2026 marks the 10 year anniversary of this tragedy. While we all celebrate pride month, let us never forget all of the queer and trans family members we have lost along the way. đ
Summary: Y/n comes across the One Wish Willow, an object that promises to grant a wish. Despite her initial skepticism and sense of guilt, her emotional obsession with Wednesday takes over.
The bell above the door marked her arrival at Uriahâs Heap.
Y/n looked around with curiosity, her eyes lingering on the strange objects displayed on the shelves: old hats, magical books, antique accordions and⌠was that a squirrel dressed as Elvis? She suppressed a smile and kept walking between the narrow aisles of the shop.
There was truly everything in there, even though half of it gave her chills in a way she couldnât quite explain.
She slowed her pace and spotted a small bottle containing a thick purple liquid. A layer of dust veiled the glass of the ampoule, enhancing its ancient and mysterious appearance. The warm amber light of a lamp hit it at an angle, distorting its reflections and making the contents look even more unsettling. She hesitantly ran a finger along its contours, her gaze lingering on the label of the bottle: Elixir Break-the-Curse.
What did that mean? Break curses? she thought.
If this breaks curses, there should be another one that casts them⌠or something like that, she mused.
I wonder if thereâs something that makes people fall in love⌠she wondered with a faint smile, immediately followed by a wave of guilt for the thought.
No, this is wrong.
She let go of the ampoule and walked toward the front of the shop.
âGood morning! How can I help you?â asked a middle-aged woman with dark skin and a warm smile on her lips.
Y/n returned the smile and slipped her hands into her pockets, tilting her head to the side.
âHonestly, I donât even know why Iâm here,â she murmured softly, slightly embarrassed by the confession.
The woman didnât seem surprised and only softened her smile.
âYouâre back at Nevermore, right? The holidays are over,â she said. Y/n nodded. âWere you looking to buy something for a boyfriend? A⌠girlfriend?â
Y/n felt her cheeks heat up at the implication. She looked away, her attention suddenly caught by a small box inside a basket: One Wish Willow. She picked up one of the triangular cartridges and turned it between her fingers. You only get one wish⌠yeah, it said it right there. Spark the middle and break it in halfâŚ
What did âsparkâ mean?
She ran her thumb over the red writing and turned the cartridge over again in her hands.
Will it work? she wondered skeptically. Of course it wonât⌠for heavenâs sake, Y/n, you canât actually believe something like this works, she scolded herself.
Her tongue slipped out slightly, wetting her lips as she bit down on them in concentration.
âItâs been flying off the shelves, you know,â the shopkeeper said. Y/n quickly pushed her hair out of her face, snapping her head up toward the voice. She smiled and nodded awkwardly.
âJust donât come complaining if it doesnât work,â the woman warned her, half-joking.
Y/n brushed a strand of hair from her face and couldnât help but chuckle. âDoes anyone actually come back here to complain?â she asked, amused.
Her amusement was obvious, as was the implied question beneath her words.
Did anyone actually believe this nonsense?
She tightened her grip on the box with one hand while the other fumbled for the money in her pocket.
(---)
The drive back to Nevermore Academy was quiet.
The engine hummed softly beneath her. Her right hand held the steering wheel firmly while her left elbow was propped up so she could rest her head in her palm. Her fingers absentmindedly brushed her lips, and her eyes never once left the empty road surrounded by forest.
She lightly bit the tip of her index finger and a small smile formed on her lips.
I wonder what Wednesday did this summer⌠probably one of her macabre adventures she thought, amused.
Her heart skipped at the mere mention of Wednesdayâs name, warmth flooding her cheeks. God, she had missed her so much.
How did she survive three months without seeing those obsidian eyes?
She blew a strand of hair off her nose and pressed her lips into a thin line.
Calm down, you sound obsessed.
She drummed her nails on the steering wheel and tried to push Wednesday Addams out of her mind. But the more she tried, the more her imagination summoned the slim, dark figure: Cupidâs bow lips, eyes black as tar, that sharp jawline, her monotone, expressionless voice and even her black-and-grey uniform that accentuated her curves when she straightened her posture andâ
Y/n.
Wednesdayâs voice echoed in her mind and she found herself smiling faintly.
God, I need a distraction
She swallowed loudly and gripped the wheel until her knuckles turned white. She sighed through her nose and reached for the radio, but just as her hand moved toward the dial, the ringing of her phone cut through the air.
Without taking her eyes off the road, she fumbled for it and answered without even checking the caller ID.
âY/n.â
Wednesdayâs neutral voice sent shivers down her spine, her stomach tightening into a bundle of nerves.
She cleared her throat, trying to sound normal.
âWednesday! How are you?â she exclaimed enthusiastically. Maybe a little too enthusiastically.
She frowned at her own awkwardness and bit the inside of her cheek, alternating her gaze between the phone and the road.
âI didnât call to talk about me,â Wednesday said curtly. âItâs about Enid.â
âEnid?â she asked uncertainly.
Her hand instinctively moved to the gear shift and she changed gears. âWhat happened?â she asked, her voice worried, tinged with a hint of jealousy. Not the time to be jealous. She forced a smile, even though Wednesday couldnât see it and prepared herself to listen.
âA few weeks ago I had a vision⌠sheâs in danger,â Wednesday said in her usual monotone, though Y/n could detect a trace of concern.
She clenched her jaw and nodded to herself.
âIâll give you the details later. Iâm hanging up now,â Wednesday concluded coldly.
âWait!â Y/n found herself saying.
There was no reply on the other end, but she could hear Wednesdayâs calm breathing. She bit her lower lip and almost smiled, imagining Wednesday with the head slightly tilted, waiting for her to continue.
Her blood rushed to her ears and she started breathing harder. The fear mixed with adrenaline gave her a push thatâ
âI missed you⌠a lotâ Y/n whispered, her heart pounding so hard it blurred her thoughts.
A moment of silence. Then the call ended.
Y/n stared at the phone and puffed her cheeks in frustration. You idiot, what did you expect? Rage flared in her chest and her vision blurred with tears. In a burst of frustration, she pulled over and turned off the engine.
She slammed her palm repeatedly against the steering wheel and yelled in frustration. What had she been thinking? I wonder what Wednesday thinks nowâŚ
She leaned her head back against the seat and bit her lip, trying to suppress the sob rising in her throat.
Y/n sniffed and looked at the Uriahâs Heap bag on the passenger seat.
To hell with it.
She wiped her cheeks, erasing every trace of tears from her face.
She leaned over the passenger seat, fumbling with the plastic bag until she finally pulled out the cardboard box. She turned it over in her hands the same way she had done in the shop, then rotated it counterclockwise to read the warning.
Users assume full responsibility for the outcome of their wishes.
What nonsense.
How could a childrenâs toy even be dangerous?
She shifted on her seat, uncertain. She stared at the red lettering and ran her finger over the printed image of a little girl. She sighed and opened the box, pulling out a cylindrical object. The moment she removed it, an awful jingle filled the car and Y/n looked inside the box with curiosity.
So thatâs what they meant by âspark it.â
She turned her attention to the stick and thought about what to wish for. Guilt coiled in her stomach, knowing she was about to wish for something deeply wrong and immoral.
But it was just a game.
With renewed determination, she took the stick in her hands.
âI wish Wednesday Addams loved me more than anyone else in this damn world.â
{Learning the House - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}
Sorry for not posting for a few days, I have just been doing a lot of planning for this series moving forward. This is not ending anytime soon.
Andrew woke before the house did.
For a few seconds, he did not move.
He did not know where he was.
That had happened twice in the night already. Once when a car passed outside and threw a pale stripe of headlights across the ceiling. Once when the pipes clicked somewhere in the walls and his body jolted awake before his mind could understand that the sound was not a door, not a lock, not someone coming to count him.
Now the room was dim and blue with early morning.
Quiet.
Not prison quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that waited with teeth.
House quiet.
A radiator ticking softly. A bird somewhere outside. Your breathing beside him, slow and warm, your face half-buried in the pillow, one hand tucked under your cheek. His shirt was twisted around your body, worn soft from years of belonging to both of you. One of your bare legs was tangled with his beneath the sheets.
Andrew stared at the ceiling.
Then at you.
Then at the ceiling again.
Home.
The word still felt too large to fit inside his chest.
He had said it last night.
In the hallway, with Andie in his arms.
In the nursery, after the duck book.
In this bed, after the lights went off and the house settled around the three of you like it had been waiting to exhale.
But saying it and surviving the first night inside it were different.
He turned his head carefully toward you.
You were asleep.
Really asleep.
Not the shallow kind of sleep from prison visiting-room nights, when you had called him too late and tried to pretend your voice wasn't fraying. Not the exhausted newborn sleep where you could wake at the smallest sound of Andie's breath changing through the monitor. This was deep, heavy, unguarded sleep.
He had missed watching you sleep.
That was a strange thing to miss.
Maybe a creepy thing, if he said it wrong.
But he had.
He had missed the proof of you resting. The ordinary miracle of your body trusting a room enough to let go.
His hand rested lightly at your waist.
It had been there when he woke.
He did not remember putting it there.
For two years, his hands had learned rules.
Hands visible.
Hands to yourself.
Hands behind your back.
Hands off the glass.
Hands returning his daughter before a guard could tell him to.
Last night, his hands had learned something else again.
Your skin.
Your hair.
The soft give of your waist beneath his palm.
The way you had said his name in the dark like you were returning it to him.
It had been nearly two years since he had been allowed to want you without a guard outside the door. Without a phone line thinning your voice. Without a clock deciding when his hands had to let go.
So the night had not been rushed.
It had been careful.
Almost disbelieving.
Andrew had kissed you like he was still waiting for someone to knock on the door and tell him time was up.
No one had.
He had stopped twice to ask if you were sure.
Then a third time, because his body could believe in touch faster than his mind could believe in permission.
You had taken his face in both hands, eyes wet and steady in the dark.
"Yes," you had whispered. "I'm sure."
His forehead had dropped against yours.
"You can say no."
"I know."
"You can tell me to stop."
"I know."
"You don't have toâ"
"Andrew."
He had gone still.
You had brushed your thumb under his eye.
"I want my husband," you had said, so softly it nearly broke him. "I want you. And you're home. And no one is coming to take this away."
That was when he had finally understood.
Not all at once.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Enough to kiss you again.
Enough to let his hand settle at your hip.
Enough to follow your body's familiar map slowly, carefully, like someone returning to a place he had been afraid he would never be allowed to enter again.
After, you had cried.
So had he.
Neither of you had made a thing of it.
You had lain tangled together under the sheets, his face pressed to your hair, your hand over his heart, both of you breathing like you had run a very long way and only just realized you had stopped.
At some point, you had fallen asleep against him.
Andrew had stayed awake longer.
Not because he wanted to.
Because no one told him when to sleep anymore.
Because the door was not locked.
Because the room smelled like you and laundry detergent and home.
Because his daughter was sleeping down the hall.
Because his wife was in his arms.
Because he had spent two years surviving the idea of this and now that he had it, his body did not know how to believe it quietly.
You shifted in your sleep.
His hand tightened at your waist before he could stop it.
You made a soft sound and settled again.
Andrew let out a slow breath.
Then, down the hall, Andie screamed.
"Mama!"
Your eyes opened immediately.
Not fully.
Just enough for your body to start moving before your brain arrived.
Andrew felt it happen.
The automatic shift.
The half-asleep reach toward the edge of the bed.
The reflex of fourteen months of being the first answer to every cry.
His hand held you gently in place.
"I've got her," he whispered.
You blinked.
Turned your head.
For a second, you looked at him like you had forgotten he could say that from the same bed.
Then your face softened.
"You sure?"
No.
He was not sure about anything.
His daughter was calling from the green room. His daughter, who knew his voice and his photo and his arms in special visits, but not this. Not morning. Not him opening her curtains and lifting her from the cot and knowing whether she liked to be held immediately or given a second to complain.
He knew prison schedules.
He knew visiting-room rules.
He knew the approved book list.
He knew the exact sound of the automated call connecting.
He did not know breakfast.
He did not know where the wipes were without thinking.
He did not know whether Andie's morning cry meant hungry, wet, angry, lonely, or simply offended by being awake.
But she was calling.
And for the first time, he was there to answer.
"Yeah," he said. "I've got her."
You searched his face.
Then you nodded and sank back into the pillow like your whole body had been waiting fourteen months to be told it could.
"If she has the duck pyjamas on, check the left leg," you mumbled.
Andrew paused with one foot on the floor.
"What?"
"She gets it twisted."
"The duck pyjamas?"
"Mhm."
"Why just the left leg?"
"No one knows."
Your eyes were already closing.
Andrew stared at you.
Then Andie shouted again.
"Mama!"
He stood.
The floor was cold under his feet.
That surprised him too.
Everything did.
The door being open.
The hallway dim and soft.
The framed picture on the landing wall of you heavily pregnant in the green nursery, his shirt stretched over your stomach. The photo of him holding Andie at her first birthday, yellow frosting over his heart.
He passed them slowly.
Too slowly, probably.
Andie made an outraged sound from the nursery.
Right.
Daughter first.
Existential crisis later.
He pushed the nursery door open.
The green room was pale with morning.
Andie stood in her cot, both hands wrapped around the rail, hair wild, cheeks pink, one foot somehow bare despite the sleep sack you had zipped her into last night.
Andrew stopped in the doorway.
She stopped yelling.
For one second, they stared at each other.
Her brow furrowed.
His frown.
Always his frown.
Then her face changed.
Not the huge birthday grin.
Not yet.
Something smaller.
Sleepy recognition.
Confusion and delight trying to exist at the same time.
"Dada?"
Andrew's chest gave out.
Not visibly.
He stayed standing.
Barely.
"Hey, baby girl."
Andie bounced once, gripping the cot rail.
"Da."
"Yeah." He stepped closer. "I'm here."
She looked past him toward the hallway.
"Mama?"
"She's sleeping."
Andie frowned.
Andrew nodded. "I know. Weird."
She stared at him like she agreed.
He lowered the cot rail. Slowly. Carefully. It took him a second to figure out the latch, and Andie waited with the impatience of someone who had never respected a learning curve.
"Hold on," he murmured.
"No," Andie said.
He looked at her.
"That's fair."
The latch gave.
He lifted her out.
Awkwardly at first.
She was heavier than she had been yesterday.
Which made no sense.
And also made perfect sense.
Every time he held her, she felt bigger than the last time. More person. More herself. Less imagined. More impossible to put down.
Andie came against his chest warm and squirmy, her sleep sack bunching between them, one hand going immediately to his neck.
She patted him twice.
Then grabbed his shirt.
"Dada."
Andrew closed his eyes for half a second.
"Yeah."
She leaned back to look at him.
Her hair stuck out in three directions.
There was a crease on one cheek from the sheet.
One sock was gone. The other was half off.
He had never seen anything better in his life.
"You lose a sock?" he asked.
Andie pointed vaguely at nothing.
"Da."
"You blaming me?"
She patted his cheek.
"Okay."
He looked around the nursery.
Wipes on the dresser.
Nappies in the basket.
Sleep sack zipper.
Duck pyjamas.
Left leg twisted.
Of course.
He sat carefully in the rocking chair with her on his lap and tried to fix the sleep sack.
Andie immediately attempted to escape.
"No."
"I'm helping."
"No."
"You got your leg wrong."
"No."
"You're very sure."
She shoved one hand against his chest.
Andrew looked at her solemnly.
"You know, your mom warned me about this."
At the word mom, Andie looked toward the door.
"Mama."
"She's sleeping," Andrew said.
Then, because the words felt strange and good in his mouth, he added, "I've got you."
Andie considered this.
Then yawned directly in his face.
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"Rude."
She smiled.
The sock fell off.
Andrew stared at her bare foot.
"How?"
By the time you came downstairs forty minutes later, the kitchen looked like a crime scene committed by breakfast foods.
Andie was in the highchair wearing only one sock, a clean jumper, and an expression of triumph.
There were banana pieces on the tray.
Banana pieces on the floor.
Banana pieces in her hair.
Toast strips of wildly uneven sizes lay on a plate beside the highchair, some too large, some too small, all clearly cut by a man who had approached toddler breakfast like a tactical operation with incomplete intelligence.
Andrew stood at the counter, holding a tub of yoghurt and reading the back of it with deep suspicion.
You stopped in the doorway.
No one noticed you at first.
Andie slapped the tray.
"Da!"
Andrew looked up immediately. "You have banana."
She slapped harder.
"No."
"You do."
"No."
"Okay."
He looked back at the yoghurt.
You bit your lip.
He had changed clothes. His hair was still messy from sleep. There was a smear of banana on his sleeve. He looked exhausted, overwhelmed, and so intensely focused on the nutritional composition of Greek yoghurt that you nearly started crying.
Again.
Apparently that was still who you were.
"Is she allowed this?" he asked without looking up.
You leaned against the doorway.
"Good morning to you too."
His head snapped up.
His face changed the second he saw you.
Softer.
Wary, too, because he was still Andrew.
His eyes moved over you quickly.
Your face.
Your body.
His T-shirt on you.
The bare legs.
The sleep in your eyes.
The evidence of the night before in the way you stood a little lazily, a little tenderly, like your body had remembered happiness and was still adjusting.
His gaze caught there for half a second.
Your cheeks warmed.
"Good morning," he said, voice lower.
You smiled.
"Hi."
The kitchen went quiet.
Not because there was nothing to say.
Because there was too much.
Andie solved it by throwing banana on the floor.
Andrew looked down.
Then at her.
"Why?"
Andie laughed.
You pushed away from the doorway and crossed the kitchen, stepping around the banana.
"She throws food."
"I see that."
"She does it when she's done, bored, happy, angry, or experimenting with gravity."
"That's all the time."
"Yes."
He looked mildly horrified.
You kissed Andie's sticky hair.
"Morning, chaos goblin."
"Mama."
Your heart melted.
Then you stepped toward Andrew.
His hand came to your waist before you even reached him.
Like it belonged there.
Like he had spent two years not touching you and was now trying, quietly, to make up for every missed second.
You slid your hand over his chest.
"Did you make breakfast?"
"I attempted breakfast."
"You did very well."
He looked at the floor.
"There's banana everywhere."
"That's normal."
"The toast is wrong."
"There is no wrong toast."
His eyebrows lifted.
You looked at the plate.
"Okay, some of those are structurally questionable."
"I didn't know what size."
"It's fine."
"She ate some."
"Great."
"She threw more."
"Also normal."
"She tried to feed me one."
"That means she loves you."
"She put it in my ear."
"She loves you aggressively."
Andrew looked down at you.
His mouth twitched.
You reached up and brushed a bit of banana from his sleeve.
He watched your fingers like the touch had weight.
"Did you sleep?" you asked softly.
"A little."
"Bad?"
"Different."
You nodded.
"Yeah."
"You?"
You smiled.
"Better than I expected."
His eyes searched yours.
You let him.
Then Andie shouted.
"Dada!"
Andrew turned instantly.
You laughed.
"You're being summoned."
He picked up the yoghurt.
"Is she allowed this?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"A spoonful or two."
"What if she wants more?"
"She will."
"What if she throws it?"
"She will."
"Why are we giving it to her?"
"Parenthood."
Andrew stared at you.
You kissed his cheek.
"Welcome home."
He learned the house in fragments.
Not the layout.
He knew the layout.
He had built it in his head from every photo, every phone call, every casual mention you had made without realizing he had stored it away like evidence.
He knew the kitchen drawer stuck if you pulled too quickly.
He knew the living room rug had a corner that curled no matter what you did.
He knew the baby gate was crooked because Craig had installed it and refused to admit it.
He knew the nursery chair creaked.
He knew the wooden duck was on the high shelf.
But living inside the house was different.
He learned that Andie liked to hide spoons under the sofa.
That the washing machine made a clunk on the second spin cycle that sounded alarming but apparently was "just what it did."
That the kettle clicked before it boiled.
That you drank half cups of coffee all morning because Andie interrupted every attempt at finishing one.
That your hands moved constantly.
Wiping the tray.
Catching the cup before it tipped.
Moving a choking hazard.
Picking up socks.
Putting down laundry.
Lifting Andie.
Setting Andie down.
Lifting Andie again because she had changed her mind loudly.
You did not seem to notice the choreography.
Andrew did.
He noticed everything.
You wiped yoghurt from Andie's chin with your thumb while reaching for your mug with the other hand. You put toast in the bin, rinsed a bowl, caught Andie's cup mid-fall, and answered a babbled complaint with, "I know, terrible service," without even looking up.
Andrew stood by the sink and watched.
Not uselessly.
He had tried to help.
He was helping.
But he kept being one second behind the rhythm.
You knew what every noise meant.
He was still learning the language.
Andie grunted and pointed.
You handed her the blue cup.
She pushed it away.
You handed her the yellow one.
She accepted it.
Andrew stared.
"How did you know?"
You looked over. "Know what?"
"The cup."
"She hates blue in the morning."
He blinked.
"What?"
"I don't know why."
He looked at Andie.
She drank from the yellow cup like this was obvious.
Andrew turned back to you.
"She has cup rules?"
"She has many rules."
"She's fourteen months."
"She's very advanced in tyranny."
He huffed softly.
Then went quiet.
You noticed because you noticed him too.
"Andrew?"
He looked at you.
There was something in his face you did not quite like.
Not guilt, exactly.
Something close.
Awe with bruised edges.
"You did all this," he said.
You frowned faintly.
"Made breakfast?"
"No."
His voice was low.
"You did all this."
Your expression shifted.
You glanced around the kitchen as if the answer might be hidden under the banana on the floor.
"I mean, badly some days."
"No."
"Andrewâ"
"No." He stepped closer. "Look at me."
You did.
His eyes were wet.
Not crying.
Almost.
"You did this," he said. "Every day."
Your throat tightened.
You looked down.
He caught your hand.
Not hard.
Enough.
"Don't shrug it off."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything."
His thumb moved over your knuckles.
Andie babbled in the highchair, unaware that the room had shifted around her.
Andrew looked at you like he was seeing the year in your body. Not just the photos you had sent him. Not just the stories. But the invisible weight of it. The nights. The appointments. The colic. The teething. The lonely mornings. The birthdays. The joy you had carried to him carefully so it did not become only grief.
"I knew," he said. "But I didn't know."
Your eyes filled.
"I didn't do it perfectly."
"I don't care."
"I cried a lot."
"I know."
"I messed up all the time."
"You kept her alive."
You laughed wetly. "That is the baseline."
"You loved her."
Your face crumpled.
"You kept me in it."
That one broke you.
You covered your mouth with your free hand.
Andrew's grip tightened.
"You kept me in it," he said again. "When it would've been easier not to."
You shook your head.
"It wouldn't have been easier."
"No?"
"No." You looked at him through tears. "It would have hurt more."
He absorbed that.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Then Andie smashed both hands into the yoghurt on her tray.
You both turned.
She lifted her hands, delighted.
"No," she said, very proudly.
Andrew stared.
You laughed through tears.
"And there she is."
He looked at you.
Then at Andie.
Then back at you.
"What do we do?"
"Wipe her hands."
He grabbed a cloth immediately.
Andie shrieked like he had insulted her ancestors.
Andrew froze.
You smiled.
"Welcome to the resistance."
By noon, Andrew looked like he had survived something.
To be fair, he had.
Andie had shown him every toy in the living room by handing it to him, taking it back, and shouting "No" when he tried to place it in the basket.
She had crawled halfway into the cupboard under the television.
She had tried to eat a crayon.
She had demanded to be picked up, then immediately demanded to be put down, then cried because she had been put down.
She had called the coffee table Dada.
Andrew had accepted this with more grace than expected.
Now she stood beside the sofa, one hand on the cushion, rubbing her eyes with the other.
You were folding laundry on the floor, because somehow all roads led back to laundry.
Andrew sat beside you, legs stretched out, watching Andie with deep concern.
"She's tired."
"Yes."
"She's rubbing her eyes."
"Yes."
"She keeps falling over."
"Yes."
"Should she nap?"
"Yes."
You did not move.
Andrew looked at you.
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
"Why?"
"Because for fourteen months, I was the only person having this argument with reality."
He looked at Andie.
She tried to sit down, missed slightly, and landed on her bottom with a soft thump.
Then she looked offended.
"Da!"
Andrew immediately started to move.
You put a hand on his arm.
"She's fine."
"She fell."
"She sat dramatically."
Andie glared at the rug.
Andrew looked torn.
You smiled.
"She's fine."
Andie crawled toward him.
His face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
She reached his knee, pulled herself up on his leg, and lifted both arms.
"Dada. Up."
The room went still.
Your hands froze around a tiny shirt.
Andrew looked at Andie.
Then at you.
As if he needed permission.
As if she had not already given it.
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
"She asked you," you whispered.
His throat moved.
Andie bounced impatiently.
"Up."
Andrew picked her up.
She came willingly, tired and warm, her little body folding against his chest with the boneless trust of a toddler who had made her choice and expected the world to comply.
Andrew's arms closed around her.
Careful.
Always careful.
But sure now.
Andie tucked her face into his neck.
Your heart broke open so quietly you almost missed it.
Andrew did not move.
He looked down at the top of her head.
Then at you.
His eyes were wet.
"She asked me."
"She did."
"For up."
"Yes."
His hand spread over her back.
"She wants me."
Your smile trembled.
"Yes, baby. She wants you."
Andie made a sleepy humming sound against him.
You pressed your lips together.
Andrew closed his eyes.
For a second, the living room held only that.
A father being chosen for something ordinary.
Not a first word.
Not a birthday.
Not a special visit approved by a committee.
Just up.
A tired toddler wanting arms.
His arms.
Andrew swallowed hard.
"What do I do?"
You laughed softly.
"You hold her."
"And?"
"That's mostly it."
"She sleeps like this?"
"Sometimes."
"What if she doesn't?"
"Then she doesn't."
He looked down at her.
"What if I mess up nap?"
"Then she'll be tired and mean until bedtime."
"That sounds bad."
"It is."
His eyes lifted.
You smiled. "But survivable."
Andie yawned against his neck.
Andrew's whole face softened.
"Nap," he murmured.
"Yes."
"You'll show me?"
"Of course."
Nap time was not peaceful.
Andrew had imagined it would be.
That was his first mistake.
Andie was half asleep on his shoulder until the second he carried her into the nursery, at which point she lifted her head and remembered she had opinions.
"No."
Andrew paused in the doorway.
You stood behind him, trying very hard not to laugh.
"She says that a lot."
"I noticed."
"No," Andie repeated, with more conviction.
Andrew looked at her. "You're tired."
"No."
"You rubbed your eyes."
"No."
"You asked for up."
"No."
"You're arguing with facts."
"She does that."
"Like you."
You pressed a hand to your chest. "Me?"
He glanced at you.
"Do not start something you can't finish, Cody."
His mouth twitched.
That small tease felt like sunlight through a window.
He carried Andie to the changing table.
She immediately tried to roll.
Andrew put both hands out, panicked.
You stepped closer.
"Hand on her tummy. There. Not too hard. Just enough."
He followed your instruction exactly.
Andie grabbed the clean nappy and threw it.
Andrew stared as it sailed across the room.
You nodded. "Classic."
"She weaponizes supplies?"
"Constantly."
He retrieved the nappy.
She laughed.
He looked at you.
"She thinks this is funny."
"It is a bit funny."
"It's not."
"It is when it isn't you."
He gave you a look.
You smiled sweetly.
Eventually, through teamwork, negotiation, and one emotional rendition of the duck book from memory, Andie was changed, sleepy, and furious about it.
Andrew sat in the rocking chair with her and opened the actual duck book.
She pushed it away.
"No."
He looked at you.
You whispered, "Moon."
He switched books.
Andie accepted this with the regal air of someone granting mercy.
Andrew began reading.
His voice was low and careful.
The same voice from every recording.
But there was tension in it now.
Not fear of the book.
Fear of failing the ritual.
You leaned against the wall and listened.
Andie squirmed.
Andrew kept reading.
She reached for the book.
He let her touch the page.
She tried to turn three pages at once.
He looked alarmed.
"She skipped."
"She does that."
"But the storyâ"
"She is fourteen months old."
"She'll miss the middle."
"She does not respect narrative structure yet."
Andrew looked personally wounded.
You bit back a laugh.
He kept going.
By the last page, Andie's head had settled against his chest.
Her eyes were heavy.
Andrew looked at you like he needed help.
You mouthed, cot.
He nodded.
Very slowly, he stood.
The chair creaked.
Andie's eyes opened.
Both of you froze.
She stared at him.
He stared back.
You did not breathe.
Then she closed her eyes again.
Andrew looked like he had just survived a bomb.
He lowered her into the cot with the careful precision of a man handling glass.
Too slow.
You could tell immediately.
Babies sensed hesitation like sharks sensed blood.
Andie's eyes opened.
"No."
Andrew froze.
You winced.
She stood up in the cot.
"No."
Andrew turned to you with panic in his eyes.
You stepped beside him and touched his arm.
"It's okay."
"She's up."
"I see."
"She was asleep."
"She tricked you."
Andie held out both arms.
"Dada."
Andrew nearly collapsed emotionally.
"No," you whispered before he could reach.
His eyes snapped to yours.
"She asked."
"I know."
"She wantsâ"
"She wants not to nap."
His face twisted.
"She said Dada."
"Yeah. She's very good."
"This feels wrong."
"It does."
"She's crying."
"She is complaining."
Andie's lower lip trembled.
Andrew looked like you had asked him to abandon her in the wilderness.
You softened.
"We're not leaving her alone to scream," you said quietly. "We're just giving her a chance to settle."
He swallowed.
"She'll think I left."
Your heart cracked.
There it was.
Not about nap.
Not really.
You reached for his hand.
"No," you said. "She won't."
Andie grumbled in the cot.
Not crying.
Not really.
Just deeply dissatisfied.
"You're right here," you said.
Andrew looked at the cot.
"She can see you. She can hear you. You're not disappearing."
His jaw worked.
You squeezed his hand.
"Sit beside the cot. Talk to her."
He nodded once.
Then sat on the rug beside the cot, back against the wall, his fingers resting through the bars.
Andie immediately grabbed one.
"Da."
"I'm here," he said.
His voice shook.
You stood in the doorway, hand over your mouth.
"I'm here," he repeated.
Andie held his finger.
Then sat down.
Then lay down badly, her legs folded under her at a strange angle.
Andrew looked at you in alarm.
You nodded.
"She's okay."
"She looks broken."
"She sleeps like a folded chair sometimes."
"That's not okay."
"It is baby okay."
He looked unconvinced.
But he stayed.
He talked quietly.
Not reading now.
Just telling her nonsense.
That the moon book had better pacing than the rabbit book. That the duck was on the shelf and still not for eating. That Craig's baby gate was crooked but respectable. That her mother was probably laughing at him silently in the hallway.
You were.
Andie's grip on his finger loosened.
Her breathing evened.
Andrew stopped talking.
Then started again, quieter.
"Dada's here."
Your eyes filled.
Andie slept.
Finally.
Andrew sat there for another five minutes because he was afraid to move.
Then another three because he wanted to.
When he eventually came downstairs, he looked exhausted.
You were in the kitchen making coffee.
He stepped into the doorway.
"She's asleep."
You turned.
He looked like a man returning from a war that involved board books and emotional manipulation.
You tried not to smile.
Failed.
"Congratulations."
"She's dangerous."
"She is."
"She says Dada and I lose judgment."
"I noticed."
"That's bad."
"It's manageable."
He crossed the kitchen and leaned both hands on the counter.
You set a mug beside him.
He stared at it.
"What?"
"Coffee."
"For me?"
"Yes."
He looked at the mug like it was a kindness he did not know how to hold.
You stepped between his arms, leaning back against the counter.
His hands came to your waist automatically.
There.
Again.
The touch.
The no glass.
The no countdown.
You slid your hands up his chest.
"How was your first nap time?"
"Bad."
You laughed.
"I thought coming home would feel like the end of something," he said.
Your smile softened.
You looked up at him.
"And?"
His eyes searched yours.
"Feels harder."
You nodded.
"Yeah."
"I wanted it."
"I know."
"I still want it."
"I know."
"But it's..." He looked toward the ceiling, where Andie slept above you. "It's a lot."
"It is."
"I don't know the rules."
"There are no rules."
"That's the problem."
You smiled sadly.
"Beginnings usually are harder than endings."
He looked back at you.
"Is that what this is?"
"A beginning?"
He nodded.
You slid one hand to the side of his neck.
"I think so."
His forehead lowered to yours.
He breathed you in.
You felt some of the tension leave his body.
Not all.
Enough.
"I missed you," he said.
"I was right here."
"No." His thumb moved over your waist. "Like this."
Your throat tightened.
"Me too."
He kissed you.
Slow.
Not desperate like yesterday.
Not stolen like the contact room.
A kitchen kiss.
A home kiss.
Coffee cooling beside you, banana on the floor, your daughter sleeping upstairs because he had helped her get there.
You smiled against his mouth.
He pulled back slightly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're smiling."
"I'm happy."
He went still.
The words seemed to land somewhere he had not expected.
Then his face softened.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He swallowed.
"Good."
You touched his cheek.
"You're allowed to be too."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He was quiet.
Then, "I'm trying it out."
You laughed softly.
"How does it feel?"
He looked around the kitchen.
At the highchair.
The abandoned cloth.
The crooked baby gate visible through the doorway.
Your hands on him.
His mug beside yours.
Then he looked back at you.
"Scary."
You smiled.
"Yeah."
"But good."
You kissed him again.
"Good."
The baby monitor crackled.
Both of you froze.
A rustle.
A tiny grunt.
Then, clear as anything through the speaker:
"Dada!"
Andrew lifted his head.
His eyes went wide.
You grinned.
"You're on."
"She just went down."
"She knows what she wants."
"She needs sleep."
"She needs Dada, apparently."
The monitor crackled again.
"Da!"
Andrew stared at it like the device had personally challenged him.
Then he looked at you.
You nodded toward the stairs.
"Go on."
He was already moving.
At the bottom of the stairs, he paused and looked back.
You stood in the kitchen, coffee in hand, hair messy, wearing his shirt, smiling like your heart was too full for your body.
"What?" you asked.
Andrew shook his head.
"Nothing."
But it was not nothing.
It was the house.
It was you.
It was his daughter calling him from upstairs.
It was the fact that nobody else had to answer first.
For more than a year, Andrew's voice had lived in the house by recording, by phone, by memory.
Now it moved through the walls on its own, answering their daughter when she called.
He went upstairs.
You stayed in the kitchen and listened.
The nursery door creaked softly.
Andie babbled.
Andrew's voice came low and warm through the ceiling.
You had learned not to trust dates until they became doors.
Dates moved. Dates changed. Dates got written down in official language and then undone by someone behind a desk who did not understand that maybe could keep a woman awake for three nights in a row.
So when Andrew called and sounded different, you did not let yourself hope right away.
You were sitting in the nursery with the lights low, folding tiny pyjamas from the laundry basket while Andie slept in her toddler bed, one arm flung above her head like she had survived a battle. Which, considering bath time, she sort of had.
The approved player sat on the shelf beside the stack of books Andrew had recorded over the last year. The duck one. The bear one. The moon one. The rabbit one he still claimed was stupid, even though Andie carried it around by one corner like it was sacred text.
The wooden duck watched from the high shelf. Still crooked. Still safe from Andieâs mouth.
The phone rang at 8:41.
You grabbed it before the second ring.
The automated voice began. You pressed one. Static. A click.
Then Andrew.
âHey.â
You stopped folding. One word. That was all it took.
Something about his voice sat wrong in the room. Not bad. Not frightened. Just too careful.
âWhat happened?â
A pause.
âNothing bad.â
Your chest tightened. âThat is my line.â
He huffed softly, barely a laugh. Not enough to make you relax.
âAndrew.â
He was quiet long enough that your hand found the edge of the rug and held on.
âThey gave me a date.â
The room went still. Not quiet. Still.
You stared at the toddler bed. Andie slept on, entirely unaware that the world had tilted.
âA date,â you repeated.
âYeah.â
âForâŚâ
You could not finish.
Andrew did not answer immediately. You heard prison noise behind him. Someone talking too loudly. A door. A distant scrape of metal.
Then, low and careful, he said, âRelease.â
Your hand went to your mouth.
You had imagined this sentence. Of course you had. In bed. In the car. Standing in the kitchen with Andie on your hip. During visits. During phone calls. During every ordinary Tuesday where his absence sat beside you like another piece of furniture.
But imagining and hearing were not the same.
âBaby,â Andrew said.
Your eyes filled. âWhen?â
âTwo weeks.â
You closed your eyes.
Two weeks.
Not someday. Not eventually. Not if a committee approved another hearing.
Two weeks.
âYouâre coming home?â you whispered.
The line went quiet. The word was too big.
Home.
