning since the first day has felt like someone rolled the dice for him and somehow they landed in his favor every single time. And today, the dice rolled again. Only this timeâŚthey came up wrong.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
The road stretches empty ahead of the truck, long bands of asphalt cutting through the industrial outskirts of Oceanside while the sun slowly sets, but Andrew barely sees any of it, his attention fixed on the screen mounted beside the steering wheel where you location pulses with a blue dot. Moving. Still. His eyes keep flicking toward it, measuring the direction, the speed, the road, the signal that crawls along in slow, merciless increments, eyes never lingering long, conscious that staring at the screen will not bring you back any faster.
(He has work to do. One. Two. Three. Four. Andrew forces his gaze back to the road. He must not recall the rest. The truck door. The arms around you. The cloth. How he sprinted. How the distance was already too great. How the truck disappeared. One. Two. Three. Four.)
(And the faces he recognized. Not the names. Just the faces. Peteâs crew.)
The blood running down his face two years ago when Andrew took the manâs eye with pliers slow enough that Pete had time to understand exactly what was happening before the world went dark on one side forever had been a lesson. A simple one. A warning carved directly into his flesh, left alive so he could remember it. Apparently, he didnât learn enough. Andrew exhales slowly through his nose, his expression unchanged as the blue dot continues to move across the map.
(Thatâs alright. Some lessons require repetition.)
The road narrows as the truck turns off the highway, gravel beneath the tires while the industrial outskirts of the city begin to unfold in rusted silhouettes of metal buildings and silent loading docks. Andrew observes the blue dot slow, then pause entirely, the signal settling over a structure. A warehouse.
(Of course. Men like Pete have faith that empty places mean safety.)
Andrew turns the headlights off before the truck even reaches the path leading toward it, the vehicle rolling forward under its own momentum, engine idling low while he guides it behind a row of rusted shipping containers where the structure disappears from the view of the highway. Andrew sits there for a moment, hands resting lightly on the wheel while the last vibration of the motor fades beneath the hood.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Gravel crunches beneath his boots as he steps out, the smell of rust hanging around the building while the wind pushes loose sheets of metal along the roof with a rattling sound that echoes across the empty lot. The trunk opens quietly. Beneath the spare tire and tool kit, his fingers slide to the lining and lift the panel that hides the compartment built into the frame of the vehicle, a small false floor designed for the exact moments when his world stops pretending to be civilized. The gun comes first, fitting into his palm like an old friend from another life.
(Checks the chamber. Loads it. The magazine locking into place.)
The bottle and lighter sits beside it: clear liquid inside, thick and volatile, the smell alone enough to remind any soul who has worked with it what fire can do when itâs given something to eat.
(Twists the cap once. Confirms itâs sealed.)
The warehouse stands fifty yards ahead of him, dark, but not silent. Andrew pauses long enough to listen to the voices through the half-open metal door.
(Men. Three. Maybe four. The sound of boots on the floor. None from you.)
A sudden, violent crack interrupts him. A man howls. âFuck!â
Another voice (Yours. He would recognize it anywhere. Even if the world split in half and you stood on the other side. Even if heaven locked its gates and hell opened its mouth beneath his feet. He would cross it for all eternity to reach you.) bursts into laughter, cut off by the sound of a slap. The sound rings through the hollow space of the warehouse and travels through the thin door, the echo of skin against skin sharp enough that Andrew feels it deep beneath his ribs where the cold control in his chest sits.
Inside, one of the men laughs. âStill got some bite, huh?â
Another voice interrupts, irritated and nasal. âStupid bitch broke my nose!â
(Good. If you fractured it, then you had enough strength left to do it. They have not shattered you. And for the hand who just hit youâŚ)
Andrew envisions it calmly, the bones inside it, the tendons running through the fingers, the way the skin stretches across the knuckles when a fist closes, and he wonders briefly whether it would be cleaner to cut it at the wrist or the elbow and whether the blade would slide easier between the joints if the arm were bent backward first.
Another wet sound interrupts the menâs conversation. âDid she just spit again?â
âFucking little psycho.â
âYeah,â another voice mutters. âLike her man.â
Andrew slowly unscrews the cap of the bottle in his hand, the chemical smell rising.
âYou know what your problem is?â the broken-nose man continues, his voice thick with blood and humiliation. âNobody ever taught you manners.â
âMaybe the belt wasnât enough of a lesson earlier, huh?â one of them laughs with the unmistakable sound of a knife running on metal. âThink Pope is still gonna like whatâs left of your face when weâre done?â
Andrew closes his eyes for half a second. When he opens them, the man standing outside the door is no longer Andrew Cody. Andrew is the man who buys groceries. Andrew is the man who listens when you talk about your day. Andrew is the man who kisses your forehead when you fall asleep on the couch. The man outside the warehouse now is something else entirely. In the ancient scriptures, angels of death walked through burning cities, the destroyers sent in the night to mark the doors of the guilty and pass judgement upon those who believed themselves untouchable.
The man entering is no longer Andrew Cody.
It is Pope, and wrath walks with him.
The door swings open with a long metallic groan, the men standing only a few feet away from the entrance, their bodies half turned toward the noise but not yet fully comprehending what they are seeing, the mind always necessitating a moment to accept the shape of its own ending. Andrew doesnât look at you. Not yet. Looking would slow him down.
(Rapidity is the key. Every second that passes gives them a chance to think. To react. To harm you again. The only law that matters here is the one written in the oldest instincts of the human body. Move first. Finish fast. Leave nothing behind that can still hurt the one he came for.)
The bottle in his hand swings as he crosses the distance between himself and the first man, the one closest to the door who has just enough time to widen his eyes before Andrewâs arm snakes around his neck and locks there with brutality, the manâs back slammed against his chest while Andrewâs other hand tilts the bottle upward and empties its contents over the manâs head and shoulders in one motion, the liquid soaking instantly into his shirt.
The man smells it before he understands. âWait!â Andrew strikes the lighter, the flame reflecting in the manâs eyes before Andrew touches it to the gasoline, the fire blooming. The manâs scream tears through the warehouse, ripped straight out of hell itself as the flames leap up his chest and face, devouring the fabric of his clothes in seconds before he even manages to stumble away, his body thrashing wildly as he crashes in the walls and runs blindly toward the open door behind Andrew, the smell of burning cloth and skin spreading through the air while his screams fade outside into the gravel lot beyond.
(If there had been more time, he would have rolled the man in the pebbles with his melted skin. Not today.)
One of the other men reacts, in pure primal fear, bolting after the fire and sprinting toward the exit with his hands half raised. Andrew lets him go. Because the last man there is close to you, a knife in his hand that glints under the flickering light of the burning man. He grabs you by the shoulder and jerks your head back roughly, the blade lifting toward your throat in a trembling hand.
âDonât move!â he shouts. Andrew doesnât slow, striding to him. The man drags the knife closer to your neck, the metal hovering dangerously near the skin just beneath your jaw where your pulses beats. âI said donât-â He never gets the chance to finish his sentence. Andrewâs hand closes around the manâs wrist before the knife has a chance to cut your skin, the grip precise and brutally controlled as he twists the joint outward with a sharp motion that sends the blade clattering across the floor. The sound of the manâs wrist breaking follows immediately after, like a branch beneath sudden weight. Driving him backward into the ground with his full weight, the two of them hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of the manâs lungs while Andrewâs knee pins his chest and his hand traps the broken arm. Andrew calmly picks up the knife that lies inches away from them.
âPlease, man. NoâŚâ the man sobs.
Andrew tilts his head slightly, studying the face in front of him. âWere you the one who slapped her?â
The man freezes, eyes flicking briefly toward you before going back to Andrew. âYes.â
Andrew nods once, almost politely. âAnd the belt?â
The manâs lips tremble. âYes.â The word barely forms before Andrew strikes, the blade flashing once through the air. The manâs scream is immediate and piercing, but Andrew doesnât look away while the hand separates from the wrist.
He simply picks it up and places it carefully in the manâs remaining hand who is crying, shaking violently on the floor while the blood spreads rapidly across the concrete beneath him. Andrew leans down close enough that the man can hear him clearly through the ringing in his ears. âTake that back to Pete.â His voice is quiet, almost conversational. âTell him that the next time he touches my familyâŚIâll take off his eyelid so he can watch me carve open his chest.â Andrew stands, the man clutching the severed hand to his chest and fleeing the place.
The chair you lie on is to its side now, where the struggle knocked it over earlier, the zip ties rigid around your wrists and ankles, dark marks already rising along your cheek and throat where the men had tried to teach you their version of obedience.
You are not fighting anymore. Your head has fallen forward, body still. Andrew crosses the room rapidly, dropping the knife as he kneels beside you and slides his hand carefully beneath your jaw to lift your face toward the light. Your pulse is there, fast and strong. He cuts the zip ties with the knife in practiced movements before pulling you against his chest, one hand pressing against the back of your head while the other steadies your shoulders. Your eyes flutter open, unfocused. Then they find him, fingers curling against his shirt, your voice barely more than a whisper. âI knew youâd come.â
Andrew exhales slowly through his nose, moving his hand through your hair with careful fingers before pressing a kiss at the top of your head. âAlways.â
ââââââââââ
You didnât ask. Just perceived it the moment he walked through the door: the tightness in the way Andrew carried himself, not outwardly visible to anyone who didnât know him. But you did now, enough to distinguish the difference between his usual quietude and the one that pressed inward, coiled beneath his skin, waiting for a place to go. His shoulders were a little too rigid, the eyes lingering too long on nothing. His jaw held a tension that didnât belong to the room, to you, to anything here.
So, you didnât ask. Aware that Andrew didnât untangle himself through questions. That whatever storm traveled through him had to run its course before he could even begin to name it.
The door shut behind him with a soft click that seemed louder than it should have been, and for a moment he just stood there, like he needed a minute to adapt to the silence, to the absence of whatever had been outside. Your apartment held its usual warmth despite your recent absence in it: the scent of your burnt candle mingling with the apple pie you baked after work, something gentle and lived-in, but he didnât step into it right away. Not fully. You watched him from the couch, your legs tucked beneath you, fingers playing with the edge of a blanket you had draped over your lap. (he seemed exhausted. not the kind that sleep resolved. even if he was improving at that, this was the other kind. the one that sat deep inside.)
You reached for the remote without saying anything and turned the television on, scrolling briefly before selecting a documentary you had seen before but knew he hadnât and the ocean filled the screen. Blue. Endless. Lulling. A narratorâs voice began to speak about the migration patterns of the whales and how they communicated across vast distances, voices traveling miles beneath the surface where no one could see them. (reaching each other even in the dark.)
You didnât peek at him when you did it, it was just about letting the sound fill the room. Gradually, like he was remembering how to exist in a place that didnât demand anything from him, he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping under his weight. You kept your eyes on the screen, allowing the silence to stretch in that comfortable way that didnât feel empty, justâŚopen. A few seconds ensued before you sensed him leaning against you, shoulders brushing. Your legs unfolded from beneath you, body turning as your hand came up to the back of his neck, fingers stroking the curls in an instinctive motion. âCome here,â you murmured.
He dithered. (he constantly did, just for a second. like he was testing if he was permitted to do so.)
Andrew sank until his head rested against your lap, his body stretching along the length of the couch while one of your hands remained at the base of his neck, steadying him there until you adjusted your hand so your fingers could slip into his hair, brushing along his scalp, the pads tracing circles the way you had learned he adored. He went completely still. Like an animal that had decided not to run to find shelter. The documentary played on: whales swimming through the ocean, their massive bodies gliding effortlessly through a world that seemed untouched by everything above it. Your fingers maintained their path, repeating the same gesture over and over, never rushing, never resting.
It didnât take long. It never did when Andrew was so pliable. His head angled involuntarily into the contact of your nails grazing the skin, stating more than whatever he could have expressed out loud. You kept going. Same pace, same gesture. Over and over. His hand, which had been resting against his chest, went on your thigh to caress it before going still again. You glanced down at him. His eyes were shut and his face, usually so controlled, so carefully composed, felt unguarded. You observed how his lashes rested on his cheek, the faint furrow between his brows smoothing out as the last remnants of tension left his body. He didnât fight it, didnât try to stay awake. He let go.
You leaned back against the couch, one hand still buried in his curls, the other resting on his shoulder, refusing to budge. Not when your arm began to ache from the position, not when the documentary ended and rolled quietly into the next, not even when the night superseded the day. You stayed, because a part in you understood, without requiring languages for it but the one his body spoke, that this was how he rested. Not alone. Not guarded. But here: with his head in your lap, your hand in his hair, the world quiet enough that, for a little while, nothing could reach him.
And you would remain like this for as long as he needed.
ââââââââââ
You are cold.
Not the kind of cold that comes from the wind or the night air, not the kind that disappears when someone wraps a blanket around your shoulders, no, the deeper kind that sits inside your bones like something has been emptied out of you and the space it left behind has filled with ice. You look down slowly. Andrewâs hand. You donât recall when you seized it. You only know that you canât let go of it.
The truck moves beneath you, tires humming against the asphalt while the sky outside the windshield slowly darkens, but the world feels distant, like you are watching it through glass, body sitting in the passenger seat while your mind floats a few inches above it. Your hand tightens, the gesture making him glance at you from the driverâs seat, one hand still on the wheel while the other remains locked inside your grasp, like he has been waiting for you to wake up. âIâm here, sweetheart,â he murmurs. His voice is steady. Always steady. You try to answer him, to voice simple words like âI knowâ or âIâm okayâ or even just âAndrewâ, but they get lost, stuck in your throat, forgetting how to exist.
(why canât you speak? itâs just words. you know them. you can hear them in your head. so why wonât they come out? are youâŚstill in there?) Your throat works, but nothing comes out. You blink slowly to ease the sting of your eyes, trying to focus on anything in front of you, but your vision keeps traveling toward the dark stains on Andrewâs clothes where blood dried in streaks. (not his blood. youâre sure of that. you should tell him you tried. that you listened. that you remembered. that you didnât just freeze.)
The road stretches long and dark ahead of you, the headlights cutting through the night while the ocean wind creeps through the open crack of the window Andrew lowered earlier when you started shaking so violently that the seatbelt rattled against the side of the door.
You hadnât understood why you were shaking. You still donât.
But the cold inside remains. Andrewâs thumb moves leisurely over the back of your hand, the movement repetitive and grounding, like the counting he executes when he assumes youâre not noticing. (one. two. three. four. you identify the rhythm. heâs soothing himself. or maybe you. itâs hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.)
He doesnât seek to free his hand, you know he never would. He just adjusts his fingers so your palm fits more comfortably against his, letting you hold on as tightly as you need.
The truck slows abruptly, pulling onto the shoulder of the empty road while Andrew shifts the gear into park, turning toward you completely, his face softer now that heâs no longer watching the road. It takes a few seconds to realize that he did this because your breathing has altered again. Your chest moves too fast, pulling air in short shallow bursts that donât seem to reach you. Andrew leans slowly, careful. âHey,â he murmurs. Your breath keeps stuttering, lungs not quite opening all the way. âHey,â he repeats, closer this time.
His hand lifts from your joined grip, but only for a second, lingering near your face and asking silent permission, waiting to see if you will pull away, if your body will flinch once more like it did earlier when the ordeal was still too loud and too close and too much. You donât shift. You donât believe you can.
âLook at me, sweetheart.â Your eyes drag themselves up to his face, heavily, like everything else inside you, and when they finally meet his, he is already observing you with an unwavering focus, a steadiness. The only thing solid in a world that has suddenly lost all its edges. âBreathe with me,â he says quietly, inhaling slowly so you can follow. The air shakes on the way in, but you force it further despite the ache in your chest with the effort. âThatâs it,â he whispers, âyouâre doing real good.â (you donât think you are. but he says it like you are. and right now heâs the only one you trust. in. out. in. out.)
âOneâŚtwoâŚthreeâŚfourâŚâ he counts under his breath. And thatâs the easiest thing to do: listening to his quiet cadence, creating a sense of order in your body. The air ultimately reaches your lungs, shoulders dropping and the sharp edge of panic dulling just enough to let something else settle in its place. Not calm. Not really. JustâŚspace. Enough for another sentiment to rise. Your eyes remain on his, too absorbed and aware, like if you look away you might lose him. (heâs here. heâs real. iâm here. iâm⌠iâm real.)
Before you can think about it, before you can understand it, before you can even form the intention into coherenceâŚyou move.
Your other hand comes up, fingers catching the fabric of his shirt, pulling him toward you with a sudden, desperate force that surprises even you, your mouth finding his in a kiss that is too hard, too urgent, too unsteady to be anything but need. After allâŚif you can feel him enough, you might be able to regain your way back into yourself. Your eyes stay open. His do too. For a few seconds, Andrew stills and you can witness it, the moment where he comprehends. (that you crave something. that itâs him. it has to be him.)
His hand comes up to your face, steadying you, thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone, grounding your relentlessness without interrupting it. He doesnât pull away, doesnât deepen it either. He justâŚmeets you there. Solid. Present. Real. Breath catching against his mouth, uneven and trembling, you kiss him again, and again, chasing what you canât name, what persists in slipping just out of reach. (feel. please. prove youâre still here. prove youâre still inside your own body.)
âPlease,â you murmur against his lips, the word barely there, fragile and breaking as it leaves you. âPleaseâŚâ
He exhales softly against your mouth. âIâm here,â he replies. âEasy⌠Iâve got you.â But you donât want easy. You kiss him again, harder this time, your grip tensing in his shirt, tugging him closer, frightened he might vanish if you donât hold him there. Nothing matters except his warmth and the fact that he is alive and here and touching you. Hand shifting, he cups your jaw more fully now, guiding the pace just enough so you donât evade yourself utterly in it, his thumb stroking faintly along your skin in slow motions.
âHeyâŚâ he whispers softly between your breaths. âStay with me.â (youâre trying. itâs just⌠arduous when all keeps luring you under.)
You donât notice it instantly, the moment of fracture. You keep kissing him, your movements losing their urgency, grip slackening as something else begins to take overâŚblurriness in your vision. It takes you a second to grasp that there are tears on your face. They slide down your cheeks, unnoticed at first until one of them reaches the corner of your mouth and mixes with the taste of him. And when he perceives the stumble of your breath, this time itâs different: itâs not panic, no, not quite. JustâŚtoo much. Your forehead presses weakly against his, lips barely brushing his as the tears keep coming, silent at first, then heavier, your chest squeezing in a way that has nothing to do with air anymore. (why are you crying?)
Body folding on itself, the tension snaps all at once, your hand falling from his shirt as a broken sound escapes you, small and raw and completely unlike the silence you had been trapped in before. Andrew moves instantly. His hand leaves your face to tug you toward him, awkward in the confined space of the truck, your body half climbing over the console without either of you thinking about it, your shoulder knocking against the gear shift as he wraps his arms around you as best as he can from the driverâs seat.
âIâve got you,â he breathes, one hand cradling the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder. âItâs okay. Youâre okay.â
You shake your head weakly against him, fingers coming up to clutch at his shirt once again but without the earlier urgency, without the desperation, justâŚholding. Craving. âI-â your voice breaks, incapable of forming the word. âI-â The sentence dissolves before it can exist but Andrew doesnât ask you to finish it. He just embraces you.
His hand moves slowly through your hair, over and over, the same motion, the same rhythm, his other arm tight around your back to keep you steady as your body trembles in release. The sobs come quietly at first, then stronger, your breath catching between them, your face buried against his neck where his skin is warm and real and alive. âI know,â he mutters, even though you havenât uttered anything. âI know, sweetheart.â (you donât know what he gets. you donât understand whatâs occurring inside you. you can just tell it hurts.)
Time stretches. Or maybe it doesnât. Itâs difficult to keep track of it.
The world narrows to the space between his arms, to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, to the quiet sound of his voice when he speaks again and again in low, anchoring murmurs that you donât fully hear but perceive on a greater level. Your body slowly calms and the crying fades. Not because itâs done, no. You just donât have the strength to continue, eyelids growing heavier with every passing second.
Andrew doesnât budge: not when your weight settles more fully against him, not even when your head slips on his shoulder. He just accommodates his hold, one hand sliding cautiously to support your neck, making sure youâre comfortable even in the awkward angle between the seats. âIâm right here,â he murmurs again. (you know. youâre holding onto that.)
The last thing you register is wetness falling onto your hair where his face is the closest.
-
You donât sense the moment he shifts. Only the absence. The slow, gentle manner Andrew untangles himself from you without ever truly letting go, one arm remaining around your shoulders while the other guides your body back across the console, repositioning you in the passenger seat. Your cheek brushes the fabric of his shirt one last time before the distance and cold returns. Not all at once. Just enough to perceive. Your head tips weakly against the seat, eyes closed. (donât open them. if you open them, it all comes back.)
The engine starts again beneath you, the vibration traveling through the frame of the truck and into your bones, comforting, enough to keep you suspended in that fragile space between alert and catatonic. Andrewâs hand finds yours while the world only subsists in fragments: the inaudible hum of the road, the dry evening air slipping through the open window, the rhythm of Andrewâs breathing beside you, the sporadic shift of his thumb against your skin like he is still counting, still making sure you are here. (one. two. three. four. you can overhear him.)
Time passes.
Minutes.
Hours.
You donât know.
In your drifting at the seam of consciousness, thereâs a thought. A thing you were supposed to do, that you had planned. It floats up slowly, rising from deep water, blurred and shapeless. It was after the skatepark. The thought slips the instant you attempt to hold it, gone, too distant to reach. You donât understand why it matters. Donât identify why it feels crucial.
The truck decelerates. Thereâs a change in motion, a transition from smooth asphalt to something rougher, the tires crunching as the vehicle rolls to a stop, engine cutting soon after. For a moment, nothing happens.
âLove, hey⌠Can you open your eyes for me?â his voice is close, gentle.
Your lashes flutter at the sound of it. (love. when was the last time he called you that? yesterday? last month? ever? time feels too blurred to know the difference.)
The world comes back in pieces yet again, light first, then shape, then meaning, your gaze unfocused a little too long before it finally lands on him, on the familiar lines of his face that appear sharper now, more defined under the dim light. Leaning toward you from the driverâs seat, one of his hands is still hovering close, not touching yet, waiting.
You blink to the structure emerging behind him through the windshield. The house is small and wooden, set back from the road, almost seeking not to be uncovered, the land stretching quiet and dark around it, the trees around moving in the night wind, a silence so complete it almost feels like the world has halted just for this place.
Andrew examines your face cautiously, tracking the way your eyes move, the way your breathing settles, the slight delay in every response of your body, catching up to somewhere your mind hasnât fully returned from. âWe have arrived,â he murmurs. His hand finally comes to rest against your cheek, the touch light, thumb brushing once beneath your eye where the skin is still damp. You donât flinch. Not this time. âI need to step out for a minute,â he continues quietly. âGet the keys.â
(donât go. please donât go. you donât know how to stay here without him.) It presses against your chest, small but urgent, but when your mouth opens, nothing comes out, the feeling dissolving into that same frustrating emptiness where language should be.
Andrew notices. âIâm coming right back, okay?â he adds with a tentative smile. âYou wonât even have time to miss me.â
That almost makes it pull at your mouth. You try. You really try. Your lips part, the words take effort, way more than it should. âYou wish,â you manage, barely above a whisper. Itâs very little. Fragile. But itâs there.
He stills for just a fraction of a second, exhaling a breath you donât think he realized he had been holding, the sound almost imperceptible, but you feel it in the way his shoulders slacken, in the way his hand pauses on your face before easing. âThere she is,â he replies, like heâs speaking to something that had almost slipped out of reach and has now, somehow, found its way back, âThatâs my girl.â
The phrase settles inside you, warm in a place that had been untouched since the cold entered, and for a moment, just a moment, the void amid your body and your mind shortens, stitching themselves back together one thread at a time. You donât smile yet. Youâre not sure you can. But you seek all you have in your features to convey how much right here, right now, yes, his girl is gradually rising back.
His hand lingers a moment longer before he forces himself to pull away, counting under his breath the distance in cycles of four. âIâll be right back,â he reassuringly says.
The space he leaves behind doesnât feel as hollow. Your eyes follow him again through the windshield, watching the way he strides across the gravel toward the house. Another man stands near the porch, older, keys glinting in his hand, and the two of them speak in low voices that donât quite reach you, fragments stumbling through without forming anything whole.
ââŚpapers are all signedâŚâ
ââŚplace is yours nowâŚâ
The words drift past you, half-heard, half-understood, your mind too far to hold onto them properly while the man presses the keys into Andrewâs palm.
ââŚquiet out here⌠good for thatâŚâ
A pause.
ââŚyou and your wife will like it.â
Itâs gentler than the rest, but heavier somehow, deeper than the others. It doesnât jar you. Doesnât seem wrong. And in your mind, the word keeps running. (wife, wife, wife.)
You donât feel like a wife. But honestly right now, you donât consider yourself much of anything. (but the ideaâŚthe idea of being his wi-)
Thatâs a warm term, one that goes beyond the cold within your bones, one that is untouched by all that occurred tonight, that canât harm you. The night air trails Andrew as your door opens, sealing the distance between you and him, nothing else subsisting elsewhere out of his hazel eyes. âHey,â he murmurs, crouching so his face is level with yours, gaze searching yours with the same focus that has been holding you together since the world slipped. âWeâre gonna go inside, alright?â
You donât answer right away. Not because you donât desire to, no, but because everything still feels sluggish. (stay there. donât lose him. underwater is not a place to remain in.) You nod. Andrewâs expression softens, something easing behind his eyes before he stands and moves carefully, one arm sliding around your back, the other guiding your hand, never pulling, never rushing. âIâve got you.â
The ground appears uneven when your feet touch it, legs uncertain beneath you but not truly discerning it, not when you have him to hold onto, not when his arm stays around you, anticipating every movement you donât have the strength to control and keeping you upright without making it feel like youâre falling apart. You donât examine the house. Just a brief flickering look toward it: the shape, the soft light behind the windows, the outline of a place that might be welcoming. But it doesnât carry you. Nothing does.
Except him.
The steps to the porch blur beneath your feet and you cross the threshold without really feeling it. Inside. Somewhere. It doesnât matter. Your hand hasnât left his, the only thing that you deem real enough. It takes a full minute for your voice to come, quiet and rough from disuse, barely more than a breath. âWhere are weâŚ?â
The question feels distant, belonging to someone else. Andrew doesnât hesitate. âHome,â he answers.
You donât question it, you donât look around to confirm it. You donât need to. The term doesnât reach the walls, doesnât reach the house. It stops at him. (you already know youâre home.)
Andrew is here.
ââââââââââ
âAnd this one?â
Your voice arose tenderly, already halfway through the ritual you had created weeks ago, fingertip resting against the ridge of an old scar along his shoulder blade, tracing its uneven edge like it was a delicate relic instead of skin that had once been torn open. Andrew didnât answer straight away. He lay with his back pressed to your chest, curled so your arm could drape over his waist while the other danced across his skin, mapping him the way no one ever had, with hands that sought to understand rather than assess or judge, touching instead of taking, reverence instead of inventory.
(One. Two. Three. Four. The body of the sinner, and no voice rising to call it that but his own.)
Your nail followed the line once more, lighter this time. âAndrew?â you murmured.
He exhaled. âKnife.â
Your hum vibrated against his back, the sound warm, thoughtful, like you were receiving the word instead of reacting to it, holding it somewhere gentle instead of letting it fall heavy between you. âHow old?â
âSixteen.â
Your finger lingered, tracing it again, slower this time, committing it the way you always did: like nothing about him was allowed to be forgotten once you had uncovered it. Your lips followed in a soft kiss, placed exactly where your fingertip had been, loving and deliberate andâŚreverent. Andrewâs breath faltered.
(It always did. Because it didnât feel like affection. No, it was something else entirely. A sentiment he did not have a name for. Close to absolution.)
Your hand moved again, drifting across his back with quiet intention, pausing at another mark, smaller, almost faded. âAnd this one?â
He swallowed. âA job.â
âMm.â Your thumb brushed over it, smoothing it as if the years hadnât already tried and failed, as if your touch could succeed where time had not. âItâs a very small one.â A kiss followed. Then another.
(His angel making something holy out of what had only ever been used.)
 âAnd this one?â
âPrison.â The word left him flat, as always, but your hand didnât falter, your touch didnât recoil. You only traced it again.
(Once. Twice. Three. Four. Even number. You knew now. That he needed it like that. He had told you once. Hesitant. Apologetic. How four made things silent inside. And you hadnât turned it into something to laugh at.)
You leaned down, pressing your lips to it with the same tenderness as the others, no reluctance, no differentiation, no hierarchy in the way you touched the wounds that had shaped him.
(No categories of deserved or undeserved. No measurement of them. You did not question which ones he earned. You kissed them all the same.)
The starving part of him, buried so profoundly it had forgotten its own name and fed on scraps and silence, stirred at being called back in the home of your embrace.
At the scar he got when he was young, your lips lingered longer, as if that one demanded more, as if the child he had been was still attached to his skin and needed to be acknowledged separately from the man he had become. Andrewâs eyes slipped closed, not a single muscle held in readiness, not a single instinct braced for impact.
(He did not do this anywhere else. Because nowhere else did it feel like this. Being unmade. Not brutally. Not forcefully. Piece by piece. Each of his scars a verse. Each of your kisses the response. His angel undoing a life tainted by violence. Rewriting it in mercy.)
And in the quiet that followed, with your arm still wrapped around him and your fingers slipping once more into his hair, Andrew felt the overwhelming need to anchor himself before it could fall away, holding onto the sheet. Because if this: this warmth, this softness, this impossible, undeserved gentlenessâŚif this was what it meant to have every mark acknowledged and not condemned, to be touched without expectation of painâŚthen maybe this was what people implied when they spoke of being forgiven.
And if this was what being cleansed felt like, he understood why people believed in God.
ââââââââââ
He found it the day you asked him to leave for a while.
The request had not been cruel, nor abrupt, nor even unexpected, yet it had still sat inside his chest with a weight he didnât know how to carry, your voice gentle but firm when you told him you needed some time, even just an hour, to process alone all that had happened without his eyes on you, without his hands reaching to help you when you were screaming in the middle of the night. He had nodded because you had asked it and loving you had already taught him that care didnât always mean staying, that sometimes it meant stepping away even when every instinct inside him recoiled at the idea of leaving you unguarded.
He had driven without direction at first, counting.
(One. Two. Three. Four. The trees. The houses. Distance from you measured in numbers instead of steps. Time instead of touch.)
The road had stretched ahead, quiet, the hills folding into one another beneath the afternoon light, and his hands had remained tight on the wheel, gaze scanning reflexively for threats that didnât exist there, for movement that never came. His body still held in that rigid state since the warehouse, every nerve tuned to the possibility of harm.
And then he had spotted it. Small. Set back from the road. A chapel that didnât announce itself, that didnât demand attention, its wooden white frame worn by time, the door ajar, probably left open for anyone who might necessitate it and had not yet decided how to ask. He had parked without thinking. And inside, it had been silent. The kind that didnât feel abandoned, but contained, preserved from the noise of the world outside, the light filtering across the benches and floorboards, dust flying in the air, undisturbed.
Andrew had not known what to do in a place like that. He had stood near the entrance longer than necessary, boots quiet against the floor, his gaze moving across the room, cataloguing details without purpose: the shape of the altar, the faint scent of old wood and candle wax, the way the space seemed to exist outside of time.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
He had not prayed. He didnât exactly know how, no matter the number of times he had attempted. Him. Pope who couldnât pray. But still, he had remained there for a while. Long enough for his breathing to slow. Long enough for the thought to settle.
(This is where he will bring you. Where the world cannot touch what it doesnât deserve.)
-
And two weeks later, he does. The door opens with a soft creak under his hand, the sound echoing inside the small chapel as he steps aside to let you enter first, his gaze moving to you rather than the room, tracking the way you cross the threshold, the slight hesitation in your step, the way your fingers curl loosely around the sleeve of his shirt before letting go.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Youâre steady. Still here. Still breathing. Still his to guard.)
