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@prettywhenicryinterlude
Hi really quickly sorry
FUCK TRUMP
FUCK ICE
FUCK FASCISTS
FUCK ISRAEL
FREE PALESTINE
FREE THE CONGO
FREE SUDAN
I LOVE IMMIGRANTS
I LOVE QUEER PEOPLE
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HUMAN RIGHTS ARE BASIC RIGHTS
If you support ice, support the genocide, racist, homophobic, maga, or a nazi.
THEN YOU ARE NOT WELCOME ON THIS BLOG.
This isn’t a matter of “opinion” it’s a matter of are you a fascist or are you normal
You are Cordially Invited...
Dearest Lovergirls, It is with the greatest honor and pleasure that I announce the official wedding of our lovely couple, YN YLN and Jack Abbot. The happy couple has asked our team to present you all with official wedding invitations, which will be hosted in Oak Bluffs.
As you are all aware, we've watched this couple grow from their first accidental meeting at the ER to their first intimate moments with each other. You've all been there for every step of the way on this spectacular journey. I can't thank you all enough for being here and supporting them through it all. We've laughed, we've cried, we've made freaked-out comments about Jack Abbot, and some of us have even been placed in timeout. Nonetheless, we have made it to our big moment. Before our wedding chapter, we will have the wedding weekend, which will include all of the activities that our happy couple does before the big day. To reserve your seat for this special ceremony, I do ask that you RSVP either in the comments or by reblog! Thank you all so much. I look forward to seeing you all at the ceremony!
link to the series here:
The Guest List (taglist):
@cosmicneptune @abschaffer2 @slvtformyman @naibaby
@blyffe @xxohsnapitspatxx @accountforreading123
@danielle143 @butterpas2 @thebabykashmere @1dhoe93
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selfish
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: jack finds out that his daughter has a boyfriend which leads him to find out that he’s been absent in her life for far too long.
pairing: jack abbot x teenage daughter! reader
warnings: brief descriptions of a fight, blood, hospital setting, medical terminology and probably inaccurate medical scenes
notes: this fic is based of this request! if you wanna make a request feel free to ask and let me know if i should do a part 2 to this fic!!
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist
This hadn’t been the plan in the slightest.
One minute you were at your boyfriend’s soccer game, sitting on the sidelines with the rest of the sports med team and trying to finish your chemistry homework between water breaks. The next, you were following the ambulance he was in to the emergency department.
Yeah. Definitely not the plan.
It wasn’t like injuries were rare in soccer. Fights weren’t exactly unheard of either, especially during rivalry games. You’d seen sprained ankles, dislocated fingers, concussions, even one really nasty tib-fib fracture during your sophomore year.
But this was the first time you’d watched something happen to your boyfriend. And somehow that made everything feel slower.
One second Noah had been yelling at one of his teammates to back off after a shove near midfield. The next, he was trying to separate two players before things escalated. Then someone from the other team swung.
You still remembered the sound. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just sickeningly solid.
Noah stumbled backward immediately, hands flying to his face as blood started pouring between his fingers almost instantly.
Training took over before your brain did.
By the time you reached him, you already had gloves on and gauze pressed firmly against his nose. Noah was swearing under his breath while blood soaked through the first pad almost immediately.
“Don’t tilt your head back,” you snapped automatically when he tried to lean his head upward.
“I know that,” he muttered, voice thick and congested.
“You’re literally doing it right now.”
One of the other sports med girls was already radioing for EMS while the coach tried, and failed, to calm down the screaming players still arguing near midfield.
“Think it’s broken?” Noah asked.
You gave him a look.
His nose was visibly crooked already.
“I think you should stop talking.”
That earned the tiniest laugh from him before he winced hard and spit blood onto the grass.
Okay. Cool. Awesome.
Your stomach turned a little at that.
The paramedics arrived quickly after that, kneeling beside Noah while you gave a rushed report automatically.
“Male, seventeen, punched in the face during an altercation,” you said, still holding pressure to his nose. “Brief dizziness immediately after impact but no loss of consciousness, no vomiting, pupils equal and reactive. Heavy epistaxis initially but slowing with pressure.”
One of the paramedics glanced at you, impressed.
“You planning on med school?”
“My dad works in an ER,” you answered automatically.
That somehow explained everything.
They transferred Noah onto the stretcher mostly because of the amount of blood and the dizziness, though everyone seemed pretty confident it was a nasal fracture more than anything life-threatening. Still, facial injuries could be tricky, and they wanted imaging done to rule out anything worse.
You barely even registered following the stretcher toward the ambulance until one of the paramedics opened the doors.
“Family only, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” You blinked quickly. “Right.”
Noah reached for your wrist before they could close the doors.
“Meet me there?”
“Obviously.”
One of the paramedics told you they were heading to PTMC, and you nodded quickly before jogging toward your car.
The entire drive there, adrenaline buzzed uncomfortably beneath your skin. Not because Noah was dying. Rationally, you knew he wasn’t. But because this was going to become a whole thing the second your dad found out.
So here you were pulling into the staff parking lot, because Jack got tired of hearing you complain about the walk from visitor parking months ago and added your car to the access list, and speed-walking toward the ambulance bay entrance of the ED.
You checked your phone while you moved quickly towards PTMC.
6:34 p.m.
Perfect.
Robby was still here and Jack wasn’t on shift yet. Which meant you could probably explain the situation to him first before having to explain to your father that you’d had a boyfriend for six months and somehow forgot to mention it.
That felt manageable. Slightly humiliating, but manageable.
Before you knew it, you were pushing through the sliding ambulance bay doors, immediately getting hit with the familiar noise of the ED. Phones rang nonstop somewhere near the nurses’ station, monitors beeped in uneven rhythms, and someone down the hall was loudly asking for a psych consult.
None of it really phased you anymore. You’d spent enough time in this department growing up that it almost felt normal. Which was probably concerning.
You moved through the chaos quickly toward the hub, hoping to spot either Dana or Robby. Usually at least one of them was hovering somewhere nearby trying to keep the entire department from collapsing in on itself.
Neither were there.
Great.
You glanced around before looking up toward the patient tracking board overhead, scanning for Noah’s name among the list of room assignments and triage notes.
“Excuse me, you can’t just come back here.”
The voice came from beside you.
You turned to see a tall, lanky guy with shaggy light brown hair and an expression that somehow managed to be both smug and exhausted at the same time. Scrubs. Badge clipped crookedly to his waistband. Probably a med student or resident.
Definitely new.
“Oh, I’m just looking for my boyfriend. He just got brought in by EMS—”
“You still need to get a visitor pass,” he interrupted. “I can show you to the front desk.”
You let out a short breath somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “I know where the front desk is, I—”
“Good,” he cut in again, already gesturing toward the waiting room. “So let’s head over there, get you checked in properly, and then you can go find your boyfriend.”
“No,” you said plainly, turning back toward the board. “I’m gonna go see him right now.”
The guy blinked at your tone before letting out an incredulous scoff.
“Look, if you don’t come with me to get a visitor pass, I’m gonna have to call security to—”
“Do what?”
Robby’s voice cut cleanly through the conversation.
You looked over immediately to see him approaching from the sink area near the trauma rooms, still rubbing sanitizer between his hands as he walked over. His expression already carried the exhausted irritation of someone who’d dealt with three separate disasters in the last ten minutes and was prepared for a fourth.
The guy beside you straightened slightly.
“Dr. Robby, this girl just came in through the ambulance bay, and I told her she needs to get a visitor pass, but she’s refusing, so I think we might need security—”
“‘This girl,’” Robby interrupted calmly, “is Dr. Abbot’s daughter.”
You watched the man’s face change instantly.
Robby continued before he could recover. “And she also happens to be my niece.”
The guy’s entire posture shifted into immediate panic.
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” you said, unable to help yourself.
Robby finally looked over at you fully now, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
“You came through the ambulance bay again?”
“You gave me the code.”
“That was your takeaway from that sentence?”
You shrugged.
“Where’s Noah?” you asked quickly before he could start lecturing you.
Robby’s expression softened slightly at the genuine concern in your voice.
“South fourteen. Probably getting sent for imaging soon.” He paused, giving you a once-over. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
You nodded once. “I’m fine. He got punched in the face, not hit by a bus.”
“Good,” Robby said. “Because your dad is already having a bad enough day, and if I have to add ‘teenage relationship reveal during shift change’ onto it, I might actually quit medicine.”
You winced.
“Can we maybe… not tell him yet?”
Robby stared at you for a long second.
Then he sighed heavily. “Oh, this is gonna be a disaster.” He motioned with his head toward the hallway. “Come on, I’ll walk you over there.”
“I know where South Fourteen is—” you started.
“I know,” Robby interrupted, softer this time. “But I haven’t seen you in a while.”
The slight sentimentality in his voice caught you off guard enough that you decided not to make fun of him for it.
Barely.
You just nodded and moved over beside him so the two of you could walk together through the department. As you did, Robby glanced back toward the guy from earlier.
“Ogilvie, go check on your patient.”
The man, apparently Ogilvie, immediately pivoted and disappeared toward one of the rooms without another word.
You looked back at Robby. “He’s new?”
Robby let out a long sigh through his nose. “Yeah.”
“That explains a lot.”
“He means well.”
“He threatened to call security on me.”
“He threatens to call security on everybody.”
That actually made you laugh a little.
The two of you continued down the hallway, weaving around nurses, stretchers, and an environmental services cart parked halfway in the middle of the corridor for absolutely no reason. A trauma alert was being called overhead somewhere nearby, and you instinctively stepped closer to the wall to let a team rush past.
It was strange how normal all of this felt to you now. Most people your age would probably find the ED overwhelming. Loud. Chaotic. Maybe even scary. To you, it just smelled like antiseptic wipes and bad coffee.
“So,” Robby said after a moment, “you haven’t told him yet?”
You shot him a look immediately.
“Hey, I’m just asking,” he defended. “You guys have apparently been dating for, what, six months now?”
“About that.”
“And Jack has no idea?”
You exhaled slowly, already annoyed by the conversation. “I mean, it’s not like he’s ever home.”
“That’s not true,” Robby said automatically, instinctively defending him.
You gave him a look. A very pointed look.
Robby sighed.
“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe not the best argument.”
“Exactly.” You crossed your arms tighter over your chest as you walked. “He’s either picking up extra hours here, doing SWAT stuff, asleep because he worked a night shift, or off doing something with Samira.”
Robby stayed quiet.
“And now that I’m a senior,” you continued, “it’s like he thinks I can just handle everything myself.”
“You can, though,” Robby pointed out carefully, clearly very familiar with your aggressively independent personality.
“I mean, yeah,” you admitted. “But that’s not the point.”
Robby glanced sideways at you but didn’t interrupt this time.
“The only time I see him is if I make time for him,” you said, voice quieter now but sharper somehow. “It’s never him making time for me.”
You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like you hadn’t clearly been thinking about it for months.
“So honestly,” you finished, “it’s not really his business.”
The bitterness in your voice lingered between you.
Robby was quiet for a few steps. When he finally spoke, his tone had shifted completely.
“You know he loves you, right?”
“That’s not the point,” you shot back almost immediately.
Robby looked over at you for a long moment as the two of you slowed near the South hallway rooms.
“So what is the point?”
The question hit harder than you expected.
You glanced away quickly, eyes drifting around the department instead of looking at him. A nurse pushed a portable monitor past you. Someone laughed loudly from behind the nurses’ station. Overhead, another page echoed through the ED speakers.
Anything was easier to focus on than that question. Because the annoying thing was that you didn’t even fully know the answer yourself. You knew your dad loved you. Objectively, logically, unquestionably.
Jack Abbot wasn’t exactly great at talking about feelings, but he showed up when things mattered. He remembered stupid little details about you even when he forgot to sleep. He made sure your car always had gas in it. He texted you reminders to eat before exams even when he was working fourteen-hour shifts.
But somewhere along the line, it had started feeling less like having a parent and more like having a really overworked roommate who occasionally checked your location. And admitting that out loud felt cruel. Especially because you knew how hard he worked. Especially because everyone else in the hospital constantly reminded you how amazing he was.
“Oh look,” you said suddenly, spotting the room number ahead of you. “It’s South Fourteen.”
Robby narrowed his eyes immediately, recognizing the escape attempt.
“Bye, Robby,” you continued quickly, already stepping away from him toward the room.
“You know you can’t avoid the conversation forever,” he called after you.
You grabbed the door handle, turning back just long enough to flash him a quick smile.
“Bye, Robby!”
Then you slipped inside the room before he could say anything else, letting the door swing shut behind you.
The noise of the department dulled instantly.
Noah was sitting upright on the stretcher with an ice pack balanced awkwardly against his face while dried blood stained the front of his jersey. His nose was swollen enough now that the crookedness was even more obvious.
And somehow, despite all of that, the first thing he said when he saw you was:
“You look stressed.”
You stared at him. “You got punched in the face.”
“Yeah, but you look stressed.”
“I mean this is probably the day my dad is gonna find out about you so,” you said flatly.
Noah’s expression shifted immediately into understanding. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” You dropped into the chair beside the stretcher. “And I’m not exactly sure how it’s gonna go, Robby said it’s gonna be a disaster.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
Noah winced slightly, though this time it was probably emotional rather than physical.
“Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”
You snorted despite yourself.
Princess walked in a second later carrying supplies for bloodwork, glancing between the two of you before looking at Noah.
“Radiology should be ready for you soon,” she explained while tying the tourniquet around his arm. “CT maxillofacial without contrast. Dr. Langdon wants to rule out any orbital fractures.”
You relaxed slightly at that, at least Frank was the one working on him.
Standard imaging. Precautionary. Nothing sounding immediately catastrophic.
Noah, meanwhile, looked horrified by the needle now approaching his arm.
You blinked at him. “You literally got punched in the face and this is what scares you?”
“I contain multitudes,” he muttered.
“Uh huh,” you said skeptically, shifting your chair closer so you could take his free hand before the nurse stuck him with the needle.
Noah immediately relaxed a little at that.
“You are such a baby,” you informed him.
“Says the person who almost started a fight with hospital staff ten minutes ago.”
“He started it.”
Princess snorted softly under her breath while labeling the blood tubes.
“Vitals are stable,” she said after glancing at the monitor again. “Dr. Langdon will probably come by after CT.”
“Thanks,” you said automatically.
Princess gave you a quick smile before leaving the room, and Noah immediately looked back at you.
“So,” he said carefully, “how bad is this gonna be with your dad?”
You leaned back in the chair dramatically. “I genuinely don’t know.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I mean, he’s either gonna be weirdly calm about it or become emotionally constipated and avoid the conversation for three months.”
Noah considered that. “The second one sounds worse.”
“It is.”
He squeezed your hand lightly. “For what it’s worth, I’m not scared of him.”
You stared at him for a second.
“He literally works trauma medicine, is a SWAT medic for fun, and was in the army.”
“Okay, I’m a little scared of him.”
“That’s smarter.”
— — — — —
“Well, this is gonna be great.”
Robby sounded deeply unenthused as he approached the hub where Dana had finally returned.
“What is?” Dana asked, looking at him over the top of her glasses while scrolling through something on her tablet.
Robby dropped into the rolling chair behind the counter with the exhaustion of a man who had already worked twelve hours too many.
“Y/n just came in,” he started, rubbing a hand over his face, “with her boyfriend Jack doesn’t know about.”
Dana looked up immediately. “Noah’s here?”
Robby froze mid-spin in his chair. “You know about Noah?”
Dana blinked at him. “Of course I know about Noah.”
Robby looked genuinely offended by that.
“She talks to me,” Dana continued simply. “That girl needs somebody normal to discuss her life with.”
“I thought she only told me,” Robby muttered.
Dana’s mouth twitched. “What? Jealous?”
Robby just stared at her.
Dana laughed quietly to herself before looking back down at the tablet in her hands.
“Why’s he here?”
“I don’t know,” Robby admitted. “Apparently he got punched in the face during a soccer game.”
Dana grimaced sympathetically. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. Sounds like probable nasal fracture. Maybe orbital involvement, so they sent him for a CT.”
Dana nodded once, unsurprised. Then her expression shifted slowly into amusement again.
“Oh, Jack is gonna lose his mind.”
Robby pointed at her immediately. “See? That’s what I said.”
“No,” Dana corrected. “You said this was gonna be a disaster. I said it was gonna be entertaining.”
“What’s gonna be entertaining?”
Jack Abbot’s voice cut into the conversation as he walked toward the hub, stopping a few feet away from them. Dark scrubs on, coffee in one hand. Already looking exhausted before his shift had even technically started.
Robby reacted immediately.
“Brother, hey,” he said quickly, standing up so fast his chair rolled backward into a cabinet. “Ready for shift change?”
He moved toward Jack almost aggressively, grabbing onto his shoulder and steering him slightly away from the desk in what was possibly the least subtle distraction attempt in human history.
Jack narrowed his eyes instantly.
“What’s gonna be entertaining?” he repeated.
“Um—”
Robby visibly searched for literally anything else to say.
“Y/n’s here,” Dana answered calmly from behind the desk.
Robby whipped around to stare at her. Dana just shrugged without looking up from her tablet.
“What?” she said. “He was gonna find out eventually.”
Jack’s attention snapped back immediately. “Why is she here?”
The exhaustion disappeared from his face in less than a second, immediately replaced with alertness. Concern. That very specific ER-doctor hyperfocus that made people start answering questions before he even asked them.
“She’s not hurt or anything,” Robby said quickly.
Jack raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for the rest of the explanation.
Robby hesitated just a fraction too long. Which, unfortunately, was enough.
Jack’s expression shifted immediately into suspicion. “Robby.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“That sentence has literally never once been true.”
Dana snorted quietly. Robby ignored her.
“She came in with someone,” he admitted carefully.
“With who?”
Another pause.
Jack’s eyes narrowed further.
“With her boyfriend.”
Silence. Complete silence.
Even Dana looked up for this one.
Jack blinked once. Then again. “…Her what?”
“Oh boy,” Dana muttered under her breath.
Robby held both hands up immediately like he was trying to de-escalate an active hostage situation.
“Before you react—”
“How long has she had a boyfriend?”
Robby glanced at Dana briefly like maybe she wanted to take over now.
Dana absolutely did not.
“About six months,” Robby admitted.
Jack stared at him. “Six months.”
“Roughly.”
“And everybody knew except me?”
“Not everybody,” Dana corrected. “Just us.”
“That is not helping, Dana.”
Jack rubbed a hand over his face slowly, looking somewhere between offended and genuinely confused now.
“She has a boyfriend,” he repeated, like he still couldn’t fully process the sentence.
“She’s seventeen,” Dana pointed out reasonably.
“I’m aware of how old my daughter is.”
“Questionable based on how surprised you seem right now,” Dana said.
Robby actually had to bite back a laugh at that.
Jack ignored both of them completely. “Where is she?”
Robby hesitated.
Jack pointed a finger at him immediately. “Don’t do that thing where you hesitate because then I assume it’s worse.”
“She’s in South Fourteen.”
“With the boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
“Soccer fight,” Robby answered. “Probably broken nose. CT’s pending.”
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. Then, without another word, he turned and started toward the South hallway.
Robby watched him go.
“…Should we warn her?”
Dana considered it for half a second.
“Nah.” She took a sip of coffee. “This feels educational.”
— — — — —
You had been alone in the room for maybe five minutes.
Noah had just been taken down for his CT scan, leaving you behind with the uncomfortable plastic chair, the faint smell of antiseptic, and hospital Wi-Fi that apparently operated using pure spite.
You frowned down at your phone as Instagram attempted, and failed, to load for the third time.
“How does this place have million-dollar CT scanners but the world’s worst internet connection?” you muttered to yourself.
The loading circle continued spinning mockingly.
You let out a sigh and slumped farther down in the chair, one leg bouncing restlessly against the tile floor. Honestly, now that Noah was gone for imaging and you weren’t actively distracted anymore, your brain had started circling back to the real problem here.
Your dad.
Because there was absolutely no way Robby and Dana had managed to keep this from him for long.
Right as that thought crossed your mind, the door swung open. You glanced up only halfway at first, expecting a nurse or maybe Noah coming back from radiology.
Instead, you nearly launched yourself out of the chair.
“Oh my God—”
Jack stood in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Not yelling. Which somehow felt more threatening.
“Hey, Dad,” you said quickly, instinctively holding your hands up a little like that would somehow help. “Are you starting your shift in a bit, or—”
“You have a boyfriend?”
Straight to it.
Cool.
You let out an awkward laugh immediately.
“Um… yeah.” You shifted your weight uncomfortably. “Surprise?”
Jack just stared at you. You knew that look. It was the exact same expression he used on patients who insisted they “accidentally” fell onto obviously dangerous objects.
“You’ve had a whole relationship for six months and didn’t think to mention it to me?”
“Well, now it sounds bad when you phrase it like that.”
“How else is there to phrase it?”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.
Fair enough.
Jack looked around the room briefly before looking back at you.
“So where is he?”
“CT.”
“What happened?”
“Soccer game fight,” you answered automatically. “Got punched trying to break it up. Possible nasal fracture, maybe orbital involvement, but he was neurologically intact at the scene. No LOC, no vomiting, pupils equal and reactive—”
Jack held up a hand.
“You gave EMS report?”
You shrugged a little. “I was already there.”
Of course you were.
Jack’s expression softened for exactly half a second at the reminder that you’d probably been helping on the field before it shifted right back into full Dad Mode.
“You should’ve told me,” he said firmly. “At least asked for permission.”
You stared at him.
