*SEASON OF THE WOLF: a joel miller x reader story. (part five)
The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.
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It seems like Joel is incapable of stepping away, constantly hovering for the hours to come— Never interacting with you directly, but always paying you undivided attention.
warnings: the basics (werewolf!joel, age gap, no outbreak), law enforcement, abuse of power (acab!!!!!!!!), hunter/prey vibes, getting hunted through the woods by your hot werewolf boyfriend, they're super domestic though, characters resolving their issues like mature adults, smut (monsterfucking, oral f receiving, unprotected piv, biting, pulling out, werewolf-induced hyperspermia, size kink, creampie, we go full beast mode on this one, there's some gross stuff in the aftercare but yall wanted to fuck the wolf so now yall gotta deal with the gross goopy bloodied part of it too), body horror/gore, technically cannibal joel, murder/death of minor characters, everybody gets a happy ending.
word count: 12.4k (oops)
fox says: hello friends! oh my god guys, this is it. the final chapter! i'm so sorry for the delay, between my break and the stage fright that i always get when writing a finale, i chose to take my time and write something i'm proud of rather than rushing through it. i had so much fun writing this series, and i hope you guys have enjoyed it as well. (spoiler) it was super important for me to make sure everyone knows that reader's mental health doesn't improve because she finally got some monster cock but rather that she took the time to care for herself and how her environment was poisenous and making everything worse and i really really hope i managed to get that across. as always, please let me know how we feel about it!
also available on archiveofourown.
It seems like Joel is incapable of stepping away, constantly hovering for the hours to come— Never interacting with you directly, but always paying you undivided attention. You spend the afternoon and early evening on the couch with Sarah, watching cartoons and then watching as she played with her dolls, colored her little books and ran around the couch pretending to be a shark when she got hit with a particularly strong case of the zoomies. He sits down eventually, close enough that you can feel his body heat but not close enough to touch— Sarah is passed out on the rug in front of you, surrounded by pillows and blankets in something that is a mix between a pillow fort and a nest.
“I’m sorry.” Joel says, his voice gravel-like. He doesn’t look at you, stares instead at his hands fisted over his thighs. “For everything.”
You think he’s not talking just about what has happened to you. There’s a weight to the world ‘everything’ that makes you think back to his wife, to the scar on his temple and how he tried to kill himself over it.
“I know. I’m sorry too.” You open your hand, palm up. Joel takes it almost immediately, fingers interlacing with yours. “I was scared.”
“I was too. Had no idea where you were, what happened—” He swallows quickly, the raspiness of his voice thickening with emotion. “I shouldn’t have sprung none’a that on you. And I’m sorry about— I didn’t mean to call you—”
“It’s fine.” You shake your head. The hurt is still there but dulled, muffled by everything else: In the grand scheme of things, getting your feelings hurt by being called a dead woman’s name seems like the least of your worries. “Thank you for saving me.”
You don’t realize how much you mean it until you say it. You had wanted to die. You thought it’d feel like relief, finally letting go of all the hurt and pain and hopelessness but those few seconds of the car swerving off the road— The panic and the desperate desire to survive makes you realize that, deep down, it’s not death that you seek.
It’s comfort.
Joel brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. He looks you dead in the eyes, his often sorrowful eyes now clouded with a different emotion. Devotion. Love. Kindness and pain and everything in between.
“I’ll always save you.”
You kiss him. His lips are dry and chapped but his hands are warm when they cradle your face, a brief hesitation on his part before Joel kisses you back. One of his hands moves to the back of your neck, tangling with the hairs at the base of your skull; you crawl through the distance between the two of you, climbing on his lap without breaking the kiss. It’s nothing like any other kiss you’ve ever had— Your body molds against his with perfection, his hands gripping your body and pulling you close, his tongue pushing into your mouth.
You’ve never been much of a kisser— It always felt like a means to an end, something to signal that you want more and you actually often find your mind wandering off, your thoughts running away from the situation but this time all you can think and feel is Joel. He kisses you slowly but unhurried, exploring your mouth and whatever he can reach of your body, trying to figure out what makes you tick. It is too much and not enough all at once, and Joel shushes the desperate little noise you make with a concerned look towards the toddler sleeping a couple of feet away.
“Bedroom.” You beg against his lips, drinking down when his breathing falters in your mouth. “Please.”
Joel’s hands grab both of your asscheeks, raising the two of you from the couch as if you weighed nothing— You bite down on your lip to hold back the squeal, not wanting to wake Sarah up as he quietly pads down into his bedroom. He lays you gently on the bed before coming back to lock the door; the tent on his sweatpants is impressive when he turns back to you: You’ve seen Joel naked a couple of times now and you know he’s big but you hadn’t seen him hard before and, even with his clothes on, you’re intimidated. He stands by the edge of the bed, fingertips running slowly up your calves, drinking you down just as you do him.
The wolf never made you afraid before. Even with blood on his snout, even as you watched him tear a grown man apart, you were never scared— You were never afraid of Joel either, not in the true, primal sense of the word. But now, laying back on his bed as he watches you, you finally see the danger that ripples beneath his skin. His brown eyes are nothing short of predatory when he kneels on the mattress, aquiline nose running up the inside of your calf, his breath ghosting over your skin light enough to leave goosebumps in their wake.
“Been dreamin’ of this.” He tells you, big hands locking around your ankles. You’re putty in his hands, giggling when he pulls on your legs, tugging your ass further down the bed. “Havin’ you on my bed. My mate. My girl.”
You open your mouth but whatever witty response dies before you can conjure it, Joel’s mouth latching into the inside of your thigh— He bites down hard and your hands fly to his hair, though you’re unsure whether to pull him away or pull him closer. Joel soothes the bite with his tongue, lapping at the indent of his own teeth before he crawls higher, pushing the soft material of the boxer shorts out of the way so he can bite again, closer to the junction of your thigh.
You’re about to pull the shorts down yourself when Joel moves just a little higher, the bristles of his mustache tickling the softness of your stomach as he pushes your shirt up, kissing the skin as it is exposed. It’s involuntary, your body curling in and pulling away from him as you laugh, the noise pure instinct to soothe the bluntness of your movements as you shove your shirt back down.
“Ticklish?”
“Yup.” It’s true but not at the same time. Sure, you’re a little ticklish, but not like that— It’s a gut reaction, instinct telling you to hide and pull away as if he isn’t already aware of your size. Joel’s head cocks to the side and he leans back a little, searching your face.
“Okay. I won’t touch you there.” He breathes out, and you can tell Joel doesn’t believe you entirely. He doesn’t push it, however, choosing instead to bring his mouth back to yours, thick fingers playing with the elastic band of your shorts. “Can I take these off?”
You wonder if you should be offended that he’s all of a sudden walking on eggshells but you don’t; if anything it makes you a little giddy when you nod and Joel smiles against your lips as if you’ve just given him a gift. He tugs your shorts and underwear in one go, discarding them to the ground without taking his eyes off of you. Joel sits back on his knees, his hands running up and down your calves.
“You’re beautiful.” He whispers, voice reverent as he drinks you in. “Spread your legs f’me.”
In any other instance, you might’ve felt self-conscious about letting someone look at you so intimately but Joel stares at you like you’re the single most divine thing he’s ever seen. It fills you with enough courage to do as he tells you, your bent legs falling apart.
“I need to taste you.” Joel says, leaning forward to press a kiss on the inner side of your knee. His eyes find yours, darkened with desire. “Will you let me?”
“Please.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He makes a V with his fingers, spreading your pussy open before latching his mouth to your clit. Joel makes out with your cunt, slow and messy, the pressure of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth enough to have you squirming but not enough to properly get you off; you tug at his hair, fingers tangling with his curls, whining.
“I want you inside me.” You breathe out, eyes rolling to the back of your head when Joel suckles against your clit. “Please, Joel, I need your fingers.”
He hums against you, a single digit twirling your entrance until you’re pushing your hips against him, bucking on the bed. Joel chuckles as he finally relents and pushes a single finger inside; even a single digit is a stretch, both from the thickness of his fingers from the amount of time you’ve gone without, desire curling low on your stomach.
“Joel—”
He shushes you, then, and the sound brings a new wave of wetness between your legs. “Calm down, sweet girl. Let me take care of you.”
You try to do as he says, letting your body melt against the mattress; Joel looks entirely pleased as he dives back into your pussy, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he flicks his tongue this and that way— You can tell that he is exploring you, trying to figure out the best rhythm and pressure to have you shaking and that’s not really something you’ve ever experienced with a man before: Most of them simply assume that their moves are a universal like, always too pleased with themselves even if most of the sounds you make are fake.
Joel is a quick, eager learner. He suckles on your clit when he sees the way your chest heaves at that, crooking two fingers inside of you and slowing down their thrusting when you bring both of your hands to your face, trying to stifle your moans. Your thighs clamp down the sides of his head when he pushes a third finger in, rubbing them slow and steady against that single spot inside of you that has you seeing stars; you choke down the noises threatening to escape from your mouth, one hand on his hair and the other trapped between your teeth, not wanting to wake up the other residents of the cabin.
His blunt nails dig into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you down on the mattress as his fingers push in and out of you, his tongue running circles on your clit; the ball of your feet knock into his ribs as you come, body shaking underneath him— Your jaw goes slack as pleasure shoots down your spine, going fully silent as you get lost in it. Joel slows down but doesn’t stop, licking you through your orgasm before he finally pulls away.
You tug on his hair before Joel can pull away entirely, yanking on his curls as you breathe his name.
“Joel—” You say, and his nose crinkles a little with the harshness of your tug but he still smiles, the lower half of his face glimmering in the pale bedroom light. “C’mere. I need you.”
Joel kisses your arm, the only part of your skin that he can reach, before gripping your hips and flipping you over; it makes you bounce on the mattress and you cackle, half from glee and half from surprise— You’ve never been with a man strong enough to manhandle you like that, and you bite down on your bottom lip, arching spine, ass in the air.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, sweetheart.” Joel mumbles behind you, the tone of his voice sending a shiver down your back. “Look at ya. Drippin’.”
The tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, catching for a second before Joel slides his cock down your slit and it has you whining, pushing your hips against him. You call out his name a little louder and Joel shushes you again, pushing just the tip inside before pulling back out; the sensation is enough to drive you crazy, biting down on your thumb to keep you from complaining again.
When Joel finally plunges inside of you, it’s blissful. He makes a choked sound between a moan and a groan, holding himself very still. The stretch hurts at first but you wiggle against him, trying to signal for him to move— His fingers dig into the fat of your hip, his other hand coming to steady you on the small of your back.
“Fuck— Just— Gimme a sec, darlin’.” Joel says, his voice strained. “ ‘S been a while.”
He starts slow, his thrusting as exploratory as his mouth had been, pulling out halfway before sliding back in with enough force to punch the air out of your lungs. You arch your spine a little further, nose buried in the pillow that smells so much like Joel you feel entirely encompassed by him. All you can hear, feel, smell— It’s him, the little grunts he’s trying to stifle, the calloused hands on your skin, his scent on the pillow and in the air. You reach back without thinking, grabbing Joel’s wrist and pulling him towards you.
Joel topples on top of you, breathy laugh against your ear before he rearranges himself, one arm next to your head, the other sliding between you and the mattress, wrapping around your hips and pulling you backwards just enough— The new angle hits different, deeper somehow, his entire weight settling on your back.
“Fuck,” he pants near your ear, chest hair brushing against your back. “You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. So sweet. Made f’me.”
His thrusts have you wailing, Joel’s teeth scraping the side of your neck whenever he’s close enough— Never biting down, but teasing is enough to drive you crazy, one hand reaching back to grab at his hair, fists of curly grey and brown locks between your fingers. The arm by your face comes forward, Joel’s thick fingers closing your mouth shut: His hand is big enough to cover the lower half of your face entirely, your breathing erratic behind his glammy fingers.
“Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.” Joel whispers, knees digging into your thighs, spreading you even further. He stops moving, buried to the hilt inside of you. “But I’m gon’ need you to be a good girl and keep quiet, ‘kay? Don’t go wakin’ up the whole house.”
You nod and, even though Joel starts moving again, he doesn’t pull his hand away from your lips; he uses the leverage of holding your face hostage to pull your head backwards, bending your spine in a way that makes him feel even bigger inside of you. Joel whispers a string of dirty praises in your ear as his cock pistons in and out of you, telling you how much of a good girl you’re being, how much he loves your sweet pussy and all of the nasty little things he has planned for the two of you.
You feel the change in the air before you can properly recognize what it is. Joel feels heavier against your back, his chest pressing down on your back to the point of becoming just shy of suffocating, the hair on his chest coarser, rubbing against your shoulder blades with such friction you think you might get beard burn, his thrusts sharper and not as rhythmically.
But, above all, Joel goes silent. His breathing is still heavy, still stuttering after a particularly hard thrust, but he’s not moaning anymore, isn’t saying your say or the dirty, sweet nothings he’s been whispering in your ear all night.
You turn your head, trying to catch a glimpse of him so you can check in and make sure everything is okay but the image reflected in the window makes you stop— Joel looks like himself and yet, at the same time, he doesn’t. His face is buried on the back of your neck, hidden away from view, but his shoulders seem broader, his hips and thighs thicker, his biceps even more defined than they already are. His hair, the soft curls still trapped between your fingers, seem thicker like this, fuller and longer.
You tell yourself that you’re seeing things. It’s the warping of the window pane, it’s the soft lighting, it’s your brain turning into mush because Joel’s cock keeps hitting repeatedly into the deepest parts of you. And then Joel’s teeth scrape against the back of your neck and he growls— A noise that doesn’t sound human at all, deep and rolling and menacing, the sort of rumbling sound human anatomy shouldn’t be able to produce.
Your cunt spasms around his cock and you shake, the orgasm hitting you like a freightrain. It’s too much and not enough all at once, your entire body set ablaze; you push back against him, head thrown back, yanking at Joel’s hair with far more force than you ought to be using.
Your body is soft and pliant when he shifts positions, pushing one of your knees higher up on the mattress, leaving you even more open and exposed; Joel’s cock punches in and out of you with rapid precision, now chasing his pleasure more than yours in deep, long thrusts that have you drooling on the pillowcase, unable to catch your breath.
Joel pulls out with a pained whine and you’re too tired to turn around, fighting to keep your eyes open as you listen to the slick sounds of him fisting his own cock, followed by the sticky warmth of his spend as it covers the roundness of your ass. He presses a kiss on the space between your shoulderblades just as you start to recover your breathing.
“I’ll be right back.” He says, his voice soft like you’ve never heard before; you just give him a thumbs up, smiling when you hear him laugh.
Joel cleans you with a warm towel and so much care it makes you almost embarrassed, peppering kisses to your clammy skin and saying how well you’ve done for him. He helps you redress, fixes the place where the fitted sheets came loose, and then pulls you to his chest. You slide a hand underneath his shirt, fingertips playing with the wispy hair on his chest.
“Joel?” You call out, wanting to ask him about what had happened before — how you’re fairly certain you’d seen him half-way into shifting before he somehow got it under control — but you’re unable to, because the only response you get is a loud, reverberating snore.
Tommy brings a bag with your belongings two days later. He doesn’t say anything, just drops it by the bed, pats you on the shoulder, and says ‘the old bastard reckons it’s time ya start wearin’ yer own shit again’ before he steps out of the room; you haven’t seen either Miller men all day, with Tommy busy trying — and failing, because it seems like the damage you've done is mighty permanent — to fix up the truck and Joel at work. You go through the bag carefully, pulling out your clothes — the clothes that Joel chose from your closet — and finding them a home next to Joel’s flannels.
You wonder if you should feel like it’s some sort of violation, that Joel had gone to your house while you took care of his kid and picked out your underwear, but you don’t.
If anything, it makes you feel seen.
It’s the pounding on the door that wakes you up. Your mouth is parched, muscles pleasantly sore, too warm from Joel’s steady presence behind your back; Joel grumbles, not fully awake, but Tommy’s insistent knocking drags the both of you up.
“Joel— For fuck’s sake, Joel. The cops are here.” He says through the door, his voice so panicked he can barely hide it. “They wanna talk to both of ya.”
It’s ludicrous, but the first thing you think about is the pens you stole from the pharmacy— The used, old pens that you stole out of pettiness and you think the police are here to arrest you for it. But then, as you hastily get dressed, you think of the car accident you were in and panic sets even deeper; you’d been driving while drunk, and you fled the scene— You don’t remember any of it, maybe you injured or killed someone. Maybe you drove into some ancient protected tree. Maybe they’re here to charge you for the damage you did to the cement safeguard next to the road.
The truth is, somehow, a lot worse. The cops — Josh McKenley and Chad Hobbs, one of them who you went to school with, the other who is a year older than you at most — kindly ask you to step outside while one of them stays inside with the men; Tommy has Sarah perched on his hip, distracting her with breakfast but you can see just how worried he is.
McKenley steps out with you, Hobbs stays inside, arms crossed over his chest while he stares at Joel as if he is some sort of deviant criminal.
“Josh, what the fuck is going on?” You ask, hugging yourself. You almost want to ask if this is about the car but you don’t, biting your tongue at the very last minute; the last thing you need is to incriminate yourself.
Josh, on his part, shifts from one foot to the other, his bovine eyes scanning every inch of your body.
“Céline called.”
You lean back against the cruiser when your knees threaten to give out. “What do you mean?”
“She’s worried about you. Been trying to call you—”
“I lost my phone.” You bring a hand to your forehead, hating the way your fingers shake. “This is a wellness check? How did you even find me?”
“We didn’t know we’d find you here, but we figured we should look ‘round after we realized you hadn’t gone home in days. Honestly, after what Céline said, I thought we’d be searching for a body.”
Your stomach churns unpleasantly. You can barely remember what you said to her, far too drunk to make any sense of it but you know, you know it had been bad. Josh looks at you more carefully, and you know what he sees: The scrapes and bruises that remain from your accident, fading but still there, and the way you tremble like a leaf in front of him.
“I’m alright.” You say and, even though it’s true, it sounds like a lie. Josh cocks his head to the side.
“We can help you. We’re going to help you. Céline told us that the guy is dangerous, that you were scared, but we’re here now.”
“Josh—” You shake your head, but he keeps talking over you.
“We’ll pretend that we’re bringing you in for something else, and then we go down to the station, you report him and he won’t be able to keep you here anymore.”
“He’s not holding me hostage. I’m here because I want to.” You push the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, I really do, but Céline doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I lost my phone and I lost my job, and Joel’s letting me stay here with him while I figure something out, that’s all.”
“You’re hurt. Are you going to tell me you just… What? Fell down the stairs?”
“Car crash, actually.” You huff. “I was driving from Céline’s place and lost control of the car. It’s fine now, nobody else got hurt and Joel and Tommy already brought the car back.”
Josh’s eyes turn into narrow slits and you can’t tell he doesn’t believe you, but you’re sure there’s not much else he can do. There’s a heavy moment of silence while he stares you down, maybe waiting for you to crack, before he eventually nods.
“Okay.” He says in a tone that doesn’t make anything seem okay— It’s half a challenge, half a threat. “Do you want to explain why you told Céline that he’s the one killing people ‘round town, then?”
“I never said that.”
He hums, shifting from one foot to the other, effectively blocking your view of the house.
“That ain’t what Céline said. She said—”
“I don’t care what she said. Do you even hear yourself? You think, what— That Joel faked the animal attacks? Josh, that’s crazy talk.”
“What I think it’s that it’s mighty interesting that folk only started dying after he came into town. And I think it’s mighty interesting that you are the only person that’s seen the animal and got out alive. If you’re not being held against your will, and if you know what happened— That’s accessory to murder.”
You laugh, then, because you can barely believe what you’re hearing; it’s not a funny, happy laugh but rather the noise of pure despair.
“Holy shit, you’re so fired.”
“Is that a threat?” He asks, eyebrows raising high.
“Are you seriously thinking about charging Joel for murder because Céline said so? You can’t just— Humans don’t do that. They don’t eat and tear each other apart like that. If there was a single chance that it was a person faking an animal attack, don’t you think the coroners would’ve caught it?”
There’s just a hint of uncertainty on his chubby cheeks before Josh puffs his chest again, clearly trying to seem taller and more in control than he has ever been.
“I think it’s part of my job to do my due diligence when an accusation is made. And if you and Mr. Miller don’t have anything to hide, then you shouldn’t be so upset about me asking a couple of questions.”
“Does your dad know about this? That you’re here harassing me and my boyfriend over gossip?”
“The Deputy will be informed of our official investigation as soon as—”
“That’s fucking fantastic. Alright, go in there and ask Joel if he’s the big bad wolf that has been eating people.” You wave at the front of the house, and then promptly shove your hands into your pockets once you notice just how badly you’re shaking. “Please do. And then go home and tell your daddy what you did. You’ll be the joke of the entire fucking town, Officer McKenley.”
You sidestep him and it’s only then that you realize just how loud you’ve been, with Officer Hobbs and Joel both standing by the front door; the police officer seems uncertain, torn between coming closer and staying with the suspect, and Joel looks like he’s a split second away from rushing down the stairs.
“Hey, Hobbs!” You yell, giving what you can only hope is a smile that is more acidic than you truly feel. “Did you know your partner here thinks Joel Miller is a werewolf?! Is that what you idiots are up to nowadays? Monster hunting?”
By the look on Officer Hobbs’s face you can see that he, indeed, was not aware of the murder accusation Josh decided to throw. The man’s eyes fly from Josh’s face to yours and then to Joel, who simply raises both of his eyebrows. Josh is already speaking a thousand words per minute trying to explain to his senior the conversation he had with Céline but you don’t pay any attention to it; all you can do is focus on the officer’s face, the way he burns red and how you can tell he’s trying to show an united front even though he clearly feels like an idiot.
“This is just a wellness check.” Hobbs says to you eventually, having all but dragged Josh back into the cruiser. “A friend of yours was concerned.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. But going from that to saying that my boyfriend is killing people? I mean…”
Hobbs nods, once, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He looks like he’s agreeing with you, but his eyes linger on Joel’s figure behind you for a beat too long before he finally drives away.
You, Joel and Tommy reunite after you help Sarah brush her teeth and then Joel pulls out a fairly large collection of crayons and papers, enough to keep the little girl occupied while the three of you talk things through by the kitchen table.
“They can’t… They can’t do anything, right?” You ask, watching as Tommy paces back and forth— Joel is leaning against the table, his body entirely still even though you can feel the nervous energy radiating from him. “I mean, even if they try to say you faked the animal attacks, that’s easily disproven.”
The silence that settles is full of answers you don’t like. Your head snaps towards Joel, who is looking intently at the wall.
“The DNA could match.” He says, at last, just as you open your mouth to beg for the reassurance that isn’t coming. “If there’s any saliva left, or— Maybe the fur, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” You don’t mean to sound as judgemental as you do, but— Considering he’s the one that has been murdering people for almost three decades, you figured he should know at least how much risk he’s been putting himself in.