You pause just inside and your eyes travel slowly across the space, taking in the light and the absence of anything that demands attention. âItâsâŚâ you begin, your voice smaller than it used to be, not fragile, not broken, but tempered by everything your body has learned in the past weeks, ââŚnice.â
Andrew nods once, closing the door behind you with care. âItâs quiet,â he replies.
(Quiet is safe. Quiet means no one is coming. A place set apart. Removed. Preserved. His angel does not belong to the world outside. Not to men like them. Not to what raised him. Not to the kind of life that stains everything it touches.)
You move further in, your steps unhurried, hand brushing along the back of one of the wooden benches, fingers tracing the grain absentmindedly, grounding yourself in the texture, in the reality of it while Andrew stays close.
(Not touching. But near enough. A distance small enough to cross in less than a second. Close enough to intervene. Close enough to reach before harm does.)
You sit after a moment, choosing a bench near the center rather than the back, your body turning toward him when he lowers himself beside you, leaving just enough space between you that you can close it if you want. For a while, neither of you speaks. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers intertwined, your thumbs moving against each other in a slow, absent rhythm. âI like it here,â you murmur.
Andrew nods again. âI thought you might.â
You glance at him then, a faint curve at the corner of your mouth, not quite the full smile he knows, but closer than before. âYou were right.â
(He wants to keep being right if it keeps you like this. Breathing. Here. Untouched.)
Silence settles again, softer this time. You draw in a slow breath. âIâŚwanted to say thank you.â The words come carefully, each one placed with intention, your gaze dropping briefly to your hands before lifting again. Andrewâs body stills.
(Thank you. For what? For doing what should have been done before they even reached you? For failing to stop it sooner?)
âYou stayed,â you continue, your voice steady despite the tightening in your throat. âThese past two weeks. You didnâtâŚleave me alone with it.â
Andrewâs jaw tightens, just a little. (There was no version where he would have left.) âI wasnât going to,â he says quietly.
You nod, your fingers tightening together. âI know.â A small exhale. âI justâŚwanted to say it.â He watches you closely, noting the way your shoulders hold, the way your eyes avoid his for a second before returning. âAnd Iâm sorry,â you add.
That makes him frown. âFor what.â
You huff a small, breathless laugh that breaks halfway through. âFor beingâŚlike this.â You gesture vaguely to yourself, your body, the invisible weight youâve been carrying. âFor being âsickâ. For notâŚâ You stop.
Andrew doesnât. âFor not what?â he asks, his voice still even but lower now.
Your gaze drops again. âFor not beingâŚnormal,â you finish quietly. âFor notâŚtouching you. For not wanting to have sex righ-â
âNo.â The word cuts through the air immediately, firm, leaving no space for you to continue that line of thought. You blink, looking up at him. âThat doesnât matter,â he says.
(You being alive matters. You breathing matters. Nothing else comes close. The rest is irrelevant.)
You swallow, your lips parting slightly. âBut itâs been weeks,â you murmur. âAnd I know thatâs not-â
âIt doesnât matter,â he repeats, softer this time but no less certain, his hand finally moving, resting over yours where they sit in your lap.
âYou donât owe me that,â he adds.
(You donât owe him anything. Not your body. Not your healing. Not your pace. He owes you everything. All that remains of him. That still knows how to be used for something other than destruction.)
Your breath stutters, your eyes searching his face, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that might contradict the certainty in his voice. There is none. âYouâre notâŚannoyed?â you ask, the word small, almost tentative.
Andrewâs expression shifts, not quite a smile, but something warmer. âNo.â A beat. âNot once.â
Your lips tremble, a sound escaping you that is halfway between a laugh and a sob, your shoulders lifting slightly before dropping again, the tension breaking in small increments. âThatâs insane,â you whisper, shaking your head.
Andrew tilts his head. âWhy?â
âBecause most people would be!â you reply, a soft, disbelieving breath leaving you. âMost people would have left by now orâŚâ you cut yourself off, pressing your lips together.
âIâm not most people,â he says, voicing the thought simply. âAnd werenât you the one who told me that it didnât matter if I couldnât beâŚintimate? That together was all you needed?â
That makes you laugh again, a real one this time, even if itâs threaded with tears, your head tipping forward slightly. âYeah,â you admit. âThatâsâŚtrue.â The sound lingers in the chapel, light, fragile, but real and Andrew canât help but to watch you, committing it to memory.
(This. This is what he protects. Not the absence of fear. The return of this. His light.)
Your hand turns beneath his, your fingers curling around his palm now, holding him rather than being held, your grip gentle but intentional. âIâm getting better,â you say after a moment.
He nods. âI know.â
You glance at him, a hint of curiosity there. âHow?â
âYouâre laughing.â
A small smile returns to your mouth at that. âGood point.â You inhale slowly, your gaze drifting toward the front of the chapel, toward the altar, the quiet space beyond it, your expression thoughtful. âI know Iâm notâŚall the way there yet.â
âI donât need you to be,â he replies.
You look back at him. âI know,â you say softly. âBut I want to be.â A tear slips down your cheek then, unexpected, and you laugh again through it, wiping it away quickly with the back of your hand. âFuck, Iâm a mess,â you mutter.
Andrew shakes his head. âNo.â
You huff. âOh yes, look at me. Cursing in a church.â
He doesnât argue further and reaches up, the pad of his thumb brushing beneath your eye, catching the remaining dampness there, his touch careful.
(He has seen blood on this skin. Bruises rising. Hands where they should not have been. This, this he can handle.)
You lean into the contact without thinking, your eyes closing briefly, your breath evening out again under the motion. For a moment, the two of you remain like that. Quiet. Held in a place that doesnât ask anything of you except to exist. Then you pull back slightly, a small, almost mischievous spark returning to your gaze, faint but present. âHey,â you say.
Andrew raises an eyebrow. âYes.â
âDo you think,â you begin slowly, âyou could drive me to the grocery store after this?â
He blinks once. âThe grocery store.â
You nod, a soft smile forming. âI want to try a new recipe.â
(A recipe. Ingredients. Steps. Future.)
Andrew exhales slowly through his nose.
(One. Two. Three. Four. You are here. You are choosing to stay. To build. To continue. He will buy you the whole store if he needs to.)
âYes,â he answers.
Your smile widens, just a little. âGood,â you say, squeezing his hand once.
And in the quiet of the chapel, Andrew understands with a clarity that does not require words, does not require prayer, does not require anything beyond the rhythm of your breathing beside him that whatever this place was meant for, whatever it once represented to those who built it, to those who came here seeking answers⌠he has already found his.
It sits beside him.
ââââââââââ
At twenty-one, Andrew did not ask questions.
He learned early that questions did not change outcomes, that answers were rarely given without cost, and that the only thing that mattered in the end was whether he had done what was expected of him, whether he had moved when told, stopped when told, hurt when told, because in that house usefulness had always been the closest thing to love that any of them were allowed to touch.
Smurf was sitting in the living room when she called him, not raising her voice. She never needed to. âAndrew.â
He was already turning before she finished saying his name, stepping into the room with that attentive posture that had been carved into him over years, his eyes finding her immediately, reading the angle of her body, the tilt of her head, the small details that told him what she wanted before she said it. She was smiling. The one she used when she had already determined someoneâs fate. âCome here, baby.â He did. Of course he did.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Called. Answered. That was how it worked.)
She was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, bracelets shimming when she shifted, her hand reaching for him the moment he stepped close enough, fingers sliding along his thigh in a slow, absent stroke.
(He wondered if this meant comfort in other houses. Affection in other families.)
âYouâre my strong boy,â she smirked, her gaze lingering on his face with a warmth that never lasted long enough to hold onto. âMy protector.â Andrew stood still beneath her hand.
(Protector. Thatâs what he was. Thatâs what he was for.)
âThereâs a man,â she continued, âwho forgot how things work around here.â Her fingers pressed against his leg. âCan you remind him?â
Andrew nodded. âYes, Smurf.â
She smiled wider. âI knew I could count on you.â Her palm lingered a second longer before withdrawing, the absence of it immediate, noticeable, leaving behind that quiet, familiar emptiness that always followed once the task had been given.
(He had to do it well. To come back. To be useful. Be worth it.)
The man was not important though, that Andrew grasped the moment he saw him. He was not a target because of what he had done, Andrew actually didnât know what it was about, but because Smurf had declared he had forgotten, and forgetting, in their world, was sufficient.
âPleaseâŚâ the man started as Andrew approached slowly. Not out of uncertainty, out of precision. The man kept talking, words spilling over each other, apologies, explanations, promises, the kind of desperate language people used when they believed there was still a possibility of being heard. Andrew didnât listen. Listening would imply that the outcome could change. But here, now, it couldnât. He reached for the manâs jaw first. âWait, I have a family,â the man choked out, his voice cracking under the pressure. âPlease, I have ki-â
The first hit cut the sentence in half. Andrew observed the impact: the way the manâs head snapped to the side, how the sound echoed in the room, the way silence pursued for a moment before the man tried again, his words slurring.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Andrew adjusted his stance before continuing. Each movement controlled, measured in the similar rhythm he employed for everything else, the same manner he counted steps, breaths, distances, because this too was a task, and tasks required precision. The manâs voice deteriorated rapidly. Words turning into sounds. Sounds turning into broken attempts at forming something coherent.
(One. Two. Three. Four. The mouth was no longer functional. This man was sentenced to months of silence, jaw rendered useless. Children without their fatherâs voice. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted his fist striking.)
He couldnât halt, not out of rage or cruelty, but out of completion. Because stopping before the job was done meant coming back, which meant therefore failing the first time. The man ceased to speak long before Andrew stopped. And silence, in this case, meant success.
When he returned home, the house was empty, the lights were off. No music. No voices. No Smurf. No brothers. Andrew stood just inside the doorway for a moment, his hand still on the handle, the quiet pressing in around him, unfamiliar after the structured noise of the task, the manâs voice and the impact of bone and skin and breath.
The living room looked exactly the same: the couch, the table⌠Everything in its place.  Except there was no one there to tell him he had done well. No hand reaching for him. No voice calling him baby. No warmth. Just the absence of it. Andrew sat on the couch, in the same spot where Smurf had been earlier. His hands rested on his thighs, still, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, his body waiting without realizing it was waiting, as though the next instruction might come at any moment.
It didnât.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
(What now?)
There was no need for the question to form fully, because there was no answer. Just the quiet. And him inside it.
-
At twenty-one, you were not supposed to end up alone.
Not with the way people gravitated toward you, the way your laughter filled spaces without effort, the way professors remembered your name and classmates sought you out not because they required something from you but because being near you felt easy, light, uncomplicated.
You studied psychology out of appreciation to understanding people. You enjoyed the way patterns formed, the way behavior made sense when you looked at it closely enough, the way even the most confusing reactions had roots if you were patient enough to find them. Your mother used to say you were good at seeing the best in others and of course, since she was your mother, you used to believe her. At twenty-one, your life had been full: classes, friends, late nights spent talking about nothing and everything at once, a future that stretched out in front of you in clear, manageable stepsâŚ
And then it wasnât.
The hospital room had been too white, quiet, final. But your motherâs absence didnât arrive all at once, no, it unfolded gradually in the empty chair at the table, in the silence where her voice used to be, in the way the house felt different even though nothing had moved.
You tried to go back to your classes, go back to your routines and the version of yourself that existed before, but everything felt heavier, louder. Too much. The words blurred on the pages, the voices felt distant and time stretched in ways that didnât make sense. Until one day, sitting across from your father at the kitchen table, you said it. âI donât think I can do this anymore.â
He looked at you for a long moment. Not disappointed. Not angry. JustâŚseeing you. Your sorrow, mirrored in his own eyes. âAll I want,â he said quietly, âis for you to be happy.â And it shattered something open inside your chest, because you didnât know how to tell your father you couldnât recall how to be that anymore.
So you moved. From Los Angeles to Oceanside. You told yourself it would help: a nice change of air, a reset, a chance to find a life that felt manageable again. The apartment was perhaps modest, but clean. Boxes still half unpacked in the corners, you sat on the floor the first night, back against the wall, phone in hand with no one to call. You drew your knees to your chest, your chin resting on them, your eyes moving slowly across the unfamiliar space, trying to make it feel like yours.
(What now?)
But you knew there was no answer to this question, just the silence. And you inside it.
ââââââââââ
The notification is simple, clear. Just one sentence. You havenât logged your period in 7 weeks. It sits there on your screen longer than it should, and for a minute, you donât budge, you just look at it, your thumb hovering above the glass without touching it, without dismissing it, without opening anything else, suspended in that small space where nothing has changed yet but still, everything has. (seven weeks. seven. seven.)
The number doesnât feel real at first, it feels misplaced, as though it belongs to someone elseâs life, to a version of you that exists somewhere adjacent but not quite here, not quite now, not in this bed, not with him sleeping beside you.
Andrew breathes deeply against your back, one arm draped over your waist, heavy and warm, his palm resting flat on your stomach where it had settled sometime during the night without either of you noticing. His grip is loose in sleep but present enough that you can sense it, the weight of it securing you to the mattress, to the moment, to him. Your eyes drift down to his hand. (seven weeks.)
The skatepark returns in fragments, not as a full memory but as scattered impressions: sunlight, the sound of wheels, Andrew crouched in front of the little boy, your fingers brushing absentmindedly over your stomach while the idea had slipped into your mind. you think youâll do it tonight. You never did. Everything after that moment had fractured, rearranged itself into something darker and harder to hold. The plan had dissolved somewhere between the truck, the warehouse, the three weeks that followed where time moved in uneven stretches and your body forgot how to feel like yours.
Thatâs what bodies do, you remind yourself, they shift without asking permission, break rhythm, lose track of time when stress settles too deeply into them, when fear rewrites the way they function. Your eyes remain fixed on the screen a moment longer. (you could just be late.) The thought arrives quietly, offering itself as something solid to stand on, something rational, something that makes sense in a way the other possibility does not. (you havenât been sleeping properly. you havenât been eating right. your body is still catching up. it would make sense.)
Your stomach is flat beneath Andrewâs hand, unchanged, unremarkable, offering no sign, no confirmation, no disruption of what has always been there. (no nausea. no difference. nothing.) But⌠(seven weeks. what if it is? worse, what if it isnât? even worse, what if you let yourself believe it and it disappears?)
Your throat constricts around that one, the air catching for just a second before you force it down again, refusing to follow that path any further. Behind you, Andrew shifts at the change in your breathing, his fingers tightening against your stomach in reflex before loosening again, his body settling back into its quiet rhythm as though nothing has happened. Your hand lifts, hesitating only for a moment before resting over his, your fingers brushing against his knuckles. (you canât tell him.)
The realization does not arrive all at once, it builds slowly, piece by piece, until it settles into something firm and unmovable. (not like this. not with uncertainty. not with a number on a screen and nothing else to hold onto. you wonât put that in his hands unless itâs real.) You know what his face would look like. You know the way he would still, the way everything in him would narrow down to that single piece of information, how carefully he would compartment it, how seriously he would take it, how completely he would believe it. (you wonât take that away from him.) Your eyes close, breath moving in and out with effort. (relax. he told you to count. one. two. three. four.)
The thought of the chapel returns then, threading itself through the moment, a reminder of the plan you both made the night before when he had asked you in that careful way of his, probably unsure whether you were ready to step outside after weeks spent mostly within the walls of the house. âThereâs a place I want to show you.â You had said yes. And this, whatever this is, will have to wait a few more hours.
Lying there longer than necessary, you open your eyes now, fixed on nothing in particular while you listen to the rhythm of his breathing behind you, your own falling into it, counting without meaning to, matching the cadence you have learned from him, the one he uses when he thinks you cannot hear.
(one. two. three. four.)
-
(one. two. three. four.)
You donât stop counting when the automatic doors slide open in front of you, the brightness of the store almost too sharp after the muted quiet of the chapel, the sound of carts rolling and distant voices folding into each other, almost unreal. The rhythm stays with you, something to hold onto while everything else threatens to shift too quickly beneath your feet.
Your only plan had been that. The chapel. Sitting beside him on the wooden bench, your shoulder brushing his, your hands folded in your lap while you spoke more than you had in weeks, words coming back slowly at first and then easier, thanking him, apologizing for things he refused to let you apologize for, laughing through tears until your chest felt lighter. (but you still had felt the need to know)
The thought had stayed quiet, waiting until you stepped outside, until the air changed, until he looked at you with that steady patience and you realized you couldnât carry it any longer without moving. âDo you think you could drive me to the grocery store after this?â (you need to know. before you say anything. before you look at him and change everything.)
And now youâre here. The cart moves in front of you, your hands resting on the handle, your fingers tightening and relaxing without rhythm except for the one repeating in your head. Andrew walks beside you, close enough that your arm brushes his every few steps, his gaze drifting occasionally past you, past the aisles, scanning the entrances, the exits, the people moving in and out of his field of vision with that quiet vigilance he never quite turns off. You reach for the first thing you see. âPasta.â It drops into the cart. âTomatoes.â
He picks them before you do, placing them carefully inside. Olive oil. Garlic. You continue. Bread. Cheese. Something sweet you donât need. Herbs you wonât use. You keep moving, your hands busy, your mind split between the list youâre building on the spot and the aisle you are deliberately not looking toward yet. (in, out, in, out.) You speak more than usual, not enough to draw attention, just enough to fill the space, to make this feel like an ordinary trip, an ordinary afternoon, something that does not carry the weight pressing quietly beneath your ribs. He answers simply, briefly, following your lead without question.
Your chest feels tight, your breathing just slightly off, enough that you notice it, enough that you slow for a second before forcing your body forward again. Effort quickly interrupted by the aisle you were looking for. Pharmacy. The cart stays still beneath your hands, your fingers pressing into the plastic while you keep your eyes on the shelves ahead, not moving toward them, not quite ready to close the distance.
You swallow. âCan youâŚâ your voice is calm, almost, ââŚgrab me a book?â
He looks at you. âA book.â
âThereâs a section near the front,â you add. âI justâŚwant something to read.â
He studies you, not questioning, not suspicious, just observing the small changes, the ones you cannot hide from him even when you try. âOkay.â
You wait until he disappears before you move. Fast. Your hand reaches for the box without hesitation, pulling it from the shelf in one motion before your thoughts can catch up, before doubt can slow you down. Digital. You donât read the label. You donât check the price. For a second, it rests in your hand, heavier than it should be, your eyes fixed on it without truly seeing it. (seven weeks. seven. seven.)
Quickly, you drop it into the cart, covering it with whatever is closest, pasta, tomatoes, anything, layering it beneath the groceries until it disappears completely from view, hidden. By the time Andrew returns, you are still, composed, your hands back on the cart. He hands you the book. You take it, your fingers brushing his for a brief second, leaning in just slightly to press a soft kiss to his cheek. âThank you,â you murmur, your voice low, warm, real, âIâm sure Iâm gonna love it.â
Andrew stills for half a heartbeat before nodding. âYouâre welcome.â
You pull back, the book resting against your chest now, your fingers curling around its spine and not looking at the cover. You donât need to. Together, you move toward the checkout and, thankfully, the line is short, quite the opposite from every grocery youâve been in Oceanside, the number of people in there often overwhelming Andrew. The cashier begins scanning without much attention, items passing one by one over the machine, the soft beeping steady, repetitive, almost syncing with the rhythm in your head. (in, out, in, out.)
You keep your eyes on the counter, on your hands, on anything that is notâŚthe box. It appears in the pile. Time stretches as the cashier picks it up, your gaze lifting to meet hers, and in that brief moment there is understanding there, immediate, quiet, unspoken. Donât. The word never leaves your mouth. It sits behind your teeth, behind your throat, in the way your fingers press harder against the edge of the counter, in the way your shoulders hold just a little too still. Donât say anything. Please. Andrew stands beside you, but not here, not fully, his attention angled outward, his gaze moving past the glass doors, scanning the parking lot, the cars, the people, every exit, every movement, the same way he always does.
The scanner beeps, the sound feeling louder than with any other product. Or maybe everything else has gone quiet. You donât breathe. Not properly. Just enough to stay upright. The box is placed aside, not with the rest, not immediately swallowed into the routine of scanned items and rustling bags, but held for just a fraction longer than necessary, the cashierâs fingers resting against it as her gaze flicks up to yours once more, quick, knowing, the smallest shift in her expression that doesnât draw attention and yet carries comprehension all the same.
The cashier doesnât speak. She doesnât need to. Her hand moves instead, deliberate but casual, folding the rest of the items into the bag before her fingers close around the box, separating it from the others, keeping it out of sight from the counter, from the open space between you and Andrew.
Then, as she passes the bag toward you, she slips it in. Not inside the bag. Not with the groceries. Into your hand. The gesture is small, hidden in the natural motion of handing things over, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest second as the box transfers between you, her eyes lifting once more, just long enough for a faint, almost imperceptible wink to follow. Itâs quick, gone immediately, as though it never happened. Your hand closes around the box instinctively, your body moving before your mind can catch up, slipping it into your handbag in one smooth motion, the fabric shifting softly as it disappears inside, concealed, secured, yours again. Hidden.
Stepping away from the counter so Andrew can pay, your heartbeat is louder than it should be, your fingers brushing once against your bag as if to confirm itâs still there, still real, still within reach. All that remains is to find out which life you are about to step into.
-
âIâm just gonnaâŚgo change in pajamas, okay?â Your voice sounds almost normal when you say it, the words slipping into the space between you without weight, without urgency, like itâs the most natural thing in the world after coming back from the store and setting the bags down.
Andrew looks up from where he stands near the counter, one of the grocery bags already open, his hands moving through it efficiently, placing things aside in groupings before putting them away, his attention shifting to you as soon as you speak. âOkay.â No question. No hesitation.
You nod once, holding onto the strap of your bag before you turn away, your steps carrying you down the short hallway toward the bathroom while the sound of him behind you fades. The door closes, and just like thatâŚthe whole world narrows. The light in the bathroom is too bright, too sharp against your eyes, the mirror catching your reflection before you look down, hand already moving to unzip your bag with fingers that do not feel completely like yours.
The box is still there, but it feels different. Real.
Your breath comes shallow as you pull it out, the cardboard cool beneath your pads, the printed words blurring for a second before you blink them back into place. You glance at the instructions, barely. Words pass your eyes without quite settling. (itâs simple. it has to be simple. plenty of people do that every day.)
You follow the steps mechanically, your movements precise without being conscious, muscle memory forming where there was none before, guided only by instinct, by the need to finish, to know, to end this suspended state where everything exists and nothing is confirmed.
The test rests in your hand and for a second, you just look at it before reaching for your phone. Ninety seconds. The timer begins. Suddenly, thereâs nothing else. The bathroom fades, the light dulls, the edges of the room slipping away until all that remains is the small device in your hand and the quiet, relentless ticking of time you canât even hear but feel in your chest. Your body feels distant. Like you are watching yourself from a removed place, aware of your hands, of your posture, of the way you lean back against the sink. (this could be nothing. this could be everything. donât hope. donât ho-)
The timer rings. The sound cuts through the room. For a moment, you donât move. Just stare at the test in your hand, your vision focusing, blurring, then settling again as you bring it closer, as the word comes into view, clear, unmistakable. Pregnant. It sits there and doesnât change. There is a delay, a quiet gap between seeing and understanding, between reading and knowing. (pregnant.)
Your hand squeezes around the plastic. Your other hand lifts your shirt without thinking, the fabric bunching beneath your fingers as you look down at your stomach, turning on one side, then the other, as though something might have changed in the last few seconds, as though there should be a sign, a mark, anything to match what the test is telling you.
There is nothing and everything all at once. A tear slips down your cheek before you even register it, your hand lowering slowly, your fingers brushing once over your skin. (there is something inside you. a tiny part of him and you.)
It takes one second. Two. Three. Four, before you are moving, the hallway feeling shorter than before, the house coming back into focus as you walk toward the kitchen. Andrew is at the fridge, one hand braced against the door while the other places the food inside, his posture relaxed, unaware, steady in the way he always is when he thinks everything is as it should be. You stop behind him, hand lifting to rest on his arm as you lean in, lips brushing his shoulder blade and your breath catching against his skin. âAndrewâŚâ Your voice is barely there. You press your forehead against him before the words find their way out, quiet, fragile, real as a tear falls. âIâm pregnant.â
The movement of his hand stops mid-motion, the fridge door still open, everything in him going quiet in a way that feels immediate, absolute. He turns slowly towards you, eyes finding yours, searching. Disbelieving, but not in doubt, just when something too important takes a second longer to settle. âReally?â he whispers.
You nod, your lips trembling and voice breaking. âYesâŚAndrewâŚâ Another breath. âWeâre gonna have a baby.â Your hand lifts, resting over your stomach. âOur baby.â
Something in his face shifts and you have barely the time to register the movement before his knees meet the floor, his palms coming to rest gently at your waist, careful and reverent. For a second, he just looks. At you. At the place beneath your hand.
His fingers brush your skin lightly, almost hesitant, as he leans forward, pressing his lips to your stomach. Your fingers slide into his curls, holding him there, your other hand still resting over where his lips touch you, breath uneven now that your body finally catches up to the weight of this whole moment. A soft, broken sound escapes you. In between a laugh and a sob. And you donât pull him away, donât move. You just stay there, your hand in his hair, your body steadying around the place where his mouth rests.
Warnings and a brief description: Smut, YALL FUCK RAWW!!!! Age gap, fem! Reader. Both down ridiculously bad, Descriptions of both genitalia, descriptions in general so be warned if youâre squeamish, Jack had a big dick <3, yes he TALKS YOU THROUGH IT AND yes you cry because it feels so good, sorry!!!, desperation is heavy in this one, there is a plot but mostly just smut, readers age is not specified but there is at least a 25 year age gap, yearning and longing because what would I be without it, mentions of prosthetics, Abbot is a handyman if you didnât know (just kidding) Jack is suffering from a moral dilemma because canonically he just cannot stop suffering apparently, big emotions + crying (work related), lots of descriptions of fear and the struggle on both parts about the whole crushingonattendingwhos20yearsolder thing, forgive me for my lack of medical jargon
He said that if you needed anything, anything at all. Heâd be there. This didnât help your pathetic crush on your older, heart achingly handsome attending- not one bit. The more irrational part of your brain didnât know whether or not what he said was an offhanded, flippant comment to quell your panicked state at the time - or if it held genuine truth.
Thatâs your own issue, but nonetheless.
Abbot is somewhat reserved - doesnât give too much away, but kind, in an assertive and startling way. In a thorough way. You have grown to know it, but not the intensity in which he stares down at you so unwavering and immutable. From saving lives, to adequate charting, to handling intensity with well practiced steady hands and a clinical brain- his belief in your capabilities has always been palpable.
Like you could hold it in your palms and feel it between your fingers.
You believed him in that moment - two months ago, five hours into your excruciatingly painful shift and one whole year into your ED residency. Trembling shoulders, a quivering gaze, tear stained cheeks.
You hadnât meant for it to be a whole thing. Even having to take a moment at work to decompress or have a mental breakdown felt like betrayal - to your team, to yourself, and most of all - your patients.
And then he appeared. Like a fucking mirage, or a daydream, and you felt small. Like a child being found cowering in a corner. He recognized it instantly, like the well trained veteran, doctor, lived in human he is. To him, whether standing on the roof of the hospital and contemplating the past 24 hours, or a break room cry - felt very normal. Sometimes, itâs needed. Heâs been there. And he hadnât seen you fall apart at all.
Your resilience was becoming worrisome.
Jack observed you heavily from the moment you arrived. He knew it was going to be aâŚproblem. For him personally, not for you. Obviously younger, and obviously beautiful in a way that made the pit of his stomach ache when you laughed or crinkled your nose is disgust or gave Santos a hard time for constantly being interrupted from her charting- he packed you in a neat little box inside of his head and told himself no, absolutely not.
A year of admiring from afar, of keeping himself at a distance that read: mentor, encouraging but firm attending, a teacher, someone to guide you. Someone almost old enough to be your father. God, was he that guy now?
And then he found you there in the break room, knees to chest with your head against the white dry wall and a silent cry that soaked your cheeks and your neck and the light grey shirt you wear underneath your scrubs.
Youâd heard the door shut, and lock. And when you looked up through bleary eyes your heart sank to your ass - because this is exactly what the universe would do to you at a time like that. Of course Jack fucking Abbot would walk in, it couldnât be Robby, or Samira, or Mel. Of course not.
A sound between a croak and a whimper left your throat out of sheer humiliation. Your body saying, oh great, perfect. You made a futile attempt to get up and off the floor, but he was down at your level before your hand could slip against the wall and bring you back to the ground. Knees aching against the cold floor.
âHey hey, slow down kid.â His voice was hushed, calming and direct. Steady.
Your fists balled, and the back of your knuckles dug into your eye sockets to wipe the tears away. You felt juvenile, and utterly stunned by the gentle tug of calloused hands around your wrist, drawing your own hands away from your face. He was hot to the touch.
âWhat we do isnât easy, itâs not meant to be and thatâs why weâre the ones who have to do it.â His hands still held your wrist, and he could feel your pulse thrumming a mile a minute.
You tried your best to not focus on how disheveled you surely appeared, or how much you were shaking. Or the reverberation of his voice moving through you from the close proximity and the gentle hush of his tone. But through all of the terrible, wretched emotions moving through you, it was there in the back of your consciousness.
âThen why am I falling apart like this? Iâve been doing so good.â You cried, wiping away the wetness seeping from your eyes.
He felt that ache in his stomach move to his chest, right behind his ribcage, threatening to break his taught resilience. He cocked his head, hazel eyes gentle, and moved to grip your hands instead - squeezing them softly between his. They encompassed both of yours easily.
âBecause you donât give yourself a moment to feel like a human being, and you troop through all of it over and over again until something small happens, or big, and then it all comes crashing down all at once.â
He felt, in that moment, that he was speaking to both you and himself, it came spilling out so naturally because he knew exactly what you were doing to yourself and the emotional toll it inevitably took. The familiarity he felt with you was almost cosmic.
Your breathing slowed, and your heart started to feel like it wasnât going to burst through your shirt at any second - staring into him, the warmth radiating in not only his demeanor but his physical self - you were almost completely soothed.
âWow, youâre good.â You laughed. Laughed, and elation filled his veins, his mind, his spirit. âI think I can cancel my next therapy session.â
You both smiled, and a quiet acknowledgment filled the space between you two. The urge to reach out and fiddle with your hair, wipe the remaining wetness from your cheeks, it almost overtook him. He stiffened, patted your steady hands with one of his own.
âIf you need anything, anything at all, you call me. Iâll be there.â
He meant it. Despite the fact that maybe it was unethical given his complicated sense of fondness for his resident.
You try hide the surprise that you feel written on your face, and you try to prevent your expression from becoming anymore reverent.
âGive me your phone.â
And you do. He squints like an old man when he types his name into your phone.
âJackâ is the contact name.
Four days later, and you do need something. And maybe itâs because after that day in the break room - something shifted. Something big and ugly and deep seated. Something insatiable like desire, and something tender like adoration.
Of course Jack is attractive - heâs also older, much older, and your attending, and youâre co workers, and- You want to be in his presence, want him to be in yours. And thatâs not healthy.
So naturally, when your kitchen sink pipe starts leaking and semi flooding your cupboard underneath, well - he said if you needed anything, anything at all.
One thumb hovers over the contact, and the other is in your mouth being gnawed on. Youâre just going to ask for advice, an at home remedy because a plumber isnât an option when youâve got student loans to pay back. And truthfully, you donât have anyone else in your life who might know about kitchen pipes failing.
Okay, sure- Robby, but your ethical dilemma and inappropriate crush isnât on Robby. And youâre sleep deprived, overworked, stressed for numerous reasons- maybe it makes it easier to rationalize it. The worst that could happen is that he ignores the call, or tells you heâs never fixed a pipe a day in his life - but when your thumb hits the call button, you know youâre wrong. You can feel it.
âYou okay? Whatâs going on?â
You feel your insides burning up, a searing heat beginning to pool in your cheeks. His immediate concern, the gruffness of his voice like heâs just woken up.
âIâm sorry, I uh- oh my god are you sleeping? I totally shouldâve thought about that before I called.â
You palm your forehead, squint your eyes shut and force yourself not to just hang up and quite literally pretend this never happened. How could you not have taken that into consideration? How could you -
âItâs my one day off every two years, itâs fineâ his voice is lighthearted enough, heâs joking, no sign of your call being a disruption - your chest doesnât feel like itâs being squeezed from the inside out as much.