Finally, he said, âYeah.â
A pause. Then, because he was Andrew and hope scared him more than most things, he added, âIf nothing changes.â
Your face crumpled.
âIf nothing changes,â you repeated.
âI donât want you toââ
âHope?â
He did not answer.
You wiped under one eye with the back of your hand. Too late. Hope was already there. Terrible and bright and standing in the middle of the nursery with its shoes on.
âAndrew.â
âYeah?â
âIâm going to hope.â
His breath caught.
âI know things can change,â you said. âI know dates move. I know not to pack the whole world into one sentence. But Iâm going to hope. I canât not.â
He was quiet, then rougher, âOkay.â
Your laugh broke through the tears. âOkay?â
âYeah.â
âYouâre letting me hope?â
âYouâd do it anyway.â
âI absolutely would.â
A real breath of laughter came through the line this time. Small. Shaky. Yours.
You pressed your fingers to your mouth, smiling through tears.
âShe asleep?â he asked.
You looked at Andie. âYes.â
âShe okay?â
âSheâs perfect. She said Dada to the laundry basket today.â
Andrew went quiet. Then, suspiciously, âWhy?â
âIt was tall and brooding.â
âThatâs not funny.â
âIt was a little funny.â
âIt was a basket.â
âIt had your energy.â
âI donât have basket energy.â
âYou do when you stand in doorways looking tortured.â
âI donât do that.â
âAndrew.â
He went silent in a way that told you he was choosing not to argue because he knew you were right.
âAndie also said Dada to the ceiling fan.â
âThat I understand.â
âYou understand the ceiling fan but not the laundry basket?â
âThe ceiling fan moves.â
You laughed again, softer this time. It felt good. To laugh with him about something as ordinary as Andie assigning fatherhood to household objects.
Two weeks.
You looked around the nursery: the green walls, the books, the photos, the duck, the little bed. The life he had been part of in pieces.
âI told her tonight,â you said.
Andrew went quiet. âTold her what?â
âThat Dadaâs coming home.â
The silence on the other end was immediate. Not empty. Full.
âI donât think she understood.â
âI did,â he said.
Your eyes closed. âOh, baby.â
He breathed unevenly for a second. Then he asked, âWhat did she do?â
âClapped because I had a spoon.â
A wet, broken laugh came through the line.
âShe is very food motivated right now,â you said.
âGood.â
âIt doesnât mean she understands parole.â
âNo.â
âBut I said it anyway.â
Andrew was quiet. âSay it again.â
Your heart folded.
You looked toward Andieâs bed, at the little rise and fall of her back.
Then you whispered, âDadaâs coming home.â
Andrewâs breathing broke.
You pressed your hand over your mouth and cried silently.
There were some sentences that changed the shape of a room.
That was one.
After a while, he asked, âThe duck still on the shelf?â
âHigh shelf. Your daughter tried to eat it.â
âIâm still mad.â
âI know.â
âThe gate?â
âCrooked.â
âCraig?â
âYes.â
âSecure?â
âTechnically.â
âThat means crooked.â
âThat is exactly what I said.â
His voice softened around the next question. âMy books?â
You looked at the stack. Duck. Bear. Moon. Rabbit. A whole row of him.
âOn the shelf,â you said. âSome in her basket downstairs because she drags them around now.â
âThe rabbit one?â
âEspecially the rabbit one.â
âI knew it.â
âYou hate that book.â
âIt has good structure.â
You laughed into your sleeve. âThere he is.â
Andrew went quiet for a second.
âIâm trying to picture it,â he said.
âThe house?â
âYeah.â
âYouâve seen pictures.â
âI know.â He breathed out. âBut walking in is different.â
Your eyes burned again.
âYes,â you whispered. âIt is.â
âWhat if she doesnât know what to do with me there?â
The question came so quietly you almost missed the fear inside it.
You looked at Andie, sleeping with one socked foot peeking out from under the blanket.
âThen we let her learn.â
âWhat if she thinks I belong in the phone?â
Your face crumpled.
âShe knows you belong more places than that.â
âShe knows my voice.â
âShe knows your voice. Your face. Your hands through glass. Your arms from visits. Your books. Your photo. The way everyone in this house says your name.â
He did not answer.
âShe knows youâre Dada,â you whispered. âShe might not understand that youâre coming home all at once. Sheâs fourteen months, Andrew. She still gets angry when bananas break in half. But youâre not arriving from nowhere. Youâre coming home to a place that has been holding space for you.â
The line went still.
Then Andrewâs voice came back rough.
âBaby.â
âItâs true.â
âI donât know how to do this.â
âYou donât have to know all of it before you walk through the door.â
âWhat if I do it wrong?â
âThen we do it wrong together.â
That got him. You heard it in his breath. Together had always been one of the words that hurt the most when there were walls between you.
Now it was waiting at the end of two weeks.
âTogether,â he repeated.
âYeah.â
The call timer beeped faintly.
You hated that sound. Even now. Especially now.
âI love you,â you said.
His answer was immediate. âI love you.â
âIâm scared.â
âI know.â
âYou?â
âYeah.â
âGood scared?â
âI donât know.â
You smiled through tears. âStill?â
âStill.â
âThatâs okay.â
âTwo weeks,â he said.
âTwo weeks.â
âIf nothing changes.â
âIf nothing changes.â
âAnd if it doesââ
âThen we keep going until the next door opens.â
He went quiet. Then, barely, âOkay.â
The final warning beeped.
âAndrew?â
âYeah?â
âDadaâs coming home.â
His breath broke.
The line clicked off before he could answer.
You lowered the phone into your lap and sat in the green nursery, crying quietly while your daughter slept through the sound of the world changing.
Two weeks became ten days. Ten days became five. Five became tomorrow.
Tomorrow became a morning you were too afraid to name until it was already happening.
You woke before Andie. That never happened.
For a few seconds, you lay still in the half-light, staring at the ceiling.
Then the date landed.
Today.
Not a phone call. Not a visit. Not a special approval. Not one hour.
Today.
You got out of bed slowly, like sudden movement might startle the universe into taking it back.
Down the hall, Andie was already awake when you opened the nursery door, sitting in her little bed with wild hair, her soft duck under one arm.
She grinned at you.
âMama.â
Your heart did the usual useless thing. âHi, baby.â
âDa?â
You stopped.
Then smiled through the sudden blur in your eyes.
âYeah,â you whispered. âDada.â
Andie bounced once.
âDa-da-da.â
You crossed the room and lifted her out, holding her close. Her body was warm and solid against yours. Bigger than she had been. So much bigger. The weight of fourteen months in your arms. Of first cries and first smiles and first birthdays and all the nights Andrew had lived in the room through a voice on a recording.
âDadaâs coming home today,â you told her.
Andie patted your face.
âDa.â
âYes,â you said, kissing her cheek. âExactly.â
Downstairs, Craig was already in the kitchen with a list on the counter.
Of course he was.
Deran sat at the table with coffee, looking like he had slept badly and would rather be skinned than admit why.
Craig looked up the second you entered. âYou okay?â
You looked at him. âNo.â
Deran nodded into his coffee. âGood. Honest.â
Craig gave him a look.
Andie reached toward Deran.
âUp.â
Deran softened so fast it was almost funny. He stood and took her carefully.
âThere she is,â he said, low.
Andie grabbed his chain.
âNo. Not that. We talked about this.â
She tugged harder.
Deran let her.
Craig looked back down at his list. âCar seat checked.â
âShe is not the one going to pick him up,â you said.
âStill checked.â
âWhat else is on there?â
âBag packed.â
âWhat bag?â
âEmergency toddler bag.â
âFor me picking up my husband?â
âFor after. In case youâre gone longer than planned.â
You stared at him. He stared back.
Deran lifted one shoulder. âLet him have the list.â
You softened.
You were going alone to pick Andrew up. That had been the decision. Not because Craig and Deran did not matter. They did. Painfully. But Andrew walking out needed to belong first to the two of you.
Husband and wife.
No glass. No guard. No Andie yet.
Just the two people who had carried each other through phone lines and visiting rooms and paper-thin hope.
You reached for Craigâs hand and squeezed once.
âThank you.â
He cleared his throat. âYeah.â
Deran looked pointedly at the ceiling.
âYou both are very fragile today,â you said.
Craig let go of your hand. âGo get dressed.â
âBossy.â
âYou married Pope. You like bossy.â
Deran snorted.
You pointed at both of them. âI hate this family.â
Andie clapped.
âDa!â
You laughed, crying already.
Deran looked down at her.
âYeah, kid,â he said quietly. âHeâs coming.â
The room went still again.
Then Craig turned away and started aggressively wiping an already clean counter.
You went upstairs before all of you fell apart in the kitchen.
You dressed carefully. Not fancy. That would have been wrong. Jeans. Soft shirt. Andrewâs flannel over it because you wanted him to see it, because you wanted him to know you had kept wearing pieces of him until he could come back and take up space himself.
At the door, you kissed Andie three times. She tolerated two and objected to the third by pushing your face away.
âRude.â
âDa,â she said.
âI know.â
Craig balanced her on his hip. âSheâll be fine.â
âI know.â
âYou drive normal.â
âI will.â
âNo crying so hard you canât see.â
You stared at him.
Deran looked over. âThatâs fair.â
âI am leaving before one of you says something else medically or emotionally offensive.â
Craigâs mouth twitched.
At the door, you turned back. Andie was watching you.
âDada?â she asked.
You smiled through tears.
âIâm bringing him home.â
The prison looked different from the outside when you knew you were not walking in.
Every visit had trained your body for entry. ID. Security. Doors. Waiting. Glass. Phones. Leaving without him.
But today, you parked outside and stayed there.
Hands gripping the steering wheel. Engine off. Sunlight bright across the dashboard.
You did not get out right away. You were afraid if you moved, the morning would crack.
A door opened somewhere beyond the fence.
Not him.
Another person. A guard. A man you did not know.
Your phone sat silent in the cup holder.
No call. No automated voice. No static.
Just waiting.
Then the door opened again.
Andrew walked out carrying one small bag.
For a second, your body did not understand.
There he was.
No glass. No prison phone. No orange chair. No guard speaking time limits into the room.
Just Andrew in regular clothes that looked strange on him after so long seeing him in prison-issued fabric. He looked thinner than he had before all this. Older, maybe. Tired in a way sleep would not fix quickly.
But he was there.
Outside.
His eyes found your car immediately.
Then you.
You were already out before you remembered opening the door.
Neither of you moved for one breath.
Then you did.
You crossed the distance too fast. Andrew dropped the bag before you reached him, and his arms came around you so hard the whole world finally made a sound you could breathe inside.
You hit his chest with a sob.
His hand locked at the back of your head. The other arm wrapped around your back.
Not careful like the contact visits. Not timed. Not restrained by a guard at the door.
He held you like he was allowed.
Like no one was coming to tell him to stop.
You clung to him, his shirt bunched in your fists, his face pressed into your hair.
âBaby,â he whispered.
You sobbed harder.
âIâve got you.â
âYouâre out.â
âYeah.â
âYouâre out.â
âYeah.â
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red. So were yours, probably.
You lifted both hands to his face, touching him like you were making sure he had not become another version of a photograph.
His jaw. His cheek. The roughness of his skin.
Real.
Andrewâs eyes closed at your touch.
âNo oneâs counting,â you whispered.
His arms tightened around you.
âI know.â
That broke both of you.
He kissed you then. Not gentle enough to be careful. Not rough enough to hurt. Just desperate. Shaking. Real.
Months and months of glass and watched rooms and brief, stolen contact collapsed into one kiss in a prison parking lot.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were breathing hard. Crying. Laughing a little because it was too much to hold any other way.
âYou have to come home now,â you whispered.
His eyes opened. There was fear there. And hope. And something almost too fragile to name.
âYeah,â he said.
You smiled through tears. âGood.â
Andrew was quiet on the drive home.
Not empty quiet. Overwhelmed quiet.
The outside world was loud in ways you had stopped noticing. Cars. Music from other windows. People crossing streets. A dog barking near a corner. Sunlight flashing off glass. Nobody telling him where to stand. Nobody locking doors behind him.
Andrew sat in the passenger seat with one hand gripping yours and the other resting against his thigh, fingers flexing every so often like he was checking his own body for instructions.
You did not fill the silence. You drove with one hand and held him with the other.
After ten minutes, he asked, âShe walking today?â
You smiled. âBadly, yes.â
His mouth twitched. âRunning?â
âAlso badly.â
âTalking?â
âMostly ordering people around.â
âLike you.â
âLike you.â
He huffed softly.
âShe still says Dada to objects?â
âLess than before.â
âGood.â
âOnly very important objects now.â
He looked at you.
âThe coffee machine.â
âThatâs fair.â
âAnd Craigâs shoe.â
His eyebrows drew together. âWhy Craigâs shoe?â
âNo one knows.â
Andrew nodded slowly, like he accepted that his daughterâs inner life was complex.
âDoes she know?â
âThat youâre coming?â
He nodded.
âShe knows something. I told her this morning.â
âWhat did she do?â
âPatted my face and said Da.â
His eyes went wet immediately.
You lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles.
Andrew looked down at your mouth on his hand and went very still.
âWe can do that now,â you said softly.
âWhat?â
âTouch.â
His jaw worked.
âYeah.â
âYou can touch me in the car.â
He huffed, but it broke halfway through.
His hand slid carefully from yours to your knee. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there.
Warm.
Steady.
A miracle.
By the time you turned onto your street, his hand had tightened again.
You pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.
The house sat in front of you. Ordinary. Impossible.
The curtains in the front room were open. One of Andieâs toys was visible near the window. The yellow sun magnet still held a photo to the fridge inside. The gate was probably still crooked. The nursery was green.
Home.
Andrew stared at it.
After a long moment, he said, âThatâs the house.â
You almost smiled, but didnât.
âYes.â
âI know that.â
âI know.â
âIâve seen it.â
âYes.â
âNot like this.â
Your eyes burned.
âNo,â you whispered. âNot like this.â
He sat there another moment.
Then he opened the door.
You met him at the front of the car and took his hand again before walking up the path.
At the door, he stopped.
You felt it. His whole body braced.
âAndrew.â
His eyes stayed on the door.
âWhat if I donât fit?â
Your heart broke quietly.
You turned toward him and squeezed his hand.
âYou already do. This house has been full of you for fourteen months. Youâre not asking it to make room now. Youâre coming home to the room that was always yours.â
Andrew looked at the door again.
Then nodded once.
You opened it.
Andie was in the living room.
One sock missing. Of course.
She stood with one hand on the coffee table, the other holding the stupid rabbit book by a chewed corner.
Craig was sitting on the floor near the baby gate, pretending to fix it. Deran was on the sofa, pretending not to watch the front door with his entire body.
Both men went still when you stepped inside.
Then Andrew came in behind you.
No one spoke.
For a second, everything held.
Craig stood slowly. Deranâs expression shifted and shut down just as fast.
Andrew looked at them. They looked at him.
There were years in that silence. Things none of you had space for yet.
Then Andie dropped the rabbit book.
Everyoneâs eyes went to her.
She stared at Andrew.
Her brow furrowed. Tiny. Serious.
The exact expression that had ruined him the first time he saw her newborn face.
Andrew did not move.
He lowered himself slowly into a crouch by the door, like every muscle in his body was fighting the urge to reach too soon.
âHey, baby girl,â he said.
Andie blinked.
Your hand went to your mouth.
Her eyes moved over him.
Face. Hands. Mouth. Voice.
Something clicked.
Maybe not all the way.
Maybe enough.
âDada?â she said.
Andrewâs face broke.
He nodded once.
âYeah.â
The room became very quiet.
Andie looked at you. You were crying too hard to be useful.
She looked back at Andrew.
Then she took one step.
Wobbly. Determined.
Another.
Her bare foot slapped against the floor.
Andrewâs hands lifted slightly, ready but not grabbing.
Andie made a small sound of effort and toddled toward him with the dramatic concentration of a person crossing mountains.
Halfway there, she nearly tipped sideways.
Craig twitched.
Deran grabbed his sleeve.
âLet her,â Deran whispered.
So they did.
Andrew stayed crouched, tears sliding down his face.
Andie reached him. She stopped inches away and stared.
Then she reached one hand toward his face.
Andrew closed his eyes when her tiny palm touched his cheek.
As if the touch had gone straight through him.
âDada,â she said.
Not a question this time.
A statement.
Andrew made a sound that broke all of you.
Then he gathered her into his arms.
Carefully at first. Then closer when she grabbed his shirt and leaned into him like she had decided he was acceptable furniture.
He stood with her against his chest.
His daughter.
In his arms.
At home.
You leaned against the wall, one hand over your mouth, sobbing silently.
Craig looked at the ceiling. Deran turned toward the window.
Cowards.
Andrew held Andie like he had forgotten there was anyone else in the room.
âIâm home,â he whispered.
Andie patted his face.
âDa.â
Andrew looked at you over her head.
His face was destroyed.
âIâm home,â he said again.
You walked to him. His free arm came around you before you even reached him.
You folded into his side. Andie between you. Andrewâs hand at your back. Your face pressed to his shoulder.
No guard. No countdown. No glass.
Home.
Craig cleared his throat from somewhere behind you.
âIâm gonnaâŚâ He gestured at the kitchen.
Deran stood. âYeah. Same.â
Neither of them moved.
You laughed through tears.
Andrew looked at them.
âHey,â he said.
One word. Not enough. Too much.
Craig nodded, eyes red. âHey.â
Deran shoved his hands into his pockets. âAbout time.â
Andrewâs mouth twitched. âYeah.â
Andie grabbed his ear.
He winced.
You laughed. âGentle.â
Andrew looked at her.
âSheâs okay.â
âShe is pulling your ear.â
âShe can.â
âYou are going to be impossible.â
âI know.â
Craig exhaled something like a laugh.
Deran looked down, smiling despite himself.
Andrew moved through the house like it was both familiar and not.
Because it was.
He had seen every corner in photographs. Heard every sound through phone calls. Knew which step creaked because you had once stepped on it during a call and he had asked about it. Knew the baby gate was crooked because he had been told many times. Knew the kitchen window caught morning light.
But seeing it was different.
Standing in it was different.
Touching it was different.
Andrew held Andie on his hip while you walked him slowly through the rooms. She did not want to be put down yet.
Neither did he.
In the living room, he stopped at the low shelf.
His photo was there. The one from the glass visit. The stupid rabbit book lay on the floor where Andie had dropped it. The approved player sat in the basket with the other recordings.
He crouched carefully, Andie still in his arms, and picked up the player.
âYou still use it?â
You smiled. âEvery day.â
His eyes flicked up. âStill?â
âStill.â
Andie tried to grab the player.
âNo,â he said softly.
She frowned at him.
He stared.
âSheâs mad.â
âShe has been told no by Dada. Historic moment.â
Andie said, âNo.â
Andrew looked betrayed.
You laughed. âShe knows that one.â
âWho taught her that?â
âEveryone.â
He looked at Andie.
She smiled.
âNo,â she said again, cheerful now.
Andrew blinked. âYouâre very proud of yourself.â
Andie patted his chest.
He melted.
Immediately.
No dignity.
You took him upstairs.
The nursery door was open.
Andrew stopped in the hallway.
You rested a hand on his back.
âYou okay?â
His eyes stayed on the room.
âYeah.â
It did not sound true.
You did not push.
The green room waited. Soft walls. Creaky chair. Little bed. Books. Baskets. Blankets. The high shelf with the wooden duck.
Andrew stepped inside slowly.
Andie pointed immediately.
âDuck.â
His head snapped toward her.
Your mouth fell open. âExcuse me?â
Andie pointed again, delighted by the reaction.
âDuck.â
Andrew looked at you.
You were already crying.
âShe has never said that clearly before,â you said.
Andrew stared at the wooden duck. Then at Andie.
âYou waited?â
Andie smiled. âDuck.â
He laughed. It came out broken.
âSheâs showing off,â you said.
âShe is,â he whispered.
He carried her to the shelf and lifted her just enough to see the wooden duck, not close enough for her to grab it.
âThatâs your duck,â he said.
Andie reached.
âNo eating it,â he added.
You laughed through tears. âShe still wants to eat it.â
âI know.â
âShe has history with that duck.â
âSo do I.â
His voice went softer on that one.
You stepped beside him. The three of you looked at the small carved duck with its wrong beak. The first thing he had made for her. The first piece of his hands that reached home before he could.
Andrewâs throat moved.
âYou kept me here,â he said.
You looked at him.
He was staring around the nursery. The books. The photos. The chair. The duck. The player. The evidence of him woven into every soft corner.
âYou were always here,â you said.
His eyes came to yours. âNo.â
âYes.â
âI wasnât.â
âYou werenât here in the way we wanted,â you said. âBut you were in her bedtime. In her books. In the way she said Dada to half the furniture before she understood what it meant. You were on the fridge. On the shelf. In this room. In me.â
Andrewâs face changed.
You reached for his hand.
He gave it to you immediately.
âYou were always here,â you repeated.
His fingers closed around yours.
This time, he let himself believe a piece of it.
You saw it happen.
Not all the way.
Enough.
Andie yawned, huge and dramatic.
Andrew looked at her immediately. âShe tired?â
âYes.â
âItâs early.â
âShe had a big day.â
He looked panicked. âWhat do we do?â
You smiled.
âBedtime.â
âNow?â
âSoon.â
âI donât know bedtime.â
âYou know parts.â
âI know recordings.â
âYou know her.â
He looked doubtful.
You squeezed his hand.
âLet her teach you.â
Bedtime was chaos.
Of course it was.
Andrew had imagined it would be soft and quiet and meaningful.
It was meaningful.
It was not quiet.
Andie threw one sock into the hallway. She tried to crawl away during the pyjama change. She yelled âNoâ when Andrew handed her the stuffed duck, then immediately cried when he took it back. She stuck her foot in the sleeve of her sleep sack. She laughed when you sneezed. She called the lamp Dada.
Andrew looked wounded.
You nearly dropped the nappy from laughing.
âShe knows youâre you,â you promised.
âShe called the lamp Dada.â
âThe lamp is tall and brooding.â
âThatâs not funny.â
âIt is extremely funny.â
Craig and Deran stayed downstairs, allegedly giving you privacy, though Craig had already come halfway up the stairs twice to ask if everything was okay.
The third time, you yelled, âWe are parenting badly but safely.â
He yelled back, âOkay.â
Andrew looked at you.
âBadly?â
âWith love.â
He considered that. Then nodded.
âOkay.â
Eventually, Andie was clean, changed, and in pyjamas with tiny stars on them. Her hair curled slightly at the back of her head, damp from the bath. Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes heavy.
You sat in the rocking chair out of habit.
Then paused.
Andrew stood near the shelf, holding the duck book.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
âDo you want to?â you asked.
His hand tightened on the book.
âYou sure?â
âYes.â
âShe might not settle.â
âShe might not.â
âI might do it wrong.â
âYou probably will.â
His eyes lifted.
You smiled softly.
âSo will I. Constantly. Welcome home.â
He huffed a laugh.
You handed Andie to him.
She went willingly, sleepy and boneless now, one hand immediately gripping his shirt.
Andrew looked down at her.
Then at you.
âSit,â you whispered.
He sat in the rocking chair.
The chair creaked.
His eyes flicked down.
You smiled. âTold you.â
âNeeds oil.â
âWelcome to your first house project.â
Andie curled against his chest. Not asleep. Listening.
Andrew opened the duck book.
The real one.
Not a recording. Not his voice coming through a little speaker on a shelf.
Him.
In the room.
His daughter in his lap.
You leaned against the doorframe because if you sat too close, you were going to fall apart loudly, and Andie had only just stopped yelling at the sleep sack.
Andrew took a breath.
Then began.
âHi, Andie.â
You pressed your hand to your mouth.
He stopped and looked up. âWhat?â
âNothing.â
âYouâre crying.â
âA little.â
âBad?â
âNo.â
âGood crying?â
âHome crying.â
His face softened.
He looked back down at Andie.
âHi, baby girl,â he whispered. âItâs me.â
Andie went completely still.
Her little head turned toward his chest.
Andrewâs eyes lifted to yours.
âShe knows this one.â
You nodded, crying harder.
âShe knows you.â
His mouth trembled.
Then he looked down and started reading.
Slowly.
Softly.
The same rhythm she had heard for months.
But different now.
Warmer. Closer.
His voice did not crackle. No static. No review process. No prison phone cutting out at the end.
It only had to cross the small space between his mouth and her sleepy head.
Andieâs eyes grew heavy. Her fist loosened in his shirt.
Andrew kept reading.
The duck got lost. The duck was brave. The duck found its way home.
By the final page, Andie was asleep against him, cheek pressed to his chest, one hand curled under her chin.
Andrew did not move.
He stared down at her like he was afraid breathing too deeply might undo it.
You stepped closer.
Quietly.
He looked up, eyes full.
âSheâs asleep,â he whispered.
âI know.â
âOn me.â
âI know.â
He looked back down.
âI donât know what to do.â
You smiled through tears.
âNothing.â
âNothing?â
âJust hold her.â
His throat moved. He nodded once.
You sat carefully on the floor beside the chair, your hand resting on his knee.
Andrewâs free hand came down over yours.
No hesitation now.
He held you there while he held her.
Downstairs, Craig and Deran were quiet.
The house was quiet.
Not empty quiet.
Not the old quiet.
Home quiet.
Full of breath and warmth and baby toys and crooked gates and stupid rabbit books and men downstairs pretending not to cry.
Andrew looked around the nursery.
The green walls. The duck. The books. The chair. You. Andie.
His life, waiting.
Not perfect. Not easy. Not untouched by everything that had happened.
But here.
His thumb moved over your knuckles.
âIâm home,â he said.
You leaned your cheek against his knee, eyes closing.
âYeah,â you whispered. âYou are.â
For the first time, Andrewâs voice did not have to fight through wires, walls, or glass.
It only had to cross the small space between his mouth and his daughterâs sleeping head.
And this time, when the story ended, no line clicked off.
I can assure you all that he is getting out very soon. Comment to be added to the taglist.
Andie turned one on a Thursday.
You knew because you had checked the date six times before getting out of bed.
Not because you had forgotten.
Because it felt impossible.
A year.
One whole year since the hospital room, since Craig filming with shaking hands, since Deran pretending not to cry, since Andrew's voice through the prison phone telling you to breathe while his daughter fought her way into the world.
A year since she had been placed on your chest, furious and warm and dark-haired, with Andrew's frown already stamped across her face like a warning.
Now she was standing at the coffee table in the living room, one hand planted flat on the wood, the other clutching a soft block she had no intention of sharing with anyone.
She was wearing one sock.
The other had been missing for forty minutes.
She had a smear of banana on her cheek, a tiny yellow bow in her hair that she had already tried to remove twice, and an expression of deep suspicion aimed at the birthday outfit laid across the back of the sofa.
"No," you told her.
Andie slapped the block against the table.
"Da."
"Yes, Daddy later," you said, because that was what most of her sounds meant now, according to you and absolutely no science.
From the kitchen, Deran said, "That one was definitely block-related."
You looked over your shoulder.
He was leaning against the counter with a paper bag of pastries in one hand and a tiny birthday cupcake box in the other, trying very hard to look like he had not specifically gone to three places to find the right one.
"It was not block-related," you said.
"It was."
"She knows today is special."
"She's one. She thinks the remote is special."
"She does love the remote."
Craig came in from the hallway carrying the diaper bag, which he had packed and repacked twice with the grim seriousness of a man preparing for siege.
"Do we need two backup outfits or three?"
You stared at him.
"For a one-hour visit?"
"She got apple sauce in her ear yesterday."
"That was one time."
"How?"
You looked at Andie.
Andie looked back at you with complete innocence.
"No one knows," you said.
Craig put a third outfit in the bag.
You did not stop him.
The contact visit had been approved four days earlier.
You still did not entirely believe it.
The same family programme. The same good-behaviour notes. The same mountain of paperwork Craig had bullied into existence with phone calls, follow-ups, and a tone that made multiple people decide it was easier to say yes than continue speaking to him.
One hour.
Contact room.
Supervised.
Approved birthday visit.
You had read the message until the words blurred.
Then you had called Andrew.
He had gone silent for so long you had said his name twice.
Finally, he had said, "I get to hold her?"
And your whole chest had folded in.
Now the hour was today.
Andie's birthday.
Andrew's daughter, one year old, walking badly along furniture and saying his name like she had invented the word.
You looked at her again.
She grinned around the corner of the block.
Your eyes filled.
"No," Deran said immediately.
You blinked at him.
"What?"
"You're doing the birthday crying."
"I am not."
"You are."
Craig glanced over from the diaper bag. "She's allowed. It's emotional."
Deran pointed at him. "Don't encourage it."
Craig zipped the diaper bag shut. "You cried at the cake."
"I did not cry at the cake."
"You stood in the bakery staring at it like it owed you money."
"It was too small."
"It's a baby cupcake."
"She deserves bigger."
You pressed your lips together.
Deran saw your face and looked away fast.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were going to."
"You love her."
"Everyone loves her."
"You love her in a very soft uncle way."
"I will leave."
Andie slapped the table again.
"Da."
Deran looked at her. "See? She wants me to leave too."
"She is saying Daddy," you said.
"She says Dada to spoons."
"She says Dada when she sees Andrew's photo."
"She says Dada when she sees the ceiling fan."
Craig looked up. "To be fair, the ceiling fan is impressive."
You laughed despite the lump in your throat.
Andie cruised carefully along the coffee table toward the framed picture on the low shelf.
Andrew through visiting glass.
His hand pressed to the barrier.
Andie's tiny hand, months younger, held opposite it.
She slapped the frame with her palm.
"Dada."
The room went quiet.
Deran stopped pretending not to feel things.
Craig's hand stilled on the strap of the diaper bag.
You swallowed hard.
"Yeah, baby," you whispered. "We're going to see Dada."
Andie looked back at you and grinned.
Like she knew.
Maybe she didn't.
Maybe she only knew that the word Dada made your voice go soft and the house go still.
But you believed she knew enough.
That had always been the rule with Andie.
She knew enough.
The prison looked wrong with birthday clothes.
It had looked wrong with a newborn.
It looked wrong with a six-month-old.
It looked wrong with a baby in a soft yellow romper with tiny white stars, one sock already threatening escape, and a birthday bow in her hair that had somehow survived the car ride.
The building did not deserve her.
That was the thought you had every time.
It did not deserve Andrew either, but that was a different ache.
Andie sat on your hip, alert and busy, one hand fisted in the collar of your shirt. She looked around at the doors, the walls, the guards, the lights, taking everything in with the solemn intensity of a tiny judge.
Craig walked on one side of you with the diaper bag.
Deran walked on the other with the approved cupcake container.
He had complained about carrying it twice.
He had also refused to let Craig carry it because Craig "tilted it weird."
At security, the guard glanced at the paperwork.
Then at Andie.
"Birthday?" he asked.
"One," you said.
Andie stared at him.
The guard's face softened despite himself. "Happy birthday."
Andie blinked.
Then said, very seriously, "Da."
The guard looked briefly confused.
Craig looked down.
Deran coughed.
"She's selective with thank-yous," you said.
The guard waved you through.
The contact room was the same beige box you remembered.
Same table.
Same chairs.
Same too-high window.
Same walls that looked like they had been designed by someone who distrusted joy.
But today there was a small paper banner taped crookedly along one wall.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
Plain block letters.
Approved, apparently.
You had not brought it.
You looked at Craig.
Craig lifted both hands. "Not me."
Deran looked away.
You turned to him slowly.
"Deran."
"What?"
"You did the banner?"
"It came with the cupcake thing."
"It absolutely did not."
"Maybe it did."
Your eyes burned.
He made a face. "Don't."
"You got her a prison birthday banner."
"Worst sentence anyone's ever said."
Craig snorted.
You laughed wetly and leaned over to kiss Andie's head.
"Your uncle Deran is very emotionally fragile today."
Deran pointed at the door. "I'm waiting outside."
"Coward."
"Correct."
Craig set the diaper bag down and squeezed your shoulder once as he passed.
Not long.
Not dramatic.
Just enough.
"You good?"
You nodded.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"No."
He smiled faintly. "Fair."
Then he and Deran left.
The door closed.
You were alone with Andie.
For maybe five seconds.
Then the other door opened.
Andrew walked in.
Andie saw him before you said a word.
She turned toward the sound of the door, one hand still clutching your shirt, bow slightly crooked, eyes bright and curious.
Andrew stopped just inside the room.
His gaze went to you first.
It always did.
A quick check.
Your face.
Your body.
Your eyes.
Still making sure you were okay, even after a year of learning that you were allowed to be tired and fine at the same time.
Then he looked at Andie.
Really looked.
And something in him went quiet.
Not empty.
Not blank.
Quiet like a room after a storm.
She was so much bigger than the newborn he had held.
That was the first thing you saw him understand.
Not because he hadn't seen photos.
He had.
So many.
Printed photos. Visit photos. Still frames from videos. Pictures with banana on her face and socks in her hands and books half chewed.
But photos flattened her.
Here, she moved.
She breathed.
She looked at him.
She knew him.
Andrew's hands flexed once at his sides.
Andie stared.
One second.
Two.
Her face lit up.
Not slowly.
All at once.
A gummy, delighted grin opened across her face, bright enough to ruin him on sight.
Then she reached both arms toward him.
"Dada!"
Andrew's face broke.
Completely.
His hand came up over his mouth.
He looked like he had been hit.
You started crying immediately.
There was no point pretending otherwise.
Andie bounced on your hip, reaching harder.
"Da-da-da!"
"Oh," you whispered, half laughing, half sobbing. "Okay. Funeral for your father, apparently."
Andrew made a sound.
It might have been a laugh.
It might have been a sob.
It was probably both.
He crossed the room carefully, like moving too fast might make this less real.
Andie leaned toward him so hard you had to tighten your grip.
"Someone remembers you," you said.
His eyes lifted to yours.
Wet.
Destroyed.
"She does."
Not a question.
A realization.
You nodded.
"She does."
Andrew reached you.
For a second, he only looked at Andie.
Then his eyes came back to you.
"Hi," he said.
Your laugh shook. "Hi."
"You okay?"
"Still your first question."
"Yeah."
"I'm okay."
"You sure?"
"I'm very emotional, but physically intact."
His mouth twitched.
Then you shifted Andie higher.
"Do you want her?"
Andrew looked at his daughter.
Andie had one fist tangled in your shirt and one hand still reaching for him, impatient now.
His face softened into something so open it hurt.
"Yeah," he whispered.
You passed her over carefully.
This was different from the newborn visit.
So different it almost knocked the breath out of you.
Then, she had been small enough to frighten him into stillness.
Now Andie came into his arms like she had places to be.
She grabbed his collar immediately.
Andrew froze.
Andie patted his chest with one hand.
"Dada."
He closed his eyes.
Your hand flew to your mouth.
Andrew held her more securely, one arm under her, one hand spread over her back. His fingers looked huge against her little yellow romper.
"She's heavy," he whispered.
You laughed through tears.
"She is not heavy."
"She is."
"She weighs about as much as a bag of flour."
"She's heavier than last time."
"That was almost a year ago."
His jaw worked.
"I know."
Andie slapped his chest again.
"Da."
Andrew looked down at her.
"I'm here," he said.
His voice was barely there.
Andie grabbed at the front of his prison shirt, then leaned forward and planted her open mouth against his collarbone.
You blinked.
Andrew looked panicked.
"What is she doing?"
"Kissing you. Or trying to eat you. Hard to tell at this age."
Andie lifted her head, drool shining on his shirt.
Andrew stared at the wet mark.
Then looked at her like she had blessed him.
You laughed so hard you cried harder.
"She drooled on you."
"I know."
"You can wipe it."
"No."
Of course not.
You stepped closer and brushed your fingers over Andie's hair.
Andrew's eyes flicked to your hand.
Then to your face.
The room shifted.
For one year, every contact visit had left both of you starved for touch. Every time you were allowed in the same room without glass, you became careful and greedy at once.
Today was no different.
His free hand reached for you.
You took it immediately.
Palm to palm.
His fingers closed around yours with a force that made your breath catch.
Not too tight.
Never too tight.
Just enough to say he had missed this too.
You stepped into his side, your shoulder brushing his arm, Andie between you.
Andrew looked down at your joined hands.
Then at you.
"You made it a year," he whispered.
Your eyes filled.
You shook your head.
"We did."
His expression cracked.
"Baby."
"We did," you said again, firmer this time. "She knows you because you showed up every way you could. Calls. Books. Visits. Photos. All of it."
Andrew looked down at Andie.
She was busy trying to remove the top button of his shirt.
"You did this too," you said.
His hand tightened around yours.
Andie looked up at him again.
"Dada."
His face folded.
"Oh, she knows how to weaponize that now," you said.
Andrew huffed a broken laugh.
"She can say it whenever she wants."
"She does."