“No, I don’t. This shit didn’t come with a manual.” Joel snaps. He doesn’t yell, and he’s not aggressive, but the words are still much sharper than he’s ever spoken to you. Tommy’s pacing falters for a moment as his eyes bounce between the two of you. You preen, ready to snap back at him, but—
It’s your fault, really.
You close your mouth shut with so much force your teeth clack. If you hadn’t said anything to Céline, if you hadn’t sent the e-mail and if you hadn’t had your little outburst at the bar, none of this would be happening. Joel and Sarah and Tommy would be safe, their lives completely undisturbed; and now here you are, all but squatting in their house, bringing the cops to their front door.
Your head falls forward, burying it in your hands.
“We’re panicking over nothing.” Joel says. “The Deputy is never going to open an investigation on you ‘cause of what some lil’ girl had to say.”
“Officer McKenley is his son.” You say, your voice laced with defeat; the heels of your palms dig into your eyesockets, little flashes of brightness popping behind the darkness of your closed eyelids.
“Even better for us. He ain’t gon’ let his kid embarrass himself like that.”
“We should just pack up and leave.” You raise your head at Tommy’s voice, the first time he spoke since the conversation started. His arms are crossed over his chest, mustache twitching. “The truck won’t take us long before it shits itself out again, but I can get us a new car today, we pack our shit and get out of town in the middle of the night. If we leave before they can properly open an investigation we’ll be down in Mexico by the time a judge allows them to exhume one of the bodies.”
“Runnin’ is only going to make us look more suspicious.” Joel shakes his head. “They ain’t got anythin’ on me. We stay put, keep workin’ and goin’ about our business. And you—” Joel pulls his cellphone from his pocket, the black glass square tumbling on the table when he throws it at you. “Call your friend and tell her you’re fine. We need her to think she overstepped and overreacted.”
You don’t want to call her. You don’t want to talk to Céline at all, even though you understand why she did what she did— You would’ve done the same in her shoes. Hell, you probably would’ve driven yourself back home to check in on her. So, while your brain understands the logic, understands she was just looking out for you, your heart doesn’t seem to agree.
You pick up the phone anyway, though, because you’re the one that fucked everything up in the first place.
“I don’t know her phone number.” You say, swiping left and right trying to find the Instagram app. Joel doesn’t have much other than the pre-downloaded apps, a guitar tuning app and some games that are clearly meant for Sarah. “Where’s your Insta? I need to message her there and ask her to FaceTime me.”
There’s a beat of silence where Joel blinks at you, his face entirely blank. Tommy snorts, which turns into a full blown cackle when Joel turns to stare at him.
“You might as well be speakin’ Greek to him, kid.” Tommy shakes his head, checking his watch before he looks back at Joel. “You sure you want to play this by ear? If we’re goin’ to keep on movin’, we gotta be at the Arlington’s by ten to get started on their bathroom.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Joel gives a final nod, tension radiating off of him. He turns back to you then, the tip of his tongue pressing against his upper teeth as he hesitates.
“I got it.” You tell him, waving a hand. “Go play in someone else’s bathroom, I’ll find a way of contacting Céline, and then I’ll take Sarah for a walk.”
Joel kisses both of Sarah’s cheeks before he leaves, promising that he’ll be home by dinner with a treat if she behaves. You don’t think Sarah is capable of misbehaving, really, but she gives him a toothy grin and requests Reese’s as her bribery of choice. He kisses you too before he leaves, a long kiss on the lips, his big hands cradling your hips like the last thing he wants to do is let you go.
“Do I also get a good girl treat?” You ask, voice low and teasing. Joel’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, fingers squeezing your hips.
“I left my card and cell on the counter.” Even though Joel doesn’t answer your provocation with words, the fire that burns in his eyes is more than enough. “Call Tommy’s phone if you need anything, okay?”
“Can you—” You hesitate, fixing his flannel even though it’s not out of place at all, unsure if you even should voice your request. Joel squeezes your side again, head cocking to the side.
“Anything.”
“Can you check in throughout the day? Whenever you’re free.”
You burn hot with shyness by the way his eyes soften at that, and Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head before stepping away. “Yeah, of course, darlin’. I’ll call on my lunch break.”
Céline answers your Instagram message in less than ten minutes, and the two of you settle on a FaceTime call just as Sarah goes down for her afternoon nap. You’ve cleaned up a little, wearing a shirt that you don’t think she’ll be able to tell is Joel’s, and you’ve even added just a little bit of make up to the still fading bruises on your face; it’s not the make up or your hair being done that strike you as the most odd when you look in the mirror, though— It’s the fact that you look healthy, no bags under your eyes or ashiness to your skin, your cheeks rounder and even your eyes seem lighter, not in color but in brightness.
You don’t remember ever looking this good before, and it makes your smile a little wider when Céline finally answers the call.
It’s every bit as uncomfortable as you expect it to be: Céline is surprised and suspicious, and you can see her craning her neck to look over your shoulder as if she’d be able to tell if you were being held at gunpoint. You tell her about the car crash, about losing your job and your phone and about staying at Joel and Tommy’s place because you didn’t feel well enough to be by yourself. You walk around the house as you speak, trying to make it seem casual as you grab a pre-made iced coffee from the fridge — the expensive brand, the one you never would’ve gotten on your own money —, but it’s mostly just so she can see you’re truly by yourself, minus the toddler that sleeps in the little tent in the corner of her bedroom.
“You… Look good.” Céline says at last, after the both of you have apologized for everything that went down in Jackson— You know it takes a lot for a woman like Céline to admit defeat, always so used to people bending at her every whim, always ignoring and overlooking any of her flaws. “Happy.”
“I am.” You bite down on your lip, giving the camera a small smile. There’s a lull in the conversation, the first one since she picked up the phone, and you take the opportunity to bring up the real reason for the call. “Josh came around. Though he’s going by Officer McKenley now.”
Céline’s face goes from its normal color to incredibly pale before burning bright red.
“I was worried about you.”
“I know.”
The two of you fall silent again, though it’s heavier this time, pregnant with all the things you want her to say.
“I’m not going to apologize for caring about you. You left drunk and crying, wouldn’t pick up your phone. And then there was the whole thing about him killing people. And the stalking.”
“Like you said, I was drunk and stoned. I was just saying bullshit for the sake of it.” You shake your head, trying to steer the conversation where you need it to go. “Did you send him my e-mails?”
“The e-mails where you describe the terrifying, weird old man that has been breaking into your house? Of course I did. I don’t care if the two of you kissed and made up, I thought you were in danger. Thought they were going to find you raped and killed somewhere.”
“Did you— Was it, like, an official report or something? Because if it’s official then— Shit, I don’t know, they’ll probably have to look into it even if I said I’m fine.”
“I called Josh’s personal phone. I don’t know if he ever filed a report on it.” Céline shrugged. “Just tell them you lied to me. If he didn’t kill anyone, then they’ll investigate a bit and drop it when there’s no evidence of anything.”
Céline’s face remains impossibly blank, her tone entirely diplomatic, but you can see the way her eyes scan your face and you know she’s trying to catch you in a lie. She still thinks Joel is the killer, you realize, and you’re not certain there’s much you can do now to change her mind.
“You know how people gossip in this fucking town.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, mostly to hide your face from her scrutiny than anything else. “People are going to show up to our house with pitchforks and silver bullets the second they hear he’s a person of interest.”
“I’m not going to apologize—”
“Yeah, you said that already.” You cut her off, your tone clipped and sharp.
Céline offers you a small smile. “Just handcuff him to a radiator during the full moons and you’ll both be fine.”
Her words, although they’re not really funny, pull a snort out of you. “He would look good in handcuffs.”
Céline’s face twists, but she still laughs.
“Is he good to you? Treating you right?”
“Better than anyone.” You say, having to bite down on your tongue to hold back a bitter remark about how she’d basically called you an attention seeking whore the last time the two of you were together. “He’s good with his daughter, and his brother. Takes care of everyone. Hard worker, too.”
“Yeah, okay, well— My door is always open if things go south, alright?”
You think back to how horribly it ended the last time you saw each other but you still smile and nod.
You don’t know what the future really holds, your relationship still so new and fragile, but you don’t think you’ll need her charity ever again.
For the next few weeks, you watch as Joel grows antsier and antsier. He agrees to lay low, to not hunt while there’s still a chance the police are looking for a reason to pin the killings on him, but you can see just how much it affects him. Joel gets snappy, his words clipped and short, fucking you rougher and rougher every time— Never staying still for too long, fingers tapping on his thighs or feet tapping on the floor whenever he’s sitting down, always finding something to fix around the house when he’s not working.
He’s hungry, you can see it in the burning of his eyes and the tension of his muscles.
“Can’t you just have a raw steak or something?” You ask him during one of the few afternoons in which he’s home, the house finally falling silent after you spent forty minutes trying to get Sarah to go down for her nap. “I’m sure it’s not the same as a person, but it might help you hold on for a couple more days, right?”
“It’s not the meat that the wolf is cravin’.” Joel shakes his head, his fingers tapping on the back of the couch as if he’s playing the piano. “It’s the hunt. The chase.”
An image comes to the forefront of your mind, the wolf with his teeth bared and nostrils blown wide, and it makes desire churn in your stomach. For the first time in weeks, Joel’s body goes entirely still, his sharp inhale reverberating through the two of you.
“You’re not thinkin’ —”
“He wouldn’t kill me, right?” You ask, thighs squeezing together, cutting him off because you don’t think you can handle it if he says it out loud.
“I don’t think so.”
His words aren’t all that reassuring, but they only make you wetter.
“Are you— Sweetheart, are you sure?”
You finally look back at him, holding his gaze.
“You’re the one that told me he could come out to play sometime.”
Joel growls. He’s sitting there, fully human, but the sound that leaves him is one that you don’t think human vocal chords would ever be able to produce— Similar, but not the same, as the one he’d done the first time the two of you had sex, when he was starting to lose control over himself.
“Go put on your shoes.” He tells you, voice low and full of gravel. “I’m givin’ you a forty second head start. Make ‘em count.”
Your underwear is fully damp by the time you finish putting on your boots, Joel standing in the kitchen with his back turned to you. You can feel the heat radiating off of him even from afar, his back muscles rippling underneath his cotton shirt as he sips from a water glass; you only hesitate for a moment before reaching underneath your dress, pulling out the pair of black cotton panties you’re wearing and letting it fall on the ground. You think of those cadaver dogs, the ones who can find a person just by the smell of their clothing alone, and goosebumps erupt all over your body as you turn on your heels and run out through the backdoors into the darkening woods.
In hindsight, you probably should’ve prepared better. You don’t have your phone, and you don’t have a flashlight, or a coat— It gets dark incredibly fast as soon as you’re past the treeline, the old trees tall and imposing, blocking the fading sunlight just the same as it blocks the house. You’re not planning on making it too difficult for Joel to catch you, maybe a little dodging him before the wolf finally catches up to you but, the further you go into the darkness, the more it becomes real.
The forest falls silent all of a sudden, the birds and the toads and the crickets silencing so fast you hold your breath; it’s almost as if the animals can sense something you can’t, as if they’ve all been warned of the predator that has entered the territory, every living thing going into hiding as Joel takes the reigns of nature.
You hesitate for a moment, eyes darting around before you find a small pathway between the trees. The man-made kind, the grass stomped over, tree branches carefully removed out of the way; it’s narrow, not visible unless you’re really looking for it, but you rush forward just as you hear the first branch creaking and snapping behind you— Too close.
Your legs push you forward, instinct taking over as you run through the small pathway before taking a sharp turn to the left, mingling with the trees; the space is so small that branches scratch against your face and you think momentarily that you’re safe, that the path you’re on is too closed off for the wolf to follow.
Above your labored breathing you hear the heavy and fast sound of his footsteps— You wonder if it’s on purpose, if he’s being loud to scare you, and it surely works. It makes you panic, in fact, heart hammering inside your chest. You think the sound is coming from your left so you run to your right, jumping over rocks and almost falling over when you step on a moss-covered root; it leads you to an area where the trees aren’t as clumped together, more space for you to see and less claustrophobic. The moonlight shines above, peaking through the top of the trees, and you narrowly miss a depression on the ground that would’ve absolutely sprained your ankle. Air becomes harder, your lungs and thighs burning as you duck underneath a thick branch, skidding to a halt as you hide behind a giant, imposing willow tree.
You drop down, knees to your chest as you try to take a proper breath. You can hear the rustling of the trees, the barely audible creaking of twigs and loose leaves under Joel’s paws as he stalks closer to you; your throat tightens, trapping the air inside your lungs. You can tell that he is right there, just on the other side of the tree, his breathing loud and controlled.
One, two, three— You count his steps, measured and certain, approaching you from the left. You fix your stance, hands on a thick tree root as you prepare to run.
It all happens so fast you barely have time to understand what is going on. You launch yourself to the right just as you hear another creaking from the left and you make it exactly four steps before you’re lunged forward and down; You spin, trying to escape the animal’s grasp but all you manage to do is land on your back, Joel’s heavy weight settling on your chest. His body covers yours like a weighted blanket, wet nostril bumping against the sensitive patch of skin just behind your ear. You push his head away like Tommy had done the night of the accident, trying to wiggle yourself from underneath him but, unlike last time, the wolf doesn’t pull away kindly. Instead he growls, low and long, his chest rattling against yours.
Your muscles freeze, much like they’d done that first time Joel hijacked your body— There are no words this time, no audible command other than the growl but your body responds as if it understands the wolf’s orders, laying pliantly underneath the stars.
“Joel—” You start, trying to call his attention, but the wolf doesn’t seem to mind; it nuzzles the side of your neck and then your collarbone, wet nose tickling against your sternum as it travels lower and lower. You open your mouth, ready to try again, but the words are cut off by the sound of the wolf’s teeth tearing through your dress. The cold air hits your chest for barely a second before his warm breath takes over, tongue impossibly large and unbelievably soft as it laps at your nipples. You shift again but, this time, it’s to accommodate him better between your legs; his belly is warm and soft against you, soft fur that you know you’re soaking with your wetness as you grind up into him. His tongue travels lower, teeth scraping against your stomach as he tugs at the scraps of your dress until you’re fully nude.
You look down, the wolf’s giant head between your legs, but all you can focus on are his eyes.
Joel’s eyes. Warm and kind and human, staring up at you in a way that is uncannily similar to his human form when he checks in on you— You nod, unsure if you even have it in you to give him any sort of verbal consent, but the small movement is more than enough; his tongue is so large that it encompasses your entire cunt in a single swipe. It’s so different from anything you’ve ever experienced but, at the same time, you can still recognize Joel’s movements in the way he laps at your clit, the tip of his tongue toying against your entrance in sharp, certain circles. It’s just a little clumsy, his teeth and snout getting in the way but it makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, hands gripping the grass until chunks fall out as you try to ground yourself. You bite down on your bottom lip, awfully aware you’re in a public setting even though there’s no one around, but you think back to Joel’s words that first time you had sex. Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.
You come with a scream of his name on your lips, tufts of grass and dirt underneath your fingernails, hips pushing up into his mouth.
You’re still trying to regain your breath when Joel crawls back over you, whining softly as his snout bumps into your cheek. The fur sticks everywhere, glistening with your slick the way it had done with your blood so many moons ago, and you giggle, scratching the space between his eyes.
“I’m okay. That was—” You giggle again when he starts to purr, chest vibrating where it presses against yours. You feel the head of his cock bump against your thigh, scorchingly hot and leaking, and a fresh new wave of wetness dribbles down your thighs. “Do you want me to turn around?” You ask, still petting his head. “On all fours?”
Joel whines again, and the way he presses his body even more against yours seems like enough of an answer. You press a kiss to his snout, legs spreading even further when you feel his cock pressing against your entrance.
He’s even bigger like this. Joel in his human form had already been a task to take in, but this is something else— You take a deep breath, your fingers digging into the soft fur of his pectoral, your body screaming to push him away but you remain still. He pushes himself inside in two strokes, and the second one has you wailing; for a horrifying moment, you think you won’t be able to handle him, the burn of the stretch and just how full you feel not subduing as quickly as you expect it to.
“Gimme a second.” You say when he starts grinding, legs clamping around him. “Just— please, just a second.”
You bring a hand down to your clit, forcing your tense muscles to relax, rubbing soothing circles until the pain melts away, his thick cock pressing against that perfect little spot inside of you even when he’s not moving making you hungrier. Joel runs his nose down your cheek to your collarbone, sharp teeth scraping against the soft skin of your shoulder. You clench around him, his cock feeling impossibly warm inside of you— He growls, the noise reverberating between the two of you before his hips pull back ever-so-slightly, snapping harshly against yours. It makes you wail, the tip of his cock hitting against your cervix with every fast, jerky thrusts that he gives you; You’re babbling, begging for more and crying that it’s too much, your hand falling away from between your legs. You hold onto him, clutching the fur as Joel ruts into you, his thrusts so harsh they push you upwards on the grass. It doesn’t take you more than a couple of minutes to come, head tilted to the side, drool pooling on the side of your mouth and down your cheek as your body convulses underneath him, clamping down on him so tight that he might’ve slipped out if he wasn’t buried so deep inside of you.
Joel comes with a growl on his throat and his teeth sinking into your shoulder painfully enough that you think he might snap a bone— You scream, both from pain and from pleasure, his cock swelling and throbbing inside of you. He grinds against you as he comes and comes and comes, his pelvic bone pushing against your clit and hurtling you into a third orgasm, the sort of wave of pleasure that has your throat constricting and your eyes rolling back, pebbled nipples rubbing against his chest as your spine twists up. Joel remains locked into you even as you tremble from the overstimulation; he feels even bigger, swelling inside of you and stretching you even further, a mixture of growling and whining rumbling in his throat. And when the aftershocks of your orgasm start to subdue, you realize he’s still coming, still filling you up, teeth clamped down on your shoulder as your lower stomach swells. It’s an odd sensation, feeling his come leak from where he’s still buried inside of you, feeling it push against your bladder in a way that makes you feel him all the way up to your stomach; you think he’ll be leaking out of you for days, thick and warm where he fills you up.
He doesn’t move, caging you protectively when he finally calms down, his head tucking above yours. His neck is soft where you nuzzle into it, so satiated and exhausted you can barely keep your eyes open.
You wake up to Joel’s face — his human face — hovering above yours. His hand is cradling your jawline, and he’s covered in his own blood, curls darkened and sticking to his forehead; a thick glob of congealing blood slides down the beautiful curve of his nose and plops on your cheek.
“Honey, I’m so sorry.” He says, wiping something from your cheek— It leaves behind a wet trail that you can’t recognize whether it is blood or sweat. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have— I should’a shifted back earlier— How bad does it hurt? ‘M gon’ get you home, or— Or a hospital if you need, alright?”
You frown, pushing yourself up on your elbows. Your body is sore, maybe a little more than it should be, but it doesn’t feel hospital worthy. The worst pain is from your shoulder, in fact, the bite mark throbbing and irritated.
Above all, though, it’s hard to miss how you’re covered in blood. It’s like a scene from Carrie, thick deep red blood dripping down your body, lathering you in it— It’s too much to be yours, and it’s everywhere, from your neck all the way down to your shins. There is a gunk of fur stuck to your left thigh, which Joel pulls away hastily when he notices you staring down at it.
“I had to—” He stalls and, although you can’t see the color of his cheeks underneath the blood, you’re willing to bet he’s blushing. “I had to shift still inside— Would’a hurt you even more if I didn’t.”
“Thank God I wasn’t here for it.” You snort, wiping a hand over your eye— Between the remnants of blood and grass on your fingers, you don’t realize you’re making it worse until after you’ve done it. “You didn’t hurt me, Joel. I’m okay. More than, really.”
He leans forward, bumping his forehead against yours, shoulders sagging with relief.
“Thought you were gonna hate me.”
“Joel,” You shake your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. “You eat people and I don’t hate you for it. This is nothing.”
Joel’s head snaps to the right just a second before you hear the snap of a branch.
There, between the trees, is a man. Officer Josh McKenley, at the two of you with wide eyes and a raised rifle. You can only imagine what it looks like, two people naked and bloodied in the middle of the woods, embracing in a pile of torn clothes and gore.
“Step away from her.” He demands, the gun pointed at Joel. “You okay, miss?”
Even though it would seem that he’s trying to protect you from Joel, you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your body— Slower than they need to, taking in details more than searching for injuries. You curl in on yourself, trying to hide your body from view. Joel growls, and McKenley’s attention snaps back at him.
Despite being fully naked with a gun pointed at him, Joel doesn’t seem worried; he has two hands stretched out in front of him, legs slightly bent, ready to pounce. He waits, though, stepping away from you as instructed.
“I’m going to call for back up.” The man warns, fumbling with the gun as he reaches for his left pocket. “If you move, I’ll shoot you.”
Joel moves. He jumps on the man so fast it makes you shriek, the loud noise of the rifle going off ringing in your ears and drowning out the way McKenley screams, both from surprise and pain as the two of them topple to the ground.
You expect Joel’s shifting from human to wolf to be as slow and gruesome as the deshifting, perhaps the bone-breaking and agonizing process like a scene from An American Werewolf in London but it’s not: It happens in the blink of an eye, the hair on his head growing thicker and spreading, the muscles on his black rippling as his skin stretches and his bones shift into something else. And then you blink, and McKenley is crawling backwards, mouth open in terror, the wolf’s head down to his shoulders as he stalks his prey.
It’s only then that you finally feel the pain. It tears through your bitten shoulder, burning, a small round hole that pierces through one of the teeth marks that gurgles fresh blood.
“Joel?” You call out, hand shaking as you bring it to press down on the bullet wound. It hurts too much, pain searing and blinding, making you pull your hand away instantly. “Holy fuck.”
The wolf’s head turns, staring at you— It’s the split second that McKenley uses to run away, his rifle forgotten in the overgrowth as he flees through the path he came from. Your vision swims, the wolf coming in and out of focus as you lean back, scraping your arm against a tree before you manage to put yourself in a mostly upright sitting position. Joel howls, that same deep and loud noise he’d made to call out for Tommy after the car accident, before coming to your side. He gives the wound a single lick before you manage to push him away; he whines, trying to get you to move your hand out of his snout.
“Unless that tongue can pull out the bullet, I don’t think you should be doing that, buddy.” You say, your voice sounding slurred and foreign in your ears. “Just— Fuck, Joel, it hurts. Just shift back and get me home, please.”
Tommy is in charge of packing while Joel patches up your arm in the bathroom. You’re not proud to admit that you almost pass out as he digs through your shoulder for the bullet, barely hearing the string of apologies that leave his mouth as he works as fast as he can. It’s clear that he’s done this before, a well-stocked first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet and precise movements from his hand.
You keep your eyes averted from the wound, trying to stay as still as you possibly can.
“Do you think it’ll stick?”
Joel hums, distracted. “What, honey?”
“The bite. Am I— Am I gon’ turn into a wolf too, now? You said it spreads through biting and genetics, right?”
“No, ‘s not a full moon tonight.” He runs a finger close to the bite mark, stopping his stitching for a moment. “I’ll fix it as soon as I can shift again, okay? Reckon I can make sure it won’t scar.”