“Permission?” you repeated incredulously. “Dad, it’s not the eighties anymore. If I want to date someone, I’m gonna date someone.”
The second the sentence left your mouth, you regretted the wording. Because now it sounded way more confrontational than you’d meant it to.
Jack looked irritated immediately. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Really?” you shot back. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what you said.”
“I said you should’ve talked to me.”
“And when exactly was I supposed to do that?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. “Between your extra shifts or before you disappeared for another SWAT call?”
Jack’s jaw tightened instantly. “That’s not fair.”
“No, actually, it is.”
“You think I want to miss things?”
“I think you do miss things,” you snapped back. “Constantly.”
Jack looked taken aback for a second before frustration replaced it just as quickly.
“I am working to provide for you.”
“I know that!”
“Then stop acting like I’m choosing not to be around.”
“But you are!” you shot back louder now. “Every single time you pick this place over literally anything else!”
The words echoed harder than you intended in the small exam room. Jack stared at you. Outside in the hallway, a monitor alarm sounded somewhere distant before abruptly shutting off again.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice low and controlled in that way that somehow made it worse.
You laughed sharply. “Oh, I don’t?”
“No.”
“You missed parent night.”
“I was working.”
“You missed Senior awards.”
“I was working.”
“You forgot my interview for college counseling because you picked up someone else’s shift!”
Jack rubbed a hand down his face, visibly trying not to lose his temper now too.
“And you think I don’t feel bad about that?”
“You never even talk about it!” you argued. “You just act like everything’s fine because I’m ‘independent’ or whatever.”
“You are independent.”
“Because I had to be!”
The second that left your mouth, the room went completely still.
Jack looked like you’d slapped him. And honestly, maybe you had.
You were breathing too fast now, adrenaline and anger mixing together in a way that made your chest hurt.
“I’m not saying you’re a bad dad,” you said quickly, though your voice still shook. “But you don’t get to act surprised that I didn’t tell you about Noah when half the time it feels like you’re barely home long enough to know what’s going on with me anyway.”
Jack opened his mouth immediately.
But before he could respond, the door swung open.
“Alright, we’re back from CT—”
Princess stopped mid-sentence as she helped Noah back into the room.
Noah still had the ice pack against his face, dried blood faintly visible near the collar of his shirt, but he looked significantly more alarmed by the tension in the room than by his possible broken nose.
His eyes moved between you and Jack instantly.
“Oh,” he said carefully.
Princess looked between all three of you exactly once.
Then immediately turned to Noah.
“…You did not mention the dad worked here,” Princess said carefully.
“I didn’t know he was here yet,” Noah muttered back.
Jack straightened slightly, visibly trying to pull himself back together now that there were other people in the room. You, meanwhile, looked away immediately, blinking hard a couple times because your eyes suddenly burned in the worst, most embarrassing way possible.
God. Great.
Now you were crying.
Fantastic.
Noah glanced awkwardly between the two of you, immediately noticing both the tension and the noticeable amount of space now between you and your dad.
“Um… hi, Dr. Abbot,” he said carefully.
He stepped forward a little, awkwardly balancing the ice pack against his swollen nose with one hand while sticking the other out for a handshake.
“I’m Noah.”
You let out a shaky breath as one tear slipped down your face.
And then Jack just…
Stared at Noah’s hand. Arms still crossed. Not moving. The silence lasted maybe two seconds. But it felt way longer. And suddenly the anger that had already been building in your chest flared right back up again.
Seriously?
You wiped at your face quickly, glaring at your dad now.
“Are you kidding me?”
Jack looked over at you immediately.
“What?”
“He’s trying to be nice!”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then shake his hand!”
Princess took one very deliberate step backward toward the computer in the corner of the room. Noah still looked horrified, hand awkwardly half-extended between the two of you.
Jack finally uncrossed his arms with a frustrated sigh before giving Noah a quick handshake.
Too quick. Barely even a handshake.
Noah immediately pulled his hand back.
“Sorry,” Noah muttered. “This is probably a bad time.”
“No, apparently this is a great time,” you snapped before Jack could answer.
“Y/n—” Jack warned.
“No, because what is this?” you demanded, gesturing between him and Noah. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say he did.”
“You don’t have to say it!”
Your voice cracked slightly at the end, which only made you angrier. Jack noticed immediately, his expression shifting. But you were too upset now to stop.
“He got punched in the face tonight and still somehow has better manners than you do right now.”
Princess physically turned away at that point, very obviously pretending to check Noah’s blood pressure so she didn’t have to witness the argument directly.
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose.
“I’m not doing this in front of your boyfriend.”
“Oh my God,” you laughed incredulously. “You can barely even say the word.”
“That is not the issue here.”
“Then what is the issue?” you shot back. “That I didn’t tell you? Or that I have a life you don’t know about because you’re never around long enough to actually see it?”
The room went quiet again. Noah looked like he wanted to disappear into another dimension entirely. Jack’s jaw tightened hard enough you could see the muscle move.
“That’s enough.”
“No, it’s not enough,” you said immediately. “You don’t get to walk in here and act like I betrayed you because I didn’t tell you about Noah when you barely know anything going on in my life lately!”
Jack looked genuinely angry now too. “I know plenty about your life.”
“Really?” you challenged. “What colleges did I apply to besides Pitt?”
Jack opened his mouth.
Stopped.
Your chest hurt.
“There it is,” you said quietly, tears falling faster now no matter how quickly you tried wiping them away. “Exactly.”
Jack looked genuinely stunned. Not defensive anymore. Not angry. Just stunned. And somehow that made everything hurt worse. Because it proved your point.
The room had gone painfully quiet around you. Even the usual ED noise felt distant now.
Noah shifted awkwardly near the stretcher, still clutching the ice pack against his face while Princess stood frozen beside the monitor like she was trying to decide whether this counted as a medical emergency.
You laughed once under your breath, shaky and miserable. “You didn’t even know I applied to UCLA until Robby brought it up at dinner.”
Jack finally found his voice again. “That’s not true.”
“It literally is.”
“I knew you were applying out west.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Y/n—”
“No, because you keep acting like I shut you out for no reason!” you interrupted. “I stopped telling you things because every time I do tell you something, you’re either too tired to listen or halfway out the door.”
Jack’s expression hardened slightly again. “That’s unfair.”
“How?” you demanded. “Tell me how.”
“I am doing my best.”
The words came out sharper this time. More frustrated. More exhausted. And for some reason, hearing that finally snapped something in you.
“I know you are!” you shouted back immediately. “That’s the problem!”
Jack blinked at the sudden volume.
“You think I don’t know why you work this much?” Your voice shook violently now. “You think I don’t get it? Mom died and you buried yourself in work because it was easier than being home!”
The second the words left your mouth, the room went dead silent. Complete silence.
Noah looked absolutely stricken. Princess slowly lowered the blood pressure cuff from her hands.
And Jack went completely still.
You could actually see the moment regret hit you. But you were too upset to stop now.
“You act like I’m supposed to understand everything all the time because you’re helping people,” you continued, crying openly now. “And I do understand it. I understand it all the time.”
Jack’s face had lost all color.
“But sometimes I wanted you to stay home with me instead of picking up another shift!” you admitted, voice breaking completely now. “Sometimes I wanted my dad more than I wanted some amazing trauma doctor everybody else gets to brag about!”
“Y/n,” Jack said quietly.
But you kept going anyway.
“And then you started acting like I didn’t need anything anymore because I got older and handled things myself and—”
“Enough.”
The word cracked through the room hard enough that even you stopped talking immediately. Jack almost never raised his voice at you. Which made it worse when he did.
His chest rose sharply with one uneven breath, eyes glassy now in a way you’d almost never seen before.
“You do not get to stand there,” he said, voice tight with emotion and anger and grief all tangled together, “and act like I stopped loving you because I was trying to survive losing her too.”
Your breath caught instantly.
Jack dragged a hand over his face hard, clearly trying to pull himself back under control.
“You think being at work fixed any of that?” he asked, quieter now but somehow more intense. “It didn’t. It just kept me moving.”
You couldn’t even answer. Because suddenly all the anger had crashed into guilt so hard it made you feel sick. Jack looked at you for another long second before glancing away completely, jaw tight.
Then, finally, he spoke again.
“I need a minute.”
And without another word, Jack Abbott turned and walked out of the room. The door swung shut behind him with a soft click. Silence followed immediately after. Heavy silence.
The kind that pressed against your chest and made everything feel too warm and too tight all at once.
You just stood there staring at the closed door, breathing unevenly while tears continued sliding down your face faster than you could wipe them away.
God. What had you just done?
“I’ll be back in a little while,” Princess said gently after a moment, clearly trying to give you space. “Dr. Langdon should be coming in soon to go over the CT results.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t really answer. You just kept staring at the door like maybe your dad would walk back through it if you looked long enough.
Beside you, Noah gave Princess a small apologetic smile and a nod.
“Thanks.”
Princess squeezed his shoulder lightly before slipping out of the room quietly, leaving the two of you alone.
More silence.
Then:
“It’s okay.”
Noah’s voice was soft, slightly congested from the swelling in his nose as he lowered the ice pack from his face and sat back against the hospital bed. You shook your head immediately at his words.
“No, it’s not.” Your voice cracked completely.
You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes hard, trying unsuccessfully to stop crying.
“I’m horrible,” you muttered.
“No, hey,” Noah said instantly. “No, you’re not.”
You laughed weakly through your tears.
“I just threw my dead mom into an argument.”
“You were upset.”
“I said horrible things.”
“You said honest things.”
“That doesn’t make them okay.”
Noah watched you quietly for a second before holding his hand out toward you carefully.
“Come here.”
You finally turned to look at him fully.
His nose was bruised purple now beneath the swelling, gauze still tucked loosely beneath one nostril in case the bleeding restarted. He looked exhausted and uncomfortable and probably concussed enough to not even fully be processing what had just happened.
And somehow he was still worried about you.
“Come on,” he said again gently.
This time, you moved. You crossed the small space between you and sat carefully beside him on the edge of the hospital bed. Noah immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against his side as carefully as he could considering his face was probably in agony.
The second he did, you broke again. You buried your face against his shoulder, crying quietly while Noah held you without saying anything for a minute.
Outside the room, the muffled chaos of the ED continued on like normal. Somebody laughed down the hall. A monitor alarm beeped repeatedly. Overhead paging echoed faintly through the ceiling speakers.
Meanwhile your entire chest felt hollow.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you whispered finally.
“I know.”
“I know he loves me.”
“I know.”
You pulled back just enough to look at Noah.
“He looked so hurt.”
Noah nodded slowly.
“Yeah.”
Fresh guilt twisted painfully in your stomach.
“When my mom died,” you said quietly, voice shaky, “everybody kept telling me how hard it was for him. And I remember thinking that I had to make everything easier because he already looked like he was barely surviving.”
Noah stayed quiet, letting you talk.
“So I stopped asking for things,” you admitted. “I stopped complaining when he missed stuff. I stopped crying in front of him because every time I did, somebody would look at me like I was making things harder for him.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“And I know that sounds selfish—”
“It doesn’t,” Noah interrupted immediately.
You swallowed hard.
“It just felt like everyone gave him grace because he lost his wife,” you continued softly, staring down at your hands now. “Which, obviously they should’ve. I’m not saying they shouldn’t have.”
Noah nodded once.
“But nobody ever really talked about me like that,” you admitted. “People would ask if he was okay. If he was eating. If he was sleeping. And I’d just be standing there.”
Your voice cracked again.
“And I know he was hurting. I know he still is. But I lost my mom too.”
The words came out quieter than everything else. Smaller. Like admitting it still felt wrong somehow.
“I was a kid,” you whispered. “And everybody acted like I was supposed to understand why he disappeared into work all the time because he was grieving, but nobody really stopped to think maybe I was grieving too.”
Noah’s arm tightened around you carefully.
You laughed weakly through the tears slipping down your face again.
“I think after a while I just got really good at being ‘easy,’” you admitted. “Like if I handled everything myself, then nobody had to worry about me.”
Noah looked at you sadly.
“That’s a lot for anybody to carry around.”
You shrugged even though your chest hurt.
“And now whenever I get upset about him missing things or not noticing stuff, I feel guilty immediately because I know why he’s like this.”
“That doesn’t mean your feelings stop mattering.”
You looked away.
“But it feels like they’re supposed to.”
Noah was quiet for a second before speaking carefully.
“You know two things can be true at once, right?”
You frowned slightly.
“He can be a grieving husband who tried his best,” Noah said softly, “and you can still be hurt by the fact that you needed more from him.”
The two of you sat quietly with his words for a moment. The steady beeping of the monitor beside the bed filled the silence while the chaos of the ED carried on outside the room like nothing life-altering had just happened in here.
You wiped at your face again, exhausted now more than anything.
“You guys will be okay,” Noah said gently after a minute.
You nodded slowly against his shoulder, tears still slipping down your face even though they’d finally started slowing.
Because you knew he was right. You and Jack loved each other too much not to be okay eventually. That didn’t magically fix everything. But it mattered.
“But seriously,” Noah added after another beat, “do you think he actually hated me or…?”
You immediately pulled back enough to punch him lightly in the arm.
“Ow—”
“Oh my God, shut up,” you muttered, sniffling. “That is not important right now.”
“I mean,” Noah said, clearly trying to make you laugh now, “I personally think it’s extremely important.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“Your father looked at my handshake like it offended him.”
Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped you.
Noah pointed immediately. “There it is.”
“Don’t.”
“You laughed.”
“I did not.”
“You literally did.”
You rolled your eyes, scrubbing at the last of the tears on your face.
Noah smiled a little at that, though he winced immediately after because apparently smiling hurt his broken nose.
“Okay, ow,” he muttered, pressing the ice pack back against his face.
“That’s what you get.”
“I’m injured.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I got assaulted protecting the integrity of high school soccer.”
“You got punched because Tyler can’t regulate his emotions.”
Noah gasped weakly. “Way to minimize my trauma.”
You snorted softly, shoulders finally relaxing for the first time in the last twenty minutes. Noah looked disproportionately proud of himself for managing to make you laugh even a little.
Then his expression softened again.
“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “your dad definitely doesn’t hate me.”
You raised an eyebrow skeptically.
“He shook my hand eventually.”
“After staring at it like he was considering putting you back in the ambulance.”
“That’s basically approval from a trauma doctor dad.”
Another laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Noah smiled again, gentler this time.
“He was scared,” he said quietly. “Not about me. About realizing he missed something important.”
Your expression faltered slightly.
“And honestly?” Noah continued carefully, “you scared him too.”
You frowned. “How?”
“You yelled at him like somebody who’d been holding all that in for years.”
The words hit a little too accurately.
You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“I know.”
“But I did.”
Noah was quiet for a second.
“Sometimes hurting somebody’s feelings and being honest aren’t the same thing.”
You let out a slow breath. “Robby says things like that too.”
“Robby’s emotionally intelligent. It’s upsetting.”
You smiled faintly again. “He’s only emotionally intelligent sometimes, don’t give Robby so much credit.”
Then the room fell quiet once more, though this time it wasn’t suffocating. Just tired.
Eventually Noah nudged your shoulder lightly. “So… hypothetically.”
“Oh no.”
“If your dad does kill me, do you think Dana would testify that I was charming?”
You groaned loudly. “Please stop talking.”
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ taglist(closed right now): @starsandfrostcombined @h4zzab @spidermansfav333 @amelieeesky @sommywithluv @sk8tergurl07 @dumb-fawkin-bitch @readfanficforfandomsimnotin @babyqueen17 @youusunshineyoutemptress @lazywonderlandfestival @boh3mian @nelly9082 @serenityrjd @apertcre @cozyvanillacashmere @bjuvkckici @stardustofyesterday @emneedshelp @honeylemonizzy @haleylikesoranges @leahjacObs @loveerblue @whyamihere96 @yagotsharkshere @violetlikesviolets @sassycloudtundra @onyxwolt264 @xamiizvault @marauvderss @miya-111 @nightreader16 @ritchmoor @bloomixxx @gratitudefororanges
im a fake fan of everything i like because i cant remember anything
no context needed
Jack Abbot fanfic but reader and Jack have the dynamic of Penelope Garcia and Derek Morgan, send tweet
How I feel
i need to stay off twitter
Suddenly the Pitt fandom understands the show branding itself as diverse while using the actresses of color as nothing more than set design and highlighting the white men in the space as tragic heroes. When their self insert character is written off and not when the one Black female lead was not only written out but falsely disparaged in the press. I guess it *is* that deep
all I know is I better open twitter and tumblr tmrw and find out that variety lied and bbg Supriya Ganesh is in fact in season 3 and as a matter of fact it’s all about her…
stop treating women of color as disposable.
oh okay way to make a bad week my own personal fucking hell - should I do it on Instagram live or TikTok live?
Wdym my close, personal best friend Supriya Ganesh won’t be returning WHA DO YOU MEANNNN?
I need them to write a whismy character into the Pitt - give me someone with tattoos, piercing and some colorful hair! Have her match joy and Mel’s freak please! ( this is me wishing for this because hopefully when I actually get to and through medical school I will be the whimsy doctor - but I also understand not all hospitals allow it because of stupid policies)
And give us more nurse Vivi
𝓓𝓸𝓲𝓷’ 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮
Stepbrother!Javier Peña x afab!fem!reader
Summary: Your new stepbrothers home for the summer. He’s a lot cooler, and nicer than you expected, and he’s willing to indulge you for a favour. Aka asking stepbrother Javi to take your virginity.
Warnings: 18+ only minors DNI you will be blocked. Stepcest/stepbrother trope and all that comes with, age gap [reader is 18 when she meets Javi, he’s 22], infidelity [Javi cheats on his gf not reader] rich shitty parents, mommy and daddy issues, reader is girly, plays tennis, alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking, pet-names, soft!dom!Javi?, bratty!reader?, size-kink? [Javi is bigger than reader], praise kink, fingering, grinding, “virginity” loss, pool sex, unprotected P in V [do better!!]. Let me know if I missed anything!
Word count: 9.2K Words
A/N: I AM BACK!! This has been 2 years in the making lmao but was so fun to write. Thank you to @toxicanonymity for your help on this and to everyone who has showed interest in this universe, and I really really hope you enjoy!!
Masterlist
Summertime, and the livin's easy
Bradley's on the microphone with Ras MG
All the people in the dance will agree
That we're well-qualified to represent the L.B.C
Me, me and Louie, we gonna run to the party
And dance to the rhythm, it gets harder
Surely, a new parent in the house would be a significant change for any family, but something told you it was going to be a lot more difficult in your household. To say your mother was easy to live with was certainly generous, and you didn’t exactly blame your father for wanting to walk away from a marriage as dysfunctional as theirs.
Despite being the “better parent”, however, your father was far from blameless for the turbulent split and custody battle that would ensue from their separation, and after spending a childhood stuck between the both of them, fighting to be with your “better parent” you were exhausted. Especially since that “better parent” was quite a mediocre one at that.
What you couldn’t stomach, was the fact that your father then chose to settle down with perhaps the only other person who could compete with your mothers patheticness. But you really didn’t expect much more from said “mediocre parent” if you were being honest.
When Maria came into your life you were glad you were about to leave the nest. Sure, 11th grade was made more difficult than it would have been considering you had to deal with your dad’s absence on the week nights, had to stomach him going to dinners with some random woman, had to answer said random woman’s intrusive questions and pretend you were completely fine with her waltzing into your house and making comments about how you lived, and what you should’ve and shouldn’t have been doing. Of course, after raising her golden boy– her oh so perfect son who she couldn’t shut up about, she knew best. He was at university, studying criminology, after-all.
Safe to say you were ecstatic when you were notified the two got married at the courthouse while you spent the winter with your mother. Shocked, horrified, hurt? You weren't even sure what you felt after a point. Tired, would probably be the best fit. The only saving grace was that you didn’t have to attend the ceremony.
When you learnt that Maria’s son was also not in attendance to witness the vows, you were almost certain the “spontaneous, and unplanned” union surely took your absences in mind.
There was that word again– tired.
But what could you have done? You just had to grit your teeth and focus on what mattered- getting out of that house. There was no benefit in paying attention to the antics of your “parents”, any of the three. So that’s exactly what you did, pushed through till you were walking across your graduation stage and securing a spot at the university you’d always wanted.
And so when summer came you were hell bent on recuperating after a hard few year’s work. There was nothing more you desired than relaxing, lounging by the pool, and repairing your social life– the one that you had been criminally neglecting over the past few years. All was looking good, you were rather optimistic despite having to share a house with two of the most insufferable people on the planet.
There was also this other problem you had to take care of. See, because you had spent your entire high school career being a massive nerd, you didn’t really get any. And sure, you’d made out with half a dozen jock types since the summer began, but none of them seemed to know what they were doing. You didn’t want to go to college a virgin. You were hot, single and horny, and you were not going to waste the rest of the summer on another good for nothing Zach or Cody. You needed to get laid. And it was time you started exploring other avenues.
And then, as usual, the universe threw a wrench in your plans. Or rather, your lovely stepmother did.
“My Javi’s gonna come spend the summer with us! Oh, it’ll be wonderful, you two could get to know each other! He’s got so many of his old friends from here he can introduce you to! Get you out of the house for once!!” you nodded your head as you poured your morning coffee, but on the inside you were losing your shit. First thing in the morning, she really had her ways, didn't she?
“And he's got so much insight on university, I'm sure you’d really like speaking with him about that. You know, after finishing top of his class the third year in a row, you could catch some good pointers!” You bet Javi knew all about “university”. Whatever that meant.