"Good."
"She said it to a spoon yesterday."
His eyes lifted.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"She called a spoon Dada?"
"Briefly."
Andrew considered this.
Then looked at Andie.
"That's okay."
You stared at him. "That's okay?"
"She's learning."
"She called cutlery by your title."
"She's one."
"You are so biased."
"Yes."
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just yes.
You laughed and leaned into his shoulder.
His hand released yours only to wrap around your back, careful and warm. You turned your face into him for one second, just one, breathing him in as much as the room allowed.
Andrew pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
Your eyes closed.
Andie slapped his cheek.
He opened his eyes.
You burst out laughing.
"She wants attention."
"She has it."
"She knows."
Andrew shifted Andie slightly and sat down, bringing her onto his lap. She immediately tried to twist around, interested in the table, the banner, your hair, the air, absolutely everything.
Andrew looked overwhelmed.
"She moves a lot."
"Yes."
"All the time?"
"Yes."
"How do you do anything?"
"I mostly don't."
He looked up, concerned.
"I'm kidding."
"Are you?"
"Partly."
He frowned.
You touched his cheek because you could.
Because you would use every second.
"I'm okay."
His eyes softened under your hand.
"You look tired."
"I am tired."
"But okay?"
"But okay."
Andie reached for your hand on his face and grabbed your fingers.
For a second, the three of you were tangled together.
Your hand on Andrew's cheek.
Andie's hand around your fingers.
Andrew's hand on Andie's back.
A ridiculous knot of love in a beige room.
Andrew looked at it.
His throat moved.
You did not say anything.
Some moments did not need help.
The guard outside shifted.
Reality, reminding you it existed.
You ignored it.
"Do you want the cupcake?" you asked.
Andrew looked immediately suspicious.
"For her?"
"For her birthday."
"She can eat cake?"
"She can eat a tiny bit of cupcake."
"Sugar?"
"Oh no. Not sugar on her birthday."
Andrew gave you a look.
You laughed. "Baby, she will survive frosting."
"What if she chokes?"
"She's supervised."
"What ifâ"
"Andrew."
His mouth shut.
You smiled fondly.
"Would you like to give your daughter her first birthday cupcake or would you like to continue arguing with me about sugar?"
He looked down at Andie.
Andie slapped the table.
"Da!"
He exhaled.
"Cupcake."
"Good choice."
You opened the little container.
The cupcake was tiny.
Yellow frosting.
One small white candle tucked separately because fire was absolutely not allowed in a prison contact room, which you had expected and honestly did not mind.
Deran had somehow found tiny duck sprinkles.
You stared at them.
"Oh, Deran."
Andrew leaned forward. "What?"
"Duck sprinkles."
His mouth softened.
"And he carried it?"
"Like it was evidence."
Andrew looked toward the door.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
You placed the cupcake on the table in front of Andie, who was now sitting on Andrew's lap with both his arms forming a protective barrier around her.
She stared at it.
Suspicious.
Andrew stared too.
Also suspicious.
You looked between them and snorted.
"She has your exact cake suspicion face."
"I don't have a cake suspicion face."
"You do now."
Andie reached one finger toward the frosting.
Stopped.
Looked at you.
You nodded. "Go on."
She poked the frosting.
Then looked at her finger.
Andrew leaned in like he was watching a bomb.
"She okay?"
"She has frosting on one finger."
"She's thinking."
"She is."
Andie put her finger in her mouth.
Her eyes widened.
You grinned.
Andrew stopped breathing.
Andie looked at the cupcake again.
Then slammed her whole hand into it.
You laughed.
"There we go."
Andrew's mouth parted in horror. "Oh."
"She's supposed to make a mess."
"She's destroying it."
"It's a smash cake."
"It's a cupcake."
"Smash cupcake."
"That sounds made up."
"It is made up. It's still happening."
Andie lifted her frosting-covered hand.
Before either of you could stop her, she planted it directly on Andrew's chest.
Yellow frosting smeared across his prison shirt.
The room went still.
You clapped a hand over your mouth.
Andie looked delighted.
Andrew looked down at the mark.
A tiny, messy, yellow handprint.
Right over his heart.
Your eyes filled instantly.
"Oh," you whispered.
Andrew did not move.
He just stared at it.
"Andie," you murmured, laughing and crying at once. "That was very dramatic."
Andrew's hand hovered over the frosting mark.
Not touching.
Not wiping.
Just hovering.
You swallowed hard.
"You can wipe it," you said softly.
His eyes lifted to yours.
"No."
Of course.
Your face crumpled.
He looked down at Andie.
She had frosting on her wrist now. On her mouth. Somehow near one eyebrow.
"Dada," she said happily.
Andrew closed his eyes.
For a second, he looked like he was praying.
When he opened them, they were wet.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I'm here."
You did not survive that.
You cried quietly while Andie continued destroying the cupcake with astonishing focus.
Andrew watched every movement like it mattered.
Because it did.
The way she poked the frosting.
The way she offered him a wet, crushed handful and then changed her mind before he could pretend to eat it.
The way she clapped once, smearing cake between her palms.
The way she babbled, "Da-da-da," like she was narrating the occasion.
Andrew laughed.
Really laughed.
Small and rough and unused, but real.
You stared at him.
He saw.
"What?"
"You laughed."
"She put cake on my shirt."
"Frosting."
"Frosting."
"You're happy."
His face softened.
"Yeah."
The simplicity of it made your throat close.
You reached over and took his hand again.
His fingers folded around yours.
For a few minutes, you let Andie have the cupcake while you and Andrew stayed pressed close enough that your knees touched. His thumb moved over your knuckles. Your shoulder leaned into his. Every small point of contact felt like a stolen thing.
Eventually Andie got tired of the cupcake and more interested in the paper banner.
Andrew held her up so she could see it.
"Happy birthday," he said.
His voice was quiet.
Andie looked at the banner.
Then at him.
"Da."
"Yes," he said. "Dada."
You wiped frosting from Andie's chin with a cloth.
"She had your birthday recording this morning," you said.
Andrew glanced at you. "Yeah?"
"She smiled at the part where you said happy birthday."
He looked down quickly.
You squeezed his hand.
"She did."
"I recorded it three times."
"I know."
"How?"
"You sounded hoarse by the end."
His mouth twitched.
"The first one was bad."
"I doubt that."
"I said happy birthday too fast."
"She is one. She does not have pacing critiques."
"I did."
"You always do."
He looked at Andie.
"I wanted it right."
Your face softened.
"It was."
The guard knocked lightly.
"Fifteen minutes."
The words dropped into the room like a stone.
Andrew's hand tightened around yours.
Andie, oblivious and sticky, reached for his face.
He leaned down automatically.
She patted his cheek with a frosting-smudged hand.
A faint yellow streak appeared along his jaw.
You laughed through tears.
"She got you again."
Andrew did not wipe that either.
"She can."
"She can?"
"She can do whatever she wants."
"You are going to be impossible."
"Yes."
"At least admit it."
"I did."
You smiled at him through wet eyes.
"She's going to run circles around you."
"Good."
"You say that now."
"I'll say it later."
Andie grabbed his nose.
He winced slightly but let her.
"Gentle," you told her.
Andrew's hand covered her back.
"She's okay."
"She needs to learn gentle."
"She's one."
"You are no help."
"She's one," he repeated, softer.
There it was.
The weight under the sweetness.
One.
A whole year.
His daughter had lived a full year outside your body, and Andrew had counted it through visits and recordings and phone calls and photos held carefully by prison light.
You touched his arm.
"She's one."
His eyes stayed on Andie.
"I missed a lot."
You took a breath.
You had known it might come.
Not as a spiral.
Not as self-punishment.
Just truth.
"Yes," you said softly.
His jaw worked.
"And you were there for a lot."
His eyes lifted to yours.
"Not the same."
"No," you said. "Not the same."
You would not lie to him.
You loved him too much for that.
"But it counted."
Andrew looked down at the frosting on his shirt.
At Andie's little handprint over his heart.
At his daughter chewing on the edge of a napkin you immediately removed from her mouth.
He huffed softly.
You smiled.
"It counted," you said again.
His eyes went wet.
"Yeah."
This time, it sounded like belief.
The guard moved outside.
Ten minutes.
You leaned forward and kissed Andrew.
He froze for only half a second before kissing you back.
Still careful.
Always careful.
But less disbelieving than the first contact visit.
His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye.
Andie made an outraged sound between you.
You pulled back, laughing.
"Sorry. Birthday girl objects."
Andrew smiled at her.
Actually smiled.
A tiny, open thing.
"Sorry."
Andie slapped his chest again.
"Da."
"I know," he said. "You're in charge."
"She really is."
He looked at you.
"You okay?"
You laughed softly. "Yes."
"With this?"
Your smile faded into something tender.
"With what?"
"With me having this today."
Your heart cracked.
"Oh, Andrew."
His eyes flicked down.
You touched his jaw, thumb brushing near the frosting streak Andie had left.
"I wanted you to have this."
His throat moved.
"I have her every day," you said. "The mornings. The nights. The messes. The firsts. The tantrums. The way she throws spoons like she's being paid. I get so much."
His face tightened.
"So when there is a way for you to have a piece too," you whispered, "I want you to have it. I want you to have all of it."
Andrew's eyes shone.
"I don't want to take from you."
"You're not."
"I know, butâ"
"You're her dad," you said. "Loving her isn't taking from me."
He looked at Andie.
Then at your hand on his jaw.
The words landed slowly.
Carefully.
Like his body was still learning that love could multiply instead of divide.
Andie yawned suddenly.
A huge, dramatic yawn that made both of you stop.
"She's tired," you said.
Andrew's face shifted immediately into concern.
"She needs sleep."
"She can survive five more minutes."
"She's rubbing her eye."
"I know."
"She does that when she's tired?"
"Yes."
He watched closely, memorizing that.
Of course he did.
"Anything else?"
"What?"
"When she's tired."
You smiled despite the ache.
"She gets clingy. She makes this little humming sound. She hates being put down even though she clearly wants to sleep."
"Like you."
"Excuse me?"
"You get mean when you're tired."
"I gave birth to your child and organized a prison birthday cupcake. Choose your words."
His mouth twitched.
"You get quiet when you're tired," he corrected.
"Better."
"And mean."
"Andrew."
He laughed again.
You loved him so much in that moment it made you almost dizzy.
Five minutes.
The guard announced it softly this time.
Maybe because of the baby.
Maybe because even he had a heart somewhere under the uniform.
Andrew looked down at Andie.
His face changed.
The letting go was coming.
It was always coming.
No amount of frosting or laughter or birthday banners could stop it.
Andie rested against his chest now, sleepy, one sticky hand curled against the mark she had left on his shirt.
Andrew's hand covered her back.
You watched him breathe her in.
"Baby," you whispered.
His eyes closed.
"I know."
You moved closer.
"I'll take her."
His arms tightened for one second.
Only one.
Then loosened.
He handed Andie back with the kind of care that made your chest ache.
She fussed immediately.
Reached for him.
"Dada."
Andrew's face crumpled.
You held her close, tears filling your eyes again.
"I know," you whispered to her. "I know."
Andie reached harder.
"Dada!"
Andrew stood.
His hands curled once at his sides, like letting her cry for him was worse than anything he had prepared for.
You stepped close, shifting Andie between you.
"Touch her," you whispered.
He did.
One hand to her back.
One finger to her tiny frosting-sticky hand.
Andie grabbed it.
Hard.
Andrew bent his head.
"She knows you," you said.
His eyes closed.
"She'll know you next time too."
His jaw worked.
"I know."
And he did.
That was the difference.
He knew.
Not perfectly. Not without pain. But enough.
Andie tugged his finger.
"Dada," she said again, softer now.
Andrew swallowed hard.
"I love you," he whispered.
She blinked at him.
"I love you," he said again.
You were crying openly now.
He looked at you.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
He leaned forward and kissed you once more.
Brief.
Warm.
Desperate around the edges.
Then he kissed Andie's forehead.
She grabbed at his chin.
He smiled through tears.
"Happy birthday, baby girl."
The guard opened the door.
Time.
You stepped back.
Andrew's hand slipped from Andie's grip.
She made a noise that nearly broke all three of you.
You bounced her gently, trying to soothe her while your own face fell apart.
At the doorway, you turned back.
Andrew stood in the middle of the beige room with yellow frosting on his shirt, a smear on his jaw, and tears on his face.
The birthday banner hung crooked behind him.
One hour.
One cupcake.
One whole year.
You lifted Andie's hand.
She did not wave.
She was too busy looking at him.
"Da," she said.
Andrew covered his mouth.
Then the door closed.
Deran was waiting in the hall.
Craig too.
Both of them stood when they saw you.
Their eyes went immediately to Andie.
Then to your face.
Then to the closed door behind you.
"How bad?" Craig asked.
You laughed through tears.
"Destroyed."
Deran looked down at Andie. "Him or you?"
"Yes."
Craig stepped closer, reaching out to wipe a bit of frosting from Andie's wrist with a wipe he had somehow already prepared.
"She okay?"
"She's tired."
"She cried?"
"At the end."
Craig's face tightened.
Deran looked away.
"She reached for him," you said.
Neither of them spoke.
Andie sniffled against your shoulder, thumb creeping toward her mouth.
Deran cleared his throat.
"He got to hold her?"
You nodded.
"And she said Dada to his face."
Craig closed his eyes briefly.
Deran rubbed a hand over his mouth.
"Jesus."
"Yeah."
You smiled through wet cheeks.
"She put frosting on him."
Deran blinked.
"On purpose?"
"She's one."
"So yes."
You laughed.
Craig looked toward the door, then back at you.
"He wipe it?"
"No."
Craig's mouth trembled.
Deran turned toward the exit.
"Car," he said roughly.
"You're crying again," you said.
"I am walking."
"Emotionally."
"I am walking emotionally."
You laughed, then kissed Andie's hair.
"Let's go home, birthday girl."
Andrew did not wipe the frosting off until he had to.
Not when they walked him back.
Not when another man looked at the smear on his shirt and raised an eyebrow.
Not when the guard said, "You got something there."
Andrew looked down at the tiny yellow handprint over his heart.
"I know."
The guard did not tell him again.
Later, when he had no choice, he cleaned the shirt carefully.
But before he did, he pressed two fingers to the mark.
Just once.
A handprint.
His daughter's handprint.
Andie had turned one.
She had reached for him.
She had said Dada to his face.
She had laughed at cake and grabbed his nose and smeared frosting on him like she knew exactly where to leave the proof.
Andrew sat on the edge of his bunk that night with the birthday photo you had managed to get printed before the visit tucked between his hands.
In the picture, Andie sat on his lap, frosting on her mouth, one hand pressed to his chest. You were beside him, leaning close, smiling through tears. His own face was turned toward Andie, ruined and soft and unguarded.
He barely recognized himself.
Maybe that was good.
Maybe fathers were supposed to become unrecognizable in certain ways.
He looked at the wall of photos.
Scan.
Gender note.
Nursery.
Contact visit.
Smile.
Glass visit.
And now this.
One year.
One whole year.
A year ago, he had heard his daughter's heartbeat through a prison phone.
Now she had said his name to his face with cake on her hands.
Andrew touched the edge of the birthday photo.
One year had passed without him coming home.
But not one year had passed without him being her father.
He knew that now.
Not all the time.
Not perfectly.
But tonight, he knew.
Behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody lay down with his daughter's voice in his head and the memory of yellow frosting over his heart.
Dada.
Dada.
Dada.
And for once, the word did not feel like something he had to earn.
{She Knows Your Voice - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}
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You told yourself the duck onesie was practical.
It was clean.
It was soft.
It had snaps that didn't make you want to throw it across the room at three in the morning.
Those were all practical reasons.
The fact that Andrew loved it was irrelevant.
Mostly.
Probably.
You stood in the nursery with Andie lying on the changing mat, her tiny legs kicking with great seriousness while you tried to get one foot through the correct opening.
"Stop fighting the duck suit," you murmured.
Andie made a small offended sound.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I insult your dignity?"
She blinked at you.
You smiled despite yourself and fastened the final snap.
There.
Tiny yellow ducks.
Dark hair sticking up slightly near her crown.
Andrew's frown already forming even though she was only a few weeks old and had absolutely no bills to pay.
You looked down at her and felt your chest do the painful, impossible thing it did fifty times a day now.
She was real.
Still.
Every morning, somehow still surprising.
You brushed one finger gently over her cheek.
"Your dad is going to lose his mind."
From the doorway, Deran said, "You're dressing her emotionally."
You turned.
He stood there with two takeaway coffees in one hand and a packet of nappies under his arm, looking deeply unimpressed for a man who had voluntarily shown up at nine in the morning with baby supplies.
"I'm dressing her practically," you said.
"It has ducks."
"Ducks can be practical."
"No, they can't."
"You have no proof of that."
"You put her in the duck onesie because Pope likes it."
"I put her in the duck onesie because it was clean."
Deran looked at the laundry basket overflowing beside the wardrobe.
"There are four clean things on top of that pile."
You narrowed your eyes. "Why are you inspecting my laundry?"
"It's right there."
"Stop perceiving my laundry."
He huffed and stepped into the room, setting one coffee on the dresser. "That one's decaf."
You softened immediately.
"Thank you."
"Yeah, whatever."
Andie kicked both legs.
Deran looked down at her.
His face changed.
It always did, even though he tried to stop it. Something in him went quieter around her, like she made the whole room less easy to joke inside.
"Hey," he said.
Andie stared past him at absolutely nothing.
Deran nodded. "Good talk."
"She's very selective."
"She looks like she's judging me."
"She is."
"She gets that from you."
You laughed and lifted her carefully from the changing mat. Your body still felt strange most days. Better than those first raw days after birth, but not fully yours yet. There were aches you had learned to move around, a tiredness that sat under your skin, and a new constant awareness of Andie's weight in your arms.
Not heavy.
Never heavy.
Just there.
A whole person.
Deran watched you shift her against your chest.
"You okay going today?"
You glanced up.
His voice had gone casual in the way Cody men used when they were being very, very not casual.
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"You look tired."
"I have a newborn."
"Yeah. That's why I asked."
You looked down at Andie.
She had started making little rooting motions against your shirt even though she had eaten forty minutes earlier, because apparently babies worked according to laws no one had written down properly.
"I'm okay," you said, softer.
Deran leaned back against the dresser.
"It's glass today?"
Your throat tightened.
"Yeah."
He nodded once.
No contact room.
No special approval.
No one impossible hour of Andrew holding both of you like the world had narrowed down to his arms and your daughter's breathing.
Just the regular visiting room.
Booth five.
Phones.
Glass.
Andrew had held Andie once now.
That was the blessing.
That was also the wound.
Deran looked down at his coffee.
"That's gonna suck."
You laughed once.
Small and honest.
"Yeah."
He nodded again.
Then he looked at Andie in the duck onesie.
"He'll like that, though."
Your smile trembled.
"I know."
Deran cleared his throat.
"Okay," he said, pushing off from the dresser. "Let's get this emotionally practical duck baby on the road."
You laughed properly then.
Andie startled at the sound, eyes widening.
You kissed the top of her head.
"Sorry," you whispered. "Your uncle is ridiculous."
Deran paused in the doorway.
"Uncle?"
You looked up.
He was staring at you.
You blinked. "What?"
"You said uncle."
Your face softened.
"Oh."
He looked away too fast.
"Don't make it a thing."
"I wasn't."
"You were about to."
"I absolutely was."
"Don't."
You smiled down at Andie.
"Your uncle Deran is emotionally fragile."
"I can still leave you here."
"No, you can't."
"No," he admitted. "I can't."
Andrew knew it was going to be glass.
He had known for three days.
That did not help.
He stood in the visiting room line with his hands at his sides and tried not to think about the weight of Andie in his arms.
It was impossible.
His body remembered before his head could stop it.
The warm curve of her.
The way she had fit against his chest.
The tiny sound she made when he said her name.
The frown.
His frown, apparently, though he still thought you were exaggerating.
He could still feel your hand on his wrist too.
Your mouth.
Your cheek against his shoulder.
The way you had leaned into him when he held her, like for one hour all the months of distance had been suspended in the space between your bodies.
Now it was glass again.
Phone again.
Touching nothing.
He told himself seeing them through glass was still seeing them.
It did not help much.
The door opened.
He walked in.
Booth five.
You were already there.
Andie was against your chest, wrapped in a blanket, her little face turned toward your throat.
Andrew stopped.
For a second, the glass disappeared because all he saw was you.
Tired.
Soft.
Beautiful in a way that hurt.
Then Andie shifted.
The blanket moved.
Yellow ducks.
His breath caught before he could stop it.
You picked up the phone.
He sat and grabbed his.
"You put her in the ducks," he said.
No greeting.
No question.
Just that.
Your smile warmed and ruined him at the same time.
"She chose them."
His eyes dropped to Andie. "She can't choose clothes."
"She has strong opinions."
"She's a baby."
"She's a Cody."
Andrew looked up at you.
Your mouth twitched.
His did too.
Barely.
But enough.
"Hi," you said softly.
His throat tightened.
"Hi."
"You okay?"
"That's my question."
"I'm stealing it."
He looked at you through the glass.
You had dark circles under your eyes. Your hair was pulled back, but not well. His old flannel was draped over your shoulders again, sleeves rolled messily at the wrists. Andie's cheek rested against your chest, tiny mouth relaxed, one fist tucked under her chin.
The sight made him ache.
Not only from missing it.
From loving it.
"I'm okay," he said.
Your gaze softened, like you knew all the ways that answer was incomplete and decided to let him have it anyway.
"She sleep?"
"Sometimes."
"That means no."
"That means she sleeps like a newborn."
"That means no."
You sighed. "No."
"Eating?"
"Yes."
"You?"
You gave him a look. "Also yes."
"Enough?"
"Andrew."
"What?"
"You have moved from baby interrogation to wife interrogation very quickly."
"You both need food."
"She gets hers directly from me. It's very hard to forget."
His eyes widened slightly.
You laughed.
"Oh, don't look so alarmed. You know how babies work."
"I know."
"You look scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You are absolutely scared."
"I'm concerned."
"About breastfeeding?"
"About all of it."
Your expression softened.
Andie made a tiny sound against your chest.
Both of you looked down.
She shifted, scrunched her face, then started fussing.
Not crying yet.
Just winding up.
You adjusted her carefully, bouncing her a little against your shoulder.
"Hey," you murmured. "It's okay."
Andrew's hand tightened around the phone.
The sound went through him strangely.
He had heard her fuss on calls.
He had heard her cry.
But seeing it through glass, seeing her tiny face crumple while he could not reach either of you, made something hot and useless move through his chest.
Andie fussed harder.
You shifted again.
"I know," you whispered, kissing her hair. "I know. It's loud in here."
Andrew leaned closer.
"Put me on."
Your eyes lifted.
"What?"
"The phone."
You looked down at Andie.
"She's upset."
"I know."
"She might scream directly into your ear."
"That's okay."
For a second, you just looked at him.
Then you nodded.
You moved the phone from your ear and held it near Andie, careful not to press it too close.
"She's listening," you said.
Andrew's voice changed before he even thought about it.
Low.
Quiet.
The voice that had become hers somehow.
"Hey, Andie."
Andie fussed.
Her little face crumpled.
Andrew swallowed.
"Hey, baby girl. It's me."
Her crying caught.
Not stopped.
Caught.
A tiny interruption in the rhythm.
You went very still.
Andrew saw it.
He kept talking.
"I know. This place is loud. I don't like it either."
Andie made a small distressed sound.
"But you got the ducks on," he said. "That helps."
A wet laugh slipped out of you.
Andie's fussing softened from the edge of a cry into hiccupping little complaints.
Andrew kept his eyes on her.
"You saw me already," he said softly. "Remember? I held you. You slept on me."
His throat tightened.
The words almost got stuck.
He forced them out anyway.
"You were warm."
Your face crumpled behind the glass.
Andie quieted.
Not fully asleep.
Not peaceful.
But listening.
Her eyes opened slightly, dark and unfocused, shifting vaguely toward the phone.
Andrew stopped breathing.
You brought the phone back to your ear slowly.
"She knows your voice," you whispered.
Andrew could not answer.
His eyes stayed on Andie.
She was still looking toward the sound.
Toward him.
Not seeing him, probably. Not really. The books said newborn eyesight was blurry. He had read that twice.
But she knew something.
The voice.
The rhythm.
The shape of him in sound.
Andrew pressed his palm flat to the counter, because if he didn't put his hand somewhere, he was going to break.
"She knows your voice," you said again, softer.
His jaw worked.
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
Andie made another tiny noise.
Not upset now.
Just there.
You smiled down at her. "See? That's Daddy."
Andrew's eyes burned.
Daddy.
He had heard you say it before.
Every time, it landed somewhere new.
You shifted closer to the glass, lifting Andie carefully so she faced him more. Her head wobbled slightly, supported by your hand at the back of her neck.
"She's looking," you said.
"At what?"
"At the blur that is probably you."
A rough laugh left him.
Andie blinked slowly.
Her tiny hand escaped the blanket.
You caught it gently between your fingers.
Andrew watched like his whole world had become that hand.
So small.
Ridiculously small.
Perfectly formed fingers curling and uncurling against your thumb.
You looked up at him through the glass.
"Do you want to..."
You did not finish.
You didn't need to.
Andrew lifted his hand.
Slowly.
Like he was afraid of frightening her even through the barrier.
You brought Andie's hand to the glass.
Her palm pressed flat, tiny and loose, supported by your fingers.
Andrew placed his hand on the other side.
His palm dwarfed hers completely.
Glass between them.
Your fingers around hers.
His hand opposite.
For a second, none of you moved.
The room around you faded.
The other visitors.
The guards.
The phones.
The ugly lights.
All of it blurred around the smallest hand in the world pressed to the barrier between Andrew and his daughter.
Andrew's mouth trembled.
"Hi," he whispered, even though the phone was at your ear and she could not hear him that way.
You heard.
That was enough.
You looked at his hand.
Then at his face.
"She's touching you," you said.
His eyes flicked up.
Then back down.
"Not really."
"Yes," you said. "Really enough."
His face changed.
Really enough.
That was what so much of this had become.
Phone calls were not holding, but they were really enough to calm her.
Recordings were not bedtime in his arms, but they were really enough to fill the room.
Glass was not skin, but right now, his daughter's hand was opposite his and yours was holding her there.
Really enough.
Andrew nodded once.
Barely.
You pressed Andie's hand there a moment longer.
Then she squeaked, unimpressed, and curled her fingers.
You laughed softly.
"She's over it."
His mouth twitched.
"Like you."
"Like you."
Andie yawned then.
A huge, dramatic newborn yawn that took up her whole face.
Andrew stared.
"She does that a lot," you said.
"Yawns?"
"Yes, Andrew. Babies yawn."
"I know."
"You always sound surprised."
"I still am."
You smiled.
His hand stayed on the glass even after you lowered Andie back against your chest.
He did not seem to notice.
Or maybe he did and simply did not want to move it yet.
You didn't tell him to.
For a while, you talked about small things.
Andie's hatred of swaddling.
Andie's conflicting hatred of not being swaddled.
The way she slept with both hands near her face like she was ready to fight someone in a dream.
Deran falling asleep upright on your sofa and denying it while still half asleep.
Andrew listened to all of it.
Every ridiculous detail.
He asked questions that were half practical, half desperate.
How much was she eating?
Did she still make the angry rooting face?
Was the duck on the shelf or had it been moved?
Was the chair still loud?
Were you taking the pain medicine on time?
That last one made you pause.
Mostly because you had not been.
Andrew saw it.
Even through glass.
"Baby."
"I'm mostly taking them."
His gaze narrowed.
"What does mostly mean?"
"It means I am an adult woman who knows how to take medication."
"It means you forgot."
"It means newborns are distracting."
"It means you forgot."
You huffed. "Maybe once."
His eyes stayed fixed on you.
"Twice."
Andrew's expression did not change.
You sighed. "Fine. Deran has set alarms."
"Good."
"He labelled one 'take your damn pills.'"
"Good."
"He labelled another one 'Pope would yell.'"
Andrew nodded. "Accurate."
You laughed.
Andie startled.
Both of you froze.
She settled again.
You lowered your voice. "You're both bullies."
"You need sleep."
"I need a clone."
"No."
"No?"
"One of you is enough."
Your eyes softened.
Andrew seemed to realize what he had said a second later. He looked down, but you caught the warmth before he could hide it.
The visit timer crackled overhead.
Ten minutes.
The sound went through you like a small blade.
Andrew's hand finally dropped from the glass.
Andie shifted against you, her mouth making soft sleeping movements.
You looked down at her.
Then back at him.
"It was harder today," you said quietly.
Andrew's eyes lifted.
He knew exactly what you meant.
No contact room.
No arms.
No kissing.
No Andie warm against his chest.
Just glass again.
He looked at his hand where it rested on the counter.
"Yeah."
Your throat tightened.
"I'm sorry."
His eyes snapped up.
"No."
"I know. Butâ"
"No."
You stopped.
He leaned closer, voice low.
"Don't be sorry for bringing her."
Your eyes burned.
"I'm not."
"Good."
He looked at Andie.
Then at you.
"It was easier before I knew what she felt like," he admitted.
The honesty hurt.
You had expected it, maybe.
Still, hearing it made your chest ache.
"I know."
His jaw tightened, but he did not spiral.
He did not turn the pain into apology.
He just sat with it.
That, too, was new.
"But I know now," he said.
Your face softened.
"And that's good."
You nodded.
"It's good," he repeated, like he was making himself believe it because it was true and because truth sometimes had to be held steady with both hands.
Andie stirred.
You lowered your mouth to her forehead.
"She still knows you."
Andrew looked at her.
Then at the phone.
"Yeah?"
You smiled through tears.
"Andrew, she practically stopped mid-meltdown because you told her the prison was loud and praised her outfit."
His mouth twitched.
"The ducks help."
"The ducks help," you agreed solemnly.
The loudspeaker called five minutes.
You hated every announcement in this building.
Andrew looked at Andie like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of her sleeping against your chest.
"She bigger?"
"Since the contact visit?"
"Yeah."
"A little."
"I thought so."
"You saw her for one hour."
"I know."
"And you can tell she grew?"
"Yes."
You smiled. "Obsessed."
His eyes stayed on his daughter.
"Yeah."
No denial.
No shame.
Just yes.
You looked at him and felt your heart fold itself in half.
The last minutes went too quickly.
They always did.
You promised to send pictures.
He told you to take your medication.
You told him not to be bossy.
He ignored that and reminded you to drink water.
You asked about the recording programme, and he said the first one had been approved for mailing.
Your expression changed.
"It's coming?"
"Should be."
"You read the duck one?"
"Yeah."
"Was it good?"
His mouth tightened.
"It was a book."
"That is not an answer."
"It had a duck."
"Also not an answer."
"It was fine."
You narrowed your eyes. "Andrew."
"I did the voices."
Your mouth fell open.
"You did not."
His eyes flicked away.
"You did?"
"Don't make it a thing."
"Oh, I am absolutely making this a thing."
"Don't."
"You did duck voices?"
"One voice."
"Andrew Cody."
"Baby."
"You recorded yourself doing a duck voice for your daughter."
His jaw tightened, but there was color high on his cheekbones.
"She might like it."
Your face crumpled.
All teasing disappeared.
"She will love it."
He swallowed.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"Mother science?"
"Mother science."
The guard stepped closer.
Time.
You stood slowly, careful with Andie against your chest. Your body still ached if you moved too fast, and Andrew noticed because of course he did.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
"Pain medicine."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
His face softened.
You lifted Andie's tiny hand from the blanket.
Just a small wave.
Andrew pressed his palm to the glass again.
"Bye, baby girl," he whispered.
You looked at him.
"I love you," you said.
His eyes lifted.
"I love you."
"And she loves you."
This time, he did not ask if you were sure.
He looked at Andie.
Then at your fingers supporting her tiny hand.
"I know," he said.
Your breath caught.
He said it like he meant it.
Like he finally had enough proof to hold.
You smiled through tears.
Then you turned and left.
Behind you, Andrew kept his palm on the glass until the door closed.
The package was waiting when you got home.
Deran saw it first.
He had carried the diaper bag in while you carried Andie, who had fallen asleep in the car and was now making tiny dream noises against your shoulder.
There was a padded envelope on the hallway floor just inside the door, pushed through the letter slot at an odd angle.
Deran picked it up.
His expression changed.
"What?"
He looked at the return label.
"Family services thing."
Your heart jumped.
"The recording?"
"Looks like."
You shifted Andie higher against your chest.
She stayed asleep.
For once.
Deran looked from the envelope to you.
"You want me to open it?"
"No."
You said it too quickly.
He nodded and handed it over without comment.
The envelope was light.
Inside was a children's book.
Bright cover.
Yellow duck.
Of course.
A small plastic sleeve was attached to the inside with a labeled audio file on a simple approved player.
Your fingers trembled when you opened the cover.
On the dedication page, in Andrew's careful handwriting, were four words.
For Andie.
From Dad.
You inhaled sharply.
Deran looked away immediately.
"Jesus," he muttered.
You laughed wetly. "Yeah."
You carried the book upstairs to the nursery.
Deran followed, quieter now.
He did not make a joke about the chair.
He did not make a joke about ducks.
That was how you knew he was already emotionally compromised.
You sat in the green rocking chair with Andie against your chest. The room was dim, warm from the late afternoon sun. Andrew's wooden duck sat on the shelf beside the scan photo. The hospital bracelet lay in a little dish. A clean blanket hung over the arm of the chair.
Deran stood near the doorway, arms crossed.
"You don't have to stay," you said.
"I know."
"You want to?"
"No."
You looked at him.
He sighed. "Fine. Yeah."
You smiled.
Andie stirred, making a small grumbly noise.
"Okay," you whispered. "Let's hear Dad."
Deran shifted against the doorframe.
You pressed play.
For a second, there was static.
A small scrape.
Then Andrew's voice filled the nursery.
"Hi, Andie."
Your face crumpled instantly.
Deran looked at the floor.
On your chest, Andie went still.
Andrew's voice was rougher than usual, like he had been nervous.
"Hi, baby girl. It's me."
Andie's eyes fluttered.
You pressed your lips together to keep from sobbing too loudly.
There was a pause on the recording.
Then Andrew cleared his throat.
"This is a duck book," he said.
Deran made a strangled sound.
You looked at him through tears.
He shook his head. "I'm fine."
"You are not."
"Shut up."
The recording continued.
Andrew read slowly at first.
Too slowly.
Like he was afraid of getting it wrong.
Then he found a rhythm.
His rhythm.
Low and careful, turning the silly little duck story into something softer than it had any right to be.
He did the duck voice.
Barely.
It was more of a slight change in tone than a full voice, but you caught it immediately.
Deran did too.
He covered his mouth with one hand and turned toward the wall.
You started crying harder.
Andie relaxed against your chest.
Completely.
Her tiny fist opened.
Her cheek settled against you.
By the second page, she was asleep.
You looked down at her, then back at the book.
Andrew's voice kept going.
In the room he had helped choose.
Beside the duck he had carved.
Around the daughter who knew him by sound before she knew almost anything else.
Deran was suspiciously silent by the door.
You glanced at him.
His eyes were red.
"Deran."
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"No."
You smiled through tears and looked back down at Andie.
The story ended after a few minutes.
There was a small pause.
Then Andrew's voice came back softer.
"Goodnight, Andie."
Your breath hitched.
Another pause.
"I'm here."
The recording clicked off.
The room went quiet.
Not empty.
Not anymore.
You sat very still, Andie asleep against your chest, the book open in your lap.
Deran cleared his throat.
"That was..."
He stopped.
You looked up.
His face was turned toward the window.
"Yeah," you said softly.
He nodded once.
"That was good."
Your smile trembled.
"It was."
Andie sighed in her sleep.
You looked down at her.
"She knew."
Deran looked at her too, expression soft and unguarded for once.
"Yeah," he said. "She did."
You leaned back in the chair and pressed your cheek gently to the top of your daughter's head.
On the shelf, the wooden duck watched over the room.
In your lap, the book rested open.
Andrew's voice was gone from the player, but somehow still there.
In the walls.
In the green.
In the quiet.
He was not home.
Not yet.
But his voice had arrived before him.
Andie slept through the rest of the afternoon with one tiny fist curled against your chest, while Andrew's voice filled the green room like he had found another way back to both of you.
I am going to warn you all now, you are going to cry. I love you all and im sorry in advance for the emotional damage that i am about to inflict on you.
You had given birth three days ago. Seventy-two hours. Not even, technically. And everyone kept saying that like it meant something.
Like seventy-two hours was a law.
Like seventy-two hours was supposed to keep you in bed, keep you still, keep you from packing a diaper bag with shaking hands while your newborn daughter slept in her carrier by the front door.