You don’t want it fixed— You don’t want to be a werewolf either, but you like the idea of Joel’s teeth-shaped scar a little too much. But you simply hum, ending the conversation, too tired to voice any of those feelings. He kisses the stitches once he’s done with them, and then helps you into the shower— It’s the first time you’re in the shower with him and it’s certainly not what you pictured, both of you rushing through wiping each other clean while Tommy rushes from room to room, trying to gather as many essentials as he can without waking Sarah up.
You’re not sure at which point they’ve decided to flee. You’ve run into Tommy on your way back to the house, Joel carrying you in his arms. ‘Cop caught me mid shift.’ is the only explanation he gives but that seems to be enough to enable some sort of crisis protocol.
There’s a single, curt knock on the bathroom door just as Joel helps you into your sweatpants.
“Can you wake Sarah up f’me?” He asks you, knuckles brushing softly over the bandage on your shoulder. “Don’t pick her up, can’t have you strainin’ yourself. Just tell her to pick out her favorite toys, that we gotta go on a trip.”
You do as you’re told, arm placed in a sling that Joel pulled together out of gauze and sheer willpower, hair still dripping wet down your back. Sarah is curled up on her toddler bed, a protective wall of stuffed animals between her and the safety guard, her little thumb stuck inside her mouth.
“Sarah?” You call out, softly, trying not to spook the little girl as you push the curls away from her face; her hair is wild and frizzy and you make a mental note of telling Joel to buy her one of those toddler bonnets. “Wake up, puppy. We gotta go.”
“Mama?”
It breaks your heart, watching her little doe eyes blink without recognition— It almost hurts more than Joel calling you by her mother’s name, the cold proof of a little girl that still yearns for someone you could never be.
“Hi, sweetie.” You coo, pushing down the safety rail. “Y’wanna go on an adventure? Your daddy planned a trip for us.”
You sit by her bed as you watch Sarah toddle around the room, collecting her toys and shoving them inside a purple backpack covered in sequins, her little brow furrowed in concentration. She doesn’t ask the million questions you expect from a child so young, she just accepts what you tell her and then gets to business.
It takes Tommy exactly fifty-five minutes to leave the cabin with the half-functioning truck and come back with a fully-functioning car. You’d be impressed if you didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that he prepared for it even though Joel told him not to.
Joel doesn’t let you help with anything other than carrying one of Sarah’s stuffed toys that didn’t fit her backpack and, if you’re being honest, you don’t try too hard to help— Your shoulder throbs even after you’ve taken a couple of painkillers, your muscles sore from… Well, everything. Instead, you sit inside the champagne-colored sedan with Sarah, trying to distract her from what is happening; there is a nervous energy in the air, both Tommy and Joel wound up tight, and you can see the moment she picks up on it, fussing when Joel buckles her into the car seat.
“Where are we going?” You ask, pushing your head between the two front seats. Tommy is driving, and Joel holds a map that looks so old you think it might be close to you in age.
“North.” Joel responds at the same time that Tommy says: “South.”
They both look at each other for a split second before Tommy continues.
“Mexico. I have to, Joel.” His voice is tight and urgent, hands flexing against the steering wheel. “Been feelin’ it for weeks now.”
“Mexico it is.” Joel nods before he turns to you; his face is now so close you can see the different shades of hair on his mustache, his bottom lip marred with teeth marks. “Tommy’s feelin’ the pull.”
“Pull?”
“That’s where my mate is. Somewhere in Mexico.” Tommy is the one that answers. “‘S why we came here of all places. Joel felt you callin’ out to him.”
Despite everything, your lips pull into a small smile.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico.”
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER.
Rainy season means stuffy, warm days and unpredictable downpour of rain showers in the middle of the afternoon just when you think the heat is finally going to get you. You’re slowly learning how to adapt, your body craving the rain just as much as it craves the sun. The rainy days are usually easier to handle during the week, while Sarah is in pre-k and you’re at work all afternoon— During the weekends it means Joel has to stay at a job site for longer, and that you’re trapped inside the house with a tiny, bored little girl.
“That boyfriend of yours is coming to pick you up?” Joel asks, leaning against the kitchen sink. Disdain drips off of the word ‘boyfriend’ but, at this point, you think he does it mostly to annoy you and not really because there is any jealousy.
Your ‘boyfriend’ is Raúl, a single father to a little girl around Sarah’s age. The girls met on Sarah’s first day of kindergarten and even though Ellie doesn’t speak English and Sarah doesn’t speak Spanish, the two girls attached to each other’s hips— They share toys and food and are even starting to trade words in their languages; Sarah has taken the habit of pointing out every perro she sees on the street (her uncle Tommy included, once) and you know that didn’t come from her.
“Yup.” You say, pulling the glass of mango juice from between Joel’s fingers just as Tommy bursts into your home— He’s been living on the floor above yours, but it seems like your kitchen is the Central Station. “He’ll pick me and Sarah up in, like, fifteen minutes. G’mornin’, Tommy.”
“Morning.” He says, stealing a slice of bacon from Sarah’s plate. “Who’s coming to pick you up?”
“Mommy’s boyfriend.” Sarah pipes up, licking honey from her fingertips.
“Raúl.” You correct her, elbowing Joel when he cackles at the look on Tommy’s face. “Who is a friend and a boy, but not my boyfriend. His daughter has a playdate with Sarah.”
“Don’t forget it.” Joel taps the little pill container on the counter before he moves back to the living room. The kitchen is small and, although the brightly lit windows make it seem bigger than it really is, the place gets just a little crowded as Tommy shoves his head inside the fridge.
You roll your eyes, but you pick out the antidepressants and swallow them with the mango juice anyway; truth is, even though you keep complaining about the pills, the wonders that they’ve done to your life are something you don’t think you’ll ever take for granted— The pills and Dr. Canul, the therapist that has been seeing you ever since settled down in Puerto Morelos.
It had taken your little family — your pack — about eight months to figure out a town to finally settle roots, living in cars and cheap motels for so long you thought it might affect Sarah’s development; Tommy was the one guiding the four of you, never settling anywhere for longer than a month before his mate started to pull him somewhere else. It got to a point where you were certain he was making it up, or perhaps confused by his feelings, but Joel had blind faith in his brother so every other month you packed up your car and left for a new place.
Puerto Morelos had been your home for almost ten months now, and it was such a dream you feared the day Tommy decided his mate wasn’t there anymore— Sarah is thriving in kindergarten, Dr. Canul is the nicest doctor you’ve ever met, and your little house near the beach is everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Your job, too, at a local artisan shop where you get to sell your paintings while manning the register; the owner is an old woman that had been kind and patient, teaching you how to weave baskets and huipiles, never faulting you or making fun of the way you still tripped over your ever-growing Spanish vocabulary. She simply corrects you with a soft ‘no, mija’ and, during one particularly exciting afternoon, threatened to beat a teenager with the bat she keeps in the back of her shop after he made fun of you.
Life is good, more than— Life is everything you’ve ever dreamed of, in the community that embraced you and your family, with the ocean breeze and the hot sun and the sense of belonging that you’ve never found anywhere else.
The thought that Tommy might take that away at any moment keeps you awake at night. You understand his connection to Joel, understand that their need for each other goes much further than simply a sibling bond: They’re a pack, and their wolves are social creatures that need each other to be fully at peace. Still, you fear the day you’ll have to mourn your home.
Raúl knocks on the door just as Tommy shoves the last piece of bread in his mouth, his tanned cheeks full like a chipmunk as Sarah runs to yank the door open.
“Hola, cielito.” Raúl says but she’s barely listening, already grabbing Ellie and yanking her inside. They squeal together and run to the back of the house. “Hey. Front gate was open, I figured I could—”
You don’t really understand what happens at the moment but, in hindsight, it’s pretty obvious. Raúl freezes halfway through his sentence, his eyes glued to the looming presence over your back; he stares at Tommy for a second too long before plastering a smile that is visibly fake.
“Joel, right?” He asks, offering a hand. Tommy doesn’t answer, mouth still full, not really chewing anymore. You resist the urge to elbow him, choosing instead to answer.
“Tommy, actually. Joel’s brother. Say hi, Tommy.” You finally give in and elbow him in the ribs when Raúl’s fake smile falters, his hand already halfway down before Tommy spurs into action, grabbing it between both of his.
It only dawns on you what is actually happening when Tommy brings Raúl’s hand up, pressing a kiss to the back of it before dropping entirely. Raúl’s eyes dart to you, shoulders visibly relaxing when he sees the way you’re tying — and failing — to hide your smile.
“We kinda had a change of plans.” You tell him, neck craning as you try to catch Joel’s attention— He has his back to you, lacing his boots and mumbling something on the phone. “I have some errands to run, my prescription expires today so I really need to go get it and I forgot to defrost the chicken so I can’t make lunch and, uh, Joel needs my help with some stuff. Tommy’s chaperoning the girls with you today, if that’s alright?”
Tommy frowns at you, his eyes fleeting to your face before rushing back to the man still in front of him. “Joel said we—”
“Like I said, change of plans.” You cut him off. “Can’t go into work with all this rain, so you both get the day off. Well, he gets the day off. You get to babysit your niece.” You smile at Raúl, who is biting down on his bottom lip and you can tell you haven’t been able to fool him. “Tommy’s great with kids. Loves them to death. Always wanted one of his own, right?”
“Uh—”
“And Sarah loves him.” You go on, not letting Tommy get a word in. “Ellie will love him too, you’ll see. He’s kind of a dumbass sometimes and he charms all of the old ladies wherever he goes, but he’s a sweetheart. And— Uh— A great chaperoning partner. You guys should go grab some ice cream later.”
“Ice cream sounds nice.” Raúl agrees, eyes shining with mirth.
Tommy nods a second later. “Yeh— Yeah, it does.”
“Great!” You say, clapping your hands. Joel is finally looking at you, both of his eyebrows raised. “Now off you go. I want a day off with my boyfriend.”
The house is all but empty before Joel can finish lacing up his boots. From the kitchen window you watch as Tommy opens the car door for Raúl, giving him a thumbs up when he looks back at you for a second; Tommy offers you his middle finger, but he’s smiling from ear to ear.
“Is there a particular reason why you just gave my brother a day off without tellin’ me first?”
“That’s his mate.” You say, surprised Joel didn’t pick up on it. “I’ll handcuff them together if I have to before I move out of Puerto Morelos.”
He laughs, his hands coming up to wrap around you.
“And here I was thinkin’ it was because you wanted the house all to ourselves.”
Your arms settle on his shoulders on their own, leaning back so you can look him in the eyes. Joel seems happier too, more at ease than he did when the two of you met— His eyes shine more, his smile brightening more often. That sadness you’d noticed when you first saw him is completely gone, his face constantly sunburnt and his hair frizzy from the salt air.
*SEASON OF THE WOLF: a joel miller x reader story. (part five)
The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.
join the TAGLIST. / SERIES masterlist. / PREVIOUS chapter.
It seems like Joel is incapable of stepping away, constantly hovering for the hours to come— Never interacting with you directly, but always paying you undivided attention.
warnings: the basics (werewolf!joel, age gap, no outbreak), law enforcement, abuse of power (acab!!!!!!!!), hunter/prey vibes, getting hunted through the woods by your hot werewolf boyfriend, they're super domestic though, characters resolving their issues like mature adults, smut (monsterfucking, oral f receiving, unprotected piv, biting, pulling out, werewolf-induced hyperspermia, size kink, creampie, we go full beast mode on this one, there's some gross stuff in the aftercare but yall wanted to fuck the wolf so now yall gotta deal with the gross goopy bloodied part of it too), body horror/gore, technically cannibal joel, murder/death of minor characters, everybody gets a happy ending.
word count: 12.4k (oops)
fox says: hello friends! oh my god guys, this is it. the final chapter! i'm so sorry for the delay, between my break and the stage fright that i always get when writing a finale, i chose to take my time and write something i'm proud of rather than rushing through it. i had so much fun writing this series, and i hope you guys have enjoyed it as well. (spoiler) it was super important for me to make sure everyone knows that reader's mental health doesn't improve because she finally got some monster cock but rather that she took the time to care for herself and how her environment was poisenous and making everything worse and i really really hope i managed to get that across. as always, please let me know how we feel about it!
also available on archiveofourown.
It seems like Joel is incapable of stepping away, constantly hovering for the hours to come— Never interacting with you directly, but always paying you undivided attention. You spend the afternoon and early evening on the couch with Sarah, watching cartoons and then watching as she played with her dolls, colored her little books and ran around the couch pretending to be a shark when she got hit with a particularly strong case of the zoomies. He sits down eventually, close enough that you can feel his body heat but not close enough to touch— Sarah is passed out on the rug in front of you, surrounded by pillows and blankets in something that is a mix between a pillow fort and a nest.
“I’m sorry.” Joel says, his voice gravel-like. He doesn’t look at you, stares instead at his hands fisted over his thighs. “For everything.”
You think he’s not talking just about what has happened to you. There’s a weight to the world ‘everything’ that makes you think back to his wife, to the scar on his temple and how he tried to kill himself over it.
“I know. I’m sorry too.” You open your hand, palm up. Joel takes it almost immediately, fingers interlacing with yours. “I was scared.”
“I was too. Had no idea where you were, what happened—” He swallows quickly, the raspiness of his voice thickening with emotion. “I shouldn’t have sprung none’a that on you. And I’m sorry about— I didn’t mean to call you—”
“It’s fine.” You shake your head. The hurt is still there but dulled, muffled by everything else: In the grand scheme of things, getting your feelings hurt by being called a dead woman’s name seems like the least of your worries. “Thank you for saving me.”
You don’t realize how much you mean it until you say it. You had wanted to die. You thought it’d feel like relief, finally letting go of all the hurt and pain and hopelessness but those few seconds of the car swerving off the road— The panic and the desperate desire to survive makes you realize that, deep down, it’s not death that you seek.
It’s comfort.
Joel brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. He looks you dead in the eyes, his often sorrowful eyes now clouded with a different emotion. Devotion. Love. Kindness and pain and everything in between.
“I’ll always save you.”
You kiss him. His lips are dry and chapped but his hands are warm when they cradle your face, a brief hesitation on his part before Joel kisses you back. One of his hands moves to the back of your neck, tangling with the hairs at the base of your skull; you crawl through the distance between the two of you, climbing on his lap without breaking the kiss. It’s nothing like any other kiss you’ve ever had— Your body molds against his with perfection, his hands gripping your body and pulling you close, his tongue pushing into your mouth.
You’ve never been much of a kisser— It always felt like a means to an end, something to signal that you want more and you actually often find your mind wandering off, your thoughts running away from the situation but this time all you can think and feel is Joel. He kisses you slowly but unhurried, exploring your mouth and whatever he can reach of your body, trying to figure out what makes you tick. It is too much and not enough all at once, and Joel shushes the desperate little noise you make with a concerned look towards the toddler sleeping a couple of feet away.
“Bedroom.” You beg against his lips, drinking down when his breathing falters in your mouth. “Please.”
Joel’s hands grab both of your asscheeks, raising the two of you from the couch as if you weighed nothing— You bite down on your lip to hold back the squeal, not wanting to wake Sarah up as he quietly pads down into his bedroom. He lays you gently on the bed before coming back to lock the door; the tent on his sweatpants is impressive when he turns back to you: You’ve seen Joel naked a couple of times now and you know he’s big but you hadn’t seen him hard before and, even with his clothes on, you’re intimidated. He stands by the edge of the bed, fingertips running slowly up your calves, drinking you down just as you do him.
The wolf never made you afraid before. Even with blood on his snout, even as you watched him tear a grown man apart, you were never scared— You were never afraid of Joel either, not in the true, primal sense of the word. But now, laying back on his bed as he watches you, you finally see the danger that ripples beneath his skin. His brown eyes are nothing short of predatory when he kneels on the mattress, aquiline nose running up the inside of your calf, his breath ghosting over your skin light enough to leave goosebumps in their wake.
“Been dreamin’ of this.” He tells you, big hands locking around your ankles. You’re putty in his hands, giggling when he pulls on your legs, tugging your ass further down the bed. “Havin’ you on my bed. My mate. My girl.”
You open your mouth but whatever witty response dies before you can conjure it, Joel’s mouth latching into the inside of your thigh— He bites down hard and your hands fly to his hair, though you’re unsure whether to pull him away or pull him closer. Joel soothes the bite with his tongue, lapping at the indent of his own teeth before he crawls higher, pushing the soft material of the boxer shorts out of the way so he can bite again, closer to the junction of your thigh.
You’re about to pull the shorts down yourself when Joel moves just a little higher, the bristles of his mustache tickling the softness of your stomach as he pushes your shirt up, kissing the skin as it is exposed. It’s involuntary, your body curling in and pulling away from him as you laugh, the noise pure instinct to soothe the bluntness of your movements as you shove your shirt back down.
“Ticklish?”
“Yup.” It’s true but not at the same time. Sure, you’re a little ticklish, but not like that— It’s a gut reaction, instinct telling you to hide and pull away as if he isn’t already aware of your size. Joel’s head cocks to the side and he leans back a little, searching your face.
“Okay. I won’t touch you there.” He breathes out, and you can tell Joel doesn’t believe you entirely. He doesn’t push it, however, choosing instead to bring his mouth back to yours, thick fingers playing with the elastic band of your shorts. “Can I take these off?”
You wonder if you should be offended that he’s all of a sudden walking on eggshells but you don’t; if anything it makes you a little giddy when you nod and Joel smiles against your lips as if you’ve just given him a gift. He tugs your shorts and underwear in one go, discarding them to the ground without taking his eyes off of you. Joel sits back on his knees, his hands running up and down your calves.
“You’re beautiful.” He whispers, voice reverent as he drinks you in. “Spread your legs f’me.”
In any other instance, you might’ve felt self-conscious about letting someone look at you so intimately but Joel stares at you like you’re the single most divine thing he’s ever seen. It fills you with enough courage to do as he tells you, your bent legs falling apart.
“I need to taste you.” Joel says, leaning forward to press a kiss on the inner side of your knee. His eyes find yours, darkened with desire. “Will you let me?”
“Please.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He makes a V with his fingers, spreading your pussy open before latching his mouth to your clit. Joel makes out with your cunt, slow and messy, the pressure of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth enough to have you squirming but not enough to properly get you off; you tug at his hair, fingers tangling with his curls, whining.
“I want you inside me.” You breathe out, eyes rolling to the back of your head when Joel suckles against your clit. “Please, Joel, I need your fingers.”
He hums against you, a single digit twirling your entrance until you’re pushing your hips against him, bucking on the bed. Joel chuckles as he finally relents and pushes a single finger inside; even a single digit is a stretch, both from the thickness of his fingers from the amount of time you’ve gone without, desire curling low on your stomach.
“Joel—”
He shushes you, then, and the sound brings a new wave of wetness between your legs. “Calm down, sweet girl. Let me take care of you.”
You try to do as he says, letting your body melt against the mattress; Joel looks entirely pleased as he dives back into your pussy, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he flicks his tongue this and that way— You can tell that he is exploring you, trying to figure out the best rhythm and pressure to have you shaking and that’s not really something you’ve ever experienced with a man before: Most of them simply assume that their moves are a universal like, always too pleased with themselves even if most of the sounds you make are fake.
Joel is a quick, eager learner. He suckles on your clit when he sees the way your chest heaves at that, crooking two fingers inside of you and slowing down their thrusting when you bring both of your hands to your face, trying to stifle your moans. Your thighs clamp down the sides of his head when he pushes a third finger in, rubbing them slow and steady against that single spot inside of you that has you seeing stars; you choke down the noises threatening to escape from your mouth, one hand on his hair and the other trapped between your teeth, not wanting to wake up the other residents of the cabin.
His blunt nails dig into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you down on the mattress as his fingers push in and out of you, his tongue running circles on your clit; the ball of your feet knock into his ribs as you come, body shaking underneath him— Your jaw goes slack as pleasure shoots down your spine, going fully silent as you get lost in it. Joel slows down but doesn’t stop, licking you through your orgasm before he finally pulls away.
You tug on his hair before Joel can pull away entirely, yanking on his curls as you breathe his name.
“Joel—” You say, and his nose crinkles a little with the harshness of your tug but he still smiles, the lower half of his face glimmering in the pale bedroom light. “C’mere. I need you.”
Joel kisses your arm, the only part of your skin that he can reach, before gripping your hips and flipping you over; it makes you bounce on the mattress and you cackle, half from glee and half from surprise— You’ve never been with a man strong enough to manhandle you like that, and you bite down on your bottom lip, arching spine, ass in the air.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, sweetheart.” Joel mumbles behind you, the tone of his voice sending a shiver down your back. “Look at ya. Drippin’.”
The tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, catching for a second before Joel slides his cock down your slit and it has you whining, pushing your hips against him. You call out his name a little louder and Joel shushes you again, pushing just the tip inside before pulling back out; the sensation is enough to drive you crazy, biting down on your thumb to keep you from complaining again.
When Joel finally plunges inside of you, it’s blissful. He makes a choked sound between a moan and a groan, holding himself very still. The stretch hurts at first but you wiggle against him, trying to signal for him to move— His fingers dig into the fat of your hip, his other hand coming to steady you on the small of your back.
“Fuck— Just— Gimme a sec, darlin’.” Joel says, his voice strained. “ ‘S been a while.”
He starts slow, his thrusting as exploratory as his mouth had been, pulling out halfway before sliding back in with enough force to punch the air out of your lungs. You arch your spine a little further, nose buried in the pillow that smells so much like Joel you feel entirely encompassed by him. All you can hear, feel, smell— It’s him, the little grunts he’s trying to stifle, the calloused hands on your skin, his scent on the pillow and in the air. You reach back without thinking, grabbing Joel’s wrist and pulling him towards you.
Joel topples on top of you, breathy laugh against your ear before he rearranges himself, one arm next to your head, the other sliding between you and the mattress, wrapping around your hips and pulling you backwards just enough— The new angle hits different, deeper somehow, his entire weight settling on your back.
“Fuck,” he pants near your ear, chest hair brushing against your back. “You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. So sweet. Made f’me.”
His thrusts have you wailing, Joel’s teeth scraping the side of your neck whenever he’s close enough— Never biting down, but teasing is enough to drive you crazy, one hand reaching back to grab at his hair, fists of curly grey and brown locks between your fingers. The arm by your face comes forward, Joel’s thick fingers closing your mouth shut: His hand is big enough to cover the lower half of your face entirely, your breathing erratic behind his glammy fingers.
“Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.” Joel whispers, knees digging into your thighs, spreading you even further. He stops moving, buried to the hilt inside of you. “But I’m gon’ need you to be a good girl and keep quiet, ‘kay? Don’t go wakin’ up the whole house.”
You nod and, even though Joel starts moving again, he doesn’t pull his hand away from your lips; he uses the leverage of holding your face hostage to pull your head backwards, bending your spine in a way that makes him feel even bigger inside of you. Joel whispers a string of dirty praises in your ear as his cock pistons in and out of you, telling you how much of a good girl you’re being, how much he loves your sweet pussy and all of the nasty little things he has planned for the two of you.