Life was bad enough being bothered by these two, but now you had to endure playing second fiddle to some ivy league hot shot? Yeah, sounded like a splendid time.
And you knew that’s exactly what he was. Sure, you’d only seen him in one picture, with his american sweetheart, blonde, beautiful, perfect girlfriend. Because of course he had a perfect, blonde, girlfriend.
You were surprised your stepmother didn’t shove pictures of him down your throat all day every day, but she only seemed to make reference to her son when she was bragging about him. Your mother was quite like her, so you wouldn’t be surprised if she didn't receive many pictures of him to begin with.
And of course, he was criminally good looking. Sure, you only caught his face in three quarters profile, but that's all you needed to know he was hot.
What you weren’t expecting was for him to be as hot as he was, at least. You were not prepared to see him walk through your front door– duffle bag slung over his shoulder– his broad, muscular shoulders. It was only seven in the morning and you were glad you were ready for tennis because you would have hated to receive him– in his messy, tousled hair, tight jeans and post travel glory in your pyjamas.
“Well hello.” He ran a hand through said hair as he spoke, and set his laptop on the kitchen counter where you were sipping on a morning shake. You were 99% sure you caught him sneaking a peak at your pink lacey bra where it poked out of your top.
He had this air about him– the confident jock vibe that would usually annoy you. But no no no, Javi was no cocky, overconfident high school boy. He was in university after all. If this was a sample of what college boys were like you were more than excited for the next few years ahead.
His hand laid respectfully on your back as he leaned for a hug and introduced himself. The press of his firm, warm chest against your scantily clad top had your breath hitching. Especially when he shot you that smile as he pulled away.
It definitely felt a little sacrilege to be thinking such thoughts about your stepbrother. But he was hardly that. As much as his mother liked to pretend that yours never existed, that your father and her were the perfect little couple. That you were the perfect little family– with your prestigious university placements, and picket fence house, with the high paying jobs and respect of the neighbourhood.
You never really cared about what she had to say anyway. She was irrelevant, and in more ways than one. But her son. You had decided he was the most relevant thing on the planet. In those pool shorts, those tight, thin, t-shirts that were snug in all the right places. With those arms of his. He was a piece of art– like some guy you’d have on a poster in your bedroom, who you’d dream about and wake up with a mess between your legs.
And he had to know how hot he was. How charming he was when he opened doors for women or complimented the ladies at your neighbourhood barbeque. He had to know how all the school girls in your area dropped dead like flies when he stopped by the after school fundraiser in his leather jacket and those tight, dark wash jeans.
He had to know what he was doing when he put his hand on your waist to get past you at the kitchen counter, had to know you noticed him raking his eyes over your body when the both of you lounged by the pool.
Because you sure knew what you were doing when you walked past his room, soaking wet from the rain, your transparent clothes leaving little to the imagination. You knew what you were doing when you batted your lashes at him– asked him to get your mug off the top shelf even though you could manage doing it yourself. You could barely contain your giggles when you sauntered up to him, a can of cola in your hand, politely requesting him to open it because you didn’t want to chip your freshly painted nails.
If the talk of the town was going to take over your summer, you might as well have some fun.
—
“And how is Loraine? Why didn’t you bring her along?” you knew the question would crop up eventually. Yet another reason to feel guilty about thirsting for your stepbrother. His American sweetheart girlfriend. God, how you loathed her. You were glad she didn’t tag along. Sure, Maria’s desire to show her future daughter in law off had been trampled upon, but you think you would have drowned yourself in your pool if you had to stomach seeing Javier getting cosy with another woman.
“We’re um” Javier put his fork down and reached for his glass of water. “We’re not together anymore, mom.”
That was not the answer you were expecting. By the looks of it, neither was Maria. With an exasperated sigh she set down her cutlery to gesture with her hands, in that annoying, exaggerated manner that she always did when she didn’t get her way.
“Oh my god, Javi! Why the hell didn’t you tell me!!” Javier raised his brows and took a drink of his water in a way that really called to attention the “this is why” sentiment that was plastered all over his face. You should’ve been ashamed that your first instinct was to smile out of sheer giddiness. But regardless of whether you stood a chance or not- the fact that he was no longer tied up made you unreasonably happy.
Sure, you’d heard a lifetime's worth of advice about “not dating college boys” and staying away from the charming, playboy variety at that. But in a few month’s time you were going to be a college girl, and you ought to familiarise yourself with the items offered on the menu.
Either way it was Javier’s life that was on the table that day, up for dissection, and as bad as you felt for him, you were glad it wasn’t yours.
“Javier, why would you do that?....”
The conversation around you slowly drowned out into senseless chatter, as it always did, and you took the time to enjoy Javi’s face under the veil of witnessing the nasty argument that his revelation broke out.
—
It had been a few days since that riveting discussion at the dining table, and things had gone pretty much as usual. You saw and indulged in conversation with Javi once in a while, but for the most part you kept to yourself. As much as you wanted to make a move you didn’t want to come off too desperate to take up your step-mother’s instructions to “bond” as it were.
What went down at dinner had surprised you, you had to admit. From the way Maria boasted about her son, you really expected the two to get along swimmingly. So to say you were surprised to see Javi’s disregard for his mother, and the general lack of bother he showed at her antics, would be an understatement.
Then again Maria didn’t seem to bring up Javi outside of her boasting, and if that argument was any indication, you knew their relationship was a lot more complicated than your stepmother had ever let on. You took solace in the fact that the summer wouldn’t be the three against one misery fest you were initially expecting.
It didn’t help that Maria was trying to get Javi and Lorraine back together. She was so desperate to mediate their premarital conflict. Just a taster for how any marriage of Javi’s would go. But Javi himself didn't seem so enthusiastic about the whole thing. Sure, he’d agreed to try to mend things for his mother’s sake, but just saying Lorraine’s name around him got him ticked off at this point.
But that solace motivated you to new heights, inspired you to take up a stride in the Javi department of your life. Maybe he would be receptive to your company? Who knew. After spending a sleepover’s sleepless night gushing about him to your best friend Connie, the two of you hedged a plan.
Everything seemed meant to be– Connie was throwing a house party with her brother Steve in their house the following night. As it happened, Javi Peña had been far closer to your inner circle than you could have ever anticipated. In fact, you were surprised you hadn’t crossed paths before, considering he and Steve played soccer together in high school. The same high school you began to attend the year they graduated.
“Javier?!” Steve grabbed a slice of pizza from the box on the kitchen counter and leaned against the marble, looking over at you and Connie sitting at the island. “You didn’t tell me the Maria you’ve been bitching to Connie about is Maria Peña.” You rolled your eyes and wiped your face with a napkin. “Were you in the same class or something too?” Steve nodded his head and reached for his beer.
“Fuck yeah we were! We’re pals! Did sociology together and all.” he took a sip of his beer and placed the bottle back on the counter. “Ms. Peña was really sweet– she’d bring us snacks to practise and stuff.” you and Connie shared a look. Of course she did– she loved being the perfect mom, didn’t she?!
“Get Peña over tomorrow, would ya? Bastard didn’t even tell me he was back in town.” you try your best to conceal your smirk, you’ll bring him around, Steve didn't need to worry. “Don’t get too upset at him, he only got back like a week ago– and if I can’t convince him to tag along, you’ve gotta promise to give him a call, okay?” Steve snickered, then nodded his head.
“Bet your ass I will.”
—
Morning came quicker than you expected, and before you knew it your father was backing out of the lunch date he had promised you to celebrate the beginning of summer. On top of that, he took a whole hour to respond to your “will you at least pick me up?” text. Now you had no lunch plans and no ride home from Connie’s.
“Sending Javier to pick u up. sorry, maybe tmr? <3” his text had read. Expected. You should have been surprised he’d stuck to the plans as long as he did.
But there was always a silver lining– at least that's what you’d told yourself your whole life. This time it actually felt a bit more meaningful than the pathetic mantra it had become over the years. It was commendable how Javi managed to be more involved in and committed to your well being than your own father.
Either way, this might have been a good opportunity for you to ask Javier to come to the party later, maybe use your persuasive skills and finally make some progress on getting to know him better. You psyched yourself up as you waited on Connie’s porch, watching intently but trying to remain cool and calm as you watched Javi’s red vintage mustang near.
Even his car was sexy and cool. Ugh.
You hopped in and chucked your bag in the backseat.
“Had fun?” you continued to try and be nonchalant when he tipped his sunglasses down to address you. “Yeah, was fun.” you shifted to get comfortable, one leg up on the leather of the seat, your skirt riding up. Javi sure noticed. Even if it was just for a second.
His hair blew in the wind as he got going. Christ he was so sexy when he was driving. Good god. Should've been illegal.
“Not staying another night? No party?” He seemed genuinely interested. It was the bare minimum but he sure had a way of making the bare minimum charming. With those expressive eyes, upturned lips and teasing tone. He was not much older than you but boy did he feel like he came from a different planet. So relaxed, so confident, at ease. It put you at ease too. “Yeah, but only at 10.” you paused and looked over at him, the sun was in his eyes so he reached atop his head to drag down his sunglasses. “Connie’s brother Steve asked me to ask you to come.”
“Steve?” he paused to look at you for a brief second.“Murphy?!” “He laughed, then turned the corner. “Steve Murphy is Connie’s brother? Him and I went to high school together!”
“Yeah, I know! Crazy right?!” you were quick to continue before he could interject. “Anyway, he wants you to come too, and he’s extra upset cuz you haven’t told him you’re back in town yet.” Javier snorted, turned to you again and playfully and gently shoved your shoulder. “Yeah, I've been a little preoccupied, haven't I?l.” he asked rhetorically, shooting you a teasing look. Poor guy, Maria had been on his ass from the moment he had gotten back, playing show and tell with him at her various parties.
The warm summer air hit you square in the face, smelling like fresh flowers, grass and the sea. You closed your eyes momentarily and tried not to get too distracted by the ideal weather. “Well, then you’re gonna come tonight, aren’t you? Make it up to him?”
He paused at a traffic light, and shook his head just enough for you to notice.“I don’t know, doll… I’ll have to see how I'm feeling..”. Oh no, you couldn’t let him get out of this one. You turned in your seat and pushed yourself closer, placing a gentle hand on his knee.
“Why? Do you have plans or something?” It didn't last long, you were startled off him when the light went green and he started back on the road.
The wind hit you in the face yet again as you picked up speed, swaying Javi’s soft waves in a way that was far too entertaining. He shrugged and checked the rearview mirror. “Not tonight I don't.” Oh well, that was perfect news, was it not? “Oh well that's perfect then. We can finally get on that “bonding” thing, your mom’s been on about.”
He laughed and eyed you as if to tease. “Looks like you were paying more attention to all that crap than I was.” There it was, more reassurance of Maria’s tendency to be a pain in the ass. You laughed– great you were bonding already. “Been running around town with mom all day– can’t lie that I'm a bit tired..”
“Oh please, come on, it’ll be fun!!” You leaned over yet again, this time placing both hands on his knee and scooting closer. You knew he would see your tits push up in your skimpy top. “Please, Javi?”
And you were right to think he was simple enough of a man for that to work, “Okay, okay” he conceded and put his right hand over yours. You gave his knee a squeeze and turned towards the front again. “Yay! See!! Two birds with one stone– Maria will be happy too– bonding and all!!”
He pulled up in front of your home, and you were already leaping out of the seat to grab your bag. You caught his eyes raking up your legs once again. “She might be onto something there though, I must admit.” he had got to know what he was doing– the way he was looking, the way those words left his mouth. He was one of those naturally flirty types, despite not needing to be.
“Mother knows best!” Your voice travelled across your front lawn, and Javi shut the car door, watching as you skipped inside. He wasn’t much far behind you.
“See you tonight then.” You dropped your bag on the couch and watched him click the door shut behind him. He leaned against it and observed you strut about the kitchen. “Don’t ditch me when we get there, doll.” If you were a better person the nickname would have appalled you, but you were not strong enough to resist whatever it was that was going on.
You sauntered over to him, letting him get one last look at your perfect summer outfit before heading for the stairs. You got close enough to where you were standing between his legs. He was even broader and taller up close, if that was even possible. And it wasn't helping your horniness that you could smell the herb and bergamot of his perfume. You looked up at him through your lashes.
“Pinky promise.”
—
You ended up leaving for the party before Javi did, mostly to solicit Connie’s help with your look, but also to help set up the lights with Steve. You wished you could have left together, especially when you walked past his room and smelt the fresh scent of his shampoo as he showered. You weren’t even ready to see what he’d show up in. You were hoping for the leather jacket.
And boy did he not disappoint. Javier showed up alright. Looking better than ever. The full package, tight dark wash jeans, his short sleeve button up, and of course, the leather jacket. You were at the bar counter on the far end of the room when he entered the Murphy residence. You had the perfect view of all the girls who immediately migrated to his side. Your insides turned with jealousy.
All night you watched him, kept an eye on him whilst you danced in the middle of the dance floor. You watched him out of the corner of your eye sipping his beer and smoking a cigarette. He was chatting with Steve. The both of them kept to themselves the entire evening. You’d heard from Connie they didn’t really like the people they went to school with too much, anyway.
You were pleased with that however, since apart from Steve, there was no one at the party who was getting in the way of him giving you attention. It was the perfect set up for your ulterior motives. Anytime he wasn’t chatting with the tall blonde, his eyes were on you as yours were on his. He tried to be nonchalant about it. You had the feeling he had gotten quite expert at this type of stuff over the years. He was all calm and collected, taking in your borderline sinful dancing with his cigarette dangling between his lips.
The fact that he smoked in the first place was enough to get your panties soaking. With all the no smoking PSAs you’d been subjected to over the years you never really had a chance to get within fifty miles of one yourself. The forbidden allure of it all made your brain buzz around in your head. Now that was a man who could take your virginity.
It was definitely hindering your odds of getting into heaven, the way you yanked your skirt up just that little bit when you danced, swayed your hips a little too suggestively the moment you took notice of Javier’s looking. But hey, wherever you were putting down, the man was picking up, so at the very least the both of you shared the blame.
Intermittently through the night you stumbled to the bar, leaning your body onto his as you asked for another drink. At some point, Steve had moved elsewhere so you had Javi all to yourself. He wrapped an arm around you as you waited for your sixth cocktail of the night, already struggling to see straight. He chatted with you and indulged your little flirtatious advances without going too far. The fact that he didn’t push it only made him more sexy.
You felt lucky that besides the Murphy siblings, no one at the party was privy to your real relationship, and those who might have been had either already taken their leave, or were too busy getting it on with others. Not unlike the Murphy siblings themselves.
So when you leaned it a little further than you usually do, when the bar was empty, and everyone else in the house was rather preoccupied, Javier finally pulled you all the way in. You stood fully between his legs as he sat on the barstool, cigarette still in hand. You looked up at him, finally close enough to catch the scent of his perfume again.
In your drunken courage, you slung your arms around his neck, playing gently with the tips of his hair as you spoke. About what you barely remember. Just a whole lot of senseless flirting. He called you “doll” at some point. It made you shiver and you pushed yourself even closer to his chest.
“You've been havin fun?” he removed one hand from your waist to take a sip of his beer. Your hands moved to play with the collar of his jacket.
“Hmhm. I am now”. It was hard to squeeze out all these cheeky responses when he was drawing those circles on your waist with his thumbs. God he was so big and imposing. And he moved around and with your body like he had known it for years. When he wasn't drawing circles he was smoothing his hand down your back, grazing your lower hips just enough to leave you wanting more. This was so obviously not his first rodeo.
The boys you knew only bragged about their many escapades. So much so they were hard to believe. Javi clearly didn’t have to. You didn’t even want to know how many girls he’d taken to bed. You wondered what his hands could do to you. He was probably so experienced, so attuned to the whims of the body.
Another thing he was good at doing was laughing at your rather provocative one liners. His chuckle reverberated across his entire chest. It was so deep and low and perfect. God, it was so difficult to have any amount of sense around this man.
You spent another good ten minutes rocking side to side to the music in Javi’s arms. Getting a little too close for supposed “siblings”, letting your hands wander a little too far, your lips get a little too close. To say you were enjoying yourself would have been a severe understatement. With every second he looked at you, stroked your skin or man handled you ever so slightly, you were one step closer to jumping his bones. He had quite literally smooth talked his way into getting your panties wet.
You would have stayed there forever too, getting progressively more drunk and unhinged. Well bold, you got bolder with what you said, where you teased, and the way you looked at him from under your lashes.
By the time Steve Murphy had snuck up behind you, you were far too drunk to be anywhere but your bed. So much so that you almost cussed Javi out for unceremoniously making distance between you two because you didn't realise.
Safe to say you huffed and puffed whilst the two had their conversation. Well, for a little bit, until you really needed to go home.
You stumbled into Javi’s arms, wrapping your own around his neck and pressing your body against his again. His warmth enveloped you, his embrace was firm around your waist and there was nothing you wanted more than to climb right onto him right then and there. But you were too dizzy to hold yourself up on two feet, and he was way too well adjusted and respectful to take advantage of you so you buried your face in his chest and groaned.
“C’mon, silly, let's get you home.” You heard Steve laugh, but you were not 100 percent sure it really was him. Javi’s arm got a steady hold around your waist and he manoeuvred you towards the door.
Javier had only had one beer, ever mindful that he needed to drive you home. And you were glad for it. You put your entire body weight on him as he led you to the car out front, opening the door and sliding you into the passenger seat with caution. He sure had a fine temperament, putting up with your senseless chatter and mindless yappery the whole drive home. At one point, exhausted by your own talkativeness, you collapsed beside him, head in his lap and everything. This was probably the better of the two options, the second one being getting sick all over his car.
As you drifted in and out of sleep-land you felt his hand gently smooth over your head, then rest on the curve of your waist. The rough of his jeans brushed your cheek as The Rolling Stones played on the stereo.
—
“Shhh, baby.” his thumb pressed against your swollen lips, so soft. “You gotta be quiet, yeah?” he craned his neck to look up and towards your parent’s bedroom. “Gonna wake up the wicked witch of the west” he laughed out the last part of his sentence, thumb swiping your bottom lip when you joined him. “But Javi…” His hand moved to cup your cheek, and he grimaced at your loud voice.
“Dolly ” mocking your whining he brushed his thumb against your skin. He was so perfect. your skin tingled with how close he was, his breath fanning your lips every time he whispered, his deep brown eyes so difficult not to get lost in. Maybe if he kissed you he could’ve gotten you to keep quiet.
“That’s what’ll get ya to keep that mouth shut?”
You could have sworn you didn’t say that out loud, your eyes widened in realisation and you burst into a fit of giggles. The deep brown eyes you had been losing yourself in turned affectionate, and crinkled at the corners.
“‘Fraid you did, kiddo.” And there you’d done it again. He didn't let go of your cheek, still stroking it with his thumbs, only whispering a bit more desperately in the hopes your parents wouldn't wake up thanks to the commotion. “Well then, I promise I will, but first we got to get past the grouches, remember?”
Your eyes lit up and you placed your hands on his chest to get a better look up at him. The pout on your lips deepened and you curled your fingers around the collar of his jacket to shake him lightly. “Such a party pooper. Javi! You're a party pooper.” At least you tried to feebly jostle him around. It only made him snicker.
It made him grab your hands in his and bring them to his lips. “I know doll, I know” he laughed and placed a kiss on your knuckles then leaned his forehead against yours. “But will you listen to me? Will you keep quiet for me?”
His voice was so soft it made your stomach flip flop, put you in a daze and feel all floaty in his arms. “For you, Javi?” You tried your best not to slur your speech but boy was it difficult. His eyes softened and he brushed his knuckles across the apple of your cheek. “Yes baby, can you keep it quiet for your Javi?”
Now that made you hush. You reached your hand to your mouth and made a zipping motion to shut yourself up indefinitely, then locked your lips around the corner for good measure. Grabbing Javi’s hand you handed him the “key” with that face of determination, and he chuckled at your newfound commitment to keeping quiet.
“Thanks baby.” he put the “key” in the pocket, then twisted his arms back around your waist and guided you up the flight of stairs. “Come on now.” stumbling and stumbling your way through your house, up the stairs and down the corridors you revelled in every second you leaned on Javi and let him support your weight, hold you in his arms and guide you as you tripped over yourself. If getting drunk meant having him practically carry you everywhere you sure enjoyed it– no matter how gross you felt.
Eventually, you remember feeling the plush of your covers tickle the side of your face as you collapsed on your bed. You heard Javi break into a laugh behind you but you found it hard to respond with how dizzy and uncomfortable you had become. You groaned and kicked your shoes off– at least you tried until Javier bent down and did it for you.
You couldn't stifle your giggle when he pressed a kiss below your ankle where your shoe had scuffed at your skin and left a tiny mark. With much fuss, some encouragement and a lot of struggle, Javier did manage to get you to sit upright and eventually got you into the bathroom to change into some pyjamas.
Safe to say you did little work– it was him that fetched your nightwear from your dresser, helped you hobble into the bathroom and stood outside the door to make sure you didn't fall and crack your head open. When you did emerge from the bathroom, it was he that threw your alcohol laced clothes in the hamper, and handed you a wipe to swipe along your face.
“I feel sick..” you leaned your head against his shoulder– perched on the bed and barely able to hold up your own weight. That was not a problem since Javier had no qualms supporting said weight in his big, strong arms. So much so you were ready to fall asleep sitting up right there.
“I know doll, that’s why we’ve gotta get you some rest…” He caught your legs in his grasp and helped you lay back against the mattress. The whole room spun and you reached for him in frantic desperation– afraid you would fall right through your bed and to your inevitable demise.