Craig stood in the hallway with his arms crossed, watching you like he was trying to decide whether he could physically block the exit.
"You should be resting," he said.
You tucked a packet of wipes into the side pocket of the bag. "I rested earlier."
"You slept for forty minutes."
"That counts."
"It does not."
"I closed my eyes. Time passed. That's sleep."
Craig stared at you. You stared back. The baby made a tiny sound from the carrier between you. Both of you looked down immediately.
She was asleep again within seconds, one little fist tucked near her cheek, dark hair soft against her forehead, her mouth slightly open in the deeply dramatic way she had already perfected.
Andrew's frown. Your stubbornness. A full Cody-level commitment to making everyone panic over very little. You looked back at Craig.
"I'm going."
"I know."
"Then stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're still deciding whether you can stop me."
"I am still deciding that."
"You can't."
"I know."
The front door opened behind him and Deran stepped in, carrying two coffees and wearing the expression of someone who had already decided he wanted no part in the argument, despite walking directly into it.
He looked from you to Craig. Then down at the baby. Then back to you.
"You look terrible."
Craig turned on him. "Why do we keep saying that to her?" Deran blinked. "Because she does."
"I just had a baby," you said.
"Exactly."
Craig pointed toward the door. "Go wait in the car." Deran held up the coffees. "I brought caffeine."
"I can't even have that one."
"It's decaf."
You softened despite yourself.
"Oh."
Deran looked away quickly. "Yeah, whatever." The baby sighed in her sleep. Tiny. Indignant. All three of you froze.
She settled. You breathed again. Craig looked exhausted, and he had not even given birth.
You rested one hand on the kitchen counter, steadying yourself because standing too long still made your body feel strangely hollow and heavy at the same time.
You were sore. Everywhere.
Your stitches pulled if you moved wrong. Your milk had come in overnight and made your whole chest ache. Your stomach felt soft and strange, no longer full of her but not yours yet either. You had cried that morning because one of her socks fell off.
You were exhausted. You were scared. You were happy in a way that felt almost violent. And you needed Andrew to meet his daughter. Not through a phone.
Not through a video. Not through a message handed over by a guard. Him. Her. The same room.
"I need him to hold her," you said.
Craig's face shifted. You saw the argument leave him. Not because he liked it. Because he understood. Deran cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes.
"He got the approval," he said.
Your eyes went to him. Deran shrugged. "Good behaviour. Newborn visit. Some family exception. I don't know. Craig did most of the annoying phone calls."
Craig muttered, "Most?"
"All," Deran corrected.
You looked at Craig. His jaw tightened like he was trying not to care too visibly.
"They said one hour," he said. "Contact room. Supervised, but not through glass."
Your throat closed. One hour. No glass. Andrew's hands on his daughter. Andrew's arms around you.
You pressed your palm over your mouth. Craig's face softened immediately. "Don't cry."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I just had a baby. I'm allowed."
Deran held out the decaf coffee. "Here." You took it with shaking fingers.
"Thank you."
He nodded once. Craig looked down at the carrier.
"She got a name yet?"
You went still. Deran looked up too. You glanced at your daughter. Her tiny face was relaxed now, all the fury of her first day folded into sleep.
You had filled out the hospital paperwork. You had written it carefully. First name. Middle name. Surname.
You had stared at it for so long the nurse had gently asked if you were alright. You had not told Andrew yet. Not over the phone. Not through a message.
Not because you doubted it. Because some things deserved to be spoken while he was holding her. You looked back at Craig.
"She has a name," you said.
His eyes sharpened slightly. Deran's expression changed. Neither of them asked. You loved them a little for that. Craig nodded.
"Okay," he said. "Then let's go."
The prison looked worse with a newborn. That was the only way you could think it. You had hated it before.
The gates. The wire. The sharp sound of locked doors. The fluorescent lights. The stale, metallic air that clung to everything.
But carrying your daughter inside made the place feel obscene. Too hard. Too loud. Too gray.
She slept against your chest in a wrap because you had refused to carry her in the plastic car seat any longer than necessary. Her little body was warm beneath your hand, one cheek pressed against you, breath soft and uneven.
You had tucked a yellow hat over her hair. The duck onesie was under her blanket. Of course it was.
Andrew's duck sat at home on the nursery shelf, watching over the room with its crooked little beak. You wished you could have brought it.
You wished you could bring the whole room.
The green walls. The chair. The lamp. The clean blankets. The proof that the world waiting for Andrew was not only made of concrete and rules and things taken away.
Craig and Deran walked on either side of you like very tense bodyguards. It would have been funny if you were not so close to crying.
At the security desk, the guard looked at your ID, then at the baby, then back at the paperwork.
"She's three days old?" he asked.
"Yes."
His expression said several things. None of them wise to speak aloud. Craig leaned slightly forward. "Problem?" You shot him a look.
The guard looked at Craig, decided something, and shook his head. "No." Deran muttered, "Smart."
"Deran," you warned.
"What? I said smart."
The guard gave instructions. You barely heard them over the thud of your own heartbeat. Special visit. One hour. Contact permitted.
No passing items directly without approval. Baby stays with mother or inmate only. Officer present outside room. The words blurred together. Contact permitted.
That one stayed. Your daughter shifted against your chest. You placed a hand gently over her back.
"We're almost there," you whispered.
You did not know if you were talking to her or yourself. They took you to a room you had never been in before. Not the regular visiting room. No booths.
No glass.
Just a small square space with a table, three chairs, a box of tissues, and a window too high to see out of properly. The walls were beige in a way that felt aggressive.
But there was no glass. Your knees nearly gave. Craig noticed immediately.
"Sit," he said.
"I'm fine."
"Sit."
For once, you did not argue.
You sat carefully in the chair closest to the door, moving slowly because your body still reminded you of birth with every shift. Deran took the diaper bag and set it beside you.
Craig hovered.
"You want us in here?"
You looked up at him. He already knew the answer. He nodded before you said anything.
"We'll be outside."
Your eyes filled.
"Thank you."
He looked away. "Yeah." Deran cleared his throat.
"You need anything, yell."
You smiled faintly. "In a prison?"
"You've yelled in worse places."
"I really haven't."
"You could."
Craig opened the door, then paused. His eyes dropped to the baby. His expression softened in a way he would deny under oath.
"He's gonna lose his shit," he said quietly.
You laughed, and it came out shaky.
"Probably."
Craig nodded once. Then he and Deran left. The door shut. You were alone with your daughter. For about ten seconds.
Then the other door opened. Andrew walked in. He stopped dead. No glass. No phone.
No counter. No barrier except the space between you. He looked at you first, because he always did.
His eyes moved over your face, your body, the way you were sitting carefully, the tiredness you knew you couldn't hide. His expression tightened with worry.
Then the baby made a tiny noise against your chest. Andrew's gaze dropped. Everything in him changed.
It was not dramatic in the way movies made things dramatic. He did not stumble. He did not speak. He did not reach out. He just stopped being defended.
All at once.
His face went open in a way you had almost never seen. Raw. Terrified. Wondering. Like his whole life had come to the surface and left him no room to hide behind any of it.
You stood slowly. Too slowly. Andrew moved instantly, one step forward, hand half-lifted.
"Careful."
His voice cracked on the word. You smiled through tears.
"There you are."
He looked at you. Then at her. His mouth parted. No sound came out.
"She's here," you whispered.
Andrew stared at the little bundle against your chest. His daughter slept on, entirely unimpressed by the emotional devastation happening around her.
"She's so small," he said.
Barely a voice.
"Yeah."
His eyes flicked up to yours.
"You okay?"
You laughed softly, crying already.
"You are holding yourself together by a thread and still asking me that."
His jaw worked.
"You okay?" he repeated.
You nodded.
"Sore. Tired. Emotional. But okay."
"And her?"
"She's perfect."
Andrew looked back down. His hands were shaking. He noticed. You did too. He curled them once at his sides like he could force them steady.
Your heart cracked open. For a few seconds, neither of you moved. Not because you did not want to.
Because after months of glass and phones and supervised distance, neither of you seemed to know how to cross a room without breaking.
Then you whispered, "Andrew." His eyes lifted. You shifted your daughter carefully higher against your chest.
"Come here."
Something in his face broke. He crossed the space in two steps. Not fast enough to scare you. Not slow enough to keep control.
Just desperate enough that your breath caught.
His hands hovered near you first, as if he had forgotten where he was allowed to touch. As if your body had become something fragile and sacred in his absence. As if he was terrified of hurting you, or her, or the moment itself.
You solved it for him. You stepped into him. Carefully.
Awkwardly, because there was a newborn between you and your body still ached from birth, but close enough that his breath caught against your hair.
His arms came around you. Not tight. Never too tight. Just enough.
One hand settled between your shoulder blades. The other curved carefully around the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair like he had been holding the shape of it in memory for months.
You made a sound you did not mean to make. Small. Broken. His arm tightened by a fraction.
"I've got you," he whispered.
That did it. You cried into his chest. Not prettily. Not quietly.
The kind of crying that had been waiting through every visit, every phone call, every contraction, every night you had slept curled around his old shirts because it was the closest thing you had to him.
Andrew bent his head over yours. His cheek pressed to your hair.
"I've got you," he said again.
"You're here," you whispered.
His breath shook.
"Yeah."
"No glass."
"No glass."
Your daughter shifted between you, making a tiny grumbly noise like she objected to being squashed into the reunion.
You laughed through tears and pulled back just enough to look down at her.
"Sorry," you whispered. "Your parents are very dramatic."
Andrew's hand moved automatically to the baby's back. Barely touching. A feather-light brush over the blanket. Then he froze, like even that was too much.
You looked up at him.
"It's okay."
His eyes met yours. Wet. Destroyed.
"It's okay," you repeated.
His fingers settled more surely against the blanket. There. His hand on his daughter. His other hand still in your hair.
For one second, the three of you were touching. Really touching. After months of not enough. After all the cold glass and dead phone lines and timed visits.
Your forehead rested against his chest. His palm covered his daughter's back. The baby breathed between you. Home, you thought. Not the house.
Not the green room. This. Andrew looked down at you, and his face shifted again. You knew that look. You had missed that look so badly it made you feel hollow.
His thumb brushed once along your hairline.
"You're really here," he said.
You smiled through tears. "I brought a baby and everything." A broken laugh escaped him. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Your breath caught. It had been months.
Months since he had kissed you.
Months since you had felt him close enough to know the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his jaw, the way he always paused the smallest second before kissing you like he was giving you time to change your mind.
He paused now. Even here. Even after everything. Your throat tightened.
"Andrew," you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours.
"Kiss me."
His face crumpled. Then his mouth was on yours. Careful at first. So careful it hurt.
A trembling press of lips, almost disbelieving, like he was afraid the room would take it back if he wanted too much. You leaned into him.
The kiss broke on a shared breath. Then he kissed you again. Still gentle, but deeper this time. Enough that your hand tightened in the front of his shirt.
Enough that his fingers flexed in your hair.
Enough that for a few seconds, you were not in a prison contact room with a guard outside and a newborn tucked between you. You were his wife.
He was your husband. And the months without touching collapsed all at once. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were crying.
Your daughter made another tiny noise between you. Andrew laughed softly, wet and ruined. You smiled.
"She has terrible timing."
"She gets that from me," he whispered.
"Yes."
He kept his forehead against yours for one more second. Then he looked down at the baby in your arms. His hand was still on her back.
"She's warm," he said.
His voice was barely there. You nodded.
"She is."
His throat moved. You took a breath and stepped back slowly, keeping one hand on his arm because you were not ready to stop touching him completely.
Neither was he. You could tell by the way his hand followed you for half a second before he caught your fingers and held them. Just held them.
Like he had been starving for your hand. Like the shape of your palm was something he had been trying to remember correctly for months.
His thumb moved over your knuckles. Once. Twice. You looked down at your joined hands. Then back at him.
"Now," you whispered, "do you want to hold your daughter?"
He looked up so fast it hurt.
"What?"
"Do you want to hold her?"
Fear rushed into his face first. Not rejection. Never rejection. Just fear.
"I don't know how."
"I'll show you."
"She's too small."
"She is exactly baby-sized."
"That's too small."
You laughed through tears. Andrew swallowed hard.
"I don't want to hurt her."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
His eyes found yours. You squeezed his hand.
"I do," you repeated.
He nodded once, not because he believed himself, but because he believed you. You guided him into a chair. He did not let go of your hand until he had to.
Even then, his fingers slipped from yours slowly, reluctantly, like separating skin was physically painful.
You stood in front of him and adjusted the baby carefully.
"Arm like this," you said.
Andrew lifted his arms. Wrong. You smiled.
"Okay, no. Like you're holding a football."
His eyes shot to yours.
"A football?"
"Gently."
"That doesn't help."
"It will."
He looked deeply alarmed. You laughed, and the baby stirred.
"Sorry," you whispered, pressing a kiss to her hat. "Your dad is very stressed."
Andrew looked like he might stop breathing. Your dad. The words were not new.
But here, in this room, with no glass and his arms waiting, they landed differently. You guided his arm into place.
"Support her head," you said softly.
"I know."
"You've been reading."
"Yes."
"Good."
"Don't quiz me."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm proud of you."
He looked away. You lowered the baby into his arms. For one terrifying, holy second, everything held still. Then she was there. In his arms.
Andrew froze. Completely. Your hands stayed over his for a moment, helping him hold the weight of her.
"She's okay," you whispered.
His eyes were fixed on her face.
"She's okay," you repeated.
The baby shifted, making a small offended sound. Andrew flinched. You smiled through tears.
"That's normal."
"She made a noise."
"She does that."
"Why?"
"Because she's a baby."
He looked overwhelmed by this information. You eased your hands back, though you stayed close.
Andrew looked down at his daughter like she had been placed in his arms by something too big to argue with. His hands were still shaking.
But he held her perfectly. Careful. Secure. So gentle it made you ache.
"She's warm," he whispered.
You covered your mouth with one hand.
"Yes."
"She's really warm."
"Yeah."
"She'sâŚ" He swallowed. "She's breathing."
Your tears spilled over.
"She is."
The baby's tiny mouth opened in a yawn. Andrew's face broke. It broke so completely you had to sit down before your knees gave out.
You lowered yourself into the chair beside him. Close. So close your knee pressed against his.
Andrew shifted instantly to make room, never taking his eyes off the baby. You leaned into his side. Your head rested carefully against his shoulder.
His breath hitched. Then he tilted slightly toward you, just enough for his shoulder to hold some of your weight. Your hand found his forearm.
His skin was warm beneath your fingers. Real. No glass. No phone.
He looked down at your hand on his arm, then at the baby in his arms, and his face crumpled again. You knew. Too much. Too much touch after months of none.
Too much love in one small beige room. He started crying silently. No sound. No sob.
Just tears sliding down his face while he held his daughter for the first time and let his wife lean against him. Your own crying turned helpless.
"Oh, baby."
He shook his head once, eyes never leaving her.
"She's real."
You nodded against his shoulder.
"She's real."
"She was in you."
You laughed wetly. "Yes."
"And now she'sâŚ"
"In your arms."
His breath shook. The baby opened her eyes. Not much. Just a tiny slit.
Dark, unfocused, newborn eyes blinking up at him like she was not impressed by lighting, air, or fathers. Andrew stopped breathing.
You leaned closer, hand sliding from his forearm to his wrist.
"She's looking at you."
"She can see?"
"Not really. Just shapes, probably."
"She's looking."
"She is."
The baby scrunched her face. Andrew's mouth trembled into something like a smile.
"She's frowning."
"She has your frown."
"No."
"Yes."
"No, she doesn't."
"Andrew."
He stared at the baby. She frowned harder. His face crumpled again.
"She does."
You laughed softly. The room was quiet except for the tiny newborn sounds and Andrew's uneven breathing. No glass. No phone static. No countdown yet.
Just him holding her. Finally. You reached over and brushed your fingertips against his jaw. He closed his eyes for half a second.
Like even that small touch had almost undone him. When he opened them, his gaze moved to you.
"You came," he said.
Your throat tightened.
"Of course I came."
"You had a baby three days ago."
"I noticed."
"You shouldn't be here."
"I know."
His face folded with worry. You leaned in gently, your hand still against his jaw.
"Don't make me regret it by lecturing me."
He closed his mouth.
"Good choice."
His eyes softened.
"You're hurting?"
"Yes."
He flinched.
"But I'm okay."
"Are you sure?"
"No," you said honestly. "Not always. But right now, yes."
He nodded slowly. His gaze dropped back to the baby.
"She eats okay?"
"Yes."
"Sleeps?"
"Not really."
"Breathing?"
You smiled. "Currently, yes." He looked up, serious.
"I meanâ"
"I know." You softened. "She's doing everything she's supposed to do."
"Good."
"She screams like she's personally offended by life."
His mouth twitched.
"Good."
"You keep saying that."
"Strong lungs."
"That is exactly what you said on the phone."
"It's true."
You watched him. The way he held her. The way every hard thing in him had gone quiet around her. Not gone. Never gone.
But quiet. Like she had put a tiny hand over the worst noise inside him and, impossibly, it had listened. You wiped under your eye.
His free hand moved, slow and uncertain, then found yours where it rested on his wrist. He covered your fingers with his. You both looked at your hands.
He did not let go.
"There's something I need to tell you," you said.
Andrew's gaze flicked up.
"What?"
You looked down at your daughter. Your daughter. His daughter.
This tiny furious person you had named in the quiet after birth, though really you had known before. You had known for weeks, maybe longer, carrying the name like a secret under your ribs.
Andrew had no idea. No hint. No warning.
You had talked about Mara and Nora and Willa and June and Anna. You had let him circle maybes. You had listened to him reject fruit names and shirt names and anything too sharp.
You had kept this one tucked away. Not because it was only yours. Because you needed to give it to him like this. With her in his arms.
With your hand under his. With his shoulder beneath your cheek.
With no glass between him and the part of himself he never believed deserved to become something soft.
"She has a name," you said.
Andrew went still. His eyes dropped to the baby. Then back to you.
"You picked?"
"We picked."
His brow furrowed faintly.
"We didn't decide."
"I know."
"Thenâ"
"You'll understand."
His expression shifted. Uncertain now. Careful. You reached into the diaper bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The birth certificate copy.
Not the official one yet, not fully processed, but the hospital record. Her name written in black ink where you had filled it in with a shaking hand.
You held it for a second. Andrew watched. His daughter slept in his arms, face tucked toward his chest. You moved closer again, shoulder pressed to his.
The three of you nearly touching from every angle. His arm around the baby. Your hand over his wrist. His knee against yours. You looked down at the paper.
Then at him.
"Her name is Andie."
Andrew did not move. For a second, you thought he hadn't understood. Then his eyes lifted to yours. Wide. Devastated.
Soft.
"What?"
You smiled through tears.
"Andie."
His mouth parted. No sound came out. You looked down at the baby.
"Andie Hope Cody."
Andrew's face crumpled. All at once. Not pretty. Not controlled.
He looked at you like you had reached into his chest and put his heart in his daughter's tiny hands.
"No," he whispered.
Your smile trembled.
"Yes."
He shook his head once, barely.
"Baby."
"I know."
"You didn'tâ"
"I did."
"Why?"
You touched your daughter's blanket.
"Because I love the name."
His eyes shone.
"And because it's hers. Not yours. Not exactly. She gets to be herself."
Andrew looked down at the baby. At Andie. His tears fell onto his prison-issued shirt.
"ButâŚ" Your voice softened. "I wanted her to have something that sounded like the part of you I love."
His breathing broke. You continued before he could argue.
"Not the damage. Not the Cody mess. Not all the things you're afraid of giving her."
Andrew's jaw trembled.
"You," you whispered. "The you who made her a duck with your hands. The you who talks to her like she understands every word. The you who asks about water and safe sleep and whether baby girls can wear yellow. The you who has been her dad since the second you knew she existed."
He closed his eyes. The baby stirred in his arms. His eyes opened immediately. Instinctive. Focused.
Father. Your heart nearly split.
"Andie," he said.
Her name sounded different in his voice. Smaller. Holier. Like he was afraid saying it too loudly would wake something sacred. Andie's mouth moved.
A tiny newborn twitch. Andrew stared at her.
"Andie," he whispered again.
You cried silently beside him. His hand shifted carefully over her blanket, one finger brushing the edge near her curled fist. Not touching skin yet.
Still scared. Still learning.
"Andie Hope Cody," he said.
Your lips trembled.
"Yes."
His eyes came back to yours.
"You gave her my name."
"No," you said gently. "I gave her a name that reminds me of you."
"That's the same."
"It isn't."
"It feels the same."
You smiled through tears.
"Maybe a little."
He huffed a broken laugh. Then looked down at Andie again.
"I don't deserve that."
"I know you think that."
"It's true."
"No," you whispered. "It's familiar. That doesn't make it true."
His face twisted. You touched his cheek again, because you could. Because there was no glass.
Because every second of this visit felt stolen, and you were going to use all of it.
"She deserves to know that her father is loved," you said. "That's all the name means. That I loved you when I chose it. That I loved her. That she came from something better than everything that hurt you."
Andrew covered your hand against his cheek with his own. For a moment, he just held it there. Your palm against his skin. His hand over yours.
His daughter asleep in his other arm.
Then he bent his head carefully over the baby, not quite touching her at first. Then he pressed his lips to the top of her yellow hat. So gently. So carefully.
Like even love needed permission. You sobbed. Andrew stayed there for a second, eyes closed, mouth against the hat covering his daughter's dark hair.
When he lifted his head, his face was wet.
"Hi, Andie," he whispered.
The baby made a small noise. His breath caught. You laughed through tears.
"She knows."
"She doesn't."
"She does."
"Mother science?"
"Mother science."
His mouth moved. A real smile. Tiny. Impossible. There.
You reached up and touched his cheek. He leaned into it before he could stop himself. Your thumb brushed under his eye.
"I wanted to tell you in person."
"I'm glad."
"I didn't want it to be over the phone."
"No."
"I wanted you holding her."
He looked down. Andie slept on, unaware that she had just remade him.
"You did that," he said.
"What?"
"You brought her here."
"Of course I did."
"You should be home in bed."
"Yes."
"But you brought her."
"Yes."
"For me."
"For both of you."
His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, they were wet again.
"Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me for bringing your daughter to you."
"Yes," he said. "I do."
You let him have that. The room stayed quiet.
Outside the door, someone shifted. A guard, probably. Craig or Deran maybe. The real world waiting to take back its rules.
But inside, for a little while longer, there was only this. Andrew holding Andie. You leaning against him. His thumb against your knuckles.
Your fingers at his wrist. No glass. No phone. No static. You slipped one hand around his arm, careful not to disturb the baby.
"I missed you," you whispered.
His throat moved.
"I missed you."
"I know."
He looked at you then. At the tiredness in your face. At the flannel around your shoulders.
At the body that had carried his daughter and brought her here before it had even healed. His expression changed. Softened into something that hurt to look at.
"You look like a mom," he said.
Your face crumpled.
"You already used that line."
"It's still true."
You laughed wetly.
"And you look like a dad."
He looked down at Andie, stunned all over again.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His hand cupped her more securely. Not less afraid. But more sure.
"Andie," he whispered again.
The name seemed to settle around the three of you. Around the room. Around the impossible hour you had been given. The guard knocked gently on the door.
"Fifteen minutes."
You closed your eyes. Andrew's arm tensed under your hand. No. Not yet. Never yet.
Andie stirred, squirming slightly in his arms. He looked panicked.
"She's moving."
"She does that."
"What do I do?"
"You're doing it."
"She's making a face."
"She's probably hungry."
His eyes widened. "Do you needâ"
"In a bit."
"She needs to eat."
"She can wait a few minutes."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He looked doubtful. You smiled.
"Already bossing me about feeding her."
"She's small."
"She is."
"She needs things."
"She mostly needs milk, sleep, clean nappies, and people willing to stare at her like she invented air."
Andrew looked down at her.
"She did."
Your heart melted into something useless.
"Oh, you are gone."
He did not deny it. Not even slightly.
"I am," he said.
That confession made you cry again. Andrew looked at you, then down at Andie.
"I'm gone," he repeated, quieter. "Yeah."
His free hand moved back to yours. He held on until the guard's shadow shifted outside the door. Time was coming back. You hated it.
Andrew looked at you with panic rising now, not wild, but there.
"I don't want to give her back."
"I know."
His face crumpled.
"I know," you whispered.
He held Andie closer, still careful, still safe.
"I just got her."
"I know."
His eyes closed. For a second, you saw every version of him at once. The boy who had never been held right.
The man who had done things he could not forgive himself for. The husband who had cried through glass.
The father holding his daughter for the first time and learning, too late and right on time, that his hands could be gentle. You touched his cheek again.
"She knows you now."
His eyes opened.
"She heard you before," you said. "But now she knows your arms."
Andrew looked down at Andie. The words landed. You saw them land. He nodded once. Barely.
But it steadied him.
"She knows my arms," he whispered.
"Yes."
He swallowed hard.
"Okay."
The guard opened the door a fraction.
"Five minutes."
Andrew's jaw tightened. You sat up slowly, your body protesting. He noticed and shifted immediately.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
"You're hurting."
"A little."
He looked like that wounded him. You shook your head.
"Worth it."
"Don't say that."
"Too late."
"You're stubborn."
"So is your daughter."
"Our daughter."
You smiled.
"Our daughter."
Andie made another tiny noise. Andrew looked down and laughed softly. It was the gentlest sound you had ever heard from him. The guard stepped in this time.
"I'm sorry. Time."
You had known it was coming. It still felt like being split open all over again. Andrew's arms tightened for one brief second.
Then he loosened them immediately, like he was afraid of holding too hard. You stood carefully and moved in front of him.
"I'll take her."
He looked at you. His eyes were red. You bent and slid your hands under Andie, lifting her gently from his arms.
For a second, he kept one hand against the blanket. Just one. Not stopping you. Just saying goodbye in the only way he could. Then he let go.
Andie settled against your chest, fussing softly. Andrew stood. You expected him to step back. He didn't.
He leaned in, careful of the baby, careful of your body, careful of every rule breathing down his neck, and wrapped one arm around you. Your breath caught.
Then you melted into him. It was not a full hug. Not the way either of you wanted.
There was a newborn between you and a guard at the door and your body still aching from birth. But his arm was around your shoulders.
His cheek pressed briefly to the top of your head. Your face turned into his chest. For the second time that hour, he held you. Really held you.
You sobbed once. He closed his eyes.
"I love you," he whispered into your hair.
"I love you."
His hand moved carefully to Andie's back. A feather-light touch.
"And I love you," he whispered to her.
She made a tiny sound. Andrew pulled back just enough to look at both of you. His face was wrecked. Yours probably was too. You smiled through tears.
"Say goodbye to Daddy," you whispered.
Andrew nearly broke again at the word. Daddy. Not dad in theory. Not father on paper. Daddy.
To this tiny girl in your arms.
"Andie," he said, voice trembling.
Her name sounded like a promise.
"I'll see you again."
You nodded.
"Yes."
His eyes lifted to yours.
"Both of you."
"Yes."
He bent his head and kissed you again. Brief. Careful. Desperate.
His hand cupped your face for one last second, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize the texture of your skin.
Then he kissed the top of Andie's hat. The guard cleared his throat softly. You stepped back. Andrew's hand fell slowly from your cheek.
He looked at Andie until the last possible second. Then at you.
"Go home," he said.
You laughed through tears. "Bossy."
"Rest."
"I will."
"Eat."
"I will."
"Let Craig drive."
"I wasn't planning to walk."
"Don't be funny."
"I am very funny."
His mouth trembled into something like a smile. You held Andie closer. Then you turned toward the door. Every step hurt. Your body.
Your heart. Both. At the doorway, you looked back.
Andrew stood in the middle of the room, empty arms at his sides, tears on his face, looking at you and Andie like the world had just been handed to him and taken away in the same hour.
You lifted Andie's tiny hand from the blanket. Just barely. A little wave. Andrew covered his mouth. You smiled through tears.
Then the door closed. Craig was waiting in the hallway. Deran too. Both of them stood when they saw you. Craig's eyes went immediately to your face.
Then to Andie. Then over your shoulder, toward the room.
"Okay?" he asked.
You nodded.
"Yeah."
Your voice broke. Craig stepped forward, then hesitated. You leaned into him before he could decide. He hugged you carefully around the baby.
Deran looked away, jaw tight.
"He held her?" Craig asked.
You nodded against his shoulder.
"Yeah."
Craig exhaled.
"And?"
You pulled back, smiling through tears.
"He's gone."
Craig blinked.
"What?"
You looked down at Andie, sleeping now like she had not just permanently altered the architecture of her father's soul.
"He's gone," you repeated softly.
Deran huffed, but his eyes were suspiciously bright.
"Yeah," he said. "Figured."
You laughed. Then winced. Craig immediately pointed at the exit.
"Car. Home. Bed."
"You and Andrew are very alike sometimes."
Craig looked offended. "Don't say that."
"It's true."
"Take it back."
"No."
Andie sighed against your chest. All three of you looked down. She slept on. Tiny. Warm.
Named. Outside, sunlight waited.
Inside, Andrew Cody sat alone after they brought him back to his cell, his arms still shaped around the weight of his daughter and his mouth still remembering the kiss of his wife.
Andie. Andie Hope Cody. He whispered it once. Then again. Quietly, so no one could take it.
He pressed his hands together and remembered the warmth of her. The softness. The small sound she had made when he said her name.
The way you had leaned against him. The way your hand had found his wrist. The way your mouth had felt after months of glass.
The way the three of you had fit, even for a minute. Andrew bowed his head. He had spent most of his life believing his name was something damaged.
Something sharp. Something handed down with blood on it.
Then you had placed his daughter in his arms and given her a name that sounded like love finding another way. Andie. His daughter. His girl.
For the first time since the prison doors had closed behind him, Andrew did not feel only trapped inside his own life.
Somewhere outside those walls, you were taking his daughter home. Their daughter. And she had his name. Not exactly. Not enough to hurt her.
Just enough to remind him that some parts of him were still worth carrying.
Andrew lay back on his bunk, one hand resting over his chest where Andie had slept for one impossible hour. His other hand touched his mouth once.
A small, almost disbelieving gesture. His eyes closed. He could still feel both of you there. Warm. Real.
His. And for tonight, even after they took you from his arms, the world did not manage to take that too.
the concept of pope watching me through my window or stalking me sounds very nice on paper but irl id be very self conscious about it like hes gonna see me do some embarrassing shit
content: andrew cody x reader, fix it fic for season two of animal kingdom, reader is meant to be 25-30, reader is deran's friend, deran already owned his bar before season two in this, mostly canon compliant, A LOT of world building, reader occasionally takes place for a few pre-existing characters, frequent switch of povs, dark themes, murder, suicide attempt, SPOILERS for seasons 1 and 2 of animal kingdom, friends(?) to lovers, jealousy, smut, mentions of masturbation, handjob, unprotected p in v sex, etc etc etc.
summary: meant to work a job now that he was out of smurf's watchful eye, andrew hadn't expected to meet amy, putting it all in jeopardy. but much less was he expecting to meet you.
word count: 17.5k
note: this mostly follows the canon and plotline of the actual show except for some tweaks here and there and the addition of the reader into the story!! will be a little hard to follow if u havent watched the show at all!!
"C'mon, man. She's got a fake â it's a good one! We went to another bar down town and they let her in, it's-"
"How many times do I have to say no, Craig? She's a kid. She's gonna get me shut down."
Deran eyed his brother from behind the bar, cocking his head towards Nicky when Craig mentioned the ID, an incredulous look in his eye as if to say 'really? they really buy that shit over there?' The girl looked 16, no matter how close to 18 she actually was. And Deran just didn't care about her enough (or at all) to risk his freshly-opened bar just to allow Craig's underage girlfriend to get high in the bathroom.
The place was still empty, closed for stocking and replenishment purposes. Craig was here with Nicky for god knows what reason, but Deran wanted to save himself the trouble of throwing them out later during the day.
He still wasn't sure why Craig kept her around, why Smurf let her stay in the house and in on private information that would probably get them arrested if the wrong person got her alone.
"Dude, she's just-"
"No. That's final." he huffed. "Now get out of here. We open in an hour and I'm still waiting on my new bartender to head in."
That sparked Craig's attention, though Nicky had already muttered some complaints under her breath as she stomped towards the door, now standing by it as she waited for Craig to follow along â which he was likely to do, always at her beck and call even when she was half Craig's age.
"New bartender? You opened this place like last week. You're already hiring a new one? What happened to, uh, Leah? No, Carla, right?"
"Jenna quit cause the hours weren't working for her. I got a new one coming in today. It's a friend I met at another bar downtown. The one I told you about. You'll like herâ" he halted, stopping Craig before he could interject. "â which is why I need you gone so you don't scare her off on her first day."
Craig complained, argued back, even got Nicky involved, but ultimately listened to his brother and walked away, following Nicky out the door and huffing to himself at how high-strung Deran had been since the bar's opening a month ago. He'd show up later today, probably. He usually did.
Deran kept cleaning up around the place, a little understaffed at the moment and taking on more responsibility than usual. He hoped that you'd be the saving grace that would take on some of the brunt of the job for him.
It'd been a while since he'd met you. Had found you at a bar across town about a year ago when the idea of buying a bar had first taken root in his brain. Before he could even consider the idea a possibility while he lived under Smurf's watchful eye. But now he was away, now the guys were all on his side â to some extent, at least. Now he wasn't the only outlier and could get shit done on his own. They were pulling their own jobs, taking on a church sometime next month.
Your meeting had been by chance. He wasn't really one to meet girls in bars (for more reasons than the obvious), but it wasn't really him that put himself in your orbit. It had been more of a chance encounter.
Some guy had been bugging at you, poking the bear repeatedly while everyone else at the bar's counter continued to mind their own business, well aware of the fact that you were being harassed by some asshole but not doing anything about it â not that Deran was all that interested in helping you out either.
You managed to flip the situation on him, though, snapped after ten consecutive minutes of some asshole bothering you. It'd been as unexpected to Deran as it'd been to Adrian, who'd been sitting next to him. Within seconds you had him with his arm twisted behind his back, yelping in pain and pinned against the counter while others watched the glasses shatter on the floor.
Without thinking much of it, Deran offered to pay for whatever damages you'd caused, him and Adrian talking down the bartender from kicking you out along with the idiot you'd humiliated in front of everyone. The three of you spent the rest of the night together getting drunk on some lone corner of the bar, with Deran carelessly letting you in for reasons he couldn't really explain. He liked you, and so did Adrian, so it was easy to let his guard down that day.
Having been with Adrian that day, it became obvious to you what was going on between them. That made you about the third person to know about Deran's best-kept secret, leading to a rare closeness between you and one of the younger Cody boys.
And he made sure to keep you away from Smurf's shit, much like he did with Adrian. Despite your general awareness of the family's shady workings, you remained just as clueless to the details as any other citizen of Oceanside, being kept as yet another one of Deran's secrets.
But that was until today, the first day of your new position as his nighttime bartender.
When he'd found himself in need of someone ASAP, you were the first person he thought of, and the only person he knew would have his back no matter how last minute his need came to be. And he was mostly okay with it, even if he'd now have to put up with Baz eyeing you while he pretended not to do so, with Craig checking you out shamelessly, with J looking to you with suspicion, and with Pope doing whatever the fuck Pope did when a pretty girl hung around Deran.
Just when he began to think about his brothers again, the bell hanging above the entrance jingled, causing him to look up and find you standing there.
"Shit, this place's sick." you walked slowly as you took in the place, letting your bag fall on one of the stools as you approached Deran. "How come you've never let me come?"
"I told you â my brothers. Which, by the way, just steer clear of Craig and you should be fine. Baz might look at you weird, maybe the kid too. Pope might seem a little scary, but he's a good boy unless provoked."
You nodded. "They gonna be here tonight?"
"They're here most nights. We got a job soon, so they'll be here pretty often for a while." he gestured at you to follow him behind the bar. "I'll introduce you this time. Might as well."
"They know who I am, though, right?"
Deran nodded yes. "Yeah. This is just for formalities. You should probably steer away still."
"Yeah, whatever. Not really seeing myself interested in any other Cody brothers. Now, onto business."
Deran had been right about Craig, who practically propositioned himself to you within seconds of meeting you.
"Why is your brother looking at me like he wants to take me right against the bar?" you'd asked once you were at a distance.
"You're a hot bartender, everyone's gonna be looking at you like that as soon as they walk through the door. But, uh, yeah, you should probably keep away from him."
J had nodded in acknowledgement to your presence, and Baz had wondered why Deran hadn't introduced you earlier since you'd been close friends for so long. None of them had really cared much for your existence other than to show some apprehension at finally putting a face to the name they'd occasionally hear about for the past year.