You feel the change in the air before you can properly recognize what it is. Joel feels heavier against your back, his chest pressing down on your back to the point of becoming just shy of suffocating, the hair on his chest coarser, rubbing against your shoulder blades with such friction you think you might get beard burn, his thrusts sharper and not as rhythmically.
But, above all, Joel goes silent. His breathing is still heavy, still stuttering after a particularly hard thrust, but he’s not moaning anymore, isn’t saying your say or the dirty, sweet nothings he’s been whispering in your ear all night.
You turn your head, trying to catch a glimpse of him so you can check in and make sure everything is okay but the image reflected in the window makes you stop— Joel looks like himself and yet, at the same time, he doesn’t. His face is buried on the back of your neck, hidden away from view, but his shoulders seem broader, his hips and thighs thicker, his biceps even more defined than they already are. His hair, the soft curls still trapped between your fingers, seem thicker like this, fuller and longer.
You tell yourself that you’re seeing things. It’s the warping of the window pane, it’s the soft lighting, it’s your brain turning into mush because Joel’s cock keeps hitting repeatedly into the deepest parts of you. And then Joel’s teeth scrape against the back of your neck and he growls— A noise that doesn’t sound human at all, deep and rolling and menacing, the sort of rumbling sound human anatomy shouldn’t be able to produce.
Your cunt spasms around his cock and you shake, the orgasm hitting you like a freightrain. It’s too much and not enough all at once, your entire body set ablaze; you push back against him, head thrown back, yanking at Joel’s hair with far more force than you ought to be using.
Your body is soft and pliant when he shifts positions, pushing one of your knees higher up on the mattress, leaving you even more open and exposed; Joel’s cock punches in and out of you with rapid precision, now chasing his pleasure more than yours in deep, long thrusts that have you drooling on the pillowcase, unable to catch your breath.
Joel pulls out with a pained whine and you’re too tired to turn around, fighting to keep your eyes open as you listen to the slick sounds of him fisting his own cock, followed by the sticky warmth of his spend as it covers the roundness of your ass. He presses a kiss on the space between your shoulderblades just as you start to recover your breathing.
“I’ll be right back.” He says, his voice soft like you’ve never heard before; you just give him a thumbs up, smiling when you hear him laugh.
Joel cleans you with a warm towel and so much care it makes you almost embarrassed, peppering kisses to your clammy skin and saying how well you’ve done for him. He helps you redress, fixes the place where the fitted sheets came loose, and then pulls you to his chest. You slide a hand underneath his shirt, fingertips playing with the wispy hair on his chest.
“Joel?” You call out, wanting to ask him about what had happened before — how you’re fairly certain you’d seen him half-way into shifting before he somehow got it under control — but you’re unable to, because the only response you get is a loud, reverberating snore.
Tommy brings a bag with your belongings two days later. He doesn’t say anything, just drops it by the bed, pats you on the shoulder, and says ‘the old bastard reckons it’s time ya start wearin’ yer own shit again’ before he steps out of the room; you haven’t seen either Miller men all day, with Tommy busy trying — and failing, because it seems like the damage you've done is mighty permanent — to fix up the truck and Joel at work. You go through the bag carefully, pulling out your clothes — the clothes that Joel chose from your closet — and finding them a home next to Joel’s flannels.
You wonder if you should feel like it’s some sort of violation, that Joel had gone to your house while you took care of his kid and picked out your underwear, but you don’t.
If anything, it makes you feel seen.
It’s the pounding on the door that wakes you up. Your mouth is parched, muscles pleasantly sore, too warm from Joel’s steady presence behind your back; Joel grumbles, not fully awake, but Tommy’s insistent knocking drags the both of you up.
“Joel— For fuck’s sake, Joel. The cops are here.” He says through the door, his voice so panicked he can barely hide it. “They wanna talk to both of ya.”
It’s ludicrous, but the first thing you think about is the pens you stole from the pharmacy— The used, old pens that you stole out of pettiness and you think the police are here to arrest you for it. But then, as you hastily get dressed, you think of the car accident you were in and panic sets even deeper; you’d been driving while drunk, and you fled the scene— You don’t remember any of it, maybe you injured or killed someone. Maybe you drove into some ancient protected tree. Maybe they’re here to charge you for the damage you did to the cement safeguard next to the road.
The truth is, somehow, a lot worse. The cops — Josh McKenley and Chad Hobbs, one of them who you went to school with, the other who is a year older than you at most — kindly ask you to step outside while one of them stays inside with the men; Tommy has Sarah perched on his hip, distracting her with breakfast but you can see just how worried he is.
McKenley steps out with you, Hobbs stays inside, arms crossed over his chest while he stares at Joel as if he is some sort of deviant criminal.
“Josh, what the fuck is going on?” You ask, hugging yourself. You almost want to ask if this is about the car but you don’t, biting your tongue at the very last minute; the last thing you need is to incriminate yourself.
Josh, on his part, shifts from one foot to the other, his bovine eyes scanning every inch of your body.
“Céline called.”
You lean back against the cruiser when your knees threaten to give out. “What do you mean?”
“She’s worried about you. Been trying to call you—”
“I lost my phone.” You bring a hand to your forehead, hating the way your fingers shake. “This is a wellness check? How did you even find me?”
“We didn’t know we’d find you here, but we figured we should look ‘round after we realized you hadn’t gone home in days. Honestly, after what Céline said, I thought we’d be searching for a body.”
Your stomach churns unpleasantly. You can barely remember what you said to her, far too drunk to make any sense of it but you know, you know it had been bad. Josh looks at you more carefully, and you know what he sees: The scrapes and bruises that remain from your accident, fading but still there, and the way you tremble like a leaf in front of him.
“I’m alright.” You say and, even though it’s true, it sounds like a lie. Josh cocks his head to the side.
“We can help you. We’re going to help you. Céline told us that the guy is dangerous, that you were scared, but we’re here now.”
“Josh—” You shake your head, but he keeps talking over you.
“We’ll pretend that we’re bringing you in for something else, and then we go down to the station, you report him and he won’t be able to keep you here anymore.”
“He’s not holding me hostage. I’m here because I want to.” You push the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, I really do, but Céline doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I lost my phone and I lost my job, and Joel’s letting me stay here with him while I figure something out, that’s all.”
“You’re hurt. Are you going to tell me you just… What? Fell down the stairs?”
“Car crash, actually.” You huff. “I was driving from Céline’s place and lost control of the car. It’s fine now, nobody else got hurt and Joel and Tommy already brought the car back.”
Josh’s eyes turn into narrow slits and you can’t tell he doesn’t believe you, but you’re sure there’s not much else he can do. There’s a heavy moment of silence while he stares you down, maybe waiting for you to crack, before he eventually nods.
“Okay.” He says in a tone that doesn’t make anything seem okay— It’s half a challenge, half a threat. “Do you want to explain why you told Céline that he’s the one killing people ‘round town, then?”
“I never said that.”
He hums, shifting from one foot to the other, effectively blocking your view of the house.
“That ain’t what Céline said. She said—”
“I don’t care what she said. Do you even hear yourself? You think, what— That Joel faked the animal attacks? Josh, that’s crazy talk.”
“What I think it’s that it’s mighty interesting that folk only started dying after he came into town. And I think it’s mighty interesting that you are the only person that’s seen the animal and got out alive. If you’re not being held against your will, and if you know what happened— That’s accessory to murder.”
You laugh, then, because you can barely believe what you’re hearing; it’s not a funny, happy laugh but rather the noise of pure despair.
“Holy shit, you’re so fired.”
“Is that a threat?” He asks, eyebrows raising high.
“Are you seriously thinking about charging Joel for murder because Céline said so? You can’t just— Humans don’t do that. They don’t eat and tear each other apart like that. If there was a single chance that it was a person faking an animal attack, don’t you think the coroners would’ve caught it?”
There’s just a hint of uncertainty on his chubby cheeks before Josh puffs his chest again, clearly trying to seem taller and more in control than he has ever been.
“I think it’s part of my job to do my due diligence when an accusation is made. And if you and Mr. Miller don’t have anything to hide, then you shouldn’t be so upset about me asking a couple of questions.”
“Does your dad know about this? That you’re here harassing me and my boyfriend over gossip?”
“The Deputy will be informed of our official investigation as soon as—”
“That’s fucking fantastic. Alright, go in there and ask Joel if he’s the big bad wolf that has been eating people.” You wave at the front of the house, and then promptly shove your hands into your pockets once you notice just how badly you’re shaking. “Please do. And then go home and tell your daddy what you did. You’ll be the joke of the entire fucking town, Officer McKenley.”
You sidestep him and it’s only then that you realize just how loud you’ve been, with Officer Hobbs and Joel both standing by the front door; the police officer seems uncertain, torn between coming closer and staying with the suspect, and Joel looks like he’s a split second away from rushing down the stairs.
“Hey, Hobbs!” You yell, giving what you can only hope is a smile that is more acidic than you truly feel. “Did you know your partner here thinks Joel Miller is a werewolf?! Is that what you idiots are up to nowadays? Monster hunting?”
By the look on Officer Hobbs’s face you can see that he, indeed, was not aware of the murder accusation Josh decided to throw. The man’s eyes fly from Josh’s face to yours and then to Joel, who simply raises both of his eyebrows. Josh is already speaking a thousand words per minute trying to explain to his senior the conversation he had with Céline but you don’t pay any attention to it; all you can do is focus on the officer’s face, the way he burns red and how you can tell he’s trying to show an united front even though he clearly feels like an idiot.
“This is just a wellness check.” Hobbs says to you eventually, having all but dragged Josh back into the cruiser. “A friend of yours was concerned.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. But going from that to saying that my boyfriend is killing people? I mean…”
Hobbs nods, once, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He looks like he’s agreeing with you, but his eyes linger on Joel’s figure behind you for a beat too long before he finally drives away.
You, Joel and Tommy reunite after you help Sarah brush her teeth and then Joel pulls out a fairly large collection of crayons and papers, enough to keep the little girl occupied while the three of you talk things through by the kitchen table.
“They can’t… They can’t do anything, right?” You ask, watching as Tommy paces back and forth— Joel is leaning against the table, his body entirely still even though you can feel the nervous energy radiating from him. “I mean, even if they try to say you faked the animal attacks, that’s easily disproven.”
The silence that settles is full of answers you don’t like. Your head snaps towards Joel, who is looking intently at the wall.
“The DNA could match.” He says, at last, just as you open your mouth to beg for the reassurance that isn’t coming. “If there’s any saliva left, or— Maybe the fur, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” You don’t mean to sound as judgemental as you do, but— Considering he’s the one that has been murdering people for almost three decades, you figured he should know at least how much risk he’s been putting himself in.
“No, I don’t. This shit didn’t come with a manual.” Joel snaps. He doesn’t yell, and he’s not aggressive, but the words are still much sharper than he’s ever spoken to you. Tommy’s pacing falters for a moment as his eyes bounce between the two of you. You preen, ready to snap back at him, but—
It’s your fault, really.
You close your mouth shut with so much force your teeth clack. If you hadn’t said anything to Céline, if you hadn’t sent the e-mail and if you hadn’t had your little outburst at the bar, none of this would be happening. Joel and Sarah and Tommy would be safe, their lives completely undisturbed; and now here you are, all but squatting in their house, bringing the cops to their front door.
Your head falls forward, burying it in your hands.
“We’re panicking over nothing.” Joel says. “The Deputy is never going to open an investigation on you ‘cause of what some lil’ girl had to say.”
“Officer McKenley is his son.” You say, your voice laced with defeat; the heels of your palms dig into your eyesockets, little flashes of brightness popping behind the darkness of your closed eyelids.
“Even better for us. He ain’t gon’ let his kid embarrass himself like that.”
“We should just pack up and leave.” You raise your head at Tommy’s voice, the first time he spoke since the conversation started. His arms are crossed over his chest, mustache twitching. “The truck won’t take us long before it shits itself out again, but I can get us a new car today, we pack our shit and get out of town in the middle of the night. If we leave before they can properly open an investigation we’ll be down in Mexico by the time a judge allows them to exhume one of the bodies.”
“Runnin’ is only going to make us look more suspicious.” Joel shakes his head. “They ain’t got anythin’ on me. We stay put, keep workin’ and goin’ about our business. And you—” Joel pulls his cellphone from his pocket, the black glass square tumbling on the table when he throws it at you. “Call your friend and tell her you’re fine. We need her to think she overstepped and overreacted.”
You don’t want to call her. You don’t want to talk to Céline at all, even though you understand why she did what she did— You would’ve done the same in her shoes. Hell, you probably would’ve driven yourself back home to check in on her. So, while your brain understands the logic, understands she was just looking out for you, your heart doesn’t seem to agree.
You pick up the phone anyway, though, because you’re the one that fucked everything up in the first place.
“I don’t know her phone number.” You say, swiping left and right trying to find the Instagram app. Joel doesn’t have much other than the pre-downloaded apps, a guitar tuning app and some games that are clearly meant for Sarah. “Where’s your Insta? I need to message her there and ask her to FaceTime me.”
There’s a beat of silence where Joel blinks at you, his face entirely blank. Tommy snorts, which turns into a full blown cackle when Joel turns to stare at him.
“You might as well be speakin’ Greek to him, kid.” Tommy shakes his head, checking his watch before he looks back at Joel. “You sure you want to play this by ear? If we’re goin’ to keep on movin’, we gotta be at the Arlington’s by ten to get started on their bathroom.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Joel gives a final nod, tension radiating off of him. He turns back to you then, the tip of his tongue pressing against his upper teeth as he hesitates.
“I got it.” You tell him, waving a hand. “Go play in someone else’s bathroom, I’ll find a way of contacting Céline, and then I’ll take Sarah for a walk.”
Joel kisses both of Sarah’s cheeks before he leaves, promising that he’ll be home by dinner with a treat if she behaves. You don’t think Sarah is capable of misbehaving, really, but she gives him a toothy grin and requests Reese’s as her bribery of choice. He kisses you too before he leaves, a long kiss on the lips, his big hands cradling your hips like the last thing he wants to do is let you go.
“Do I also get a good girl treat?” You ask, voice low and teasing. Joel’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, fingers squeezing your hips.
“I left my card and cell on the counter.” Even though Joel doesn’t answer your provocation with words, the fire that burns in his eyes is more than enough. “Call Tommy’s phone if you need anything, okay?”
“Can you—” You hesitate, fixing his flannel even though it’s not out of place at all, unsure if you even should voice your request. Joel squeezes your side again, head cocking to the side.
“Anything.”
“Can you check in throughout the day? Whenever you’re free.”
You burn hot with shyness by the way his eyes soften at that, and Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head before stepping away. “Yeah, of course, darlin’. I’ll call on my lunch break.”
Céline answers your Instagram message in less than ten minutes, and the two of you settle on a FaceTime call just as Sarah goes down for her afternoon nap. You’ve cleaned up a little, wearing a shirt that you don’t think she’ll be able to tell is Joel’s, and you’ve even added just a little bit of make up to the still fading bruises on your face; it’s not the make up or your hair being done that strike you as the most odd when you look in the mirror, though— It’s the fact that you look healthy, no bags under your eyes or ashiness to your skin, your cheeks rounder and even your eyes seem lighter, not in color but in brightness.
You don’t remember ever looking this good before, and it makes your smile a little wider when Céline finally answers the call.
It’s every bit as uncomfortable as you expect it to be: Céline is surprised and suspicious, and you can see her craning her neck to look over your shoulder as if she’d be able to tell if you were being held at gunpoint. You tell her about the car crash, about losing your job and your phone and about staying at Joel and Tommy’s place because you didn’t feel well enough to be by yourself. You walk around the house as you speak, trying to make it seem casual as you grab a pre-made iced coffee from the fridge — the expensive brand, the one you never would’ve gotten on your own money —, but it’s mostly just so she can see you’re truly by yourself, minus the toddler that sleeps in the little tent in the corner of her bedroom.
“You… Look good.” Céline says at last, after the both of you have apologized for everything that went down in Jackson— You know it takes a lot for a woman like Céline to admit defeat, always so used to people bending at her every whim, always ignoring and overlooking any of her flaws. “Happy.”
“I am.” You bite down on your lip, giving the camera a small smile. There’s a lull in the conversation, the first one since she picked up the phone, and you take the opportunity to bring up the real reason for the call. “Josh came around. Though he’s going by Officer McKenley now.”
Céline’s face goes from its normal color to incredibly pale before burning bright red.
“I was worried about you.”
“I know.”
The two of you fall silent again, though it’s heavier this time, pregnant with all the things you want her to say.
“I’m not going to apologize for caring about you. You left drunk and crying, wouldn’t pick up your phone. And then there was the whole thing about him killing people. And the stalking.”
“Like you said, I was drunk and stoned. I was just saying bullshit for the sake of it.” You shake your head, trying to steer the conversation where you need it to go. “Did you send him my e-mails?”
“The e-mails where you describe the terrifying, weird old man that has been breaking into your house? Of course I did. I don’t care if the two of you kissed and made up, I thought you were in danger. Thought they were going to find you raped and killed somewhere.”
“Did you— Was it, like, an official report or something? Because if it’s official then— Shit, I don’t know, they’ll probably have to look into it even if I said I’m fine.”
“I called Josh’s personal phone. I don’t know if he ever filed a report on it.” Céline shrugged. “Just tell them you lied to me. If he didn’t kill anyone, then they’ll investigate a bit and drop it when there’s no evidence of anything.”
Céline’s face remains impossibly blank, her tone entirely diplomatic, but you can see the way her eyes scan your face and you know she’s trying to catch you in a lie. She still thinks Joel is the killer, you realize, and you’re not certain there’s much you can do now to change her mind.
“You know how people gossip in this fucking town.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, mostly to hide your face from her scrutiny than anything else. “People are going to show up to our house with pitchforks and silver bullets the second they hear he’s a person of interest.”
“I’m not going to apologize—”
“Yeah, you said that already.” You cut her off, your tone clipped and sharp.
Céline offers you a small smile. “Just handcuff him to a radiator during the full moons and you’ll both be fine.”
Her words, although they’re not really funny, pull a snort out of you. “He would look good in handcuffs.”
Céline’s face twists, but she still laughs.
“Is he good to you? Treating you right?”
“Better than anyone.” You say, having to bite down on your tongue to hold back a bitter remark about how she’d basically called you an attention seeking whore the last time the two of you were together. “He’s good with his daughter, and his brother. Takes care of everyone. Hard worker, too.”
“Yeah, okay, well— My door is always open if things go south, alright?”
You think back to how horribly it ended the last time you saw each other but you still smile and nod.
You don’t know what the future really holds, your relationship still so new and fragile, but you don’t think you’ll need her charity ever again.
For the next few weeks, you watch as Joel grows antsier and antsier. He agrees to lay low, to not hunt while there’s still a chance the police are looking for a reason to pin the killings on him, but you can see just how much it affects him. Joel gets snappy, his words clipped and short, fucking you rougher and rougher every time— Never staying still for too long, fingers tapping on his thighs or feet tapping on the floor whenever he’s sitting down, always finding something to fix around the house when he’s not working.
He’s hungry, you can see it in the burning of his eyes and the tension of his muscles.
“Can’t you just have a raw steak or something?” You ask him during one of the few afternoons in which he’s home, the house finally falling silent after you spent forty minutes trying to get Sarah to go down for her nap. “I’m sure it’s not the same as a person, but it might help you hold on for a couple more days, right?”
“It’s not the meat that the wolf is cravin’.” Joel shakes his head, his fingers tapping on the back of the couch as if he’s playing the piano. “It’s the hunt. The chase.”
An image comes to the forefront of your mind, the wolf with his teeth bared and nostrils blown wide, and it makes desire churn in your stomach. For the first time in weeks, Joel’s body goes entirely still, his sharp inhale reverberating through the two of you.
“You’re not thinkin’ —”
“He wouldn’t kill me, right?” You ask, thighs squeezing together, cutting him off because you don’t think you can handle it if he says it out loud.
“I don’t think so.”
His words aren’t all that reassuring, but they only make you wetter.
“Are you— Sweetheart, are you sure?”
You finally look back at him, holding his gaze.
“You’re the one that told me he could come out to play sometime.”
Joel growls. He’s sitting there, fully human, but the sound that leaves him is one that you don’t think human vocal chords would ever be able to produce— Similar, but not the same, as the one he’d done the first time the two of you had sex, when he was starting to lose control over himself.
“Go put on your shoes.” He tells you, voice low and full of gravel. “I’m givin’ you a forty second head start. Make ‘em count.”
Your underwear is fully damp by the time you finish putting on your boots, Joel standing in the kitchen with his back turned to you. You can feel the heat radiating off of him even from afar, his back muscles rippling underneath his cotton shirt as he sips from a water glass; you only hesitate for a moment before reaching underneath your dress, pulling out the pair of black cotton panties you’re wearing and letting it fall on the ground. You think of those cadaver dogs, the ones who can find a person just by the smell of their clothing alone, and goosebumps erupt all over your body as you turn on your heels and run out through the backdoors into the darkening woods.
In hindsight, you probably should’ve prepared better. You don’t have your phone, and you don’t have a flashlight, or a coat— It gets dark incredibly fast as soon as you’re past the treeline, the old trees tall and imposing, blocking the fading sunlight just the same as it blocks the house. You’re not planning on making it too difficult for Joel to catch you, maybe a little dodging him before the wolf finally catches up to you but, the further you go into the darkness, the more it becomes real.
The forest falls silent all of a sudden, the birds and the toads and the crickets silencing so fast you hold your breath; it’s almost as if the animals can sense something you can’t, as if they’ve all been warned of the predator that has entered the territory, every living thing going into hiding as Joel takes the reigns of nature.
You hesitate for a moment, eyes darting around before you find a small pathway between the trees. The man-made kind, the grass stomped over, tree branches carefully removed out of the way; it’s narrow, not visible unless you’re really looking for it, but you rush forward just as you hear the first branch creaking and snapping behind you— Too close.
Your legs push you forward, instinct taking over as you run through the small pathway before taking a sharp turn to the left, mingling with the trees; the space is so small that branches scratch against your face and you think momentarily that you’re safe, that the path you’re on is too closed off for the wolf to follow.
Above your labored breathing you hear the heavy and fast sound of his footsteps— You wonder if it’s on purpose, if he’s being loud to scare you, and it surely works. It makes you panic, in fact, heart hammering inside your chest. You think the sound is coming from your left so you run to your right, jumping over rocks and almost falling over when you step on a moss-covered root; it leads you to an area where the trees aren’t as clumped together, more space for you to see and less claustrophobic. The moonlight shines above, peaking through the top of the trees, and you narrowly miss a depression on the ground that would’ve absolutely sprained your ankle. Air becomes harder, your lungs and thighs burning as you duck underneath a thick branch, skidding to a halt as you hide behind a giant, imposing willow tree.