âyou didnât answer my question, are you okay?â
The worry in his tone is back, shuffling sounds on the other side put images of him in his bed, in his home, surrounded by his things. Bad idea.
âYeah Iâm fine, I justâŚthis is stupid. My kitchen sink, itâs leaking, badly. I just, uhm, needed some advice on what I could do to fix it?â
Hearing the words actually come out of your mouth makes you wince. You want to scream, bash your head against a wall, run around your quaint apartment and slip on the linoleum so that you have a reason to not come into work tomorrow and face him after calling him for a fucking pipe. Fuck.
A shaky breath comes through the line, you wonder if youâre imagining the airy chuckle.
âWell, is it clogged? Is it leaking from the bottom and from the drain?â
More heat floods your body, your veins. Heâs genuine, through and through, curious and ready to help. Of course he is. Of course. You almost fix your goofy smile until you realize he canât see it.
âUhhh, both - so itâs leaking from the big pipe underneath, not draining at all and itâs bubbling from the drain.â
More shuffling, heavy footsteps. You wonder what his home looks like. You hear a series of thunks and clunks, scuffling, sounds like heâs putting his boots on?
âUh huh,â
breathy groans, heâs definitely putting shoes on. You can picture him placing the phone on his knee, pulling the footwear on and tying them quickly.
âsounds like you might have some rubber seals missing and a clogged pipe. You call a plumber, kid?â
It shouldnât make you blush, shouldnât make you feel wobbly in the knees and off center in your own space. Yet here you are, steadying yourself against your kitchen island.
âI, um, canât afford one right now - something about thousands of dollars in medical school loans a month that leave little room for plumbers in the budget.â
Youâre honest, even if itâs embarrassing for you. You feel, once again, extremely juvenile with him like this. Like at any moment he could laugh at you and not with you, tell you to call a father or a brother or someone else entirely.
He doesnât.
âIf you want, I can come take a look at it. Been sleepinâ all day, need to walk around a bit anyways.â
Surely heâs joking. But heâs not, you know that, you know Dr. Abbot and the lilt in his cadence when heâs giving someone a hard time. This isnât that. And suddenly, with widened eyes and a quickening pulse, you realize that heâs dead serious.
âThat wouldnât be too much trouble? I mean really, if you have any ideas on what it might be Iâll just go and get the supplies-â
âNo trouble at all, told you if you needed anything, you call me. Iâm just fulfilling my duties. Remember?â
Heâs got you there. You are scared shitless and riveted that your theory was correct. He is try to his word. Now youâve got to put your big girl panties on and commit. Donât shy away now.
But Jack Abbot in your apartment? Fuck.
âYeah, yeah youâre right, sorry Iâll text you the address? My address.â
Of course your address, who elseâs?
He actually chuckles this time, and the sound moves through you like his voice did in the break room. Settles in your muscles and bone marrow.
âNo sorryâs, not with me,â His voice is so low, so soft. Itâs hard not to have a visceral reaction.
âalready have my boots on. Iâll be there in 10.â
15 minutes. Thatâs how close he lives to you, that heâs been to you this whole time. Two raps against your door, rough knuckles against old steel. Your ribcage could break with the pounding underneath.
You donât expect it to make you feel so disoriented. You hope your poker face is better than usual, because seeing Dr. Abbot standing outside your home is like a sucker punch to the gut, almost more so than seeing him in regular clothing - as mundane as a black tee shirt and straight cut jeans are.
Maybe thatâs why it makes your lower belly do flips. The humanness of it all. Not Dr. Abbot and yourself, but Jack. The person, the man.
âHope I didnât take too long, had to make a stop.â
This brings your attention the hardware store bag clutched in his right fist, and you instinctually step to the side to welcome him in. When he walks past you, the scent of his shampoo still clinging to greying curls and faint hints of cologne with a twinge of aftershave - it makes you dizzy.
He doesnât even realize youâre staring. Heâs too preoccupied. For a millisecond, he pauses, tries to keep his gaze as appropriate as possible instead of soberly roistering in the fact that youâre in baby blue sleeping shorts and a grey hoodie - presumably from college by the graduation date plastered across the front - thatâs three sizes too big.
You look seraphic, a glorious and unreal gift.
Your home smells like you, and it covers him like a blanket. Several lamps light the small space he enters, no big lights. Nothing obtrusive. Itâs soft, warm, decorated like you find safety in odd ball art pieces from the thrift store down the street, and fluffy throws that youâve wrapped yourself in on the beige couch.
âI can pay you back for the supplies, you didnât have to, really.â
It breaks him from his daze. He forgot where he was for a moment. Who he was. He hopes he wasnât reveling for too long. Hopes he didnât make it weird.
âYou gotta stop saying stuff like that, no re payment necessary - might make the problem worse if Iâm down there for more than 30 minutes anyways.â
His smile almost reaches his eyes, you notice the creases on his face anyways. Worn lines from a lived life, a hard life, a fulfilling life. Kissing his face crosses your mind - running your thumb down his cheek. You wipe a hand over your face for no other reason than to self soothe.
âI say add it to your resume anyways, veteran, ER surgeon, and most importantly resident plumber.â
You hope you sound lighthearted, that your humor isnât indicative of your nervousness. Or stress, because truly, this pipe is a problem. Though you have much bigger ones. Like the broad shoulders you canât stop staring at.
He glances towards the kitchen with a soft smile, hazel eyes kind and inquisitive. You nod, silently granting him permission to take a look at the problem area and trialing behind him.
Heâs broad. Youâve stopped trying to stop yourself from admiring, maybe itâs because itâs your own home but the surrealism aspect has settled into a head rush that feels more real than anything. So yeah, you stare at his shoulders, and the thickness of his bicep when his arms move, or the shape of his waist and even the gait he walks with due to his prosthetic. Itâs all incredibly endearing.
He gets himself down to the floor by his hands, sits down sideways to open the cabinets underneath the sink. He pulls something from his pocket.
A flashlight.
âIâm gonna put you to work,â he begins.
âAre you putting me on flashlight duty, Abbot?â
He snickers, and so do you. He reaches up to hand it to you, and you take it with a fake scowl.
âCâmon, youâre a team player - help an old man out.â
Your fingertips brush as you grab the light. Sappy. Cliche. Boring. And yet your flesh still feels like itâs lit aflame there.
And so you get on the floor, beside him but at an angle where being on flashlight duty would actually be beneficial and not blind him instead. You wince upon seeing the full extent of the leak, the soaked wood that will surely mildew if you donât stop the leak and allow it to dry. The mess of plastic bags stuffed under the sink.
He pushes them out of the way, smiles to himself.
âIf I hadnât known any better, Iâd think you were my mother will all of these Walmart bags, Jesus.â
âRude, you just referred to yourself as an old man so making fun of my old lady tendencies isnât fair.â
He gives you a sideways glance, smirk still tugging at the corner of his lips. His canines appear from behind pink flesh. How many mouths have kissed his, you wonder?
He starts taking supplies out of the hardware store bag, pulling tools you hadnât even seen from his jeans. Readily prepared.
âLots of things arenât fair, like your landlord not coming to fix this sooner - got years worth of damage in here - shine it to the left,â
You do as he asks, and he makes a clicking sound with his tongue against the side of his mouth.
âBad news sweetheart,â
The flashlight trembles. Thatâs embarrassing. But thatâs one that you didnât expect to hear. It came out so effortlessly that you donât even think heâs fully aware.
And he isnât. Not until he sees the far away look in your eyes, or feels the startling heat adiating from your body due to your proximity, or the way his chest has started tightening because he did not mean to say it out loud. Too late now.
âI wonât be able to fix it, donât have the tools with me right now, but I can do what I can to lessen the severity of the leak. Might be able to save your granny bags.â
Your laugh hits him like far too many drinks, like the sun after months of rain and chronic overcast. You drop the flashlight into your lap. Bare legs and skin that looks unbelievably pliable to the touch. Reel it in.
âI appreciate you so much Jack - Iâll get it fixed eventually, really I will. Itâs just been tough sâall.â
He wonders if you did it on purpose. Trying to get back at him for getting you so discombobulated. Youâve never called him by his name before, his first anyways.
I appreciate you so much. Fuck, it gets him And now heâs the one flustered, blushing at the tips of his ears and the aged apples of his cheeks. His chest would be splotched with red if you could see it.
He also doesnât say it out loud, but heâs one hundred percent calling a plumber for you now that he knows where you live - and is getting this issue taken care of.
âI get it, Iâve been in your shoes before, very nice by the way it looks like you skinned a chinchilla,â
You feign shock and betrayal, clutching your chest while you glance down at your slippers. He smirks, and continues.
âBut Iâm more than happy to help in whatever way I can. Howâs your head, hmm?â
You forget for a split second that you had a momentary relapse in sanity at work four days ago. Youâre still caught up in him noticing your house slippers. You really shouldâve put actual clothes on.
âItâs fine, Iâm fine. I had a therapy session the other day and uhâŚgot a lot off of my chest. It helped, tremendously, but so did you.â
Youâre getting brave. But not brave enough to acknowledge the fact that your knees are touching his thick thighs, that youâre so close you can properly admire every line, every wrinkle, or freckle that adorns his face. Heâs so handsome, and itâs not a surprise. But getting to slow down and really look, it does something terrible to you. Something you know you canât come back from.
He shakes his head.
âI didnât do much, kid. It takes strength to pull yourself out of something like that. You did that part yourself.â
You pull at the skin beside your nail beds, glance down at your lap. Youâve never been good at hearing stuff like this.
âYeah, I guess.â
He could kiss you right now. He truly could. He feels it like it already happened, wishes he could taste all the frustration and pain and doubt you have within yourself and swallow it whole. Keep it inside of him forever so that youâd never have to feel it again.
âCan I ask you a question?â
You meet his eyes and you see it then. And he knows heâs breaking, he knew this would happen. Being here, in your apartment and here with you and the entirely fucked up domesticity of it.
You hold his gaze, and see so much swimming inside of his blown out pupils and grey irises that you have no choice but to pique your own curiosity. Itâs a beckoning, one you canât refuse because your subconscious wonât let you.
âWell yeah, yes of course.â
He takes a shuttering breath.
âYouâre close with Robby, I mean he hasnât shut up about his favorite resident who came from the VA with Mel since you started,â
Youâre burning up. Bordering on a fever. Youâve got teeth sunk into the inside of your bottom lip, and he hates himself for making you nervous. Not you. He hates it because in some ways, itâs relieving.
Heâs not the only one being so deeply fucked by the feelings swarming the air, buzzing in his ear.
âso why me? And no, no itâs not a burden, me helping you out. Not at all but, your hands are shaking. Tell me why.â
He shouldnât do this. He shouldnât pry at your emotions in the way that heâs doing, he knows it. And itâs even more fucked up that he could be fucking everything up for your work life.
What on earth are you doing to him?
You donât look at the floor, or your hands. You stare back, like he should know all of your dirty secrets by now, like heâs smart enough to figure it out. Your head tilts, and your eyes get low and your voice becomes hushed. Like everyone in the world is listening.
âI canât. Jack, I canât.â
His features soften, heâs melting into your sad expression, keening at your soft voice. You palm your forehead again like youâre checking for a fever, a sickness. He shifts towards you absentmindedly.
âDonât be scared. Itâs just us, Itâs not a death sentence.â
Is he talking to you, or himself?
You begin to stand up. And heâs petrified. Genuinely, to the core, horrified that he just fucked everything up. What a fucking idiot.
You pace around your kitchen for a second, slippers scuffing against the floor because you donât pick up your feet enough when you walk.
âItâs unprofessional, god, I canât say it out loud, Jack. I just canât.â
You donât notice that heâs hobbled himself back up onto his feet, that when you turn around heâs leaning against the counter by his palms and hanging on to every word you say with rapt attention ands jaw half slack.
Youâre so used to saying his name now, second nature. It makes him lightheaded.
Itâs unprofessional. You feel it too. If he believed in god heâd be praising him right now. And begging for unrelenting mercy.
âCome here.â
It comes out weak, like a man full of defeat welcoming his final blow.
You turn around, and like a moth experiencing an existential crisis drawn to an immortal flame, you move towards him. Until youâre so close if one of you moved even closer your noses would be touching. It doesnât feel real.
âIâm here.â You almost whisper.
You never thought a single hand could change everything, all at once. But when he lifts it to touch the back of your cheek with his knuckles, your eyes close and you lean into the touch like you havenât felt anything like it in years.
Itâs done. He knows. You know.
Itâs completely undeniable and there is absolutely no going back. A car without brakes. An avalanche. The rotation of the earth.
He looks pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned. He holds your face with an open palm now, his other joining the opposite side till heâs holding you gently by soft cheeks and barely restrained longing.
âIt is unprofessional. Itâs not right, maybe it is and Iâm just too fucking old so I should know better - but Iâm right there with you sweetheart. Right there with you.â
Fear is a concept, one that youâre so used to that itâs only natural you reach out to grip his shirt in your fists. That you move closer, closer, till the softness of your bare chest is pressed against his strong and sturdy one - separated only by your sweatshirt and his tee. The tops of your thighs meet the rough material of his jeans, your mouths hovering.
You look like you might cry, or burst from excitement, or all of the above.
âCould lose your whole career, could lose mine.â
Your mouth looks so soft, so unbelievably inviting. He canât believe heâs feeling you like this, pressed against him, warm and whole. You smell so sweet, knows you taste even better. He canât think straight. Not even a little bit.
The corner of his lip twitches, smiles softly down at you with hearts in his eyes. You move your hands to his rough face, feeling his firm jaw and the scruff against your aching palms. You slide them across the sides of his neck, such warm skin, to his nape where your fingers become acquainted with short, soft curls.
âIt would be an HR nightmare, Robby would know, but not the end honey, never that. Wonât let that happen to you.â
He swipes a thumb against your bottom lip, and you shiver against his form, fight the urge to take it into your mouth. Your eyes are all low now, that far a way look is back and he doesnât know if itâs your pulse or his that is thumping thumping thumping.
âPlease, please.â
Youâre begging for something, everything, nothing all at once. But he sees it swimming in your eyes, in your body language. Itâs like the entire field around you is pulsing and he hasnât felt someone palpably desire him like this in a very long time.
It makes him feel like heâs starving.
âI gotta hear you say it, have to.â
Your mouths are almost touching now. Youâre gripping his thick shoulders, reveling in the fact that youâre touching him like this, feeling the muscle underneath his shirt and the tensing, the twitching.
âKiss me, please kiss me, Abbot.â
He canât refuse you. Not when you ask so sweetly and heâs broken every imaginary rule heâs ever given himself.
Heâs not sure why, but he leans and teases himself with the anticipation- hovers just for a second, as if grounding himself to the actual experience. Understanding how soft you look up close, how your bred are furrowed just like his snd your soft bottom lip is almost trembling.
He gives in, quickly.
Itâs not really a fight for dominance, the kiss. Itâs two people with years of built up admiration for one another, whoâd convinced themselves that this could never happen, finally done fighting the inevitable.
You taste so much, feel so much. His scruff against you, the hotness of his tongue as yours and his meet inside your mouths. He twists his head and works the bottom, then the top - slowly, sweetly, but determinedly. You both groan into the kiss.
Heâs got his big hand on the back of your neck, almost massaging the area as his mouth works while the other barely ghosts past your shoulder - you feel the hesitation in his touch, the wanting to go lower, to feel you the way youâre openly feeling him.
âYou can touch.â You breathe out fast. His own breath shakes.
âYeah? You want me to?â
You canât believe heâd ask such a silly question, but itâs Jack. Of course he would, and you nod your head fervently - hoping the pressing of your body against his convinces him that itâs okay. More than okay.
He ravishes your mouth again while eager, trained hands explore. He moves over your shoulders delicately, to your back where he sweeps two open palms down the space, squeezing a bit as he goes until heâs reaching soft hips. He groans into your mouth again, a soft, desperate sound. Youâve genuinely never felt the the type of arousal that builds between your legs now - itâs tight, tense, warm, pulsing. You squeeze them together.
He notices it. Makes his heart rate that much faster, his dick that much harder. Honestly youâve been so swept up in the fact that youâve got your attendings tongue in your mouth - Jacks tongue in your mouth, that you donât notice till this very second.
It intensifies your aching by ten fold.
Itâs clear as day, pressed against your lower stomach, straining against camo cargos. And youâve been practically rutting yourself against it this whole time with your hot and heavy squirming. It feels even more real than it did before.
You donât mean to do it. Genuinely, your body has a visceral reaction and you, well, you press yourself closer and rub against it.
âOhh fuck.â He says the last word like your desire is foreign. Mostly, he canât actually believe you just did that. To him. On him.
Yes, heâs making out with his resident in her apartment. Sure. But the fact that youâd want to touch him there? Do something about his cock being unbearably hard? Itâs enough to make an old man weep. In the back of his mind, he didnât think youâd want a man of his age. As cocky as he can be, it just didnât fully click.
Boy was he wrong.
You seem to light up, whether you realize it or not, at his vocal reaction. Your pupils are even more blown out than before, your temperature has risen, he feels your pebbled nipples against him. God. He wants his mouth on them.
âCan I take you somewhere? The bedroom? Is that what you want honey?â
He moves hair out of your face as he says it, tilting his head, licking his lips and panting like a dog. Heâs searching your eyes for an answer cause youâre so visibly aroused - devoured by youth and lust and adrenaline. He wants you to be sure. Sure like he is.
âMy room is down the hall to the right,â you kiss his scruffy, sun kissed face, and he wants to take care of you forever. âIâve wanted you for so long.â
The last words have a whine to them, and the statement itself is enough for him to start seeing stars. He walks you backwards, kissing your face back, massaging your arms and palming at soft flesh. Heâs in mild disbelief, although the brash part of him just confirms that every little suspicion he had was true.
Somehow heâs prevented you both from stumbling, youâre so enraptured in Jack that you donât notice youâre in your room till heâs grabbing the backs of your thighs and hiking you onto the bed.
Youâre surrounded by a bed spread that is undeniably you, your intimate space comes alive with you now in it - and him. God, it hits him like a freight train now. Heâs mouthing at your neck, leaving trails of warm saliva in his lips wake.
And he keeps getting flashes of your face, the pretty blankets that surround you that you sleep with every night - it all smells so deeply, and so sweetly of you.
Your legs wrap around his waist, instinctively. You need him close, as close as possible is preferred.
Youâre exploring him now, unable to resist now that heâs in your arms and between your legs and in your bed. Youâre grabbing at him rather hastily - mapping the differences between taut, broad shoulders - the expansive breadth of his back and then the softer pliability of the area just above his hips.
You donât realize youâve done it until youâre doing it, slipping down over his belt buckle, palming his dick through his pants and grasping the length of his twitching shaft. The thick cargos do nothing to hide its full mast.
Your mouth forms a little o, just as a choked sound leaves his throat. He looks down for a split second, and twitches against you again.
âYouâre big Jack.â
He chuckles, half amused and half shocked by how quickly youâve reduced him to being lost in this lust filled haze. The words are one thing, your soft voice another, and your hands the entire world.
He ruts against you before sitting up, reaching over his shoulders and pulling his shirt off. He tosses it to the floor and youâre already ogling with intensity at his body so bare in front of you.
You should be embarrassed by how quickly your hands on are on, literally feeling him up. You drag them across his stomach, his firm chest and thick biceps - freckles create an entire constellation across his flesh thatâs rough in some places from sun exposure, softer in the areas that are constantly covered.
He gives you your moments, lets you feel him freely. He canât remember the last time someone looked at him like this. An old man like him, by a beautiful girl whoâs too young for him by every standard except your own. Itâs doing something dangerous to him.
Rough hands slip under your sweatshirt, right at your soft hips where he kneads the flesh, thumbs circling.
âCan I take this off?â
His voice is more desperate than heâd like, more breathless than he expected. You sit up with a nod, throwing your arms in the air and while the garment slips over your head he smiles to himself, a genuine, adoration filled smile.
Itâs his turn to stare. His chest is heaving up and down with the intensity of his heart beat, soft eyes taking you in as much as possible.
âYou are so,â he leans down, mouthing at your jaw. âso,â then your jugular, and down to your collarbones, till his scruff is tickling the valley between your breasts. âbeautiful. Wow.â
He drags his nose against your skin, moving to the left breast and youâre already arching against him, nipples hard and sensitive from arousal. He lets his breath ghost over it before he takes it into his warm mouth - humming with furrowed brows while his tongue swirls around the bud.
Two large hands knead the soft fat of your tits for leverage.
Your own take ransom in his hair, fingers lost in greying curls. His mouth leaves your tit with a pop, before he moves to the next one and repeats the same ministrations.
Your body is on overdrive at this point, you feel it everywhere so intensely itâs almost unbearable. You tug gently at his hair, and he looks up at you with low, intense eyes. You realize youâve never gotten to see this look before, the lust, the adoration, an expression that only comes from someone wanting you, bad. From Jack Abbot? Itâs too much.
âI need you inside of me, now. Please. Please.â
He hears the fervency in your voice, and desperate tears brewing in the waterline of your eyes.
He grasps your face, kisses it gently.
âI got you, I got you. Not going anywhere honey, Iâll give you what you need, yeah?â
His gaze is locked on yours while he sits up, starts undoing his belt and excitement builds in your belly along with the heat. He winces, and wobbles just a bit, and all at once you sit up with him, realization breaking through the urgency.
âYour leg Jack, I totally forgot, wait wait.â
He pauses, and something fills him that heâs tried to hide for a long time. Itâs not exactly embarrassment, but he was willing to fight through the pain - to forget about it too, and now youâre looking up at him with so much tenderness it makes him want to run.
He doesnât.
You grab his broad shoulders, attempting to push him on the bed where you were just lying. He sees that you want to take care of him, that unbearably kind heart aching to make sure heâs okay. He complies, for you - reluctantly, despite the fear. Despite the judgment he knows you arenât giving him but canât help but to prepare for. Just another reason he doesnât deserve you. You read it all over his expression, and you kiss him as sweetly as heâs been kissing you as he gets in his back.
Having you on top of him isnât anything to complain about in the slightest, even if he wanted to fuck you into the mattress until you canât walk. But if this is what you need, god, heâll give it to you as many times as you want. That eagerness is back, your fingers grasping the undone belt and pulling it through the loops. Itâs discarded with your shirts on the floor.
You unbutton his pants and he lifts his hips so you can shimmy them off of him, and you canât hide your expression when you see the outline of his cock straining against his black briefs, you swear that despite the dark color you can see precum seeping through the fabric. You want your mouth on it, but you need him inside of you so bad.
His hands reach out, tugging at the flimsy shorts you have on along with the panties underneath until youâre halfway out of them and then leaning over him so that he can pull them over the swell of your ass and off your legs.
He canât stop staring. Youâre stunning everywhere, itâs a little unfair. He doesnât deserve it, doesnât deserve you. He sees everything - wants to suckle on your clit and taste you in his mouth. He saves that thought for next time. God he hopes there is a next time.
His briefs are next, your face saying all the things your mouth canât at the moment. You lean down to kiss his stomach, his navel and the trail of hair there. He looks up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. He looks back down at you while you pull them off - feels your breath against his sensitive tip. He swears he sees a little bit of drool threatening to spill from the corner of your pretty mouth.
Youâre both stunned. His dick slaps against his stomach, and itâs pretty. You donât know what you expected, but of course Jack would have a pretty cock.
Itâs thick, the tip the same shade of his lips, greying hair neat and trimmed at the base. It sits perfectly between his two thick thighs, and you both touch each other at the same moment.
Youâd giggle if you werenât so wet, he can feel it leaking on his lap, your essence.
âFuck, youâre perfect,â one hands grips your ass, smooths over the swell and down the back of your thighs. The other is between your legs, two thick fingers slipping between your lips and gathering all that wetness to smear it over your swollen clit. Your jaw is slack with shock and arousal.
âYouâre leaking for me? Need me that bad, sweetheart?â
Heâs astounded, truly. Shameful, maybe, that heâs pictured how you look down there. Knew youâd have a neat layer of hair, the shape it would be, the color. Knew youâd felt soft and sweet and sticky.
You take his manhood in your hands, and itâs so hot, so heavy in your palm. You scooch closer, till your ass is resting against his balls and your mound is right against his shaft. He grunts, hips jerking to feel that slickness against him.
It all feels utterly surreal.
âI wanna feel it like this Jack, mâon the shot and youâre the first person Iâve slept with in like a year and-â
Youâre scrambling, he stops it with a soothing hand behind your neck - bringing you down to his mouth. He soars your tongue for a moment before he reassures you.
âIâm clean honey, I trust you. If you want it raw Iâll give it to you, donât have to beg me. Ever. Iâll give you whatever you want.â
Itâs so honest, itâs almost painful.
He reaches between your bodies and grasps himself, pauses to take your hands and place them on his shoulders. He drags himself through your folds, soaking himself with you in the process. The sounds youâre making are forever catalogued in his brain - etched in there like runes.
Heâs caught between your face and the expressions youâre making, and the leaking between your legs. Heâs sure you can feel his heart beat through his chest.
âUp a little, thatâs it,â he instructs. âgonna go in slow, ohhh fuck, sink down on me just like that. Fuuuuck.â
You whimper and grip at his shoulders, in disbelief youâre hearing him so undone like this, feeling him as he slides in you halfway. The stretch is delicious, makes your eyes water. Heâs so hot inside of you, the perfect fit - sliding inside of you little by little while your soft walls squeeze and pulse around him.
You kiss him haphazardly until youâve taken him to the hilt, pubic mound against pubic mound. Youâre both panting into each others mouths, you can feel him throbbing in tandem with yourself - heâs nuzzled perfectly against your cervix. Itâs too much.
And then heâs pressing his feet into the mattress, two hands on your ass for leverage, while he pulls himself back out halfway and drives himself back in - stealing the moan in your throat and leaving a fucked out hiccup in its wake.
âOh god, feels so good Jack, ohhhh.â
You hide your face in his shoulder, knees on either side on his waist. He holds your head against him, makes sure your hips are positioned so that he can really fuck you like this.
And he does.
He knows you need it bad, and honestly he needs it worse. So his pace is somewhere between rough and rushed, but more so an example of his body giving in to yours, of you giving into him.
âYou like it like this, hmm? Taking me all the way baby, Iâm all the way in there.â
His voice is shaky, but he needs this to be good for you, needs to make you fall apart. The sounds are already absurdly lewd. Youâre so wet now that youâre smeared along the length of him that the glide is easy.
âLove it like this, harder, please. Fuck me harder.â
Youâre gonna be the end of him completely. But who is he, if not for you? So he fucks you harder.
If your tits werenât pressed against his chest theyâd be bouncing against him like the rest of you, soft and pliable. Even the sound of his balls slapping against you gets to him - he feels the warmth leaking all over him, against your thighs and his.
You feel so full. Of him. Completely. You try your hardest not to suck any marks against his throat, your squeaks and sounds evidence of how heâs making you feel even if your body wasnât responding the way it is.
And the feeling of him inside of you is a sensation you hope you donât have to miss for too long after this. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the mushroom tip of his cock prodding your insides over and over again.
Your hips begin to match his pace, and you sit up just enough to look down at his face. It causes you to squeeze around him so hard, he almost canât fuck you as hard as he is. You touch his face, thighs trembling and your thumb ghosts across his lips.
He takes it into his mouth, eyes connecting with yours, and if your jaw could drop anymore it would. Itâs a frenzy of sorts, the way youâre fucking. His eyebrows are scrunched, lips curled and chest and neck splotched red from both exertion and arousal.
You plant two hands on his strong chest, meeting him with each thrust. He peers down between your bodies and a string of expletives leaves his tongue. He kisses your palm as it departs.
âShit, baby look at you. Youâve thought about this huh? Thought about how good Iâd fuck you, yeah?â
You whine at this, lost in the sensation.
âAnswer me, use your words. I need to hear you.â
Youâre dizzy, perspiring and trying to find the strength to talk. He reaches a hand down to rub at your clit, circling and circling the hardened bud while he fucks himself into you.
âY-y-yes,â each word is interrupted by a thrust. You keep going. âtouched myself all- oh godddd, touched myself all the time thinking about it. Please donât stop.â
He chokes a little bit, hips stuttering. He feels himself getting dangerously close to the edge.
âOh baby, made yourself cum t-thinking about me?â
Itâs selfish of him trying to get these answers while heâs balls deep inside of your heat, but he canât help it. He needs to know, needs to hear the words roll off your tongue.
You nod, looking down at his big hand and how your wetness is pooling in his palm. How you can see him disappearing with each hard thrust.
âAll the time Jack. Wanted you since I saw you.â
He decides that he doesnât care if it makes him sore later, he needs to be on top of you, needs to hold you and feel you tremble underneath him. The flip is a quick show of his strength, and he managed to stay inside of you as he does it. Your head hits the pillow and he scoops the back of your thighs underneath his biceps - pushes your knees up to your chest.
The angle has you crying out, clawing at his thick forearms, those tears brewing in your eyes again and threatening to fall over your cheeks.
This angle has you feeling even more than before, and you can truly watch how he fucks you. Itâs so nasty, so real, right here in front of you.
âS-so deep.â You stutter. He kisses your knees, your thighs, scruff scratching your skin. You feel a warmth in your belly that feels so good itâs almost scary, vulnerable in the spreading of your legs and the exposure. A thin veil of sweat coats him, and he uses his thumb to circle your clit again.
âI know baby, I know. Gonna make you cum around me, okay? Gonna take care of you.â
And you believe him. Youâve never felt it coming this fast, but itâs brewing. Spreading slowly throughout your body. Looking at him makes it worse, heâs so lost from pleasure, just like you are. But more so, heâs determined, experienced, you can tell just by the way heâs rubbing you and how heâs rolling his hips into you with a slight curve so that you feel him everywhere.
You canât talk anymore. He knows that, he sees it and feels it. Your pussy is weeping for him, and the slickness has developed a translucent white film from your arousals mixing. Heâs getting you so close. Selfishly he hopes no man will ever make you feel like this. Just him. His. All his.
He doesnât realize heâs saying it out loud, till youâre saying it back.
âAll yours Jack, mâall yours.â
Itâs all you can manage, and itâs enough. Itâs all he needed to hear.
âAll mine, hmm? Awe baby, shh I got you. Thatâs it, doing so good - just like that huh?â
Heâs closer now, has slipped between your thighs and let them clasp around his waist so that youâre bringing him as close to your body as possible. Heâs still rubbing your clit, kissing you softly while he strokes you deep, right where you need it. Barely moving in and out fully. Those tears of pleasure have fallen, he kisses them away, holds your face.
âYeah, yeah, yeah,â he pants softly, sweetly. âSo good, I know honey. Let me make you cum. I feel it, you gonna cum for me sweetheart?â
He nods with you as affirmation, keeping the pace. He sees your eyes rolling back, that jaw falling open a little bit more than before, your body tensing more and more and more.
âLet go for me, Iâm right here. You can let go, ohhhh yeah just like that. Cum for me, cum for me.â
Itâs so intense you donât know what to do with yourself. It starts in your stomach, spreads through your limbs and between your legs. Everything feels so tight and you pull him down so you can muffle your cries in his shoulder as your orgasm viciously rides over you.
âOh god ohgodohgod.â
Youâre spasming around his dick so intensely it almost hurts, bucking your hips up to meet his slow, hard thrusts - and he holds you tightly while you jerk against him, makes sure youâre not going anywhere. He feels your wetness increase by tenfold.
âPlease cum in me, please Jack, fuck I need it.â
That undoes it for him. He gives you what you want, having to remove a hand from your face to grip the sheets beside your head, muffles his groan in the mattress while his balls tighten and his own orgasm hits him.
He stills and pushes himself impossibly deeper, your name is all he can really say, like a mantra or a prayer, while his release spurts in thick ropes inside of you - his own body twitches while itâs happening, he canât think, canât speak. Itâs like his hips have a mind of their own, rutting all that cum into you while his half hard cock is drained, your pussy still milking him with the aftershocks of your release.