Javi was quick to hush you, gently shifting the duvet from under your restless form and tucking you in. Sure, to say you were feeling great would be a little bit misleading– but boy your bed had never felt as comfortable as it did in that moment. The covers swallowed you like a giant, marshmallow like cloud, and you felt your muscles relax and give in to the exhaustion. You felt the tickle of the covers– completely and cosily tucked in. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you were prepared to drift to dreamland. But how could you forget….
“Where's my kiss?” you rolled over under the duvet, twisted in a position between your side and on your back– too dizzy to align yourself correctly with the mattress. Even you found it difficult to recognise your own voice, far more slurred and sleepy and small than it usually was. Your eyes struggled to remain open.
Javi laughed, and helped you turn around to face him in a way that wouldn’t compromise your back. He shifted the covers around you to tuck you back in again, and you couldn’t help but snuggle into the plush of your bedding. You watched with hooded eyes as he reached forward and ran his knuckles across your cheekbones.
Javier leaned in to press his lips to your forehead, letting them flutter against your skin ever so gently, and smoothed his palm over your head. You were asleep before he pulled away.
“Goodnight, doll.”
—
You woke up with perhaps the worst hangover to have ever existed. Turns out endless sugar and alcohol really didn’t sit well in your system. The sun peaking in through the blinds made you groan and toss the sheets off your body. It was hot and mucky in your room. Too hot and mucky for the morning.
But it wasn’t the morning.
When you rolled over and checked your phone it was well into the evening. 18:00hrs to be exact. You didn't know it was possible to sleep in that late and still feel like shit. The previous night must have really been something.
You couldn’t remember much from the previous night if you were being honest, well, besides the fact that you spent quite a significant part of it cozying up to Javier. You still smelt him on your skin, and felt what his mere presence did to you between your legs. Your panties clung to your cunt as you stepped out of bed.
Your own reflection in the bathroom mirror frightened you, but you brushed your teeth and hopped in the shower despite your overall ickiness and lethargy. You knew Javier would be downstairs looking handsome as ever, and after probably looking a little ridiculous the night before, you couldn’t really risk walking out there looking like a clown.
Besides, it was late already, and there was nothing more you could use at the moment than a cold fruit juice and a soak in the pool.
When you sauntered down the staircase and made your way towards the kitchen, you were surprised to find your house rather empty. The sun was setting and both Maria and your dad should have been home for dinner by this time. You called a few names but to no avail.
Deciding that you couldn’t be bothered you fixed yourself an ice cold lemonade and moseyed on over to the pool, only then to be jumpscared by a rather unexpected shirtless figure laying in the shallow end, relaxing with his eyes closed.
Before you could speak, he did. “Sleep well I reckon?” his head was still tilted towards the sky, his torso stretched out as he laid his head on the edge of the pool deck. The water gently crashed against his navel.
“Probably not as well as you were a second ago” you approached him, his eyes were still closed but he outstretched an arm, making space for you beside him. “Well, I didn't sleep in till six now, did I? I was just taking a little nap, doll”
You rolled your eyes and climbed into the water, but instead of cozying up to him you swam in front and gently parted his knees to kneel on the pool step. “Where are the oldies?” By this time, Javier had actually opened his eyes and he watched with a smirk as you ran your hand over his leg.
“They’re out, baby- gonna be out till breakfast tomorrow.” He reached forward and pulled you fully towards him. “Well that's fortunate isn't it”. Surely he could tell you were pushing your tits in his face. He clearly didn't mind either way. You slung your arms over his shoulders again as he spoke.
“Oh yeah? What for” he moved his face towards yours and his hands moved dangerously to the cut of your breasts. “Gives us time to swim, you know, relax in the pool.” You couldn’t even keep a straight face as the words left your mouth. You pushed yourself off his knees and swam towards the deeper end. Javier chuckled and followed behind you slowly, playfully threatening to grab your leg as you squealed away from him.
“That’s all you out here to do?” He caught up to you and gently cornered you against the edge of the pool. “I don’t know why you’d think otherwise..” You were in shallow enough waters that you could stand on your tip toes. You grabbed him by the sides and pulled him closer. His own hand snuck under the water and brushed against the cut of your bikini bottoms. “Just the way you’ve been squeezing your thighs since last night.”
Your breath hitched, “Didn’t Maria say she wanted you to mend things with Lorraine again?” His hand was still dangerously close to your already dripping pussy. This was definitely better than any wet dream you’d had over the past week Javi had been visiting. The feeling of his skin against yours, the rough waistband of his pool shorts brushing against your waist, his unbelievably huge arms caging you against the warm stone of the pool deck- it made you melt more than the evening heat ever could .
Speaking of the heat, the sun had almost fully set. The lights in the pool had turned on automatically and the way they shimmered lit up Javi’s face in the most spectacular fashion. You noticed the gleam of the water against his warm, tanned skin as he spoke. “Since when do you want her to have her way, doll?”
He was so close you felt his entire chest vibrate with his chuckle. His hand gripped your waist and forced you up until your legs had no choice but to wrap around him. It was then you felt his hard, thick, length pressing up against the inside of your thigh. You squealed and tried to get your words out straight. “I don't know… feels a bit unholy whatever's going on here.”
“It does feels sacrilege" his hands toyed with the straps of your swim top, he continued speaking, voice getting lower by the second. “Wonder what our parents would say if they found out”
Javi’s hips pushed further into yours and you gasped, your pussy aching at the feel of his cock rubbing against you. It was a struggle to choke your words out, but nevertheless you managed. “They’d be furious.” He could definitely tell you were struggling. In fact he seemed to enjoy it quite a bit. He leaned down and ran the tip of his nose against your collarbone, his hips continued to rock against yours and you felt your swimsuit cling to your wet, messy, cunt. “Mom would lose her mind.”
In your delirious state you struggled to keep up with what he was saying. Sure, you’d had sloppy makeouts with boys before. But all those boys were losers, obsessed with getting off and too stupid to know what they were doing in the first place. None of them were competent enough to speak to you this way, get you all worked up and caught up in their words. The thought of Maria finding out what was happening under her nose made you giggle a little giggle of revenge. “She’d lose her mind at what's going on here.” you sighed as you spoke, revelling in the feeling of Javi’s lips on your neck. But just as those words left your mouth, he pulled back playfully.
“What is going on here?” You felt his cock swell and rut against you and you gasped. Your hands grasped his shoulders for some stability. “What is it you want from me, baby?” You were so wet you bared down on him and you heard him groan. His hand moved to your breast and stayed there tauntingly.
“See that's the thing….” you took in a breath, then ran your hands over his chest before slinging your arms over his shoulders and pulling him closer. “What's the thing..” Javier squeezed your breast in his hand and you moaned. He leant back into your neck and sucked the skin, rocking you once again gently into the wall of the pool. You felt your pussy clench around nothing.
“How much do you think it would piss the oldies off if you say..” you tangled your fingers in his hair and whispered gently in his ear. “I don't know, took my virginity?”
Javi rocked his hips into yours so hard he slammed you against the wall. You shivered as you heard him groan beside your ear. His cock strained against his swim trunks and sat nuzzled against your wet, hot pussy. “Quite a lot I think..”
“Call it a favour.” His hand made its way between your bodies as he spoke and he ran his thumb over your clothed clit. He pulled back and looked at your face as if to say he was rather unsurprised by the fact you were a virgin. For a split second you wondered how he would know but were quickly distracted by his hips thrusting into yours. There was a glint in his eyes. He looked excited, almost like he could eat you alive right then and there. “Is this why you’ve been such a tease the past week?”
Elated, and basking in all the new sensations, the movement of his expert fingers over your sweet spot you smiled and let out a rather enthusiastic “Maybeee.”
His fingers continued to rub your clit as he spoke and you bucked your hips into his hand. “Want me to stretch you out so you can have some fun once you get to college?” Those words sent your eyes rolling back into your head. You tightened your hold around his waist with your legs and tugged at his hair. Unable to speak.
“Someone’s quiet..” with your lips inches from his all you could manage were quiet, strained pants “Just trying to make your whole break-up easier.”
Javier chucked and slipped his fingers under your bikini bottoms, he groaned at your wetness and you gasped at the feel of his rough fingertips against your most sensitive spot. “You’re doing good, baby, haven’t thought about that cheater for a week.”
Oh, what a revelation that was
“See, it's a win-win” his lips finally came crashing down on yours after those words. They were soft and he tasted like cigarettes and vodka. He moved his mouth expertly against yours just as he moved his fingers against your pussy. The feelings rose in your chest and you moaned into his lips. You took a chance and nipped at them while you were there.
“Naughty little thing you are.” By this time you were so needy and desperate, the grinding wasn’t cutting it. Every other time you had a guy between your legs he'd already finished, and in the rare case he didn’t he was still rutting against your leg like a rabid dog. Not Javi though, Javi had got the stiff peak of your nipple between his fingers, he pinched gently and then reached behind you to untie your swim top. You took the time to reach down and feel him through his swim trunks. You didn’t know where you got the courage from, but when you saw his eyes flutter close and his lips part, you knew it was worth it. He grabbed your hand and brought it back up over the water. When you looked between you, you saw your swim top and your bottoms floating away from you. Before you knew it, he was slamming you back against the wall, his thick fingers teasing at your opening. He nudged your nose with his “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop okay?”
You nodded, and felt yourself melt into his arms when he placed a gentle kiss on your cheek. God, this was just second nature to him, wasn’t it?! “Well then baby, how do you want it?”
Gasping, you clutched at his soldiers when you felt him push his finger into your weeping entrance. The water crashed against your body and you seized as he placed his thumb on your clit and rubbed.
“Want it slow and romantic?” His fingers moved in languid strokes, drawing out your moans from deep within your chest, his lips locked to the skin of your chest, kissing and nipping. You arched your back with every move.
“Gentle and sweet?” Whatever he was doing, it was working. You don’t remember the last time even you managed to get yourself that worked up.
“You know what I think?” He slipped another of his tick fingers in and you winced at the stretch. He pumped his digits in the perfect rhythm and you twitched in his hold.
“I think you’ll take it the way I give it to you..” his pace picked up and you felt him rubbing his hard cock against your thigh. “Think you know that I know what you want.”
“Know what you want before you do, baby.” The thought made you squeak, and he laughed at your enthusiasm. “You like that doll?” his rutting got faster, and you took the cue to nip at his neck, suck little kisses on his salty, summer kissed skin. “Fuck, you sure you haven’t done this before?” Your hands roamed his body as your hips bucked into his hand. He groaned when you tugged at his hair again.
“So fucking pretty..And so fucking tight….” His eyes raked over your form as you squirmed and turned in his hold. His fingers scissored you open.
“Look at you, so wet for my cock.” Much to your dismay he pulled his hand away from your spasming cunt just as you neared your release, instead reaching into his swim trunks and sliding his cock between your swollen folds.
“Ready for me baby?” You bit your lip at the feel of his head pressing against your entrance. “You sure feel ready”. The comment made your cheeks heat but your nods couldn’t be more emphatic. At that point you were shivering and quivering with need. The image of Javi towering over you, his big hands grabbing at your flesh, it was too much.
“That's my girl..” with a single, deep stroke, he pushed in. Dear god was he big. So big in fact that had you been any less wet he would have split you in half. Even with how wet you were you flinched at the sting. Every vein, every contour of him you could feel inside you. Your walls pulsed when you heard him groan.
Javi shushed you and cupped your cheek in his hand, he let you adjust to his size with slow movements of his hips. You struggled to take his huge cock but the pleasure was too strong to stop. The stretch was so delicious.
“Doing such a good job baby, such a good job taking my cock..” you clenched your eyes shut at the pleasure, the pain almost completely dissipating each passing second.
“Dont worry, the other boys won’t be this big.” he chuckled and forced your eyes to meet his. “Won’t have any trouble after I’m done with you.” His lips crashed into yours. “They’ll slide right in, doll.”
You heard the water crash against the walls of the pool, spilling over the edge and onto the deck. Your pussy fluttered at Javi’s dirty words and you moaned his name in an expectedly desperate plea. As if he knew what you were asking he picked up his speed just a little, the hand that was grabbing your waist moved up to toy with your nipple.
“Bratty little thing teasing me since the day I got here, just begging me to fuck your brains out the moment your daddy looked away.” He gained his rhythm, your thighs slapping against his under the water. “Dancing for my attention, falling all over me.” He leaned down to swirl his tongue against your nipple as it rested above the water. “Just needed some cock in your pure little pussy didn’t you”. You felt the cool evening air hit your chest but your skin still felt like it was on fire. “Fucking tease.”
Like a prayer yet again his name fell from your lips. Your body struggled to make any other sounds beside that anyway. He seemed to like it, his cock pulsing inside you as he fucked you hard and fast.
“Say it again baby.” You did. It was hard not to listen to his every word when he was inside you, hitting all those spots you could never reach with your fingers. Ones you barely knew existed.
“Whose fucking you so good?” He growled in your ear.
“Javi”
“Whose poppin’ your sweet cherry?” At this point you were screaming and moaning so loud the neighbours probably thought someone was being murdered in your backyard. But you couldn’t care less. You had no idea sex could even feel this good. God knows your ability to get yourself off was mediocre at best, and you didn’t have many good things to say about any boy that tried to put his hand up your skirt before Javi.
He just had the amazing ability to make you feel like your body was the centre of the universe. And that filthy mouth of his was enough to have you teetering on the edge.
“Gotta be prettiest girl I’ve ever fucked” you opened your eyes to find him staring down at you. His eyes scanned every inch of your body and took every curve in. “Oh baby, it's not even a competition.” His thrusts only got faster and you yelped as he hit that sweet spot inside you over and over and over again. “All those girls all over me last night, just couldn’t stop thinking of you.”
You were so close, you tightened your legs around him and arched your back. Before you could even warn him that you were cumming you felt yourself tumble off the edge. Your pussy quivered and gushed around his swollen cock, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You could barely register where you were, and you made out the sound of him cussing from the ringing in your ears.
When you finally came to you found his thrusts getting sloppy. Javi’s eyes clamped shut and before you knew it you felt his hot spend coating the inside of your walls. Your pussy clenched around him once again and you wrapped your arms over his shoulders as he collapsed on top of you. You pressed your naked chest against his as the both of you caught your breath.
“That was the best thing ever” you were almost starstruck. Javi snorted and kissed your neck. “Was it now?” He placed a kiss on your jaw and mumbled into your skin.
“We should do that again.” you turned to him as you spoke, biting your bottom lip. Javi grabbed your cheeks between his fingers and ran his thumb over said lip.
“Well, baby, now you’re the one that owes me a favour.”
—
Evil, we've come to tell you that she's evil, most definitely
Evil, ornery, scandalous and evil, most definitely
The tension, it's getting hotter
I'd like to hold her head underwater
Eeek!! Literally so excited to share this!! Please please flood me with your ideas, thoughts, impressions etc. I am so curious to know what you think!!! Thank you so much to everyone who comments, engages with and reblogs my work you keep me writing!! 💗🐝
oh the obsession just got so much worse…
dear god please take all of Emma’s pain and give it to those fucking ICE agents
His pain fits in the palm of my hand - A.C
☆ Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader ☆
summary: Andrew has survived his whole life by wanting nothing. Until Craig introduces one of his friends, and suddenly, Andrew wants everything and more. word count: 20.7k (yeah kinda lost my mind there) c.w: age gap implied but not explicit; short suicidal ideation; crying; mentions of blood; light physical injuries; angst to fluff; smut - piv sex, oral sex; praising kink; breeding kink if you squint a/n: sooooo...took me two weeks. had a breakdown. bon appetit! (and thank you to my wife for proofreading it) I really hope you'll like reading it like i enjoyed writing it.
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading! If you want to be tagged for the next part, please comment below !
Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.
Nights spent pacing the garden of Smurf’s house, bare feet on the cold ground, counting his steps to keep his mind occupied. It never did. He tried to outrun the memories of his actions, to drown his pain at the bottom of the pool. But on those nights, his torment wore the faces of his ghosts.
First there was Julia, then Cath, quickly followed by Baz. And Smurf. Always Smurf. A cycle of misery that makes his ribcage feel as though it might collapse under the violent pounding of his heart.
Some days, seated at a table with his family, Andrew had felt he could scream until his throat gave out, and no one would have heard. He imagined falling into the pool, slipping under the surface, water closing over his head and staying there, lungs burning just long enough for the noise to finally fucking stop, no one coming to pull him out because nobody would have noticed he disappeared.
There were moments when the thought settled heavy in his bones: he would not survive another day in his family, he didn’t want to. He kept straining toward a bond that no longer reached his end…if it ever did.
Over the years, Andrew had grown accustomed to his role. Weird Pope, Creepy Pope, the family’s guard dog: asking for nothing, obeying to the beatings, the killings and never, never, mentioning the ghosts hunting the corner of his eyes each night.
He remembered Smurf’s voice, years ago. “Pop him a few pills and he’ll follow your commands, baby.” She said it to Baz like it was nothing, like he was nothing. This was before prison, before Andrew felt deep in his bones that the other half of his soul left this merciless Earth without him.
Sometimes he let himself think about Julia, since no one else did. He hoped that at least one of them had finally found peace.
Then, you happened.
And Andrew can’t make sense of it, no matter how much he turns it over in his head, how a girl like you ends up being friends with Craig and therefore, near the Cody brothers: you are sweet, kind, nothing but soft edges, and innocent. Almost like the world has spared you the knowledge of what men like him are capable of.
Whenever you are in the house, his gaze follows you from room to room. He tells himself that it’s vigilance and habit that pushes him to act like that. Except he doesn’t need to memorize the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or how he can recognize the distinct sound of your footsteps in a heartbeat.
He learns and catalogues each of your reactions: the faint frown of your nose at the smell of a particular brand of coffee (gone from the house and replaced before sunset), the soft curl of your lips whenever you are kindly refusing his offer to make you a sandwich.
(He wouldn’t be bothered if you took a bite of his.)
To see you is a special kind of hell and an indescribable heaven, like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.
Lately, you shift the air of the house by simply existing in it. Your laugh, in the rooms where Smurf had once lived, seems to almost cleanse the walls of her memory. And Andrew knows. He knows that’s why Craig is friends with you. Because each day, the sun seems to finally be able to reach the house, even his own room.
It frightens him.
His body instinctively adjusts around your presence, his mind reassessing new rules (the glasses on the bottom shelf so you can have access to them, checking how many drinks you have at Deran’s bar). He memorizes your schedule, notes which books you are bringing with you in your bag, times how long it takes you to get home, parks far enough that you can’t notice his truck but close enough that he can reach you if something goes wrong.
All his life, Andrew had survived by wanting nothing. By hollowing himself out until the obedience Smurf wanted from him fitted neatly inside his ribs, because wanting had always been a liability, a weakness someone could press a knife into.
But now…now that life seems finally good and breathable, that he has the skatepark and his siblings and an almost regular life (if one exists for men like him) without Smurf’s claws on his throat, Andrew finds himself cornered by a simple, terrifying truth: he wants you.
He swallows it. Buries it deep inside, trying to drown it with numbness and even more repetitive actions when you are near: chopping, tidying the house, scrubbing counters that are already clean, fixing hinges that doesn’t squeak… Anything to keep his hands busy so they don’t reach for you.
No, Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.
──────────
You remember telling yourself that the house felt wrong before you ever understood why.
Craig had asked you to come meet his brothers and from his tone alone, you knew it was a big deal. That something was at stake.
You showed up at four sharp, even if he hadn’t given you a specific time (something you would soon realize was typical of Craig), a paper bag pressed to your chest, palms already sweaty. You stood outside for a full minute before knocking, taking a few deep breaths, and stepping over the threshold with a smile as he wrapped you in a hug with his tall frame before dragging you straight into the kitchen.
That’s when you saw him.
Broad shoulders, dark curls on a face held tight, back straight and hands braced on his thighs, his posture so still you almost thought he was a mannequin.
“My brother Pope,” Craig said. “Don’t mind him, he almost doesn’t bite.”
His gaze was already on you, unblinking, steady in a quiet unnerving way, like he was committing every detail to memory, a look so intense it coaxed words out of you before you could stop them.
“H-Hi,” you stuttered, giving your name as you tried to stay composed. You extended your hand toward him, and he stared at it for a moment. The pause stretched long enough for doubt to creep up your spine (maybe he didn’t shake hands? maybe you had already broken some invisible rule?).
You swallowed, blood rising to your cheeks, drawing your hand back to clutch the paper bag as you tried not to stammer on your words. “I brought pastries. I didn’t know what you all would like so…I kind of…guessed,” you hated how small your voice sounded.
He stayed silent, brows faintly furrowed, as if he was processing what you had just said. Then he nodded. “Thank you.”
His tone was quiet, almost a hum, pulled from the depth of his chest, the sound settling low in your stomach, warm and heavy, and your first thought (unwelcome and strange) was how that vibration would feel beneath your palm.
Craig sighed with desperation at the conversation with a quiet “Stop being weird, bro!” while his other younger brother, unbothered, simply ignored the awkwardness, nodded as an introduction and handed beers around.
It was a welcome distraction, the cold liquid sliding down your throat, and buying you time to think on what to say next, but the youngest, Deran, beat you to it, asking you about your job and how good a surfer you were.
“You fuckin’ with me? You live in Oceanside and can’t stand on a board?” he laughed and couldn’t stop the slight condescending tone from his voice. “No worry, me or mister El Craigo here will introduce you to it. You’ll only swallow, like…a gallon of water before you get it.”