You drop down, knees to your chest as you try to take a proper breath. You can hear the rustling of the trees, the barely audible creaking of twigs and loose leaves under Joel’s paws as he stalks closer to you; your throat tightens, trapping the air inside your lungs. You can tell that he is right there, just on the other side of the tree, his breathing loud and controlled.
One, two, three— You count his steps, measured and certain, approaching you from the left. You fix your stance, hands on a thick tree root as you prepare to run.
It all happens so fast you barely have time to understand what is going on. You launch yourself to the right just as you hear another creaking from the left and you make it exactly four steps before you’re lunged forward and down; You spin, trying to escape the animal’s grasp but all you manage to do is land on your back, Joel’s heavy weight settling on your chest. His body covers yours like a weighted blanket, wet nostril bumping against the sensitive patch of skin just behind your ear. You push his head away like Tommy had done the night of the accident, trying to wiggle yourself from underneath him but, unlike last time, the wolf doesn’t pull away kindly. Instead he growls, low and long, his chest rattling against yours.
Your muscles freeze, much like they’d done that first time Joel hijacked your body— There are no words this time, no audible command other than the growl but your body responds as if it understands the wolf’s orders, laying pliantly underneath the stars.
“Joel—” You start, trying to call his attention, but the wolf doesn’t seem to mind; it nuzzles the side of your neck and then your collarbone, wet nose tickling against your sternum as it travels lower and lower. You open your mouth, ready to try again, but the words are cut off by the sound of the wolf’s teeth tearing through your dress. The cold air hits your chest for barely a second before his warm breath takes over, tongue impossibly large and unbelievably soft as it laps at your nipples. You shift again but, this time, it’s to accommodate him better between your legs; his belly is warm and soft against you, soft fur that you know you’re soaking with your wetness as you grind up into him. His tongue travels lower, teeth scraping against your stomach as he tugs at the scraps of your dress until you’re fully nude.
You look down, the wolf’s giant head between your legs, but all you can focus on are his eyes.
Joel’s eyes. Warm and kind and human, staring up at you in a way that is uncannily similar to his human form when he checks in on you— You nod, unsure if you even have it in you to give him any sort of verbal consent, but the small movement is more than enough; his tongue is so large that it encompasses your entire cunt in a single swipe. It’s so different from anything you’ve ever experienced but, at the same time, you can still recognize Joel’s movements in the way he laps at your clit, the tip of his tongue toying against your entrance in sharp, certain circles. It’s just a little clumsy, his teeth and snout getting in the way but it makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, hands gripping the grass until chunks fall out as you try to ground yourself. You bite down on your bottom lip, awfully aware you’re in a public setting even though there’s no one around, but you think back to Joel’s words that first time you had sex. Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.
You come with a scream of his name on your lips, tufts of grass and dirt underneath your fingernails, hips pushing up into his mouth.
You’re still trying to regain your breath when Joel crawls back over you, whining softly as his snout bumps into your cheek. The fur sticks everywhere, glistening with your slick the way it had done with your blood so many moons ago, and you giggle, scratching the space between his eyes.
“I’m okay. That was—” You giggle again when he starts to purr, chest vibrating where it presses against yours. You feel the head of his cock bump against your thigh, scorchingly hot and leaking, and a fresh new wave of wetness dribbles down your thighs. “Do you want me to turn around?” You ask, still petting his head. “On all fours?”
Joel whines again, and the way he presses his body even more against yours seems like enough of an answer. You press a kiss to his snout, legs spreading even further when you feel his cock pressing against your entrance.
He’s even bigger like this. Joel in his human form had already been a task to take in, but this is something else— You take a deep breath, your fingers digging into the soft fur of his pectoral, your body screaming to push him away but you remain still. He pushes himself inside in two strokes, and the second one has you wailing; for a horrifying moment, you think you won’t be able to handle him, the burn of the stretch and just how full you feel not subduing as quickly as you expect it to.
“Gimme a second.” You say when he starts grinding, legs clamping around him. “Just— please, just a second.”
You bring a hand down to your clit, forcing your tense muscles to relax, rubbing soothing circles until the pain melts away, his thick cock pressing against that perfect little spot inside of you even when he’s not moving making you hungrier. Joel runs his nose down your cheek to your collarbone, sharp teeth scraping against the soft skin of your shoulder. You clench around him, his cock feeling impossibly warm inside of you— He growls, the noise reverberating between the two of you before his hips pull back ever-so-slightly, snapping harshly against yours. It makes you wail, the tip of his cock hitting against your cervix with every fast, jerky thrusts that he gives you; You’re babbling, begging for more and crying that it’s too much, your hand falling away from between your legs. You hold onto him, clutching the fur as Joel ruts into you, his thrusts so harsh they push you upwards on the grass. It doesn’t take you more than a couple of minutes to come, head tilted to the side, drool pooling on the side of your mouth and down your cheek as your body convulses underneath him, clamping down on him so tight that he might’ve slipped out if he wasn’t buried so deep inside of you.
Joel comes with a growl on his throat and his teeth sinking into your shoulder painfully enough that you think he might snap a bone— You scream, both from pain and from pleasure, his cock swelling and throbbing inside of you. He grinds against you as he comes and comes and comes, his pelvic bone pushing against your clit and hurtling you into a third orgasm, the sort of wave of pleasure that has your throat constricting and your eyes rolling back, pebbled nipples rubbing against his chest as your spine twists up. Joel remains locked into you even as you tremble from the overstimulation; he feels even bigger, swelling inside of you and stretching you even further, a mixture of growling and whining rumbling in his throat. And when the aftershocks of your orgasm start to subdue, you realize he’s still coming, still filling you up, teeth clamped down on your shoulder as your lower stomach swells. It’s an odd sensation, feeling his come leak from where he’s still buried inside of you, feeling it push against your bladder in a way that makes you feel him all the way up to your stomach; you think he’ll be leaking out of you for days, thick and warm where he fills you up.
He doesn’t move, caging you protectively when he finally calms down, his head tucking above yours. His neck is soft where you nuzzle into it, so satiated and exhausted you can barely keep your eyes open.
You wake up to Joel’s face — his human face — hovering above yours. His hand is cradling your jawline, and he’s covered in his own blood, curls darkened and sticking to his forehead; a thick glob of congealing blood slides down the beautiful curve of his nose and plops on your cheek.
“Honey, I’m so sorry.” He says, wiping something from your cheek— It leaves behind a wet trail that you can’t recognize whether it is blood or sweat. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have— I should’a shifted back earlier— How bad does it hurt? ‘M gon’ get you home, or— Or a hospital if you need, alright?”
You frown, pushing yourself up on your elbows. Your body is sore, maybe a little more than it should be, but it doesn’t feel hospital worthy. The worst pain is from your shoulder, in fact, the bite mark throbbing and irritated.
Above all, though, it’s hard to miss how you’re covered in blood. It’s like a scene from Carrie, thick deep red blood dripping down your body, lathering you in it— It’s too much to be yours, and it’s everywhere, from your neck all the way down to your shins. There is a gunk of fur stuck to your left thigh, which Joel pulls away hastily when he notices you staring down at it.
“I had to—” He stalls and, although you can’t see the color of his cheeks underneath the blood, you’re willing to bet he’s blushing. “I had to shift still inside— Would’a hurt you even more if I didn’t.”
“Thank God I wasn’t here for it.” You snort, wiping a hand over your eye— Between the remnants of blood and grass on your fingers, you don’t realize you’re making it worse until after you’ve done it. “You didn’t hurt me, Joel. I’m okay. More than, really.”
He leans forward, bumping his forehead against yours, shoulders sagging with relief.
“Thought you were gonna hate me.”
“Joel,” You shake your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. “You eat people and I don’t hate you for it. This is nothing.”
Joel’s head snaps to the right just a second before you hear the snap of a branch.
There, between the trees, is a man. Officer Josh McKenley, at the two of you with wide eyes and a raised rifle. You can only imagine what it looks like, two people naked and bloodied in the middle of the woods, embracing in a pile of torn clothes and gore.
“Step away from her.” He demands, the gun pointed at Joel. “You okay, miss?”
Even though it would seem that he’s trying to protect you from Joel, you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your body— Slower than they need to, taking in details more than searching for injuries. You curl in on yourself, trying to hide your body from view. Joel growls, and McKenley’s attention snaps back at him.
Despite being fully naked with a gun pointed at him, Joel doesn’t seem worried; he has two hands stretched out in front of him, legs slightly bent, ready to pounce. He waits, though, stepping away from you as instructed.
“I’m going to call for back up.” The man warns, fumbling with the gun as he reaches for his left pocket. “If you move, I’ll shoot you.”
Joel moves. He jumps on the man so fast it makes you shriek, the loud noise of the rifle going off ringing in your ears and drowning out the way McKenley screams, both from surprise and pain as the two of them topple to the ground.
You expect Joel’s shifting from human to wolf to be as slow and gruesome as the deshifting, perhaps the bone-breaking and agonizing process like a scene from An American Werewolf in London but it’s not: It happens in the blink of an eye, the hair on his head growing thicker and spreading, the muscles on his black rippling as his skin stretches and his bones shift into something else. And then you blink, and McKenley is crawling backwards, mouth open in terror, the wolf’s head down to his shoulders as he stalks his prey.
It’s only then that you finally feel the pain. It tears through your bitten shoulder, burning, a small round hole that pierces through one of the teeth marks that gurgles fresh blood.
“Joel?” You call out, hand shaking as you bring it to press down on the bullet wound. It hurts too much, pain searing and blinding, making you pull your hand away instantly. “Holy fuck.”
The wolf’s head turns, staring at you— It’s the split second that McKenley uses to run away, his rifle forgotten in the overgrowth as he flees through the path he came from. Your vision swims, the wolf coming in and out of focus as you lean back, scraping your arm against a tree before you manage to put yourself in a mostly upright sitting position. Joel howls, that same deep and loud noise he’d made to call out for Tommy after the car accident, before coming to your side. He gives the wound a single lick before you manage to push him away; he whines, trying to get you to move your hand out of his snout.
“Unless that tongue can pull out the bullet, I don’t think you should be doing that, buddy.” You say, your voice sounding slurred and foreign in your ears. “Just— Fuck, Joel, it hurts. Just shift back and get me home, please.”
Tommy is in charge of packing while Joel patches up your arm in the bathroom. You’re not proud to admit that you almost pass out as he digs through your shoulder for the bullet, barely hearing the string of apologies that leave his mouth as he works as fast as he can. It’s clear that he’s done this before, a well-stocked first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet and precise movements from his hand.
You keep your eyes averted from the wound, trying to stay as still as you possibly can.
“Do you think it’ll stick?”
Joel hums, distracted. “What, honey?”
“The bite. Am I— Am I gon’ turn into a wolf too, now? You said it spreads through biting and genetics, right?”
“No, ‘s not a full moon tonight.” He runs a finger close to the bite mark, stopping his stitching for a moment. “I’ll fix it as soon as I can shift again, okay? Reckon I can make sure it won’t scar.”
You don’t want it fixed— You don’t want to be a werewolf either, but you like the idea of Joel’s teeth-shaped scar a little too much. But you simply hum, ending the conversation, too tired to voice any of those feelings. He kisses the stitches once he’s done with them, and then helps you into the shower— It’s the first time you’re in the shower with him and it’s certainly not what you pictured, both of you rushing through wiping each other clean while Tommy rushes from room to room, trying to gather as many essentials as he can without waking Sarah up.
You’re not sure at which point they’ve decided to flee. You’ve run into Tommy on your way back to the house, Joel carrying you in his arms. ‘Cop caught me mid shift.’ is the only explanation he gives but that seems to be enough to enable some sort of crisis protocol.
There’s a single, curt knock on the bathroom door just as Joel helps you into your sweatpants.
“Can you wake Sarah up f’me?” He asks you, knuckles brushing softly over the bandage on your shoulder. “Don’t pick her up, can’t have you strainin’ yourself. Just tell her to pick out her favorite toys, that we gotta go on a trip.”
You do as you’re told, arm placed in a sling that Joel pulled together out of gauze and sheer willpower, hair still dripping wet down your back. Sarah is curled up on her toddler bed, a protective wall of stuffed animals between her and the safety guard, her little thumb stuck inside her mouth.
“Sarah?” You call out, softly, trying not to spook the little girl as you push the curls away from her face; her hair is wild and frizzy and you make a mental note of telling Joel to buy her one of those toddler bonnets. “Wake up, puppy. We gotta go.”
“Mama?”
It breaks your heart, watching her little doe eyes blink without recognition— It almost hurts more than Joel calling you by her mother’s name, the cold proof of a little girl that still yearns for someone you could never be.
“Hi, sweetie.” You coo, pushing down the safety rail. “Y’wanna go on an adventure? Your daddy planned a trip for us.”
You sit by her bed as you watch Sarah toddle around the room, collecting her toys and shoving them inside a purple backpack covered in sequins, her little brow furrowed in concentration. She doesn’t ask the million questions you expect from a child so young, she just accepts what you tell her and then gets to business.
It takes Tommy exactly fifty-five minutes to leave the cabin with the half-functioning truck and come back with a fully-functioning car. You’d be impressed if you didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that he prepared for it even though Joel told him not to.
Joel doesn’t let you help with anything other than carrying one of Sarah’s stuffed toys that didn’t fit her backpack and, if you’re being honest, you don’t try too hard to help— Your shoulder throbs even after you’ve taken a couple of painkillers, your muscles sore from… Well, everything. Instead, you sit inside the champagne-colored sedan with Sarah, trying to distract her from what is happening; there is a nervous energy in the air, both Tommy and Joel wound up tight, and you can see the moment she picks up on it, fussing when Joel buckles her into the car seat.
“Where are we going?” You ask, pushing your head between the two front seats. Tommy is driving, and Joel holds a map that looks so old you think it might be close to you in age.
“North.” Joel responds at the same time that Tommy says: “South.”
They both look at each other for a split second before Tommy continues.
“Mexico. I have to, Joel.” His voice is tight and urgent, hands flexing against the steering wheel. “Been feelin’ it for weeks now.”
“Mexico it is.” Joel nods before he turns to you; his face is now so close you can see the different shades of hair on his mustache, his bottom lip marred with teeth marks. “Tommy’s feelin’ the pull.”
“Pull?”
“That’s where my mate is. Somewhere in Mexico.” Tommy is the one that answers. “‘S why we came here of all places. Joel felt you callin’ out to him.”
Despite everything, your lips pull into a small smile.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico.”
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER.
Rainy season means stuffy, warm days and unpredictable downpour of rain showers in the middle of the afternoon just when you think the heat is finally going to get you. You’re slowly learning how to adapt, your body craving the rain just as much as it craves the sun. The rainy days are usually easier to handle during the week, while Sarah is in pre-k and you’re at work all afternoon— During the weekends it means Joel has to stay at a job site for longer, and that you’re trapped inside the house with a tiny, bored little girl.
“That boyfriend of yours is coming to pick you up?” Joel asks, leaning against the kitchen sink. Disdain drips off of the word ‘boyfriend’ but, at this point, you think he does it mostly to annoy you and not really because there is any jealousy.
Your ‘boyfriend’ is Raúl, a single father to a little girl around Sarah’s age. The girls met on Sarah’s first day of kindergarten and even though Ellie doesn’t speak English and Sarah doesn’t speak Spanish, the two girls attached to each other’s hips— They share toys and food and are even starting to trade words in their languages; Sarah has taken the habit of pointing out every perro she sees on the street (her uncle Tommy included, once) and you know that didn’t come from her.
“Yup.” You say, pulling the glass of mango juice from between Joel’s fingers just as Tommy bursts into your home— He’s been living on the floor above yours, but it seems like your kitchen is the Central Station. “He’ll pick me and Sarah up in, like, fifteen minutes. G’mornin’, Tommy.”
“Morning.” He says, stealing a slice of bacon from Sarah’s plate. “Who’s coming to pick you up?”
“Mommy’s boyfriend.” Sarah pipes up, licking honey from her fingertips.
“Raúl.” You correct her, elbowing Joel when he cackles at the look on Tommy’s face. “Who is a friend and a boy, but not my boyfriend. His daughter has a playdate with Sarah.”
“Don’t forget it.” Joel taps the little pill container on the counter before he moves back to the living room. The kitchen is small and, although the brightly lit windows make it seem bigger than it really is, the place gets just a little crowded as Tommy shoves his head inside the fridge.
You roll your eyes, but you pick out the antidepressants and swallow them with the mango juice anyway; truth is, even though you keep complaining about the pills, the wonders that they’ve done to your life are something you don’t think you’ll ever take for granted— The pills and Dr. Canul, the therapist that has been seeing you ever since settled down in Puerto Morelos.
It had taken your little family — your pack — about eight months to figure out a town to finally settle roots, living in cars and cheap motels for so long you thought it might affect Sarah’s development; Tommy was the one guiding the four of you, never settling anywhere for longer than a month before his mate started to pull him somewhere else. It got to a point where you were certain he was making it up, or perhaps confused by his feelings, but Joel had blind faith in his brother so every other month you packed up your car and left for a new place.
Puerto Morelos had been your home for almost ten months now, and it was such a dream you feared the day Tommy decided his mate wasn’t there anymore— Sarah is thriving in kindergarten, Dr. Canul is the nicest doctor you’ve ever met, and your little house near the beach is everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Your job, too, at a local artisan shop where you get to sell your paintings while manning the register; the owner is an old woman that had been kind and patient, teaching you how to weave baskets and huipiles, never faulting you or making fun of the way you still tripped over your ever-growing Spanish vocabulary. She simply corrects you with a soft ‘no, mija’ and, during one particularly exciting afternoon, threatened to beat a teenager with the bat she keeps in the back of her shop after he made fun of you.
Life is good, more than— Life is everything you’ve ever dreamed of, in the community that embraced you and your family, with the ocean breeze and the hot sun and the sense of belonging that you’ve never found anywhere else.
The thought that Tommy might take that away at any moment keeps you awake at night. You understand his connection to Joel, understand that their need for each other goes much further than simply a sibling bond: They’re a pack, and their wolves are social creatures that need each other to be fully at peace. Still, you fear the day you’ll have to mourn your home.
Raúl knocks on the door just as Tommy shoves the last piece of bread in his mouth, his tanned cheeks full like a chipmunk as Sarah runs to yank the door open.
“Hola, cielito.” Raúl says but she’s barely listening, already grabbing Ellie and yanking her inside. They squeal together and run to the back of the house. “Hey. Front gate was open, I figured I could—”
You don’t really understand what happens at the moment but, in hindsight, it’s pretty obvious. Raúl freezes halfway through his sentence, his eyes glued to the looming presence over your back; he stares at Tommy for a second too long before plastering a smile that is visibly fake.
“Joel, right?” He asks, offering a hand. Tommy doesn’t answer, mouth still full, not really chewing anymore. You resist the urge to elbow him, choosing instead to answer.
“Tommy, actually. Joel’s brother. Say hi, Tommy.” You finally give in and elbow him in the ribs when Raúl’s fake smile falters, his hand already halfway down before Tommy spurs into action, grabbing it between both of his.
It only dawns on you what is actually happening when Tommy brings Raúl’s hand up, pressing a kiss to the back of it before dropping entirely. Raúl’s eyes dart to you, shoulders visibly relaxing when he sees the way you’re tying — and failing — to hide your smile.
“We kinda had a change of plans.” You tell him, neck craning as you try to catch Joel’s attention— He has his back to you, lacing his boots and mumbling something on the phone. “I have some errands to run, my prescription expires today so I really need to go get it and I forgot to defrost the chicken so I can’t make lunch and, uh, Joel needs my help with some stuff. Tommy’s chaperoning the girls with you today, if that’s alright?”
Tommy frowns at you, his eyes fleeting to your face before rushing back to the man still in front of him. “Joel said we—”
“Like I said, change of plans.” You cut him off. “Can’t go into work with all this rain, so you both get the day off. Well, he gets the day off. You get to babysit your niece.” You smile at Raúl, who is biting down on his bottom lip and you can tell you haven’t been able to fool him. “Tommy’s great with kids. Loves them to death. Always wanted one of his own, right?”
“Uh—”
“And Sarah loves him.” You go on, not letting Tommy get a word in. “Ellie will love him too, you’ll see. He’s kind of a dumbass sometimes and he charms all of the old ladies wherever he goes, but he’s a sweetheart. And— Uh— A great chaperoning partner. You guys should go grab some ice cream later.”
“Ice cream sounds nice.” Raúl agrees, eyes shining with mirth.
Tommy nods a second later. “Yeh— Yeah, it does.”
“Great!” You say, clapping your hands. Joel is finally looking at you, both of his eyebrows raised. “Now off you go. I want a day off with my boyfriend.”
The house is all but empty before Joel can finish lacing up his boots. From the kitchen window you watch as Tommy opens the car door for Raúl, giving him a thumbs up when he looks back at you for a second; Tommy offers you his middle finger, but he’s smiling from ear to ear.
“Is there a particular reason why you just gave my brother a day off without tellin’ me first?”
“That’s his mate.” You say, surprised Joel didn’t pick up on it. “I’ll handcuff them together if I have to before I move out of Puerto Morelos.”
He laughs, his hands coming up to wrap around you.
“And here I was thinkin’ it was because you wanted the house all to ourselves.”
Your arms settle on his shoulders on their own, leaning back so you can look him in the eyes. Joel seems happier too, more at ease than he did when the two of you met— His eyes shine more, his smile brightening more often. That sadness you’d noticed when you first saw him is completely gone, his face constantly sunburnt and his hair frizzy from the salt air.
*SEASON OF THE WOLF: a joel miller x reader story. (part one)
The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.
join the TAGLIST. / SERIES masterlist. / MAIN masterlist.
You meet the wolf before you meet the man.
warnings: the basics (werewolf!joel, age gap, no outbreak), some religious themes, mentions of csa, gore & violence, death of minor characters, reader is mentally unwell, talks of periods/period symptoms, animal pelts, technically cannibal!joel, animal hunting, girl dad!joel, alcohol & weed consumption, smut (f masturbation, sex toys.).
word count: 7.6k.
fox says: hello friends! here it is, the first chapter of the fic i've been teasing for months now. i poured a lot of work into this and i hope that shines through? lol also, the 178lbs mentioned somewhere in the story is about 80kg to my friends who live in places with a proper measuring system! pictures are for aesthetics only, there is no description of reader anywhere (she was written as a plus sized gal in mind but i don't think it comes up so far). as always, please let me know what we think of it!
also available on archiveofourown.
You meet the wolf before the man. There is a shortcut between the pharmacy you work at and your home, the old train tracks that haven't been used by anyone other than junkies since the mid 60s. It is a cold, crisp evening, and you're halfway home before you run into another person— It is not unusual for the tracks to me empty this time of year, when the weather gets colder and the people that reside by the tracks start taking shelter under the overpass near the only highway in and out of town.