âJack, Jack.â You pant softly, nails still embedded in his back, legs still ensnaring him inside of you.
Itâs got to be three whole minutes that you lay like this. Breathing heavy, tears drying, body coming down from the vigor of what youâve both just done and how leg shakingly intense your orgasms were. You feel him soften inside of you, feel your legs fully giving out and unable to grip him anymore.
You see his face in front of you with one blink. Heâs moving hair out of your face, wiping your mouth the back of his hand. Heâs staring at your hazy expression, hopes he hangs on to the memory forever. Heâs gonna start getting worried if your breathing down slow down - you looked utterly fucked. Heâs positive he does too, but he canât bring himself to feel bashful about it. He did that.
âHey, you still with me?â
You almost forget how his voice sounds when itâs not wracked his desire. You never thought that would ever happen. A stupid, lopsided smile spreads across your face, and itâs like the fucking break of dawn. His heart skips a beat.
Itâs wicked, and perfect, what youâre doing to him.
âBarely, Doctor Abbot.â
He chortles, buries his face in your neck. You feel his grin against your skin, and your fingers brush through his disheveled hair.
âDonât say that, might make me hard again.â
You tug his face back up, feigning shock.
âOh my god, Doctor Abbot does it for you?â
He kisses you, then. So passionately you could almost cry. Again. He pulls away, rubs his nose against yours, and his stare is all consuming. He cups your cheek, kisses you again and again and again.
âNo, sweetheart. You do it for me. Youâre it for me. You know that?â
Youâre breathless for 100th time in one day.
âYeah? Well youâre it for me old man.â
Youâre probably the only person who could say that, and it mean everything, absolutely everything.
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: in which you get drunk, and jack abbot takes it upon himself to take care of you.
content warnings: implied age gap, sort of a size difference?, reader's drunk so she's veryyyy dizzy, they are kind of aware of the fact that they like each other but also they're doing nothing about it, i think that's it? lmk if i missed something
a/n: hii!! this is my first jack fic ever, so i'm quite nervous!! but i hope you like this <3
The bar was loud enough to be comfortable, quiet enough to pretend you were having actual conversations. You'd stopped trying to follow conversations along about an hour ago.
Your finger traced the condensation on your glass.Under the table, your foot found Jack's. You'd started this maybe thirty minutes ago, toying with his foot idly while he talked to Robby about whatever. You weren't listening anymore.
Jack let you.
He didn't pause his conversation or acknowledge it at all, except he also didn't move his foot away. So you kept going, brushing against him, hooking your foot around his, pulling back, finding him again. A lazy game only you were playing.
After a while, your foot got tired. You stopped toying and just settled your foot over his, letting it rest there and he held it.
You'd been careful, obviously. You knew which leg was his prosthetic. But honestly? You were pretty sure he'd have let you do it anyway. Jack was like that with you. Let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try.
Jack kept talking and holding your foot. But when you stopped moving, he turned.
You were slumped slightly in your seat, one hand against your cheek, finger still tracing the glass mindlessly. The position made your lips pucker slightly, your focus entirely on the nothing you were drawing on the condensation. Bored. Tired. Drunk enough that you'd forgotten to pretend otherwise.
Jack had to suppress a smile at that. He lifted your foot gently, then set it back down and slowly untangled his from yours.
"You okay?" he mumbled, low enough that Robby wouldn't hear over the bar noise.
"Yeah." You kept tracing the glass.
Jack turned his body fully toward you now. His hand came up, barely touching, just fingertips as he brushed your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear from the side he was seeing.
"I'm not sure you are, sweetheart."
He let his hand drop from your hair, and for the first time all night, got a proper look at your side profile.
You finally lifted your head off your hand and turned to him. "No, I am. I promise." You rubbed your eye softly.
Jack shot you a look, that look, the one that said he didn't believe you but wasn't going to argue.
He turned back to Robby, to whatever conversation they'd been having. But he stayed close. And as he did, his hands found the scarf you'd been wearing all night. He started to work it loose, realizing exactly how overheated you must have been.
You let him.
Because it's Jack. And Jack takes care of you. Always has. Always will.
Even Robby didn't budge, kept talking like nothing was happening, because honestly? This was just how Jack was with you. How he'd always been and Robby had stopped mentioning it months ago.
At some point, Jack finished with the scarf and spoke without looking at you. "You should stop wearing that so much." He folded it carefully. "It's May."
You were slumped against the back of your seat now, warm and loose and not really tracking much. "It's really pretty, though." You sounded like a child. But that was a given. You were drunk off your ass.
"Yeah. It is." Jack glanced at you and shook his head fondly.
While you slouched and let the bar noise wash over you, he reached for your bag and opened it. He carefully tucked the folded scarf inside, then set your purse back down within your reach.
Usually you'd hang out with Trinity at the bar, but she'd gone God knows where with Victoria at some point, leaving you stranded at the table with Jack and Robby and their never ending medical talk. Not that you minded, necessarily. Jack was here.
Plus you were tired. You hadn't slept well, hadn't slept well in days, honestly, though you'd never admit it. So you had no idea why you'd even come in the first place. Maybe it was because this was the first day off you'd had in ages. And sitting at home alone, watching baking competitions while you ate chocolate straight from the wrapper, had sounded kind of sad. So you'd come out.
Maybe it was also your chance to see Jack in outside clothes. Not that you didn't enjoy seeing him in his scrubs, you did, obviously, you weren't blind, but there was something about him in regular clothes that hit different. The way his jeans fit. The shirt heâd worn tonight was dark grey, the sleeves tight against his biceps.
Too bad you were too drunk to really appreciate it tonight.
The bar seemed louder now. You weren't sure if that was your drunkenness perceiving it that way or if the crowd had actually picked up. Either way, the noise was starting to press against your skull in a way that wasn't entirely pleasant.
You noticed a little drip of beer left in your glass, just a swallow, really, and you picked it up and drank it, plopping the glass back down satisfied that the little yellow was fully gone now.
Your not quite existent thoughts were interrupted by Jackâs hand brushing up and down your back. "How are you feeling?" He leaned in closer, mouth near your ear.
Ah. The bar had gotten louder. You weren't imagining it.
You turned your head, slightly caught off guard by how close he was, close enough to count his eyelashes, but you didn't pull back.
"Okay." You mumbled it, then turned your head away again, facing forward. Jack stared at you anyway. You could feel it.
"Jack."
"Hm?"
"Stop staring. I'm fine."
He chuckled, a sound you felt more than heard. "You're not fine."
His hand stopped moving, resting flat against the middle of your back. "Come on. I'm taking you home." His thumb started moving again, just brushing back and forth.
You sighed loudly, turning your head back to him. "Will you carry me home?" You were joking. Obviously. Being ridiculous. Drunk and warm and not wanting to move.
"Sure." Jack said it like it was nothing. Like carrying you home was the most natural thing in the world. He was already scooting off his seat.
"Jack!" You smiled despite yourself, rubbing your eyes tiredly again.
He smiled back, softly. And you knew, even drunk, even with your head spinning slightly, that he would have carried you either way. Joking or not.
That was just Jack.
The bar swayed slightly as you scooted out of the booth. Or maybe that was just you. Hard to tell at this point.
Jack was already standing, waiting at the edge of the seat with his hands.
You stared at his hands. Not on purpose.
Okay, maybe a little on purpose. But in your defense, they were right there, in front of you, and you were drunk enough that staring felt justified. His fingers, the way his knuckles looked, the silver band on his ring finger.
You stared anyway. Your drunk brain had apparently decided this was fine. Normal and acceptable behavior.
Luckily for you, Jack was good at reading the room. Or, more accurately, good at pretending he hadn't noticed whatever embarrassing thing you were currently doing. He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes. "Come on, sweetheart."
You finally glanced up, shaking whatever expression was on your face into something less obvious, and took his hands. He pulled you gently off the seat, and then the world decided to keep moving even though you'd stopped.
You stood there for a moment. Then another moment. Then a moment too long. Your eyes squeezed shut as you gripped his hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Jack didn't move, instead he stood there, watching you with something soft in his expression that you couldn't see because your eyes were still closed.
After a beat too long, he got worried. "Hey." His voice was quiet. "Don't sleep on me." He let go of one of your hands and touched your cheek. Barely.
Your eyes opened immediately. "'M not asleep." The words came out mushier than you intended. "Just dizzy. Really dizzy." You blinked at him, trying to focus. "Please don't let go."
"I won't." He dropped his hand from your cheek but kept the other one firmly wrapped around yours. "You okay with me just holding your hand, or do you need more support?"
"Waist." You didn't even hesitate. Didn't even have it in you to be embarrassed about how quickly that came out.
Jack smiled. "Okay."
He didn't say anything about how that was exactly what he'd been hoping for. Didn't let on that his heart did something dumb when you said it. Just gently grabbed your arm, draped it over his shoulder, and slid his own arm around your waist. "You good?" He turned his head to look at you, close enough that you could see how hazel his eyes were.
"Good." You smiled up at him.
The walk to his car was long. Way too long, honestly. Jack had parked outside and every step felt like three. You stumbled twice. He just tightened his arm around your waist and kept going.
At some point you realized you hadn't said goodbye to Trinity or Victoria. You mumbled something about it, half panicked and Jack just shook his head. "It's okay. Robby will let them know."
Eventually, finally, you reached his car. And then he had to let go of you to get the door open. You groaned loudly. The kind of groan that belonged in a teenager having a tantrum, except you were a grown adult who was simply too drunk and too tired to care about dignity.
Jack started chuckling.
"You find all of this too funny." You leaned heavily against his car, glaring at him with zero actual heat. "I don't like it." He was still chuckling as he opened the door. Soft chuckles that made him shake his head slightly. "Stop making fun of me." You tried to sound stern. It came out sleepy.
"I'm not." He was smiling. "I promise." His hand found your waist again and you felt yourself relax into the touch before you could stop it. "Watch your head."
He guided you down into the seat carefully, one hand on your waist, the other hovering near the top of the door frame like he'd catch you if you forgot to duck. Which, honestly? You might have. The night was fuzzy.
You plopped down into the seat, your head lulling against the headrest like it was too heavy to hold up on its own. The leather was cool against your warm cheek. Nice. You might just stay here forever.
"There you go." He said it quietly.
Jack pushed the door wider, so he could bend down to your level. The interior light spilled over both of you as he leaned in, reaching across you for the seatbelt.
"You smell nice," you mumbled.
He clicked the belt into place. "I smell like a bar."
"You smell nice." You said it again, correcting him.
Jack paused, looking at you properly now. The kind of look that missed nothing. He realized then that you were much drunker than he'd thought.
He smiled anyway, shook his head slightly. He reached up and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear like it was muscle memory now, so you could see him better.
Not that you were looking. Your eyes were closed again.
But then his fingers brushed your skin, and your eyes fluttered open, startled by the closeness. He didn't mention your staring, didn't comment on how your breath caught slightly. Just held your gaze for a moment, before speaking quietly.
"You want to go to your place or mine?"
Your eyes went wide. Wide enough that if you'd been sober, you'd have been mortified. "Is your place an option?" The excitement in your voice was impossible to miss.
Jack's eyebrows lifted slightly and he pulled back a fraction. His hand rested on the side of the door, steadying himself.
"Yeah." His voice was measured. "I'm concerned about you. You've had way too much alcohol. I'd rather not have you out of my sight."
You tilted your head, processing this. "I can take care of myself."
His arm traveled up to the top of the door frame now, leaning in slightly as he looked down at you. The position made him seem bigger somehow. "I know you can." He reached down, catching your hand just as you were about to rub your eyes again. His fingers wrapped around yours gently, stopping you. "But I'd still like to help."
You stared at him. Then your eyes dropped to his hand holding yours. "Okay." It came out small. Nothing like your usual self.
Jack smiled. Then he let go and straightened up, pulling the door closed.
You watched him through the window as he walked around the front of the car, the night dark behind him. He opened his door, slid into the driver's seat, and glanced over at you. "Doing okay?"
"Yeah."
He nodded back, satisfied with that, and started the engine.
The ride was quiet. Your eyes were closed, just letting the movement of the car rock you gently while the warmth from the seat seeped into your tired body.
"I can't wait to see your home." The words came out before you fully realized you'd spoken them.
Jack glanced at you briefly, then back at the road. A red light was coming up, and he slowed the car to a stop. "Why's that?"
You tilted your head against the seat, turning to look at him properly. The streetlight above cast warm orange light through the windshield, catching the lines of his face.
"'Cause I just wanna know more about you." The words hung in the air between you, and you watched the slight shift in his eyes, the way he held your gaze a moment longer than necessary.
Then he nodded. "Guess you will in a couple of minutes."
You smiled. "Do you have a cat?"
"No, I don't have a cat." He paused, glancing at you again as the light turned green and he started moving. "You think I'm capable of taking care of a cat?"
You raised your eyebrow at him, still smiling. "You're doing a great job with me right now." He'd been taking care of you all night. All the time, really, if you thought about it. Which you tried not to. Usually.
Jack turned his head toward you for a second, but long enough for you to catch the look on his face. He was surprised, maybe, like he hadn't expected you to say that. "You're comparing yourself to a cat?"
You shrugged. "Cats are nice. I'm nice."
He smiled. "Yeah. You are nice."
You felt your face warm, shy in a way you hadn't been a moment ago. "Yeah?" you asked, voice smaller now.
"Very nice." He said it like he meant it.
You made a happy sound. The kind of sound you couldn't have stopped if you tried, because Jack Abbot just called you very nice, and he was your boss, and also your crush, and also currently driving you to his apartment, and none of that made sense but all of it felt right.
"You're nice too," you said softly.
Jack didn't respond. Just kept driving, eyes on the road, but you caught the barely there smile at that.
You stared out the window for a while, watching streetlights blur past. But your brain was still turning, still willing to say things you'd never say sober. "Ellis said you're nicer to me than to everyone else."
There. You'd said it. Put it out in the world.
Jack's hands tightened on the wheel. Ah. He got it now. Drunk you was honest. Vulnerable. The kind of vulnerable that usually hid behind jokes and deflection and pretending not to care.
"Would that be a problem?" he asked, testing the ground.
You shook your head, still looking out the window. "No." you paused. "I just wonder why."
The car slowed. You heard the engine cut out, felt the sudden stillness settle around you. You glanced outside but you didn't really look. Pretended to, though.
"Seriously?" he asked.
You met his eyes. And suddenly you weren't just drunk anymore, you were aware of how the car felt smaller now.
"You're asking too many questions tonight, Jack." You grumbled it, but it came out nervous. The kind of nervous you get when you ask something you weren't sure you wanted the answer to. "Just answer the question."
He chuckled. Almost nervous, if Jack Abbot even got nervous. And you realized, dimly, that you'd never heard him nervous before.
"I'm not answering this one." Your heart dropped, but he kept going. "Because you know the answer already."
He was staring at you and you stared back, frozen, because yes. Yes, you did know. You'd known for a while, probably. Known in the way he looked at you, the way he found you in a crowded room, the way he let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try. Known in the foot under the table, the scarf folded into your bag, known in the way he was driving you to his place.
But hearing it straight up like this while drunk off your mind was something you hadn't expected.
You looked away first. Your heart was too loud, your face too warm, your brain too fuzzy to process the weight of what just happened.
The silence stretched.
Then, softly Jack spoke again. "Come on. Let's get you inside."
You bit your lip, watching as Jack got out of the car. The door closed with a solid thunk, and then he was walking around the front, headlights catching him briefly before he disappeared into shadow, then reappearing at your door. He opened it softly, the night air rushing in cool against your warm skin, and leaned down to undo your seatbelt.
"Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He said quietly. "I'm sorry."
You shook your head immediately. "Not uncomfortable." You reached for his hands without thinking. "JustâŚ" You searched for the word. It floated somewhere in your fuzzy brain, just out of reach. "Shy?" You smiled up at him, hoping that was the right one.
He smiled back. "Shy is good."
You smiled back, warmth spreading through your chest. Then he was helping you out of the car, guiding you up and out until you were standing, leaning against the doorframe for balance. He shut your door and the car beeped twice as it locked.
You stayed leaned against the car for a moment, looking at him. He stood in front of you now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you.
"I know your answer." You said softly, barely meeting his eyes. "You know. Before. I know it."
He uncrossed his arms, let them hang at his sides. "Good."
You smiled at him and he smiled right back. "I hope you say it properly one day."
"I plan to, sweetheart." He promised. "Trust me."
You watched him for a long moment. "Soon?"
The word came out smaller than you meant it to. You reached for his hand, not as dizzy anymore or maybe just not noticing it, and he took it immediately. His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
"Soon." He smiled softly.
You smiled back, heart full to bursting, before finally letting him guide you away from the car. He kept looking at you as you walked, making sure you weren't about to fall. You weren't. You were mostly dizzy on love, if that made any sense at all. It probably didn't. You didn't care.
He helped you up the steps to his building, one hand firm on your waist, the other ready to catch you if you stumbled. You managed just fine, though, even found yourself grinning at the ordinary miracle of walking and of his hand warm through your shirt.
At his door, he fumbled with keys for a second before finding the right one. The lock clicked open.
"You're rich," you mumbled as you stepped inside.
He chuckled behind you. "Well, I'd hope so after twenty years of being a doctor."
You giggled at that and you heard him smile even before you turned to see it. He pushed the door open wider, and you managed to walk in on your own, looking around as the space opened up in front of you.
"Woah." yeah, he was most definitely rich.
Jack locked the door behind you, and then he stepped closer, hands coming up to brush softly at your waist, steadying you as you took it all in.
"You like it?" His breath warm against the back of your neck as he helped you out of your jacket.
"You're not messy!" you said, maybe too loudly. "Everything's organized."
You pulled off your shoes and tried your best to put them away neatly by the door. They ended up slightly crooked but together, which felt like a win.
Jack sighed behind you, worried more than anything. You heard him hang your jacket and bag up.
When you turned around, he was watching you with that look. The one that probably meant that he was calculating your blood alcohol content, probably whether you needed water or food or just to be sat down before you fell over.
"You're worrying," you said.
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm always worrying."
"About me?"
He held your gaze for a long moment. "Yeah. About you."
You smiled and then you stepped further into the apartment, still taking everything in, when Jack glanced down at your feet. His eyes caught on two different socks and he grinned to himself.
"Jack, you have a really nice house," you mumbled, wandering toward a shelf against the wall. It was covered in random things. A dusty trophy from some old sports thing. A couple of framed photos, faces you didn't recognize. Some diplomas. A stack of books with worn spines.
"Thanks, sweetheart." His voice came from somewhere behind you. "But we should really get you to sober up."
You turned your head toward him. He was standing there watching you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a small smile playing at his mouth.
"Am I sleeping here?" You weren't on your tiptoes anymore, trying to see the top shelf. Instead you turned to him, meeting his eyes.
"Would you like to sleep here?" He asked it gently, giiving you the choice.
"Would you like me to sleep here?"
He didn't hesitate. "Of course I do."
"Okay." You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly shy again. "If I'm not a bother, I'd like to stay."
He crossed the distance between you, hand finding your lower back as he led you down a short hallway. "You're never a bother."
He stopped at a door, pushed it open, and flicked on the light. His bathroom was clean, just like the rest of his place. He motioned you inside. "Wait here."
He pulled the toilet seat down and you plopped down gratefully, suddenly aware of how tired you actually were.
Jack disappeared. You heard him in the kitchen, water running, a cabinet opening and closing. You let your head rest against the wall behind you and your eyes drifted to his shower.
There was a small collection of bottles lined up along the ledge. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Nothing fancy. Just regular guy stuff. But you found yourself staring anyway, head tilted, squinting slightly as you tried to read the labels. Trying to figure out what kind of shampoo Jack Abbot used.
You were still squinting when he appeared in front of you, holding a glass of water. You startled just slightly.
"Drink up." He held the cup out, waiting. You mumbled a small "thank you" before reaching for it, but your hands were less coordinated than you'd realized, and instead of taking it properly you just covered his hand with yours.
He let you. His other hand came up to brush your hair gently away from your face. You felt his fingers graze your temple, your cheek, tucking strands behind your ear the way he always did.
When you lowered the glass, he caught the corner of your mouth with his thumb, brushing away a stray drop of water.
You sighed, content and suddenly so much less thirsty. "Thank you."
Jack took the glass from your hands and set it on the counter, out of the way. Then he crouched down in front of you. "How you feeling, sweetheart?"
You considered the question. Actually considered it, instead of just saying fine like you always did. "Tired," you admitted. "But good. Really good."
He nodded slowly. "Dizzy? Nauseous?"
You shook your head. "Just tired. And warm. And happy." The last part slipped out before you could stop it. You felt your cheeks warm, but you didn't take it back.
He smiled. "Happy's good."
He reached up to softly remove the hair clip from your hair. You felt the tension release as your hair fell loose around your shoulders.
"I look like a mess. I'm sorry." You mumbled it, eyes dropping to your lap. "I got all dressed up for you, and now I'm drunk sitting on your toilet, and I'm going to regret this so terribly tomorrow."
Something flickered in Jack's eyes. Something that he didn't let himself say out loud, like how at least you'd wake up in his bed, at least he'd be there when you did. He stopped himself. But he couldn't help latching onto the other part.
"You got dressed up for me?"
His voice was soft as he reached up again, finding another clip, then another. Little ones now scattered on his sink. He sank back to his knees in front of you, winced slightly, because kneeling on a prosthetic leg wasn't comfortable. But he stayed there anyway. His hands found your knees as he brushed back and forth slowly.
"Yeah. I wanted to look pretty for you."
The words landed somewhere in his chest. He smiled gently, thumb tracing a small circle on your knee. "You always look pretty."
You shook your head immediately, already sighing. "No I don't. Not right now."
Jack shook his head right back at you. "Yeah you do."
You opened your mouth to argue and he just shook his head again. You stopped immediately.
"Uh uh. Enough of that." He shook his head again. "I'm your boss. I'm the one who has the last word here."
You stared at him for a second, then you grinned. "Okay."
He smiled back and started to push himself up. You caugh his reaction this time, the slight grimace, the way he braced himself on the sink, the small groan he tried to hide.
"Are you okay?" you asked concerned.
He waved it off. "Fine. Old man stuff." He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, then looked down at you. "You want to sleep in these clothes?"
You considered it, chewing on your lip for a second. Then you shrugged. "Actually, I wanna wear your clothes."
That stopped him cold. He halted mid step, turning to look back at you. You were smiling up at him with that huge grin. You knew exactly what you were doing. You were aware, on some level, what those words did something to him.
"You're terrible, you know that?" he mumbled, but there was no heat in it. He reached for your hand, pulling you gently up from the toilet seat.
You took his hand, steadying yourself against him, and grinned even wider. "You like me. That means I can't be that terrible."
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. He led you out of the bathroom and down the hall.
His bedroom was nice. A dresser with a few things on top. A lamp on the nightstand. A window with the blinds half drawn, letting in slivers of streetlight
"Nice bed," you mumbled softly, taking in the way he'd properly made it, sheets tucked in, pillows fluffed, a blanket folded at the foot.
"It's good enough," he replied, already moving toward his closet.
You stood there watching him, not even trying to hide it. He was choosing something for you and your drunk brain found that unbearably sweet.
He turned around holding sweatpants and a t-shirt and tilted his head slightly. A question. Okay?
You nodded, reaching out to take them from his hands. The fabric was warm and you hugged them without thinking.
"I'll be in the bathroom. Just call for me when you're done."
You nodded again, suddenly more tired now that you were in his room with his lamp casting warm light and his bed right there looking so comfortable. He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.
In the bathroom, Jack leaned against the sink for a moment. He turned on the cold water, splashed some on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. You were here. In his home. Sleepy and honest and practically admitting you liked him. Dressed up for him. He pressed his palms against the counter and exhaled slowly, aware of his heart beating faster than it had any right to.
He changed quickly. Sweatpants, a clean shirt. Brushed his teeth. Tried to look normal, tried to calm down, tried to remember how to be just Jack instead of Jack who had you in his bedroom wearing his clothes.
Then you called his name.
He opened the door and walked down the hall. And yeah, the sight didn't help his heart at all.
You were standing by his bed, well, standing was generous. More like swaying gently, having clearly tried to fold your clothes and put them on the chair in the corner. The folding hadn't gone well. Your shirt was half draped over the chair back, your jeans in a heap on the floor next to it. But you were wearing his clothes. His shirt swallowed you whole, the hem falling to your thighs. His sweatpants were rolled at the waist and still too big, pooling slightly at your feet.
He smiled to himself, trying to get his heart to calm down as he reached for the bed, pushing back the sheets, getting it ready for you.
The silence behind him lasted just a little too long.
Ah. You wanted a compliment. "You look as pretty as ever." he said over his shoulder, smiling at you.
"I like your clothes," you giggled, happy over receiving the compliment you'd been waiting for. You shuffled closer until you were standing next to him.
He turned to look at you fondly. "Like them on you, too."
His hand gently found your waist and he guided you backward, lowering you onto the bed until you were sitting, then lying down, your head meeting the pillow he'd just fluffed. You went easily. He thought about how different this was from your usual shyness, how you'd normally get flustered and look away if he got too close. But here, now, you were more than happy to jump into his bed.
But, who was he to judge? He loved having you here.
"God, I'm so tired." You mumbled it, hand coming up to rub your eyes again. "And drunk. So drunk."
Jack still stood above you, watching. He loved the way you curled slightly toward the warmth of his pillow and the way you looked so perfect in his bed.
"I know, sweetheart." He said softly "Just rest now." He reached down and pulled the blanket up over you.
He, then, reached for your shoulder and turned you onto your side. "That's better," he mumbled softly, fingers brushing your hair away from your face. His hand lingered for just a second on the curve of your cheek.
"Sleep well," he whispered. "I'll get you some ibuprofen for your headache and some water tomorrow, yeah?" He gestured vaguely toward the nightstand, even though you couldn't see it. "They'll be right here. On the night table."
You just hummed in response, already slipping under, already gone. You burrowed deeper into his pillow.
He started to pull away, to move toward the door, when your hand shot out. "Don't leave." He looked down at you, at your hand wrapped around his wrist. "What do I get out of being in your bed if you're not here?" you murmured, turning onto your back to look up at him properly.
His heart stopped. He was sure he didn't hear you right.
"Please?" you added, softer now.
"Yeah. Okay." he replied quietly as he rounded the bed slowly, walked to the other side, and laid down at a distance. So much distance you could have fit another person between you. He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach.
You propped yourself on your forearms behind you, head tilted, staring at him with an open mouth. And then you started giggling.
"Jack Abbot." His name in your mouth was so wonderful, he wanted to close his eyes for a second to cherish it. "Are you nervous? Do I make you nervous?" You seemed genuinely delighted by this discovery. Thrilled, even.
He shot you a look. And yeah. Okay. He was laying very far away from you. The kind of distance a teenager would put between themselves and a date on the first night. He was old enough to not be nervous about this.
But here, now, with you in his bed wearing his clothes and looking at him like that? Of course he was nervous.
"Sweetheart." His voice came out quieter than he meant. "You're in my bed. What do you expect?" Honesty. He'd decided on honesty. "Of course I'm nervous."
You tilted your head, and then you were moving closer, until you were leaning on one elbow, looking down at him from above. Your hair fell forward, brushing against his shoulder. You'd brushed your teeth earlier, used his toothpaste, and you smelled like mint and him. It did something to him. "That's cute."
He huffed out a laugh, reacting the only way he knew when feeling this seen. "Sure."
You giggled again, that wonderful sound that seemed to live somewhere in his chest now, and then your hand found its way up to his chest. And that's when his heart stopped.
Not really. Obviously not really. But it felt like it stopped. Felt like everything stopped.
Your fingers traced patterns on his chest, circles, lines, nothing recognizable. Then they drifted lower, tracing random shapes on his stomach through the fabric of his shirt.
"I am really drunk," you murmured, "but I still know that I'm going to regret this tomorrow." You were watching your hand. "But being drunk also gives me an excuse to touch you. So I'm using it."
"You don't need an excuse to touch me." He watched you, enjoying the view of seeing your pretty face so close. "I promise you, sweetheart."
You tilted your head, looking at him, processing his words slowly, the way drunk people do.
"I'll take you up on that." You said softly. "A lot."
Jack Abbot had never ever felt more thrilled. "You do that, baby."
His hand found the back of your shoulder, gently guiding you down until your head was resting fully on his chest, right over his heart, letting you feel what you did to him.
His hand came up to the back of your head. His big hand engulfed it completely, fingers spreading through your hair, brushing through it slowly. His thumb moved gently against your scalp.
He felt you startle slightly at first and then relax. Your hand finally stopped moving on his stomach. He reached down with his other hand, grabbed the sheets, and pulled them up over you both.
Then he felt your ankle hooking gently over his, just like at the bar. And he smiled to himself in the dark.
He kept brushing through your hair. He remembered watching you once. You'd been stressed about something, pacing the break room, and you'd done this thing where you ran your own fingers through your hair, over and over, until you calmed down.
He hoped this helped.
He could feel it in the way you relaxed further, the way your breathing evened out, the way your body went heavy against his.
You were quiet for a long moment, so long he thought you'd fallen asleep, but then you spoke quietly. "I hope I remember this tomorrow."
He smiled before whispering, âIâll make sure you do.â
Notes: Welcome back to another accidental three-parter. Not beta-read.
Rating: M
Length: 5.6K
Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical medical chat; fluff; POV switches a couple of times; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot
Summary: Abbot didnât make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.
It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valuedâand nervous.
Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that youâd hardly looked in the eye for the last few years.Â
It started when she was an intern.Â
Jack was fully aware of his tendency toward strong eye contact. It helped him make sure he was fully getting a point across when he was guiding residents in the ERâso long as their focus wasn't meant to be elsewhere.Â
He managed to meet her eye fully exactly twiceâand maybe it was odd, but Jack could remember both times clear as day.Â
The first one was her first day at the Pitt, when sheâd shook his hand, introduced herself with a nervous tremor in her voice. Her palm had been a little sweaty, and cold, but her eyes had held his.Â
The second had been a week or so later, the first time sheâd lost a patient. Heâd clapped her on the shoulder, reassured her that there was nothing more she couldâve done. Heâd tacked on, âDonât let it happen again,â and heâd been kiddingâbut she had balked, ducked her head, apologized, and hurried away.Â
She had rarely met his eye since then.
At first, heâd figured that she was shy, and that sheâd grow out of it. Then, heâd thought that maybe she was more reserved at workâsome people simply kept their personal and professional lives separate.
But those notions had been disproven time and time and time again: when she palled around with her fellow residents; when she watched and communicated with Walsh attentively; when the senior resident that was clearly hitting on her leaned just a little too close for Jackâs liking in the staff room.Â
She hadnât backed down from a single one, hardly batted a damn eyelash.
But any time she spotted Jack, her eyes would lower or dart awayâto the floor, to her hands, to a chart, to the sandwich cart, to a counter.
Now, Jack was not a man to take these things personally, but after all these years, it stuck in his craw. He didnât think about it most days, had learned to take it in stride, found ways to work with it. It had never caused a hold up during a procedure, or in the event of an emergency. She was always active in communicating with him, she justâŚNever looked at him.Â
âYouâre going to burn a hole through her head.âÂ
Jack hadnât realized he was staring until Lena said so. He glanced toward the nurse, eyed her knowing smile, and redirected his focus to the computer in front of him.Â
âNo idea what youâre talking about.â
Lena snorted, turning back to the desk as someone approached to ask her a question.Â
Jack only half-listened, unable to help his eyes drifting toward her again. She was hunched over her own computer, and seemed to be fighting back a smile at something Shen was saying. Another comment or two from Shen, and then her chin was tipping up, a bright smile on her lips as she held Shenâs eye.
Jack huffed a soft laugh through his nose at the sound of Shenâs cackling laugh, and it was like watching ripples in a pondâher head tipped, her brow furrowed, and her eyes darted in Jackâs direction. The smile flattened when she caught him looking, her focus lowering to her keyboard as she hurriedly straightened. She seemed to point to the charge board, mutter something, and turned on her heel, striding away with purpose.