“Oh, um…I don’t think…” you tried to say, though it was mostly ignored.
Pope hadn’t looked away once, hand gripping tightly enough on the beer that you could see his knuckles whitening. There was something careful about the way he held himself: still, contained.
Your eyes met his again and you smiled tentatively.
“Um…Pope,” you started, uncertain, the name tasting strange on your tongue. “Can I ask you…”
“Andrew.” He interrupted, the tone firm enough to stop you mid-breath.
You suddenly became aware of your heartbeat, your chest lifting as it rattled against your ribs. Your gaze dropped at the intensity. Had you done something wrong? You suddenly felt foolish for the pastries, for the outstretched hand, for trying so hard, and an absurd urge to apologize rose in your throat, even if you didn’t know what for.
When you looked up, he was already halfway out of the kitchen.
You never finished your question.
Later that night, when you slipped into your bed, the sheets cold but familiar in their welcoming loneliness, you turned from one side to the other, eyes pinched shut without any release to exhaustion, realizing that you couldn’t remember what you had meant to ask.
Only that you wanted to hear his voice, just one more time.
──────────
The house is too loud. It always is when there are people over.
It reminds him of being a kid, hiding with Julia, hands intertwined, avoiding the drunk and high grown-ups. Whispering that everything would be alright. That no one would find them. Not even Smu-
(Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on the kitchen counter.)
The volume of the music is pushed too high for his comfort, a constant buzz under the conversations in the house and near the pool while Andrew stands in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water, scrubbing a glass that is already clean.
He finished the dishes ten minutes ago, but he is still washing, still drying, rearranging things that don’t need rearranging because it gives him somewhere to put his hands, to put his eyes. Because the alternative is the living room. And you.
(You, in that white dress. He has the stupid thought that you look like an angel and immediately hates himself for it. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the droplets dripping from his fingertips.)
He tells himself that he is staying in the kitchen because it lets him see everything in the house, because parties mean unlocked doors, strangers who could wander into rooms they shouldn’t be in. And there are the habits he can’t shake off: watching the exits, the unfamiliar faces, counting heads (Deran, Craig, you), noting who is drinking too much, who is getting loud, who might break something.
He dries the same plate twice in a row before setting it down on the kitchen counter and looking up without meaning to.
You are by the couch, perched on the armrest while Craig, bare chest and shameless about it, tells you the story about the time he smuggled a burrito full of drugs across the Mexico border, story he knew you heard a dozen times these past three months. But still, you are laughing, head tipped back, hair falling down your spine (he wonders what they would feel like underneath his fingertips), one hand wrapped around a bottle you haven’t drunk from in a while, like it has more to do with keeping your hands busy while you are listening.
Andrew noticed it the first week he met you.
But the moment your lips wrap around the drink, he looks away and goes back to washing clean and dried plates, hands in the ice water, soap stinging the small cut on his knuckle.
(Good. Something sharp. Something real. Better than counting for now.)
“I bought you a new pair of gloves.”
Your voice is closer than he expected and his head snaps towards you before he can stop it. You are standing at the edge of the counter, smiling, so close that he can smell your shampoo despite the soap and the lingering smell of weed (it’s so clean, so soft, he wants to drown himself in it).
“Why?” He asks, his nostrils flaring at his own bluntness.
You shrug, small. “I know Craig threw your pair away yesterday. And, um… I know you like wearing them when you clean.”
“Why?” his voice repeats, breaking at the word.
Of course, you ignore his question, and he can’t help but spiral (why did you do that? do you realize how much the gesture is affecting him? no one ever cared about his gloves. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the freckles on your nose.).
“I got the good ones,” you add, beaming. “So the soap doesn’t mess up your hands.”
While your eyes drop to his hands, his are still enraptured on your face, studying every single feature (you really do look like an angel. and you act like one too. maybe you are his salvation. stop, he needs to fucking stop but he no longer knows what to count.).
Andrew swallows what feels like an anchor in his throat because you look like you worry about him (you have done that for a while now, which still baffles him). Nobody worries about him: they worry about what he might do, not whether he is hurt.
“’m fine.” He mutters, not convincingly enough, judging by the look on your face.
You are still looking at his bruised hands and your fingers twitch on the counter like you had the sudden urge to reach for him, like you might take his hand to look at it.
(He has the overwhelming need to know what you would do with his hands in yours. Hold them? Kiss them better? One. Two. Three- would you let his hands run along your hair? He knows what it’s like to touch you when you need help, but he feels that this would be very different.)
“They are under the sink,” you say above the music and Andrew can’t do anything else but stare, not trusting his own voice.
You linger for a moment at the counter and Andrew wants to ask you to stay (in the kitchen, in his life, doesn’t matter), but Craig shouts your name from the living room and suddenly he has some homicidal thoughts. You glance over your shoulder, then back at Andrew, and you look…reluctant.
“I’ll…”
“Yeah.”
You don’t move. Neither does he.
“Thanks.” He finally says, his gaze still tracking every shift of your expressions, trying to burn your smile in his retina, hoping one blink would not be enough to erase it.
“Of course, Andrew.”
Andrew. For you, he is Andrew and that’s all that matters because you are the only one calling him by this name and you make it sound like it belongs to you ever since you first said it by the pool.
With one last little smile, you walk away and his eyes follow you until he knows you have reached Craig but even then, he doesn’t look away, afraid you might disappear, just like every good thing always did.
And Andrew learned, a long time ago, that if you wanted something to stay alive and safe, you watched it. Guarded it. Didn’t blink.
Andrew didn’t blink.
──────────
You stepped outside because the house had started to feel too small, suffocating all at once, Craig and Deran’s voices stacking over each other in the open kitchen, arguing about a job - a part of the Cody brothers’ lives you knew existed but mostly chose not to look at too closely.
You told yourself you only needed a second of quiet, just enough space to breathe properly again after a long day at work full of aggravating customers, meager tips and a coffee spilt by a coworker on your bare legs.
The noise softened once the door closed, letting you draw in a deep breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“Fucking hell.” You muttered, exhausted by the shouting.
You hadn’t noticed him at first, too busy staring at the pool and ignoring your inner voice telling you to jump straight in the pool fully clothed, a thought that you were soon pulled out of when you heard a sound that didn’t belong to the wind or the trees.
That’s when you saw him, seated at the edge of a lounge chair, head bowed, a skateboard turned upside down across his thighs, one hand spinning a wheel while the other oiled it with slow, precise movements.
“Not a fan of the shouting matches?” you asked, trying not to startle him.
He glanced up, shook his head before going back to the board. “No.”
“So…not keen on loud noises either?”
“No.”
For a moment, you simply watched him, struck by how different he looked when he was doing something he seemed to…enjoy. Less folded into himself, the usual tightness of his posture easing (was it because of the board? the sound of the pool? the absence of his brothers? whatever it is, the view looked precious enough for you to want to capture it).
You lowered yourself onto the warm concrete next to him, your back resting against the lounge chair, knees pulled to your chest, neither of you speaking for a while.
That’s when you noticed his hands: knuckles swollen and red, the skin split near the thumb, a faint line of blood reopening every time the skin stretched.
“They look like they hurt. Y-Your hands, I mean.”
He shrugged without looking at you. “They’re fine.”
Your eyes drifted from them to his profile: from his hazel eyes fully focused on the board to the tight set of his mouth and you caught yourself distracted by his lips for a second too long before forcing your eyes back to the floor, warmth creeping up your neck (don’t think about that, don’t think about that).
“Andrew?”
The wheel immediately stopped spinning. Not gradually, just…stopped.
The entire yard suddenly became too quiet as his face snapped towards you, something unreadable flickering across his face and vanishing just as quickly, and you felt the realization settle in slowly that you had finally said his name after almost a month of avoiding it.
“Do you think I could learn how to skateboard? I…” the words got stuck between your throat and your lips while you searched for the courage to finish your sentence without tripping over yourself. “I mean…I wanted to know if you could help me. Learn it, I mean. If you wanted to. You don’t have to, I just…” (fuck. why? why were you so weird?)
Your fingers picked at the hem of your skirt and pulled on a thread to busy your hands, and from the corner of your vision you caught his brief smile, and the warmth that spread was so shamefully immediate that you bit your tongue until you tasted metal just to keep from blurting out something along the lines of ‘i really, really, fucking love your smile, please do it again so my day goes from moderately shitty to embarrassingly close to perfection.’
“Give me your phone.” he said, and you didn’t hesitate, fishing it out from your pocket, and placing it in his palm.
“There’s no password on your phone.”
“Yeah…I know.”
“It’s dangerous.” His thumb hovered over the screen, nose flaring. “Anyone could get into it. Your photos. Your messages. Your address. Everything is in there.”
You barely heard the end of it, too focused on the pull in your chest as his words kept coming, just for you.
“I haven’t thought about that.” You murmured, feeling foolish while he muttered to himself something that definitely sounded like ‘I did.’
He tapped his number in before going through the settings while you were still struck by his intensity and that he was doing this for you without being asked.
“Six digits. Not birthdates and not something simple like six zeros.” He handed your phone back, his fingers lingering for a second too long before pulling away. “Put one.”
This time you knew it was an order and you didn’t hesitate a second as you followed it, typing something in, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was standing, your shoulder almost brushing his calf, your pulse loud in your ears and a slow, humiliating heat pooling low in your stomach that you refused to think about at the moment.
“Good.” He said after you saved the password. “Text me your work hours.”
“So, it’s a yes? Really?”
He grunted and whether the dusting of crimson over his freckles was real or something you imagined, you couldn’t tell, you were too busy feeling as light as a leaf.
“Yes. And…”
His words were cut off by the screen door banging open, leaning back abruptly just as Craig made his way toward you both with a grin that meant whatever the fight with Deran had been about, he had won.
“Deran agrees for Friday night. And you,” he tapped your forehead. “didn’t hear shit.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s my girl. Now get your ass in the pool.”
Craig was already running to the pool before you could respond, clothes coming off mid-step.
“I can’t believe this man has a kid. Has you brother always been a shameless nudist?”
“Unfortunately…yes.”
You snorted before murmuring. “Thanks, by the way. For the password thing. And for agreeing to teach me. I promise I’ll only be like…average terrible.”
“You’ll be fine,” he shrugged. Then, quieter, “I’ll make sure.”
His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth when he said it, before snapping back up, and something in your stomach turned warm and gooey, a reckless part of you hoping he might add something else. Or step closer again. But he didn’t, just nodded once, before muttering. “Go.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you to your board, Andrew.”
You made it halfway to the pool before you glanced back. He was still watching, not even pretending not to, looking like a leopard ready to jump. Like if you slipped, he would already be moving.
And lying awake that night, window cracked open and the ocean humming somewhere in the dark, you muffled his name into your pillow, trying to quiet yourself, imagining his hands instead of yours. Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.
──────────
Andrew is used to ending his nights alone because wanting people to stay never goes well for him.
So, when the party finally ends at four in the morning, he does what he knows best: throwing the bottles into the trash, making sure no one is passed out in the backyard or asleep in one of the bedrooms and…cleaning.
First the diving board, even if Craig is still making out on one of the lounge chairs with a girl whose name Andrew can’t remember and doesn’t try to (he knows best). Next, the counter, twice in a row for good measure. Then the sink, while Deran claps a hand on his shoulder with a “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” before heading out.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. He counts the second you spend in the bathroom.)
He stands in the kitchen for a moment before realizing it might look strange and make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing he wants.
He rushes back to his room (he wouldn’t exactly call it ‘sprinting’. sprinting would mean he is trying to avoid you. which he is not. not at all.).
He doesn’t bother turning on the light when he decides to lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling because he knows that sleep won’t come. It never does.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks.)
Every time he closes his eyes, something crawls up from beneath his ribs and he is once again plagued by his ghost: Julia’s voice, Cath’s smile, Baz’s forgiveness. Smurf’s words cutting straight through him.
He thinks about the pool and how easy it would be to let the water close over his head. How all the voices would finally be silent forever, his own included.
(Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He recites the number of cameras in the bank for the incoming job.)
He forces himself to think of something else.
Of you, earlier, laughing at Craig’s story (and the immediate, unwelcome ache in his chest as he wonders if there’s something between the two of you, if this will end the way things always seem to, if you’ll be another Cath: close to him before preferring his brother).
Then he thinks about the way he made you laugh on your first skateboard lesson, all because he wanted to make you feel safe and seen, how the simple feel of your waist had nearly made him press his forehead to your shoulder and beg for you to stay and keep looking at him like that.
He thinks about that night when you called him for help, and how he didn’t hesitate for even a second when reaching for his keys, truck already running before you even finished explaining because the simple thought of you alone somewhere in the dark, waiting and frightened, had felt like acid running through his veins, the kind of fear that made him beg to the sky “Not here, not her, not again. I won’t fail her”.
He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees bursts of purple light.
(Breathe. One. Tw-)
A faint knock against the door makes him freeze.
Nobody knocks in this house, his brothers just…barge in.
He is already on his feet before he realizes it, his hand finding the handle before he opens to find you there.
Barefoot, hair loose and messy, the mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes and the dress wrinkled. Earlier, Andrew thought you looked like an ethereal angel, something untouchable and holy.
But now…now you just look human, real and warm, which is worse because real things like you can stay as well as leave.
“Hey.” You murmur, leaning against the doorframe.
He grips the handle tightly to steady himself.
“Something wrong?”
“I was supposed to sleep on the couch,” you begin, talking with your hands the way you always do when you try to explain a situation, “but signor El Craigo has decided that it’s now his new make out spot with Sam and I really don’t need that image burned into my brain. And of course, I thought about taking his room in retaliation, but I don’t trust his conception of hygiene,”
That makes him huff.
“So…” you add, rubbing your arm, almost shy which doesn’t make sense in his mind because you haven’t been shy with him in a long time with the skatepark lessons or with the ‘hallway accident’ you both had together, “Can I stay here tonight?”
You don’t say ‘with you’ nor ‘in your bed’, but Andrew understands and he is pretty sure his brain short circuits for a second or two.
You didn’t text Deran or try to Uber home. You just came to him. Because you trusted him.
“Yes.” He replies too fast, stepping back from the door.
“You sure?”
He nods to avoid confessing that he would give you the bed. The room. The house. The air in his lungs.
You slip past him into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed before looking back at him and asking gently, “You’re not sleeping, right?”.
“No. Not…not really.”
“Yeah, figured.”
You lie down beneath the covers first, curling onto the side of the bed closest to the wall, leaving him space.
“Don’t think about staying on top of the covers, Andrew.”
The warning in your tone almost makes him laugh so he complies, lying down beside you, fully clothed and aware of every inch separating the two of you.
He stares at the ceiling again.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breathing.)
The mattress shifts while you slowly roll onto your back before turning fully toward him, your shoulder brushing his arm.
“Sorry,” you mumble sleepily. “’m cold.”
“It’s fine.” He says it like the ghost of your breathing over his collarbone didn’t just set every of his nerves on fire, like he was not terrified to shift even an inch.
After a few minutes, you drift closer in your sleep, chasing warmth without thinking, your knee pressing against his thigh, your hand sliding across the sheets until your fingers come to rest on the fabric of his shirt, right over his heartbeat and for a moment he genuinely forgets how to breathe.
Your palm is so warm, and he is painfully aware that you can probably feel how hard his heart is pounding.
Nobody has ever touched him like this, like he is something safe and out of everything that has happened to him: the underground fights, the prison, the jobs…none of that ever made him feel this defenseless.
His eyes suddenly burn because he wants to turn so much to see your peaceful face, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pull you closer to know just once in his life what it’s like to hold something good without destroying it, to press his face into your hair and breathe until the ghosts quiet down, but he doesn’t.
He stays exactly as he is, lying in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breaths again. Then the seconds between them. He thinks about the fact that you’re here and the miracle of it.)
Sleep doesn’t come, but for the first time in years, the night doesn’t feel empty. Because you’re here. Warm. Alive. Trusting him.
So, Andrew stays awake until morning, guarding the only good thing that ever chose him.
──────────
You were so, so late.
You had told Andrew on the phone that you would be at his skatepark at 5:15 sharp after work, and it was now 5:42 and you were sprinting the half mile that separated the coffee shop from there, bag smacking against your hip, your lungs burning, already sweaty before you even reached the entrance, trying to slow your breathing with a few useless deep inhales, hands braced on your knees, pretending that you were not seconds away from passing out.
(First lesson and you were already late and a disaster. Great. Very impressive.)
You straightened, wiped your forehead, and stepped inside, scanning the park before finding Andrew, board tucked under one arm, sleeves riding up his biceps, curls messy from the wind and sweat and you were now positively sure that you had some drool at the corner of your mouth (the universe had decided to sabotage you and that was fucking unfair.)
You watched the tiny smile he had as a girl showed him her board, proud and beaming at him like he had personally hung the sun in the sky (no, you didn’t need to think about him being good with kids. you didn’t need to picture him with kids, him gentle, him…stop. shut up.).
The second his head lifted and locked eyes with you, you were pretty much done for. It was ridiculous, really, how one look from him could short-circuit every coherent thought in your brain, how your feet just…moved, carrying you toward him instinctively, dropping your bag by the fence without breaking your stride as he met you halfway.
His gaze dragged over you once: your face, your hair, your chest.
“You ran here?”
“Yes. And I’m sweating…a lot. Please don’t judge me.”
He took a few seconds, a storm passing through his eyes before he added.
“You’re late.”
“I know,” you rushed, your hands quickly moving and your words tumbling over each other like they always did when you got flustered around him. “but a guy ordered for his whole ‘cheaper by the dozen’ family like three minutes before we closed. I’m probably sure he sensed my despair and fed on it.”
A small huff escaped him. “You didn’t have to run.”
You shrugged, eyes to the ground. “Didn’t want you to think I bailed on you.”
You felt it, his head tilting down just enough to catch your gaze again, stubborn about it.
“I wouldn’t. Now you ready?”
“Born ready.” You lied through your teeth.
“You look terrified.”
“I can do both, you know,” you shot back quickly. “I am large, I contain multitudes.”
There was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, Whitman.”
“Y-You know Whitman?”
A pause.
“I mean…not that I don’t believe you or think you can’t read poetry or anything…that’s actually super hot, so good job!” you gave him a thumbs-up, aware you had just lost every ounce of dignity you had ever possessed. “It’s just that last week Craig asked me if ‘Pride and Peace’ was a good book to impress a girl, so…my bar was very low.”
Andrew stared at you for a moment. “Pride and Peace.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not…”
“I know, I know. But don’t worry, I did a good deed for society and told him not to mention any book ever. You and Deran are safe from now on. You’re welcome.”
And there it was again: that quiet amusement on his lips, the roll of his eyes like he couldn’t help himself, making you feel the stupid and dangerous need to continue to jest (keep talking, say anything, make him do it again).
He shook his head once. “C’mon Whitman. Let’s see what you got.”
You trailed after him without thinking and the first few attempts were…humiliating to say the least: your balance was nonexistent, your feet refused to cooperate, your arms stood uselessly at your sides, and you had absolutely no idea where you were supposed to look while Andrew hovered nearby like he was ready to intervene at any moment.
“I look stupid!” you complained.
“You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine! This is deeply humiliating. I can barely stay upright and there are twelve-year-olds doing tricks behind me! Tricks, Andrew!”
“You’re doing good.”
“I almost died.”
“You didn’t.”
“Socially, I assure you I did.”
Your heart did a stupid little skip when a tiny, amused sound escaped him.
(You could bottle that sound and live off it. You were now pretty sure you would commit crimes for it.)
“Makes sense you’re friends with Craig,” he muttered. “Dramatic.”
You gasped, unable to contain your grin. “Excuse you mister Cody, but I am layered! I am complex!”
He looked unimpressed and repeated “Dramatic.”
You opened your mouth to argue before your foot slipped, the board shooting forward, and for one horrible second you thought that worse than falling off in front of children was falling off in front of the guy you had a crush on.
But you never got to know the feeling before his hands were suddenly there, at your waist, catching you fast and steadying you while you became acutely aware of every nerve under his palms, of his thumbs grazing your hipbones, of his breath brushing your cheek as heat pooled between your legs.
He moved behind your back, still holding your waist before murmuring “Don’t lean and bend your knees.”
(You were starting to suspect he was fucking with you on purpose.)
But still, he adjusted you gently, palms rotating your hips and guiding your stance before kneeling to help place your legs on the board and you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting:
“I haven’t shaved my legs. Sorry.”
“Me neither.” He huffed, his breath warm on your calf and the faintest hint of amusement threading through his voice.
(Was that…a joke? Was he joking? Since when was he doing that? You liked that. You wanted that.)
Andrew pushed himself back on his feet, stepping away just enough for you to feel the sudden absence of his body, leaving you oddly cold, like you had stepped out of the sunlight.
“Try again.”
You nodded, realizing that his joke had somehow shaken the worst of your nerves away, before pushing off, your knees bent like he had shown you, your weight centered and the board rolled.
“Oh my God, I’m doing it! Andrew, I’m really doing it!” you exclaimed happily.
“You are.”
You risked a glance over your shoulder, and he was watching you with his usual careful intensity, hands half-raised and prepared to catch you, like protecting you was the only thing on his list right now.
So (naturally), you did the dumbest thing possible and tested him. Just a little bit. Just to know.
You leaned and let your weight tip forward just enough to know if…
His hands immediately caught you, his hands on your ribs, scanning up and down if you had been hurt, “You okay?”
You swallowed, realizing that you had never doubted a second he would be there. And that settled something warm and terrifying in your chest.