The person in question is Henry, an old man that used to be friends with your father before he passed. You think you used to call him Uncle Henry back when he was a constant in your home, back when he pulled you on his lap and it made you want to cry; it's been many years since then, the childhood memories foggy but still anxiety-inducing, and you have just finally started to manage being around him without a panic attack. He is a big man, beer gut belly overflowing above his belt and always in a constant state of grimy disarray, most of the time mildly to highly intoxicated even if he has a whole family to care for. Henry is always smiling though, talking to passersby or to himself or to the ghosts of past mistakes that keep haunting him so. This time, there is no smile on Henry's face. Just terror.
Pure, unadulterated terror that doesn't match a grown man's face, the sort of anguish that you expect from a frightened child.
“Run!” He screams at you, but you don't. You don't believe there is any incoming threat just yet, have seen more of your fair share of drunken meltdowns to not believe a word out of Henry's mouth, be it good or bad. The boy who cried wolf, you think at the time, and there's something both ironic and laughable at how right you are about it.
Maybe you should've ran. Maybe you should have smelled the fear wafting off his pores as he runs past you, stumbling through the tracks, tears and snot running down his flushed face. Things certainly would've ended differently if you did. Or maybe not. Maybe this was fate, and things happened just the way they were meant to. Maybe you'd never get to meet the man before the wolf, maybe there was another crossroad between your path and the wolf’s further down the future before the first time you lock eyes with Joel Miller.
The wolf is bigger than any animal you've ever seen in person. It's taller than you even on all fours, its fur thick, chocolate brown mixed with gray in large swirls, snout curled into a snarl as it pounces from the heavy trees onto the train tracks. It's the eyes that catch your attention first: They're warm brown, captivating in a way that you can't explain why. Its eyes seem… Sentient. Sad and haunted like he has seen horrors you can't even imagine. The wolf approaches you slowly, its black claws scraping against the wood and gravel of the tracks, those sad eyes glued to your face like you're the best meal it'll ever have.
Still, you don't run. Not because you're so petrified you freeze, but it's almost like your brain doesn't register the monstrous animal as a threat— You don't run because there isn't any instinct in your body telling you to do so, even as Henry eats shit as he trips on the tracks, still screaming.
The wolf moves slowly until it is just a breath away from you, its sharp teeth no longer showing. It just stops, standing in front of you with curiosity in its eyes as it leans in, long snout bumping into your shoulder; it takes two bumps for you to understand it's trying to push you away and you step to the side, out of the tracks, clearing the path for the beast to reach Henry.
The events that follow are ones you've recounted time and time again to paramedics, police officers and then animal control: The huge wolf pounces forward in a flash of fur and muscles, his teeth sinking down on Henry's shoulder before you could even blink. The man screams, but the animal doesn't relent— It shakes its head from one side to the other, its movements sharp and fast, Henry's head connecting with the rusted iron of the track three times in the process. There's blood and bone shards and brain matter splattered all over the ground and the wolf, its light-colored snout turning deep crimson, bits of flesh hanging between its teeth. It all happens in a matter of seconds, one moment the wolf is by your side, the next he's dragging the dead man's leg into the depths of the woods, leaving the rest of his body behind at your feet like a gruesome gift.
What you don't tell the paramedics, police officers and animal control is how the scene made you feel. Henry's screams were pathetic, yes, but the snarling of the animal reverberated deep inside of you, the anger and violence in its eyes settling in your core, the trail of blood on the grass so enticing your underwear is still wet by the time you finally make it home, hours later, with a dismissal from the police saying they might be in touch and the telephone number of a trauma counselor.
You meet Joel about ten days after the encounter with the wolf, which has been consuming your mind at every waking moment. It's a slow shift at the pharmacy, and you're playing a game of throwing pencils up into the styrofoam ceiling when he stops at the checkout counter, three cans of toddler formula in hand. He is a tall, impossibly broad man, his curly hair — chocolate brown streaked with gray — slicked back in a fashion that tells you he cares about his looks but doesn't really have the time to put too much effort into it; the man looks tired, purple bags under his eyes and cheeks slightly hollowed, old and weathered but with a soft quality to the crinkle in the corner of his eyes, a faint scar on his temple that disappears into his hairline.
It is his eyes that make you freeze. Warm and brown and sad and haunted. Sentient and oh-so-human. You instantly think back to the wolf — the one you started calling yours in your head —, the similarity so undeniably there that you forget the greeting you're supposed to give. Joel stares at you with the same intensity as you do him, toying with his wallet for a moment before he plucks a can of mints from the display next to him and throws it on the counter.
The metallic clanking of the tin can brings you back to the present, finally being able to breathe as you start to scan his things, hands shaking so badly it takes you three times to properly scan the barcode for one of the toddler formulas.
“Who are you?” You ask, though that is not how you wish you had formulated the question. You've been living in this backwater town in Mississippi your entire life, and a man like him certainly would've caught your eye sooner. He's an outsider, someone new— Odd and off-putting, much like the giant wolf from the woods.
“Joel.” He says, not seeming one bit bothered by the rudeness of your question.
“You don't live here.” You say as he bags his own items— Something that is supposed to be your job, but you're too busy staring at the discoloration around his ring finger that tells you there used to be a wedding band there not too long ago.
“I do now.” He gives you another nod. “It's nice to meet you.”
Joel says your name as he leaves, soft as the petal of a flower, and you're so flustered by how it sounds in his gruff voice that you don't even notice you never told him your name.
After that, you see him everywhere. You're unsure whether he starts showing around town more or if you're suddenly hyper-aware of his presence, but wherever you go, Joel is there— Always with a little girl in tow, a tiny little thing that can't be older than three years old, curly hair bouncing as she waddles next to him or glued to his back like a baby opossum.
He doesn’t even try to hide his staring. Be it in line at the grocery store, or at the only coffee shop in town or as you sneak away from the morning mass at the local church — which you only go because it appeases your grandmother, not because you're particularly religious — he's always there, in the corner of your eyes, his striking brown eyes always glued to your face.
You don't realize that the wolf is always there too, almost every evening, prowling the treeline that surround your backyard until one autumn evening, when you're in your kitchen busying yourself with dinner — frozen mac and cheese that was discounted at the store because of how close to expiring it is — and you catch a glimpse of two bright lights between the trees. At first you think it might be a reflection on the window, or perhaps a trick of the light, but by the third time it happens you find yourself padding outside barefoot, your microwaved mac and cheese in hands; sure enough, a pair of glowing eyes stare at you from the darkness, tracking every move you make. You sit down on the stairs of your dilapidated backyard, shivering from the cold for forty minutes, staring at the animal that holds your gaze intently before it disappears back into the woods.
Five days later, you find a mass of black fur on the railing of your back porch; you think it is a dead animal at first, poking it with kitchen tongs to make sure it's dead before you realize it is, in fact, a throw blanket— It's made out of thick, coarse dark fur and by the size of it you think it might be from a bear; you've only seen a black bear once, when you were a kid and your father took you hunting, but you don't think you'll ever forget the fear you felt then. The blanket is heavy, the pelt clean and smelling faintly of cedar. That evening, you sit on the porch again, warm from the bear pelt wrapped around your shoulders— And when you find the wolf's eyes, you could swear it looks prideful.
You hear it on the evening news that they've found another body torn to shreds in the woods; it's in the county news, the story spreading fast considering how nobody really believes that the attacks were done by a giant wolf. The town's Sheriff goes on TV to say that it's definitely a bear attack and that people shouldn't panic or worry as long as they don't go into the woods. The body this time is of a church lady, some pillar of the community that you know to be a huge racist that buys sleeping pills from the local drug dealer but all they speak about is how kind and caring and loving she was— Her husband, who has a very active Grindr profile, cries on screen and urges people to join a vigil in her honor.
You think about all the addicts and homeless people who went missing — five in total, if your math is right — before anyone gave a shit about the wild animal running rampant. You go to the vigil anyway, in a black dress and a gold cross hanging from your neck, because you know your grandmother would call you selfish if you didn't.
Joel isn't there, and you think it is the first time since you met him that he isn't in the same public setting as you.
You go back to the train tracks the day after the woman's body is discovered. You tell yourself that you're not expecting to see the wolf again, not really, but you still have a pack of dog treats shoved deep in your pocket. You're not even certain if a people-eating wolf would like Pup-Peroni but it is cheaper than buying a steak— Which you actually considered doing, even though you've been living on off-brand cereal and discounted TV dinners for the past few months.
It's been raining all day, your black rain boots squeaking with every step you take— You want to go into the woods, want to search for the wolf but you think that might be a tad too crazy: As if standing there staring at the trees with dog treats in your pocket already isn't enough.
It doesn't take long for the animal to appear — at most five minutes, and you wonder if it's because it was already there or if it, too, had been searching for you — but, unlike the first time you meet, it doesn't come out of the protection of the tree lines. You hesitate for a moment, watching as the remnants of the rain fall on the top of its head, the fur wet but not wet enough for an animal that supposedly had been out in the pouring rain all day.
You step forward, pulling the packet of treats from your pocket.
“Got you something.” You say, opening the package and pulling one jerky stick from it. "Wanted to get you a steak, but I can't afford that right now."
You take another step, and then another, waving the jerky in front of you. The wolf watches, unmoving. “C’mere boy, I think you'll like it.”
The wolf approaches you slowly, carefully but you have the feeling that it is more for your benefit. You throw the treat on the ground — you’re not afraid of the wolf, not really, but it could easily chomp down your fingers alongside the Pup-Peroni. It noses against the treat on the ground, huffing before it turns its big head back to you. The wolf doesn’t eat the jerky, but it still stares at the package in your hand; you hesitate for a long moment, at a standstill— And then, before you can regret it, you pull out another jerky and offer to the wolf without throwing it to the ground, extending your arm as far from your body as you can.
The wolf is still careful, but not slow anymore: It moves forward, one giant paw at a time, before it plucks the jerky stick from your hand with the sort of gentleness you’d never expect from an animal this big. It doesn’t even touch you, just a brush of its wet nose against your fingers as it pulls the treat away. The wolf munches on it, and then sits back on its hind legs, watching you intently.
The expectant look makes you giggle and you offer another treat, startling when it becomes bolder, nudging your hand as it takes the jerky with the same gentleness it had before. You give it — him, you assume, awfully shy when you think about taking a peek between its legs to confirm it — a quick pat on the head before pulling back. He headbuts you, then, the treat half forgotten inside his mouth as the wolf bumps his forehead against your hand. You take the hint, scratching the wolf’s ear— The fur is soft and clean, not brittle or dirty as you expect, and you find yourself sinking your fingers into it, brushing your fingers through a small knot near the animal’s neck. In the space between his right ear and his right eye there is a small, hairless line. A scar, which must be old because it doesn’t look painful or irritated, and you only notice because of the thin strip in which he lacks fur.
He eats the entire package like that, one treat at a time, always taking it from your hand directly; you talk while he eats, blabbing away about everything and anything— You tell him about your dead-end job, about your overbearing grandmother and about how Céline, your only friend, left for college a couple of years and how awfully alone you are now; she still calls sometimes, you tell him, but things aren’t the same: She’s in a big city, working towards a medical degree with a fiancé and a whole new group of new, more experienced friends while you feel like you’re failing in this back alley town with a shitty job, no friends and barely any money to afford both groceries and your weed.
The wolf nudges your collarbone as you mention your parents, both of whom died when you were very young, and the struggles of having to go to church every week to pray for a God you don’t really believe in anymore; the shoulder of your white dress slips down, briefly, and then the wolf pushes it back into place with his snout. You’re certain it was a mistake, because no animal has the consciousness to do that, but it still makes your stomach flutter. You stay there for hours, sitting on the train tracks with your wolf until the rain picks up again— The animal walks you home, its soft fur pushing against your arm whenever you shiver. The wolf doesn’t cross the boundaries into your backyard, but it watches from the treeline as you pick up the extra key beneath the mat in front of the backdoor and slip into your chilly, empty house.
You feel Joel’s presence even before you turn around. You’re crouched with your back to the door when you hear the familiar swoosh of the automatic doors and you know it’s him— You stay where you are, restocking the candy aisle and letting Jenny deal with whatever it is that he needs; you have about twenty minutes left until the end of your shift but you start to stock the neat rows of Reeses’ Cup a little slower, acutely aware of Joel’s presence as he makes his way through the drug store, listening to the soft babble of the little girl you assume to be his daughter.
They end up in the candy aisle, naturally. You keep your head down, hating the way your hands tremble a little. Truth is, Joel Miller makes you nervous. Big, broad and imposing, always around, always watching— There is something equally unnerving and attractive about him and you’re not sure which wolf you should feed: The one that tells you he is dangerous, or the one that tells you he could fuck your brains out. The little girl says something in that language toddlers speak that only their parents seem to understand before reaching for a bag of Skittles next to your head. Joel tuts, carefully extricating the brightly colored package from her hands.
“Absolutely not.” He huffs. “You’re too young for that one. How about this?”
Joel plucks a Reese’s Cup from the shelf you’re currently stocking. “You like chocolate, don’t you, pup?”
“Has she ever had peanuts?” You say before you can stop yourself. You raise your head, still crouched on the floor. Joel stares at you for half a second as if he doesn’t believe you’ve spoken to him before shaking his head.
“Not really, but it’s better than chokin’ on a Skittle.”
“You should give it to her in the parking lot of the clinic.” Once again, you seem to be unable to hold back the words. “Just in case she’s allergic.”
“Do you have children?” He cocks his head to the side, eyes glinting as if he already knows the answer. You jump to your feet, embarrassment making your stomach drop.
“No— You’re right, I’m overstepping. Shouldn’t be telling you how to raise your kid.”
Joel flails, eyes wide and he doesn’t even notice when the little girl shoves the corner of the Reese’s package in her mouth.
“I meant— That’s not—” He closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Thank you. For caring.”
“She also probably shouldn’t be putting unwashed plastic in her mouth.” You say, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “We have a lot of rats in the storage.”
Joel pulls the package from his daughter’s mouth, hoisting her on his hip. The girl blinks at you, owlishly big brown eyes that seem to stare deep into your soul before she reaches to the cross necklace peeking from your ugly shirt uniform.
“Sorry.” Joel says, turning a little to pull her away from you. “Sarah’s going through her dragon phase.”
“Not sure the phase of enjoying shiny things ever goes away. It just gets more expensive.” You chuckle, and from the corner of your eye you see Jenny’s head pop up, her green eyes staring curiously at the two of you and you already know the sorts of tales she’s going to spin about this. You take a step back, putting a little bit more space between the two of you, arms crossed over your chest. “I’ll let you finish your shopping. Have a good night, Joel.”
You’re shaking by the time you make it to the employees only area, your heart hammering inside your chest, palms sweaty; there’s no logical explanation as to why you’re so nervous around him but your body still reacts, almost dragging you back into the main area of the store just so you can look at him one more time. It’s a crush, you tell yourself. A stupid crush because you have a penchant for older men and he’s hot and doesn’t have a wife. You’ve been alone for too long, no friends or dates for the better part of the last three years, and that is why you’re so anxious that an attractive man is giving you an ounce of attention.
You clock out on autopilot, a heavy raincoat thrown over your uniform and you wish you could’ve spoken to Joel in a different setting, somewhere you dress nicely for, maybe with a little bit of make up and your hair out of the company mandated bun. For a second you consider letting your hair out of its cage but you know that will only make it worse after a full day of being pulled back so harshly you can feel each individual strand tugging at your scalp— And it’s a silly thought anyway, because Joel probably left in the ten minutes that takes you to regain your composure.
But if that is the case, why do you still feel his presence outside the door?
You don’t see him inside the store, but Jenny’s eyes follow you as you bid her goodnight, holding your coat tight as if it could protect you from the small town gossip. Joel is still in the parking lot, Sarah in the backseat of his double cub pick up truck, drinking from a sippy cup; he’s talking to her, something low that you can’t hear, but his head snaps up like a dog to a squirrel when you step through the automatic doors.
“Let me drive you home.” His voice is commanding but not overbearing, the tone of a man that isn’t used to asking for things but would still respect your choice. You hesitate, shifting your bag on your shoulder; it’s late, close to eleven pm on a night that the clouds are so heavy they hide the moon and the stars, the parking lot dark even with the lamppost flickering just a couple of feet away.
“I don’t know…” You bite your bottom lip; you want to spend more time with him, you want to know what the inside of his truck looks and smells like, you want all of his attention but the rational part of your brain knows it’s not safe to get in a stranger’s car. “You could be a killer.”
“I could.” He answers easily. “But I wouldn’t kill anyone in front of Sarah. And she’ll be there the entire time.”
“Yeah, but then you’ll know my address.”
“Washington Street, number fourteen.” You gawk at his answer, all the warning bells ringing inside your head and you’re ready to bolt away from the man that knows your fucking address but he doesn’t seem one bit concerned by how weird that is. “I’m a contractor. I’ve been working on the Anderson’s porch and I saw you get home one day.”
You cross your arms over your chest, eyes falling on the toddler inside the car, thinking of how sweet and gentle he is with her. Joel leans forward a bit, towering over you but not crowding, and his eyes find yours. “I promise I’d never do anything to hurt you, sweetheart.”
For some stupid, self-destructive reason, you believe him.
Joel has a scar. You only notice as you’re stepping out of the car, after he parks in your driveway and you finally gather the courage to look at him; it’s faint and almost imperceptible and you think that, maybe, you only found it because you’d been subconsciously looking for it. It slashes across right his temple, from the end of his eyebrow into his hairline, thin and raised, the skin slightly discolored. The exact same placement as the wolf’s, the exact same eyes, his silver and brown hair the same shade as the wolf’s fur.
You don’t sleep that night. Instead, you call your weed guy and pay him with the money that was supposed to go for your electricity bill and you smoke and drink the cheap liquor you save for emergencies until you convince yourself that, although you are certifiably insane, you shouldn’t be committed.
But the idea is there, and you’re not sure there is enough weed and cherry flavored Evan Williams in the world that can make you forget about it.
You wake up in the afternoon after you pass out from exhaustion and intoxication, thankful that you have the day off from work. Between the headache, the dry mouth and the menstrual cramps that always show up during the worst possible time, you can barely drag yourself out of bed— Your doorbell is ringing, a sound so foreign that it takes you a moment to understand what it is. You can’t remember the last time anyone rang your doorbell, but you’re fairly certain it hasn’t happened in the last two years: There was a short period, just as you moved into this place, that you had enough money to afford Postmates every so often.
It’s Joel. He’s standing on your porch with his shoulders hunched up to his shoulders, a thermos in one hand and a to-go bag from Krispy Krunchy Chicken in the other; his hands are a little dirty, fingers stained with white plaster and his jeans smeared with sawdust.
“ ‘S for you.” He shoves both items towards you, his hair pushed back and a little damp from what you assume to be sweat. You take the food and the thermos without thinking, obeying to his silent command before you can think it twice. “Reckon the greasy chicken might help with the hangover, and the thermos has soup. I made it for you. ‘S a lil’ too salty, but I hope it helps.”
“How’d you know I’m hungover?”
“Just a hunch.” Joel shrugs, already retreating away from your front porch before you can properly process what is happening. “Put on some socks, it’ll help with the crampin’. And drink water.”
“What?! Joel!” You call out as you watch him jog back to his car but he doesn’t turn around, just jumps into his truck and drives away.
You’re so freaked out that you close the blinds and make sure the front and back doors are locked before you finally give in and eat the food he brought— The chicken is warm and just greasy enough to settle your stomach so you save the soup for later and, while you hate to admit it, the socks do help.
The whole situation is unnerving in the possible worst way; he could’ve watched you through the windows, could’ve seen you drinking through the night but there is no way he could’ve known about the cramps. You feel like crawling out of your skin, jittery as you try to settle on the couch and then on the bed and then, finally, on the back porch. There is no sight of your wolf, but you still feel like there are a thousand watchful eyes staring at you through the trees.
Townsfolk are rallying up to hunt the killing bear. You stare at your TV in your fluffy socks and heating pad, the bear pelt wrapped around your shoulders, the container of soup starting to cool down. It is announced in the commercial break on the evening news, the husband of the church lady actually buying the time slot to rally people to find the bear and kill it. The announcement is made on the parking lot of his shop, with the man in his company’s uniform and a rifle in his hands— It’s mainly an ad for his car dealership, the man that is supposed to be a grieving husband tipping his Stetson hat to the screen with a grim expression, but he talks about the bear that took his wife and then there is a brief shot of an expensive car that he calls the spoils of anyone brave enough to be a hero. He doesn’t say it out loud that the car is a reward for killing the bear — bear hunting is illegal in Mississippi, and you reckon that is why he’s looking for a third party — but the words are carefully crafted and the message is clear: There is now a price on your wolf’s head, and you’re certain half of the dimwitted rednecks in town are already gearing up to tear through the woods searching for a bear that isn’t there.
They won’t find a bear, you know that, but they might find your wolf. The giant, murderous wolf that you told the police about— The wolf people make fun of you for, thinking you’re a scared little girl that mistook a black bear for a wolf too big to be real, but you know they won’t hesitate to shoot if they come across it.
It’s late by the time you see it, doomscrolling on your phone when you come across the post from your town’s official Instagram account— It’s a public announcement reminding people that bear hunting is illegal in the state of Mississippi and that the person responsible could be fined up to five thousand dollars. The comments are atrocious, from people talking about how a ‘good woman’s life’ should be worth more than that to people offering to cover the legal fees to whoever manages to ‘catch the damned thing’ to people even saying they should overturn the law.
You jump from the little depression nest you’ve made on the couch, shoving your rain boots over your fuzzy socks and going through the old storage chest you keep in the laundry room with all sorts of shit you haven’t been able to let go of yet until you find the collar and leash of the dog you had as a teenager — a 178lbs Newfoundland dog named Cerberus that you took for yourself after it became clear your grandmother wouldn’t take proper care of him — and you’re not sure the collar will fit around the wolf’s neck but it doesn’t look like it would be too tight. Cerberus had been a monstrous yet loving thing, the sort of dog that made people cross the street and gawk at whenever you took him for a walk.
The forest is so dark the flashlight on your phone barely helps, illuminating a patch small enough that you have to take short, small steps. It helps you not step on any insects or tripping over tree roots but you’re still terrified of how dark and damp everything around you is, the forest far quieter than you thought it would be. The silence is heavy, loaded with something you can’t name but that still brings a chill to your spine. You can hear your own breathing, the twigs that crack underneath your feet reverberating like gunshots. The wolf is nowhere to be found, and you’re not sure where to look; He’s always there, always coming to you rather than the other way around, but you walk aimlessly for a bit, trying to stick to the same direction so you don’t end up getting lost.
The wolf you find is not yours. Its fur is stark black, blending it with the darkness of the trees and you think you only see it because it shows itself to you: The wolf is big, although smaller than yours, thinner and not as fluffy as it stands in your path, staring straight at you. You freeze, flashlight glued to the animal’s face; it moves slowly but it doesn’t seem aggressive, head tucked between its shoulders. The wolf bumps its nose against your stomach, pushing you backwards. You stumble but you don’t fall, your heart racing inside your chest— For some stupid reason, you think this might be the killer wolf as if you hadn’t watched your own torn a man apart on your first meeting. This interaction is different, though: The wolf isn’t aggressive, just pushy as it guides you backwards, but you don’t feel the calm and ease that come from the other one. You’re scared and unsure, thinking you should simply turn back and run as fast as you can but you’re too afraid that it might trigger some sort of hunting instinct.