Jack couldnât help a swell of petty disappointment. What the hell was that? There was no way sheâd heard him laugh. It was like sheâd sensed a disturbance in the force. Jack shook his head, trying to refocus on the chart.Â
Did she panic because he had been smiling? Had he been staring at her as long as Lena implied? Did he look like some dirty old man?Â
Jack pushed off of the desk, eyeing the charge board with purpose. Whatever it was that made her skitter away like thatâwell. Heâd forget it by tomorrow.Â
--Â Â
âHey. You headed in?âÂ
You glanced back, doing a double-take at the site of Ellis standing in the kitchen doorway.Â
âUhâYeah, just packinâ a few snacks. You need anything?âÂ
âI got something to ask you.âÂ
âSure, whatâs up?â You turned to face her, folding your arms expectantly. In the entire time you and Ellis had been roommates, youâd never seen her look concerned like thisâand she usually didnât bother trying to be delicate when broaching a difficult subject.Â
âParker, what is it?â You pressed.
âIs something going on between you and Abbot?â
Your brow furrowed, mouth falling open as if to answerâbut what the hell kind of question was that?
âExcuse me?âÂ
âYou and Abbot, whatâs going on?âÂ
âThereâs nothing going on.âÂ
âYou sure?âÂ
âI think Iâd know if something was happening between us, El. Where the hell did this come from, anyway?âÂ
âShen said the two of you were weird yesterday, that Abbot looked at you and you bolted. Andââ She shrugged, âYou kinda always seem like that. Did something happen?âÂ
âNothing happened yesterday! I realized I needed to go check on a patient, Iâd just gotten their results back.âÂ
âAnd all the other times?âÂ
âI have no idea what youâre talking about.âÂ
Ellis gave you a long look before she relented, holding her hands up in surrender with a mutter of, âAlright.â
âGreat.â
âIf you insistââ
âI do insist.âÂ
âBut you know what they say about people who protest too much.â
âCap it, Hamlet. You on tonight?âÂ
âYep,â Ellis nodded.Â
âSee you in there.âÂ
âIf you wanna wait, Iâll drive you.âÂ
âNah, itâs okay,â You shifted your bag onto your shoulder. âThe walk is good for me.â
âWeâre gonna be on our feet for the next twelve hours.âÂ
âI like a warm-up,â You insisted. âSee you in there.âÂ
Slow and steady, that was how you left the apartmentâeven steps, a measured pocket-pat-down at the door to make sure you had your phone, keys, wallet, ID badgeâŚAnd then you were out the door.
Out the door, and down the stairs, and cursing under your breath as you stepped out onto the street. Where the hell did Ellis get off, asking something like that? Implying that something could be going on between you and Abbot? You hardly spoke to the guy. Hellâyou felt like you barely said more than two words to the man that didnât have anything to do with work. The implication that the two of you had something going on was categorically insaneâand it twisted your gut up in a knot.Â
The closer you got to the Pitt, the worse the feeling got, until it was bordering on nausea. You stopped a block away, drawing in a deep breath and puffing it out between your lips, trying to shake yourself of the feeling. Damnit, whyâd you let Ellis get in your head that way?Â
You drew in another steadying breath as you started forward again, trying to shake the nerves out of your hands. This shift was going to be fineâas seamless as the ones before it. Â
--Â
âYou doinâ okay?âÂ
It was a fair question asked by the last person you wanted to hear it from. The shift had been hell. Patient after patient seemed to have some hitch. You were slower to respond when Abbot asked you questions, prompted you. It was only made worse by the feeling of Ellis and Shen watching every goddamn interaction.Â
Now, the test results were back for the patient you were least looking forward to seeing. The patient herself was sweet, but you were getting nowhere with her overbearing husband answering nearly every question for her.Â
You pushed yourself to straighten up.Â
âFine,â You insisted flatly. âThanks.â You straightened fully, hesitating as you heard him take a step away. âActuallyââÂ
It was out of your mouth before you could stop it. You saw Abbot go still in your periphery, and your hands flexed around the iPad in your hands.Â
âIâm having trouble getting answers from a patientâa woman with a head injury. She said she slipped and whacked it, but based on where the cut is...I don't think it's possible. And her husbandâs an overbearing ass. Iâve got a bad feeling about him.â
âAbusive?âÂ
âI think so. Could you run interference?âÂ
âSure. You have one of those pens, one of theââÂ
âI always keep a couple in my pocket.âÂ
--
She steeled herself before she went into the examination bay. Jack had seen her do it time and time again when she could. He wondered how it steadied her, savored the way that she closed her eyes for a split-second, drew in a deep breath, and then slapped a smile on before pulling the curtain back.
"How are we doing in here?"
Her chipper tone did nothing to reveal the concern that she'd shared with him moments ago. Abbot followed close behind, taking in the young woman laying in a hospital gown on the bed, and the man standing just beside her at the head. Abbot took another step toward the bed, then stopped as the woman seemed seemed to shrink back, attempting to make herself smaller.
"She's fine." The man's voice was gruff in his insistence, his hand curled into a fist just by his wife's head. Abbot's eyes skated across the bruises and scrapes to the knuckles there, his own hands wringing behind his back as he took another step closer.
Jack saw her glance back toward him before she gestured, "Dr. Abbot, this is Nick and Amanda Alpers. Mr. and Mrs. Alpers, this is Dr. Abbot. He's the ER's foremost expert on head injuries." An easy fib, and it seemed to be a necessary one.
"Aren't you all trained on the same shit?" Nick grumbled. Abbot took a couple of steps closer, taking in the slight matting of hair on the wife's head, the dark clotting of blood.
"We all have our own experiences that inform how we practice," Abbot passed easily, taking one more step. "Mrs. Alpers, would it be alright if I examined theâ"
"It's just a scrape, really!" The insistence was hurried, and left the poor woman in a squeak. Abbot forced a small smile, giving a conceding nod.
"May I examine the scrape?" He conceded.
Amanda's eyes seemed to dart to Nick for permission, and only after a hefty sigh did Nick wave Abbot closer.
He couldn't help but note the way his fellow doctor rounded the bed, caught on the slight flurry of her questions as he gloved up.
"Are you feeling any pressure?" He asked, gently parting the hair to get a better look at the bloody, raised bump on her head.
"N-no. No more than usualâI mean! No more than anyone ever usually feels," Amanda hurried to answer. Abbot's eyes lifted to the doctor on the opposite side of the bed just in time to see her fingers tightening around her iPad.
"Any sensitivity to light, sound...?" Abbot went on, drawing his penlight out of his pocket and shining it from one eye to the next.
"Nn-nn."
"Hm."
"If that's all, can we go?" Nick groused. "Already been a waste of a night."
Abbot straightened, sizing Nick up. He waited for his fellow physician to say something, butâNothing. He looked at her, certain she was eyeing the chart, but realized immediately that it was a mistake. Her eyes were right on his, widening pointedly as they darted to the creep beside her. Abbot cleared his throat, doing his best to focus on the patientâthough he knew he'd be tucking that look away for himself.
"Nick, can I have a word?" He asked, gesturing toward the nurse's station.
"What for?"
Abbot pushed a short breath out through his nose as he rounded the bed, taking even steps so as not to raise the brute's hackles.
"There are some things that I'd like to discuss with you. Things that, you know," He nodded, "Women shouldn't hear."
Watching understanding wash over Nick's face made his stomach turn. It was a wonder the man had brought his wife to the ER at all if that was the attitude he held.
"We won't go far?" Nick pressed, though he was already moving.
"No, no," Jack insisted, following him out, "Just a few feet." He gave her one last look, and a quick nod before tugging the observation curtain closed behind them.
--
The knot that had formed in your stomach only tightened, but it wasnât for your own nerves or panic anymore. You didn't like letting her go, hated seeing her leave with him. Abbot came to a stop beside you, and for a moment, the two of you just watched Nick steer Amanda out of the ER.
"What'd you say to him?" You asked.
"Distracted him with football."
"I didn't know you watched."
âSometimes. She take the pen?â He asked.Â
â...Yeah.âÂ
âItâs a start.â
âMight be too little, too late.âÂ
âSheâs got a good head on her shoulders.â
âYou think so?âÂ
âSure.â
â...I gave her my number, too.âÂ
You saw Abbotâs head turn toward you, and you froze, biting the inside of your cheek.Â
âYou shouldnât have done that.â It shouldâve been more of a scold, but you couldâve sworn his tone was tinged with admiration.Â
âI know.â
âWhat were you thinking?âÂ
âI wasnât.â You turned away from Abbot. âThanks again for distracting him.âÂ
â...No problem. Will you tell me if she calls?âÂ
âYeah,â You nodded, turning to look at the board. âHope she doesâand soon.âÂ
âWas that all that was bothering you?âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
âYou seemed a little off earlier. Just making sure everythingâs okay.âÂ
Well, Abbot always was the observant type. It was one of the things that made him such a good doctor. You shouldnât have been offended by his question, but in that moment, his concern was as unwelcome as Ellis probing had been just a few hours before.Â
âJust one of those daysânights,â You corrected, âYou know.âÂ
âTake a couple minutes, get some air.âÂ
âIâm alright.â And before you could stop yourself, you gave him a grateful smile before turning away. In truth, you weren't entirely sure where you were headed toâyouâre more distracted by the fact that youâd met the guyâs eye more in the last twenty minutes than you probably had in the last two years.Â
--Â
âHere.âÂ
âThanks,â You took your beer as Ellis set it down and settled into the seat across from you. âJohn on his way?âÂ
âYeah,â She nodded, âAnd uhâŚDonât kill me, but heâs bringing someone.âÂ
You frowned, shaking your head as you waited for her to explain. Ellis didnât elaborate, merely tipped her brows up. It only took a second for you to put the pieces together, and you groaned, sliding down in your chair as nerves flooded your stomach.Â
âParkerââÂ
âItâs just a coincidence!â She took in your unimpressed glare, corrected, âMostly a coincidence. We always ask, he almost never says yes. Itâs as hard to talk him into coming out as it is to talk you into it. Besides, itâll help!âÂ
âThereâs nothing here that needs helping.âÂ
âItâs slowing things downââ
âWhen has it ever slowed anything down?â
âLast few shifts, heâs waited for you to look at him when you answer and nothing. Itâs making shit weird. We leave that messy personal bull for the day shift.â
âYou barely look at the guy. We all notice it.âÂ
âHeâs so big on frickinâ eye contact, like,â You glanced around the bar, âItâs intimidating.âÂ
âIntimidating?â
âYeah.â
âIntimidating.âÂ
âYes! I barely even like making eye contact with you, but I live with you, so itâs mostly unavoidable.âÂ
âYou love it.â
âSure. Who wouldnât want to be adopted by the meanest lesbian in the ER?â
âI thought that was Garcia.â
âNo, sheâs the meanest lesbian in surgery.âÂ
Ellisâ smile widened before she perked up, waving at someone behind you before she leaned in just a touch.Â
âJust be yourself, be cool.â
âPick one.â
âYou know, I bet he thinks you hate him.âÂ
âWhat?â You hissed, âWhy would he think that? AndâWhy would he give a shit, plenty of people hate their boss. Not that I hate him, I donât, justââ
âHey!â Shenâs voice cut over your nervous chatter, and you couldnât stop your knee-jerk reaction of turning to look at himâand spotting Abbot just a couple of steps behind. Shen patted you on the shoulder, settling down beside you as Abbot rounded the table. Your eyes glued to your beer instinctively as he shrugged out of his jacket, sitting down beside Ellis. And you thought youâd just managed to be subtle enoughâuntil both Shen and Ellis kicked you lightly under the table. It took everything in you not to kick back, instead lifting your head to meet Abbotâs eye, plastering a small smile on your lips.Â
âHi.âÂ
âHello.â There was a little lean to his lo, a friendly tease that you felt like you hadnât earned. And there was eye contactâheavy, steady eye contact as he folded his arms on the table. You tried to ignore the traitorous little flip in your stomach as you hurriedly lowered your eyes to the table, picking your beer up and taking a swig to try and drown the flurrying butterflies. Â
âWe miss anything good?â Shen plied. Ellis shook her head.Â
âWe were just talking about renewing our lease.âÂ
âI forgot you two were roommates,â Abbot commented. Ellis mustâve told him, and you couldnât fathom why heâd remember.Â
âWhatâs the verdict?â Shen asked.
âWeâre gonna stick,â You reported as you looked at him. âRent is going up, but, like, barelyâŚBarely.â
âAnd the location is too good,â Ellis tacked on. âHalf an hour to the Pitt walking, fifteen minutes by carâutilities donât suck, either.âÂ
âDecent space,â You added, âAnd allows dogsâif this one goes through with getting a dog.â
âIâm still in research and development.âÂ
âArenât you allergic?â Shen nudged your arm.Â
âYeah, but not deathly. And if she picks a breed that doesnât shed much and has a low can f 1 geneââÂ
âI want to adopt from a shelterââÂ
âSo Iâll probably be moving out as soon as that happens,â You teased, âBecause god knows sheâll wind up with a mutt.âÂ
âAnd sublet?âÂ
âSure, John. You can move into my room, Iâll move into your place. Even trade.âÂ
âI donât know about thatââÂ
âBetter rent, better location.âÂ
âYou wonât mind being further from the Pitt?â
âNah,â You shrugged, âI like a long walk.âÂ
âSure does,â Ellis rolled her eyes, âI donât know anyone that spends more time just wandering around on their days off.âÂ
âIs it a crime to enjoy being outside when the sun is up?âÂ
âYou ever think of switching to day shift?â
Abbotâs question caught you off-guardâit was like youâd fallen into such an easy rhythm with Ellis and Shen that you'd almost managed to forget that he was there. Your fingers tightened around your beer as you forced yourself to meet Abbotâs eye again.Â
âNot once.âÂ
It was the truth, and it made Abbotâs smile widen in a way that felt dangerously vindicating. Unnerving quiet wrapped around your shared gaze, and Ellis clearing her throat was what finally snapped you out of looking at him.Â
âSo, hey,â Shen jumped in, âDid I tell you guys about my latest acquisition?â
âJesus fucking christ,â You muttered over Ellisâ low whistle.Â
âAnother ebay war?â She asked.
âNot a war, an easy buy,â Shen insisted, âYou know, forââ
âYeah, your shank bank, we remember,â You insisted, smile pulling wide as both Abbot and Ellisâ laughter catches from that side of the table. âThat weird-ass collection of antique medical equipmentâfucking medical history nerd.âÂ
âI keep them as a display!âÂ
âMust really get âem going on a date night. Nothing hotter to a woman than rusty scalpels,â You batted back, nudging Shenâs shoulder with yours. You didnât mean to catch Abbotâs eye on your way back to looking at Ellis again. And this look didnât hold for as long as the one before itâbut it was just long enough to reawaken the butterflies, even as Shen insisted,
âThis one isnât even rusty!â
--Â Â
As you turned in for the night, Ellis teased you, insisted, âSee, it wasnât that bad.âÂ
You didnât argue, because she wasn't wrongâit wasnât the worst way to spend an afternoon out. But it wasâŚDifferent.Â
Your aversion to Dr. Abbotâs attention had started your first week at the Pitt, when heâd stuck close during an intubation. He hadnât been breathing down your neck, but his steady focus had made you so damn nervous. You were used to your attendings being just a little scattered, torn in six different directions. And other matters had vied for Abbotâs attention, sure, but he hadnât heeded them until the patient was in the clear.
Youâd started to avoid his gaze after that, and it had just become second nature. Avoiding eye contact turned into avoiding him during the quiet moments of your shifts, which turned into a patient-treatment-only conversational focus. Abbot consulted on your cases, made recommendations, listened to your rationalizations.Â
When he did insist on meeting your eye, you gave him just a long enough look to show that youâd heard him, but never anything more. Youâd avoided palling around with him, even though you palled around with your fellow residents, and with other attendingsâbut you were comfortable with them.Â
And Abbot didnât make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.
It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valuedâand nervous.
Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that youâd hardly looked in the eye for the last few years.Â
You could understand how Abbot mayâve thought you didnât like himâif he really thought that. But he didnât seem like the kind of guy who needed everyone to like him. It probably helped, sure, but you were positive that your countenance had never caused a slow-down or a hitch in the ER, no matter what Ellis said. You were just focusedâand since when was that a bad thing?Â
Either way, today had been kindaâŚokay. Youâd made nice with Abbot, made eye contact multiple times without Ellis or Shen kicking you in the shins again. Whatever wound up happening, youâd tried, and they couldnât take that away from you, right?Â
You settled in bed, letting your eyes slip closed, drawing in a deep breath to relax yourself.
For all your initial irritation, Ellis was rightâit wasnât that bad.Â
But it didnât stop Abbotâs warm gaze from lingering behind your eyelids when you closed them, and it couldnât keep the mirthful roll of his chuckle from playing through your mind as you tried to drift off.Â
--Â
You decided to make it a little experiment, approach it as something that you could train yourself out of. Seeing him over drinks had laid the groundworkâand you had managed to look at him twice a few shifts ago, hadnât you?Â
You went into your next shift determined to look Abbot in the eye three times.
You only managed it once when you passed him by the boardâa glance and a small wave.
The smile that he returned flustered you so much that you nearly walked into the sandwich cart, and it scared you out of looking at him for the rest of the night. As a matter of fact, it scared you out of it the next shift, and the one after that.Â
You talked yourself out of the whole foolish endeavor. Youâd managed to work with Abbot perfectly well before, why change things now? Especially when looking at him seemed to awaken something girlish and fluttering inside of youâand you couldnât afford to be girlish and fluttering at work.Â
--Â
She was doing it again.Â
Jack had thought they had turned a corner after Shen and Ellis had invited them all out together, but things seemed to be moving in reverse. It had gone beyond sticking in his crawâit was almost nagging at him now, and worse now that he knew what the full force of her focus was like. It was easy to brush off before, but these days Jack was hard-pressed to admit that he felt something in him wilt whenever she avoided his eye.Â
She was making a meal of it now, focused stalwartly as she instructed Javadi on setting a bone. Heâd seen her head tip in his direction a couple of times, but sheâd always given her head a little shake before refocusing. Was the shake for Javadi? For him?Â
â...You didnât hear me, did you,â Ellis asked, forcing him to refocus. He had heard herâand he could feign that his silence had been fueled by contemplation. He turned away from the treatment bay, arms folded across his chest.Â
âSee if the OR can take Mr. Tosches yet," He instructed. "I donât want him down here too long. You follow up with the raccoon kid?âÂ
âThatâs my next stop.âÂ
âPerfect, thanks.âÂ
âSureâHey, are you coming by this weekend?â
That weekend. Heâd been dodging giving Ellis an answer for the last couple of weeks. Sheâd invited him to the last four get-togethers at the apartment, but heâd never made it to one, either because he was working, or because he just wasnât in the mood to socialize.Â
He wasnât sure he was in the mood now, butâŚA fleeting smile flashed through his mind. Theyâd seemed to come easier to her when they were away from the hospital. And his therapist had been nagging him about leaving the house moreâŚ
âYeah,â He nodded. âYeah, I can make it.âÂ
Ellis didnât cover her surprise well, but her, âkay, sweet. Iâll text you the address," Told him that she was just as surprised by his answer as he was.
Abbot nodded, casting another glance toward the treatment bay before turning away fully. It was just an experiment, he told himself. He would see if her smiles for him came easier outside of work, or not at all.Â
If it was not at all, heâd let it go, once and for all.
--Â Â
âIs there any coffee?âÂ
The question made you freeze in front of your cabinet. Your eyes darted through its contents, but you didnât take in a damn thing. He was in your kitchen. He never came to these things, why the hell did he come to this one?
âUhââ You turned, looking around your kitchen as though youâd never been there before. âItâs umâYeah. Right there. It might not be hot, though. I can turn the pot back on.âÂ
âIâve got it.âÂ
âYou're on shift tonight?â
âMhm.â
You nodded, turning back to the cabinet. Hell, what did you open it for? Goddamn, but you came in here looking for somethingâYou huffed, shoving the cabinet door closed as you scrubbed your hand across your forehead. He wasnât allowed to do this, he wasnât allowed to make you feel this out of sorts in your own damn kitchen.Â
âEverything alright?âÂ
âYou know, I feel like half the time you talk to me, youâre asking if Iâm okay.â It was out of your mouth before you could stop it, and embarrassment sprang up the second it did. âI should, umâYou need a mug, donât you,â You muttered, turning to the other cabinet, and glancing back toward the living room when you heard a swell of laughter. Damnit, but Ellis sent you into the kitchen for what? Napkins? Napkins would be in the cabinet.
âWell forgive me for being concerned when one of my best residents seems to spend half of her shifts avoiding me.âÂ
You whirled around, too stunned to do anything but meet Jackâs eye. The steady contact seemed to catch the both of you off-guard. Your mouth worked wordlessly for a moment as your mind reeled. What the hell could you say to that? Wellâwhat would you say if you were talking to Ellis or Shen?Â
â...Just one of your best residents?âÂ
Abbotâs brows lifted, his lips quirk with a smile, and your stomach filled with that girlish fluttering again.Â
âYouâre certainly not avoiding me now.â
You press your mouth together, gaze instinctively dropping to the floor.Â
âI donât avoid you at work, either. Iâm justââ You turned back to the cabinet, reaching into it for a mug. âIâm focused when I'm at the Pitt.âÂ
âSeem to be focused right now, too.âÂ
âDo you want a mug for your coffee or not?âÂ
âOh, that old excuse.âÂ
âFine, drink it from the pot. Thatâs Parkerâs machine, anyway. Sheâll kill you.âÂ
âShe wouldnât. Weâre short-staffed as it is.âÂ
âWell, thatâs true.â You crossed the kitchen, holding the mug out. And, though you knew the answer, you asked, âDo you need milk or sugar?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âAlright.â You turned, reaching for the cabinet by the coffee machine. Maybe it was something in there.
â...You donât really think I avoid you," You plied, unable to stop yourself.
âCertainly avoid looking at me.â
âFocused.âÂ
âUh-huh.âÂ
âYouâre fine to look at.âÂ
âOh?â
âGoodâGood toââ No, nothing in that cabinet. Check the next one. At least, you needed to get a few feet away from Abbot before you said anything else stupid. âYouâre fine.âÂ
âThanks.â
âSure.âÂ
â...Look at me.âÂ
It was so firm that you went still in front of your cabinet again, hands on the knobs, doors half-open as your heart leaps into your throat.
âExcuse me?â
âWeâre not at work, you canât need to be that focused. If Iâm so fine to look at, look at me.âÂ
Your fingers flexed around the knobs, palms growing sweaty.Â
âEllis asked me to grab something for her and youâve already distracted me enough.â
âIs that so.âÂ
âYou can be very distracting sometimes.â For fucksake. What was it about being alone with this man that had your head so horribly scrambled?
âI suddenly feel like I oughta apologize,â He commented.
âI feel like youâre making fun of me.âÂ
âA little.âÂ
You scoffed out a laugh, your nerves only worsening when you heard Jack take a few steps closer, saw him lower his coffee onto the counter beside you.Â
âIt wonât take long,â He reassured, raising his hand to close one of the cabinet doors. âOne quick look.âÂ
You drew in a deep breath, planting your hand on the counter and turning to face Jack with wide eyes. You were prepared to stare at him pointedlyâbut you faltered at the look on his face. His eyes were softer than they had any right being. They searched your expression, sweeping over your nose, across your cheeks, to your lips, and up againâas if he was seeing you for the first time.Â
â...See?â He murmured. âThis isnât so bad.âÂ
You struggled to swallow, throat dry; your face was flooding with heat. If this was a cartoon, you were certain that your heart would be beating out of your chest.Â
âNo,â You finally managed, shaking your head a little, unable to tear your eyes from his, âNo, it isnât.âÂ
Jackâs smile widened as he leaned against the counter a touch, fingers skimming against yours. And you knew that you ought to look away, go ask Ellis what she sent you into the damn kitchen for in the first place, but you couldn't bring yourself to move.
âYou just gonna keep staring at me, Jack?â You murmured. His brows jumped slightly at the use of his first name, lips quirking with a smirk.
âYouâre staring, too.â
âMaking up for apparently avoiding you.âÂ
âVery kind of you.â
âDo what I can.âÂ
Maybe it was better that he was looking at your face, anywayâif he looked down, he might see the goosebumps sweeping up your arm from the gentle sweep of his fingertips against yours. It felt pathetic to get so worked up from such a simple touch. Goddamn, did he look at everyone like this? Did everyone feel like this when he looked at them? There was no wayâif it was, nothing would ever get done at the Pitt.Â
âHey, did you find the Triscuits?âÂ
Ellis bottle snapped you out of the trance-like stare, and you whirled away from Jack like he was trying to set you on fire. The Triscuits, son of a bitch, that was what you were sent to look for.Â
âI justâI just saw them,â You fumbled, pulling the cabinet open again.Â
âMy fault,â Abbot spoke up. âI asked for some coffee.âÂ
âYouâre on tonight?â Ellis frowned, and you were relieved to hear her come deeper into the kitchen. âI thought you were taking the day.âÂ
âWe had two call outs. Matter of fact, I should get going.â
You glanced doggedly back toward Jack, watching him pick his mug up and take a deep swig. You busied yourself with poking through the drawer beneath the cupboard, vaguely catching Abbot saying his goodbyes to Ellis in the background. Jeez, did the Trisuits fucking evaporate?Â
You glanced toward the mug as Jack set it down in the sink, and, against your better judgement, met Jackâs eye when he turned to look at you.Â
âThanks for the coffee.âÂ
âSure,â You nodded. âHave a good shift.âÂ
âGood luck finding those, uhâŚâ He glanced toward Ellis. âTriscuits?âÂ
âUh-huh,â She nodded. âThanks for coming, man.âÂ
âHave a good night.âÂ
You listened to his retreating footsteps, marked the opening and closing of the doorâŚAnd tried not to die from complete mortification when Ellis tapped your shoulder, then pointed out the box of Triscuits where it was sitting on the counter.Â
summary - nightshift!reader is eager to catch a bit of rest before she has to clock in for her double. thing is, jackâs in her way. but heâs just where he wants to be.
warnings - nsfw. mdni. large unspecified age gap. hr violations. fingering. dirty talk. pet names. kid used. baby used. sort of exhibitionism if you squint.
notes - not proof read i just wanna fuck this old man
â ・ Ë ŕą¨ŕ§ â§ â Ë .
âyou still breathing?â
his arm fell from his face. the harsh white hospital lights made her look like an angel in his bleary vision. jack grumbled and pulled his arms over his head, stretching himself taunt. âoh good i thought you finally croaked,â she quipped.
as he lifted his arms his black tee drew up his stomach. his stomach was defined, but not to an unnatural extent. she wanted to sink her teeth into that bit of pudge around his hips. she caught a glimpse of the silver hair dusted along his abdomen, trailing up his navel and disappearing beneath the black cotton of his shirt. he was impossibly thick. he nearly filled the space of the hospital bed.
âyouâd miss me too much,â he groaned. her eyes flew back up to his face. an undeniable heat slowly seeped down her spine and settled in her tummy. he crossed his large arms against his chest. she would happily spend hours kissing every one of the freckles there.
âitâs my nap time, old man,â she smiled, fidgeting with her fingers. the physician scowled, âiâm pulling a double.â
âyeah i know because so am i,â she pulled the railing down on the side of the cot. it snapped with a shrill squeak. he flinched sleepily at the noise.
jack sat up. her knees brushed the edge of the limp mattress. âyouâre not getting my bed,â he insisted, pink knuckle roughly rubbing at his eye.
it was childish. but it worked like a charm. she puffed out her cheeks and pouted, âdo you hate me?â
âwhat?â jack laughed. the crows feet at the edge of his eyes deepened. that smile. prodding against his cheeks like her personal vice. he shook his head, running a broad hand through his hair. he suddenly looked much more awake.
she shrugged helplessly, âyou want me to go sleep in my freezing car in the snow,â she whined. jack stared at for a moment, just grinning. it was like she put him on pause and the gears in his head were working double time to keep him from doing something. what that something was, she wasnât sure.
he huffed, âokay. câmon.â he sat up a bit in an attempt to make space for her but his thighs nearly filled the entirety of the seat of the bed. her heart pattered a bit in her throat. an invitation to be as close as professionally possible. or maybe they were breaking a few rules. she grinned and leaned in, âyou wanna cuddle?â
jack scoffed, âgo sleep in your car.â she shook her head, âscoot over, asshole,â she giggled.
he listened. he pressed himself against the opposite rail, but there still wasnât much room for her. she sat down and pulled her legs to her chest, reaching down and pulling up the rail. he was turned on his side, arms still crossed, legs crowding her own.
âyou look real comfortable,â he muttered. when she looked to him his eyes were flitting about her face. he was so close. he had been this close before - leaning over her shoulder or whispering a dirty joke in her ear - but he had never looked at her like that. she teased, âoh so you do wanna cuddle?â her voice came out an octave too high. she bit her lip.
jack gently tapped her folded leg. ârelax,â he whispered, tone husky and low, âi donât bite.â her stomach was flipping with nerves. he had that catlike smirk on his lips and for once she couldnât read his mind. he was so warm. so close. it made her brain fuzzy.
she sighed shakily. he licked his lips. she sunk into the bed, shifting awkwardly to ease the aching of her overworked joints. she turned her back towards him and her legs mirrored the curl of his own. she placed an arm under her head. she could feel the material of his scrub bottoms brushing against her ass. if she just backed up-
âyou smell good,â he muttered. she looked over her shoulder to him with a knotted brow. it was like he was trying to kill her.
jack frowned, âwhat? go to sleep.â
âyouâre cruel,â she huffed as she shimmied her shoulders to reposition her head. he laughed suddenly, âwhat did i do? iâm sharing my bed with you -â his lips brushed her ear as he whispered, âyou should be grateful.â
she turned her head a bit. the warmth of his breath tickled her cheek. his eyes had a bit of brown in them. âsee. youâre mean,â but she was smiling because there was a wetness flooding the space between her thighs.
jackâs head reared back a bit. his brows ticked and eyes narrowed. he was offended by her disobedience. âcâmon, say thank you, doctor abbot.â
her heart dropped. she chuckled dryly, âshut up,â and turned her gaze back toward the wall.
jack grabbed her by the jaw, fingers digging in to her plump cheeks and forcing her lips to pucker. her eyes widened and heat flooded over her body. he made her look at him. half his body weight rested on her side. blazing like a sun. something snapped in her. it wasnât a joke.
he looked scorned or maybe aroused. she couldnât tell what lived behind his cheshire grin. âbe a good girl. say thank you, jack, for being so kind to me.â
her cunt was throbbing now. âth - thank you, jack,â she managed to choke out. his grip tightened. jack shook his head lightly, âno, no. i know youâre a good listener. thatâs not what i said.â
âthank you for being so - so kind to me, jack,â she mumbled. he smiled once more, nodding, âgood girl. so smart.â his hand fell from her jaw to her throat. his calloused fingers slowly ghosted over the column of her neck before trailing down between her breasts, then over her stomach, and sliding beneath the waistband of her scrubs. his hand froze there. hot and oddly heavy against her abdomen.
âyou want this?â he whispered. she nearly laughed. like she hadnât shown him just how much she wanted him the past few months of their working relationship. she nodded enthusiastically, lip caught between her teeth.
the older man straightened up a bit. he slinked his other arm around her shoulders and she followed his lead - scooting up the bed flat on her back to make her body more accessible to him.
head resting against his bicep, she looked at him through her eyelashes. though his eyes were on herâs his gaze was heady and his mouth was just slightly agape in focus. the flat of his palm slid down her abdomen and cupped her mound. she whimpered, âjack.â
she was practically dripping. his fingers prodded at the patch of slick seeping through her panties. âfuck. youâre so wet,â he groaned. jack pressed his forehead against her temple, lashes fluttering against her skin as he closed them in ecstasy. he pressed one big, fat finger between her clothed folds. his fingertip began to ever so slightly dip in and out of her wet cunt.
she was whining, rolling her hips against his big hand. he pressed a chaste peck into the apple of her cheek. âdâyou know how long iâve wanted to get my hands on you? hm?â she screwed her eyes shut, holding back a squeal.
the calloused pads of his fingers dragged along her skin as he pushed her panties to the side. the heel of his palm pressed into her clit. two fingers swirled around her entrance then up and down her sensitive folds, collecting her arousal and using it as lubricant to play with her sex. âlittle pussyâs so wet and puffy,â he was all gravelly. âfeel like velvet, pretty girl. sâthis pussy just as pretty as you?â
she hummed. her mind was static. stuffed full of jack. jackâs musky cologne. jackâs breath against her. jackâs big bicep curling against her side. the outline of jackâs big hand completely, impossibly covering her lap through her bottoms. the freckles on his skin. the weight of his body against her.