It was not a silly crush, not your friend’s brother that you thought was hot and interesting, no. It was falling. Headfirst, no parachute.
And judging by the way his hands hadn’t moved from your waist yet, you weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t falling a little too.
──────────
You are screaming and he is too late.
He is always too late.
Your voice breaks into something small and terrified, the kind of sound that doesn’t even feel human anymore, and he is running but his legs don’t cooperate, move in slow-motion, the floor stretching longer and longer beneath him and the house smells like chlorine, metal and something sour he recognizes too fast.
You’re in the pool, face down and the water is red. And you are so, so still. He tries to move, to drag you out, but he can’t.
You turn toward him, eyes open and your mouth spilling blood.
“You were supposed to be there, Andrew. Why weren’t you there?”
He jerks awake, his whole body snapping upright while air refuses to enter his lungs, a pain in his ribcage so intense he thinks it might split him open from the inside out.
He doesn’t understand why at first: why his pillow feels cold and damp to the touch, why his throat burns, until he drags a shaky hand across his face and touches something wet, the realization feeling nauseating.
He has been crying in his sleep for God knows how long.
He presses his palms hard into his eyes like maybe the pain will help him, like maybe if he suffers enough the images will disappear. That you won’t be floating face down in the pool, covered in blood, your blood, your voice joining all the others, the same disappointed tone he’s memorized over the years with his ghosts.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He tries to count but it doesn’t work.)
The house is quiet for once, too quiet, and Andrew has this awful, crawling sensation lodged under his sternum, something cold and irrational that he can’t help but spiral into.
(What if…No.)
He is already moving, because lying back down would mean closing his eyes again and he can’t, he fucking can’t risk seeing you like that again, can’t hear the sound of your voice pleading and begging for him to save you when you are already gone, can’t add you to the long list of ghosts that wait for him every night.
Halfway down the hall, he gets as quiet as he can manage, moving through the house like he is on a job, because it feels the same: this sick, urgent need to verify something, to be sure that you are here, that you are safe.
The living room is glowing faintly blue before he even steps in, the light spilling on the floor and he hears it: a narrator speaking about sharks and the distant sound of recorded waves.
You always pick sea life documentaries when you stay over.
He doesn’t know when you figured out he liked them.
He stops at the threshold and sees you: curled on the couch, hidden beneath a blanket and alive.
(Your chest rises. Then falls. Rises. Falls. You’re not floating. You’re not gone.)
His lungs finally unlock and he breathes sharply, the sound loud enough that you look up immediately, like you sensed him there, like you are now tuned to him in a way he doesn’t understand, and your expression softens the second you see his face.
“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”
He nods automatically but knows that he can’t bullshit you.
“You don’t look okay.”
“I’m fine,” he manages, but the words come out wrecked and dragged through his throat.
Your eyes examine him slowly and it clicks behind them. “Nightmare?”
(Oh, he hates this word. Hates how small it makes him feel. Hates how childish it sounds. Hates how accurate it is.)
His jaw locks so hard it aches and he can’t force out anything more than a stiff, miserable nod, his nails digging crescent moons in his palms as he braces himself for questions, for having to justify why he is standing there at three in the morning, shaking over a bad dream. But you don’t push.
You just scrub a hand over your tired face before moving your legs and lifting the blanket, creating space beside you.
“Come here.” You mumble, looking at him, patient.
He crosses the room slowly, the couch dipping under his weight as he lowers himself beside you, hyperaware of every inch of distance, of your arm brushing his, of the warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt, of how close your knee is to his thigh and how easy it would be to accidentally touch.
Your hand bumps his and even if he should pull away, he doesn’t. The contact is small, just skin against skin but for Andrew, it’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been.
Your fingers linger, uncertain, like you’re giving him time to decide, like he is allowed to decide. His thumb moves before he can stop it, brushing lightly over your knuckles, slowly, reverently, like he needs to make sure you are solid and not a trick of his mind. You feel warmer than him.
(Alive warm. Not water cold. Not bloody and floating. Not like in the pool.)
The memory hits so hard it hurts.
He jerks his hand back abruptly, his breathing going wrong again, shame creeping hot and fast because for a moment he wanted something and asked for it, letting the walls go down.
But you don’t comment, don’t tease and don’t pull away in response to his neediness and instead, you shift closer and you help settling the blanket over both of you, your arm following, tugging him in gently, like there has never been a version of this world where he wasn’t permitted to be here.
He stiffens when your hand finds the back of his neck and he wants to reassure you that it’s not because he wants it to stop but because he wants it too much, and he doesn’t deserve it. But your fingers brush his scalp, and suddenly he is nothing but starving for it, leaning toward it instinctively.
You guide him down gently, so gently and he can’t win this fight tonight, his ear pressing against your chest.
(Your heartbeat. Steady. There. One. Two. Three. Four. It’s there. You’re alive.)
The documentary keeps whispering about tides and sharks, but he barely hears it now because all he can focus on is the rhythm under his cheek and the way your fingers keep caressing his curls in slow strokes like you were calming a frightened wild animal.
He wants to move. To slide his arm around your waist. To press his face into your shirt and breathe you. To hold you tight enough so nothing could ever take you away.
But he stays still, terrified of ruining it and breaking something with the weight of his want.
Your fingers drift lower to cradle the back of his head while your other arm tightens around him and pull him fully into you, closing the remaining space between your two bodies. His relief is immediate and overwhelming, pulling a whimper out of him, emptying him of his thoughts.
His chest caves inward on a shaky exhale, his hand finally moving hesitantly until it rests lightly on your waist, barely touching and giving you room to pull away if you want to, but you don’t. You tuck him closer, your chin brushing his hair.
“I’ve got you. You’re okay, Andrew, I promise. I’m here.”
The words land deep and it takes him a moment to realize he is sobbing in your arms, the tears soaking your shirt while he presses his forehead closer to your chest, just to confirm that the heartbeat under him is real.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your heart now.)
“Shh…It’s going to be okay, Andrew.”
The storm in his head – the ghosts, the pool, your voice – slowly quiets for the first time all night, dissolving under the simple, undeniable fact that you are here and breathing under his cheek, speaking to him, comforting him.
And somewhere, between one beat and the next, his body finally gives up the fight, his sobs stop, exhaustion dragging him under gently this time, no drowning, no screaming, just the steady rhythm of you and your quiet voice drifting above him.
“I’m not leaving Andrew.”
He knows that for tonight at least, no nightmare will come at him.
You promised.
──────────
“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.”
Craig was the worst and you were absolutely going to kill him. Not even metaphorically, but in the sense where you would pick up the nearest heavy object and aim for his head the next time you saw him, if only you were able to find him right now instead of wandering through a house you didn’t know that smelled aggressively of weed and alcohol.
Deran and Andrew would forgive you, you were sure of it, if you murdered their brother under these circumstances. Hell, they might even help you bury the body. Because you could have had a regular evening at home, watching for the hundredth time Shawshank Redemption but no, you had to be alone in a stranger’s kitchen, trying not to panic.
The party had shifted, you felt it about twenty minutes ago.
It had stopped being loud fun and started being loud wrong when little bags started to be passed around, people disappearing in rooms and coming back with pupils blown wide and white powder on their nostrils.
You had looked for Craig. Texted him. Called. Nothing.
You had found someone who vaguely resembled one of the friends he introduced you to earlier, and when you asked if they had seen him, they laughed and replied something about “upstairs with Renn so it might take a while, Sweetheart,” and you stood there for a second, scared. Really scared.
Because you didn’t know anyone there, not really. And you were now surrounded by idiots who were snorting cocaine.
(Okay. Calm down. Breathe. Don’t cry. It doesn’t help your situation at all.)
A guy you didn’t recognize slid a drink toward you with a grin that lingered too long, and the fact that your very first thought was ‘I wonder if he put something in that’ made your decision for you: you were leaving. Immediately. Whatever Craig was doing upstairs with Renn was officially no longer your problem.
The night air hit your face, making you regret for the lack of jacket.
You stood on a sidewalk for a moment, trying to calculate the distance back to your apartment. You were too far, with no car and a phone at nine percent.
“Craig is dead. He is fucking dead. I will kill him myself,” you muttered under your breath as you started walking anyway, heels dangling in your hand, bare feet against the cold concrete, just to put some distance between you and the house.
But the further you got, the louder your heartbeat became, pounding in your ears, the fear crawling up your spine.
Still, you kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, repeating ‘You’ll be fine,’ over and over to your brain.
(You were not fine. You were alone. In the middle of the night. Walking barefoot down a street you didn’t know. Why were you like this? Why didn’t you just stay? Why didn’t you drag Craig out by his stupid hair to drive you back home?)
You didn’t want to try to call Craig again and waste your last percentage of battery on someone who would not answer.
And before you could talk yourself out of it, before you could rationalize or be embarrassed…your thumb was already pressing Andrew’s name.
(If you called him, he would come. He wouldn’t hesitate. You knew it.)
The phone only rang once before he picked up.
“Yes?”
That was all it took for you: the sound of his steady and low voice to make something inside your chest collapse, the fragile composure you had been clinging to dissolving instantly as you let out a shaky exhale, thanking all the Gods above for Andrew Cody’s existence.
“Andrew,” you said, your voice betraying you immediately with a crack right through the middle of his name. “I-I’m sorry. It’s late, I know. I just…”
“What happened.”
You swallowed, trying to force the tears to back down. “I’m at this party and…and Craig left. I mean…he is upstairs with Renn doing I don’t know what and he won’t answer me. I left the house because it got weird there and I’m trying to walk home but I think that was a stupid idea and I just…”
(You hated how your voice wobbled. How small it sounded. You should have bought pepper spray.)
“I’m so scared.”
In the background, you could hear keys jangling, a door closing and his truck starting.
“Where are you?”
No ‘why’, no ‘what were you thinking’. Just that.
You gave him the street name and the closest intersection you could see, wiping your face with the back of your hand and trying to steady your breathing so you didn’t sound like you were seconds away from a breakdown.
“I’ll be there in five.”
You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. “It’s at least ten.”
“Five.”
The line went dead before you could argue, the call cutting off abruptly as your screen went black. Dead battery.
You stared at your reflection for half a second on the dark screen, heart hammering while you counted the seconds in your head, hoping that somehow it would summon him faster.
It took less than three hundred for you to see headlights cut around the corner of the street faster than the required speed limit, relief crashing into you. He didn’t even fully stop before the driver’s door was already swinging open, crossing the distance to you in three long strides, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe then past you to the houses.
“You okay?”
You nodded too quickly and he stared at you, jaw locked so hard you could see the muscles twitching. He looked furious.
“Get in,” he said, opening the passenger door, one hand braced on the roof as he helped you climb up into the seat, taking your shoes to put them in the back seat.
You stayed silent, not wanting to know to whom his anger was directed at. It was only once you were down the street that he finally spoke again, eyes flicking between the road and you.
“Did anyone hurt you?”
You blinked at him. “No.”
“Touch you?”
“No.”
“Follow you?”
You shook your head, watching his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.
“Say anything to you?”
“Just…offered me stuff,” you admitted quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself again. “But I said no. I would never do that. You know I would not.”
You weren’t sure why you felt the need to add that, why you wanted him to understand that you hadn’t been reckless. That hanging out with Craig didn’t mean being like him. That you wouldn’t caught yourself in drugs. You knew better.
The streetlight caught the side of his face and for a split second you saw something raw there before it slipped behind his mask of control. The silence continued to stretch, heavy.
“Are you angry at me?”
The truck slowed to a stop at a red light, allowing him to turn his head toward you fully, eyes dark and intense in a way that made your whole body pulse in response, not from fear but from the weight of being seen.
“I’m not angry at you,” he said, holding your gaze. “I’m angry you were there alone. Angry that my stupid brother left you. Angry that I wasn’t there sooner. But not at you.”
The light shifted to green, but he didn’t move right away. His eyes remained locked on yours, unblinking, making sure you understood the distinction.
“You call me,” he added quietly. “The second you have a problem, you always call me. Okay?”
You nodded, fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You don’t.”
And there was something in the way he said it, like he was wounded at the idea you thought you might ever be an inconvenience to him, that made you blush.
The truck finally rolled forward, but the air between you felt different, heavier in a way that you’ll only be to shake off with a cold shower.
You watched the way his shoulders remained tense all the way to your home and understood then that he had come because he had been frightened, that the thought of you alone in the dark had unsettled something in him, and that he had needed to fix it.
And the scariest part was that something warm and traitorous inside your chest responded to that.
You liked that he had been scared.
You liked that he came in less than three hundred seconds.
That he didn’t even hesitate when you admitted you were frightened, he simply moved.
And you liked the way he refused to let you walk barefoot to your apartment, carrying you, as if the idea of your skin touching the cold pavement was something he would not allow.
He didn’t put you down immediately. No, he held you all the way from his truck to your doorway, one arm firm beneath your legs and the other steady at your back, your shoes dangling loosely from his fingers, your body tucked close enough to feel his breathing through his shirt, making you aware of how easily you fit there.
When he finally set you down at your threshold, his hands lingered at your waist a second longer than necessary.
“You’ll be good?” he asked quietly, handing you your shoes, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.
You nodded, incapable of trusting your own voice, because if you opened your mouth, you were fairly certain that something reckless would fall out, something dangerously close to ‘stay’ and you were overwhelmed enough by the urge to step over, to reach for him and press your forehead against his chest just to see if his heart was still beating as fast as yours.
He was still staring at you, something unspoken passing like electricity.
“Good night,” he whispered, the softness of it almost undoing you.
“Good night, Andrew.”
You closed your door slowly, pressing your back against it, listening to his boots on the pavement, realizing that he hadn’t moved until he heard the lock click.
Only then did he walk back to his truck.
You would maybe not murder Craig after all.
──────────
Andrew spends the entire day watching for the moment you are going to change your mind and run from him.
And you don’t act differently when you wake up: you drink coffee while humming along to the songs on the radio, trying to coax a laugh out of him, but he keeps waiting for it anyway: the flicker in your eyes that says you’ve seen too much of him now, that holding him while he sobbed was enough to scare you off for good.
He replays the night while you are in the shower. How he cried in your arms. How your fingers combed through his curls. How you held him pressed against your chest. How he let himself need you.
He wonders if he should apologize, or explain, or at least even just…acknowledge that you saw him at his weakest and that he was thankful it was you.
Instead, he washes the dishes twice in a row to calm his brain, avoiding looking directly at your body when you step back into the kitchen in your coffee shop uniform, hair damp.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on his mug.)
You ask him if he is still taking you to the skatepark after your shift, and he wants to say no. The word sits right there on his tongue, ready to spill, because the park means proximity and proximity means touch and desire which always ends with something being taken away from him.
But you smile at him in such an open and easy way, and if it was something you really wanted to do, far be it from him to deny you after last night when you held him like he was something that could be saved, that was worth saving.
So, he nods and the way your whole face lights up makes him think, not for the first time, that he would probably give you anything you asked for.
That is the part of himself that scares him.
And now that he is finally at the skatepark with you on this late afternoon, he knows that he should be tracking your stance and foot placement the way he always does, but today he notices different things about you instead: how you are not pulling away from him, not avoiding him, how you stand close when you talk, lean into his space without hesitation.
And somehow that unsettles him more than distance would have. Because, if you are not afraid of him, if you are not stepping back after seeing what he is like during his worst nights, then what does that mean?
You sway on the board.
He sees it, but his brain is still half-caught in the memory of your heartbeat under his ear, still waiting for the recoil that doesn’t come and by the time his body reacts, you’re already too far from his reach.
You hit the concrete hands first, palms slamming down on instinct before your knees follow, the skin scraping on the ground with a sound that makes his stomach drop. The impact steals the air from your lungs and for a fraction of a second you manage to hold yourself up before your face strikes the ground with a sickening thud.
Andrew is already moving before you even understand what happened, the board rolling behind you while he drops to his knees so fast, he doesn’t register the sting tearing through his own skin, doesn’t feel the way his jeans split at the knee or how his knuckles scratch raw when he catches himself, because none of it matters to him. He is scanning, assessing and cataloguing the damage, forcing his mind to clear before he dares to touch you.
Your palms and knees are damaged through the torn denim, but it’s the blood beginning to run from your eyebrow that makes him feel abruptly cold. It gathers at the edge of your lashes and runs along the curve of your nose, bright red against your skin, and for a second, the world tilts.
(Blood. So much blood. He knows blood. Knows how to stop it. How to clean it. How to stitch it close. Pope is good with blood.)
The thought lands with cold precision, and even if he hates the name, even if it sounds wrong in his own head, he can’t afford to hate the part of himself that steps forward first right now - efficient Pope, steady Pope, the one who does not panic.
“I’ve got you,” he says, and his voice is low, measured, trying to reassure you the way you reassured him last night while he broke apart against your chest, even though his heart is hammering through his ribs.
Your eyes flutter, dazed, before you try to sit up, but he is already there, placing one hand at the back of your neck and the other on your shoulder to help you.
“It’s okay sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs, and there is something almost pleading behind his words that has less to do with your eyebrow and more to do with the memory of the pool and your voice accusing him of being too late.
He swipes his thumb gently beneath the cut to assess its depth, his other hand moving to brace your jaw so you don’t move, and when fresh blood coats the pad of his finger, he feels the familiar switch inside him flips into place.
(His breathing slows. His hands stop shaking. This he understands. This he can control.)
“It’s not deep,” he says after his inspection, even though he knows you’ll need stitches. “You still with me?”
Your hand lifts and finds his wrist, fingers curling around it, and the contact sends something through him that is not adrenaline and not fear but softer that frightens him more because it makes him aware of how much he needs you to be okay.
“I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice is small.
He shakes his head once, tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt. “Let’s get you home so I can clean this properly, okay? Keep pressure there,” he instructs, guiding your hand back to your eyebrow and pressing it into place.
You nod, and that’s enough for him.
He slides one arm behind your back, his broad palm spanning the length of your shoulder blades, the other slipping beneath your knees to lift you, ignoring the sting of his knees and the sticky blood drying across his knuckles because none of it is important compared to the steady rhythm of your breath brushing his collarbone.
He carries you toward the truck, opening the door and lowering you carefully into the passenger seat, one hand coming up to your jaw, his thumb resting lightly on your cheekbone to make sure your eyes focus on him.
“Stay with me,” he says softly.
Your lips twitch despite the pain. “Bossy.”
He goes to buckle your seatbelt, adjusting the strap and closing the door gently before circling the truck, wiping his bloody hand against his jeans.
While driving back to your apartment, his eyes keep darting to you every few seconds.
“Talk to me,” he says after a moment.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
You take a moment before starting to talk about your day at the coffee shop, just mindless little moments. He doesn’t interrupt, he listens and nods at the right moments. You are grounding him on purpose, he realizes, dragging his thoughts back to something ordinary, something alive.
(You are not in the pool. You are breathing. You are not telling him he failed you. He counts your breaths.)
Inside your place, he works methodically, like he always does when someone comes back from a job hurt and bleeding – controlled, shutting everything else out. He lays out all your medical supplies on your desk with a precise spacing: first gauze then antiseptic, needle, sewing thread…The order is important. Order means control.
You sit on the edge of your bed, looking at him and continuing the pressure of the piece of his shirt against your eyebrow.
“Alright,” he says quietly, stepping between your knees so he can reach your face properly. “Hold still.”
He cleans your palms first, his concentration absolute because his entire world has narrowed down to the square inch of skin beneath his fingers.
“I should have caught you.”
“It’s not your fault, Andrew. Don’t punish yourself for it, okay? I’m fine, I promise I’m fine.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust himself to.
Instead, he goes silent and returns to the work in front of him, bandaging thoroughly your hands before taking off your pants and doing the same with your knees, making sure everything stays in place.
Finally, he allows himself to look fully at your face again, examining the cut on your eyebrow and tilting your chin upward with two fingers, feeling your breath ghosting on his lips in the small space between you.
“You’re going to need stitches,” he murmurs.
You study him for a second. “You’re very serious about this.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not dying, Andrew.”
“I know.”
“You look at me like I am.”
His jaw tightens and for a moment, he almost says it. Almost tells you that in his head, he’s already seen that version of you, floating and gone, but he swallows it back.
“Hold still,” he says instead.
He cleans the wound carefully by dabbing away the dried blood, and when you flinch, his free hand comes up automatically to steady the side of your head, thumb resting near your temple, not commenting on the way you lean into that touch.
The first puncture makes you inhale sharply.
“Breathe,” he says low, “Just breathe slow for me.”
You obey, focusing on him rather than the pull of the thread, your eyes locking on his face. He works carefully, tying each stitch with precision, trying not to falter at your gaze and even less at the reckless, intrusive thought about pressing his mouth to your brow to undo the wound.
When he finishes, he doesn’t move right away. He studies the line of the sutures, checks for tension, checks for bleeding or anything he might have missed before studying you.
“You’re okay,” he says, trying to convince himself.
You give him a small, tired smile. “I told you. I’m tougher than I look,” you say before your gaze drops, narrowing as you notice what he has been deliberately ignoring. “Andrew.”
“What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
He shrugs, dismissive, trying to pull his hand back so you can’t look too closely. “It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s not nothing,” you murmur, reaching for him before he can retreat, your fingers tracing carefully over his knuckles, making him go still. “You can’t patch me up and ignore yourself.”
He swallows, and before he can argue, you’re already reaching for the antiseptic with your bandaged hand, fumbling slightly. He catches the bottle before you drop it, his other hand covering your instinctively.
“You shouldn’t…”
“None of that,” you interrupt, and there is a flicker of stubbornness there that makes his mouth twitch despite himself.