Pope hadn't reacted much, only giving you that blank and brooding stare Deran had warned you about before. And as cliche at it sounded, it was that same unwavering stare that caught your attention. He was unlike the rest of the guys, not offering you any sort of judgment (even though his furrowed brows would've told anyone else otherwise). He looked pained more than anything, like the sole black sheep of the group, not really reacting much as his brothers spoke to one another, only ever delivering almost monosyllabic responses when spoken to, nursing a single drink the entirety of the night.
Even when you walked back to your stationary position at the bar, you still occasionally eyed him, finding him looking back at you every so often. You never smiled when he looked, never even nodded or acknowledged him, only ever looking back.
By the end of the night, they were all gone, all heading their own ways while you stayed behind to clean up (part of your job, but a bad one when it came to cleaning up a bar). Even Deran skipped out on you, giving you some half-assed excuse as he ran out with Adrian. It was the usual lie he gave the guys to run off with him, still scared of the rest of them knowing about his secret and opting to leave you to clean up the mess on your own.
But you weren't on your own. Or at least you realized that after a few minutes of cleaning up when you heard a silent grunt from the other side of the room.
Peering over, you found Pope cleaning up some tables, overly focused as he scraped at some deeply infused stains taking up space on the surface of the table.
You walked over without thinking too much of it, taking a clean wipe and a stain remover on each respective hand before placing them on the table in exchange for the dry napkin he'd been using â likely the only thing he found at hand.
"You don't have to do this, y'know? Deran, that asshole, he's the one who should be helping me. But he pays me, so it's fine. You can go back out there with your-"
"I'm good."
With no further words, he grabbed the supplies you'd set on the table, beginning to use them after throwing out his napkin.
He stayed silent for a while as he kept cleaning, his back mostly to you and his mind fully on the task. You decided to stay nearby, cleaning basically side by side as he continued to clean.
"This is- this is a good one. This is what I use back home." he broke the silence, unexpectedly enough.
You nodded to yourself. "Yeah. I got these for Deran last month. Idiot's a mess. Doesn't know how to clean."
Surprisingly, that earned you a chuckle (maybe a sarcastic scoff, you weren't sure). You knew him to not be very expressive, so even as your first time meeting, the slight curve of his lip shocked you. Still, your expression remained stagnant.
"Sounds like Deran."
Another few beats of silence, only interrupted by the brief and occasional clatter of cups as you removed them in order to wipe tables. The two of you remained in each other's orbits, close enough to speak lightly and deliver the sound to the other's ear without much effort.
"I'm surprised at least one of the Cody boys knows how to clean." you broke the silence again.
"Yeah? I'm the only one who does."
There was a lightness to his voice. Much unlike how Deran had described him since you'd known him â and he spoke about his brothers more than he'd be willing to admit.
"You clean up after all four? Jesus. Maybe you should be getting the bigger cut of those jobs you guys do."
You hadn't meant anything by it. Not really. The Cody's going on shady jobs was no secret to anyone. It was more of an unspoken thing. One of those things in which you couldn't be caught unless it was red handed, and the Cody's always made sure they came back with their hands clean.
Still, it made Pope halt. And you realized immediately that you'd probably spoken out of turn. Your cool remained, allowing you to not react, but you could still see a stilled Pope on your peripheral view.
"What's Deran told you?"
Slowly but surely, Pope continued his movements, likely wanting to assess how much you knew instead of jumping to conclusions. Still, you knew he'd probably kick his brother's ass about this later. Hell, you'd apologize to Deran if he survived it.
"Uh, he mentions stuff from time to time. I just moved in upstairs with him, so it's kinda hard to ignore all the phone calls and money coming around. He never goes into the specifics, though." you replied. "Sorry, I won't bring it up again. Not really interested in that stuff, anyway."
You looked at him as you said it, figuring that someone as big as him on eye contact would appreciate the ability to assess your honesty through your eyes â which were telling the truth about your complete lack of knowledge on Deran's secret side quests with his brothers.
With his lips in a pursed line, he nodded (mostly to himself than you), shrugging to himself before putting his attention back on the countertop he'd been cleaning.
He was an unnerving guy. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but you didn't really know him well enough to assess him properly just yet. You liked the intensity he carried with him, though. It reminded you of Deran, but Pope just happened to draw you in more easily. Any scary stories you'd heard about him sounded silly now that you shared this quiet space with him, now that you watched him willingly stay behind and help you clean out of his own volition.
(Which, unbeknownst to you at the moment, had been just an excuse to make sure Deran didn't leave his friend alone at night at a bar in what was arguably a sketchy side of town).
"It's Andrew, by the way."
"Hmm?"
"My- my name. It's Andrew." he stuttered a bit. "You can just call me Andrew."
"Pope reserved for friends only?" you joked.
"No. Andrew is."
And he left it at that, moving from his spot to some of the tables across the bar. Didn't explain what he meant or why he'd say it to you specifically, someone he'd just met. It felt strange, but gratifying all the same. Like a stray dog who entrusted in you, who chose you despite its lack of trust in anyone else.
The two of you continued to clean up the place side by side. The occasional comment was shared, but not much was revealed. He'd asked how you met Deran, which you told him. You'd asked who his favorite brother was, to which he responded that it varied and asked you the same thing, likely not expecting you to say that at that moment, it was him.
Along with working at the bar, you had a day job as a nurse. It was more of a part-time gig.
You worked on rare occasions, only ever called in when someone was sick or took a leave of absence. It never got in the way of your work at the bar, as that was your priority. Nothing really held a candle to those Oceanside tips you got from smiling at the right person while they were on their way to blackout drunk.
Other than that, you'd sometimes volunteer at the local church.
It wasn't really your vibe, with religion not being something you were particularly into. It had been a coworker who had gotten you into the gig, insisting they needed extra hands and that you were a natural one with kids, frequently filling in as a pedes nurse at the local hospitals. And it was true, you really did find it easy to work with kids. The free food and letters of recommendation to attach to your resume were other contributing factors, but you liked to think you were doing it for more noble reasons.
Oddly enough, Deran took a particular interest when you'd brought up a shift watching over the kids' bible study at the local mega church. He was the last guy you'd ever thought would perk his ears up at the mention of Jesus, but you didn't really question it the first time he asked you about it.
The second and third time, you got more suspicious, but by the fourth time you realized it'd been a mistake to bring it up.
It had come up as a way to break the comfortable silence. You'd been stocking up bottles behind the counter, checking off boxes from the checklist and making sure everything was in place, that none of the other workers were skimping out on Deran (a task he entrusted you with). Until he broke that silence, clearing his throat as he took a seat on the other side of the counter.
"So, uh, you got church stuff this week?"
"Dude, what is it with the church? You planning on getting baptized?"
He chuckled incredulously, shaking his head. "Just curious, that's all."
But that awkward avoidance of eye contact told you all you needed to know, making you stop on your tracks and gape at him. You were about to break that silent vow of, well, silence.
"No way. Don't tell me you're planning on taking on the church." you lowered your voice despite being the only two people in there at that moment.
His eyes widened, looking to the sides as if he was checking to see if any of the zero people in the building could've heard you.
"You-"
"Yeah, I know. I'm not supposed to ask. But you keep asking me. What am I supposed to say? What do you even wanna know, anyway? I'm just a volunteer. I have no insider info as to how to rob a fucking church."
Deran nodded defeatedly. "Yeah, shit, I know. Okay, man? Just- We need someone on the inside. Pope's been working this girl, I think. But she's too green. Blue, even. Probably the type who'd go to the cops if she knew what we're up to."
Andrew? That caught your attention.
He'd been working a girl? You wanted to ask more, but you weren't sure how Deran would take it if you showed particular interest in any of his brothers. Much less the one he liked to deem as the crazy one.
You hadn't seen much of Andrew since last week. Since he'd silently stayed behind and helped clean up the place, telling you to let him know if Deran ever left you alone again. That he'd beat his ass. He'd said it in monotone, not giving you that white knight vibe. He'd said it as if it were the obvious thing to do, like he'd been programed to do so.
After that, you spotted him at the bar two separate times, always looking at him with interest you hoped he'd catch, but never receiving anything more than a blank stare â which, at least it wasn't the angry, suspicious one he offered most other people. No, he looked at you with curiosity more than anything; a curiosity you wanted to feed into.
Hearing that Andrew was working a girl (whatever that meant) gave space for that green monster to take root within you. You had no reason to feel that way, really. Specially not since working the girl sounded like part of a bigger plan, not genuine, and also, of course, because you were nothing to Andrew. Him telling you to call him by his name could've easily meant nothing. It could've easily been him making up for Deran's lack of manners in leaving you on your own on your first day.
"What do you need to know?" you decided to ignore what he'd said about Andrew. "I'm not green, you know that. You're not all that good at keeping me in the dark about your shady shit."
Shit, were you willingly getting involved? Just because the words Pope and girl were used in the same sentence?
Even Deran looked surprised as he looked at you.
"Uh, yeah, I know." he cleared his throat. "I trust you, though."
You nodded, urging him to continue. You stopped your task by then, giving him your full attention. This seemed like one of those things that required complete focus, with it being punishable by law (even by just being aware of it happening).
"Pope's already on the inside. Joined some church group with the girl, uhm, Amy, I think. Craig's out of this one, so we're down a man. An extra set of eyes would help, though. We already scouted the place, know where the safe is and all. Just need someone to keep the guards away when we break into the storage room."
"Shit, you're really robbing a church? You were already going to hell, but now you're going to super hell. Ever heard of karma, Deran?"
"Yeah, that's what Craig said."
"You've always wanted to keep me away from this shit. What's different now?"
He shrugged. "I've known you long enough to trust you. Wanna prove a point to Craig, too."
"Fighting?"
"The usual. Give it a few days."
"Your brothers fine with me involved?" you asked, knowing how tight knit their operation usually ran. Except Smurf wasn't involved now, so maybe things were different.
Again, he shrugged. "Baz might have some issue with it. J too, maybe. Pope seems chill about you. Hasn't said his usual schizo shit about you like he usually does with my friends. Should be fine this one time." he assured. "Question is: Are you good with this?"
"Yeah. We're best friends, aren't we? As long as I don't have to do actual illegal shit, I'm good."
He nodded, squeezing your hand on the counter as a silent form of thank-you.
It wasn't mentioned after that. Nothing was formalized, not even the details of their plan or what you'd be doing. As of now, it sounded like you were an insider, a Plan B in case shit hit the fan. You weren't one to be interested in the shady business they took part in, but you knew Deran wouldn't have brought it up unless it was an emergency. You knew that this was one of their first hits without Smurf, that they were on their own for the first time and needed to ensure things went smooth.
You didn't feel particularly welcomed by either Andrew or Craig as you and Deran walked towards their spot at the beach, beers in hand.
He'd just gotten back from a job. Just a quickie, he'd called it. Something to hold them over until the church thing in a few weeks. Deran needed the money. Something about the bar, some accounting shit he hadn't taken care of, something he hadn't known of as a newbie property owner.
The two brothers eyed you down as they sipped their own beers, not really acknowledging you as you took a seat on a rock next to Deran. They were uncomfortably quiet, eyes shooting daggers at Deran for bringing an outsider along to a get-together after a successful job.
"Guys, it's fine. She knows about this shit."
"Should she know, Deran?"
"I'm sorry, don't you have a 12-year-old staying at your burnt down apartment? She sure knows a whole lot."
"Fine. Pope?" Craig turned towards Andrew, likely hoping he'd agree with his apprehension.
Andrew simply shrugged, letting his guard down after a minute of staring you down.
"If Deran's cool, then I'm cool."
"Why're you here?" Craig asked, swinging at his beer.
"I'm always here. I live with Deran, he just drags me along. Hard not to know shit when we live together."
"How much do you know?" this time it was Andrew, though he seemed less hostile than Craig, a rare sight.
"I told you. No specifics. I'm just here for Deran."
Before Craig could give a rebuttal, complain about how he was never allowed to bring people in, Deran interrupted.
"See, man? All good." he went to change the subject. "Anyways, I told you guys. This is the shit that we should be doing. Not Baz's bullshit. Admit it, you had fun."
Deran had told you the details about the job while he made a run for some beer back at the bar. You'd been there, restocking when he showed up, with him catching you up on the details while he grabbed a few beers for the guys. It was rare for him to be so open about it all, but you were fine with it as long as he was. Deran had gone this long without getting caught, letting you in on it likely wouldn't change things.
Andrew thought for a second before responding, ultimately deciding it was fine if he talked freely while you were there. Deran was one of the more responsible out of all his brothers. If he trusted you, so did he. His gut didn't feel fucked up while you were around, which was a rare feeling for him.
"It went okay today. It doesn't always go that way."
"We never had any trouble when we did simple shit." he looked to you for a second before continuing, not sure how his brothers would take him talking so freely. "You went to prison cause of Baz."
Andrew stiffened for a second, eyes finding yours before looking away. He looked to the side, uncomfortable at the mention of his time in prison, but Deran called his attention again, set on smearing Baz.
"No, you didn't wanna hit that branch. We all thought it was too hot."
"No, I went to prison because a guard wasn't where he was supposed to be. Shit happens."
It surprised you that Andrew would take the heat off Baz so easily. You'd met him only once or twice, but from what Deran had told you, he'd always taken lead, even when it wasn't for the best interest of the rest. Deran didn't doubt that he loved his brothers, but he was always sure to let you know of his disagreements with him, of how, even if not on purpose, he put his safety above everyone else's.
"How you gonna let him do that to you?" Deran continued.
"Jesus, man, let it go." Craig interrupted, rolling his eyes.
"No, it's true, it's true. Baz acts like we work for him. I mean, maybe us more than you, but... Come on, I know you see it." he gestured towards you. "She sees it too, and she barely even knows the guy."
"You've poisoned the well, that's all." Craig chuckled. "Of course your best friend's gonna agree with you."
You stayed quiet, only really interested in learning the lore around here. You wanted to know which brothers would throw which under the bus. It was useless information, but you were interested in anything you could find out about Andrew.
Andrew looked to you with a blank expression before looking back at Deran. "No. No, man. No. No, this is what she wants. This is what she does. She wants us fighting and turning on each other. I'm not, I'm not doing that."
"She know about Smurf? Or, like, how much does she know?" Craig asked, looking at Deran rather than at you.
"You can just ask me directly, you know."
He turned to you then, "Okay. How much has he told you?"
You shrugged. "I know enough to not be very fond of her."
"Cheers to that." grumbled Andrew.
Craig finished counting the money after that, handing the shares to each respective brother while you sat and watched, nursing your beer, disinterested in the money part of it all. You had free rent staying with Deran, money wasn't your top priority at the moment.
Andrew turned to Deran, extending his stack of money towards him.
"Take it." when Deran looked to Craig suspiciously, Andrew interrupted. "No, he didn't say shit. Just that you need money. Now you have it. I'll give you the rest. 16k, right?"
"No. No, man."
"Consider it a loan." Andrew insisted. "You can pay me back when we do the church, okay? Take it."
Craig followed suit, handing him the money, asking if he could crash with you guys as payment for his share.
The day ended there, with the three of you heading towards the bar while Andrew went back to Baz's to see Lena. You nodded a silent goodbye to him, one which he surprisingly responded to.
In the passing of days until the church job, you saw the brothers quite frequently, became familiar with them. They were at the bar quite often, though they always huddled together on some corner, not wanting anyone listening in. On those days, you'd take charge of business for Deran, bringing them drinks every so often and playing darts once they were done with their private conversations.
Deran hadn't brought up your involvement in the job to his brothers yet, but he'd pretty much confirmed to you he'd need you as some extra eyes, not sure when he'd be able to confirm your part in it all. You didn't care much, really. There was just this teenage girl part of your brain that hoped the job would go on forever if it meant Andrew kept stopping by, kept making short conversation with you as he dropped Lena off at the break room so he could go talk to his brothers.
"Thanks for watching her. She really likes you." he'd say when he'd go to pick her up.
"Well, I really like her too. She takes after you." you'd respond, knowing full and well that Andrew took the brunt of raising her while Baz played around with some girlfriend in Mexico.
Andrew would look down at his feet, fighting a smile, but finding one on your lips when he looked back up.
You'd touch hands sometimes while you handed him Lena's backpack, to which he'd flinch, muttering an apology when you'd chuckle at him, telling him you were looking forward to seeing him again.
You were friends. There was no doubt about that in your mind. Not much words needed to be exchanged. It was a silent agreement between you, a secret thing no one else needed to be let in on.
With the passing of days, you became certain about your infatuation with the eldest Cody boy. And you liked to think it was a mutual thing. He was pretty closed off, but less so with you than with others (or at least that's what Craig and Deran implied a few times while you lounged at your upstairs apartment with them). Your eyes would often find each others', always looking away before your gazes became too intense.
You were fucked, you knew that much. Getting involved with a Cody boy was dangerous, even if it was a one-time thing. But you were looking for something more permanent with Andrew, which would mean you'd now be involved with not one, not two, but three of the brothers.
Next time you really spoke with Andrew was at the church.
It was your turn to watch the kids during bible study while the adults did bible study of their own. It seemed pointless to you, but as long as you didn't have to touch the religion yourself, you were fine. It was nice to take care of the kids, to braid their hair when it came loose and to take them to listen to the band rehearse after they finished with their studies.
Finishing early gave you a chance to walk around the place, the curiosity about the guys' job taking over you as you walked through the hallways, having the map Deran had shown you on your mind.
You heard talking from one of the back rooms, so you headed in there, finding the classic Socratic Circle bible study groups usually sat in to discuss passages of the bible. As you walked in, you immediately spotted Andrew, who was facing the door as he spoke, drawing the attention on himself. Next to him sat a blonde woman, looking attentively at him as he spoke.
"-be tried beyond what you are able to bear. But with the trial will also provide a way out, so that you may be able to endure. That's the part that matters. How we can bear anything if he have to."
"Right." a man agreed. "Because he loves you. So I guess we're both right-"
"It doesn't say that." Andrew interrupted. "It just says he'll get you through."
You couldn't help but snort to yourself as you watched. He seemed passionate about what he said, just a little intense about it. But you dug it, you were into the look in his eyes as he said it, as he seemingly discovered God and his mercy.
The woman finally spoke up, probably trying to avoid an argument due to Andrew's insistence. "The beauty of the gospel is the meaning can be clear to each of us in a very different way."
She looked to Andrew and bit her lip, all while he was unaware of her eyes on him. When he looked back at her, she was already looking, which earned her an awkward half-smile from him.
He somehow didn't spot you until a few moments later, when the session came to a close. You nodded at him as he stood up, now even more awkward at realizing you'd been listening.
It didn't seem to you like he was working the girl â who you assumed to be the Amy Deran had mentioned. It appeared more like a genuine interest in her, in the church. It made your stomach twist, the jealousy gearing up as you saw her walk over to him shyly and give him a side hug before walking over to someone else who was calling her attention. Andrew's eyes stayed on you the whole time, a sort of frustrated yet terrified look in them. You weren't sure.
He walked over to you then, nodding so you'd step to the side with him for some privacy from the center of the room.
"What are you doing here?"
"I volunteer with the kids' bible study. I thought Deran would've told you. I-"
"What do you mean Deran would've told me? What do you know about this? How'd you know I'd be in here?" his voice grew more exasperated by the second, but he kept it low.
It was like he didn't want you to see him with Amy, or maybe he didn't want Amy to see him with you. He'd never spoken to you with anything but a soft tone, one you didn't really hear directed at anyone other than Lena. The swift change made you shudder.
You didn't like this. You thought he had some sort of soft spot for you. He knew you already knew about the church thing, about a few other things too. Why was he mad at you being here? Yeah, he didn't know Deran was considering your help just yet, but was your involvement that bad? He was the one getting all cozy with Amy, involuntarily dragging her into this. And for what reason? Why, when you were right there, willing and ready?
"Deran said you guys might need my help that day." you chose to rip off the band-aid. He was already mad, there was no point in baby gloves. "I heard people talking and walked in here." You gestured over to Amy, who had by now eyed you a few times. "'s that Amy?"
Andrew grabbed your wrist suddenly, with much more force than you'd expect he'd touch you with, walking you over to the door and stopping there, your bodies now being covered by a wall beside it.
He practically fumed, making your heart drop. Not in fear, but in disappointment. "Don't ask questions. If Deran wants you in this, you don't ask questions, okay? Amy and I, we're not- Don't say her name to anyone else. It doesn't involve you."
He was defensive about it, practically about to blow up. It made that tiny little spark in you die completely.
Shit. He wasn't just working some girl. He was just genuinely into her.
Defeated, you nodded, looking down at your feet while he let go of your hand. He calmed down immediately, noticing your change in demeanor, your defeated confidence, which was usually blooming and present.
"I'm- I'm sorry, I just-"
"No, Andrew. Got you loud and clear. I'll see you later, okay? I think Amy's looking for you, you should go." you walked away before he could say anything else, steps quick so you could remove yourself from the room.
From behind you, you heard her voice calling his name, asking what was wrong, who were you. You were already gone by the time he responded, missing when he said 'nothing,' 'just my friend.' And specially missing Amy giving Andrew her number, inviting him and Lena out to the park, not knowing you'd probably be there volunteering too.
You saw Andrew again that weekend, at the softball game Amy had invited him to. It rubbed salt on the wound, seeing them there, seeing how close they were already. Amy had her arm perched on Andrew's as they watched Lena play. They looked like proud parents, already meeting each other's kids and having those outings reserved for nuclear families you'd see on TV. You had a bitter taste in your mouth, feeling like an idiot for even feeling this way.
Andrew saw you, just didn't really acknowledge you. He kept avoiding your eyes, unlike any other time you were in the same room together. He'd usually hold your gaze, give you one of those almost-smiles and sit by you at the bar's counter, not speaking but rather sharing your company.
Lena saw you, excitedly running over to you as you reached over for a hug. She was excited to show you she'd brought along a doll you gave her, happily engaging with you as you asked her questions about her day, about her new toys. You were the one who would watch her, keep her out of the main area of the bar and give her something to play with, bringing some old doll from your childhood or a coloring book for her. Andrew was always appreciative of it, but he'd been distant these past few days, telling Lena to go find you at the bar rather than walking her over to you as he usually did.
You'd mostly given up hope on getting with Andrew, seeing him with Amy for only the second time cemented that for you. So when Andrew tried calling you over once Amy excused herself to the bathroom, you simply walked Lena over to him, cutting him off with a goodbye before he could say anything.
The defeated look in his eyes made you feel bad, but you weren't willing to try and chase after a taken guy.
Andrew had gone on his date, had kissed Amy, spent ample time with her while taking care of Lena.
It was the first time he'd ever dated anyone. The first time he didn't feel completely inadequate with someone, or as if there was some master plan or pity behind the other person's intentions. It'd all been built on a lie, on a plan to work the church, but Andrew still went along with it all, still found himself drawn to Amy and willing to take the risk.
But then he'd think about you.
He'd think about the way you'd look at him, the way that look faded when he snapped at you back at the church, how it was beyond repair when you saw him at that softball game with Amy and Lena.
He wasn't sure what to do. He'd never had two girls interested in him at once. Having one already felt like too much, but, shit, he couldn't help but think about you while he was with Amy.
And sure, he thought about her sometimes, while he was alone, while he was with his brothers. But you never left his mind. Every moment spent with Amy felt like he was cheating on you. He'd never felt this infatuated with anyone, not even Cath. But he'd also never had anyone be so forward about their interest in him. Amy was a brand new experience, and it made him feel good, no matter how shitty it felt to lie to her (and to you, and to himself).
The day of the job, it all went well. His brothers saw him with Amy, but they sort of already knew. They thought it was fake, that it had been all part of the plan, and he could roll with that. It bothered him, though, that the only person he wanted to keep this from already knew how real it all was.
He saw you as he stayed back with Amy and the rest of the group. Saw you texting, likely keeping Deran updated and checking in with J and Baz as they hacked into the safe while Andrew hung around with the church's staff. He was too distracted with Amy to keep track of the text thread. He was being careless, not only with you but also with the job.
And when it came time to do his part, to go and break the key on the lock that led back to the room in which the safe resided, he was too distracted by Amy's words earlier that day.
"You might have a special reward coming your way tonight."
Sex.
He had been caught off guard by that, not really knowing how to respond, opting to ask her about it later.
And when he did ask, she apologized claiming premarital sex was a sin, but immediately explained they could have fun in other ways. Andrew felt himself twitch at the thought, but then he remembered you, thought about how you'd offer yourself up to him if he just opened up to you, thought of how you felt about premarital sex. You didn't seem like a church person, not like Amy was. He wasn't much of a church person either, just liked what it represented, the promise of acceptance he'd never gotten anywhere else.
Before he could really explore any further thought about you, a guard came in, letting them know it was time to close up. Amy excitedly grabbed onto his hand after that, leading him outside. He panicked internally, knowing he had a mission to accomplish, but he'd waited too long. He didn't know how he'd explain to Amy that he needed a detour. But as soon as they stepped outside, he realized he wouldn't need to.
Because you were there. Already by the door that held the key, guard having already being warded off by you through some distraction Andrew had only caught the tail end of.
While you watched Amy pull Andrew away from his destination, the key to the door holding the safe, you looked back at him, finding his eyes already on you, pleading with you to do this for him, to cover for him as he got pulled away. He was supposed to be the inside-man, having one simple task, but he'd let himself get pushed away by his interest in a girl. He felt like an idiot as he looked back at you, finding your blank stare as you broke the key yourself, doing his job for him, not judging him the way his brothers would've.
The guys hadn't exactly agreed to your involvement in the plan, much less had Andrew. He'd been uncharacteristically adamant against you showing up, that you be told the details. But he'd been promptly told to shut the fuck up by Deran, who insisted, saying that Andrew wasn't enough of an inside man, that you'd be completely inconspicuous to any bystander as someone who already had a presence at the church. They'd agreed on having you as a plan B and nothing more, promising they'd give you 20k for your part, impressed when you turned down any money, saying Deran was family to you and that was enough payment.
So Andrew got pulled away, turning out completely useless to a job he'd originally come up with and heading out with a girl that had promised him sex in return for his help with the charity drive.
And even as he went back to Amy's place, kissed her, undressed himself to her command, touched himself as she watched, he felt inadequate. He enjoyed himself, finally having someone who liked his company, but he couldn't get you out of his head, couldn't stop thinking about what you might've been thinking at that moment. It'd been obvious that Amy had been gripping his hand and skipping away in a hurry to get him alone. You weren't stupid, Andrew knew that. He knew you knew what they'd be up to as soon as they left, with him being too weak and infatuated with Amy to interrupt his chance with her to complete his small part of the job.
His stomach churned at knowing you knew what was going on with Amy, at you knowing it was a real thing. He wasn't even sure if you liked him. Had no idea if it was all in his head (as most things were), but he still felt sick about it all. He knew what it was like to want someone who didn't want you back, someone who wanted someone else rather than you. Hell, it was the story of his life.
Except he did want you. He had from the moment Deran began bringing you up. He'd seen you hang with Deran around town sometimes, never being spotted by you as he watched. But, fuck, he'd been drawn from that first moment. Specially so once Deran actually introduced you over a month ago. He'd found understanding in your eyes, had found your eyes searching for his, not Deran's, not Craig's, not Baz's.
He hoped that the more he got to know you, he'd be able to create a space in your life for him. You were already so good with Lena, telling Deran to fuck off when he'd tell you to get back to work when Andrew showed up with Lena, saying you'd take care of her while they got their shit together. You'd slap Craig when he'd say dumb shit directed at his brothers, specially when it came to Andrew. And you'd stare â a lot, never once wavering away from the intense gaze he'd give back, the same one everyone seemed so terrified of.
But then came Amy and forgiveness.
Amy gave him a door towards forgiveness. For Julia, for Cath, for Lena. She was on the outside, not knowing anything that could get her to run away from his in feat that she'd be the next person he hurt.
And you? You knew too much. You were Deran's best friend, practically attached to his hip, kept at a distance from the family but not enough for you to not know every gory detail behind their inner workings.
But even knowing all that, you still offered Andrew an olive branch. You never said so explicitly, but he could see it in your eyes, could see you'd accept him.
The moment that spark in your eyes first left was when you saw him with Amy at the church, the second when you saw them together at the softball game, the third being when he walked away with her to sleep with her, something made abundantly clear to you by the pep in Amy's step as they walked away.
When he left Amy's place the following morning, he felt like utter shit. Even more than he did at lying to her about what'd happened at the church, at using her trust in him to get what he and his brothers wanted from the church.
And unbeknownst to him, he'd feel even worse a few hours later when he found out that you'd been helping patch up J with his brothers while he was too busy masturbating with Amy.
The job went fine, it went just as planned. But Andrew couldn't help but wish none of it had ever happened.
You didn't take part in any of the aftermath of it all. Your job started and ended at the key on that lock, with you never once bothering to rat out Andrew for how dumbly he had let his responsibility run away from him. When he saw you after that day, he couldn't even meet your eyes. He'd see Amy when he closed his eyes, but the thought would quickly be interrupted by you, by the way in which he'd completely broken something before it even started.
He'd be dealing with the consequences of Cath's death at that time too. Had been dealing with Jay and his guys raiding his home, with his guilt over both, beating himself up over what he'd done to Cath and how Baz would now have to deal with the consequences, how he'd lied to Amy and how you'd lied for him, letting him take credit for the inside job when he'd been completely useless.
You didn't know about Cath, about Jay, and he was glad Deran left it that way. But little by little, you were getting involved.
When Andrew stopped by the bar, he'd found Deran in the back alleyway showing you how to shoot a gun, telling you the basic details of what'd been going on, what risks you ran hanging with him. He heard you be nonchalant about it, once more letting Deran know you'd stick around no matter what, that he was family. Andrew wondered if you'd ever feel that way about him, hoped he hadn't fucked everything up already.
His web of lies continued as the days passed, framing one of Amy's friends for the church crime, breaking her heart about it in the process. And in the meantime, Deran got you involved in yet another job, taking the place of Nicky at the last minute in the yacht as you tricked the coast guard into helping you in order to get the plan in motion.
Andrew had to go in on Deran after the fact due to that, cornering him about your involvement, angry he'd put you in danger again.
You were all at the back of the bar when he arrived, all with beers in your hands, reminiscing about the way it all went, how Marcos had had to break a lady's finger in order to get the job done. But Andrew was pissed. He had already put Amy on the line for the church job, with you being dragged right along. And now Deran had you doing a second job within a week?
He marched towards the table, eyes landing on you and anger wavering at the concerned look in your eye. But he pushed it aside, grabbing Deran by the arm and pulling him away from the group, walking him towards the stocking closet so he could have his go at him.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
"What are you talking about? What's your problem? It all went well, we're just celebrating-"
"You got her involved in this shit? Again? Are you trying to get her arrested, or even better, killed?" he rasped out, smoke practically coming out of his nose.
Deran scoffed, "Dude, mind your own damn business. This was Craig's job, Nicky pulled out last minute, and she was game. What do you want me to say?"
"Yeah, so you get her involved in this shit again? Did you miss what happened to J the other day? What happened to Nicky? Want her to be next?"
Andrew stared up at him, eyebrows knit together and anger radiating off him. He couldn't even explain his anger, couldn't rationalize to Deran why he cared if you were involved, and didn't give a damn about Nicky's involvement.
Everything was dawning on him. Baz's suspicions about Cath's disappearance, Smurf's insistence he keep it a secret, Jay's guys, the raid on the house, lying to Amy, putting you in danger, having you become a frequent presence in his life. Andrew had nowhere to run, nowhere to exhaust his terror, his anger, so he chose to take it out on Deran, to make it all about you, about how frustrated and confused you made him feel.
"I'm going to say this one last time, Pope. Mind your own damn business. She's my friend, she's the only family I have that I can always fall back on. And if me and Craig want her around, she's staying around. Got it?"
He walked away with that, shoulder pushing Andrew's in the process as he headed back out and rejoined the rest of you.
Deran didn't understand Andrew's concern. Didn't catch onto the fear he felt at the mere thought of you in danger.
It was a rare occurrence for Deran to lose his cool like that, but Andrew could understand that you were on a different playing field for him. That you were untouchable, a person he'd let into the most personal parts of his life, but would never let anyone mess with. And even though Andrew understood that, at this very moment, it still made him fume.
He marched past your table on his way out, not joining the celebratory drinks and making his way back to his car. His anger subsided on the drive over to Amy's, but the flashbacks took over. He was numb as he sat parked in front of her house, thinking back to Cath, to what he'd done to her, reliving every painful detail.
But as he sat there, he thought; would Deran go to you with something like that? Would you offer solace to him if he'd come to you, tears in his eyes, pained and tormented by the way in which he'd hurt a woman he loved? Would you take him in? Hold him? Were you Deran's comfort?
Andrew knew you and Deran weren't involved in that way. He knew about Deran, knew what was going on with Adrian. He wasn't an idiot, so he never acknowledged it, never brought it up. It wasn't something he cared about, but he found himself thinking about it at this moment, hands gripping at his steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Were you Deran's person? The one he'd go to begging for forgiveness if he ever committed acts as sinful as Pope had all his life?
He decided then, that he needed to find that. And if it wasn't you, if you were already taken up by being Deran's, then Amy would be his person.
She'd spoken of forgiveness, of unconditional love. She'd held him that night, had looked him in the eye as they both reached completion in their own terms, had laid with him afterwards and whispered soft words in his ear. Maybe she'd be the one. Maybe he had to let go of any possibility with you and stick with what he had.
When he went to knock on her door, she let him in immediately, making him sigh in relief.
They didn't speak much that night. They slept together, going against her beliefs, but Andrew was too caught up in his emotions to really care for that. He needed to feel something, the comfort he rarely ever found, given to him by Amy.
He learned a lot about her in the past month he'd known her. He knew of her son, of her DUI, how he'd been taken away, how he was staying with her brother. He saw the brokenness behind Amy's eyes, comforted her with his body as she did him with hers. They used each other that night, waking up enamored and with their spirits slightly lifted. They'd taken that heaviness off each other, now sharing the weight together.
It wasn't until a few days later that he went back to see her, that the guilt got too much, that Baz's inquiries about Cath got too heavy for him to handle that he found himself at her door again, wondering if Amy would offer some more of that comfort again. But once more, he thought of you before knocking on the door, wondering if you'd be a more permanent fix than Amy was. Wondering if you'd accept him after he confessed what he was bout to confess to Amy.
He knocked on her door, tears already in his eyes.
"Hey."
"Hey." she let him in, walking him further inside. "I thought you weren't coming til later."
He shook his head. "I need to talk to you."
"What's the matter? What's going on?" she asked, but he stayed silent. "Andrew."
"Do you think forgiveness is possible?" he looked to her with his wet eyes.
"I do. I think Jesus' love is absolute."
"Is it possible for him to... to love someone who's done something horrible? Is it possible?"
He thought of Cath, of Lena, of the lies he'd been feeding Amy since that first day. He thought of you, how he pushed you away before he could even feel the softness of your being engulf him.
"I hope so."
He gulped, "Could you?"
Could you? Would you hold him as he cried, as he lamented his past mistakes, the nightmares that haunted him day and night? Would Amy?
"Andrew, what's wrong? You can tell me anything."
"I hurt someone." he started. "A woman I loved. I loved her. But I did it anyway."
Cath. He saw her every time he looked at Lena, at Baz. Sometimes when he looked at you, wondering if you'd hate him for what he did.
Amy's grip on his hands loosened, taking a minuscule step back.
"Did what? What did you do?"
She sounded scared, but Andrew kept going. He needed to see this through.
"I thought she was going to hurt my family." he stopped, taking a deep, shaky breath. "I put a pillow on her face. And I held it there until she couldn't breathe anymore."
He hadn't realized it over his own whimpers, the tears fogging his eyesight, but Amy had backtrakced all the way to the wall, dropping to the floor as she cried a little louder at every word leaving his lips.
She looked at him in utter fear, telling him to stop, to get out, to leave and not come back.
"Stop. Stop. Don't- You need to leave. Andrew, you need to-"
And he tried to plead, to make his case and beg for forgiveness. He tried to find a home in Amy, to find that love and forgiveness she'd all but promised him, only to find that horrified look in her eyes he'd grown far too used to seeing whenever someone looked at him.
He left, sitting on the other side of her locked door as he cried to himself. And when he was able to get himself back up, he drove to the beach, taking his gun with him as he sat by the pier, contemplating what had led him there.
Andrew thought of Lena as he sat there with his loaded gun, thought of who would take care of her if he was out of the picture. Andrew remembered you then, knowing you'd step in, force your way into Baz's life if necessary and get him to take charge, would make Deran get involved so she would have a normal life now that her uncle was gone.
You wouldn't be sad about his departure, he decided. He'd been so convinced that Amy would lend him a shoulder to cry on, that her promises for unconditional forgiveness would prove true, that the weight on his shoulder's for Cath's murder would weigh just a little less with her support, but he'd only found the one constant in his life â fear.