âi could play with your cunt forever. but that would be mean, huh?â his voice dripped with faux sympathy. his touch stalled against her slick hole. she held her breath. ââm not that mean. no,â he cooed. she could feel a bit of spittle on his lips. he was drooling. ââll fuck you with my fingers. how about that, kid?â
he was gross and perverted and decades her senior and she moaned like a whore, hips jutting instinctually. jack hummed against her hair. he pressed a wet kiss against her head and whispered a yeah before he slipped his finger in.
the digit curled against her gummy walls over and over. just one but it made her cunt ache. she was whimpering, panting, and he was shushing her.
âsh, sh, sh, babygirl. someoneâll hear.â
she opened her mouth to argue but euphoria scrambled her brains, âbut i - feels g - sâgood, jack. good, jack.â her words were airy. it made him laugh. he pressed his cheek against her and watched his hand as he slipped in another finger. she gasped at the stretch.
âi know, baby,â he cooed. lust was knotting a tight band in her tummy. the meaty heel of his palm was grazing her clit in tandem with the rhythmic thrusts of his wrist and curls of his knuckles. she was edging on release in such little time and jack knew. and he was losing his mind.
jackâs fat bulge was pressed against her hip. he ached with need. all that blood in his cock made him lightheaded.
she turned her head to him, watery eyes meeting his glassy ones. âjack mâgonna cum if - if -â she cut herself off with a small moan. he was moving faster, brushing against that perfect spot in her pussy with his perfect fingers.
âwant you to cum. make a mess on my hand, baby. iâll clean it up, câmon. jackâll clean it up for you, baby.â his perverse encouragement had her on the edge.
then he pressed his lips to hers and everything felt hot. his tongue swiped against her own lazily. her hips stuttered and a sweet rhapsody of release trickled through her body. they moaned into each otherâs mouths, jack lightly humping her leg, soiling the layers between them with ropes of sticky cum.
she rode his hand through her high. their lips finally parted with a wet tch. for a moment they passed back and forth the same hot breath. jack finally pulled out of her ruined pants.
he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked on the two digits. his eyes fluttered shut. he moaned like a teenage boy. she lightly giggled, still trying to catch her breath. jack pulled them out and pressed them to her smiling lips. she opened to taste the mix of his spit and her cum on his fingertips.
his hand fell to her chest and his head into the crook of her neck.âthink weâve still got time for a nap?â
summary: Andrew has survived his whole life by wanting nothing. Until Craig introduces one of his friends, and suddenly, Andrew wants everything and more.
word count: 20.7k (yeah kinda lost my mind there)
c.w: age gap implied but not explicit; short suicidal ideation; crying; mentions of blood; light physical injuries; angst to fluff; smut - piv sex, oral sex; praising kink; breeding kink if you squint
a/n: sooooo...took me two weeks. had a breakdown. bon appetit! (and thank you to my wife for proofreading it) I really hope you'll like reading it like i enjoyed writing it.
âŞâŞâ¤ď¸âŹ Thank you so much for reading!
If you want to be tagged for the next part, please comment below !
Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.
Nights spent pacing the garden of Smurfâs house, bare feet on the cold ground, counting his steps to keep his mind occupied. It never did. He tried to outrun the memories of his actions, to drown his pain at the bottom of the pool. But on those nights, his torment wore the faces of his ghosts.
First there was Julia, then Cath, quickly followed by Baz. And Smurf. Always Smurf. A cycle of misery that makes his ribcage feel as though it might collapse under the violent pounding of his heart.
Some days, seated at a table with his family, Andrew had felt he could scream until his throat gave out, and no one would have heard. He imagined falling into the pool, slipping under the surface, water closing over his head and staying there, lungs burning just long enough for the noise to finally fucking stop, no one coming to pull him out because nobody would have noticed he disappeared.
There were moments when the thought settled heavy in his bones: he would not survive another day in his family, he didnât want to. He kept straining toward a bond that no longer reached his endâŚif it ever did.
Over the years, Andrew had grown accustomed to his role. Weird Pope, Creepy Pope, the familyâs guard dog: asking for nothing, obeying to the beatings, the killings and never, never, mentioning the ghosts hunting the corner of his eyes each night.
He remembered Smurfâs voice, years ago. âPop him a few pills and heâll follow your commands, baby.â She said it to Baz like it was nothing, like he was nothing. This was before prison, before Andrew felt deep in his bones that the other half of his soul left this merciless Earth without him.
Sometimes he let himself think about Julia, since no one else did. He hoped that at least one of them had finally found peace.
Then, you happened.
And Andrew canât make sense of it, no matter how much he turns it over in his head, how a girl like you ends up being friends with Craig and therefore, near the Cody brothers: you are sweet, kind, nothing but soft edges, and innocent. Almost like the world has spared you the knowledge of what men like him are capable of.
Whenever you are in the house, his gaze follows you from room to room. He tells himself that itâs vigilance and habit that pushes him to act like that. Except he doesnât need to memorize the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or how he can recognize the distinct sound of your footsteps in a heartbeat.
He learns and catalogues each of your reactions: the faint frown of your nose at the smell of a particular brand of coffee (gone from the house and replaced before sunset), the soft curl of your lips whenever you are kindly refusing his offer to make you a sandwich.
(He wouldnât be bothered if you took a bite of his.)
To see you is a special kind of hell and an indescribable heaven, like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.
Lately, you shift the air of the house by simply existing in it. Your laugh, in the rooms where Smurf had once lived, seems to almost cleanse the walls of her memory. Â And Andrew knows. He knows thatâs why Craig is friends with you. Because each day, the sun seems to finally be able to reach the house, even his own room.
It frightens him.
His body instinctively adjusts around your presence, his mind reassessing new rules (the glasses on the bottom shelf so you can have access to them, checking how many drinks you have at Deranâs bar). He memorizes your schedule, notes which books you are bringing with you in your bag, times how long it takes you to get home, parks far enough that you canât notice his truck but close enough that he can reach you if something goes wrong.
All his life, Andrew had survived by wanting nothing. By hollowing himself out until the obedience Smurf wanted from him fitted neatly inside his ribs, because wanting had always been a liability, a weakness someone could press a knife into.
But nowâŚnow that life seems finally good and breathable, that he has the skatepark and his siblings and an almost regular life (if one exists for men like him) without Smurfâs claws on his throat, Andrew finds himself cornered by a simple, terrifying truth: he wants you.
He swallows it. Buries it deep inside, trying to drown it with numbness and even more repetitive actions when you are near: chopping, tidying the house, scrubbing counters that are already clean, fixing hinges that doesnât squeak⌠Anything to keep his hands busy so they donât reach for you.
No, Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.
ââââââââââ
You remember telling yourself that the house felt wrong before you ever understood why.
Craig had asked you to come meet his brothers and from his tone alone, you knew it was a big deal. That something was at stake.
You showed up at four sharp, even if he hadnât given you a specific time (something you would soon realize was typical of Craig), a paper bag pressed to your chest, palms already sweaty. You stood outside for a full minute before knocking, taking a few deep breaths, and stepping over the threshold with a smile as he wrapped you in a hug with his tall frame before dragging you straight into the kitchen.
Thatâs when you saw him.
Broad shoulders, dark curls on a face held tight, back straight and hands braced on his thighs, his posture so still you almost thought he was a mannequin.
âMy brother Pope,â Craig said. âDonât mind him, he almost doesnât bite.â
His gaze was already on you, unblinking, steady in a quiet unnerving way, like he was committing every detail to memory, a look so intense it coaxed words out of you before you could stop them.
âH-Hi,â you stuttered, giving your name as you tried to stay composed. You extended your hand toward him, and he stared at it for a moment. The pause stretched long enough for doubt to creep up your spine (maybe he didnât shake hands? maybe you had already broken some invisible rule?).
You swallowed, blood rising to your cheeks, drawing your hand back to clutch the paper bag as you tried not to stammer on your words. âI brought pastries. I didnât know what you all would like soâŚI kind ofâŚguessed,â you hated how small your voice sounded.
He stayed silent, brows faintly furrowed, as if he was processing what you had just said. Then he nodded. âThank you.â
His tone was quiet, almost a hum, pulled from the depth of his chest, the sound settling low in your stomach, warm and heavy, and your first thought (unwelcome and strange) was how that vibration would feel beneath your palm.
Craig sighed with desperation at the conversation with a quiet âStop being weird, bro!â while his other younger brother, unbothered, simply ignored the awkwardness, nodded as an introduction and handed beers around.
It was a welcome distraction, the cold liquid sliding down your throat, and buying you time to think on what to say next, but the youngest, Deran, beat you to it, asking you about your job and how good a surfer you were.
âYou fuckinâ with me? You live in Oceanside and canât stand on a board?â he laughed and couldnât stop the slight condescending tone from his voice. âNo worry, me or mister El Craigo here will introduce you to it. Youâll only swallow, likeâŚa gallon of water before you get it.â
âOh, umâŚI donât thinkâŚâ  you tried to say, though it was mostly ignored.
Pope hadnât looked away once, hand gripping tightly enough on the beer that you could see his knuckles whitening. There was something careful about the way he held himself: still, contained.
Your eyes met his again and you smiled tentatively.
âUmâŚPope,â you started, uncertain, the name tasting strange on your tongue. âCan I ask youâŚâ
âAndrew.â He interrupted, the tone firm enough to stop you mid-breath.
You suddenly became aware of your heartbeat, your chest lifting as it rattled against your ribs. Your gaze dropped at the intensity. Had you done something wrong? You suddenly felt foolish for the pastries, for the outstretched hand, for trying so hard, and an absurd urge to apologize rose in your throat, even if you didnât know what for.
When you looked up, he was already halfway out of the kitchen.
You never finished your question.
Later that night, when you slipped into your bed, the sheets cold but familiar in their welcoming loneliness, you turned from one side to the other, eyes pinched shut without any release to exhaustion, realizing that you couldnât remember what you had meant to ask.
Only that you wanted to hear his voice, just one more time.
ââââââââââ
The house is too loud. It always is when there are people over.
It reminds him of being a kid, hiding with Julia, hands intertwined, avoiding the drunk and high grown-ups. Whispering that everything would be alright. That no one would find them. Not even Smu-
(Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on the kitchen counter.)
The volume of the music is pushed too high for his comfort, a constant buzz under the conversations in the house and near the pool while Andrew stands in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water, scrubbing a glass that is already clean.
He finished the dishes ten minutes ago, but he is still washing, still drying, rearranging things that donât need rearranging because it gives him somewhere to put his hands, to put his eyes. Because the alternative is the living room. And you.
(You, in that white dress. He has the stupid thought that you look like an angel and immediately hates himself for it. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the droplets dripping from his fingertips.)
He tells himself that he is staying in the kitchen because it lets him see everything in the house, because parties mean unlocked doors, strangers who could wander into rooms they shouldnât be in. And there are the habits he canât shake off: watching the exits, the unfamiliar faces, counting heads (Deran, Craig, you), noting who is drinking too much, who is getting loud, who might break something.
He dries the same plate twice in a row before setting it down on the kitchen counter and looking up without meaning to.
You are by the couch, perched on the armrest while Craig, bare chest and shameless about it, tells you the story about the time he smuggled a burrito full of drugs across the Mexico border, story he knew you heard a dozen times these past three months. But still, you are laughing, head tipped back, hair falling down your spine (he wonders what they would feel like underneath his fingertips), one hand wrapped around a bottle you havenât drunk from in a while, like it has more to do with keeping your hands busy while you are listening.
Andrew noticed it the first week he met you.
But the moment your lips wrap around the drink, he looks away and goes back to washing clean and dried plates, hands in the ice water, soap stinging the small cut on his knuckle.
(Good. Something sharp. Something real. Better than counting for now.)
âI bought you a new pair of gloves.â
Your voice is closer than he expected and his head snaps towards you before he can stop it. You are standing at the edge of the counter, smiling, so close that he can smell your shampoo despite the soap and the lingering smell of weed (itâs so clean, so soft, he wants to drown himself in it).
 âWhy?â He asks, his nostrils flaring at his own bluntness.
You shrug, small. âI know Craig threw your pair away yesterday. And, um⌠I know you like wearing them when you clean.â
âWhy?â his voice repeats, breaking at the word.
Of course, you ignore his question, and he canât help but spiral (why did you do that? do you realize how much the gesture is affecting him? no one ever cared about his gloves. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the freckles on your nose.).
âI got the good ones,â you add, beaming. âSo the soap doesnât mess up your hands.â
While your eyes drop to his hands, his are still enraptured on your face, studying every single feature (you really do look like an angel. and you act like one too. maybe you are his salvation. stop, he needs to fucking stop but he no longer knows what to count.).
Andrew swallows what feels like an anchor in his throat because you look like you worry about him (you have done that for a while now, which still baffles him). Nobody worries about him: they worry about what he might do, not whether he is hurt.
ââm fine.â He mutters, not convincingly enough, judging by the look on your face.
You are still looking at his bruised hands and your fingers twitch on the counter like you had the sudden urge to reach for him, like you might take his hand to look at it.
(He has the overwhelming need to know what you would do with his hands in yours. Hold them? Kiss them better? One. Two. Three- would you let his hands run along your hair? He knows what itâs like to touch you when you need help, but he feels that this would be very different.)
âThey are under the sink,â you say above the music and Andrew canât do anything else but stare, not trusting his own voice.
You linger for a moment at the counter and Andrew wants to ask you to stay (in the kitchen, in his life, doesnât matter), but Craig shouts your name from the living room and suddenly he has some homicidal thoughts. You glance over your shoulder, then back at Andrew, and you lookâŚreluctant.
âIâllâŚâ
âYeah.â
You donât move. Neither does he.
âThanks.â He finally says, his gaze still tracking every shift of your expressions, trying to burn your smile in his retina, hoping one blink would not be enough to erase it.
âOf course, Andrew.â
Andrew. For you, he is Andrew and thatâs all that matters because you are the only one calling him by this name and you make it sound like it belongs to you ever since you first said it by the pool.
With one last little smile, you walk away and his eyes follow you until he knows you have reached Craig but even then, he doesnât look away, afraid you might disappear, just like every good thing always did.
And Andrew learned, a long time ago, that if you wanted something to stay alive and safe, you watched it. Guarded it. Didnât blink.
Andrew didnât blink.
ââââââââââ
You stepped outside because the house had started to feel too small, suffocating all at once, Craig and Deranâs voices stacking over each other in the open kitchen, arguing about a job - a part of the Cody brothersâ lives you knew existed but mostly chose not to look at too closely.
You told yourself you only needed a second of quiet, just enough space to breathe properly again after a long day at work full of aggravating customers, meager tips and a coffee spilt by a coworker on your bare legs.
The noise softened once the door closed, letting you draw in a deep breath you hadnât realized youâd been holding.
âFucking hell.â You muttered, exhausted by the shouting.
You hadnât noticed him at first, too busy staring at the pool and ignoring your inner voice telling you to jump straight in the pool fully clothed, a thought that you were soon pulled out of when you heard a sound that didnât belong to the wind or the trees.
Thatâs when you saw him, seated at the edge of a lounge chair, head bowed, a skateboard turned upside down across his thighs, one hand spinning a wheel while the other oiled it with slow, precise movements.
âNot a fan of the shouting matches?â you asked, trying not to startle him.
He glanced up, shook his head before going back to the board. âNo.â
âSoâŚnot keen on loud noises either?â
âNo.â
For a moment, you simply watched him, struck by how different he looked when he was doing something he seemed toâŚenjoy. Less folded into himself, the usual tightness of his posture easing (was it because of the board? the sound of the pool? the absence of his brothers? whatever it is, the view looked precious enough for you to want to capture it).
You lowered yourself onto the warm concrete next to him, your back resting against the lounge chair, knees pulled to your chest, neither of you speaking for a while.
Thatâs when you noticed his hands: knuckles swollen and red, the skin split near the thumb, a faint line of blood reopening every time the skin stretched.
âThey look like they hurt. Y-Your hands, I mean.â
He shrugged without looking at you. âTheyâre fine.â
Your eyes drifted from them to his profile: from his hazel eyes fully focused on the board to the tight set of his mouth and you caught yourself distracted by his lips for a second too long before forcing your eyes back to the floor, warmth creeping up your neck (donât think about that, donât think about that).
âAndrew?â
The wheel immediately stopped spinning. Not gradually, justâŚstopped.
The entire yard suddenly became too quiet as his face snapped towards you, something unreadable flickering across his face and vanishing just as quickly, and you felt the realization settle in slowly that you had finally said his name after almost a month of avoiding it.
âDo you think I could learn how to skateboard? IâŚâ the words got stuck between your throat and your lips while you searched for the courage to finish your sentence without tripping over yourself. âI meanâŚI wanted to know if you could help me. Learn it, I mean. If you wanted to. You donât have to, I justâŚâ (fuck. why? why were you so weird?)
Your fingers picked at the hem of your skirt and pulled on a thread to busy your hands, and from the corner of your vision you caught his brief smile, and the warmth that spread was so shamefully immediate that you bit your tongue until you tasted metal just to keep from blurting out something along the lines of âi really, really, fucking love your smile, please do it again so my day goes from moderately shitty to embarrassingly close to perfection.â
âGive me your phone.â he said, and you didnât hesitate, fishing it out from your pocket, and placing it in his palm.
âThereâs no password on your phone.â
âYeahâŚI know.â
âItâs dangerous.â His thumb hovered over the screen, nose flaring. âAnyone could get into it. Your photos. Your messages. Your address. Everything is in there.â
You barely heard the end of it, too focused on the pull in your chest as his words kept coming, just for you.
âI havenât thought about that.â You murmured, feeling foolish while he muttered to himself something that definitely sounded like âI did.â
He tapped his number in before going through the settings while you were still struck by his intensity and that he was doing this for you without being asked.
âSix digits. Not birthdates and not something simple like six zeros.â He handed your phone back, his fingers lingering for a second too long before pulling away. âPut one.â
This time you knew it was an order and you didnât hesitate a second as you followed it, typing something in, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was standing, your shoulder almost brushing his calf, your pulse loud in your ears and a slow, humiliating heat pooling low in your stomach that you refused to think about at the moment.
âGood.â He said after you saved the password. âText me your work hours.â
âSo, itâs a yes? Really?â
He grunted and whether the dusting of crimson over his freckles was real or something you imagined, you couldnât tell, you were too busy feeling as light as a leaf.
âYes. AndâŚâ
His words were cut off by the screen door banging open, leaning back abruptly just as Craig made his way toward you both with a grin that meant whatever the fight with Deran had been about, he had won.
âDeran agrees for Friday night. And you,â he tapped your forehead. âdidnât hear shit.â
âI donât even know what youâre talking about.â
âThatâs my girl. Now get your ass in the pool.â
Craig was already running to the pool before you could respond, clothes coming off mid-step.
âI canât believe this man has a kid. Has you brother always been a shameless nudist?â
 âUnfortunatelyâŚyes.â
You snorted before murmuring. âThanks, by the way. For the password thing. And for agreeing to teach me. I promise Iâll only be likeâŚaverage terrible.â
âYouâll be fine,â he shrugged. Then, quieter, âIâll make sure.â
His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth when he said it, before snapping back up, and something in your stomach turned warm and gooey, a reckless part of you hoping he might add something else. Or step closer again. But he didnât, just nodded once, before muttering. âGo.â
âOkay, Iâll leave you to your board, Andrew.â
You made it halfway to the pool before you glanced back. He was still watching, not even pretending not to, looking like a leopard ready to jump. Like if you slipped, he would already be moving.
And lying awake that night, window cracked open and the ocean humming somewhere in the dark, you muffled his name into your pillow, trying to quiet yourself, imagining his hands instead of yours. Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.
ââââââââââ
Andrew is used to ending his nights alone because wanting people to stay never goes well for him.
So, when the party finally ends at four in the morning, he does what he knows best: throwing the bottles into the trash, making sure no one is passed out in the backyard or asleep in one of the bedrooms andâŚcleaning.
First the diving board, even if Craig is still making out on one of the lounge chairs with a girl whose name Andrew canât remember and doesnât try to (he knows best). Next, the counter, twice in a row for good measure. Then the sink, while Deran claps a hand on his shoulder with a âDonât stay up too late, okay?â before heading out.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. He counts the second you spend in the bathroom.)
He stands in the kitchen for a moment before realizing it might look strange and make you uncomfortable. Thatâs the last thing he wants.
He rushes back to his room (he wouldnât exactly call it âsprintingâ. sprinting would mean he is trying to avoid you. which he is not. not at all.).
He doesnât bother turning on the light when he decides to lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling because he knows that sleep wonât come. It never does.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks.)
Every time he closes his eyes, something crawls up from beneath his ribs and he is once again plagued by his ghost: Juliaâs voice, Cathâs smile, Bazâs forgiveness. Smurfâs words cutting straight through him.
He thinks about the pool and how easy it would be to let the water close over his head. How all the voices would finally be silent forever, his own included.
(Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He recites the number of cameras in the bank for the incoming job.)
He forces himself to think of something else.
Of you, earlier, laughing at Craigâs story (and the immediate, unwelcome ache in his chest as he wonders if thereâs something between the two of you, if this will end the way things always seem to, if youâll be another Cath: close to him before preferring his brother).
Then he thinks about the way he made you laugh on your first skateboard lesson, all because he wanted to make you feel safe and seen, how the simple feel of your waist had nearly made him press his forehead to your shoulder and beg for you to stay and keep looking at him like that.
He thinks about that night when you called him for help, and how he didnât hesitate for even a second when reaching for his keys, truck already running before you even finished explaining because the simple thought of you alone somewhere in the dark, waiting and frightened, had felt like acid running through his veins, the kind of fear that made him beg to the sky âNot here, not her, not again. I wonât fail herâ. Â
He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees bursts of purple light.
(Breathe. One. Tw-)
A faint knock against the door makes him freeze.
Nobody knocks in this house, his brothers justâŚbarge in.
He is already on his feet before he realizes it, his hand finding the handle before he opens to find you there.
Barefoot, hair loose and messy, the mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes and the dress wrinkled. Earlier, Andrew thought you looked like an ethereal angel, something untouchable and holy.
But nowâŚnow you just look human, real and warm, which is worse because real things like you can stay as well as leave.
âHey.â You murmur, leaning against the doorframe.
He grips the handle tightly to steady himself.
âSomething wrong?â
âI was supposed to sleep on the couch,â you begin, talking with your hands the way you always do when you try to explain a situation, âbut signor El Craigo has decided that itâs now his new make out spot with Sam and I really donât need that image burned into my brain. And of course, I thought about taking his room in retaliation, but I donât trust his conception of hygiene,â
That makes him huff.
âSoâŚâ you add, rubbing your arm, almost shy which doesnât make sense in his mind because you havenât been shy with him in a long time with the skatepark lessons or with the âhallway accidentâ you both had together, âCan I stay here tonight?â
You donât say âwith youâ nor âin your bedâ, but Andrew understands and he is pretty sure his brain short circuits for a second or two.
You didnât text Deran or try to Uber home. You just came to him. Because you trusted him.
âYes.â He replies too fast, stepping back from the door.
âYou sure?â
He nods to avoid confessing that he would give you the bed. The room. The house. The air in his lungs.
You slip past him into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed before looking back at him and asking gently, âYouâre not sleeping, right?â.
âNo. NotâŚnot really.â
âYeah, figured.â
You lie down beneath the covers first, curling onto the side of the bed closest to the wall, leaving him space.
âDonât think about staying on top of the covers, Andrew.â
The warning in your tone almost makes him laugh so he complies, lying down beside you, fully clothed and aware of every inch separating the two of you.
He stares at the ceiling again.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breathing.)
The mattress shifts while you slowly roll onto your back before turning fully toward him, your shoulder brushing his arm.
âSorry,â you mumble sleepily. ââm cold.â
âItâs fine.â He says it like the ghost of your breathing over his collarbone didnât just set every of his nerves on fire, like he was not terrified to shift even an inch.
After a few minutes, you drift closer in your sleep, chasing warmth without thinking, your knee pressing against his thigh, your hand sliding across the sheets until your fingers come to rest on the fabric of his shirt, right over his heartbeat and for a moment he genuinely forgets how to breathe.
Your palm is so warm, and he is painfully aware that you can probably feel how hard his heart is pounding.
Nobody has ever touched him like this, like he is something safe and out of everything that has happened to him: the underground fights, the prison, the jobsâŚnone of that ever made him feel this defenseless.
His eyes suddenly burn because he wants to turn so much to see your peaceful face, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pull you closer to know just once in his life what itâs like to hold something good without destroying it, to press his face into your hair and breathe until the ghosts quiet down, but he doesnât.
He stays exactly as he is, lying in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breaths again. Then the seconds between them. He thinks about the fact that youâre here and the miracle of it.)
Sleep doesnât come, but for the first time in years, the night doesnât feel empty.
Because youâre here. Warm. Alive. Trusting him.
So, Andrew stays awake until morning, guarding the only good thing that ever chose him.
ââââââââââ
You were so, so late.
You had told Andrew on the phone that you would be at his skatepark at 5:15 sharp after work, and it was now 5:42 and you were sprinting the half mile that separated the coffee shop from there, bag smacking against your hip, your lungs burning, already sweaty before you even reached the entrance, trying to slow your breathing with a few useless deep inhales, hands braced on your knees, pretending that you were not seconds away from passing out.
(First lesson and you were already late and a disaster. Great. Very impressive.)
You straightened, wiped your forehead, and stepped inside, scanning the park before finding Andrew, board tucked under one arm, sleeves riding up his biceps, curls messy from the wind and sweat and you were now positively sure that you had some drool at the corner of your mouth (the universe had decided to sabotage you and that was fucking unfair.)
You watched the tiny smile he had as a girl showed him her board, proud and beaming at him like he had personally hung the sun in the sky (no, you didnât need to think about him being good with kids. you didnât need to picture him with kids, him gentle, himâŚstop. shut up.).
The second his head lifted and locked eyes with you, you were pretty much done for. It was ridiculous, really, how one look from him could short-circuit every coherent thought in your brain, how your feet justâŚmoved, carrying you toward him instinctively, dropping your bag by the fence without breaking your stride as he met you halfway.
His gaze dragged over you once: your face, your hair, your chest.
âYou ran here?â
âYes. And Iâm sweatingâŚa lot. Please donât judge me.â
He took a few seconds, a storm passing through his eyes before he added.
âYouâre late.â
âI know,â you rushed, your hands quickly moving and your words tumbling over each other like they always did when you got flustered around him. âbut a guy ordered for his whole âcheaper by the dozenâ family like three minutes before we closed. Iâm probably sure he sensed my despair and fed on it.â
A small huff escaped him. âYou didnât have to run.â
You shrugged, eyes to the ground. âDidnât want you to think I bailed on you.â
You felt it, his head tilting down just enough to catch your gaze again, stubborn about it.
âI wouldnât. Now you ready?â
âBorn ready.â You lied through your teeth.
âYou look terrified.â
âI can do both, you know,â you shot back quickly. âI am large, I contain multitudes.â
There was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. âOkay, Whitman.â
âY-You know Whitman?â
A pause.
âI meanâŚnot that I donât believe you or think you canât read poetry or anythingâŚthatâs actually super hot, so good job!â you gave him a thumbs-up, aware you had just lost every ounce of dignity you had ever possessed. âItâs just that last week Craig asked me if âPride and Peaceâ was a good book to impress a girl, soâŚmy bar was very low.â
Andrew stared at you for a moment. âPride and Peace.â
âYeah.â
âThatâs notâŚâ
âI know, I know. But donât worry, I did a good deed for society and told him not to mention any book ever. You and Deran are safe from now on. Youâre welcome.â
And there it was again: that quiet amusement on his lips, the roll of his eyes like he couldnât help himself, making you feel the stupid and dangerous need to continue to jest (keep talking, say anything, make him do it again).
He shook his head once. âCâmon Whitman. Letâs see what you got.â
You trailed after him without thinking and the first few attempts wereâŚhumiliating to say the least: your balance was nonexistent, your feet refused to cooperate, your arms stood uselessly at your sides, and you had absolutely no idea where you were supposed to look while Andrew hovered nearby like he was ready to intervene at any moment.
âI look stupid!â you complained.
âYouâre fine.â
âIâm not fine! This is deeply humiliating. I can barely stay upright and there are twelve-year-olds doing tricks behind me! Tricks, Andrew!â
âYouâre doing good.â
âI almost died.â
âYou didnât.â
âSocially, I assure you I did.â
Your heart did a stupid little skip when a tiny, amused sound escaped him.
(You could bottle that sound and live off it. You were now pretty sure you would commit crimes for it.)
âMakes sense youâre friends with Craig,â he muttered. âDramatic.â
You gasped, unable to contain your grin. âExcuse you mister Cody, but I am layered! I am complex!â
He looked unimpressed and repeated âDramatic.â
You opened your mouth to argue before your foot slipped, the board shooting forward, and for one horrible second you thought that worse than falling off in front of children was falling off in front of the guy you had a crush on.
But you never got to know the feeling before his hands were suddenly there, at your waist, catching you fast and steadying you while you became acutely aware of every nerve under his palms, of his thumbs grazing your hipbones, of his breath brushing your cheek as heat pooled between your legs.
He moved behind your back, still holding your waist before murmuring âDonât lean and bend your knees.â
(You were starting to suspect he was fucking with you on purpose.)
But still, he adjusted you gently, palms rotating your hips and guiding your stance before kneeling to help place your legs on the board and you couldnât stop yourself from blurting:
âI havenât shaved my legs. Sorry.â
âMe neither.â He huffed, his breath warm on your calf and the faintest hint of amusement threading through his voice.
(Was thatâŚa joke? Was he joking? Since when was he doing that? You liked that. You wanted that.)
Andrew pushed himself back on his feet, stepping away just enough for you to feel the sudden absence of his body, leaving you oddly cold, like you had stepped out of the sunlight.
âTry again.â
You nodded, realizing that his joke had somehow shaken the worst of your nerves away, before pushing off, your knees bent like he had shown you, your weight centered and the board rolled.
âOh my God, Iâm doing it! Andrew, Iâm really doing it!â you exclaimed happily.
âYou are.â
You risked a glance over your shoulder, and he was watching you with his usual careful intensity, hands half-raised and prepared to catch you, like protecting you was the only thing on his list right now.
So (naturally), you did the dumbest thing possible and tested him. Just a little bit. Just to know.
You leaned and let your weight tip forward just enough to know ifâŚ
His hands immediately caught you, his hands on your ribs, scanning up and down if you had been hurt, âYou okay?â
You swallowed, realizing that you had never doubted a second he would be there. And that settled something warm and terrifying in your chest.
It was not a silly crush, not your friendâs brother that you thought was hot and interesting, no. It was falling. Headfirst, no parachute.
And judging by the way his hands hadnât moved from your waist yet, you werenât entirely sure he wasnât falling a little too.
ââââââââââ
You are screaming and he is too late.
He is always too late.
Your voice breaks into something small and terrified, the kind of sound that doesnât even feel human anymore, and he is running but his legs donât cooperate, move in slow-motion, the floor stretching longer and longer beneath him and the house smells like chlorine, metal and something sour he recognizes too fast.
Youâre in the pool, face down and the water is red. And you are so, so still. He tries to move, to drag you out, but he canât.
You turn toward him, eyes open and your mouth spilling blood.
âYou were supposed to be there, Andrew. Why werenât you there?â
He jerks awake, his whole body snapping upright while air refuses to enter his lungs, a pain in his ribcage so intense he thinks it might split him open from the inside out.
He doesnât understand why at first: why his pillow feels cold and damp to the touch, why his throat burns, until he drags a shaky hand across his face and touches something wet, the realization feeling nauseating.
He has been crying in his sleep for God knows how long.