You tug his hand toward you, and this time he lets you clean the scrape on his hands. He doesn’t look at the wound. He looks at you.
At the crease between your brows as you concentrate. At the way your lips press together. At the way you treat his injuries as if they matter. No one ever does.
Your fingers tie the bandage clumsily but securely, and when you finish, you don’t let go right away. Your thumb lingers, stroking slowly over the back of his hand. He is not sure how to breathe. The room feels so much smaller now. Quieter?
You lift your eyes up to him and whisper. “Can you stay? Just for a bit. So…we can check on each other.”
He could tell you it’s starting to get late and he was supposed to meet Deran and Craig for their next job. He could tell you he’ll call you tonight to see how you feel.
But there is nothing in him that wants to leave this room.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can stay.”
He helps you shift properly onto the bed, careful of your knees. When you lie back against the pillows, you reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
It takes him a second of hesitation before lying down beside you, stiff at first, but you roll toward him, your bandaged hands pressing against his chest as you settle close, your head finding the space beneath his chin.
He exhales through his nose before lifting his arms and resting them around you.
After a few minutes of silence, when he thinks you might already be drifting, you murmur. “I like it when you called me sweetheart.”
He presses his mouth lightly into your hair.
“Go to sleep now.”
You nod, your body going slack after a few minutes while he stays wide awake, his hands moving slowly along your spine.
“You scared me,” he whispers into the quiet, once he is sure you’re gone.
His fingers move to brush lightly just above the stitches of your brow.
“I can’t lose you,” he breathes, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
(He counts your breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. Not because he is afraid. But because he simply likes knowing the rhythm.)
When sleep finally comes at him, he knows there won’t be any nightmare.
Because you’re there.
──────────
You did not mean to end up alone with Deran.
In fact, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you had carefully avoided being alone with him since you met, not because he had been hostile to you, but because he seemed to have this unnerving habit of seeing through people and you were not a fan of subjecting yourself to that.
Craig had dragged you to the bar “just for a bit,” (which in Craig language meant ‘indefinitely’) before promptly disappearing with a girl, leaving you at the counter, nursing a soda because you had work in the morning.
Deran was wiping down the bar in front of you.
“El Craigo has already left?” he asked without looking up.
“’Flee’ would be a better word to describe what happened.”
“And so now you’re just…” he gestured vaguely toward you with the cloth, “…miserably contemplating on drowning yourself in your drink?”
“It’s a soda.”
“You know what? That’s so much sadder.”
You exhaled, dragging a hand over your face before saying, “Can I ask you something without you telling Craig?”
That caught his attention immediately, making him glance up.
“Depends how embarrassing it is.”
“It’s not embarrassing,” you protested automatically, then faltered. “Fine. It’s…a little embarrassing.”
“A little?”
“A lot,” you admitted.
He huffed once, almost amused, tossing the cloth over his shoulder. “Fine. What?”
You took a breath, suddenly aware of how absurd this was and how you were feeling like you were sixteen instead of twenty-nine. “It’s…” you cleared your throat. “It’s about Andrew.”
(Fuck. This was so deeply humiliating. But Craig was not an option. He would weaponize the information and never let you live it down.)
Deran blinked once before leaning his forearms on the counter, a smirk spreading on his lips. “Oh, I see.”
You groaned immediately. “Oh, please, can you not react like that? You’re making this worse.”
“I haven’t reacted! I’m just…not quite surprised about this discussion. Come on.” he waved a hand. “What’s your question?”
“It’s just…” you stopped. “I don’t know how to tell if he…”
(Oh my God. You had faced worst things than this. You could finish a sentence.)
Deran tilted his face slightly, with a shit-eating grin that you absolutely hated. “If he…what?”
“If he likes me,” you blurted out in one breath.
The silence fell for exactly two seconds before he let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“You’re fucking with me. Right?”
Your face burned instantly. “Okay, great. Never mind, I’m just gonna dig my gra-”
“Easy tiger. Don’t get your panties in a twist. He’s obsessed with you.”
You stopped, your stomach flipping violently.
“That’s not true.”
“It is deeply true,” Deran replied flatly. “He reorganized the shelves in the kitchen.”
You blinked. “Well…I thought he just liked order.”
“Oh yeah, he does. Trust me, he fucking does. But…not that much.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Surely that doesn’t mean…”
“He drove across town at three in the morning to get you out of a party,” Deran continued, counting off on his fingers now. “He cancels family meetings to go to the skatepark with you. He did his ‘scary stare’ to me the last time I drank in your mug.”
Heat crept up your cheeks as you stammered, throat dry. “B-But he doesn’t…He doesn’t say anything.”
Deran snorted. “Yeah, that’s Andrew.”
“It’s just...sometimes I don’t even know what he’s thinking.”
“Neither do we,” he deadpanned. “Welcome to the family.”
You exhaled, frustration spilling over. “So, what am I supposed to do now?”
Deran considered you for a moment. “Just…let him try to go at his own pace here. He is not good at the whole…relationship thing.” he said, his voice stripped of its usual sarcasm before adding. “And for the record, the way you look at him? Not subtle. Like, at all.”
You nearly choked on your own spit. “I am subtle!”
“I mean, yes,” he conceded dryly. “You are subtle…for Andrew and Craig. So don’t be proud about it. That’s the lowest level of subtility possible.”
“I hate you, Deran.”
“Yeah?” he replied with an amused smile. “Well, get in line.”
There was a pause before he said quietly. “You’re good for him. Just…don’t screw it up. You’re in the tribe now. Which means I have to tell you this…”
You straightened slightly.
“…if you’re not sure about this, about yourself, you go now. Not in a few months. Not after he lets himself think this might be real. You don’t get to backpedal if it gets complicated. He wouldn’t recover from it.”
You shook your head immediately. “I swear, I won’t hurt him. He’s…he’s-”
You stopped, because the word felt too large to say aloud. But Deran looked at you intensely enough for you to finish.
“He’s important. To me. I don’t want to fix him, because I don’t think he’s broken. I like him the way he is. I...I think I wouldn’t recover from losing him too.”
Deran held your gaze for a long moment. “Alright.”
You tilted your head. “Alright?”
“Alright,” he repeated. “You pass.”
“Was-Was it an interview? Are you serious?”
“Yep. And congrats, you got the job.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt lighter than it had in quite some time while Deran smiled, a real full grin, almost boyish, making it easier to see the younger brother under his usual cryptic attitude.
“I forgot what it was like,” he said after a beat.
“What?” you asked.
“Having a sister you can annoy.”
“That’s…extremely sweet of you.”
“Don’t ruin it,” he warned, pointing the towel at you. “I will absolutely deny this conversation ever happened if you mention it to my brothers.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.
Then, he leaned forward and whispered to you. “And if you hurt him, I’m stealing your car and slashing your tires.”
“O-Okay.”
He had a little smile before straightening up. “Welcome into the family.”
──────────
He has not told you.
No one has told you about the job.
Craig said it wasn’t necessary, that you would make a big deal out of it. Deran said it was cleaner that way, the less people know, the less risk and Andrew didn’t argue, telling himself it was better if you didn’t know the details, better if you didn’t have to sit there, waiting for them to come back and spiraling about what could be happening to them.
He told himself that ignorance would keep you safe.
The screen door slams and your voice, sharper than he has ever heard it is rising against Craig, who’s following you in the backyard like a kicked puppy.
Andrew doesn’t turn immediately from his spot, staring at the water of the pool. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the loud noises.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the tiles of the pool.)
“You asked me to babysit Nick,” you’re saying, your voice shaking like you are about to start crying, “and you made it sound like it was for a date or something stupid! You didn’t say it was because you were going to fucking rob a jewelry store!”
“Jesus, lower your voice.”
“Lower my voice? How about you shut your mouth you liar!”
It isn’t only outrage in your voice, Andrew feels it. It’s fear. A raw, unfiltered fear for them. For him. And he doesn’t know what to do with that because no one has ever been afraid of losing him. When he went to prison years ago, his family moved on, sold his place and went on with their lives. For them, it was an inconvenience, for him, it was three years in Folsom.
Andrew turns then.
You’re standing a few feet from Craig, hands still bandaged, the thin line of stitches above your eyebrow visible, pointing a finger at Craig angrily while he tries to stay calm, running a hand through his hair.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re breaking into a jewelry store, Craig. That’s not exactly Disneyland.”
“We’ve done jobs for years,” he snaps. “We’re good at it.”
Andrew watches the way your shoulders rise and fall too fast with your breath, the way your fingers flex like you’re resisting the urge to grab something and throw it at Craig.
“You know what happens if you get caught, right? You know what that would do to Nick?”
Craig’s jaw tightens. “We don’t get caught.”
You let out a bitter sound that is half a laugh, half a sob.
“Repeat this in the eyes of your brother, I fucking dare you. That’s not how life works, and you know it. You can get caught.”
Andrew feels the words hit him in the chest and rip something out of him. He doesn’t know when you learn about it. Doesn’t know who told you or the extent of your knowledge about those three years of fights and isolation.
If you know – truly know - why aren’t you running away? Why are you still here?
(He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. It’s too much. It’s too little. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks on the floor.)
“We’re not idiots, just trust us, okay?” Craig argues, rolling his eyes.
“You left me alone at a party in a house full of people doing coke,” you fire back, your finger jabbing hard against his chest. “You are the exact definition of an idiot, Craig.”
Craig winces. “We don’t have to do this right now, okay? I already told you I was sorry about it. Pope, back me up.”
Both of you turn toward him at once, the weight of the fight landing on his shoulders. He doesn’t move immediately. Doesn’t speak either. Andrew has never been good at splitting himself in two, at giving his opinion. He was raised to follow orders.
Craig gestures toward you. “She’s acting like we’re amateurs.”
You slap his arm, wincing, forgetting for a moment about your bandage. “Fuck.”
Andrew walks up to you, checking your hand while you keep repeating him. “I’m okay, Andrew. I promise.”
He lifts his eyes to yours, angling his head to catch them, and when your gaze finally locks with his, he holds it, stubborn and unblinking. Your eyes shine brighter tonight than they usually do, so he doesn’t give himself permission to look away.
(You’re about to cry. It’s his fault. It must be his fault. He should have been better. But the voices are too loud. He doesn’t like when it’s too loud. One. Two. Three. Four. He remembers your breaths when you sleep.)
“I just…I thought you all trusted me,” you say, your voice breaking halfway through, fighting back tears of frustration.
Craig’s shoulders drop while Andrew’s thumb strokes over the back of your hand, grounding himself.
“We do,” Craig says, less combative now. “That’s why I asked you to watch Nick.”
“That’s not making me feel like you trust me. It’s making me feel like I’m a convenience.”
The word hangs there, making Andrew feel like he failed something. He has never wanted you to feel like this. He wanted you to be protected.
His gaze doesn’t waver as he keeps your hand in his, stroking over the bandage.
Craig looks between the two of you, seeing the hand, the closeness and mutters, “Jesus, bro, this is the worst time,” under his breath.
“Okay,” he exhales finally, turning fully toward you. “I fucked up. Massively. About the party. About not telling you. About…probably a million other things. I didn’t mean for you to feel unsafe.”
You don’t look convinced.
“Trust me,” Craig adds quickly, throwing Andrew a sideways glance, “I got my ass kicked enough by Pope to regret this party for the rest of my life.”
Your lips twitch a little, trying to keep it contain.
“Now, if you could hand me back my brother, I would be very grateful because we have a job to do, and you have a kid to entertain,” Craig says, rolling his eyes and retreating inside the house.
Andrew doesn’t let go of your hand, refusing to blink and terrified of losing a moment of you. He has the irrational feeling that if he does, something will waver on your face, the moment when you realize what this life looks like and he won’t be able to see his failure in time.
“We’ve planned it,” he murmurs finally.
You hold his gaze. “And if something goes wrong?”
He doesn’t answer right away because he knows the answer to this, and he is certain you don’t want to hear it.
(If something goes wrong, he goes down first. He makes sure Deran and Craig are safe. He doesn’t come home because he won’t ever go back to prison. He prefers to die trying to escape than go back in a cell. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your eyelashes.)
You are still waiting, searching his face.
“Then I handle it,” he says quietly.
You shake your head, your jaw working as if you’re trying to physically hold yourself together. “Promise me to come back safe.”
His hand lifts before he can stop himself to settle against the side of your face, his thumb resting just beneath your eye, making you go very still, waiting for what he will do next.
His thumb caresses your cheekbone once, just enough to fill his mind with the memory of your skin.
“I won’t let anything happen to me,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know if it’s meant as a vow or a lie he’s trying to force into becoming true. “I promise,” and before he allows himself to overthink it, he presses a careful kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing just above the line of stitches.
He can hear you catch your breath and it makes him pull back, his lips tingling at the contact. He knows it now: if he stays longer, if he lets himself feel the warmth of you, he might not leave at all.
He memorizes the sight of you like this: looking like losing him would break you and it does something unfamiliar to his chest. No one has ever been scared at the thought of him disappearing. No one has ever demanded that he come back.
He turns quickly, putting distance between the two of you before he changes his mind, the promise he made echoing in his head.
He hears it when Deran cuts the alarms. Promise me to come back safe. When he cuts through the back entrance. Promise me. And when Craig tries to improvise. Promise. He is not one to do reckless things but tonight, he is particularly unyielding each time the job almost goes sideways.
He knows you are in the house with Nick, probably pacing the kitchen and waiting to see the outcome of his word. So, when he finally reaches the main display room, he is quick to reach for the highest value pieces that will be cut down and reshaped. No traces or evidence will be left, they have done this long enough to know how to make everything disappear completely.
Andrew’s hand hovers for half a second over a particular velvet cushion before picking up the thin gold chain, a small heart-shaped pendant set in the center. It’s delicate and quiet, reminding him how it feels to bask in your light. He turns it between his fingers once, twice, imagining it resting just below the hollow of your throat, his thumb brushing over it absentmindedly while you are both sitting on the couch and watching a documentary.
He slips it securely into the inner pocket of his jacket, pressing it flat against his chest for a brief second before stepping back into motion and leaving with his brothers without any alarms or police sirens cutting through the night.
And when they get at the warehouse to stash the duffel bags, Andrew doesn’t stay like he usually would to make sure about getting his fair cut of the job. He nods once, quiet, ignoring their snickers and comments about him being ‘down bad’ all the way to his truck.
The house is dim when he enters, a soft glow coming from Craig’s bedroom and before he sees you, he hears your voice. It’s so soft.
“And baby whale swam all the way across the ocean to find mama whale,” you murmur.
He quietly walks up to the threshold to see you sitting on the bed with Nick lying, his eyes dropping with sleep, his thumb in his mouth and clutching to his monkey plushie. You slowly close the illustrated book before pressing a kiss onto the his hair and something expands in Andrew’s.
(You would be good at this. At building something steady. He can picture you pregnant, swelling with a child. His curls and your smile on a being that would never know the kind of hurt he had to go through.)
You stand up from the bed and see him, the relief crossing your face so achingly tender it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.
“Andrew.”
He nods once, trying to convey his feelings, “I came back.”
You smile, closing the bedroom door behind you and stepping close to him, scanning for injuries the way he did for you at the skatepark. He lifts his hands, showing you his palms.
“I’m fine. I promised you I would.”
Your shoulders drop in a way that tells him you’ve been holding yourself rigid for hours, managing a barely audible, “Thank God.”
His lips tilt upward before reaching into his jacket’s pocket, “Turn around,” before adding a quiet, “Please.”
“Bossy,” you reply, amused, before turning your back to him.
He closes the one last step between you, pulling out the necklace from his pocket, careful not to let his hands shake as he lifts your hair to expose the back on your neck. He fastens the chain, the clasp clicking softly into place and for a second he doesn’t step away, the pad of his thumb grazing at the nape of your neck.
“Andrew,” you whisper, turning back toward him, your fingers lifting to trace it. “It’s…It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
He keeps staring at the pendant who rests exactly where he imagined it would be, then at your mouth before quickly going back to your eyes. You are close enough that he can feel your breath on his face, the world narrowing to the space between you.
He wants to close the distance, to press his mouth to yours.
Instead, he rests his forehead gently against yours, grounding himself with your scent, refusing to close his eyes.
“You should sleep,” he murmurs.
You smile softly and suddenly, Andrew wonders how he can extract a memory and preserve it forever in resin.
Because this moment feels like the dawn of his existence.
──────────
When Andrew was seven years old, the house was already too loud.
Somewhere down the hall a door slammed hard enough to be heard from the bedroom he shared with Julia, who was sitting on the floor with a deck of cards spread between them while he lined them into exact rows instead of playing War.
He liked the rows and the symmetry of it. It calmed him each time the edges were precisely following the pattern of the carpet. With this, he didn’t need to count.
In the backyard, someone shouted about money, making the twins flinch in fear. Julia reached for his hand, and they sat like that for a long time: her fingers curled tightly around his, his eyes fixed on the the cards. (Hearts. Diamonds. Clubs. Spades. Everything will be all right.)
Smurf emerged in the doorway with her bright smile, eight months pregnant with their little brother, tilting her head, “My baby is a strange one,” she whispers to his new stepfather, “But useful.”
Andrew heard it. He didn’t know what strange meant exactly, but he knew it was something you said when you didn’t want to say wrong.
At school, boys kept snatching his skateboard, tossing it across the asphalt because he rode the same loop over and over during recess, memorizing how many pushes it took to reach the fence.
(Fourteen. Fourteen every time. An even number. He liked them. That’s why he always counted till four.)
The first time a boy shoved him and called him a freak, Andrew didn’t respond. Just took back the board and kept doing his loops. The second time, when the board got kicked away and Julia was not there to held his hand, Andrew swung without warning. He couldn’t remember deciding to, just the sound of the impact and how the noise inside him went blissfully silent.
After that, teachers called him difficult, the kids stopped approaching him and Smurf congratulated him with a kiss on his mouth.
At night, when Julia was asleep beside him, Andrew kept staring at the ceiling, wondering something he couldn’t say out loud to his mother or his sister: would anyone ever see that he was trying? Trying to keep himself together so he didn’t explode? Trying to be good? Trying to stop the noises in his head?
-
When you were seven years old, the house smelled like warm cookies.
You were sitting on the couch, your small arms cradling your cousin, afraid to drop her. You didn’t know how to act with a baby. Your parents had sat you down a few months ago at the kitchen table and told you that you were their little miracle, that Santa sometimes forgot things and that maybe it would always just be the three of you – which sounded a little sad until your father had squeezed your hand and told you that three was already perfect.
But it was alright, because now, you had your cousin’s fingers clutching onto your hair, “She’s holding me!” you squealed, delighted and in awe because here, in this house, you were allowed to be amazed and to grow at your own pace.
The day you scraped your knee on the sidewalk, trying to teach yourself how to roller skate, you cried for less than a minute before your mother knelt in front of you, cleaning the wound and kissing the sting away. “You’re gonna be okay,” she said, and you believed her.
At school, you had a best friend who whispered to you how babies were made, and that made you giggle all day, the teacher shaking his head and calling you incorrigible, even though you had no idea what that meant and decided it must be something wonderful if it made you laugh that hard.
And the day you asked what you could be when you grew up, no one laughed. “You can be anything my little monkey,” your father had told you, and you thought about it for the whole day. Because anything was a lot for your brain: a teacher, a vet, a marine biologist. You always circled back to the same answer: something to help people.
And at night, as you looked at your glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, you wondered about other things: would someone look at you the way your father looked at your mother when she was singing in the kitchen, with that love that said I am home?
──────────
Deran’s bar is louder than usual tonight, crowded by sports fans watching a game between Los Angeles and Atlanta. Craig has tried to tell him why it was so important to win at least five times since their arrival, but Andrew’s attention remains elsewhere entirely, watching you from across the room the way he has been watching you for four months now: trying to read something in your posture or in the tilt of your head that could give him an answer.
Because the truth is…he doesn’t know what you are after last night and if what happened in the hallway, or every night you’ve spent wrapped together, mean the same thing to you that they mean to him. He wants to ask, to spill the question out before it eats him alive: what are we?
Andrew hates not knowing. On a job, he knows every camera, every blind spot, every possible way things can go wrong but with you, there’s no map. And he hates that he can’t predict your next move.
You are standing at the bar, ordering a drink, your back half-turned to him and wearing a dress that shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public. It makes his pants grow tighter and has him readjusting on the stool, trying to pretend he isn’t affected while his brother sits three feet away and would never let him live it down if he knew.
And he knows he shouldn’t be staring, but you keep touching absentmindedly the necklace, your fingers tracing the pendant as it moves with your breathing, and before he can stop himself, he’s counting it.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
You had said thank you last night in a way that felt like you meant something more, had let him secure the necklace around your neck and had met his eyes when you called it beautiful as if you were promising you would always wear it.
Always.
(Oh, how he doesn’t trust that word. Doesn’t trust anything that implies staying. He knows better. He should know better.)
And yet, there you are, wearing it for everyone to see, which does nothing to steady his accelerated pulse, and leaning across the counter to collect your cocktail from Deran. The movement doesn’t reveal much more of your skin, but it still sets ablaze Andrew’s brain, his lips going dry as he tries to resist the urge to walk up to you and beg for you to tell him that he isn’t the only one picturing rings, and a cradle in a quiet house and your head on his chest until he is old and grey.
“You’re not being subtle, you know that?” Craig says, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
“Don’t start.”
Craig raises his hands innocently. “Jesus, relax.” He immediately reaches for the bowl of peanuts on the table, and Andrew feels his jaw tighten at the thought of how many unwashed hands have touched that bowl already. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you tonight?”