If he had told you, if he had played his cards right and not driven you away, you would've grown just as terrified of him. You wouldn't've accepted him. No one would ever.
So, it was better like this. It was better if he put himself out of the picture, if he left you alone and stopped causing that sad look in your eyes every time he came around.
But still, he wished he could've told you how he felt. He wished he could've been careless and told you he loved you â because his feelings for you were so heavy they could be nothing else if not love. He would've scared you away then, which he knew. But the small chance of the feelings being reciprocated was enough for him to grab his phone one last time and pull up your number.
He sent one last message to you before he put his phone down for the last time.
I'm sorry.
Grabbing the gun, he looked at the moon reflecting on the ocean's waves as one last view before holding it up to his temple, the coldness of the material making him shudder. His hand was a little shaky, but he was sure of his decision.
Or so he thought until his phone vibrated on his lap, a dumb gleam of hope forcing him to put the gun down.
You were at some stupid party with the guys when you got that text.
It was your first time at Smurf's, having never met her before. Deran had always been adamant about keeping you away from her. She'd never heard your name, had never known of your existence. As far as she was aware, you were a passing acquaintance in Deran's life, and he was sure as hell to keep it that way.
But today she'd been gone. Baz had called the boys to confirm her absence, even inviting Lucy, who was the one person in his life he always tried to keep away from Smurf.
You stayed with the guys for a bit, hanging with Craig and Deran after they'd dragged you along to that job with Marcos. It had been too much too soon, leaving you disoriented at the whole ordeal â the kid Marcos had kidnapped and dropped in on Deran and Craig, the threats made against the poor kid, hearing him be beaten to a pulp inside Marcos' truck when he came to pick him up, Lucy showing up and commandeering the whole mission. It had even left the two brothers out of breath, now terrified of Lucy and wondering if they should warn Baz about her.
Andrew was what was on your mind. You moved past the Marcos thing when you arrived to the party, seeing Lena be dropped off by Alison and being reminded of Andrew.
You were worried about him. The last time you'd seen him was a few days ago, when he stormed off after a screaming match with Deran at his bar. You hadn't heard any of the exchange, but Deran made sure to bitch about it with you after the fact. Knowing that Andrew had shown such concern for you touched you, but you didn't let your hopes up too much. You knew he was with Amy, which was probably where he was at this moment.
You'd seen him walk away from the job to hook up with her, had seen how giddy she'd been to drag him away, how he looked to you and pleaded silently to let him have this. Or at least that was the impression he gave you. And it'd been enough to make your stomach churn for weeks afterwards, having to think about him with someone else.
It's not like Andrew was yours. He had never been yours. Not in the year you knew of him, not in the months you'd actually known him, much less in the weeks he'd been infatuated by Amy.
It was pathetic to think about, but you'd fallen for a guy you barely knew. His sad eyes implanted themselves in your heart, taking a home there and making it impossible for you to function without thinking about him. You still held some stupid hope that things with Amy wouldn't work out, that you'd have your chance. But you were just being an idiot.
Then you got that text.
You'd tried to go take care of Lena, but Lucy beat you to it, taking her to some room with a promise of some games on her iPad, leaving you to wander around the house as you watched people fool around. It was a terrible environment for her, but you couldn't go against her dad's wishes, so you silently hoped she'd be fine. Which was when the text interrupted your stream of consciousness.
I'm sorry
It was ominous, making your heart drop immediately.
Andrew rarely ever texted you. There'd been a 'Good morning' once, a few 'I'm dropping off Lena at the bar. Are you there?' but never anything other than that. It made you rush to find Deran, dialing Andrew's phone at the same time as you did, but receiving no form of response.
Was he with Amy? Maybe she'd know where he was. And where the hell was Baz? Did he go looking for him? What if this had anything to do with Smurf?
A million thoughts clouded your brain, eyes foggy due to the tears already building up. Andrew was a volatile person, careless about his own safety, no matter how much everything he did was driven by love for his family. He didn't share any of that love with himself, something no one really acknowledged much.
You were frantic as you ran to Deran, pulling him away from some stupid drinking game he'd been playing with Craig.
With concern, he pulled you aside, sobering up at just seeing your current state.
"Hey, hey. What happened?"
"An-Andrew. He texted me. I need to find him. Where is he? Is he with Baz? Deran, I need to find him. He won't pick up. He won't-"
You babbled, making no sense to Deran, but you kept going on and on, hyperventilating as your shaky hands kept pressing Andrew's contact, texting misspelled pleas to him in a frantic attempt to reach him.
Before Deran could try and make sense of your babbles, a commotion called all your attentions. Someone screamed "Lena, wait!" and it had you running to the driveway.
There, you found Lena, tripped over and a man picking her up from where she'd fallen from her toy ATV. Apparently, Lucy had neglected her, leaving her behind and causing her to go wandering around the house in search of a familiar face. When she didn't, she went to play on her bike, not noticing a car backing up and being pushed out of the way by some partygoer. Thankfully, J and Nicky had been nearby, taking care of her and calling Andrew in the process.
You calmed yourself down and sat with her, sighing in relief at hearing Andrew on the other side of the line as he spoke to Lena. You let J and Nicky get back to partying, staying with Lena on the driveway as you waited for Andrew to arrive. Some tears still dampened your cheeks, but you comforted Lena instead of yourself, making sure her scrapes were taken care of properly.
By the time Andrew arrived, he found you there with Lena, cuddled up against the garage door at the entrance of the driveway. He marched towards you, fuming at the party he found at his house. His eyes softened when he reached you, finally meeting your eyes and frowning at Lena asleep on your lap.
"Andrew-" you sighed.
"I'll be- I'll be right back, okay?"
You nodded, eyes still watery as you looked up at him.
It was a silent agreement that you needed to talk.
You grabbed Lena as Andrew stormed into the house, perching her on your arm and taking her passed-out form over to Smurf's room so she could sleep in there. You had to kick out two drunk girls making out, but you were mad enough at that moment they didn't question the angry look on your face.
Outside you could hear Andrew's scream as he kicked everyone out, closing the door behind you as you stepped outside and found him standing there with his shotgun while people ran off.
Baz arrived and a short argument ensued. You stood on the sidelines, eyeing Baz with disdain at the way in which he'd left Lena alone in such a dangerous environment, equally as mad at his brothers for not stepping in and taking her away from Lucy.
The big reveal that Smurf was in jail went over your head. You didn't care about Smurf. Not now, not ever. You cared about Deran, about Andrew, maybe now about Craig to a fair extent. Everyone else was on your shitlist for the time being.
Everyone dispersed after that, all while you stood there, at the door as you waited for everyone to leave. Deran kissed your cheek as he walked over to some empty room, with his own now being J's. Andrew remained there, pensive and looking down at the pool, his back facing you.
Taking a few steps forward, you stood behind him, a good foot distance between you. You cleared your throat, making his face turn towards you, his body following suit as he now stood face to face in front of you.
You were angry, livid, even. Your demeanor may not have shown it, but you had never been angrier in your life.
There had been a good fifteen minutes in there in which you thought Andrew hadn't made it. That his thoughts had taken over and that he'd let all the shit in his life win and take him away from you before you could even get him.
"I'm sorry."
The same words he'd texted you. The ones that you understood upon first sight, and the ones that were meant to be his final.
"How could you- how could you fucking do that to me?"
He said your name, defeated, but you interrupted, taking a few steps forward.
"What, you shut me out for weeks, run off with your- your girlfriend, and then you disappear on me? You try to fucking- to ... you'd really do that to me?" you cried, not willing yourself to say the words. "What did I ever do to you?"
That's when the dam broke, when your hands went up to your eyes, covering them as you hunched over and cried into them. But it didn't last long. Not when a sturdy body came to hold you against his chest, strong arms wrapped around you and head of curls burying itself in the crook of your neck as he let out some quiet sobs of his own.
You weren't sure how long you embraced each other by the pool, but by the time Andrew led you back into his room, you were spent, cheeks damp with dry tears and throat sore. He led you by your hand, grasping it for the first time ever and sitting you on his bed while he silently went over to his closet and grabbed some spare clothes, checking to see if the connective bathroom was empty before leading you in there and closing the door behind you.
Numb, you changed your clothes, accepting his silent plea for silence for the time being.
Andrew stood there, dumbfounded. He was breathless, hand dragging down his face to try and clear his thoughts from tonight.
It was all clouding his head. The whole thing with Amy was the last thing on his mind. He was thinking about Lena, Baz, Smurf, you. You were ringing in his head, you in his bathroom, changing into his clothes, crying for his safety, furious at the risk he'd put himself in, at the final goodbye he'd given you.
When you walked out, his shirt swallowed you, his boxers hugged your legs, barely visible under the length of the shirt. Your makeup was runny, leaving small tracks due to the tears that had streamed down your face.
There was a blank look on your face as he stood there, directly in front of you.
Slowly, you closed the bathroom door from behind you, taking a few steps forward and meeting him there.
He opened his mouth, about to speak, but you interrupted him, hands engulfing his jaw and pulling him into you, mouth open as it received his.
Groaning into your lips, he pulled you closer, opening his mouth to let your tongue in and chasing it with his own. His hands traveled down to your waist, hugging you to him as you moaned into his lips.
Everything was fuzzy now, all thoughts gone and your warmth being the only thing on his mind. Your bodies molding together was enough to have him gasping into your mouth. You felt perfect against him, the perfect fit as you pushed your hips into his own, walking him back into his bed and settling on his lap.
There, you pressed up against him, hands on his shoulders as your hips rolled on his. He hissed, gripping your thighs and attempting to match your movements, helping your rhythm against him.
He licked into your mouth, sighing when he'd catch your tongue and you'd wrap it around his, sucking at it, making his eyes roll back. Your moans were swallowed by him, with his whimpers swallowed by you in return. A string of saliva formed any time your lips would separate to start a brand new kiss, but Andrew couldn't find it in himself to care. He wanted your every fluid to be his, wanted to meld into you.
Antsy hands pulled at his clothes, silently begging for their removal, whining when he helped you take them off, feeling the warm skin underneath.
"Andrew ..." you looked at him, eyes hooded, biting your lip with a look in your eyes Andrew had never seen before.
"Yeah?" he whispered, lips hovering over yours.
Your hands dragged softly up and down his bare chest, scratching at his pecs lightly before pushing him down to lay flat on the bed.
"Look at you ... Fuck, Andrew ..."
You didn't explain yourself further, kissing him with need again and taking his breath away once more.
His own hands itched to get your clothes off, sneaking under the shirt he'd given you and feeling the bare skin there. You were the softest thing he'd ever felt, and as his hands silently begged to reach higher, to round your torso and find the mounds of your breasts, you ripped away to pull your shirt off, grabbing his hands and placing them there yourself.
"Touch me." you breathed, licking his lips. "I want your hands on me, Andrew."
Andrew undressed you, ripping off his own boxers off of you before he fully undressed himself. It was awkward, as he refused to create any space between you as he did so, but in the end he had you straddling him, wet and leaking all over his lap all while you whined his name into his lips.
His eyes trailed down, huffing a heavy breath at the sight of you nude on his lap, skin ready for the taking. He kissed his way down, low enough to reach your breasts, nudge them with his nose, trap your nipples in his lips and pull at them with his teeth.
The noises you made had him lightheaded, made him unsure if he could keep going without fully losing his mind.
Hesitant, his hands trailed down your back, gripping your ass and bringing you closer. You rolled your hips into his, sucking his tongue when his mouth opened with a sigh of your name.
When he tried to reach between you, get his fingers soaked in between your legs, you stopped him, grunting into his mouth and pushing him down the bed once more. Instead, your hand snuck in the space between you, taking hold of his hardness and swallowing every cry that left his lips.
"Please." he whimpered.
You worked him in your hand, jerking him while your lips trailed down his chest, sucking marks there without a care. He shook under you, shuddering at every bite, every suck, every soothing lick.
This was new to him. He'd had sex before, many times. Sometimes he'd open the door to some hooker sent by Smurf, taking out his frustrations on the unsuspecting woman. Other times it'd be Baz fronting the payment for a stripper doing extra services at the strip club downtown. And on very rare occasions, it'd be someone he actually liked, only to realize afterwards that it hadn't been what he'd made it out to be in his head.
You, though ... You were the first time he'd ever had a taste of solace. You were the first time Andrew had a girl he was crazy about, one that enjoyed the crazy, shuddered over it when he'd pinch at your nipple, when his teeth graced at the lobe of your ear, when he'd groan your name at your touch.
And when you lifted yourself up, his dick still in your hand, soaked with precum, you cried his name, shameless in it as you sunk down on him, arching your back, chest pressed onto his and mouth agape in sheer pleasure.
Not once had he ever felt like this. Pleasure had always been transactional, a quick fix for the mental turmoil always invading him. But with you, with your body ground against his, shuddering at every bounce of your hips, sighing out his name like it was the only word you knew, with you he felt like there was no consequence to the pleasure. It was free, all for him to take, for him to be selfish for once and keep all for himself.
"Andrew, oh, fuck, An-Andrew." your head dropped back, and Andrew watched you, groaning your name in return and refusing to close his eyes, damned if he was going to miss a single second of your pleasure.
You were tight around him, squeezing him whenever he'd make a sound, rewarding him for his pleasure. You wanted him loud, wanted him making noise for you, letting you know how much of him you owned at that moment (and always, he'd decided).
And he wanted to give it to you, to give back from everything you'd given him thus far.
With his hands gripping the backs of your thighs, he rolled you over, hovering over you and caging you with his body. The squeal you let out would've usually worried him, with the rest of the family being around and all, but then you gripped at the muscle of his back, insisting on getting him closer. Because skin to skin just didn't seem like enough for you. No, you wanted him deep within you, a concept Andrew could not understand, but quickly grew addicted to.
Sooner than he'd hoped, he felt himself about to bust, frustrated at how good you felt, how perfectly you gripped him and cried his name as if he was the only thing you'd ever wanted.
Again, he reached between you, fingers crawling their way between your legs, at that hidden spot that had your legs tightening around his waist, your gasps more breathless and your nails leaving red lines down his back. Thumbing at your clit, he got your there, got you whining his name, a warning of your impending orgasm, the one that had him biting your shoulder in pure bliss.
"Come, fuck. Andrew, please." you cried. "Inside, want- want it inside."
He made a mess between you, grunting at every thrust as he filled you up, forcing every drop deep within you, wanting himself buried as deep as humanly possible. He wanted to morph into you, wanted to keep himself in you, safe and away from anyone else he could ever hurt.
Because with you, inside your warmth, he could never hurt anyone. All he could do was make you feel good, make you cry his name in a way no one ever had before.
When he pulled away, you sighed his name one last time, kissing at him, refusing to let him pull away too far. You kept him as close as possible, shrugging him off when he offered to clean you up, to clean the bed from the mess you'd created togethet.
You told him, later. Right now you still wanted him, still wanted him in your arms and to feel his warm skin against your own. To kiss him and hold him and remind him how much you cared about him, in a way you'd never cared about anyone before.
And Andrew didn't know what to do with that, what to say or how to feel. He didn't understand how this could be real, wanted to keep his guard up just in case the rug was about to be pulled from under him.
But for now he held you back, returning your kisses, kneading your skin extra soft any time you'd tell him something that had his heart pumping too fast for comfort.
-
You laid in silence for a while, hands refusing to leave the other's body. No word of everything that'd happened was brought up, not until you broke that comfortable silence.
"Andrew ... What about Amy?"
He sighed. "There's no more Amy. There ... there never should've been."
You made a questioning noise, urging him to explain, but keeping your head on his chest, hands still running up and down its expanse with a softness he'd never grown familiar with.
"I was always thinking about you. I couldn't- couldn't get you out of my head."
"Me neither." you mumbled with a kiss to his pec.
A beat of silence.
"I'm sorry about the lock. It was my job, I should've-"
"It's okay, Andrew. I understand."
His hand on your hip trailed lower, pulling your leg further up his waist and pulling you even closer to him.
"And ... I'm sorry about that message."
You blinked a few wet tears before responding, sniffling and causing him to intake a breath. He didn't really wanna talk about it, but he'd fucked up so many things already by not talking to you. He had to rip off every band-aid right now, no matter how you'd look at him after the fact. He wasn't willing to keep anything from you anymore, having already made the two of you miserable with his constant stream of silence towards you.
Even if you looked at him the same way Amy had, he wouldn't hurt you anymore. He'd seek your understanding, but would accept if you feared him in the same way most others had.
"I was worried about you." you responded, quiet, meek. "I don't know what I'd do if you left."
You brought him down to your eye level, hand running through his curls and lips pecking his nose, then his chin, sad eyes staring into his matching ones.
"I love you, Andrew. I need you around for a long time."
His breath caught in his throat, eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly agape. Fingers tightened around your skin, holding you against him, pulling you into him as much as he could, itching to get you under his skin, to attach you to him and never let anything come between you ever again.
Burying his head in your neck, he kissed you there, shameless in breathing in your scent and nuzzling his nose into the skin there, sighing when you pulled him closer by the back of his neck, mumbling a few other 'i love you's while he was still processing the first one.
"I love you too." he finally mumbled, repeating it a couple more times, wrapping himself around you, shuffling as he tried and failed to enter your skin, needing to fit in there, keep himself warm and safe within you.
The two of you stayed awake for hours, held each other with the tenderest of holds. It was unlike anything Andrew had ever felt before. Every touch of yours he received was full of silent affection. Each touch carried a thousand words that reaffirmed your feelings for him, and he felt secure in every single one. There was no doubt in his mind at that moment that you loved him, that you might've been the first one to actually do so.
He cried in your arms at some point, drawing tears from your eyes too when you caught wind of his whimpers. But you held him through it all, not pushing him to talk, instead uttering words of comfort, many of which he'd heard from Smurf in the past. Before you, he might've felt himself desensitized to such words, but he found comfort in anything you did.
But then he remembered what had happened with Amy, what thoughts had been plaguing his mind before he braved his way to her doorstep, opening himself up more than he ever had before and finding himself kicked out, feeling like a heinous beast as he sat there and cried to himself. Memories of you flooded his head, the way in which he wondered if you'd accept him, if he should've been at your doorstep instead, if you loved Deran in the way he envied to be loved by you.
As afraid as he was of your rejection, knowing it'd drive him right back to that pier, gun to his head out of his own volition, he needed to know. Would you love him despite being the monster everyone believed him to be? Even his brothers were afraid of him, using him as a threat to anyone who dared cross them.
You were the only person who only ever looked at him with love (and sometimes with hurt, caused by his cowardice). Julia had been the only other person with genuine concern in her eyes any time his lips curled downward, never assuming the worst in him like his other siblings did.
"I need to tell you something." he whispered into the night.
You were still awake, fingers still tracing one or other part of his body, seemingly unable to get their fill of his skin beneath them.
"Yeah?" it was almost whispered.
"Do you- do you believe in forgiveness?"
You nodded against him.
"Even if you can't take back what you did?"
You nodded again, mumbling 'yes' as you pecked his skin, light as a feather.
"I ... I hurt someone I loved once." he began. His fingers ran down your back, already in love with its curve, recalling how it felt to reach the end of that curve and pull your middle against his own.
"Yeah?"
He nodded.
"She was my first love. She- she was Lena's mom."
He knew this detail only made it all the worse, it only made him the man who took away Lena's mother, took her space in Lena's life and took on the responsibility to repent over it for the rest of their lives.
"Cath?" you asked, still hushed.
"Yeah. I ... I hurt her. Smurf told me to, so I did."
His voice broke towards the end, but he didn't let himself cry just yet. Your hands were still playing with his skin. Your body hadn't stiffened, your occasional pecks on his chest hadn't seized.
"Do you regret it?" you asked, pulling him closer, something incomprehensible to Andrew.
"Every day."
You were silent for a moment, silent and pensive, making Andrew's heart halt. His breath followed along, seizing its flow of oxygen as he waited for the other shoe to drop, waited to kiss this moment goodbye and part ways with the never ending comfort you gave him.
"I forgive you, Andrew." you mumbled after a minute.
He stayed silent. Silent as he rolled to his side, rolling you along with him and allowed you to take his head and burrow it in your chest. Your breasts cushioned his face, your heartbeat right against him and your hair shielding you both. He breathed deeply against you, shaky air leaving him as he exhaled.
"If you can't forgive yourself, I'll forgive you." you continued.
He sobbed then, sobbed into your chest, only whimpering louder when you pressed him even closer to you, shushing him with reassurances, crying with him when he thanked you, when he continued to beg for forgiveness, only to receive it every single time he asked.
Andrew promised you honesty that night. He'd woken up again in the midst of the night, with you still in his arms, asleep, trusting of the protection you'd receive as he held you, and he promised himself he would never let anything get in between you.
And so when you woke up a few hours later, still too early to get up, Andrew kissed you. He hovered over you as he sheathed himself inside you once more, groaning at how perfectly you wrapped around him and how your nails raked down his back.
You sighed, cried, whined his name, eventually being quietened by his lips on yours, by his tongue in your mouth.
In between thrusts, he whimpered into your mouth, promising to keep you safe, to never let anything get between you, to entrust you with everything, but to keep you safe all the while.
So when he made his plan with Lena the following morning, he decided to share it with you, to let you in on it, to entrust you with his life regardless of any consequences.
"You're what?"
"I need- I need to make sure Lena's set. With Smurf gone, with Cath gone, she has no one. Baz sure as hell isn't thinking about her."
You were still in his room. He'd already talked to Baz, telling him he'd take Lena out for breakfast, when what he really meant to do was go check on the trust fund he'd set up for Lena. He'd go hit a few banks after that, some quick jobs that'd get her numbers as high as he could.
Understandably, you showed concern, eyes widening and hands pressed to his chest, shaking your head in denial.
"Andrew, there's better ways. What about last time? What if they get you again?"
He appreciated your concern, hands trailing down your arms and grabbing onto your hands, pressing one up to his nose, inhaling its scent, kissing the back of it.
"This is the life." he explained. "This is what I've been doing since I was a kid. This is how I've lived, how I'll die. If it's too much, I understand."
But you shook your head.
"No. If I can take it from Deran, I can take it from you. Just ... stay safe, okay? Come back home."
Some tears welled in your eyes, but not enough to cry for the fourth time in the past day.
When he came back again later that day, you ran to him, welcoming him in the driveway, a hug and a kiss being delivered to him immediately upon his arrival. He held you, kissing your hair and walking inside with you, telling you about how it all went, almost smiling as you commended him for taking care of his niece, for being the only person watching out for her, for being the father she'd never had with Baz.
"I'm gonna go see Smurf." he told you after a while. "Taking Lena with me, so she can say goodbye."
"You don't think she's getting out?"
He shook his head. "I'll make sure she doesn't."
Nodding pensively, you squeezed his hand.
"Wanna go meet her?"
He was joking. It was rare for him to do so, but he chuckled anyways when you pushed at his shoulder teasingly, telling him to shut up.
"You good spending the day with Lena today? Baz's gone. Don't know where he went."
"Yeah. 'Course."
-
You spent most of the day with Andrew and Lena, having to clean up after the boys now that Smurf was gone.
It was domestic, cooking with Andrew, cleaning up the kitchen, dropping off Lena and then picking her back up. When Deran walked into the kitchen and found you laughing with Andrew, with him shyly looking down any time you giggled, he gave you a look, tilting his head in curiosity but not questioning it further.
It wasn't til later, when Andrew dropped you off at the bar for your shift that he actually cornered you, Craig trailing behind him with a shit-eating grin on his face.
"So, Pope?"
Scoffing, you walked past him, heading to the back to drop off your bag. Unsurprisingly, both guys followed you, cornering you again.
"What about him?"
"What, you two dating now?"
"Nah, man, that shit this morning looked too domestic. They've probably eloped by now." Craig interrupted, amused by it all.
Deran ignored him. "When'd this happen?"
"It's been happening since you introduced us. Just, uh, made it official yesterday."
"What about that Amy girl?"
You eyed Craig. "What about her?"
He lifted his hands in surrender, using one hand to do the zipping motion over his lips. "Never mind, then."
"You good with this?" you turned to Deran, walking past him and heading back inside after putting your stuff in your locker. Again, they followed you, too nosy not to.
He leaned against the outside of the bar when you made your way to your usual station, furrowing his brows at you.
"He treating you good?"
"What, never seen Andrew with a girlfriend before?"
"Andrew~" Craig mocked, chuckling when you gave him the finger.
"No. Actually, no. You're the first. After Amy, of course."
You looked at him, annoyed.
"Sore subject?"
"Are you gonna be against this, Deran? We've practically exchanged vows. It's a set thing."
He frowned in contemplation, smiling after, knowing his smile would always bring one in you and then giving you one of those 'I told you so' looks. He knew you weren't mad at his prodding. It was that brotherly overprotection he'd had over you since he met you.
"I'm happy for you. If anyone'll treat you good out of all my brothers, it's Pope."
"I'm right here." Craig scoffed lightly, but you and Deran told him to shut up in unison.
-
Halfway through your workday, Andrew showed up, finding the three of you moving stuff to the back, with some temp bartender temporarily manning the fort. Craig lifted the heavy shit while you and Deran made order of it, stacking barrels of beer out of reach of the customers.
When you spotted Andrew, you skipped to him, childish in doing so, but in that honeymoon phase that made it so you couldn't hold back on the whimsy.
He pecked your lips, but he was distracted, looking at his brothers behind you after muttering a quiet 'sorry' to you.
"Have you heard from Baz?" he asked his brothers.
"What? Why?"
"Shit might be going down."
"What shit?" you asked, concerned, arms wrapped around his one arm and looking at him.
The brothers put aside the stuff they were doing, Craig sitting on one of the larger barrels and giving Pope his undivided attention and Deran looking to you with concern.
Andrew hesitated before speaking, looking to you before looking back to Deran.
"If something happens to me, will you look after Lena?"
Deran stood there, anxious look in his eyes. His eyes found yours, matching your concern, not answering Andrew's question just yet.
"Hey." he called his attention again. "I need an answer. If something happens to me, will you look after Lena? Yes or no?"
He took a step towards Deran, intense. You stood to his peripherical now, slightly behind him.
"Yeah, of course."
Craig remained quiet, halting his moves as he went to light a cigarette.
Andrew's head nodded towards you, eyes still on Deran. "What about her?" he said, referring to you.
"I'll always take care of her. You know that." Deran answered.
Andrew stepped forward again, hand patting Deran's shoulder in a silent thank you before walking his way back to where he entered from.
Without saying another word, you followed behind him, looking at the boys with worry and nodding back at Deran when he silently asked you to go check on his brother.
Rushing behind him, you caught Andrew before he could enter his truck, grabbing onto his arm and calling out his name.
"Andrew, what the hell is going on? Is this about the banks?"
He shook his head, intense eyes looking anywhere but at you. It looked like he wasn't fully there, like whatever was going on occupying his mind way too much for him to really acknowledge you.
"It's nothing, just- just gotta go talk to Baz."
That almost made you jump, remembering last night, when Andrew whispered his confession to you, crying in your arms when you'd accepted it, when you'd forgiven him for something you really had no business forgiving.
"Is it about-"
"Yeah." he interrupted, finally looking into your eyes.
It was about Cath.
Baz knew. You were certain of it. And you knew it was probably Smurf's doing.
Tensions were high, specially after that family meeting. You hadn't been in it, not deemed close enough to listen in on it, being made to wait outside with Nicky and Lucy as they talked about whatever was going on with Smurf, how she'd gotten arrested, why, and what they'd do now that she was gone.
You'd been happy about her absence, aware of the way she'd treated Deran growing up, what she'd done to all her sons, to Julia. Her treatment of Andrew was what made you the most furious, and you hadn't even heard the brunt of it all.
Andrew filled you in on it all afterwards, just before he drove you and Lena to breakfast and took off for his serial bank heists. He had told you about Baz's shady behavior, about the set up of Javi's death that had gotten Smurf framed for
He stepped towards you, pulling you in to kiss your hair, eyes deep and zeroing in on yours.
"If anything happens, I need you to take care of Lena, okay? With Deran."
Your eyes clouded with tears again, already forming and obstructing your vision of the man who appeared to be their cause time and time again. Shaking your head petulantly, you gripped at his hands, muttering 'no no no' over and over again, unwilling to accept this.
His shoulders slouched, bringing you closer to him. Nuzzling his way into the crook of your neck, he breathed you in, a habit you were getting used to.
"I'm sorry. I love you." he said into your skin, wincing against you when all those words caused were a choked sob.
"Can I come with you?" you whispered uselessly. You knew the answer.
He didn't reply, instead holding you in silence for a long while, taking up the space on the sidewalk but not caring to move when people walked by. Patting on your back, he consoled you (and himself), but you couldn't stop crying anyway.
"Come back to me, okay?" you asked when you pulled away.
All he could do was nod sadly, giving you one last kiss before getting into his car.
You hadn't been there for whatever it was that went down between Baz and Andrew. All you knew was that you went back into the bar, sobbing, a complete mess that both Deran and Craig had to take care of.
In the entire time Deran had known you, you'd never once cried in front of him. He always saw you as a hard egg to crack, sometimes reminding him of his brother in the way in which you could intimidate people with just one off-putting look. You reserved your emotions for friends, smiling, laughing, only when around those you loved. But crying? That had been new to Deran up until the point you met Pope.
But he understood. He was the same way about Adrian, so he didn't judge you when you walked back in, crying and refusing to tell him what was going on, instead pleading with him that you'd take care of Lena together if anything happened.
You calmed down after a while, going back to the Cody house after a very short shift (cut early since Deran was worried about you).
You waited in Andrew's room, not checking your phone, knowing he wouldn't call, that he was more the type to show up, to appear when you least expected it.
And again, you cried when he showed up again, tears welling his own eyes and chest heaving as he sobbed his way into his bedroom, finding you sitting on his bed waiting for him.
In between sobs, he explained the situation to you, mumbling something about his promise to stay honest to you, crying that he'd talked to Baz, had begged him to kill him, to take him out of his misery. He apologized to you when that caused you to cry his name. He continued, telling you about how Baz held him close, promised he'd always protect him, that he'd always forgive him because he knew none of this was his fault. That he knew he loved Cath, that he knew how much he loved him and Lena and how he'd take care of everything for him. He told him that he was his brother and that he'd protect him even after what he did, that he knew he now had you to take care of, that he wasn't going to let Smurf poison the waters between them.
When he calmed down, you continued to hold him, thanking Baz in your head, making a mental note to do so in person next time you saw him.
Maybe you'd read him wrong. Maybe he was the brother who cared most about your Andrew.
"You never do that to me again, do you understand?" you scolded Andrew after a while, hushed, not meant to put him down, but to express the fury that came hand in hand for the fear for his safety.
He sat up from his spot on your lap, grabbing your wrist and bringing you closer.
"I won't." he promised, but you both knew it was a lie.
"Thank you. For taking care of me." he said after some silence, foreheads pressed against each other, breaths shared.
"I always will. I love you."
He didn't respond verbally, but by kissing you again, by sighing into your mouth when you responded with no hesitation.
The two of you became enraptured in each other again, locking lips and letting your hands wander. Tears were still drying on your cheeks, but still, you pulled him closer, moaning when his hands trailed to the back of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you and wrapping you around his waist before he laid you back down on the bed.
Undressing each other came naturally by now, not requiring much practice. And every freed inch of skin meant yet another inch for Andrew to explore, fingers scratching at the soft skin, digging his fingers in, lips itching to kiss that same skin, but being too overtaken by your mouth.
He fucked you then. It started soft, full of worry, more passionate than he'd ever felt before. But his need for you took over after the third sigh of his name against his ear. He hovered over you, grabbing your legs and holding them up, open for him as he knelt on the bed and fucked into you.
Again and again, he told you he loved you in between grunts. It was unusual for him to be this expressive, to speak this much, but having you there for him, waiting, worrying for him and letting him do as he wished with you as soon as his eyes laid on you, it made him malfunction, made him let go in a way he'd never been allowed to before.
"Thank you for coming home." you sighed as you came, dragging him straight down with you.
"I always will." he repeated your earlier words, arm extended out so you could cuddle yourself under it.
Andrew felt at ease while he laid there with you.
Smurf was in jail, the Cath thing was out of the bag, he still wasn't sure if he could trust J, wasn't sure what would happen with Lena now that Baz was supposed to leave town. But at that moment, he laid with you there, sure of one thing â you were his to keep.
The following day he'd find out about what happened to Baz, a brand new can of worms breaking into the very short moment of peace he had while he had you in his arms. The next day, he'd have to go back to dealing with Smurf, to figure out how to take care of Lena, but at least now he had someone to carry some of the brunt with him.
I really loved reading this, it was such a great read that I really enjoyed. This fic was so compelling and well written, you really have a gift.
It can be quite difficult to have a fic AU that closely follows the plot of the show but I think you did such a perfect job of it here! You incorporated reader in so seamlessly and it all felt like such a natural flow. I think you did a great job of that. Especially with how you used dialogue from the show, I think that can be a hard thing to work in and pull off, you included and added onto scenes in such a great way. Reader was always meant to be there!
The dynamic was really interesting to read and this had such a nice amount of yearning and then them falling. I think you wrote the Amy subplot really well too! It was an interesting exploration of Pope and characterisation overall, I liked it and you did such a great job of telling this story.
This has well written smut, I think you had in at the right times and used those scenes to add to their dynamic and drive that forward. It all felt written in a way that felt very truthful to their characters and dynamic. I also really liked how you wrote about them wanting to get so close to the other and how it almost has a horror vibe to it, but I know that is an image that gets used in a lot of fics. But how you wrote it in that first smut scene, I think it was the best writing I've seen of that imagery and need of closeness and having such a strong bond. You wrote it beautifully, you didn't go too over the top, weren't vague, it was just written so, so, so well.
I loved reading this and can't wait to read more of the series, thank you so much for this masterpiece!! đ
Summary: Everyone knows that Pope Cody's girlfriend is a real sweetheart. What they don't know is that, behind closed doors, you're a real fuckin' freak, too.
Warnings: +18 explicit content MDNI, porn without plot, established relationship, shy!reader, unspecified age gap, size difference, pope teaches you how to shoot a gun and touches you at the same time, face slapping, face fucking, reader has hair that can be styled, messy blowjob, reader helps complete a job, praise, car sex, reader makes out with pope over a mask so masked sex, restrained hands, creampie, overstimulation kinda, only barely lightly edited
Note: take that p w/o plot tag seriously cause uh....yeah. this is just me wanting to fuck pope cody bad
WC: 2.3k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Everyone thought Andrew Cody was a pervert.
And, really, how could they not?
They see him; all big and brooding, with wrinkles around his eyes and rough hands. And beside him stands you; soft and innocent, all shy smiles and quiet words. A sweetheart by every definition of the word.
He's older than you. Bigger than you. Meaner than you. All it takes is one glance at your manicured fingers around his broad bicep and your cheek pressed to his shoulder to know that, yeah. He's probably (definitely) taking advantage of you.
A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.
What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?
But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for youâsharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.
They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.
His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."
You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.
The gun clicks.
"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."
Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.
It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.
You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.
He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.
But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, sayingâbegging, "Hit me."
And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.
Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.
He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.
Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.
Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.
His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.
"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."
Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.
"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."
You've even got Smurf fooled.
They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.
While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.
Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.
And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."
Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."
"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."
His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.
In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.
But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."
It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for youâall to keep you here by his side.
The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.
They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.
You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.
Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.
And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.
The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.
And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he doesâhe can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.
He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.
Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truthâknows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.
"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."
He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.
Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.
"You lookâgod, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.
"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."
You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."
He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.
He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.
"Wait."
Andrew freezes.
At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.
His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.
He's a monster. He's a fuckingâ
And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.
You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.
Pope understands then. Of course he doesâbecause you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.
Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.
Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.
And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.
It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.
Because he knows you want himâthe awkward, quiet Andrew.
But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.
The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.
And the realizationâGod. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.
He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.
Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.
He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.
It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.
"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.
You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonnaâgod, please please I'm gonna fucking cumâfuckâ"
He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.
It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.
Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.
He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.
You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."
Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'
And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.
Pope will let them keep on believing you're just a sweetheart.
NSFW 18+ Titus Danforth x Fem!Reader: You have been employed (with the help of your rich and annoying art dealer cousin) to help restore the portrait of Chester Danforth. However, during your residency in the Danforth estate, Titus grows infatuated with you...and slowly cannot resist his urges...he has to have you...he must have you.
(or essentially: Titus grows obsessed with you and intends (and succeeds) to hunt you down and fuck you in the woods during a dinner party)
Please note this fic contains: Obsessive stalker Titus, possessive, (toxic?) yearning and pining, mean Titus, rough smut, dominant behaviour, submissive reader, very lewd language.
If I have missed a tag please let me know and I'll add it in!