He presses his palms hard into his eyes like maybe the pain will help him, like maybe if he suffers enough the images will disappear. That you wonât be floating face down in the pool, covered in blood, your blood, your voice joining all the others, the same disappointed tone heâs memorized over the years with his ghosts.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He tries to count but it doesnât work.)
The house is quiet for once, too quiet, and Andrew has this awful, crawling sensation lodged under his sternum, something cold and irrational that he canât help but spiral into.
(What ifâŚNo.)
He is already moving, because lying back down would mean closing his eyes again and he canât, he fucking canât risk seeing you like that again, canât hear the sound of your voice pleading and begging for him to save you when you are already gone, canât add you to the long list of ghosts that wait for him every night.
Halfway down the hall, he gets as quiet as he can manage, moving through the house like he is on a job, because it feels the same: this sick, urgent need to verify something, to be sure that you are here, that you are safe.
The living room is glowing faintly blue before he even steps in, the light spilling on the floor and he hears it: a narrator speaking about sharks and the distant sound of recorded waves.
You always pick sea life documentaries when you stay over.
He doesnât know when you figured out he liked them.
He stops at the threshold and sees you: curled on the couch, hidden beneath a blanket and alive.
(Your chest rises. Then falls. Rises. Falls. Youâre not floating. Youâre not gone.)
His lungs finally unlock and he breathes sharply, the sound loud enough that you look up immediately, like you sensed him there, like you are now tuned to him in a way he doesnât understand, and your expression softens the second you see his face.
âHey,â you say, voice thick with sleep. âEverything okay?â
He nods automatically but knows that he canât bullshit you.
âYou donât look okay.â
âIâm fine,â he manages, but the words come out wrecked and dragged through his throat.
Your eyes examine him slowly and it clicks behind them. âNightmare?â
(Oh, he hates this word. Hates how small it makes him feel. Hates how childish it sounds. Hates how accurate it is.)
His jaw locks so hard it aches and he canât force out anything more than a stiff, miserable nod, his nails digging crescent moons in his palms as he braces himself for questions, for having to justify why he is standing there at three in the morning, shaking over a bad dream. But you donât push.
You just scrub a hand over your tired face before moving your legs and lifting the blanket, creating space beside you.
âCome here.â You mumble, looking at him, patient.
He crosses the room slowly, the couch dipping under his weight as he lowers himself beside you, hyperaware of every inch of distance, of your arm brushing his, of the warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt, of how close your knee is to his thigh and how easy it would be to accidentally touch.
Your hand bumps his and even if he should pull away, he doesnât. The contact is small, just skin against skin but for Andrew, itâs the closest to heaven heâs ever been.
Your fingers linger, uncertain, like youâre giving him time to decide, like he is allowed to decide. His thumb moves before he can stop it, brushing lightly over your knuckles, slowly, reverently, like he needs to make sure you are solid and not a trick of his mind. You feel warmer than him.
(Alive warm. Not water cold. Not bloody and floating. Not like in the pool.)
The memory hits so hard it hurts.
He jerks his hand back abruptly, his breathing going wrong again, shame creeping hot and fast because for a moment he wanted something and asked for it, letting the walls go down.
But you donât comment, donât tease and donât pull away in response to his neediness and instead, you shift closer and you help settling the blanket over both of you, your arm following, tugging him in gently, like there has never been a version of this world where he wasnât permitted to be here.
He stiffens when your hand finds the back of his neck and he wants to reassure you that itâs not because he wants it to stop but because he wants it too much, and he doesnât deserve it. But your fingers brush his scalp, and suddenly he is nothing but starving for it, leaning toward it instinctively.
You guide him down gently, so gently and he canât win this fight tonight, his ear pressing against your chest.
The documentary keeps whispering about tides and sharks, but he barely hears it now because all he can focus on is the rhythm under his cheek and the way your fingers keep caressing his curls in slow strokes like you were calming a frightened wild animal.
He wants to move. To slide his arm around your waist. To press his face into your shirt and breathe you. To hold you tight enough so nothing could ever take you away.
But he stays still, terrified of ruining it and breaking something with the weight of his want.
Your fingers drift lower to cradle the back of his head while your other arm tightens around him and pull him fully into you, closing the remaining space between your two bodies. His relief is immediate and overwhelming, pulling a whimper out of him, emptying him of his thoughts.
His chest caves inward on a shaky exhale, his hand finally moving hesitantly until it rests lightly on your waist, barely touching and giving you room to pull away if you want to, but you donât. You tuck him closer, your chin brushing his hair.
 âIâve got you. Youâre okay, Andrew, I promise. Iâm here.â
The words land deep and it takes him a moment to realize he is sobbing in your arms, the tears soaking your shirt while he presses his forehead closer to your chest, just to confirm that the heartbeat under him is real.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your heart now.)
âShhâŚItâs going to be okay, Andrew.â
The storm in his head â the ghosts, the pool, your voice â slowly quiets for the first time all night, dissolving under the simple, undeniable fact that you are here and breathing under his cheek, speaking to him, comforting him.
And somewhere, between one beat and the next, his body finally gives up the fight, his sobs stop, exhaustion dragging him under gently this time, no drowning, no screaming, just the steady rhythm of you and your quiet voice drifting above him.
âIâm not leaving Andrew.â
He knows that for tonight at least, no nightmare will come at him.
You promised.
ââââââââââ
âFuck, Fuck, Fuck.â
Craig was the worst and you were absolutely going to kill him. Not even metaphorically, but in the sense where you would pick up the nearest heavy object and aim for his head the next time you saw him, if only you were able to find him right now instead of wandering through a house you didnât know that smelled aggressively of weed and alcohol.
Deran and Andrew would forgive you, you were sure of it, if you murdered their brother under these circumstances. Hell, they might even help you bury the body. Because you could have had a regular evening at home, watching for the hundredth time Shawshank Redemption but no, you had to be alone in a strangerâs kitchen, trying not to panic.
The party had shifted, you felt it about twenty minutes ago.
It had stopped being loud fun and started being loud wrong when little bags started to be passed around, people disappearing in rooms and coming back with pupils blown wide and white powder on their nostrils.
You had looked for Craig. Texted him. Called. Nothing.
You had found someone who vaguely resembled one of the friends he introduced you to earlier, and when you asked if they had seen him, they laughed and replied something about âupstairs with Renn so it might take a while, Sweetheart,â and you stood there for a second, scared. Really scared.
Because you didnât know anyone there, not really. And you were now surrounded by idiots who were snorting cocaine.
(Okay. Calm down. Breathe. Donât cry. It doesnât help your situation at all.)
A guy you didnât recognize slid a drink toward you with a grin that lingered too long, and the fact that your very first thought was âI wonder if he put something in thatâ made your decision for you: you were leaving. Immediately. Whatever Craig was doing upstairs with Renn was officially no longer your problem.
The night air hit your face, making you regret for the lack of jacket.
You stood on a sidewalk for a moment, trying to calculate the distance back to your apartment. You were too far, with no car and a phone at nine percent.
âCraig is dead. He is fucking dead. I will kill him myself,â you muttered under your breath as you started walking anyway, heels dangling in your hand, bare feet against the cold concrete, just to put some distance between you and the house.
But the further you got, the louder your heartbeat became, pounding in your ears, the fear crawling up your spine.
Still, you kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, repeating âYouâll be fine,â over and over to your brain.
(You were not fine. You were alone. In the middle of the night. Walking barefoot down a street you didnât know. Why were you like this? Why didnât you just stay? Why didnât you drag Craig out by his stupid hair to drive you back home?)
You didnât want to try to call Craig again and waste your last percentage of battery on someone who would not answer.
And before you could talk yourself out of it, before you could rationalize or be embarrassedâŚyour thumb was already pressing Andrewâs name.
(If you called him, he would come. He wouldnât hesitate. You knew it.)
The phone only rang once before he picked up.
âYes?â
That was all it took for you: the sound of his steady and low voice to make something inside your chest collapse, the fragile composure you had been clinging to dissolving instantly as you let out a shaky exhale, thanking all the Gods above for Andrew Codyâs existence.
âAndrew,â you said, your voice betraying you immediately with a crack right through the middle of his name. âI-Iâm sorry. Itâs late, I know. I justâŚâ
âWhat happened.â
You swallowed, trying to force the tears to back down. âIâm at this party andâŚand Craig left. I meanâŚhe is upstairs with Renn doing I donât know what and he wonât answer me. I left the house because it got weird there and Iâm trying to walk home but I think that was a stupid idea and I justâŚâ
(You hated how your voice wobbled. How small it sounded. You should have bought pepper spray.)
âIâm so scared.â
In the background, you could hear keys jangling, a door closing and his truck starting.
âWhere are you?â
No âwhyâ, no âwhat were you thinkingâ. Just that.
You gave him the street name and the closest intersection you could see, wiping your face with the back of your hand and trying to steady your breathing so you didnât sound like you were seconds away from a breakdown.
âIâll be there in five.â
You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. âItâs at least ten.â
âFive.â
The line went dead before you could argue, the call cutting off abruptly as your screen went black. Dead battery.
You stared at your reflection for half a second on the dark screen, heart hammering while you counted the seconds in your head, hoping that somehow it would summon him faster.
It took less than three hundred for you to see headlights cut around the corner of the street faster than the required speed limit, relief crashing into you. He didnât even fully stop before the driverâs door was already swinging open, crossing the distance to you in three long strides, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe then past you to the houses.
âYou okay?â
You nodded too quickly and he stared at you, jaw locked so hard you could see the muscles twitching. He looked furious.
âGet in,â he said, opening the passenger door, one hand braced on the roof as he helped you climb up into the seat, taking your shoes to put them in the back seat.
You stayed silent, not wanting to know to whom his anger was directed at. It was only once you were down the street that he finally spoke again, eyes flicking between the road and you.
âDid anyone hurt you?â
You blinked at him. âNo.â
âTouch you?â
âNo.â
âFollow you?â
You shook your head, watching his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.
âSay anything to you?â
âJustâŚoffered me stuff,â you admitted quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself again. âBut I said no. I would never do that. You know I would not.â
You werenât sure why you felt the need to add that, why you wanted him to understand that you hadnât been reckless. That hanging out with Craig didnât mean being like him. That you wouldnât caught yourself in drugs. You knew better.
The streetlight caught the side of his face and for a split second you saw something raw there before it slipped behind his mask of control. The silence continued to stretch, heavy.
âAre you angry at me?â
The truck slowed to a stop at a red light, allowing him to turn his head toward you fully, eyes dark and intense in a way that made your whole body pulse in response, not from fear but from the weight of being seen.
âIâm not angry at you,â he said, holding your gaze. âIâm angry you were there alone. Angry that my stupid brother left you. Angry that I wasnât there sooner. But not at you.â
The light shifted to green, but he didnât move right away. His eyes remained locked on yours, unblinking, making sure you understood the distinction.
âYou call me,â he added quietly. âThe second you have a problem, you always call me. Okay?â
You nodded, fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. âI didnât want to bother you.â
âYou donât.â
And there was something in the way he said it, like he was wounded at the idea you thought you might ever be an inconvenience to him, that made you blush.
The truck finally rolled forward, but the air between you felt different, heavier in a way that youâll only be to shake off with a cold shower.
You watched the way his shoulders remained tense all the way to your home and understood then that he had come because he had been frightened, that the thought of you alone in the dark had unsettled something in him, and that he had needed to fix it.
And the scariest part was that something warm and traitorous inside your chest responded to that.
You liked that he had been scared.
You liked that he came in less than three hundred seconds.
That he didnât even hesitate when you admitted you were frightened, he simply moved.
And you liked the way he refused to let you walk barefoot to your apartment, carrying you, as if the idea of your skin touching the cold pavement was something he would not allow.
He didnât put you down immediately. No, he held you all the way from his truck to your doorway, one arm firm beneath your legs and the other steady at your back, your shoes dangling loosely from his fingers, your body tucked close enough to feel his breathing through his shirt, making you aware of how easily you fit there.
When he finally set you down at your threshold, his hands lingered at your waist a second longer than necessary.
âYouâll be good?â he asked quietly, handing you your shoes, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.
You nodded, incapable of trusting your own voice, because if you opened your mouth, you were fairly certain that something reckless would fall out, something dangerously close to âstayâ and you were overwhelmed enough by the urge to step over, to reach for him and press your forehead against his chest just to see if his heart was still beating as fast as yours.
He was still staring at you, something unspoken passing like electricity.
âGood night,â he whispered, the softness of it almost undoing you.
âGood night, Andrew.â
You closed your door slowly, pressing your back against it, listening to his boots on the pavement, realizing that he hadnât moved until he heard the lock click.
Only then did he walk back to his truck.
You would maybe not murder Craig after all.
ââââââââââ
Andrew spends the entire day watching for the moment you are going to change your mind and run from him.
And you donât act differently when you wake up: you drink coffee while humming along to the songs on the radio, trying to coax a laugh out of him, but he keeps waiting for it anyway: the flicker in your eyes that says youâve seen too much of him now, that holding him while he sobbed was enough to scare you off for good.
He replays the night while you are in the shower. How he cried in your arms. How your fingers combed through his curls. How you held him pressed against your chest. How he let himself need you.
He wonders if he should apologize, or explain, or at least even justâŚacknowledge that you saw him at his weakest and that he was thankful it was you.
Instead, he washes the dishes twice in a row to calm his brain, avoiding looking directly at your body when you step back into the kitchen in your coffee shop uniform, hair damp.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on his mug.)
You ask him if he is still taking you to the skatepark after your shift, and he wants to say no. The word sits right there on his tongue, ready to spill, because the park means proximity and proximity means touch and desire which always ends with something being taken away from him.
But you smile at him in such an open and easy way, and if it was something you really wanted to do, far be it from him to deny you after last night when you held him like he was something that could be saved, that was worth saving.
So, he nods and the way your whole face lights up makes him think, not for the first time, that he would probably give you anything you asked for.
That is the part of himself that scares him.
And now that he is finally at the skatepark with you on this late afternoon, he knows that he should be tracking your stance and foot placement the way he always does, but today he notices different things about you instead: how you are not pulling away from him, not avoiding him, how you stand close when you talk, lean into his space without hesitation.
And somehow that unsettles him more than distance would have. Because, if you are not afraid of him, if you are not stepping back after seeing what he is like during his worst nights, then what does that mean?
You sway on the board.
He sees it, but his brain is still half-caught in the memory of your heartbeat under his ear, still waiting for the recoil that doesnât come and by the time his body reacts, youâre already too far from his reach.
You hit the concrete hands first, palms slamming down on instinct before your knees follow, the skin scraping on the ground with a sound that makes his stomach drop. The impact steals the air from your lungs and for a fraction of a second you manage to hold yourself up before your face strikes the ground with a sickening thud.
Andrew is already moving before you even understand what happened, the board rolling behind you while he drops to his knees so fast, he doesnât register the sting tearing through his own skin, doesnât feel the way his jeans split at the knee or how his knuckles scratch raw when he catches himself, because none of it matters to him. He is scanning, assessing and cataloguing the damage, forcing his mind to clear before he dares to touch you.
Your palms and knees are damaged through the torn denim, but itâs the blood beginning to run from your eyebrow that makes him feel abruptly cold. It gathers at the edge of your lashes and runs along the curve of your nose, bright red against your skin, and for a second, the world tilts.
(Blood. So much blood. He knows blood. Knows how to stop it. How to clean it. How to stitch it close. Pope is good with blood.)
The thought lands with cold precision, and even if he hates the name, even if it sounds wrong in his own head, he canât afford to hate the part of himself that steps forward first right now - efficient Pope, steady Pope, the one who does not panic.
âIâve got you,â he says, and his voice is low, measured, trying to reassure you the way you reassured him last night while he broke apart against your chest, even though his heart is hammering through his ribs.
Your eyes flutter, dazed, before you try to sit up, but he is already there, placing one hand at the back of your neck and the other on your shoulder to help you.
âItâs okay sweetheart, Iâve got you. Youâre gonna be okay,â he murmurs, and there is something almost pleading behind his words that has less to do with your eyebrow and more to do with the memory of the pool and your voice accusing him of being too late.
He swipes his thumb gently beneath the cut to assess its depth, his other hand moving to brace your jaw so you donât move, and when fresh blood coats the pad of his finger, he feels the familiar switch inside him flips into place.
(His breathing slows. His hands stop shaking. This he understands. This he can control.)
âItâs not deep,â he says after his inspection, even though he knows youâll need stitches. âYou still with me?â
Your hand lifts and finds his wrist, fingers curling around it, and the contact sends something through him that is not adrenaline and not fear but softer that frightens him more because it makes him aware of how much he needs you to be okay.
âIâm fine,â you whisper, though your voice is small.
He shakes his head once, tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt. âLetâs get you home so I can clean this properly, okay? Keep pressure there,â he instructs, guiding your hand back to your eyebrow and pressing it into place.
You nod, and thatâs enough for him.
He slides one arm behind your back, his broad palm spanning the length of your shoulder blades, the other slipping beneath your knees to lift you, ignoring the sting of his knees and the sticky blood drying across his knuckles because none of it is important compared to the steady rhythm of your breath brushing his collarbone.
He carries you toward the truck, opening the door and lowering you carefully into the passenger seat, one hand coming up to your jaw, his thumb resting lightly on your cheekbone to make sure your eyes focus on him.
âStay with me,â he says softly.
Your lips twitch despite the pain. âBossy.â
He goes to buckle your seatbelt, adjusting the strap and closing the door gently before circling the truck, wiping his bloody hand against his jeans.
While driving back to your apartment, his eyes keep darting to you every few seconds.
âTalk to me,â he says after a moment.
âAbout what?â
âAnything.â
You take a moment before starting to talk about your day at the coffee shop, just mindless little moments. He doesnât interrupt, he listens and nods at the right moments. You are grounding him on purpose, he realizes, dragging his thoughts back to something ordinary, something alive.
(You are not in the pool. You are breathing. You are not telling him he failed you. He counts your breaths.)
Inside your place, he works methodically, like he always does when someone comes back from a job hurt and bleeding â controlled, shutting everything else out. He lays out all your medical supplies on your desk with a precise spacing: first gauze then antiseptic, needle, sewing threadâŚThe order is important. Order means control.
 You sit on the edge of your bed, looking at him and continuing the pressure of the piece of his shirt against your eyebrow.
âAlright,â he says quietly, stepping between your knees so he can reach your face properly. âHold still.â
He cleans your palms first, his concentration absolute because his entire world has narrowed down to the square inch of skin beneath his fingers.
âI should have caught you.â
âItâs not your fault, Andrew. Donât punish yourself for it, okay? Iâm fine, I promise Iâm fine.â
He doesnât answer. Doesnât trust himself to.
Instead, he goes silent and returns to the work in front of him, bandaging thoroughly your hands before taking off your pants and doing the same with your knees, making sure everything stays in place.
Finally, he allows himself to look fully at your face again, examining the cut on your eyebrow and tilting your chin upward with two fingers, feeling your breath ghosting on his lips in the small space between you.
âYouâre going to need stitches,â he murmurs.
You study him for a second. âYouâre very serious about this.â
âYes.â
âIâm not dying, Andrew.â
âI know.â
âYou look at me like I am.â
His jaw tightens and for a moment, he almost says it. Almost tells you that in his head, heâs already seen that version of you, floating and gone, but he swallows it back.
âHold still,â he says instead.
He cleans the wound carefully by dabbing away the dried blood, and when you flinch, his free hand comes up automatically to steady the side of your head, thumb resting near your temple, not commenting on the way you lean into that touch.
The first puncture makes you inhale sharply.
âBreathe,â he says low, âJust breathe slow for me.â
You obey, focusing on him rather than the pull of the thread, your eyes locking on his face. He works carefully, tying each stitch with precision, trying not to falter at your gaze and even less at the reckless, intrusive thought about pressing his mouth to your brow to undo the wound.
When he finishes, he doesnât move right away. He studies the line of the sutures, checks for tension, checks for bleeding or anything he might have missed before studying you.
âYouâre okay,â he says, trying to convince himself.
You give him a small, tired smile. âI told you. Iâm tougher than I look,â you say before your gaze drops, narrowing as you notice what he has been deliberately ignoring. âAndrew.â
âWhat?â
âYouâre bleeding.â
He shrugs, dismissive, trying to pull his hand back so you canât look too closely. âItâs nothing.â
âNo, itâs not nothing,â you murmur, reaching for him before he can retreat, your fingers tracing carefully over his knuckles, making him go still. âYou canât patch me up and ignore yourself.â
He swallows, and before he can argue, youâre already reaching for the antiseptic with your bandaged hand, fumbling slightly. He catches the bottle before you drop it, his other hand covering your instinctively.
âYou shouldnâtâŚâ
âNone of that,â you interrupt, and there is a flicker of stubbornness there that makes his mouth twitch despite himself.
You tug his hand toward you, and this time he lets you clean the scrape on his hands. He doesnât look at the wound. He looks at you.
At the crease between your brows as you concentrate. At the way your lips press together. At the way you treat his injuries as if they matter. No one ever does.
Your fingers tie the bandage clumsily but securely, and when you finish, you donât let go right away. Your thumb lingers, stroking slowly over the back of his hand. He is not sure how to breathe. The room feels so much smaller now. Quieter?
You lift your eyes up to him and whisper. âCan you stay? Just for a bit. SoâŚwe can check on each other.â
He could tell you itâs starting to get late and he was supposed to meet Deran and Craig for their next job.
He could tell you heâll call you tonight to see how you feel.
But there is nothing in him that wants to leave this room.
âYeah,â he says quietly. âI can stay.â
He helps you shift properly onto the bed, careful of your knees. When you lie back against the pillows, you reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
It takes him a second of hesitation before lying down beside you, stiff at first, but you roll toward him, your bandaged hands pressing against his chest as you settle close, your head finding the space beneath his chin.
He exhales through his nose before lifting his arms and resting them around you.
After a few minutes of silence, when he thinks you might already be drifting, you murmur. âI like it when you called me sweetheart.â
He presses his mouth lightly into your hair.
âGo to sleep now.â
You nod, your body going slack after a few minutes while he stays wide awake, his hands moving slowly along your spine.
âYou scared me,â he whispers into the quiet, once he is sure youâre gone.
His fingers move to brush lightly just above the stitches of your brow.
âI canât lose you,â he breathes, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
(He counts your breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. Not because he is afraid. But because he simply likes knowing the rhythm.)
When sleep finally comes at him, he knows there wonât be any nightmare.
Because youâre there.
ââââââââââ
You did not mean to end up alone with Deran.
In fact, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you had carefully avoided being alone with him since you met, not because he had been hostile to you, but because he seemed to have this unnerving habit of seeing through people and you were not a fan of subjecting yourself to that.
Craig had dragged you to the bar âjust for a bit,â (which in Craig language meant âindefinitelyâ) before promptly disappearing with a girl, leaving you at the counter, nursing a soda because you had work in the morning.
Deran was wiping down the bar in front of you.
âEl Craigo has already left?â he asked without looking up.
ââFleeâ would be a better word to describe what happened.â
âAnd so now youâre justâŚâ he gestured vaguely toward you with the cloth, ââŚmiserably contemplating on drowning yourself in your drink?â
âItâs a soda.â
âYou know what? Thatâs so much sadder.â
You exhaled, dragging a hand over your face before saying, âCan I ask you something without you telling Craig?â
That caught his attention immediately, making him glance up.
âDepends how embarrassing it is.â
âItâs not embarrassing,â you protested automatically, then faltered. âFine. ItâsâŚa little embarrassing.â
âA little?â
âA lot,â you admitted.
He huffed once, almost amused, tossing the cloth over his shoulder. âFine. What?â
You took a breath, suddenly aware of how absurd this was and how you were feeling like you were sixteen instead of twenty-nine. âItâsâŚâ you cleared your throat. âItâs about Andrew.â
(Fuck. This was so deeply humiliating. But Craig was not an option. He would weaponize the information and never let you live it down.)
Deran blinked once before leaning his forearms on the counter, a smirk spreading on his lips. âOh, I see.â
You groaned immediately. âOh, please, can you not react like that? Youâre making this worse.â
âI havenât reacted! Iâm justâŚnot quite surprised about this discussion. Come on.â he waved a hand. âWhatâs your question?â
âItâs justâŚâ you stopped. âI donât know how to tell if heâŚâ
(Oh my God. You had faced worst things than this. You could finish a sentence.)
Deran tilted his face slightly, with a shit-eating grin that you absolutely hated. âIf heâŚwhat?â
âIf he likes me,â you blurted out in one breath.
The silence fell for exactly two seconds before he let out a short, incredulous laugh.
âYouâre fucking with me. Right?â
Your face burned instantly. âOkay, great. Never mind, Iâm just gonna dig my gra-â
âEasy tiger. Donât get your panties in a twist. Heâs obsessed with you.â
You stopped, your stomach flipping violently.
âThatâs not true.â
âIt is deeply true,â Deran replied flatly. âHe reorganized the shelves in the kitchen.â
You blinked. âWellâŚI thought he just liked order.â
âOh yeah, he does. Trust me, he fucking does. ButâŚnot that much.â
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
âSurely that doesnât meanâŚâ
âHe drove across town at three in the morning to get you out of a party,â Deran continued, counting off on his fingers now. âHe cancels family meetings to go to the skatepark with you. He did his âscary stareâ to me the last time I drank in your mug.â
Heat crept up your cheeks as you stammered, throat dry. âB-But he doesnâtâŚHe doesnât say anything.â
Deran snorted. âYeah, thatâs Andrew.â
âItâs just...sometimes I donât even know what heâs thinking.â
âNeither do we,â he deadpanned. âWelcome to the family.â
You exhaled, frustration spilling over. âSo, what am I supposed to do now?â
Deran considered you for a moment. âJustâŚlet him try to go at his own pace here. He is not good at the wholeâŚrelationship thing.â he said, his voice stripped of its usual sarcasm before adding. âAnd for the record, the way you look at him? Not subtle. Like, at all.â
You nearly choked on your own spit. âI am subtle!â
âI mean, yes,â he conceded dryly. âYou are subtleâŚfor Andrew and Craig. So donât be proud about it. Thatâs the lowest level of subtility possible.â
âI hate you, Deran.â
âYeah?â he replied with an amused smile. âWell, get in line.â
There was a pause before he said quietly. âYouâre good for him. JustâŚdonât screw it up. Youâre in the tribe now. Which means I have to tell you thisâŚâ
You straightened slightly.
ââŚif youâre not sure about this, about yourself, you go now. Not in a few months. Not after he lets himself think this might be real. You donât get to backpedal if it gets complicated. He wouldnât recover from it.â
You shook your head immediately. âI swear, I wonât hurt him. HeâsâŚheâs-â
You stopped, because the word felt too large to say aloud. But Deran looked at you intensely enough for you to finish.
âHeâs important. To me. I donât want to fix him, because I donât think heâs broken. I like him the way he is. I...I think I wouldnât recover from losing him too.â
Deran held your gaze for a long moment. âAlright.â
You tilted your head. âAlright?â
âAlright,â he repeated. âYou pass.â
âWas-Was it an interview? Are you serious?â
âYep. And congrats, you got the job.â
You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt lighter than it had in quite some time while Deran smiled, a real full grin, almost boyish, making it easier to see the younger brother under his usual cryptic attitude.
âI forgot what it was like,â he said after a beat.
âWhat?â you asked.
âHaving a sister you can annoy.â
âThatâsâŚextremely sweet of you.â
âDonât ruin it,â he warned, pointing the towel at you. âI will absolutely deny this conversation ever happened if you mention it to my brothers.â
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.
Then, he leaned forward and whispered to you. âAnd if you hurt him, Iâm stealing your car and slashing your tires.â
âO-Okay.â
He had a little smile before straightening up. âWelcome into the family.â
ââââââââââ
He has not told you.
No one has told you about the job.
Craig said it wasnât necessary, that you would make a big deal out of it. Deran said it was cleaner that way, the less people know, the less risk and Andrew didnât argue, telling himself it was better if you didnât know the details, better if you didnât have to sit there, waiting for them to come back and spiraling about what could be happening to them.
He told himself that ignorance would keep you safe.
The screen door slams and your voice, sharper than he has ever heard it is rising against Craig, whoâs following you in the backyard like a kicked puppy.
Andrew doesnât turn immediately from his spot, staring at the water of the pool. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the loud noises.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the tiles of the pool.)
âYou asked me to babysit Nick,â youâre saying, your voice shaking like you are about to start crying, âand you made it sound like it was for a date or something stupid! You didnât say it was because you were going to fucking rob a jewelry store!â
âJesus, lower your voice.â
âLower my voice? How about you shut your mouth you liar!â
It isnât only outrage in your voice, Andrew feels it. Itâs fear. A raw, unfiltered fear for them. For him. And he doesnât know what to do with that because no one has ever been afraid of losing him. When he went to prison years ago, his family moved on, sold his place and went on with their lives. For them, it was an inconvenience, for him, it was three years in Folsom.
Andrew turns then.
Youâre standing a few feet from Craig, hands still bandaged, the thin line of stitches above your eyebrow visible, pointing a finger at Craig angrily while he tries to stay calm, running a hand through his hair.
âItâs not a big deal.â
âYouâre breaking into a jewelry store, Craig. Thatâs not exactly Disneyland.â
âWeâve done jobs for years,â he snaps. âWeâre good at it.â
Andrew watches the way your shoulders rise and fall too fast with your breath, the way your fingers flex like youâre resisting the urge to grab something and throw it at Craig.
âYou know what happens if you get caught, right? You know what that would do to Nick?â
Craigâs jaw tightens. âWe donât get caught.â
You let out a bitter sound that is half a laugh, half a sob.
âRepeat this in the eyes of your brother, I fucking dare you. Thatâs not how life works, and you know it. You can get caught.â
Andrew feels the words hit him in the chest and rip something out of him. He doesnât know when you learn about it. Doesnât know who told you or the extent of your knowledge about those three years of fights and isolation.
If you know â truly know - why arenât you running away? Why are you still here?
(He doesnât understand. He canât understand. Itâs too much. Itâs too little. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks on the floor.)
âWeâre not idiots, just trust us, okay?â Craig argues, rolling his eyes.
âYou left me alone at a party in a house full of people doing coke,â you fire back, your finger jabbing hard against his chest. âYou are the exact definition of an idiot, Craig.â
Craig winces. âWe donât have to do this right now, okay? I already told you I was sorry about it. Pope, back me up.â
Both of you turn toward him at once, the weight of the fight landing on his shoulders. He doesnât move immediately. Doesnât speak either. Andrew has never been good at splitting himself in two, at giving his opinion. He was raised to follow orders.
Craig gestures toward you. âSheâs acting like weâre amateurs.â
You slap his arm, wincing, forgetting for a moment about your bandage. âFuck.â
Andrew walks up to you, checking your hand while you keep repeating him. âIâm okay, Andrew. I promise.â
He lifts his eyes to yours, angling his head to catch them, and when your gaze finally locks with his, he holds it, stubborn and unblinking. Your eyes shine brighter tonight than they usually do, so he doesnât give himself permission to look away.
(Youâre about to cry. Itâs his fault. It must be his fault. He should have been better. But the voices are too loud. He doesnât like when itâs too loud. One. Two. Three. Four. He remembers your breaths when you sleep.)
âI justâŚI thought you all trusted me,â you say, your voice breaking halfway through, fighting back tears of frustration.
Craigâs shoulders drop while Andrewâs thumb strokes over the back of your hand, grounding himself.
âWe do,â Craig says, less combative now. âThatâs why I asked you to watch Nick.â
âThatâs not making me feel like you trust me. Itâs making me feel like Iâm a convenience.â
The word hangs there, making Andrew feel like he failed something. He has never wanted you to feel like this. He wanted you to be protected.
His gaze doesnât waver as he keeps your hand in his, stroking over the bandage.
Craig looks between the two of you, seeing the hand, the closeness and mutters, âJesus, bro, this is the worst time,â under his breath.
âOkay,â he exhales finally, turning fully toward you. âI fucked up. Massively. About the party. About not telling you. AboutâŚprobably a million other things. I didnât mean for you to feel unsafe.â
You donât look convinced.