What’s wrong is that he just stole diamonds worth more than all of the jobs he did last year and it doesn’t compete to the way you look with the chain resting against your collarbone.
What’s wrong is that he would give back every dollar from last night if it meant waking up beside you for the next fifty years.
What’s wrong is that he is one second away from walking across that bar and lowering himself at your feet for your hands to baptize him clean, as if loving you were the only absolution worth asking for because whatever heaven exists for a man like him begins and ends with you.
And what’s wrong right now is that a man slides into the empty space beside you, leaning too close and touching your arm to get your attention. You turn toward him politely, your lips curving into the small smile you once called your ‘customer smile’. You had explained it to his brothers and him: that you always kept the worst-case scenario in the back of your mind and that a smile felt safer than a hard no since it could mean the difference between walking away or not.
(Andrew doesn’t know the names or the faces of those who made you feel like that but he wants to find them. He wants to press them on the ground and feel their pulse panic under his thumbs. He wants them to understand what fear tastes like when it turns metallic into the mouth. He wants the air stolen from their lungs the way it must have been stolen from yours when you felt scared. He no longer wants to count. He wants to hurt. To see this man’s blood on the bar.)
Andrew starts walking towards you before he even formulates the thought, shoulders squared, already calculating how much force it would require to grab the stranger by the collar and steer him outside of the bar.
His vision narrows as he sees the stranger laughing, his hand lifting to linger near your elbow as if he was testing whether he can push for more and that makes Andrew’s vision blur at the edges. He is three steps away. Two.
Your eyes find his instantly, and something shifts in your expression. Your hand leaves the cocktail and you smile at him. It’s not the customer smile. No, it’s the real one that unravels him each time.
“Hey, honey,” you say brightly as your arm wraps around his neck and you press a kiss to his cheek, your hand traveling down his side before sliding into the back pocket of his pants, settling against him.
Andrew is almost sure he died at some point on the way there because he is pressed against you and now, he is no longer Andrew or Pope. For a brief moment, he gets to just be honey, and the word makes him happier than any name ever has.
The stranger glances between you. “Oh. I didn’t realize…”
“My boyfriend,” you cut him off with a smile, looking up at Andrew’s face.
His eyes were already on yours, searching for the smallest flicker of fear. Because if the man has dared put some in them, Andrew would dig an unmarked grave without blinking. When he finds none, his hand comes to your waist, his thumb strolling along your hip as he dips his head and presses his mouth above the faint line of stitches on your forehead.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low enough that the word belongs only to you.
He feels your breath hitch against his skin before turning to the man and saying lightly. “No worries, he always gets a little intense about men crowding me,” you tilt your head, thoughtful. “Not sure if it’s the boxing or the prison time. But don’t mind him…he almost doesn’t bite.”
The stranger’s smile falters just enough to satisfy something dark in Andrew’s chest. “Oh, um…yeah. Sorry man, I didn’t know she was taken.”
Andrew doesn’t raise his voice or move, he just stands there with your hand in his pocket, letting the silence stretch until it feels suffocating. “She is.”
“Right. I’ll go back to…the match.”
Andrew doesn’t blink and keeps track of the man’s back until he is laughing again at his friends’ table like nothing happened and only then does he let his focus shift back to you. You, who’s still close and warm, holding onto him like you have no intention of letting go.
His hand remains at your waist as he turns toward you, the movement bringing your faces close enough that your noses almost brush and your breaths mix between you. He lowers his head slightly, almost enough to kiss you.
“You okay?” he murmurs while his thumb keeps its slow movement on your hip.
You nod, your mouth curving up in that smile he loves. The real one. The one that you have at the skatepark each time you manage to stay upright a little longer than the day before: proud, bright and stubbornly pleased of yourself. And he can’t help but think about those lips and the way they said ‘honey’.
(He wants to hear it again. Wants to hear it softly. Wants to hear it moaned in the dark and against his mouth. He wants to kiss them every day for the rest of his life. To learn them. To know how they would part as he pounds into you. Stop. He has to stop.)
He blinks twice, grounding himself in the feel of your waist.
“Andrew. I’m good, I promise,” you murmur, sliding your hand out of his pocket and lace your fingers with his instead, interlocking them. “Let’s get out of here, please. It’s too loud.”
He doesn’t say it out loud, but relief settles at your suggestion. The bar feels too loud, too crowded and the idea of how many unwashed hands like Craig’s have been over the counters keeps coming back at him. So, when you tug gently at his hand and turn toward the door, he follows without hesitation, grateful that you were the one saying it.
The door swings shut behind you and the noise from the bar dulls instantly, reduced to a muted thud. The air is cooler than inside, smelling like the salt of the ocean mixed with your shampoo and he doesn’t understand how he gets to still have your hand in his and your thumb moving across his knuckles.
It’s only when you stop beside the truck and turn toward him that his eyes drop to the thin gold chain resting around your neck. His free hand lifts carefully to brush the chain first, following it down until the pad of his thumb rests over the pendant itself, flattening it against your skin.
“Still got it on,” he murmurs, tracing the outline of the pendant.
(He imagines doing this, years from now. In the kitchen. In bed. In the shower. Adjusting it before you leave the house. Brushing it aside before he kisses the curve of your throat. Seeing it against your skin when you are carrying his child.)
“Looks better on you than it did in the store,” he adds.
Your fingers slide slowly between his, guiding his hand so it settles flat over your heartbeat. He can feel it beating loud and fast under his palm, matching his own.
You tilt your face enough to find his eyes back. “Thank you for what happened in there, Andrew. You were good.”
His eyes slip shut for half a second because he doesn’t trust himself to survive the way you are looking at him, smiling at him with such warmth he shivers of pleasure.
(Good. You think he is good. If that’s what you want, he can be good. He can kneel. He can find how to rebuild himself from the bones if it means you keep calling him good.)
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he says under his breath.
“Why?”
“Because I’d do anything if you asked.”
Your fingers start to caress the back of his hand. “Anything?”
He nods, his gaze unwaveringly focused on your eyes. “If you told me to walk away from the jobs, I would.”
Your hand pauses against his.
“Andrew…” you murmur, but there’s no panic in it, no immediate rejection. “You know why I wanted to reject him, right?”
He doesn’t answer, too scared of startling the moment with another word.
“You know why I’d reject any other guy in that bar and why I wanted him to know?”
“Know what?”
“That I’m not available.”
“You’re not?” he asks, as his mind races.
“I don’t know,” you say softly. “Are you?”
The question hangs there, in the small space between your bodies, his mind fumbling with a thousand overlapping questions.
(Are you with him? Calling him yours? Defining what this was? Finally answering the question that has been rattling his brain for weeks?)
“Are you available Andrew?” you repeat gently, your hand lifting up to cup his face.
He exhales slowly, trying not to whimper at the contact, shaking his head.
You lean closer, your nose brushing his and your voice dropping lower. “No?”
“No.”
Your thumb traces patterns along his cheekbone and it takes him a few moments to realize that you were mapping his freckles. “How long?” you whisper.
He feels too weak to reply, overwhelmed by the tenderness of your touch. If his heart had not been already yours, he would lay it at your feet right there, so long as you promise to treat him with this gentleness and care for the rest of his life.
“Before the party? When I called you to help me?” he nods. “Before our night on the couch?” another nod. “Before our first skateboard le-?”
“When we met. And you brought pastries,” he replies, on the verge of a sob, shameful to confess that he keeps thinking about you on top of him, under him, any way you want it as long as he could disappear into your light and be drown whole by your grace to wipe out every horror he has ever seen or done for the sake of others.
“Andrew. Honey. Please, look at me.”
He keeps his gaze darted to the ground, like looking anywhere but you might prevent him from saying anything more revealing about the depth of his feelings, before his eyes close on their own instinctively, only realizing a heartbeat later that it’s because your lips found his.
And for the first time in Andrew’s life, that deep pit of misery in his heart goes completely silent, frozen for a flash before kissing you back.
Your lips are warm and a little reckless, tasting like mint and something entirely yours that he knows he will crave for the rest of his life. Your fingers thread into his curls, pulling a groan he can’t control out of him. He moves closer without thinking, his hand sliding along your waist until your back meets the metal of the truck door.
The second he registers the force of it, he pulls back just enough to search your face, to scan for any sign that he has gone too far, but the pause barely lasts a breath before your fingers tighten in his hair, guiding him back down as your body arched into his, slipping his tongue past your parted lips.
You are an oasis and he is nothing but a thirsty man wandering in the dark who gets to finally know what it’s like to drink every drop of it. You taste dizzy and intoxicating and he knows that he has been feeding on scraps of affection all his life and now…now he understands what it means to be full.
He is about to tell you how much sweeter you taste than in his fantasies before you bite down on his lower lip, drawing another sound of his throat.
You tilt your head, your arms wrapping fully around his neck as his drop to your hips, steady and sure, to raise you higher against the door, a gasp spilling out of you that he swallows eagerly and your dress hiking up as your legs wrap around him, denying any space between your bodies.
He feels you pull away for air by an inch or two, making him whine at the loss of contact, but he quickly recovers as he sees the flushed smile on your kiss-swollen lips. “Show off.”
“Yeah?” he asks while one of his arms tightens under you, anchoring your body to the door while the other frees itself to trail up your body and adding a smug, “Yeah,” skimming your inner thigh and marveling at how many sounds he can coax out of you, wondering how much more he’d pull if he could trace his thumb along your heat. But instead, he cups again your cheek, tracing slowly the bow of your lips.
“Dimples,” you murmur.
“What?”
“Dimples, Andrew,” you repeat, delighted, like you’ve just discovered something rare. “I didn’t know you had them.”
(Oh. Of course. You can see them because he is smiling. For real. A real one. Not the tight, guarded version. Not the twitchy one. A full unguarded smile. When was the last time he did that?)
“I do,” he says, trying and failing to smooth it away. “So do you.”
Your eyebrows lift. “I do not.”
“You do,” he insists quietly, shifting his hold slightly to keep his arm secure around you, his thumb pressing gently at the corner of your mouth. “Right there…”
Inside the bar, the crowd erupts in a wave of shouting, making you glance at the door before erupting in laughter, eyes wide.
“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, incapable of stopping your giggles. “I forgot.”
Andrew exhales through his nose, trying to calm the blood pumping hard all the way down his length. He knows that you’ve been feeling him against you the whole time, your hips still rubbing together, and for once in his life, he doesn’t want to excuse himself or feel ashamed of his desires, of how much he wants. He has spent too many nights thinking about how you’d taste, how you’d moan. Too many cold showers to try get rid of his hard-on whenever he was picturing you.
“Maybe…” you murmur against his mouth, pecking soft kisses along his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”
He looks at you, at the way your lips are still swollen and glistening from kissing, at your panting and the tremors of your legs.
He nods, lowering you carefully back onto your feet, his hands still trailing along your sides to still have some ways of being connected to you before reaching for the door handle of the passenger seat and helping you in.
He feels, walking around to the driver’s side, that he is still smiling. Dimples and all.
──────────
“Maybe…” you sigh, struggling to keep your composure and pressing kisses along the freckles dusting his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”
The intensity of his eyes on you, trailing along your body and taking in your rampant arousal, feels like he is on the verge of taking you against the door. You are pretty sure that if he’d ask you for permission, you’d grant it promptly. You want him. You want to know how long it would take for his unwavering hazel eyes to become pleading wet just by your lips telling how good he is to you.
But he just nods, jaw tight before lowering you carefully back onto your feet, making you bite down a protest at the loss of contact, like even the air feels like too much distance, until you feel his fingertips dragging over your waist.
He opens the door for you and not so long ago, you would have described his current behavior as controlled and cold, but now that you know him…you recognize a man who’s trying to contain himself, like a wild animal finally freed.
(Devour. You want him to devour you. To ruin you. Four months of trying – miserably – to have a date with him and it took only a gross man and a ‘honey’ to get him to kiss you like that and tell you he would quit everything? Fuck. Focus.)
He starts the engine, snapping you out of your thoughts, before pulling out of the parking lot, still smiling. You stare at his profile: the line of his jaw that has now faint traces of your lipstick, the way his tongue briefly drags across his lower lips like he can still taste you and his hand on the gear shift that slowly drifts to your thigh.
Your breath stutters the moment his palm settles just above your knee, the pads of his fingers tracing patterns over it while he keeps his eyes on the road. That definitely doesn’t help your craving for more.
(How much can be a fine for having sex in a car anyway? Andrew has money. Plenty from what you understand so…that would just be a drop in a bucket, right?)
You slide your fingers over his, intertwining them on your lap and stilling his slow, absent movements. He glances at you immediately, probably to understand why you stopped him. But the look you give him is enough to answer his question.
His eyes trail your face a fraction too long before looking back to the road, purposefully, the streetlights passing by a little faster.
“We’ll be there in five,” he declares without looking at you.
“Andrew, it’s at least ten minutes away,” you say, with a barely contained smile.
“Five.”
“I’m timing you, you know,” you smirked, pointing at the car clock.
The truck moves through an intersection just as the light turns yellow - once, then again at the next block – while Andrew doesn’t do so much as blink.
“See?” he says, the hint of a smug smile on his face when the car finally parks home.
You check the dashboard clock. Four minutes.
You shake your head, laughing as you both unbuckle your seatbelts. “Show off.”
Of course, you should know better now, he is not a man to stop there. So, when he opens the door for you before you even reach for the handle, and offers his hand, you should see it coming.
He helps you down carefully and for half a breath you think that maybe this time he’s not going to do it. No, you definitely should know better cause the moment your feet hit the ground, his arm slides behind your knees, sweeping you off while the other moves behind your back.
A breathless gasp escapes your mouth. “Andrew!”
(God you are so fucking gone for him. Is this what it would feel like? Crossing a threshold with him as a young bride? Completely besotted in a white dress? No. Not would. Will.)
He shuts the door with his hip, adjusting you against his chest as your arms loop around his neck automatically, your body relishing his touch as the thought slips out before you can stop it: “I feel like your bride right now.”
His steps slow on his way to the door, just enough for you to notice and wonder if you should just tell him to brush off your stupid words. That you are just drunk (you barely had the time to drink a sip of your cocktail earlier) and tired (you just spent two nights in a row sleeping like a baby in his arms).
The garage light flickers as he reaches the front door. “You are.”
He carries you inside like he’s done it in a million other lifetimes while you are still gaping, mouth wide open at his words. You shake your head a bit wobbly before moving your hand from the nape of his neck to the place on his cheek where you know a dimple is hiding.
“Careful,” you murmur, smiling softly. “Keep talking like that and I might start looking for a dress rea-”
Your words are being cut off by his mouth, kissing you like he is trying to drown in the sensation, tilting his head to fit you better, to take more of you, and you can’t stop the moan passing your lips. It feels like stepping into the fire and realizing you don’t ever want to be pulled out.
Your feet carefully find back the ground as his hands slide along your backbone, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades. His lips part yours with the same confidence he has when he catches you at the skatepark. You feel him everywhere and you still want more.
(Is it ever going to stop? This feeling? This whole tremor that dances under your skin every time he touches you? Every time he kisses you like he means forever?)
He pulls away just enough, heavy breath mingling with yours, hazel eyes half-lidded in pleasure and his nose brushing yours softly with your foreheads pressed together, “We can just kiss. If that’s what you want. I don’t need more. Just you,” he murmured in a broken voice.
The words settle deep in your chest, heavy and large as if they have roots. It makes you want to answer him with your mouth, to kiss him until his doubts leave his bones entirely. You bring your fingers to the bow of his lips and he kisses them gently, one after the other, the softness of it making you tremble.
“Andrew,” you say quietly, smiling despite your racing pulse. “Take me to bed.”
He regards you for a long moment, his eyes moving slowly over your face as though he is searching for hesitation and when he finds none, a smile begins at the corner of his mouth, enough to carve that rare, gorgeous dimple into his cheek. “Bossy,” he smirks before lifting you back by the waist so your legs can wrap up around his waist, walking around the house guided only by his memory since his lips are too busy coaxing moans out of you.
You are almost blacking out from the lack of oxygen when the kiss suddenly breaks. In the soft lighting of his bedroom, you distinguish most of his expression: lustful and bewildered that this is finally happening.
“I want to taste you. Please,” he breaths and you nod, not trusting yourself to reply.
The look that passes through his hazel eyes is hazy, fingers finding the hem of your dress and carefully pulling it up.
“Don’t want to mess it,” he says, folding it neatly on his chair. “You look pretty in that.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to feel too self-conscious about being only in your underwear, braless as he kneels down to the floor, still fully clothed and face a few inches lower than yours, prying your legs apart.
“Andrew,”
He doesn’t respond, pressing his lips to the inner corner of your thigh and moving further up between your legs.
“You don’t have to Andrew.”
He only lifts his gaze up to yours, unwavering as he continues his kisses, “You don’t want it?”
“I…I’m not saying that. I just…I don’t want you to feel obligated to it. I know it’s not…what men like the most,” you gasp, your hand finding his curls and twisting them around your fingers, making him grunt.
“It’s what I want to do the most, right now,” he says with a sinful gaze. “Can I?”
“Yes. Okay. Sure,” you choke, closing your eyes and lying down as he continues his torturous path, his hands slowly tugging the last piece between him and your pussy.
You don’t think you have ever been this wet with a man. Or a woman. Or anyone at all. Normally, you feel a bit uncomfortable with men going down on you cause they never seem to know what they are doing or are too impatient of having ‘real sex’ to let you finish. But here with Andrew, you are nothing but pleasure, his lips fiddling with you like you are an instrument that he is tuning to his own harmony.
You gasp as his tongue finally probes your folds stopping just underneath your clit, earning from him a low whimper.
“You taste delicious,” he goes, coming up for air by an inch. “Just like how I dreamt,” he adds, making you feel close to delirious.
He lowers his face again, tongue working its way up your pussy again, finally reaching for your clit and rolling over it, making you shudder and writhe on the bed, incapable of keeping your moans down and your hands running through his scalp.
“Andrew, please. Just like that. It’s perfect,” you praise him, feeling how it makes him pick up the pace.
Your last straw is the sight of his face between your legs, eyes burning with nothing but want, his hands used to stealing and hurting now holding onto your legs to keep them open and making you come with a hoarse cry. If there’s a heaven on Earth, you know now that it must only exist in this man. In his hands, his chest, his mouth, his eyes. He is nothing but your sanctuary, your promised land and your altar.
When your orgasm subsides, you feel Andrew crawling over you and pressing his lips against you, making you taste yourself on his mouth as you slip your tongue in it. The small noise of pleasure from the back of his throat is the most delicious sound you’ve ever heard.
“You,” you breathe against him, your lips brushing his, pupils probably wide. “I want you. Like right now. So please…take off those clothes. I love them. Really. But take them off.”
His lips twitches again to the side, “Anything.” as he starts to undress, folding them before going above you, his hard cock pressing against your heat.
His eyes keep searching your face, looking for an ounce of backtrack in your eyes before slowly entering you. That’s when you realize how grateful you are for the previous climax because in any other situation, you would have probably wince at his thickness. Thankfully, he seems to catch on with it - probably due to his gaze not leaving your face and refusing to blink – and takes his time to be fully inside you.
For a couple of minutes, the two of you don’t move, give you the time to marvel at how good he feels inside of you. You know now that you’ll have other days and nights to ask him to stay like this for hours, just to be one.
Andrew presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing yours as he whispers. “I love you.”
The word hums through your body. Love. Love. Love. Andrew loves someone and it’s you. From your scalp to your toes, you can feel it resonating through you. Love. Love. Love.
“I love you, Andrew. My Andrew,” you murmur happily, moving a drenched curl from his forehead. “So good to me.”
His face ends up in your neck, trying to cover his reaction to your words. “You really think I’m good?”
“Of course you are. Look at me, honey,” you say, holding onto his chin to bring back his face close to yours as your legs wrap around his waist. “You are good. You are kind. You keep making me feel safe. And…I’m so lucky to have you,” you add, rolling your hips and making him shiver.
You drink in the sight of him: his sweaty hair sticking to his head, curls messy from where your fingers had run through, the freckles dusting his chest and the traces of old wounds that you’ll ask about one day. But the most important of all is the way he is looking at you – as if he loves you. Because he does. He said it. I love you. I love you. I love you.
You keep whispering sweet nothings into his ear, just to see the flush spreading on his cheeks, his ears, his chest and encouraging his thrusts to go harder, deeper. Soon enough, you are quivering around him, your nails digging in his skin as you bite on his lower lip in retaliation for making you wait so long for this moment.
He lets out a desperate moan. “I won’t…last long. ‘m sorry. You feel so…”
“It’s okay,” you encourage him. “I want you to come.”
He slams his cock one more time and goes. “Wh-Where?”
“In me,” you beg, and you know you have hit the right nerve from the way his whole body trembles.
“Really?” he breathes.
“Please.”
The sight of his body, eyes fighting to not shut tight from the pleasure, mouth pursuing yours, mixed with how good he is making you feel, is too much. Your back arches as you reach your second climax tonight, quickly followed by Andrew, clinging to you as his warm load fills you up. Both of you are gasping for one another, time almost freezing as your eyes are sharing the same thought. I love you. I love you. I love you.
After a couple of minutes, Andrew slips out of you and lays most of his body against your side, putting his head above your breasts, on your heartbeat, intertwining your hands together.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
You brush a kiss on top of his head. “What?”
“Tomorrow, we’re picking out your dress.”
Art. Literally a renaissance painting in words.