This is a lengthy one (I think the longest fic I've written so far?). I hope it's worth the build up! Apologies for any mistakes or grammatical errors! I've not proof read this yet but will do so soon lol
Hunger
Titus despised dinner parties, the very notion of strangers inside of his home, traipsing dirt and boring, meaningless conversations into his family estate. It was offensive to his senses. The company that often attended these sorts of social gatherings were always insufferable, new money, competitive little nobodies. Where Ursula found them was beyond Titus, he understood it was part of the game they played, the world that they occupied, to entertain wealthy company to keep ties strong, even if he hated the people in question.
As he stood in the dining room which had been cleared for the guests to mingle, Titus sipped on a flute of champagne, the number he was uncertain of, but certainly it was in the double digits now. He hated champagne, he wanted something stronger, something headier to burn the back of his throat and heat his stomach. Champagne was cheap piss in comparison to the bottles of malt that Titus kept squirrelled away in his own personal store beneath the house.
âCould you at least try to look approachable.â Ursulaâs voice cut across Titus as she stood next to him in the corner of the dining room. âYou look angry, and are going to frighten people off.â She harshly whispered, though spared a tight smile to passers by who waved their hellos toward the twins.
âI am angry.â Titus grumped as he placed his empty flute onto a passing tray, swiping a full one as a replacement before knocking it back in one hearty gulp. âI hate dinner parties. And I hate these idiots lounging around my home.â
âOur home.â Ursula corrected and rolled her eyes. âItâs just for one night, and it keeps our names in their mouths.â She reminded Titus, who simply shook his head and brushed off Ursulaâs council.
Titus clicked his tongue in frustration, looking out to the sea of meaningless faces, all wearing fake smiles and laughing disingenuously at one anotherâs anecdotes and painfully unfunny jokes. Why couldnât Ursula host these parties alone if she insisted on having them in their house. Why was he required to be in attendance?
âUrsula, good to finally see you.â A young man, perhaps in his early thirties with a mop of wavy hair atop of his veneered features, smiled and reached a hand out towards Ursula. âI feel as if I havenât had the chance to approach you this evening, what a guest list.â
âAh Nick, so glad you could make it.â Ursula greeted the man, leaning over to crisscross a ghost of kisses on either side of Nickâs tanned cheeks.
âYou must be Titus.â Nick stated as he eyed Titus, who managed to muster half a smile in politeness, but it quickly faltered as soon as it came. âUrsula has mentioned you once or twice during our meetings.â
âNick is a pro art dealer from the eastern seaboard. We met during a luncheon in New York and have kept in touch ever since. a valuable asset to the family, or rather the decoration of the family home.â Ursula complimented Nick with a fake laugh, it churned Titusâ stomach as he could tell when she was handing out false praise to the moronic who thought it to be genuine.
What a dipshit. Titus thought to himself as he looked over Nickâs grey suit and brown shoes. A hideous outfit in Titusâ opinion, it reeked of new money, someone who didnât think for himself, a lack of class or style. Someone with too much money and no clue what to do with it.
âI hope you donât mind, I brought my cousin along with me.â Nick said, turning to try and point out where this cousin had wandered off to. âSheâs not quiteâŚfamiliar with our world, shall we say.â Nick said, alluding to the fact that you werenât from as wealthy a background as Nick. âSheâs in town on business; she restores classical artwork. Iâve had her see to a few oil paintings I had bought in Europe.â
âFamily is family.â Ursula said, offering Nick another false smile whilst side eyeing Titus when Nick turned back around to seek his missing cousin out.
âSheâs probably gotten lost.â Nick sighed. âStarving artists, used to one-bedroom apartments and tiny studios, not something like this beautiful big home where you could get lost for weeks.â Nick laughed at his own joke, and it took Titus every ounce of strength to not deliver the balled-up fist in his pocket into the smug little manâs cheek.
âWell, if we canât find her by midnight weâll send out a search party.â Ursula jokingly offered and tittered falsely as Nick joined in with an obnoxious laugh. One that most heard during business meetings in order to suck up to bosses or higher ups.
âExcuse me, I must go find her. I doubt mumma will appreciate me losing her niece at a dinner party.â Nick smiled before slipping away and back into the masses.
Titus glared and exhaled in astonishment at Ursula.
âDonâtâ Ursula began.
âMumma?â
âI said donât Titus.â
âSeriously. Fucking, âMummaâ?â Titus urged and shook his head in disbelief, but Ursula held a hand up to silence her brother.
âIâm going to work the room a little more, flush out some assets.â Ursula sighed as she took an offered glass of champagne. âTry not to strangle any of the guests please.â She added, airily and irritated at Titusâ childishness.
As she walked away from him, Titus folded his arms and sighed deeply, his frown setting in as he scanned over the room.
That was when he saw it, out of the corner of his eye, a flash of white satin.
White? No one wore white, not to a Danforth dinner party. Not in Titusâ home. White was the colour of surrender, weakness. Who would be so ignorant to wear something in his household? Surely everyone present understood what the Danforthâs expected.
Titusâ attention was trained now, on this stray lamb, moving out from the crowd of idiotic sheep. Out of the pen that was the dining room, and into where the reception and entrance hall awaited. No one else was wearing white. Good, Titus thought, an obscene and hideous colour, an afront to his senses.
He didnât like that someone had left the room however, had escaped without permission or even that they would be potentially snooping around his home, doing who knows what. It was a fool's move to trust anyone, especially when welcomed into the house. Eyes were everywhere, and secrets were more precious than currency in their world. No, this wouldnât do, Titus had to see to this himself.
Titus began to move, one-foot in front of the other, crossing the room, shamelessly ignoring the guests around him, some of which greeted him or attempted to begin a conversation with him whilst he barged past. All were ignored. Titus was on a mission now; his focus trained on the stray guest that slipped out of the herd.
Titus strode out to the reception hall and into the entrance to the house, his feet echoing against the hard marble floor. He looked around but saw no sign of white, no sign of someone. Perhaps the champagne had stacked up considerably, and he was drunker than anticipated. Maybe this idiot party guest in white was nothing more than a manifestation of his hatred for such occasions.
There. A flash of white at the end of the corridor, a dress moving briskly between the corridor and into the adjoining dining room.
Titus stormed forward, the lust for chase inside of him quivering into gear. His heart pumping with the growing excitement of catching his prey as he marched down the corridor and towards the room he had seen her step into. The room itself didnât lead on to anywhere, which meant Titus had her trapped. He slowed his footsteps just as he approached the door, and suddenly he bumped into someone.
You.
âOh my god!â You exclaimed loudly, your hand clasping over your mouth and your eyes widening. âI-Iâm so sorry.â You apologised, taking a step or two backwards, frightened as it dawned on you as to whom you had just collided into.
âWhat are you doing out here?â Titus asked, curious and slightly irritated as he adjusted himself, frowning at you with his head tilted curiously.
You look scared. Good. Titus mused as he stared you down, assessing your body language.
âIâŚI was looking for something.â You stuttered, awash with embarrassment.
âLooking for what?â Titus scrutinised, taking a step closer to you.
Titus watched you swallow thickly, your eyes glistening a little, a mixture of champagne and fear clouding your senses as he towered over you. Titus hated the whiteness of your dress, it felt insulting to him, a challenge for him to mess it up. White was an abhorrent colour to Titus, and it made you stick out in the otherwise darkly lit and decorated room.
âMy cousin told me there was an original Francis Bacon piece hanging up.â You suddenly said, your hands knitting together nervously. âIâŚI was looking to see if I could find itâŚâ You admitted, though you could feel your anxiety welling up as your voice cracked.
Youâre that snivelling little art dealer shitâs cousin. Titus finally made the connection.
He looked you over, and indeed agreed with your cousin that you most certainly werenât accustomed nor part of âthis worldâ. You were natural, no hint of botox to fight against the ravages of time, nor any signs of unnaturally white false teeth or tan. You lookedâŚhuman. Regular. Unwilling to bend to fit in with the new money, who all sported fake exteriors masking shrivelled egos and dull personalities. You looked moulded by nature, soft and gentle, not like Titusâ breed of blood thirsty, hard edged and razor tongued.
Your dress was still awful, Titus thought as he sneered a little at the sight of it on your body.
Youâd look beautiful in burgundyâŚor blackâŚTitus tilted his head to the other side as he briefly imagined the colour flush against your soft skin, and how it would feel under his fingertips.
âItâs upstairs.â Titus answered flatly.
You didnâtâ respond, not immediately. You couldnât gauge as to whether or not you were in deep trouble, had embarrassed your cousin, or indeed were being offered to go upstairs and view the painting.
âPerhaps another time, I can show you.â Titus suddenly said. âBut for now, I think your cousin is looking for you.â
Titus watched your eyes flicker up from where you had been shamefully staring down at his shoes in embarrassment, like a child being scalded. You hesitated before whispering several more apologies, then made to brush past him, his wide and sturdy form nearly blocking the doorway.
As you passed by him, Titus inhaled and savoured the smell of your perfume. Floral with strong hints of neroli, nothing like the suffocating aroma of expensive aftershaves and bottles of scent he was used to. You smelled natural, soft and innocent. What the hell were you even doing amongst a pack of rabid hyenas in designer brand clothes?
------------------------------------------------
Two weeks, after his encounter with you, Titus couldnât allow his mind to leave you. It was painful how his obsession for the hunt could take over his senses. He grew irritable, and frustrated that you got past him, that he didnât do anything about you. He simply let you slip through his fingers and back into the crowd, back to the insufferable dinner party, where he couldnât re-join. After you had left the room he caught you in, he chanced a glance into the dining room to see you talking with your annoying cousin. Titus could see the frustration and embarrassment on his face as you clearly told him where you had been, what you had been doing, and no doubt whom you had âranâ into.
Titus didnât stick around after this, instead he disappeared to seek out the company of his single malt down in the wine cellars, much to Ursulaâs frustration when she came looking for him after all the guests had left.
----------------------------------------------
During one afternoon, Titus sauntered downstairs, a driver club slung across his broad shoulders in preparation to traverse the course and try to beat out his frustrations with a lengthy round of golf. As he walked into the living room to head out onto the veranda, he could already hear Ursula talking loudly, along with another voice. Immediately Titus knew Usula was discussing some sort of business, her voice changed to a shriller and melodic tone to pander to idiots.
âOh if you could secure that painting, that would be wonderful. Titus and I would love to have it with the others.â Ursula smiled brightly, though it faltered a little as she spotted Titus, strutting into the room and lingering in the corner next to the French windows as he began to fish out his cigarette case from his breast pocket.
Titus immediately recognised the company, the annoying art dealer from the party. The young man was dressed far too casually for Titusâ liking; bright pastel colours that made him look like a clown or some sort of childrenâs entertainer. It made Titus physically wince at the sight of the manâs salmon pink trousers and his crisp white shirt that was easily three sizes too small and worn to show off his body.
âAh, Titus, so good to see you again.â The man said as he stepped over to shake Titusâ hand.
âYou remember Nick, from the dinner party.â Ursula reminded Titus, her eyes darting between the two men, trying her beset to mask the irritation at her twinâs lack of enthusiasm.
âSâgood to see you.â Titus responded. âI was just heading out.â Titus said as he made to turn away, just as the phone began to ring in the corner of the room.
"Excuse me for one moment." Ursula said as she went to answer the call.
âOh by the way, might I speak with you Titus?â Nick suddenly said, slightly urgent and daring to reach out and place a hand on Titusâ shoulder to halt him.
Get your little paws off me. Titus huffed as he looked at Nickâs hand before turning back to look at the little art dealer.
âI wanted to apologise for my cousin; at the party she mentioned sneaking off into one of the rooms.â Nick said, lowering his voice as not to let Ursula know.
Titusâ mind flashed with the obscene image of white satin, your glistening frightened eyes and the way you looked to him for mercy as he cornered you in the room that night. The way you apologised to him, how your fingers nervously laced together as you dared to look right back at him, into the jaws of the predator, begging for forgiveness.
âI explicitly told her not to screw around, but as soon as I turn my back-â Nick paused to gather himself as he grew visibly frustrated.
âSheâs green, not used to our sort of gatherings or even the life we all lead.â Nick began to make the excuses. âIf it werenât for the fact that sheâs good at what she does, I wouldnât have brought her.â Nick confessed.
âRegardless, I hope she didnât insult you, itâs partially why I have employed her for the job Ursula was needing sorted. As an informal apology.â
âJob? What job?â Titus frowned and looked past Nick to his twin sister as she was writing something down in her diary with the phone balanced on her shoulder and up against her ear.
She sensed Titus' question and waved him dismisively, all the while Titus fed one of his cigarettes in between his lips before fishing out his silver lighter. She hung up the call and approached the duo.
âThe painting of Daddy above the fire place.â Ursula clarified, gesturing to the large oil painting of their father, hung there before either one of the twins could walk.
Daddy? Titus winced at Ursula, who glared at him and rolled her eyes. She only ever referred to their father as Daddy when trying to come over sweet, innocent, doe eyed and idiotic. Usually it was reserved for men, but otherwise it was a cheap tactic for Ursula to get her way.
âWhat about it?â Titus gruffed as he lit his cigarette and exhaled a plume of nicotine, some of it in the general direction of Nick who held back a cough as the heady smoke invaded his lungs.
âWell, during the dinner party, I mentioned to Ursula that itsâŚa little damaged.â Nick said, tentatively glancing between Titusâ lit cigarette end and the painting above the fireplace. âSmoke damage actually. Itâs yellowed the varnish considerably.â
Titus huffed incredulously, as if offended by the notion that Nick was suggesting it was Titusâ fault that the precious heirloom painting was damaged.
âO-Of course this is a build up over years- decades even! Of smoke exposure.â Nick said in an attempt to save his skin from Titusâ scrutiny.
âNick has offered the services of his cousin to clean and restore the painting.â Ursula said as she stood upright from her diary and folded her arms. âAs well as securing us some valuable paintings from London, France and China.â
âItâs the least I could do.â Nick smiled at Ursula, and it took everything within Titus not to grumble at the way his sister smiled falsely in return to the dealer.
âAnd are you sure your cousin will be alright to see to the painting? I know Daddy would have loved to have had it restored.â
âIt would be my pleasure. Besides, itâs not like she has much else to do, starving artists and what not.â Nick chuckled grimly, failing to hide his shame for his less well off side of the family.
âWell, itâs appreciated greatly, thank you so much Nick.â Ursula said. âNow the sign out sheets and paper work is in the lobby, Iâll have one of the staff make sure you get everything for your cousin to sign off on. Just simple insurance paperwork.â Ursula said as she began to escort Nick out of the room. âDonât want anything going missing.â Ursula half joked, yet her voice seemed a little edgy, hinting at a warning.
âIâll make sure she gets it all. Youâll hardly even notice sheâs here.â Nick said before looking over his shoulder to Titus. âIt was good to see you again Titus.â He called before leaving the room.
âDaddy would have loved to have had it restored?â Titus mocked with a snort as Ursula walked back over to the antique couch where she sat down to flick through her diary.
âDonât you have a round to go play?â Ursula sighed, ignoring her brotherâs sneer. âSome of us have business to organise.â
âSuch as?â Titus probed as he sauntered over to the silver cannister atop of the marble fireplace, plucking out a fat cigar which he pocketed, intended to indulge in it after his round of golf. Cigarettes werenât going to cut it anymore, not now that his morning had been spoiled by the idiot art dealer being in his home without his say so or knowing.
âBuying artwork from Nick.â Ursula replied flippantly, as if Titusâ very presence was bothering her. Which, it was.
âWhat for? The walls are covered in fucken paintings.â Titus said, looking around the room at the oil paintings of various dead relatives, gory biblical events, as well as expensive inheritance pieces.
âInvestments.â Ursula shrugged as she haughtily flicked over a page in her diary. âArtwork is just as valuable, some cases more so, than diamonds or cash. It can be auctioned, accumulate value, sought after.â
Titus didnât respond, he left most of the interior design choices to Ursula, as it didnât interest him. The interactions with art dealers, they always looked down their noses at other peopleâs interior designs or lack of artwork, or even the very choice of art within their homes.
âBesides, at least the painting above the fireplace can be cleaned up.â Ursula sighed. âNick insisted his cousin will be restoring the painting. The one he dragged along to the dinner party last month. Not that he had any right to bring her, the invites didnât mention anything about a plus one.â Ursula sighed and shook her head.
Nicks cousin, the girl in white. Titus glanced from beyond the French windows and back to his sister whilst she continued to grumble about âguests inviting guestsâ and ânobody reads the invites anymore, Iâm going to start turning idiots away next timeâ.
Suddenly, his hunting urges flared up again at the prospect of another chance to see you. This time, alone, without the guise of a dinner party. You had no one to run off to or with, you were in his house, his environment. At his mercy.
Titus left Ursula to continue filling out her diary and correspondence, meanwhile he began to formulate a plan during his round of golf.
Titus remembers the day you walked through the doors to his home, to start working on restoring his fatherâs portrait. He had been roaming around the second floor, peering down into the entrance and listening to his sister as she greeted you, and blatantly fed lies to you.
âItâs lovely to see you again.â
Liar.
âWeâve been looking forward to having you in our home.â
Liar.
âYour cousin has said nothing but great things about you and your work.â
Liar (both Ursula and your pathetic cousin)
âAnd I know Titus is equally grateful for you doing this.â
Not entirely a lie.
Titus leaned against the banister, observing as you followed Ursula through the entrance and off towards one of the corridors that would bring you to the Atelier room. According to Ursula, they had always had an atelier room, though Titus suspected this was either true and he didnât care to look into it, or Ursula telling a lie to get the better of him. Either way, the room was where you would be working, under the watchful eye of security cameras, conveniently recently set up under the premise to ensure the paintings were safe and certainly not for Titus to watch you. He didnât approach you at first during your working hours in the house, only Ursula and a few staff members would talk or meet with you.
Instead, Titus would sit, in his plush oxblood, leather armchair inside his study, cigar in between his fingers whilst the other hand nursed a crystal tumbler of whiskey, all the while watching you on his security feed. For as long as you worked, Titus would watch. He watched every move you made in the atelier, when you got up to grab a utensil or shift the painting to better your angle whilst you cleaned it of all the yellowing. Frankly, Titus didnât give a flying fuck about the painting, it was you he was so curious about. For all he cared you could spill a tub of white spirits over his fatherâs portrait and he wouldnât bat an eye.
You would work, and Titus would watch, amused that you had no idea he was observing you, learning your body language and form. Much like during his hunts, he was hidden from his prey, waiting for the perfect moment to infiltrate and strike.
During an afternoon several days into your residence, Titus had briefly left his little surveillance set up, but when he returned, he felt his frustration spike as you were suddenly gone from all camera angles. He didnât know when you had moved, or where you were now, and it made him tighten his fists and set his jaw.
He got up, and stormed out of the room and down the stairs, his heavy footsteps echoing through the entrance hall, alerting several staff that Titus was on the move, and he sounded agitated. He could hear his own breathing, sharp and harsh like an animal rushing towards its aggressor, his nostrils huffing as he closed in on the atelier room where you were supposed to be working.
As Titus marched into the room, he looked around to seek you out. He was angry, angry at you for daring to move out of his line of sight, sneaking off to where he couldnât find you. He was angry at himself for letting it happen, again, similar to the dinner party, you had slipped past his senses with ease. Even the most cunning of prey didnât escape Titus Danforth. So why and how did you manage it, twice now.
Titus paused in his tracks as he stepped into the room fully, his nose inhaling the familiar scent of your perfume lingering in the air. His blood was still pumping through his body, hungry for satisfaction in finding you, in hunting you down after alluding him. He looked around the room, paying close attention to the large table set up in the middle where lay a white sheet atop along with his fatherâs portrait and several glass containers and tins. Titus slowly stepped towards the table, eyeing the work you had begun in cleaning the portrait of its decades of yellowing nicotine damage. Already, a large squared off section of the painting had been scrubbed and cleaned, revealing the vibrant original layer behind the grime.
Titusâ eyes flickered to the side where a roll of utensils lay out; long sticks with fluffy cotton swabs at the end, scalpels, forceps, tins of what appeared to be waxes and cleaning oils. It was similar to a surgical procedure than the work of a skilled artist or conservationist. To the side was a smaller table, upon which there was an empty coffee cup, with lipstick around the rim. Yours. Deep and red.
Curiously, Titus retrieved the cup, and held it close so he could look at the imprint of the lipstick on the expensive porcelain cup. He wanted to sample it, feel where your lips had been, he wanted a hint of what his prey would taste like.
âOh.â Your voice interrupted Titusâ thoughts as you stood in the doorway, frozen to the spot as you looked at Titus.
âI was just passing by.â Titus said, and gestured to the painting.
âWould you like a closer look?â You asked, innocent to Titusâ filthy thoughts about your lipstick on the cup as you smiled at him. Despite your cheery disposition Titus could sense unease within you, a flicker of fear within his general presence.
Good, I want you to be a little scared of me. It will make it all the more satisfying.
Titus only nodded, his nose filling up with your perfume, especially as your hair was pinned up and held away from your neck and shoulders, exposing your fragrant skin to him.
What would it taste like, what would it feel like to bite your sweet skin? I could easily leave a mark there, dozens of marksâŚ
âTitus?â His name sounded so sweet as you uttered it, gesturing for him to come closer whilst you offered him a magnifying glass from your little arsenal of utensils.
As he took the magnifying glass, your hands brushed, and he could swear he felt you inhale sharply at the contact. He eyed you momentarily, before hovering the magnifying glass over the painting.
âIt stinks.â Titus said gruffly, his nose wrinkling at the strong chemical smell emanating from the painting.
When you huffed an amused breath at his comment, he looked at you, confused and a little offended even.
âItâs a mixture of solvents and spirits, helps to lift the dirt and grime.â You answered, a slight smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. Titus couldnât help but linger on how red your lips looked, how kissable they were.
I want to devour you little rabbit. His hunger chanted inside of him, stirring up his need for you.
âHence why I left for a quick break.â You explained. âThere arenât any windows in here, natural light would damage the painting in this state. But it means thereâs a lot of heavy chemicals circulating the room, so unless I want to pass out, I have to get some fresh air every once in a while.â You said, taking the magnifying glass back from Titus.
He watched as you slipped the magnifying glass into the pouch on the table alongside the other utensils. You picked up your messy, oil and paint-stained apron and tied it around your waist, preparing to continue your work.
âIâll leave you to it.â Titus said, realising he was still grasping your empty coffee cup in his right hand at his side.
âYou can stay, it makes no change to what Iâm doing.â You reassured as you walked around Titusâs back to get to your stool at the table. âI imagine though it will be boring for you to watch.â You shrugged.
No, it isnât. I could watch you for hours, days if I had to. I already do technically. Titus swallowed and grit his teeth as he observed your back, the way your hands carefully picked up a swab and a jar of your mixture of solvents and spirits. He imagined how soft your palms and fingers must feel, how small they would look in his bear-like paw of a hand.
You didnât pause to see what he would do, so Titus hovered for a moment, watching as you eased back into the working groove. It felt strange to Titus, standing so close to you, out-with the protective sanctuary that was his study and security footage. He listened to the little scrubbing and wiping sounds you made as you worked, cleaning the portrait, focusing entirely upon it.
âHave you ever screwed up a painting?â Titus asked, breaking the silence as he began to circle you and the table, coming to stand at the opposite end closest to his Fatherâs head upon the portrait.
âNo, Iâve come close, but I can proudly say I have an immaculate track record.â You answered, a slight smugness in your smile. When you briefly flicked your eyes up to look at him, Titus felt his prey drive kicking in again.
There was something particular about the way you looked at him, the glimmer in your eye was so sweet, and kind. It made Titus grind his teeth with the need to ruin you.
âI suppose thatâs why your cousin keeps you close.â Titus said, attempting to calm his heartbeat with idle small talk.
âHow so?â You asked curiously, though you continued to swipe across the painting, dipping the tip of the swab into the spirits before resuming.
âYou have a skill. Something valuable that benefits him.â Titus shrugged. âAny idiot with money in their pocket can buy paintings. To doâŚthisâ Titus gestured to the painting you were working on. âIt takes dedicationâŚtalent.â
You paused and looked up at Titus again, though your smile had disappeared entirely. You were looking at him the same way as when Titus found you sneaking around the house during the dinner party. Unsure, frightened, though not for the same reasons as before.
God that lookâŚI want that look all the time, I want you to look at me and only me. With fear, adorationâŚrespectâŚI want you little rabbit.
âIâll leave you to it.â Titus suddenly broke the tense atmosphere, quickly pacing out the room, the coffee cup with your lipstick on the rim, firmly within his grasp as he left you alone.
After his encounter with you in the atelier room, Titusâ mind was plagued entirely by you. Morning, noon and night. During meetings about the Hotel and Country club passed by without so much as a single thought on the business, Titus' only concern was you. That you were in his family home right that second, without him watching over you. The feeling of being separated from you, unable to watch you, it burned him from the inside out.
He practically lept from his seat the minute there was a hint of the meeting coming to and end, he would barge out the meeting and towards his car where he demanded to be taken home. As soon as the car pulled up in front of the house, Titus got out and march inside and towards his study, ignoring the staff asking if he required anything.
By now, Titus would be breathing sharply through his nose, harsh and loud like a riled animal swinging its horns from side to side against the walls of a too small enclosure. He flicked his fingers against the remote for the security cameras, and immediately found you, sitting over the painting, working. The sight of you, where he expected you to be, was almost a balm for his nerves.
There you are little rabbitâŚright where you should beâŚwhere you belongâŚin my houseâŚ
Titusâ had kept the coffee cup he had picked up from the atelier room, your lipstick still imprinted upon the rim. A handful of times, Titus had held the cup in his strong grasp, rotating it and observing the mark your mouth had made. He became infatuated with the item, to the point where on several occasions, whilst gripping it tightly, he would pleasure himself whilst sat within the leather chair in front of the footage of you working downstairs. He would imagine what those lips would feel like, on his own, on his chest, his cock, anywhere.
I wonder how experienced you are little rabbitâŚif you could handle meâŚor if you would break entirelyâŚ
This habit continued over the following of your residency within the Danforth house; the addiction to watch and learn your movements became so interwoven to Titusâ routine that he began to skip meetings, much to Ursulaâs frustration.
âWhat has gotten into you?â Ursula scalded Titus as she paced the living room. âYou were supposed to come with me to that ridiculous meeting with the accountants.â
âIf it was so ridiculous, why bother going?â Titus snorted and sauntered over to the fireplace to strike up a light for his cigarette.
âBecause we have to show face.â Ursula droned, having had this argument many a time with her brother, it wore thin on her patience. âWhat were you doing whilst I was busy keeping the family name in circulation?â She said as she walked past Titus, snatching his freshly lit cigarette before he could even take the first drag.
I was sitting in my study fist fucking my hand over security footage of our little guest in the atelier.
âI had some business I had to see to myself.â Titus said, and was thankful his nosey sister didnât seem too interested to probe further, she was still hacked off from his absence at the accountantâs meeting.
A knock at the living room door pulled both siblingâs attention away from further squabbling over missed meetings. One of their staff stood by with his hands clasped behind him.
âA Mister Nicholas Argyle has arrived, heâs here to deliver several works of art to the house.â The staff said.
âGreat.â Ursula sighed, and shook herself into a demeanour that screamed sickly sweet, rather than unwelcoming and unpleasant. âYouâre coming with me for this.â She hissed at Titus as she reluctantly flicked the cigarette into the fireplace.
Both siblings walked out into the entrance, and saw the art dealer with two of his own staff members standing behind him holding boxes that contained the paintings Ursula had requested weeks ago from Nick alongside the restoration job.
Titus watched and smiled false and tightly at the little man, how he phantom kissed his sister on the cheeks before reaching for Titusâ hand. Nick smiled through a wince, perhaps because Titusâ handshake was a little rough and firmer than expected.
âNick, itâs lovely to see you again.â Ursula smiled at their guest.
âLovely to see you both too.â Nick reciprocated. âI hope my cousin hasnât caused any bother for you.â He said, though his tone was musical and sarcastic, Titus did note a slight note of condescension.
I reckon his neck would snap with one twistâŚTitus said, tilting his head to the side to gauge the art dealerâs anatomy.
âSheâs been quiet as a mouse!â Ursula reassured Nick. âActually, from what I gather, she isnât too far off from finishing up on restoring Daddyâs portrait.â
Titus grimaced as he always did when Ursula referred to their âfatherâ or âDadâ as âDaddyâ.
âMight I go and see her?â Nick requested. âMy staff can deposit the paintings in the atelier room for you to look over if you wish?â
âThat would be wonderful.â Ursula said and turned to her brother, who blinked a little at her, and then frowned. âWhy donât you show Nick where the atelier room is Titus?â Ursula clarified, her tone harsh yet sweet to keep up appearances.
âThis way.â Titus stated as he marched past his sister and Nick, leading him and the other two staff members down the corridor and towards the atelier room.
Titus wrapped his knuckles against the door to the room, and pushed it open. You looked up from the painting, observing Titus flanked by your cousin who practically barged in with his arms outstretched.
âAh! There she is!â Nick grinned as he strode over to you and looked over the painting of Titusâ father. âIt looks great! Good job!â
Sheâs not a fucking dog you stupid cunt Titus grit his teeth and fed his fists into his pockets as he watched the interaction. How your cousin spoke to you like you were some sort of idiot.
âItâs nice to see you Nick.â You said, smiling despite your cousinâs over exuberance and childlike way of addressing you.
âI bet this is a difference to working in your tiny studioâ Nick said as he looked around the large and beautifully antique room.
âCertainly, beats it.â You sighed as you looked from your cousin waltzing around the room, fingering at canvases and paintings placed in the room for storage.
You then looked to Titus, who hadnât taken his eyes off you. Despite how intimidating he was, you couldnât help but share a knowing look with him, rolling your eyes apologetically, as if to say âIâm sorry about him.â
âWhy donât you leave the paintings and go find Ursula for some coffee and a catch up?â Titus then interrupted Nick as he ran his fingers across the forearm of a broken marble statue.
Ursula thinks she can dump this little worm on me, she can think again.
âOhâŚoh of course.â Nick said, nodding and waving for his staff to come into the room fully and leave the boxed paintings in the corner of the room.
Titus stood by, watching the staff carefully set down the paintings, yet out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nick leaning over to you.
âIâll talk with you later, yes?â He said, looking from the painting on the table you were restoring.
âSure.â You sighed and nodded.
âGood, now then, I assume Ursula will be in the living room?â Nick said, turning his attention to Titus.
âOnly one way to find out.â Titus said, waving a hand out the door, to which Nick strode out with his staff in tow, leaving yourself and Titus all alone.
Titus then heard you huff, and when he looked to you, you were shaking your head a little.
âApologies for him.â You said, much to Titusâ surprise. âHeâsâŚhe can be a bit much. He likes to show off in front of people he admires.â You said, gesturing to Titus. "Take it as a compliment."
âHe might want to steer it towards Ursula and less so to me.â Titus huffed and looked from the hallway and back to you. "What's with the 'we'll talk later' thing?"
"He likes to keep tabs on gossip within the places I work." You said. "Don't worry, I've ignored him entirely since coming here. It's probably why he's so eager to talk."
That snivelling little shit is trying to snoop around my house? Titus felt a flash of anger wash over his senses. Certainly the image of snapping Nick's neck danced in his mind once more.
âYou twoâŚclose?â Titus asked, though it sounded clipped as he attempted to cover up his rage.
âNot until that last year or so.â You answered, taking the interruption of your cousin as a sign to stand from your desk and stretch out your spine. âMy aunt and uncle had good jobs, and got into a decent crowd, hence why Nick is a little moreâŚconnected than my side of the family.â
âAbout a year ago he contacted me in need of a painting to be restored for it to be eligible for auction. I reckon my Mom had mentioned to my Aunt about my art degree and conservation work. So, Nick sought me out.â You said, picking up a damp hand towel and wiping your fingers. âFrom then on, heâs sort of had me pseudo employed. I wager itâs his way of getting something done for cheap, but also to maintain family connections. Not that his side cares about my sideâŚwe arenât poorâŚbut unless you make certain figures a month, the Argyleâs want little to do with you.â
Titus was taken aback a little by your honesty. Your frankness about your cousin, your family dynamic. He had assumed you were of good breeding and indeed money given how Nick came across, but it made sense with how different you were to your cousin. How unchanged you were by wealth.
âSo why donât you go into business for yourself? Restore paintings for auction on your own and get the bulk of the royalties instead of your cousin?â Titus said, slowly circling the work table and observing his fatherâs restored features glistening under the warm white lamp light.
âHave you seen what that life has done to my cousin?â You smirked darkly as you nodded to the doorway.
âPoint taken.â Titus nodded. âStillâŚhe takes advantage of you.â
âI know.â
âAnd you let it happen?â Titus frowned at your admission.
âI canât pay my bills with paintings.â You shrugged.
âYou said you werenât poor.â Titus argued.
âIâm not, but I still need an income.â You said as you tucked your hands behind your back to undo the knot in your apron. "Jobs aren't easy to come by when all you are good for is art."
Titus stared for a moment or two longer than intended, watching how your chest pushed out as you arched a little to reach for the knot at the back of your apron to pull it open. You slung the apron over the back of a stool and walked over to the paintings the staff had brought in.
âDo you mind?â You asked, pointing to a box.
âBe my guest.â Titus waved.
You knelt down and began to open one of the boxes, producing a brown paper wrapped rectangle. Titus walked with you to a vacant table where you set the package down and tore the corner of the paper open. Inside revealed a landscape, a field wherein a group of hounds chased after a fox, the atmosphere of the painting was dark, broody and stormy. Titusâs eyes roamed the painting, but was swiftly pulled towards your hand as it delicately traced the ornate frame, your fingers swirling over the gilded filigree.
Look at how delicately you touch things...you care so much...I want to feel your fingertips...I want them to trace my skin...
âVery fitting for a Danforth collection.â You whispered to yourself, yet it was caught by Titus, effectively breaking off his filthy thoughts on your fingers.
âMeaning?â
You glanced briefly at Titus beside you before looking around the atelier walls.
âAlmost every inch of the house has some sort of artwork dedicated to hunting.â You reasoned, looking at the paintings in the room the pair of you stood in. âNot just in here, but the living room, the entrance hallâŚI suspect the bedrooms have weaponry of hunting paraphernalia too.â You smiled amusingly.
Come to my bedroom and Iâll show you Titus shamelessly mused.
âFamily traditions I suppose.â Titus said. âCountry clubs tend to go hand in hand with hunting.â
âDo you hunt?â You asked curiously, looking at Titus with that familiar, glossy eyed stare that made Titusâ stomach tighten.
YesâŚand I want to hunt youâŚI want to chase youâŚruin youâŚeat youâŚhear you cry out as I bite into your flesh...
âOccasionally.â Titus answered stiffly. How innocent you were to the Danforthâs ways, the ways of Mr. Le Bail, the pain and blood lust that Titus was capable of.
You had no clue how dangerous Titus was, how dangerous he could be. He wagered you wouldnât last more than five minutes during the cultistâs endeavours. Your only saving grace would be that Titus would ensure that it would be himself to do you, to take your last breath from you, and watch the life leave your eyes.
But that wasnât his intention. No. He intended to keep you. To kill you would be such a waste. If Titus played his cards right, he could have you...forever...
Titus regretted sending Nick to find Ursula after bothering you in the atelier room. Had he not done so, perhaps he would have been spared the news that a party was going to be held in the house to celebrate the restoration of his fatherâs portrait, as well as the accumulation of new, and rare artwork to the Danforth estate.
His house, once again infiltrated by insufferable members of new money, twenty something year olds with too much inheritance and not enough sense. Whatâs more, art dealers tended to have the most dire conversations Titus had ever encountered. With each passing story about a painting bought at auction, or a new gallery to be built as part of a dick swinging contest between dealers, Titus could feel his patience wane.
Ursula had been occupied for the majority of the night, to which Titus was thankful for as it meant she wouldnât be on his back about circulating the room or having to make an effort to engage with any of the insufferable guests. Instead, Titus stood in the corner of the room looking up at the fireplace where his fatherâs portrait was placed back, now glossy, shiny and proud, as if it had only been painted days ago.
âTitus.â
Will I ever know peace from you Titus sighed as he turned to observe Nick, beaming with pride.
âNick.â Titus stated, nodding his head in acknowledgement pf the art dealer.
âIsnât it amazing.â Nick said as he pointed to the portrait. âAnd the paintings Ursula requested also fit so nicely with the dĂŠcor.â He added, nodding to the other pieces now hung up on the wall.
âYou are very lucky to have such a talented cousin.â Titus said, sipping on his malt.
âIâll drink to that.â Nick chuckled âTo have someone under my employment who will work so cheap, and create these sorts of results? Iâm keeping her all to myself.â Nick chuckled and sipped his drink.