âTrust me,â Craig adds quickly, throwing Andrew a sideways glance, âI got my ass kicked enough by Pope to regret this party for the rest of my life.â
Your lips twitch a little, trying to keep it contain.
âNow, if you could hand me back my brother, I would be very grateful because we have a job to do, and you have a kid to entertain,â Craig says, rolling his eyes and retreating inside the house.
Andrew doesnât let go of your hand, refusing to blink and terrified of losing a moment of you. He has the irrational feeling that if he does, something will waver on your face, the moment when you realize what this life looks like and he wonât be able to see his failure in time.
 âWeâve planned it,â he murmurs finally.
You hold his gaze. âAnd if something goes wrong?â
He doesnât answer right away because he knows the answer to this, and he is certain you donât want to hear it.
(If something goes wrong, he goes down first. He makes sure Deran and Craig are safe. He doesnât come home because he wonât ever go back to prison. He prefers to die trying to escape than go back in a cell. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your eyelashes.)
You are still waiting, searching his face.
âThen I handle it,â he says quietly.
You shake your head, your jaw working as if youâre trying to physically hold yourself together. âPromise me to come back safe.â
His hand lifts before he can stop himself to settle against the side of your face, his thumb resting just beneath your eye, making you go very still, waiting for what he will do next.
His thumb caresses your cheekbone once, just enough to fill his mind with the memory of your skin.
âI wonât let anything happen to me,â he whispers, and he doesnât know if itâs meant as a vow or a lie heâs trying to force into becoming true. âI promise,â and before he allows himself to overthink it, he presses a careful kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing just above the line of stitches.
He can hear you catch your breath and it makes him pull back, his lips tingling at the contact. He knows it now: if he stays longer, if he lets himself feel the warmth of you, he might not leave at all.
He memorizes the sight of you like this: looking like losing him would break you and it does something unfamiliar to his chest. No one has ever been scared at the thought of him disappearing. No one has ever demanded that he come back.
He turns quickly, putting distance between the two of you before he changes his mind, the promise he made echoing in his head.
He hears it when Deran cuts the alarms. Promise me to come back safe. When he cuts through the back entrance. Promise me. And when Craig tries to improvise. Promise. He is not one to do reckless things but tonight, he is particularly unyielding each time the job almost goes sideways.
He knows you are in the house with Nick, probably pacing the kitchen and waiting to see the outcome of his word. So, when he finally reaches the main display room, he is quick to reach for the highest value pieces that will be cut down and reshaped. No traces or evidence will be left, they have done this long enough to know how to make everything disappear completely.
Andrewâs hand hovers for half a second over a particular velvet cushion before picking up the thin gold chain, a small heart-shaped pendant set in the center. Itâs delicate and quiet, reminding him how it feels to bask in your light. He turns it between his fingers once, twice, imagining it resting just below the hollow of your throat, his thumb brushing over it absentmindedly while you are both sitting on the couch and watching a documentary.
He slips it securely into the inner pocket of his jacket, pressing it flat against his chest for a brief second before stepping back into motion and leaving with his brothers without any alarms or police sirens cutting through the night.
And when they get at the warehouse to stash the duffel bags, Andrew doesnât stay like he usually would to make sure about getting his fair cut of the job. He nods once, quiet, ignoring their snickers and comments about him being âdown badâ all the way to his truck.
The house is dim when he enters, a soft glow coming from Craigâs bedroom and before he sees you, he hears your voice. Itâs so soft.
âAnd baby whale swam all the way across the ocean to find mama whale,â you murmur.
He quietly walks up to the threshold to see you sitting on the bed with Nick lying, his eyes dropping with sleep, his thumb in his mouth and clutching to his monkey plushie. You slowly close the illustrated book before pressing a kiss onto the his hair and something expands in Andrewâs.
(You would be good at this. At building something steady. He can picture you pregnant, swelling with a child. His curls and your smile on a being that would never know the kind of hurt he had to go through.)
You stand up from the bed and see him, the relief crossing your face so achingly tender it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.
âAndrew.â
He nods once, trying to convey his feelings, âI came back.â
You smile, closing the bedroom door behind you and stepping close to him, scanning for injuries the way he did for you at the skatepark. He lifts his hands, showing you his palms.
âIâm fine. I promised you I would.â
Your shoulders drop in a way that tells him youâve been holding yourself rigid for hours, managing a barely audible, âThank God.â
His lips tilt upward before reaching into his jacketâs pocket, âTurn around,â before adding a quiet, âPlease.â
âBossy,â you reply, amused, before turning your back to him.
He closes the one last step between you, pulling out the necklace from his pocket, careful not to let his hands shake as he lifts your hair to expose the back on your neck. He fastens the chain, the clasp clicking softly into place and for a second he doesnât step away, the pad of his thumb grazing at the nape of your neck.
âAndrew,â you whisper, turning back toward him, your fingers lifting to trace it. âItâsâŚItâs beautiful. Thank you.â
He keeps staring at the pendant who rests exactly where he imagined it would be, then at your mouth before quickly going back to your eyes. You are close enough that he can feel your breath on his face, the world narrowing to the space between you.
He wants to close the distance, to press his mouth to yours.
Instead, he rests his forehead gently against yours, grounding himself with your scent, refusing to close his eyes.
âYou should sleep,â he murmurs.
You smile softly and suddenly, Andrew wonders how he can extract a memory and preserve it forever in resin.
Because this moment feels like the dawn of his existence.
ââââââââââ
When Andrew was seven years old, the house was already too loud.
Somewhere down the hall a door slammed hard enough to be heard from the bedroom he shared with Julia, who was sitting on the floor with a deck of cards spread between them while he lined them into exact rows instead of playing War.
He liked the rows and the symmetry of it. It calmed him each time the edges were precisely following the pattern of the carpet. With this, he didnât need to count.
In the backyard, someone shouted about money, making the twins flinch in fear. Julia reached for his hand, and they sat like that for a long time: her fingers curled tightly around his, his eyes fixed on the the cards. (Hearts. Diamonds. Clubs. Spades. Everything will be all right.)
Smurf emerged in the doorway with her bright smile, eight months pregnant with their little brother, tilting her head, âMy baby is a strange one,â she whispers to his new stepfather, âBut useful.â
Andrew heard it. He didnât know what strange meant exactly, but he knew it was something you said when you didnât want to say wrong.
At school, boys kept snatching his skateboard, tossing it across the asphalt because he rode the same loop over and over during recess, memorizing how many pushes it took to reach the fence.
(Fourteen. Fourteen every time. An even number. He liked them. Thatâs why he always counted till four.)
The first time a boy shoved him and called him a freak, Andrew didnât respond. Just took back the board and kept doing his loops. The second time, when the board got kicked away and Julia was not there to held his hand, Andrew swung without warning. He couldnât remember deciding to, just the sound of the impact and how the noise inside him went blissfully silent.
After that, teachers called him difficult, the kids stopped approaching him and Smurf congratulated him with a kiss on his mouth.
At night, when Julia was asleep beside him, Andrew kept staring at the ceiling, wondering something he couldnât say out loud to his mother or his sister: would anyone ever see that he was trying? Trying to keep himself together so he didnât explode? Trying to be good? Trying to stop the noises in his head?
-
When you were seven years old, the house smelled like warm cookies.
You were sitting on the couch, your small arms cradling your cousin, afraid to drop her. You didnât know how to act with a baby. Your parents had sat you down a few months ago at the kitchen table and told you that you were their little miracle, that Santa sometimes forgot things and that maybe it would always just be the three of you â which sounded a little sad until your father had squeezed your hand and told you that three was already perfect.
But it was alright, because now, you had your cousinâs fingers clutching onto your hair, âSheâs holding me!â you squealed, delighted and in awe because here, in this house, you were allowed to be amazed and to grow at your own pace.
The day you scraped your knee on the sidewalk, trying to teach yourself how to roller skate, you cried for less than a minute before your mother knelt in front of you, cleaning the wound and kissing the sting away. âYouâre gonna be okay,â she said, and you believed her.
At school, you had a best friend who whispered to you how babies were made, and that made you giggle all day, the teacher shaking his head and calling you incorrigible, even though you had no idea what that meant and decided it must be something wonderful if it made you laugh that hard.
And the day you asked what you could be when you grew up, no one laughed. âYou can be anything my little monkey,â your father had told you, and you thought about it for the whole day. Because anything was a lot for your brain: a teacher, a vet, a marine biologist. You always circled back to the same answer: something to help people.
And at night, as you looked at your glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, you wondered about other things: would someone look at you the way your father looked at your mother when she was singing in the kitchen, with that love that said I am home?
ââââââââââ
Deranâs bar is louder than usual tonight, crowded by sports fans watching a game between Los Angeles and Atlanta. Craig has tried to tell him why it was so important to win at least five times since their arrival, but Andrewâs attention remains elsewhere entirely, watching you from across the room the way he has been watching you for four months now: trying to read something in your posture or in the tilt of your head that could give him an answer.
Because the truth isâŚhe doesnât know what you are after last night and if what happened in the hallway, or every night youâve spent wrapped together, mean the same thing to you that they mean to him. He wants to ask, to spill the question out before it eats him alive: what are we?
Andrew hates not knowing. On a job, he knows every camera, every blind spot, every possible way things can go wrong but with you, thereâs no map. And he hates that he canât predict your next move.
You are standing at the bar, ordering a drink, your back half-turned to him and wearing a dress that shouldnât be allowed to exist in public. It makes his pants grow tighter and has him readjusting on the stool, trying to pretend he isnât affected while his brother sits three feet away and would never let him live it down if he knew.
And he knows he shouldnât be staring, but you keep touching absentmindedly the necklace, your fingers tracing the pendant as it moves with your breathing, and before he can stop himself, heâs counting it.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
You had said thank you last night in a way that felt like you meant something more, had let him secure the necklace around your neck and had met his eyes when you called it beautiful as if you were promising you would always wear it.
Always.
(Oh, how he doesnât trust that word. Doesnât trust anything that implies staying. He knows better. He should know better.)
And yet, there you are, wearing it for everyone to see, which does nothing to steady his accelerated pulse, and leaning across the counter to collect your cocktail from Deran. The movement doesnât reveal much more of your skin, but it still sets ablaze Andrewâs brain, his lips going dry as he tries to resist the urge to walk up to you and beg for you to tell him that he isnât the only one picturing rings, and a cradle in a quiet house and your head on his chest until he is old and grey.
âYouâre not being subtle, you know that?â Craig says, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
âDonât start.â
Craig raises his hands innocently. âJesus, relax.â He immediately reaches for the bowl of peanuts on the table, and Andrew feels his jaw tighten at the thought of how many unwashed hands have touched that bowl already. âSeriously, whatâs wrong with you tonight?â
Whatâs wrong is that he just stole diamonds worth more than all of the jobs he did last year and it doesnât compete to the way you look with the chain resting against your collarbone.
Whatâs wrong is that he would give back every dollar from last night if it meant waking up beside you for the next fifty years.
Whatâs wrong is that he is one second away from walking across that bar and lowering himself at your feet for your hands to baptize him clean, as if loving you were the only absolution worth asking for because whatever heaven exists for a man like him begins and ends with you.
And whatâs wrong right now is that a man slides into the empty space beside you, leaning too close and touching your arm to get your attention. You turn toward him politely, your lips curving into the small smile you once called your âcustomer smileâ. Â You had explained it to his brothers and him: that you always kept the worst-case scenario in the back of your mind and that a smile felt safer than a hard no since it could mean the difference between walking away or not.
(Andrew doesnât know the names or the faces of those who made you feel like that but he wants to find them. He wants to press them on the ground and feel their pulse panic under his thumbs. He wants them to understand what fear tastes like when it turns metallic into the mouth. He wants the air stolen from their lungs the way it must have been stolen from yours when you felt scared. He no longer wants to count. He wants to hurt. To see this manâs blood on the bar.)
Andrew starts walking towards you before he even formulates the thought, shoulders squared, already calculating how much force it would require to grab the stranger by the collar and steer him outside of the bar.
His vision narrows as he sees the stranger laughing, his hand lifting to linger near your elbow as if he was testing whether he can push for more and that makes Andrewâs vision blur at the edges. He is three steps away. Two.
Your eyes find his instantly, and something shifts in your expression. Your hand leaves the cocktail and you smile at him. Itâs not the customer smile. No, itâs the real one that unravels him each time.
âHey, honey,â you say brightly as your arm wraps around his neck and you press a kiss to his cheek, your hand traveling down his side before sliding into the back pocket of his pants, settling against him.
Andrew is almost sure he died at some point on the way there because he is pressed against you and now, he is no longer Andrew or Pope. For a brief moment, he gets to just be honey, and the word makes him happier than any name ever has.
The stranger glances between you. âOh. I didnât realizeâŚâ
âMy boyfriend,â you cut him off with a smile, looking up at Andrewâs face.
His eyes were already on yours, searching for the smallest flicker of fear. Because if the man has dared put some in them, Andrew would dig an unmarked grave without blinking. When he finds none, his hand comes to your waist, his thumb strolling along your hip as he dips his head and presses his mouth above the faint line of stitches on your forehead.
âHey, sweetheart,â he murmurs, low enough that the word belongs only to you.
He feels your breath hitch against his skin before turning to the man and saying lightly. âNo worries, he always gets a little intense about men crowding me,â you tilt your head, thoughtful. âNot sure if itâs the boxing or the prison time. But donât mind himâŚhe almost doesnât bite.â
The strangerâs smile falters just enough to satisfy something dark in Andrewâs chest. âOh, umâŚyeah. Sorry man, I didnât know she was taken.â
Andrew doesnât raise his voice or move, he just stands there with your hand in his pocket, letting the silence stretch until it feels suffocating. âShe is.â
âRight. Iâll go back toâŚthe match.â
Andrew doesnât blink and keeps track of the manâs back until he is laughing again at his friendsâ table like nothing happened and only then does he let his focus shift back to you. You, whoâs still close and warm, holding onto him like you have no intention of letting go.
His hand remains at your waist as he turns toward you, the movement bringing your faces close enough that your noses almost brush and your breaths mix between you. He lowers his head slightly, almost enough to kiss you.
âYou okay?â he murmurs while his thumb keeps its slow movement on your hip.
You nod, your mouth curving up in that smile he loves. The real one. The one that you have at the skatepark each time you manage to stay upright a little longer than the day before: proud, bright and stubbornly pleased of yourself. And he canât help but think about those lips and the way they said âhoneyâ.
(He wants to hear it again. Wants to hear it softly. Wants to hear it moaned in the dark and against his mouth. He wants to kiss them every day for the rest of his life. To learn them. To know how they would part as he pounds into you. Stop. He has to stop.)
He blinks twice, grounding himself in the feel of your waist.
âAndrew. Iâm good, I promise,â you murmur, sliding your hand out of his pocket and lace your fingers with his instead, interlocking them. âLetâs get out of here, please. Itâs too loud.â
He doesnât say it out loud, but relief settles at your suggestion. The bar feels too loud, too crowded and the idea of how many unwashed hands like Craigâs have been over the counters keeps coming back at him. So, when you tug gently at his hand and turn toward the door, he follows without hesitation, grateful that you were the one saying it.
The door swings shut behind you and the noise from the bar dulls instantly, reduced to a muted thud. The air is cooler than inside, smelling like the salt of the ocean mixed with your shampoo and he doesnât understand how he gets to still have your hand in his and your thumb moving across his knuckles.
Itâs only when you stop beside the truck and turn toward him that his eyes drop to the thin gold chain resting around your neck. His free hand lifts carefully to brush the chain first, following it down until the pad of his thumb rests over the pendant itself, flattening it against your skin.
âStill got it on,â he murmurs, tracing the outline of the pendant.
(He imagines doing this, years from now. In the kitchen. In bed. In the shower. Adjusting it before you leave the house. Brushing it aside before he kisses the curve of your throat. Seeing it against your skin when you are carrying his child.)
âLooks better on you than it did in the store,â he adds.
Your fingers slide slowly between his, guiding his hand so it settles flat over your heartbeat. He can feel it beating loud and fast under his palm, matching his own.
You tilt your face enough to find his eyes back. âThank you for what happened in there, Andrew. You were good.â
His eyes slip shut for half a second because he doesnât trust himself to survive the way you are looking at him, smiling at him with such warmth he shivers of pleasure.
(Good. You think he is good. If thatâs what you want, he can be good. He can kneel. He can find how to rebuild himself from the bones if it means you keep calling him good.)
âYou shouldnât say things like that,â he says under his breath.
âWhy?â
âBecause Iâd do anything if you asked.â
Your fingers start to caress the back of his hand. âAnything?â
He nods, his gaze unwaveringly focused on your eyes. âIf you told me to walk away from the jobs, I would.â
Your hand pauses against his.
âAndrewâŚâ you murmur, but thereâs no panic in it, no immediate rejection. âYou know why I wanted to reject him, right?â
He doesnât answer, too scared of startling the moment with another word.
âYou know why Iâd reject any other guy in that bar and why I wanted him to know?â
âKnow what?â
âThat Iâm not available.â
âYouâre not?â he asks, as his mind races.
âI donât know,â you say softly. âAre you?â
The question hangs there, in the small space between your bodies, his mind fumbling with a thousand overlapping questions.
(Are you with him? Calling him yours? Defining what this was? Finally answering the question that has been rattling his brain for weeks?)
âAre you available Andrew?â you repeat gently, your hand lifting up to cup his face.
He exhales slowly, trying not to whimper at the contact, shaking his head.
You lean closer, your nose brushing his and your voice dropping lower. âNo?â
âNo.â
Your thumb traces patterns along his cheekbone and it takes him a few moments to realize that you were mapping his freckles. âHow long?â you whisper.
He feels too weak to reply, overwhelmed by the tenderness of your touch. If his heart had not been already yours, he would lay it at your feet right there, so long as you promise to treat him with this gentleness and care for the rest of his life.
âBefore the party? When I called you to help me?â he nods. âBefore our night on the couch?â another nod. âBefore our first skateboard le-?â
 âWhen we met. And you brought pastries,â he replies, on the verge of a sob, shameful to confess that he keeps thinking about you on top of him, under him, any way you want it as long as he could disappear into your light and be drown whole by your grace to wipe out every horror he has ever seen or done for the sake of others.
âAndrew. Honey. Please, look at me.â
He keeps his gaze darted to the ground, like looking anywhere but you might prevent him from saying anything more revealing about the depth of his feelings, before his eyes close on their own instinctively, only realizing a heartbeat later that itâs because your lips found his.
And for the first time in Andrewâs life, that deep pit of misery in his heart goes completely silent, frozen for a flash before kissing you back.
Your lips are warm and a little reckless, tasting like mint and something entirely yours that he knows he will crave for the rest of his life. Your fingers thread into his curls, pulling a groan he canât control out of him. He moves closer without thinking, his hand sliding along your waist until your back meets the metal of the truck door.
The second he registers the force of it, he pulls back just enough to search your face, to scan for any sign that he has gone too far, but the pause barely lasts a breath before your fingers tighten in his hair, guiding him back down as your body arched into his, slipping his tongue past your parted lips.
You are an oasis and he is nothing but a thirsty man wandering in the dark who gets to finally know what itâs like to drink every drop of it. You taste dizzy and intoxicating and he knows that he has been feeding on scraps of affection all his life and nowâŚnow he understands what it means to be full.
He is about to tell you how much sweeter you taste than in his fantasies before you bite down on his lower lip, drawing another sound of his throat.
You tilt your head, your arms wrapping fully around his neck as his drop to your hips, steady and sure, to raise you higher against the door, a gasp spilling out of you that he swallows eagerly and your dress hiking up as your legs wrap around him, denying any space between your bodies.
He feels you pull away for air by an inch or two, making him whine at the loss of contact, but he quickly recovers as he sees the flushed smile on your kiss-swollen lips. âShow off.â
âYeah?â he asks while one of his arms tightens under you, anchoring your body to the door while the other frees itself to trail up your body and adding a smug, âYeah,â skimming your inner thigh and marveling at how many sounds he can coax out of you, wondering how much more heâd pull if he could trace his thumb along your heat. But instead, he cups again your cheek, tracing slowly the bow of your lips.
âDimples,â you murmur.
âWhat?â
âDimples, Andrew,â you repeat, delighted, like youâve just discovered something rare. âI didnât know you had them.â
(Oh. Of course. You can see them because he is smiling. For real. A real one. Not the tight, guarded version. Not the twitchy one. A full unguarded smile. When was the last time he did that?)
âI do,â he says, trying and failing to smooth it away. âSo do you.â
Your eyebrows lift. âI do not.â
âYou do,â he insists quietly, shifting his hold slightly to keep his arm secure around you, his thumb pressing gently at the corner of your mouth. âRight thereâŚâ
Inside the bar, the crowd erupts in a wave of shouting, making you glance at the door before erupting in laughter, eyes wide.
âOh, fuck,â you whisper, incapable of stopping your giggles. âI forgot.â
Andrew exhales through his nose, trying to calm the blood pumping hard all the way down his length. He knows that youâve been feeling him against you the whole time, your hips still rubbing together, and for once in his life, he doesnât want to excuse himself or feel ashamed of his desires, of how much he wants. He has spent too many nights thinking about how youâd taste, how youâd moan. Too many cold showers to try get rid of his hard-on whenever he was picturing you.
âMaybeâŚâ you murmur against his mouth, pecking soft kisses along his jaw. âMaybe we should relocate.â
He looks at you, at the way your lips are still swollen and glistening from kissing, at your panting and the tremors of your legs.
He nods, lowering you carefully back onto your feet, his hands still trailing along your sides to still have some ways of being connected to you before reaching for the door handle of the passenger seat and helping you in.
He feels, walking around to the driverâs side, that he is still smiling. Dimples and all.
ââââââââââ
âMaybeâŚâ you sigh, struggling to keep your composure and pressing kisses along the freckles dusting his jaw. âMaybe we should relocate.â
The intensity of his eyes on you, trailing along your body and taking in your rampant arousal, feels like he is on the verge of taking you against the door. You are pretty sure that if heâd ask you for permission, youâd grant it promptly. You want him. You want to know how long it would take for his unwavering hazel eyes to become pleading wet just by your lips telling how good he is to you.
But he just nods, jaw tight before lowering you carefully back onto your feet, making you bite down a protest at the loss of contact, like even the air feels like too much distance, until you feel his fingertips dragging over your waist.
He opens the door for you and not so long ago, you would have described his current behavior as controlled and cold, but now that you know himâŚyou recognize a man whoâs trying to contain himself, like a wild animal finally freed.
(Devour. You want him to devour you. To ruin you. Four months of trying â miserably â to have a date with him and it took only a gross man and a âhoneyâ to get him to kiss you like that and tell you he would quit everything? Fuck. Focus.)
He starts the engine, snapping you out of your thoughts, before pulling out of the parking lot, still smiling. You stare at his profile: the line of his jaw that has now faint traces of your lipstick, the way his tongue briefly drags across his lower lips like he can still taste you and his hand on the gear shift that slowly drifts to your thigh.
Your breath stutters the moment his palm settles just above your knee, the pads of his fingers tracing patterns over it while he keeps his eyes on the road. That definitely doesnât help your craving for more.
(How much can be a fine for having sex in a car anyway? Andrew has money. Plenty from what you understand soâŚthat would just be a drop in a bucket, right?)
You slide your fingers over his, intertwining them on your lap and stilling his slow, absent movements. He glances at you immediately, probably to understand why you stopped him. But the look you give him is enough to answer his question.
His eyes trail your face a fraction too long before looking back to the road, purposefully, the streetlights passing by a little faster.
âWeâll be there in five,â he declares without looking at you.
âAndrew, itâs at least ten minutes away,â you say, with a barely contained smile.
âFive.â
âIâm timing you, you know,â you smirked, pointing at the car clock.
The truck moves through an intersection just as the light turns yellow - once, then again at the next block â while Andrew doesnât do so much as blink.
âSee?â he says, the hint of a smug smile on his face when the car finally parks home.
You check the dashboard clock. Four minutes.
You shake your head, laughing as you both unbuckle your seatbelts. âShow off.â
Of course, you should know better now, he is not a man to stop there. So, when he opens the door for you before you even reach for the handle, and offers his hand, you should see it coming.
He helps you down carefully and for half a breath you think that maybe this time heâs not going to do it. No, you definitely should know better cause the moment your feet hit the ground, his arm slides behind your knees, sweeping you off while the other moves behind your back.
A breathless gasp escapes your mouth. âAndrew!â
(God you are so fucking gone for him. Is this what it would feel like? Crossing a threshold with him as a young bride? Completely besotted in a white dress? No. Not would. Will.)
He shuts the door with his hip, adjusting you against his chest as your arms loop around his neck automatically, your body relishing his touch as the thought slips out before you can stop it: âI feel like your bride right now.â
His steps slow on his way to the door, just enough for you to notice and wonder if you should just tell him to brush off your stupid words. That you are just drunk (you barely had the time to drink a sip of your cocktail earlier) and tired (you just spent two nights in a row sleeping like a baby in his arms).
The garage light flickers as he reaches the front door. âYou are.â
He carries you inside like heâs done it in a million other lifetimes while you are still gaping, mouth wide open at his words. You shake your head a bit wobbly before moving your hand from the nape of his neck to the place on his cheek where you know a dimple is hiding.
âCareful,â you murmur, smiling softly. âKeep talking like that and I might start looking for a dress rea-â
Your words are being cut off by his mouth, kissing you like he is trying to drown in the sensation, tilting his head to fit you better, to take more of you, and you canât stop the moan passing your lips. It feels like stepping into the fire and realizing you donât ever want to be pulled out.
Your feet carefully find back the ground as his hands slide along your backbone, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades. His lips part yours with the same confidence he has when he catches you at the skatepark. You feel him everywhere and you still want more.
(Is it ever going to stop? This feeling? This whole tremor that dances under your skin every time he touches you? Every time he kisses you like he means forever?)
He pulls away just enough, heavy breath mingling with yours, hazel eyes half-lidded in pleasure and his nose brushing yours softly with your foreheads pressed together, âWe can just kiss. If thatâs what you want. I donât need more. Just you,â he murmured in a broken voice.
The words settle deep in your chest, heavy and large as if they have roots. It makes you want to answer him with your mouth, to kiss him until his doubts leave his bones entirely. You bring your fingers to the bow of his lips and he kisses them gently, one after the other, the softness of it making you tremble.
âAndrew,â you say quietly, smiling despite your racing pulse. âTake me to bed.â
He regards you for a long moment, his eyes moving slowly over your face as though he is searching for hesitation and when he finds none, a smile begins at the corner of his mouth, enough to carve that rare, gorgeous dimple into his cheek. âBossy,â he smirks before lifting you back by the waist so your legs can wrap up around his waist, walking around the house guided only by his memory since his lips are too busy coaxing moans out of you.
You are almost blacking out from the lack of oxygen when the kiss suddenly breaks. In the soft lighting of his bedroom, you distinguish most of his expression: lustful and bewildered that this is finally happening.
âI want to taste you. Please,â he breaths and you nod, not trusting yourself to reply.
The look that passes through his hazel eyes is hazy, fingers finding the hem of your dress and carefully pulling it up.
âDonât want to mess it,â he says, folding it neatly on his chair. âYou look pretty in that.â
You sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to feel too self-conscious about being only in your underwear, braless as he kneels down to the floor, still fully clothed and face a few inches lower than yours, prying your legs apart.
âAndrew,â
He doesnât respond, pressing his lips to the inner corner of your thigh and moving further up between your legs.
âYou donât have to Andrew.â
He only lifts his gaze up to yours, unwavering as he continues his kisses, âYou donât want it?â
âIâŚIâm not saying that. I justâŚI donât want you to feel obligated to it. I know itâs notâŚwhat men like the most,â you gasp, your hand finding his curls and twisting them around your fingers, making him grunt.
âItâs what I want to do the most, right now,â he says with a sinful gaze. âCan I?â
âYes. Okay. Sure,â you choke, closing your eyes and lying down as he continues his torturous path, his hands slowly tugging the last piece between him and your pussy.
You donât think you have ever been this wet with a man. Or a woman. Or anyone at all. Normally, you feel a bit uncomfortable with men going down on you cause they never seem to know what they are doing or are too impatient of having âreal sexâ to let you finish. But here with Andrew, you are nothing but pleasure, his lips fiddling with you like you are an instrument that he is tuning to his own harmony.
You gasp as his tongue finally probes your folds stopping just underneath your clit, earning from him a low whimper.
âYou taste delicious,â he goes, coming up for air by an inch. âJust like how I dreamt,â he adds, making you feel close to delirious.
He lowers his face again, tongue working its way up your pussy again, finally reaching for your clit and rolling over it, making you shudder and writhe on the bed, incapable of keeping your moans down and your hands running through his scalp.
âAndrew, please. Just like that. Itâs perfect,â you praise him, feeling how it makes him pick up the pace.
Your last straw is the sight of his face between your legs, eyes burning with nothing but want, his hands used to stealing and hurting now holding onto your legs to keep them open and making you come with a hoarse cry. If thereâs a heaven on Earth, you know now that it must only exist in this man. In his hands, his chest, his mouth, his eyes. He is nothing but your sanctuary, your promised land and your altar.
When your orgasm subsides, you feel Andrew crawling over you and pressing his lips against you, making you taste yourself on his mouth as you slip your tongue in it. The small noise of pleasure from the back of his throat is the most delicious sound youâve ever heard.
âYou,â you breathe against him, your lips brushing his, pupils probably wide. âI want you. Like right now. So pleaseâŚtake off those clothes. I love them. Really. But take them off.â
His lips twitches again to the side, âAnything.â as he starts to undress, folding them before going above you, his hard cock pressing against your heat.
His eyes keep searching your face, looking for an ounce of backtrack in your eyes before slowly entering you. Thatâs when you realize how grateful you are for the previous climax because in any other situation, you would have probably wince at his thickness. Thankfully, he seems to catch on with it - probably due to his gaze not leaving your face and refusing to blink â and takes his time to be fully inside you.
For a couple of minutes, the two of you donât move, give you the time to marvel at how good he feels inside of you. You know now that youâll have other days and nights to ask him to stay like this for hours, just to be one.
Andrew presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing yours as he whispers. âI love you.â
The word hums through your body. Love. Love. Love. Andrew loves someone and itâs you. From your scalp to your toes, you can feel it resonating through you. Love. Love. Love.
âI love you, Andrew. My Andrew,â you murmur happily, moving a drenched curl from his forehead. âSo good to me.â
His face ends up in your neck, trying to cover his reaction to your words. âYou really think Iâm good?â
âOf course you are. Look at me, honey,â you say, holding onto his chin to bring back his face close to yours as your legs wrap around his waist. âYou are good. You are kind. You keep making me feel safe. AndâŚIâm so lucky to have you,â you add, rolling your hips and making him shiver.
You drink in the sight of him: his sweaty hair sticking to his head, curls messy from where your fingers had run through, the freckles dusting his chest and the traces of old wounds that youâll ask about one day. But the most important of all is the way he is looking at you â as if he loves you. Because he does. He said it. I love you. I love you. I love you.
You keep whispering sweet nothings into his ear, just to see the flush spreading on his cheeks, his ears, his chest and encouraging his thrusts to go harder, deeper. Soon enough, you are quivering around him, your nails digging in his skin as you bite on his lower lip in retaliation for making you wait so long for this moment.
He lets out a desperate moan. âI wonâtâŚlast long. âm sorry. You feel soâŚâ
âItâs okay,â you encourage him. âI want you to come.â
He slams his cock one more time and goes. âWh-Where?â
âIn me,â you beg, and you know you have hit the right nerve from the way his whole body trembles.
âReally?â he breathes.
âPlease.â
The sight of his body, eyes fighting to not shut tight from the pleasure, mouth pursuing yours, mixed with how good he is making you feel, is too much. Your back arches as you reach your second climax tonight, quickly followed by Andrew, clinging to you as his warm load fills you up. Both of you are gasping for one another, time almost freezing as your eyes are sharing the same thought. I love you. I love you. I love you.
After a couple of minutes, Andrew slips out of you and lays most of his body against your side, putting his head above your breasts, on your heartbeat, intertwining your hands together.