The black wolf keeps pushing and pushing, never coming too close but always keeping you on your toes— You fall twice, feet tangling on roots and the wolf is on you in a second, sniffing at your legs and arms while you struggle to stand up. It nudges you all the way to your backyard, rounding you whenever you try to go off course, never letting you stray too far; this wolf doesn’t cross the boundaries into your home like yours usually do, standing about ten feet away from the treelines, sitting unmoving like a Sphynx. You trudge back home, the collar and leash grasped tight in your hand, body hurting from the falls before you turn around, your eyes catching the animal’s face. There is a brief hesitation in which you think you might’ve gone crazy and this was simply proof of that— But you were alone in the woods, with a wolf that was too organized not to be sentient and it wasn’t like it could tell people you were a freak.
“They’re looking for him.” You warn the wolf. “They’ll kill him if they can.”
The wolf doesn’t answer, even though there is a small part of you that hopes it will. It simply stands back up and rushes through the trees away from your home.
You don’t go to work the next day, your period cramps worsening throughout the night and hitting you with such force that you think you might be dying. You don’t die, though, but you do have a hellish night of pain and very little sleep so you call in early in the morning to let your boss know you won’t be coming in. Your manager is a huge germophobe — which you find quite ironic, considering her career choice — so you make up a lie about a highly infectious flu and she doesn’t even let you tell the tale of how you threw up all over yourself before she tells you to stay home. It’ll be deducted from your pay, you’re sure of it, but you feel so much like death that you can’t find it in yourself to care.
There’s more soup by the time you manage to drag yourself out of bed, a black thermos sitting on the windowsill of the window in the kitchen, the one that faces your backyard. You’re so tired you don’t even have the energy to feel creeped out, you’re just relieved for the free already-made food; you know it’s Joel’s because the flavor is exactly the same as the previous one, hearty and warm and just a little spicy. You’re starting to collect his containers, though, and you wonder if that is a sneaky little way of giving him a reason to talk to you again.
Jenny doesn’t bother to hide the curiosity when you finally make it to the pharmacy two days later, and you really wish you could just ignore her all day. Jenny is one of less insufferable people in town but you still wouldn’t call her a friend by any definition of the word: She’s a coworker, someone you’re able to put up with most days but today you really, really hope she doesn’t talk much.
It’s a fruitless hope, of course, because she’s babbling the second you assume your place behind the register.
“Some guy came in looking for you yesterday.” She says, her eyes sparkling with mischief and curiosity. “Not the same guy you left with the other day.”
You frown, trying to avoid looking at her. You couldn’t phantom anyone that might’ve come for you that isn’t Joel, and she goes on with her rant before you can cut her off.
“I mean, he didn’t ask for you by name but he browsed a lot and then asked about ‘the regular cashier’ and then I said you were sick and he got all frowny and left without buying anything.” Jenny leans in, her smile reminiscing of the Cheshire cat. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know, Jenny.” You sigh, but the entire situation leaves a pit deep in your stomach. You assumed the soup came from Joel, but what if it didn’t? What if there was another weird man breaking into your home? “Did he say his name?”
“Nope. Big guy, though. Tall, black long-ish hair with a mustache… He was with the little girl your man usually brings around.”
You ignore the jab about Joel being your man, even if the words send a small thrill down your spine. You don’t answer her at all, instead plastering your customer service smile on your face and beckoning the old lady that hovers near the register with a frown, clearly pissed off that you’re chatting instead of scanning her medication.
Mystery Man doesn’t leave your brain, though, and no matter how much you want to pretend it’s not happening, your mind keeps going back to the black wolf you saw in the forest, the one that was just as sentient as yours. Your hands itch most of the day and you find yourself doodling on the corner of a forgotten receipt during the slow hours; you haven’t drawn in years, not ever since you left your grandmother’s home, but the blue ink from the ballpen paper takes up the shape of a wolf’s snout without you meaning to, sharp teeth bared to the faded words on the paper.
You don’t take the tracks when you go home, choosing instead to walk the main street— The path is longer and you hate how busy the streets are at that time of day but it feels safer than the emptiness of the tracks, which have been even more vacant than usual after Henry’s death.
Mystery Man is coming down your porch just as you turn the corner to your street. You freeze only for a second before you quicken your pace, almost jogging to catch up to him before he gets into the pick up truck — Joel’s pick up truck — that is parked on your sidewalk. He stares at you, eyes wide as if he hadn’t expected to get caught but, to his credit, he doesn’t run.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Tommy.” He hesitates for a second, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Joel’s brother. He, uh—”
“You broke into my house.” You bark, cutting off whatever he’s going to say. “I should call the police.”
“Joel is indisposed,” The man says, a little more forcefully. “He asked me to check in on you. I tried ringin’ the doorbell, but you didn’t answer.”
You’re pretty sure he’s lying— Despite the ungodly amount of painkillers you had taken, you still think you would’ve woken up to the sound of your doorbell. You cross your arms over your chest, very much aware of how empty your street is; He’s taller and broader than you, even if he is smaller than Joel, and you know he could grab you and throw you into his car without breaking a sweat.
“Stay the fuck away from me. Both of you.” You try to sound intimidating, but your voice wavers too much. “Or I swear I’ll call the police.”
Tommy presses his lips together and he looks quite displeased but he nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
You move to the side as he walks to the truck, putting as much space as you can between the two of you. He walks slowçy but surely, his head turned to the ground and hands stuffed inside his coat. He stops just as he opens the driver’s door, looking at you over the rusted metal.
“For what it’s worth, Joel ain’t ever gonna hurt you. He just got a weird way of takin’ care of his people.”
You don’t want to trust him, but you think of the wolf, and you do.
You don’t see either of the Miller brothers around for the next week, and there are no new foods on your porch; you keep telling yourself that you don’t care but Joel is constantly on the back of your mind. You check both porches every morning, and you crane your neck whenever you walk past Anderson’s house to see if he’s still working on whatever it was that he told you he was. Joel is never there, he doesn’t show up at the pharmacy and you don’t run into him at the grocery store or at the church. You think you miss him, a little bit, and you hate yourself for that. You tell yourself that you just used to Joel hovering nearby, and that he’s actually a good cook and you’re not used to homemade meals anymore, but you think it’s more than that— The man and the wolf are both gone, and you’re plunged into a deep loneliness. The sort of loneliness you’ve always told yourself you enjoy, that you’re used to it, but now that you’ve tasted the smallest bit of companionship you can’t help but crave it more.
No people are killed in the week he is missing.
You wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, your back and your cunt drenched as the remnants of your wet dream follow you back into reality. You reach to your bedside table while refusing to think about the repercussions of what you’re about to do, pulling the toy from the drawer— the pale purple rabbit you bought out of fearful curiosity a couple of months ago and has just started getting comfortable with using.
Masturbating, for you, it’s usually a pretty straightforward affair: You don’t tease or edge yourself, just hold your toy or your fingers to your clit so you can come as fast as possible before falling asleep but, tonight, you take it slow. You take off all of your clothes before you turn the toy on the lowest setting, running it between your folds to smear it with your own wetness before you slide it upwards, setting a trail from your clit all the way up to your nipples. The vibration makes you squirm, nipples perking up as you sigh— It’s just enough to make you wetter but not enough to properly get you off, and you throw your head back against the pillow, eyes closed as you circle your nipple with the toy.
The image comes to the forefront of your mind unbidden, so strong that you cannot help but indulge in it: Behind your eyelids you see Joel, haunched over your, the bristles of his mustache brushing against the soft skin of your areola, his warm tongue just barely touching you. You imagine the weight of his body on top of yours, how his chest would press down on your stomach, his hands roaming over your body. You think he’d be sweet at first, those soulful eyes glued to yours as he licks his way down to your cunt, his rough hands prying your legs open.
You’re already on the verge of an orgasm by the time you bring the buzzing toy down to your clit just from thinking of Joel and you can almost hear the way he’d growl as he lapped at you, his fingers digging into the plushness of your thighs are enough to leave marks behind. You think of how he’d flip you over as you push the toy inside of you, of the way he’d pull your hips up and take you from behind, his cock hitting all of the perfect parts inside of you as his belly pressed to your lower back, his breathing hot and heavy on the nape of your neck.
You come with Joel’s name on your lips and tears in your eyes, your cunt spasming around the toy you so desperately wish to be the man you can’t stop thinking about; you let the low vibration remain against your clit until you’re twitching from overstimulation and you barely have the chance to throw the rabbit to the ground before you’re falling back asleep.
pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x graphic designer!afab!reader
w/c: 8.3K words
summary: You're learning how to live without him (kinda). Robby is learning what that actually means.
warnings/tags: age gap (I imagined r around 27, but I didn't specify. Robby was her first serious relationship, though), jealousy, angst, longing, language, depression, therapy.
A/N: I really hope you enjoy this part! I won't lie, I was a little nervous while writing it because I kept second-guessing where the story was going. Let me know what you think, and whether you'd ever like to see an alternative ending! (I found the Robby pics on pinterest, so credits to the owners) + Thank you @lavenderhaze967 for proofreading!
He used to wake up wishing he felt nothing. Wishing he was surrounded by darkness, by emptiness. Wishing for something close to... death.
Now he wakes up checking his phone.
He checks it on the way to the Pitt, at work between cases, even when he goes to the bathroom after washing his hands. He checks it while eating, while listening to Jack, and before going to sleep. Sometimes he even wakes up in the middle of the night, turns the TV volume down a little, and checks it again.
It has become a habit he can't seem to break. Maybe even an obsession.
He almost answered the same night he received your message, but never came that close again. He doesn't even open the keyboard anymore.
But that night?
He must have picked up his phone a dozen times. His thumb hovered over the reply button until the screen dimmed. He unlocked it again and stared at the words until they became blurry.
He knew you hadn't actually gone home with someone else. He knew exactly why you'd said it. You wanted him to picture it. To wonder. To hurt.
The worst part was that it worked anyway.
He thought about what he could possibly say. There wasn't an answer that didn't sound like a lie. Or an excuse. Or the kind of desperate confession that came too late. He came so close to begging when he finally understood how deeply he'd hurt you.
But in the end, he locked the phone and reached for a bottle instead.
One drink became another, then another, until thinking became impossible. The next morning he woke up with a splitting headache, still dressed, his phone lying exactly where he'd left it beneath his pillow.
So, for the first time in more than a decade, he called off work.
He had never done that. Not from exhaustion, not after thirty-hour shifts, not even when he probably should have. But that morning there was no chance he could walk into the Pitt and trust his own hands.
So yes, he can feel it. He feels it every fücking day of his life.
*
Jack notices before Robby realizes he's been caught.
It's after a chest tube. One of those shifts where the department hasn't stopped moving for nearly six hours. A three-car pileup on the interstate had flooded the Pitt with patients all at once: broken ribs, collapsed lungs, a shattered femur, enough blood to make the trauma bays feel too small. Robby had called Jack in early, and even then they'd barely managed to stay ahead.
By the time the last patient was stable, his scrubs were streaked with dried blood and antiseptic. His shoulders ached.
He steps into the ambulance bay, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he tries to catch a full breath. The cool air does little to clear his head. For a second, he remembers you.
You always knew the difference between a busy day and a bad one. On the bad days, you never asked questions first. You'd just come up behind him, work the tension out of his shoulders with your thumbs while he pretended to complain, then wrap your arms around his waist and stay there for a minute without saying a word.
Somehow, you always knew exactly where it hurt.
Maybe you had a gift. Or maybe you just cared.
Robby spent so much of his life expecting people not to that he'd mistaken being loved for being understood.
His phone vibrates.
Not a message, an email.
He knows that before he even looks.
Still, he unlocks it. Still, his thumb opens the same conversation. Still nothing has changed.
Can you feel it?
"You okay?"
Robby doesn't jump. He should have. Instead, he simply locks the phone and slips it into his pocket.
"Just peachy."
"You know," Jack says, "I've watched you unlock that phone at least twenty times today."
"So?"
"So you're lying."
Robby crosses his arms over his chest and drops his gaze to the concrete beneath his feet. It's an old habit, one Jack learned to recognize years ago.
"I've got patients."
"So do I." Jack sighs. "You gonna answer her?"
For half a second, Robby's first instinct is to play dumb.
Who?
He could ask it... pretend he has no idea what Jack is talking about. But it wouldn't work. Jack has known him too long for that.
"There isn't anything to answer. It's just a message."
Jack doesn't argue, like he'd expected that answer.
He just nods toward the doors, and they head back inside.
The department swallows them immediately: monitors, a trauma pager going off somewhere down the hall, Langdon and King making their way to a patient together. The usual chaos.
They stop at the nurses' station, where Dana is buried in charting, too focused to pay them any attention.
For a minute, neither of them says anything. Robby pretends to study the patient board, following the names across the screen without actually reading them. Jack watches him long enough to know it's an act.
"Okay." Another beat. "Then why haven't you deleted it?"
Robby's jaw tightens. "I don't know."
"Liar."
Robby lets out a dry laugh that doesn't sound anything like amusement. "I've never seen you this interested in my personal life."
"I'm not."
Jack folds his arms. "I'm interested in the fact that one text message has managed to get under your skin more than any patient, lawsuit, or attending ever has. More than Janey and even Collins."
Robby doesn't say anything. He doesn't even flinch when Heather is brought up.
Can you feel it?
He glances once toward where Dana had been a moment ago, finding the space empty now, as if she'd stepped away without him noticing. Then he looks back at the patient board, and the names blur into each other.
"I don't know, man," he says finally, quieter than before. "I am the one who ended it."
The words hang there a second longer than they should. He did. And it's supposed to be the right choice. The good, honorable choice. He's doing her a favor after everything she's done for him.
Robby swallows.
It's the closest thing to an admission Jack is going to get.
For now.
"Alright."
He pushes off the counter, and Robby thinks it's over.
"Still in therapy?"
It isn't.
"Yes." He went there three times in the last two weeks. Three times he'd sat in a chair and avoided talking about you directly… like keeping your name unspoken made it easier to stay in control of what he was actually feeling.
"Good," Jack says, like it's the most normal thing in the world, as if it isn't something Robby has to actively choose every week just to keep himself from slipping. "Then I'm not gonna give you my opinion."
He pauses.
"Hmm."
"What? I'll keep it to myself."
Robby almost laughs at that.
Jack has never been particularly good at keeping anything to himself. He made it very clear how he felt when he called him "dumb as fück" for breaking up with you.
They move toward the locker rooms before either of them has to think too hard about anything else.
It's one of the rare days they're on shift together. Jack is pulling a double to cover for Al-Hashimi; her kid is sick again, last-minute call-out.
Robby changes on autopilot, like his body knows what to do even if the rest of him is somewhere else entirely.
It's that familiar work-state where everything personal gets filed away for later.
And it almost works. He almost feels normal.
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Almost.
"You know," Jack says, glancing sideways at him, "I saw her yesterday."
Something in Robby shifts... small, immediate. A tightening in his chest he refuses to name, refuses to let settle into anything as vulnerable as anticipation. It stays contained, buried before it can surface or, worse, explode.
He doesn't let it reach his face.
But Jack didn't even say your name.
He didn't have to.
"I saw her yesterday," Jack repeats, carefully, like he's making sure Robby actually hears him this time.
Robby's hand twitches at his side before he can stop it. An old reflex, almost unconscious.... the urge to reach for his phone, to check it again even though there's nothing new there. Just the same message he's already memorized.
But he doesn't move. He stops himself and keeps his voice even.
"What do you mean, you saw her?"
Jack glances at him.
"Outside work. She was with Santos."
That makes no sense.
Why would you hang out with Santos?
"Santos?"
"Yeah." Jack shrugs, like it's nothing. "She's been around her a lot lately. Whitaker too. Don't read into it."
Robby's jaw tightens anyway.
"I'm not reading into anything."
"Sure."
A beat.
"How…" Robby starts, then stops, recalibrating. His voice comes out more controlled the second time. "How did it happen? How did they even properly meet her?"
Jack adjusts his pace beside him, like they're still just talking about schedules and not something else entirely.
"She came by on your day off after she got her stitches removed," he says. "Brought food for everyone. Day shift and night shift."
His shoulders rise and fall.
"You know how she is. She stayed and talked to people. She thanked them and..."
A pause.
"She kind of… won them over," Jack continues. "Park too. He was here for an amputation consultation and still ended up almost laughing. She offered him a cookie like it was the most normal thing in the world."
Something in Robby tightens at that.
Park. She actually got through Park.
"Don't read into that either."
He huffs under his breath, almost amused, but it doesn't land.
"I'm not."
Jack doesn't push it.
He just keeps walking, shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor, while changing the subject. But Robby stops listening.
Because something has already taken shape in his head, and it drowns out whatever Jack is saying.
You... not where he left you, outside his world. But inside it.
And he doesn't know what to do with that. Because in his head, it was never meant to work like this.
When you were together, he always assumed, without ever saying it out loud, that you'd remain on the edge of his work life forever. Close enough to hear about it, but never truly part of it. Kept away from the parts of his world that made him feel like a failure… the parts that left him wondering whether he existed as anything other than a doctor.
Not because he'd made a conscious decision. It was simply how he'd always lived.
Compartmentalized and contained.
Work stayed here, you stayed somewhere else.
It was easier that way. Cleaner. As if keeping the two apart meant neither could poison the other.
So when it ended, you were outside of it and he was inside.
Except you didn't stay outside after all.
You're there anyway. And somehow, that hurts more.
Most of them probably don't even know you were ever with him.
They like you because you're… you.
Even Park. That part twists something lower in his chest.
Of course you'd get through to him. Of course you'd sit in front of someone like that and make it easy, make it human, make it... normal.
Robby looks ahead, jaw tightening once before easing again, like he's trying to physically undo the thought.
For a moment, he doesn't speak.
Then, quieter to himself:
"I'm not reading into it."
But even he can hear how it doesn't hold any weight anymore.
*
He almost cancels.
He sits in his car for ten minutes, engine off, hands resting on the wheel, thinking about nothing and everything at once.
Then he goes in anyway.
"You're distracted today."
"I'm fine," he says again, but it's weak. His fingers curl slightly into his palm, like he can physically keep himself from slipping.
"How's the breakup been sitting with you this week?"
He breathes in through his nose. Too slow. Controlled in a way that takes effort.
"I made the right decision."
"That wasn't my question, Robby."
He presses a hand down to his knee instantly... like the pressure will quiet whatever's building. God, he thought he's better at this.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he says, but it comes out sharper than he meant.
"I want you to answer the question. If you can, of course."
"I'm not-" He stops, swallowing whatever he had in mind and starts again, quieter. "I'm not going to keep going over it."
The silence stretches.
Then- "What comes up when you think about it?"
"I don't feel guilty."
The response's immediate. Too immediate. Like if he says it fast enough it won't turn into anything else.
She doesn't react.
Just waits.
And that waiting does something worse than pressure, it gives him space to hear himself.
His shoulders drop a fraction before he catches it, like his body is betraying him without permission.
"I feel responsible," he says instead, quieter.
"For what?"
"For how it ended."
For hurting you.
"I was protecting her," he says, but it comes out rough, like it scraped on the way up. Like he needs to convince himself it's true.
"From what?"
That question is so simple, yet it feels like it rips something open inside him.
There's a moment where he can feel the words sitting behind his teeth, pushing forward whether he wants it or not.
"Me."
Jennifer doesn't react, and that somehow makes it worse.
Because they both know it isn't just an answer to this question.
It's something he's been carrying for longer than he wants to admit.... something he's just finally said out loud.
He looks down at his hands, like if he stares at them long enough, they'll feel like someone else's.
His chest feels tight again, like something pressing inward from the inside.
The thought comes anyway, unwanted but familiar.
He breaks things.
Not in theory or in vague, distant ways.
People.
Relationships.
Everything and everyone that gets too close for too long.
It doesn't happen all at once, it never does. It just… wears down quietly, until there's nothing left that holds.
And the worst part is he knows the pattern well enough now to see it coming before it finishes.
You would've been next.
Not because he doesn't love you.
Because he does.
Too much.
Enough to know what happens when he stays close long enough for it to matter on that level. He's not worth it.
He chose distance because staying would've meant waiting for the moment he ruined you too. He couldn't bear the thought of it, of seeing you like that... of you looking at him like he'd finally become exactly what he was afraid of being.
And now that he's said it, it doesn't feel like a justification anymore.
It's just a fact he's been avoiding naming for a long time.
Something in him has always felt like it doesn't stay contained. Like it spreads. Quiet, slow, inevitable. Like cancer. And people eventually step back before it gets worse.
He swallows, jaw tightening.
He couldn't let it reach you. Not like that...
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
But maybe he already waited too long anyway.
By the time he reaches home, he barely makes it past the entrance door as he leans into the wall, shaking, then sinks to the floor. His legs just stop working and his breathing turns uneven almost immediately, like his body forgets how to regulate itself.
He breaks into sobbing before he can even fully register it, his hand going to his neck, gripping his necklace like it's the only thing left to anchor him.
And right before he starts praying, all he can think is how much he misses holding you.
*
He doesn't even look away from the ceiling as he reaches over and silences it. For a moment, the apartment settles into silence.
Well, almost. The television murmurs softly in the background, left on sometime during the night as usual.
He sits up slowly and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until the sting eases.
And for a while, he stays where he is, elbows on his knees, listening to the television fill the empty apartment with voices he isn't hearing.
Eventually, habit takes over.
He reaches for his phone.
Nothing.
No messages. No missed calls. No notifications, just an email reminding him to distribute a petition.
He almost laughs as he opens your conversation.
I'm really sorry.
Too late.
I'm not with Noelle.
Not enough.
I still love you.
Selfish.
He locks the phone.
*
The Pitt smells exactly the same, and Dana is already arguing with someone on the phone before he's even finished clocking in, waiting for Shen.
Whitaker walks past, barely balancing four coffees, and flashes him a quick smile.
"Morning, Dr. Robby."
"Morning."
Santos laughs down the hall as Dr. King nearly trips over her own feet.
Normal.
The department never stopped moving.
Somehow, he did.
*
The first few hours fly the way they always do.
He intubates, explains, reassures, documents.
His hands never hesitate.
It’s his mind that does.
Twice, he reaches for his phone between patients before remembering there won't be anything new there.
It's been almost three months. There is never going to be anything new.
By noon, he's angry at himself for still noticing.
*
"...I'm telling you, she cheated."
"She did not. You just lost after you tried to cheat."
"I only adjusted my position because-"
Whitaker snorts. "That's literally cheating."
Robby doesn't look up from the chart he's working on.
The conversation barely registers at first. Whitaker and Santos always bicker over something, and somewhere along the way, he'd grown fond of it.
Of them.
"I'm serious, though."
"I haven't laughed that hard in weeks"
"I knew she'd fit in."
Robby stops writing when he hears Dana.
"Fit in?"
Whitaker laughs.
"I still can't believe she got Park to order that drink."