Titus glowered at Nick, his hand gripping his crystal tumbler so tight he could have sworn it protested under his strength with a creak.
âHelps when sheâs desperate for money. Poor thing. Mom insisted on helping her out, we donât really keep in touch with that side.â Nick continued, unaware of the impending threat to his side. âPersonally, I think her side are comfortable being blue collar, it suits them. Some of us were just made for greater things, right?â Nick said, clapping a hand on Titusâ arm.
Before Titus could retaliate, he felt a pair of hands on his arms from behind. He looked over his shoulder and spotted Ursula, essentially his handler, restraining him. She didnât know what exactly Nick had said to noise Titus up â frankly Nick could have simply stood there and said nothing and it would have angered Titus- but she could tell if she didnât jump in, Titusâ would have made a scene.
âNick! Good thing I found you, I was wondering if I could discuss with one of the guests the pieces you had gotten from Italy for us pleaseâ Ursula said, pushing between the two men to usher Nick away from her brother.
Titus watched them walk away, his lips tight with frustration. He needed out. He needed fresh air and to be free of the insufferable crowd of people in his home. Tipping back the remains of his drink, Titus handed his tumbler to a passing staff member before making a swift exit out the French windows and out onto the veranda. As soon as the cool air hit him, Titus could feel his nervous system reclaim some sort of normality, he felt less constricted by the socialising.
âMind if I join?â
Titus looked over his shoulder, before straightening up a little to look at you. Your hair was pinned back and up off your neck. How desperately Titus wanted to sink his teeth into your neck and shoulders, to war with himself to stop from biting down too hard and draw blood.
The dress you were wearing was hideous, Titus decided. It was white, and all wrong for you in his eyes. It hid you away, yet pushed you out into sight with itâs stark whiteness.
âNot at all.â Titus answered your request, eyeing the two glasses of malt in your hand. âWhere did you-â
âMy cousin brought a bottle of it for me, along with the dress for tonight.â You answered as you handed Titus a glass. âPartial payment for services.â You said, gesturing back inside to the house and subsequently the painting you had restored.
Your cousin put you in that ugly thing? Figures. That little idiot has no sense of fashion, let alone what would look good on a woman's body.
âPartial payment? A bottle of Malt and aâŚdress.â Titus said, refraining from showing his true feelings about the dress, though you could sense it regardless.
Titus sipped his drink, his eye lingering for a moment on your hands as they rested upon the cold stone surface of the balustrade in front of you both.
âRemind me again why you work for him? Your cousin. Why donât you cut him off, go into business for yourself. I wager youâd kill in the industry.â He huffed.
âItâs because Iâm useful to him.â You answered, simple and matter of factly. âIm good at something that can benefit him, and it's job security. Not a great job, but in the art world...you take what you can.â you reasoned. âAndâŚI supposeâŚhis lifestyle, it doesnât interest me, not that part of it at least, not enough to cut ties and go into business for myselfâ You said. âThe work yes, but theâŚparties, the false interactions and meaningless opinions. Itâs god awful.â You chuckled breathlessly.
FinallyâŚsomeone who understandsâŚclever little rabbit.
âIf you were under my employment, I wouldnât be paying you in ugly dresses and stupid dinner parties.â Titus admitted, whether it was the malt talking or his incapability to hide his true feelings showing, he didnât care, it had to be said.
âIt is hideous isnât it.â You laughed breathily, Titus watching your warm laughter huff out into the cold night.
âYouâd look better in blackâŚor burgundy.â Titus muttered.
Or nothing at all, strapped to my bed and hidden away from all these idiots for me to have at the end of the night as a reward for being forced to attend these god awful events.
You didnât respond to Titusâ comment, yet you could feel a warmth in your chest. A mixture of the fiery alcohol sitting in your belly, and the way Titus looked at you, it made you feel bold, certainly more so than when you had first met him weeks ago during the first encounter at the initial party.
âThis party is boring.â Titus commented with an annoyed sigh.
âIt is.â You agreed, somewhat surprising Titus with your honesty. âNo offence.â You offered to Titus, though he shrugged it away.
âDoesnât offend me. Ursula insists on them.â Titus then paused and turned to look at you, frowning yet with a hint of amusement ghosting across his features.
âWhat?â
âWould you like to make the night a little more interesting?â Titus asked, low and quiet, intended only for you.
You glanced at him, and felt a shiver come across you that wasnât entirely from the cold air hitting your skin.
âWhat did you have in mind?â You asked, noting the way Titusâ narrow eyes glinted with excitement.
âA game.â He shrugged simply. âHide and seek.â
âHide and Seek?â You repeated as Titus sipped his drink, looking at you all the while over the rim of his glass.
âOut there.â Titus jutted his chin forward, hinting to the golf course and woods beyond the estate. âYou survive ten minutes without getting caught by me, you can take anything you want from the house.â
âYou meanâŚanything?â You frowned, your heart beating a little quicker as you glanced back inside where the party was continuing without the pair of you. âWhat if I wanted the most expensive painting you owned?â
âPaintings, Jewellery, furniture, a staff member. Fuck it, Itâs yours. If you make it ten minutes.â Titus reasoned as he finished off the rest of his malt, admiring the way it warmed his throat and belly.
He watched you closely as you thought of his offer, the temptation of winning and walking away with an expensive spoil from the Danforth collection of artwork and antiques. He liked this, the glint of greed overcoming you.
âWhat if you get me?â You suddenly asked. âIf you catch meâ You corrected, though for Titus there was no need.
OhâŚI willâŚI will get you little rabbitâŚ
âThen you get nothing.â Titus shrugged simply, keeping his cool and trying not to dwell on the outcome of if (or rather â when) he would catch you.
You looked right at Titus, then out and towards the dark golf course, illuminated only partially by the light of the house and veranda before being plunged into nothingness. Titus looked closely to your throat, the way you swallowed your nerves, and wondered if he were to press his tongue to your soft skin, he would feel your pulse under his slick muscle.
I want to eat you. I want to hunt you down, and eat you little rabbit. Say yes, dear fucking god say yes to my game.
âDeal.â You suddenly said, looking back at Titus, who smirked at your sudden burst of courage.
âOut the back, near the garage, five minutes.â Titus said as he tossed his glass over the side of the balustrade where it smashed somewhere unknown, before abruptly brushing past you to walk back inside to the party and out of your sights.
You managed to break away from the party, slipping past prying eyes and out into the entrance hall where you made a watery excuse to the staff as you left through the giant ornate front doors to the house.
You picked up your dress as you trotted across the pebbled drive, the only sound filling the night air was your heels as they struggled and crunched through the driveway stones. You rounded the house, where you could already see Titusâ silhouette by one of the garage doors. He had lost his dinner jacket, and was standing in his boots, trousers and his grey shirt that was layered over by his waistcoat, his shirt sleeves already opened and rolled up along his thick forearms.
âThere she is.â Titus mused with a crooked smirk. âI was beginning to worry.â He mocked.
âBlame the dress.â You chuckled, demonstrating how you had to pick it up in order to move.
âDoesnât bode well for out little game.â Titus quirked a brow before turning and looking out to the golf course.
Donât worryâŚthat dress wonât last longâŚthough neither will you little rabbit...
âIâm going to give you a one-minute head start.â Titus said, looking outwards. âAfter thatâŚIâm on your ass.â He smirked darkly, and you felt a shiver overcome you.
You suddenly didnât feel quite as brave as before, that perhaps you had said yes to a game with Titus that wasnât going to go your way. As soon as Titus nodded and began counting from sixty, you kicked off your stubborn heels, and ran. You ran out from the edges of the house and onto the golf course, plush tended green grass cushioning your swollen feet. The dampness of the freshly cut and sprinkled golf course made you slip and falter a little, yet you regained yourself and continued sprinting towards the darkness, the lip of the woods that framed the course.
Titus stood by, though he shifted his weight from side to side, chomping at the bit to chase after you. Watching you run off in front of him into the dark, the sound of your bare feet on the damp cut grass, it made him feel like an animal, hungry to chase. Hungry for you. This was what he had yearned for, for weeks now, the chance to hunt you, and finally sink his teeth and nails into you. To crush his body into yours and finally claim you. To have you entirely for his own.
5,4,3,2,1âŚNow! Titus lept forward and began running towards you, following the faint sounds of your feet carrying you.
Titus could see brief flashes of your dress in the dark ahead of him, disappearing into the bushes and trees of the woods, the white satin swishing into the blackness. This would be too easy, you were already so close he would barely need the ten minutes. You were practically wearing a white flag of surrender.
Titus ran across the threshold that separated the course and the woods, leaping across a small stream that divided the two, entering the woods and rushing past the trees. His boots thundered and echoed through the canopy with each stride, part of him prayed you could hear him, that you felt excited and fearful with each stamp of his footsteps drawing closer and closer and closer.
Suddenly, and without warning, Titus felt the harsh and wet slap of something cold on his front. He stumbled and halted in his tracks, spitting out leaves and earth that you had scooped up during your head start to throw back should Titus come too close.
Clever little rabbit. Titus grinned as he wiped his face of dirt and started chasing again, now at a slight disadvantage in distance.
He growled in frustration as your footsteps had ceased to be heard by him, and he wasnât too sure where you had moved to, how far away you were or even if you were hiding right under his nose. It was dark, not entirely so for Titus, but enough to make it difficult to tell the difference between a cluster of trees and a body standing defiantly in the dark.
Titus stood still, his sharp ears spanning out, searching for any sign of movement or harsh breathing and panting. He was waiting for you to move, for you to feel safe enough in the dark to tempt your fate. But then, the wind rustled through the trees, and Titus suddenly caught a scent that was all too familiar.
Your smell. Your perfume. Your undoing.
âI can smell you little rabbit.â Titus whispered into the dark, moving his head a little, eyes wide to adjust to the night as he turned his head in the direction of the wind.
Titus took two steps in the direction he sensed you were in, and suddenly heard rustling, followed by laughter. His senses were right, they rarely were wrong, and he was on to you. His pace quickened as he followed the sound of your breathless laughter and clumsy footsteps, scrambling away from Titus as he galloped towards you at full pace.
Then. Nothing.
Titus halted and frowned, panting with exertion as the sounds in front of him stopped entirely. It was as if you had evaporated into thin air, a ghost, a figment of Titusâ greed to hunt. His need for you. He glared into the darkness, as if offended by its means to disguise you from him.
Where are youâŚwhere did you slink off to little rabbitâŚitâs useless hidingâŚ
Titus contemplated moving again, when his eyes caught sight of something lurking behind the trees. He made for it, and felt his heartbeat quicken as he saw ugly white satin behind the tree. He grinned as he reached out and snatched the fabric, yet stumbled when he felt no weight nor resistance.
Titus stood with the dress in his fists, void of you. You had taken it off and placed it against the tree to throw him. More importantly â to Titus that was â you were now running around his estate barefootâŚin your underwearâŚ
Instantly, Titus could feel his cock stirring. The thought of you more exposed, with only a thin layer of fabric to protect you whilst you tried to evade him in his own territory? This had gone beyond a need to claim you. Beyond his own understanding of his desires. It was now a matter of fact, that once he caught you, you were never going to be free of him.
âHurry up Danforth, times almost up!â
Your voice and laughter echoed through the trees, mocking Titus, serving to fuel his appetites, his aggression to find you. You were playing a dangerous game, one that Titusâ was sure you werenât quite fully prepared to meet the consequences of.
The snap of a branch not too far from Titusâ left was your undoing. He tossed the ugly white dress to the floor and trod across it into the earth as he chased your noises. Not too long however, he was hit with a second face full of leaves and dirt. This time, he was less amused at your thinking, and could feel his rage boiling under his skin. You were making an idiot out of him. And he wouldnât allow it any further. He wasnât going to hold back this time, he was going to get you, and never let you go.
Enough games little rabbitâŚthis all ends hereâŚright nowâŚyour ass is mine.
Titus wiped his mouth of the dirt and chased after you, his eyes picking up the faint movements of your body just ahead of him. Your frantic and breathless laugh offended his senses, how dare you laugh at him, how dare you make him look foolish. Prey doesnât do that. Prey flees, it panics and runs for its life.
Titus audibly growled as he sprinted, gaining on you and closing the distance. His blood roared in his ears as he huffed and dug his boots into the ground one quick stride after the other. Your laughter was suddenly cut off as Titus reached out, and took a fistful of your hair before yanking you with all his strength backwards.
You let out a loud scream, a mixture of shock and excitement, you were over stimulated and excitable, wriggling in Titusâ grasp. Prey caught in the clutches of itâs pursuer. Titus grinned wildly as he held you tight to his front, arms and legs wrapping around you, his chin hooked over your shoulder as you kicked and struggled, half laughing, half gasping for air from running.
âI told you Iâd get you little rabbit.â Titus growled deeply into the shell of your ear.
You smelt the wet earth you had thrown in his face, clinging to his sweaty skin as he pressed himself against your back, his strong hands like vices around your wrists as he caged you into his body. You couldnât deny the feeling of excitement and adrenaline rushing through your anatomy, how it made your nerves feel on fire, electric even. Titus gave you a look over, how mud had decorated your bare skin, your modestly covered only by a pair of lacy underwear and a bra. He could see small wicks of red on your skin from where you had clumsily rushed though bushes and thickets and scraped yourself. He made a mental note to bathe you later, to see to your little cuts and injuries from his game. But for now...now he would enjoy his prize.
Titus couldnât deny, you made a decent effort to evade him, not many were capable of outlasting him for this long, and indeed outsmarting him in different ways. Titus moved his hand from your wrist to flatten across your chest, his palm pressing hard into your body. Your skin felt cold, despite the sweat the coated across the surface of your body.
âI can feel your little heart, feel how fast itâs beating.â Titus panted, his breath flush on your exposed skin. âYou like this, the threat, the chaseâŚgetting caught by me.â Titus hummed, and pressed his lips to your neck, tasting your sweat slicked skin. âTell meâŚdid you want me to catch you?â
âY-Yesâ You panted, brows knitted together, your response sounded closer to a plea than an answer. âIâŚI didâŚIâŚwant youâŚâ You finally admitted, to Titus, and to yourself.
You moaned, shamelessly loud and wanton at the sensation of Titusâ hot mouth upon your skin. You felt him shuffle to press into your further, immediately you could feel his stiff erection pressing into your ass as he continued to hold you close, crushing your body to his.
âIâm going to keep you, forever, and ruin you. Iâm going to eat you little rabbit.â Titus hummed, almost melodically into your ear, delighting in your little needy whining.
âTitus.â You gasped.
âYou didnât make the ten minutes, thereforeâŚyou lose.â Titus whispered. âYouâre all mine now.â
With this, Titus stood up and yanked you by the arm to your feet. It astonished you how strong Titus was, impossibly so as he lifted you with ease and pushed you against the closest tree he could locate. All the air in your lungs left you in an unceremonious huff as Titus pushed your body against the rough surface of the tree, yet your sounds were silenced as his mouth found yours, his hands cupping your cheeks, squeezing your jaw as he crushed his lips against you.
Your hands flattened against his waistcoat, gripping on to the edges of the arm holes and pulling Titus closer to you, if it were even possible. Titus groaned into your mouth as he deepened the kiss, his tongue hungrily seeking out yours, swiping across the inside of your mouth like a man starved. He moved his hands to your biceps, reflexively gripping and releasing your limbs before he reached for your plush waist, his fingers digging almost painfully into your anatomy, so much so that you hiccupped a cry into Titusâ open mouth.
âThatâs rightâŚmoanâŚmoan for me little rabbit.â Titus goaded you in a hushed tone, you could smell the remnants of malt and cigar smoke, mixed with something entirely his own. âYouâll be screaming my name in no time. Those fuckers at the party will be able to hear us.â
He kissed you again, taking your jaw in one hand and guiding your mouth back to his. You moaned deeply, fingers digging into his thick forearms as he passionately kissed you. Weeks and weeks of yearning, of hunger, starved for something just out with his grasp, now finally, he could consume you. Â
âTake it off.â Titus grunted into your ear, snorting a huff of air as he tugged on the shoulder strap of your bra before taking a swaggering step back to look you over in the dark whilst you unclipped your bra and threw it to his feet.
To your surprise, you felt Titus reach forward and grip the waistband of your underwear before tearing it in two with ease, tossing the damp fabric either side of you both and into the bushes. You were naked, all for him, and a part of you felt slightly ashamed that you were overcome with excitement and arousal. You practically trembled with need for him.
Titus brushed his nose and lips against yours, not enough to close the gap and kiss you, more over to taunt you a little further with want for his touch. He had spent weeks craving you, it felt only fair that he made you feel as equally needy.
âT-TitusâŚplease.â You whimpered, pathetically, wantonly.
âGod youâre beautiful when you beg.â Titus growled, and immediately pressed himself against you.
Whilst one hand held your jawline, another smoothed its way across your soft and ample belly, before Titus slid his middle and ring finger between your thighs, finding you abundantly slick with need. Both of you moaned in unison, Titus in awe with how much you wanted him, and yourself for the relief of finally being touched by him. You had done so in the privacy of your apartment after spending hours in the Danforth house, after crossing paths with Titus. You would spend hours awake at night, imagining what he would feel like between your legs.
âLook at how wet you are for me.â Titus cooed, delighting in your pleasured sobs as he circled your swollen clit with his calloused fingers. âSo wetâŚso needyâŚis this all for me little rabbit?â
âY-Yes!â You exclaimed loudly. âGod, fuck! Titusâ You loudly exclaimed as Titus dipped his fingers into your entrance, eyeing you out the corner of his vision as he fastened his lips to your neck, your collar bone, anywhere he damn well pleased.
Your pleas fuelled Titusâ desire, and he could feel how agonisingly hard he had become, his erection straining with need against the confines of his suit pants. He wanted you, he wanted to be buried inside of you, to feel you envelope him in your warmth and soft flesh. Your softness against his hardness, seeking out the euphoric high.
âOhâŚOh god! T-Titus IâŚIâm gonnaâŚIâŚâ You couldnât finish your sentence as you practically fucked yourself into Titusâ hand.
âThatâs goodâŚgood little rabbitâŚtake itâŚtake all of it and fall apart in the palm of my hand.â Titus grumbled into your ear, drunk with lust as he took your earlobe between his teeth whilst his fingers curled tightly inside of you.
Almost instantly, your knees wobbled and your hands steadied atop of Titusâ broad shoulders as you came around his fingers. Titus hummed along as you moaned out his name, loudly and without hesitation. He felt a swell of pride inside of his chest as you proclaimed his name, how it echoed through the trees and unsettled several nesting birds.
Titusâ didnât give you time to come down from your high, whilst you held onto his shoulders still, he withdrew his fingers from your slickness, bringing his digits up to his mouth where he licked them clean, tasting you.
The wait was worth it, Titus had decided. Delayed gratification was certainly at play, and now he intended to sample the rest of you.
You watched through hooded lids as Titus stared deeply into your eyes whilst his left hand reached to pop open his suit pants, the zipper rasping only made you more aroused at the prospect of what was about to happen. Titus sighed as he freed his cock from its confines, his hand wrapping around the thickness of himself and rubbing once or twice before shuffling closer to you. You felt Titus hold your shoulders and spin you in place so your face pressed into the bark of the tree, hands pressed up and against the trunk. Titusâ muddy boot tapped on either side of your inner calves and ankles.
âSpread.â He panted, and you did as instructed, widening your stance and effectively pushing your ass out for him, needy for him.
The eagerness on your end delighted Titus, and made him twitch enthusiastically within his fist. He took a hold of his cock, and tapped it against the roundness of your ass, smirking proudly that you were all his. Titus then carefully ran the round head of his cock through the seam of you, coating himself in your abundant arousal, listening to you moan out his name, needy.
Look at you, so desperate for me little rabbitâŚyouâve wanted this just as much as meâŚ
As he lined himself up with your entrance, Titus bent over and whispered into your ear âAfter thisâŚIâm never letting you leave.â
Without warning, he pushed himself inside of you. The pair of you moaned at the sudden intrusion, your silky anatomy felt warm, and impossibly tight around Titusâ cock. You felt him stretch you out as he pushed gradually, deeper and deeper inside of you. An ache that you were drunk on. Titusâ strong hands gripped at your waist and ass as he bottomed out, his hips flush against you as your body gripped around him.
âFuckâŚdammit youâre so tight.â Titus exhaled sharply, leaning over to press his mouth to your shoulder, tasting your sweat slicked skin and the hint of dirt still lingering upon it.
He drew back a little, just enough for only his head to remain within you, before plunging deep inside of you once more. Steadily, Titus increased his pace, until the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed and applauded through the woods, paired with your cries and pleas for Titus. Only Titus.
It wouldnât take long to make you come, and Titus knew it was the same scenario for himself. He could feel the heat coiling in the pit of his belly as he fucked himself into you, filling you entirely. You couldnât fathom a sentence, every sound that came from you was a garbled attempt to utter Titusâ name or to moan a broken expletive.
âTurn around.â Titus huffed as he withdrew from you, a smirk toying on his mouth as you sobbed at the loss of him inside of you.
As you circled, Titus dipped down to lift you, and wrap your legs around his waist whilst he firmly pushed your spine into the tree, securing you between it and his body. You reached for Titus' cheeks, smoothing your thumbs across his greyish stubble, whispering against his lips.
âYou feel so goodâŚI want moreâŚI want youâŚpleaseâŚoh god please Titus.â Your lips brushed across Titusâ, and he allowed you to tease him, he allowed you a brief moment to feel like you were tempting him.
Im all yours little rabbit...and you are all mine...
Titus slid his cock through your folds once again, his hips slowly grinding back and forth, and you could feel yourself tightening around nothing as he teased you.
âTell me, tell me how much you want me to fuck you little rabbit.â Titus gruffed against your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lip, tasting the faintest and familiar hint of blood from where you had chewed viciously at your flesh out of sheer pleasure.
âTitus! Please! P-Please IâŚoh-fuck I need youâ You cried out, and swore you could feel the sting of tears as you pleaded for him to fill you again, to complete your body with his. To follow through on his promise, to ruin you.
Titus grinned hungrily against your mouth âGood girl.â He whispered as he kissed you.
He pressed his cock to your entrance, and pushed himself deep inside of you, his pace rough and thorough as he fucked you up against the tree, your legs tightly wrapped around his torso. You wrapped your arms around Titusâ neck, his head eye level with your breasts as they moved in time with his body slamming into you. He couldnât resist the temptation, and caught your firm nipple between his lips and teeth, carefully yet teasingly, he nibbled and suckled hungrily at your flesh.
âO-Oh god! Oh fuck! T-Titus!â You moaned, your fingers lacing into his greying curls and forcefully yanking his head.
He let go of your breast from his mouth to look up at you whilst he fucked you, his strong hips delivering deep and meaningful thrusts. You were certain walking was going to be a challenge the following day with how deep you could feel Titusâ cock nudging within you.
âThatâs itâŚtake itâŚtake all of meâŚI want you to only know thisâŚonly know the pleasure I can give youâŚâ Titusâ eyes roamed over your features as they twisted and moved in ecstasy.
He then decided to slow himself down, and push as far as your body would allow him. He ground his pelvis deep into you, where the tip of his thick cock pressed into the most intimate part of your anatomy, so much so that it made your vision starry and your breath catch in your throat.
âThatâs my girlâŚyou take me so wellâŚyouâre so perfect for meâŚâ Titus mused as he dipped his head to run the flat of his tongue across your collar bones and throat, delighting in the salty tang of sweat upon your skin. âYou belong to meâŚforeverâŚdo you understand?â
You were unable to answer him at first, your mind awash with lust and unable to concentrate on anything other than the deep pressure rooted inside your abdomen.
âAnswer my questionâ Titus barked suddenly, his fingernails digging sharply into the plush flesh of your ass and thighs.
âY-Yes! Yes Titus!â You practically screamed to the heavens, âI-Iâm yoursâŚall yours.â You choked and looked down at Titus as he smiled adoringly at you.
âGood girl.â He growled and claimed your mouth once more.
Now he would reward you, he withdrew from you, and pistoned his hips, aiding you in chasing the high you desperately craved. He wanted to see what you looked like, falling to pieces, his name the only word you were capable of uttering as you were overcome with pleasure.
âIâŚI canâtâŚI-Iâm close.â You whimpered, curling up into Titus as he fucked you, your forehead resting against Titusâ.
âLook at me, show meâŚshow me your face.â Titus instructed, and watched as your face, barely illuminated by the moon above and beyond the treetops, the way your eyes glistened in the dark at him.
That lookâŚfuck there it isâŚthat beautiful faceâŚso softâŚsoâŚsoâŚsoâŚ
âFuck!â Titus growled as he felt himself tighten up, his own orgasm threatening to close in.
He then felt your hands cupping his cheeks again, your lips seeking him out. It took several more thrusts before you were falling into oblivion. You cried out Titusâs name, over and over like a prayer as you came hard around him, your core tightening and milking his cock. Titus thrusted into you, fast and profound, fucking you through your orgasm until suddenly, your name erupted from the depths of Titusâ chest and out into the open air.
He came hard much like yourself, in thick, warm spurts that filled your already tight body. You held his head to your chest as you both panted and moaned in the aftershocks of your orgasms, your mind was spinning, and you could hear your blood continuing to whoosh and roar through your ears.
âYou still alive?â Titusâ amused yet hoarse voice vibrated against you, paired with the slight scratchy sensation of his stubble against the soft and sweaty flesh of your breasts.
âMhmm.â
Titus leaned back to look at you, as best as he could in the dark. He couldnât help but smirk triumphantly as he felt your spongy limbs hanging around his body, like a freshly caught and culled doe strewn across his front. Limp and heavy.
âLean on me for a sec.â He said as he began to slide his softening cock out from your slickness.
He listened to you moan at the sensation of him leaving your anatomy, already you felt his seed mixed with your slickness, slipping out from between you and down your legs. Your hands rested against Titus for support as he stuffed himself back into his pants, the front of which now damp with both your slickness.
Titus then scooped you up and into his arms with ease. You marvelled at his strength, at how powerful Titus was, how he could carry your weight even after exerting his energy in passionately fucking you mere minutes ago.
His arms gripped you as he began to walk back through the woods, through the dark with little issue. As if he could be blindfolded and sense his way back to the house. He could navigate the woods better than most. Within the house, Ursula controlled things; dinner parties, meetings, guests ect. Out here, Titus was the master and commander of what happened.
âTitusâŚmy dressâŚmy clothes.â You spoke, raspy and worn as you looked up at the shadowy underside of your loverâs face as he walked with his head held high, proud of what he had succeeded that night. Of his prize laying within his sweaty arms.
âFuck that ugly dress.â Titus grunted with a smirk, more so when he felt you chuckle lazily in his embrace. âIâll buy you a whole closet of new ones, expensive onesâŚones that are black and burgundy. Not white.â
Titus had quickly decided your wedding dress would be burgundy, and that it would be bought for you over the next few days.
You felt Titus' voice and chuckle vibrate through his chest against your body as he continued to march back towards the house. He would sneak you both back inside via the back entrance and garages where no one would see your naked and ravaged form, and certainly not where they would see him taking you upstairs to his bedroom for a second round.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until youâre an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
⚠࣪ Ë word count: 127kâongoingâupdates weekly (might be later if life happens...)
Summary: When a job goes off the rails, Craig calls Popeâs wife for help.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of sex, Mentions of robbery (I mean, itâs Animal Kingdom), Heavy makeout, Pope being obsessed with his wife, Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: This came to me in a vision. I donât know what to tell you. But, as always, please let me know what you think! I wrote this one quick because Iâve been in a bit of a writing funk, so feedback is always the best kind of inspiration!!
Word Count: 1.6k
-
The steering wheel is cool beneath your fingers. The midday sun is burning through your sunglasses. Anxiety is twisting in your stomach.
You donât fight with your husband. Ever. Sure, you can bicker sometimes, but even then itâs always more one-sided on your end. Pope Cody would burn the world to the ground for you. He would kill a man without question if you merely asked him to. He loves you so much that it borders on obsession, and it might even be a little bit unhealthy if you werenât as unbelievably in love with him as he is with you.
When you bicker, itâs usually caused by nothing more intense than one of you being tired and grumpy. And those tiffs more often than not end with you both apologizing, him hiding his smile with a kiss to your forehead, and then dragging you to the bedroom so you can take any lingering frustration out on each other in moreâŚcreative ways.
And so, despite it all, despite the obsessive way he loves you and the stress of his lifestyle and Smurf constantly trying to bring you into it, you donât fight.
But this⌠he is gonna fucking kill you for this.
If you survive it in the first place, that is.
Deep breath. Grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Focus on the parking lot. Bite down the anxiety that feels like itâs ripping your stomach lining apart.
Five.
You shouldnât be here. You know that. ButâŚ
Four.
You promised him you would never get involved. Not in any of this shit.
Three.
You kind of wish you had a coffee or something. Maybe a shot. The amount of adrenaline coursing through your system is nearly unbearable and you havenât even started moving yet.
Two.
The passenger door is ripped open, and Craig Cody nearly knocks you into the window with how quickly he barrels into the car.
âDrive!â
âNope.â Your voice is steady. Firm.
âWhat?!â What, indeed. You donât care how they usually do this, but no one is jumping into a moving car today.
One.
Pope moves into the backseat like a wraith, sliding in with a duffel bag over his shoulder and Deran and Jay right behind him.
He opens his mouth, the word âmoveâ a sharp crack from his lips before his dark eyes land right. The fuck. Onto you.
âNo.â
âHey, honey.â Your voice is tight. Too bright. âLong day?â
Heâs looking at Craig, now. Oh boy, he might kill him before he kills you.
âSheâs obviously gonna get a cut.â Craig says, like that helps, and you grip the steering wheel a little more tightly. Check the rearview again.
âGet out of the car.â Heâs speaking to you, and you donât have time to tell him heâs being overprotective.
âSeatbelts.â
âAre you serious right-â
âShut up, Craig. Seatbelts.â
You hear four clicks. A few grumbles. You feel Popeâs eyes burning into the back of your head.
You slam your foot on the gas.
-
Within about four minutes, the smell of burning rubber is making your eyes water. The flash of blue lights is making them burn. The feeling of your husbandâs eyes locked onto the back of your head is making your skin prickle.
âFucking - stop it!â You finally shout, whipping around another corner and risking two seconds of releasing the wheel in favor of putting your hand over his face. Itâs a childish move, sure, but the weight of his gaze is too heavy and youâre moving too fast to deal with it right now. He catches your hand, squeezes it once in an almost painfully instinctive way, and releases it just before you whip around another corner.
âJesus Christ! Where did you learn to drive like this?!â Deran shouts, hands braced on the backseat to keep himself steady and eyes blown wide as he looks at you like you just grew a second head.
âI donât know! Grand Theft Auto?â You try, and you sound a little more shrill than you would like to.
Craig is laughing. Jay is silent. You think Pope might have an aneurism.
âWall! Wall!â He suddenly shouts, and grabs at you like he might shield you from the inevitable crash.
You swerve out of the way with less than a second to spare, feel his arm locked around your chest from behind your seat, and giggle like an absolute lunatic.
This time, when he looks at you in the rearview mirror, you can barely read his expression. His eyes are wide, filled with panic and surprise, and you giggle again, the fear and adrenaline overflowing from you in what might be the worst form possible.
Yeah, heâs definitely gonna kill you.
-
The moment the car stops, Pope launches out of the back, and you know whatâs about to happen before he even makes it to your door.
âYou think heâs gonna kill me?â Craig asks, still grinning, still riding the same adrenaline high thatâs making your blood hum in your veins.
You look at him, and grin right back. âOh yeah. Youâre dead, dude.â
Your car door rips open, and Craig even reaches forward to unbuckle your seatbelt for you before Pope Cody lifts you right out of the fucking car.
He carries you around to the other side of the building like you weigh less than a paperweight, placing you on your feet in the alley and caging you against the brick wall. His eyes are burning into yours, so intense you can feel the weight of his gaze like a fucking anvil on your shoulders.
âI know youâre mad, but-â
To your surprise, he kisses you. He kisses you so hard that, if it werenât for his hand flying up to protect the back of your head, the force of it might slam you back against the wall hard enough to concuss you.
His body envelops yours. His hands slide over your cheeks to cradle your face in a way thatâs almost more possessive than adoring, lips moving against your own with a desperation that has your knees shaking.
âIâŚâ It is painfully difficult to think when his teeth are scraping over your lower lip, when his tongue is tracing the sting of it like itâs second nature. âMm, I thought you were mad.â
His hands skate down your body, wrapping around the backs of your thighs and lifting you against him so he can press you more tightly against the wall and kiss you even harder.
âFurious.â He growls, pulling back to brush his nose over the hollow of your throat. âIâm fucking furious.â
âYouâre sending some very mixed signals about it.â
His hips grind against yours, and he swallows your gasp of pleasure with another kiss. Itâs all tongues and teeth, like heâs trying to taste the lingering adrenaline on your tongue while still trying to cling to his anger that you were driving the car in the first place.
âIf Craig calls you on a job,â his hand is sliding up beneath your shirt, supporting you with one arm and still kissing you like youâre the only source of oxygen heâs ever tasted, âdonât fucking answer.â
âHe said it was an emergency.â
âI donât care.â
He hikes you up a little higher, hips grinding against yours, and cuts off your gasp with another rough kiss.
You smile against his lips, and his hands grip your thighs a little more tightly.
âI did good, though.â
He growls at that, pressing you tighter against the wall.
âI could have lost you.â
âBut I did good.â
He kisses you again, like heâs trying to change the subject, and you catch his chin to keep him in place.
Because you know damn well why youâre up against this wall, and it isnât just because he was worried about your safety. You can feel it in the quickness of his breath. In the tight grip on your thighs.
He likes to take care of you, but he knows youâre not delicate. Not breakable. And as protective as he can be, he fucking loves it.
âSay it.â You murmur, a smile still tugging on the corners of your lips. âI kicked ass.â
His eyes burn into yours, pushing forward to press his forehead against your own.
âYou didâŚâ oh, he doesnât want to say it. He doesnât want to encourage this, but he knows youâre right and he doesnât want to admit how much itâs turning him the fuck on, ââŚyou did good.â
âI kicked ass.â Your lips brush over his. His hands tighten even more on your body.
âDonât push it.â
You grin, and when you kiss him again he groans so low that you can feel it in your bones.
And he really might take you right there in the alley, if it werenât for Craig.
âYo, put your dick away for five minutes. We gotta get this shit packed up.â
You both turn your heads, both breathless, and whatever look Pope gives his brother has the larger man raising his hands in mock surrender.
âJust sayinâ, a public indecency charge isnât gonna make the rest of this shit look good.â
âCockblock.â You grumble.
âAdrenaline junkie.â He quips back, smile widening.
Your husband makes a frustrated noise, lowering you to your feet and pressing his nose into your temple in that odd affectionate way he has. You smile, turn your head to kiss cheek, and feel him brush his fingers over your waist one last time before he reluctantly pulls back.
As you walk with him back into the alley, Craig throws his arm over your shoulder, squeezing you hard enough to make you nearly stumble. âYou kicked ass.â
You laugh, and lean into his side as Pope turns to glare at him. âDo not encourage her.â
Craig ignores him. Squeezes your shoulders again. âWanna help load up the car?â
âWhatâs my cut?â
âAtta girl.â
And, though Pope doesnât turn around again, still emanating pure rage, you can see the corners of his lips twitch in the smallest hint of a smile.
Well, he may not have killed you, but youâre definitely in for it later, and youâre pretty confident you wonât be complaining.
And if Craig calls you on another jobâŚyou just might answer.
you can download current and past hi-res versions of these over at my ko-fi (ok to print for personal use): https://ko-fi.com/mxmorgan/shop/freedownloads
you can also snag shirts here which go to various orgs: https://mxmorgan.threadless.com/collections/pride
these get reposted a whole lot from here to reddit to twitter to tiktok and on and on, and i don't personally care whether or not i'm credited. i made these for everyone to use, enjoy, and find meaning in them. i appreciate folks who do credit me, but if able, please at least link to the threadless shop in the previous post - folks can get an official shirt where 90% of earnings go to trans led orgs focused on mental health (which is an important matter in general, but very personal to me) and not from a scam bot site selling AI-churned maga garbage where you probably won't get one anyway. i also suggest downloading the files from my ko-fi - they are free/PWYW and you can use them to make your own shirt, patch, embroidery project, whatever. tips are always nice, cuz i do like a pizza now and then, but never required for download.
final thought - breaking the pride tradition and more than likely won't make a new piece. the top one from TDOV is all i'm making this year. i have my focus on other projects currently and i don't want to force a poster design. these came from a specific head space and my current head space is Very Tired lmao so i wanna work on other things. đ