"He actually ordered two."
"No."
Robby looks up just in time to catch Dana shaking her head.
No, they're talking about someone else, he tells himself.
Someone funny. Easy to be around. The kind of person who remembers everybody's names, who brought pastries because she wanted to thank the staff... who somehow managed to make even Park smile.
They have to.
"Everyone spent years trying to get that man to loosen up. And she does it in one evening."
Robby lowers his eyes to the chart again.
The station fills with quiet laughter as Santos mentions her nickname for you, and Robby's stomach twists before he understands why.
Nobody knows about you two.
Nobody is talking carefully... Nobody is choosing their words.
No one is avoiding your name or glancing his way to see if he is listening.
To them, you're just the new person everyone likes.
You're Jack's VIP.
You didn't tell them.
*
Later, he finds himself on the roof for the first time all shift. He's telling himself he just needs a break from all the crazy shit he's been doing all day. He's so lost in his thoughts he doesn't even realize Jack joins him.
"They like her."
Robby jumps a little but keeps looking ahead.
"I know."
"You never wanted her here."
"No."
"Why?"
Robby lets out a slow breath.
"I thought..." He searches for the words. "She'd be happier away from all this."
He can feel Jack's eyes burning the back of his head, but he just can't turn around. His eyes burn.
"All this?"
"The hours, and the death, and the fücked up version of me that works here."
Silence.
Robby closes his eyes as Jack sighs.
"Shame nobody thought to ask her what she wants."
Robby isn't asleep.
The television is on, of course. A documentary he's already seen three times plays quietly in the background, more noise than entertainment.
He tells himself it's nothing as he opens Instagram.
He almost never uses it. He only downloaded it months ago so he could like your photos, your posts, the little campaigns you did for brands. He never comments or sends anything. He just scrolls and closes the app again.
He scrolls once.
Twice.
Then Javadi's story appears.
He hesitates.
He shouldn't care.
He definitely shouldn't be following any of his students or former students, anyway.
The first story is exactly what he'd expect.
Coffee.
Someone filming Santos trying -and failing- to explain baseball to Whitaker.
Laughter from somewhere behind the camera.
He almost skips the next one, but then it loads.
A shaky video. Victoria turns the phone toward herself before swinging it around the table.
"There she is!"
The camera lands on you.
You're already laughing at something Santos has just said, the kind of laugh that catches you completely off guard. It lights up your whole face before you even notice Victoria is filming.
"Oh my God, stop."
You lift your coffee cup to hide behind it, smiling anyway.
"You look adorable."
"I look exhausted."
"You always look exhausted."
"That's because I keep hanging out with a bunch of emergency physicians."
The table erupts in laughter, and someone tosses a sugar packet at you.
You throw it right back.
The story ends.
Robby watches it again.
Not because he's trying to catch the conversation.
Because you're laughing.
Really laughing.
Not the careful smile you gave him while he checked your stitches. This laugh is effortless.
It reaches your eyes and it lasts barely seven seconds.
He watches every single one.
The next story loads automatically.
A group photo: Javadi, Whitaker, Santos, King, McKay, and even Langdon.
We adopted her❤️
Before he realizes what he's doing, he's already screenshotting so he can zoom in.
You're sitting beside Santos, shoulders loose, your hair tucked behind one ear.
Your healed hand curls around a coffee mug.
You look… comfortable. Like you belong there.
His gaze lingers, and something catches his eye.
The hoodie.
For one absurd second, his heart stumbles.
You're wearing his sweatshirt.
No.
Not his. There is no stain on this one.
Yours.
The oversized green hoodie he'd bought because you kept stealing his until he finally gave up and bought you one of your own. Yet you still stole it.
"You realize this defeats the purpose, right?"
"Sure. Keep pretending you don't love it."
He smiles before he can stop himself.
And it's gone just as quickly.
He closes the story.
A few seconds later, he opens it again.
Coffee.
Santos.
You laughing.
The thought comes before he can stop it.
You look lighter. Not whole (at least yet).
He knows grief too well to mistake it for happiness.
The shadows beneath your eyes tell him that much.
But you're surviving. Without him.
He sets the phone beside him on the couch.
Only five seconds pass before he picks it up again.
His chest tightens.
You're not replacing him. You're just living.
He'd spent weeks telling himself this was the point.
Leave.
Break your heart now so you'd have a chance to build something better later.
Now he's watching it happen, and he should feel relieved.
Instead, he can't seem to get enough air into his lungs.
He jumps out of bed, phone still in his hand, and wanders into the kitchen.
He opens the refrigerator, stares inside for a long moment, then closes it again.
He has no idea why he came in there.
The apartment suddenly feels too big, and quiet, and empty.
He braces both hands against the counter.
Breathes in.
Out.
Again.
Just like Jennifer taught him.
But it doesn't help.
His phone vibrates.
For one impossible, ridiculous second, hope punches him square in the chest, and he reaches for it before he can stop himself.
Jack.
Can you come in a little earlier tomorrow?
Robby lets out a laugh: short and flat. Almost embarrassed.
"Good."
The word echoes through the apartment.
Good.
This is what he wanted… you surrounded by people who make you laugh, finding your place. Building a life for yourself.
Good.
So why does it feel like something inside him is being slowly pulled apart?
Before he tries to sleep again, he opens Instagram one last time.
But the stories have already expired.
Gone.
Just like that.
*
He almost turns around twice on the drive there.
The first time at a red light, and the second when he passes the exit.
Instead, he keeps driving.
By the time Jennifer opens the office door, he already looks tired.
"You made it."
He nods.
"Barely."
A small smile crosses Jennifer's face.
"It still counts."
For the first several minutes, they talk about work.
A teenager who coded. A difficult intubation. A family he couldn't save. Anti-vaxxers refusing treatment until it was almost too late.
It's easier. Medicine always is.
Jennifer lets him speak until the stories run out.
"How have you been sleeping?"
"Fine."
"You look tired."
"I picked up a few extra shifts. Helped the night team. But I'm sleeping."
He looks toward the window before speaking again.
"I've been thinking."
"About her?"
His fingers twitch against his knee before he catches himself, but Jennifer notices.
"Whenever you are ready."
A quiet breath leaves him.
"Yes." He looks away. "Jack mentioned she's been around."
"The hospital?"
He nods.
"Around the day shift. People keep talking about her."
She doesn't ask him if he thinks it's intentionally because he's spoken about you quite a few times before.
Even though you sent that message that haunts him, Robby knows you are not a revengeful person.
"What do they say?"
"That she's funny. Kind." He lets out a sigh, eyebrows raising. "They like having her around."
Another moment of silence that Jennifer's careful not to interrupt.
Because she can see there's more.
Eventually, Robby looks at her and continues.
"It bothers me. I'm happy for her, yet it really bothers me."
"Two things can be true at once. They aren't mutually exclusive."
He nods. "I know."
"You wanted her to make friends and be happy, right?"
"Yes."
"To move on and continue her life…"
"Yes."
Jennifer studies him.
"And now she does."
He nods.
"So why does it bother you?"
They both know the answer to that. But somehow it's easier when someone else asks the question.
Easier to untangle the thoughts that have been circling in his head for weeks.
His gaze drops to the carpet as he drags a hand through his hair.
"Because..."
He swallows.
"I'm not in it."
Not in her life.
Silence settles between them, and Jennifer doesn't rush to fill it.
She lets him sit with the words… hear them outside his own head for the first time.
"I know how fücking selfish that sounds," he laugh humorlessly. "I just... I don't know how to deal with it."
"A few weeks ago," Jennifer says after a moment, "you told me you were protecting her."
He doesn't look up.
"You said she deserved better. That you made the right decision about her future."
He nods.
"But today..." She smiles gently. "You talked about how you feel."
He frowns.
"You didn't say you would've ruined her life or that you made the right decision."
His own words echo in his head.
I'm not in it.
I'm not in it.
I'm not in it.
He exhales slowly.
He hadn't even noticed.
Jennifer leans back in her chair.
"Something has changed."
He's breathless as he waits for her to continue.
"I think you're beginning to grieve the life you thought you'd have with her. The fact that you may never get to see who she becomes... while everyone else around you will."
That lands harder than he expects.
Because she's right.
He'd been so focused on surviving the breakup that he'd never stopped to think about everything that came after it.
Not calling you after work.
Not watching terrible television because you somehow made it entertaining with your reactions.
Not hearing you laugh from another room while he tried to guess what you'd decided to order for dinner.
The future he'd imagined had slipped away so quietly he almost hadn't noticed it.
"I miss her."
The words are barely audible.
Jennifer nods.
"I don't think..." His throat tightens. "I've actually said that before."
Another long silence settles between them. Then Jennifer asks,
"If she walked through that door right now, what would you do?"
He looks up.
He's heard versions of that question a hundred times before. It always sounded like a cliché.
Today, it doesn't.
He thinks for a long time before answering.
"I don't know."
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"I'd probably ask how her hand is."
Jennifer smiles back.
"I think you would."
He lets out a quiet breath.
"I'm pretty predictable sometimes."
"You’re doing great, Robby. Last questions."
He nods.
"When the relationship ended, who made the decision?"
His chest tightens.
"I did."
"Who decided what was best for her?"
"I did."
"Who decided she deserved someone else?"
Jennifer lets the silence linger.
"What decision did she get to make?"
He doesn't answer.
Because he already knows.
"None."
Jennifer doesn't tell him he was wrong. She never does. She never tells him exactly what to do or how he's supposed to feel.
"I wonder whether protecting someone and choosing for someone are always the same thing. Or maybe we actually protect ourselves."
He leaves quieter than he arrived.
Not shattered. Not relieved.
Just thinking.
I never gave her the chance to decide whether I was worth loving.
*
He gets home and, for the first time in weeks, does the most rational thing he can think of.
He calls Jack.
The phone barely rings once.
"You done pretending?"
Robby snorts.
"Hi to you too."
"Therapy?"
He nods to himself before remembering Jack can't see him.
"Yeah."
"How'd it go?"
Robby leans against the kitchen counter.
"It was..."
He searches for the right word.
"Different."
"Good different?"
"I don't know."
Jack chuckles softly.
"Sounds about right."
A moment passes.
"So?"
"So?"
"You gonna tell me what happened, or am I supposed to guess?"
Robby smiles despite himself.
"You guess."
Jack doesn't hesitate.
"You miss her."
Robby doesn't answer.
"Brother..."
"I thought she'd hate me."
The humor disappears from Jack's voice.
"What?"
"When we broke up."
Robby stares down at the mug he'd made out of habit but hasn't touched.
"I thought that eventually she'd realize..."
He trails off, shaking his head.
"...that I wasn't enough. That she'd wasted years on me."
Jack says nothing.
"So I ended it first."
A slow breath crackles through the speaker.
"I know."
Robby closes his eyes.
"I knew she'd move on."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I wanted her to."
"And?"
"I just..."
His voice falters.
"I never actually believed it would happen."
Silence stretches between them.
Then Jack speaks.
"You know what I think?"
Robby waits.
"That you decided what she'd deserve before she ever got to tell you what she wanted."
Robby rubs a hand over his face.
"You never gave her the chance to choose you. You decided she'd be happier without you."
"Yeah."
"But did she ever tell you, 'I don't choose you, Michael'? Did she ever say she wanted someone else?"
Robby presses his thumb against the bridge of his nose.
"I thought I was saving her. I was trying to protect her."
"I know."
Jack doesn't sound accusing.
"I know, I believe you."
Jack's voice softens.
"But maybe..."
He chooses his words carefully.
"...maybe you were also protecting yourself from the chance that one day she wouldn't choose you."
Robby's stomach turns.
Because it's close enough to what Jennifer had said that it doesn't feel like coincidence anymore.
"You're one of the smartest people I've ever met."
Robby groans.
"Don't."
"I'm serious. You can diagnose someone in seconds. You can make impossible decisions, have the best speeches. You'll fight like hell for complete strangers." Jack sighs. "But you didn't trust the woman that you love to make one decision for herself. Because you think you’re not worth it."
"You sound just like my therapist."
Eventually Jack laughs quietly.
"You know what she told me?"
"What?"
"She asked if we could still be friends."
Robby blinks.
"She was worried she'd lose me too."
Robby closes his eyes.
He'd been so focused on removing himself from your life that he'd never considered the people you'd come to love because of him.
Robby hesitates before deciding to tell him one more thing.
"She thinks I'm with Noelle Hastings again."
"What?"
"When she came to the Pitt, she saw Noelle hugging me." He exhales. "She thought we were together."
"And you didn't tell her she was wrong?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I thought it'd sound defensive."
Jack lets out a disbelieving laugh.
"Jesus Christ, Robby."
He doesn't argue.
"She thought you'd replaced her after a week."
The words knock the air from his lungs.
He hears your voice as clearly as if you were standing beside him.
I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best.
He'd heard the bitterness, anger, and the jealousy but not the heartbreak and the rejection underneath your tone.
Robby squeezes his eyes shut.
And every time I scratch my nails.
Down someone else's back, I hope you feel it.
Well, can you feel it?
He finally understands what you must've seen.
A man who said one thing and made every choice look like the opposite.
Who swore he was leaving to save you, then let you believe he'd replaced you a week later.
Mr. Duplicity…
"I don't know if she'll forgive you."
"...I know."
"But if she ever gives you another chance..."
Jack lets the silence linger.
"Don't decide for her."
Another pause.
"She's old enough to make her own choices."
After they hang up, Robby remains standing in the middle of his apartment, phone still in his hand.
For the first time since the breakup, he realizes what an apology would actually sound like.
Not:
I did what was best. I was trying to protect you.
Just
I'm sorry I decided for you.
*
Robby almost texts you.
He writes: I'm sorry. I wasn't with Noelle. I shouldn't have decided for you. Let’s talk, please.
But he deletes it immediately.
It sounds like he's correcting facts instead of acknowledging your pain.
He puts the phone down.
Five minutes later he picks it back up.
He opens your conversation.
Your last message still sits there.
Can you feel it?
Below it… He realizes something.
Every conversation since the breakup has been started by him.
Instructions.
Appointments.
Orders.
Every important decision has been his.
He ended it.
He decided it was best.
He decided what you needed.
He decided you shouldn't love him.
He decided you deserved someone else.
He decided.
He lets his phone down and goes to search for his notebook.
The one he bought because Jennifer told him he needed to write about how he felt.
He writes one sentence.
I was wrong.
He stares at it.
Then another.
I thought leaving was the kindest thing I could do. I never asked what you wanted.
His pen stops.
He keeps writing.
Page after page.
About Collins.
About his mother.
About Adamson.
About Jake.
About believing people are safer without him.
About thinking love eventually becomes another thing he ruins.
About how terrified he was of becoming your biggest regret.
He slowly tears every page out when he's done and the apartment falls silent again.
Impulsively, he grabs his phone, reopening your conversation.
I’m really, really sorry… Can we talk, please?
His thumb hovers.
He thinks about adding:
Only if you want.
But he decides against it.
No speeches.
No pressure.
No manipulation.
Just... this.
He presses send.
Then a few seconds later… Seen. And nothing else.
Robby sets the phone face down.
This time... he doesn't pick it back up.
He has to wait.
*
Six days pass.
Nothing.
Not a single reply.
Robby tells himself that's fair.
He'd asked.
You hadn't answered.
That was an answer too.
*
Work fills every hour.
An elderly man with sepsis and a teenager after a motorcycle crash.
Life continues exactly the way it always has.
Patients arrive and leave.
Some stay. Some don't.
Usually that's enough.
Usually medicine leaves very little room for anything else.
Not anymore.
*
"You look like shit."
Robby doesn't bother looking up.
"So do you."
Jack smirks.
"I've got an excuse."
"So do I."
Jack waits, but Robby never offers one.
*
Later, Dana catches him rereading the same CT report for the third time.
"Wrong patient."
He blinks.
"Right."
She gently slides the correct chart toward him.
"Coffee?"
"I'm fine."
She gives him a look that clearly says you're absolutely not, but thankfully lets it go.
*
Four days later.
12:17 p.m.
His phone vibrates, and he almost ignores it.
Almost.
When he sees your name, his heart stumbles.
One word.
Okay.
Nothing else.
He reads it once.
Then again and again, Enough times that the letters stop looking like a word.
His thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Thank you.
Delete.
Too much.
Are you free tomorrow?
Delete.
Too eager.
Too hopeful.
He stares at the screen for nearly a minute before typing again.
Wherever you're comfortable.
He reads it twice, then presses send before he can talk himself out of it.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Not the Pitt.
His reply is immediate.
Of course.
This time, the dots don't make him wait long.
Saturday, if you're free.
4 p.m.?
The park near you?
He doesn't realize he's smiling until his cheeks ache.
I'll be there.
He sets the phone down carefully, almost afraid that touching it again might somehow change the conversation.
A few minutes later, Langdon almost walks right into him.
He stops.
"What?"
Robby looks up.
"What?"
"You're smiling."
"Am I?"
Langdon nods once.
"I haven't seen that in a while."
Robby glances down at the coffee in his hands before waving him off.
"Must be a facial spasm."
Langdon snorts.
"Sure."
Robby takes another sip of his coffee.
The smile never quite leaves.
*
Saturday doesn't arrive fast enough.
Robby gets to the park twenty minutes early. Not because he thinks you'll leave if he's late. Sitting at home had simply become impossible.
Families sharing ice cream, dogs bark somewhere behind him, someone is playing guitar badly.
He wonders if you'll come.
You said you would. But then again... you had every reason not to.
His phone stays in his pocket.
He promised himself he wouldn't check the time every thirty seconds.
He fails anyway.
3:56.
3:58.
4:07.
Then
"Hi."
He turns. And for a second... he forgets how to breathe.
You're wearing jeans and an oversized sweater despite the warm afternoon, your sunglasses pushed up into your hair.
You look... healthy.
Still thinner than before. Still tired around the eyes.
But healthier than the last time he saw you.
He gets to his feet at once.
"Hi."
Neither of you moves.
No hug. Not even a handshake.
The distance between you suddenly feels enormous.
But you look at each other. You actually look at him after months.
"You came."
You almost smile.
"I wanted to know what you had to say."
He gestures toward the closest path.
"Do you want to walk?"
You nod once.
"Okay."
For the first several minutes, neither of you says a word.
You fall into step beside each other almost awkwardly, leaving enough space between you that neither of your arms accidentally brushes the other's.
The silence isn't comfortable.
It isn't hostile, either. It's careful.
As though one wrong word might send the whole conversation crashing down before it has the chance to begin.
Your footsteps fall out of rhythm, then back into it again.
Leaves rustle overhead. Cyclists pass every now and then, forcing one of you to step aside before drifting apart again without thinking.
The world carries on exactly as it always has.
"I almost didn't come."
"I know."
You glance at him.
"You do?"
He nods.
"I would've understood if you hadn't."
You let out a quiet breath.
"I don't think you would've."
For one instinctive moment, he almost reaches for you. His hand twitches at his side before he curls it into a fist.
But he doesn't get to comfort you from the pain he caused.
Instead, he slips both hands into his pockets and waits for you to speak when you're ready.
"I wanted to hate you," you admit with a small, humorless laugh. "God... I really tried."
"I know."
"No." You shake your head. "You don't."
Your voice trembles despite every effort to steady it.
"You have no idea how much I hated myself for not being able to just... switch it off."
You swallow.
"I kept thinking maybe if I slept with someone else..."
A bitter laugh escapes you.
"I didn't, obviously."
Your eyes stay fixed on the path.
"I think, in some twisted way, it would've been so much easier if you'd cheated on me."
The words surprise even you.
"If you'd just..."
You struggle to finish the sentence.
"...fallen out of love."
Your shoulders lift in a helpless shrug.
"I could've built a life around that."
Beside you, Robby lowers his head. His jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle move.
"But instead..." Your voice softens. "You told me I deserved better."
A hollow laugh slips out.
"Do you know how awful that is?"
He closes his eyes for the briefest moment.
He did this to you. Made you wonder… made you suffer.
And for what?
"Every single day, I kept wondering what was so wrong with me that I wasn't even allowed to choose."
The breeze catches a strand of your hair, and you tuck it behind your ear with hands that still aren't completely steady.
Silence stretches between you.
Long enough that you wonder if he's going to answer at all.
"There was never anything wrong with you."
You stop walking.
He takes another step before realizing you've stopped, then turns back to face you.
"There was everything wrong with me."
You shake your head immediately.
"No."
He frowns.
"No?"
You meet his eyes for the first time since you'd arrived.
"No. That's what you believed."
He frowns.
"You keep talking like you're some kind of... poison. Like you'll ruin everyone who gets too close."
His gaze drops.
His gaze drops to the gravel beneath your feet.
Isn't he?
"And maybe you really believe that." You take another slow breath. "But you don't get to turn yourself into a monster just because it's easier than believing someone could love you."
He feels the words before he understands them.
They settle somewhere deep in his chest, in the place he'd spent years trying not to look.
"You loved me," he says quietly.
"I did." You don't hesitate. "Very much."
He watches you wrap your arms around yourself, fingertips disappearing beneath the sleeves of your sweater.
"You were my first serious relationship, Robby."
A small, sad smile flickers across your face.
The past tense hangs between you.
"I let my guard down with you. I wanted to fit into your world."
Your eyes drift toward the trees.
"Sometimes... it felt like you were ashamed of me."
His head lifts so quickly it almost startles you.
"I wasn't."
"I know." You meet his eyes again. "But that's how it felt."
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
Because his intentions don't erase what you lived through.
"I still..."
The words die before they reach your lips.
Your jaw tightens.
"I'm still trying to figure out what I feel."
He nods once.
"That's fair."
A couple walks past, laughing quietly to themselves. Neither of you notices until they're already gone.
"I know you loved me."
He listens carefully, trying not to think about the hole he feels in his stomach
"But I don't know if I can trust you."
"I know."
"I don't know if I ever will."
"I know."
He lets the silence settle before speaking again.
For once, he lets it exist.
"There is one thing I need you to know."
You wait.
"I wasn't with Noelle." His voice is steady. "I wasn't with anyone else during or after our relationship."
"Thanks for explaining, I believe you."
"I know that's not why we're here."
You nod. "It isn't."
"But I couldn't let you keep believing I'd replaced you."
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
"I'm sorry."
His voice is barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker toward yours for a second.
"For every decision I made for you. For keeping you outside the Pitt."
His eyes meet yours again.
"And for making you believe, even for a second, that you were easy to replace."
Your throat tightens.
"You asked me once what I was afraid of."
You wait.
"I think..."
He lets out a slow breath.
"I thought that if you stayed long enough… you'd wake up one morning and realize you were unhappy."
He laughs quietly at himself.
"That loving me would become the biggest mistake of your life."
His gaze drifts toward your sweater.
"The age difference. My job. The hours. My history. My depression..." He shrugs helplessly. "I kept adding reasons until I couldn't imagine you choosing me anymore."
He looks back at you before he continues. "That's not an excuse. I just want you to know where my head was."
His eyes shine.
"I hated myself so much that I became convinced you'd eventually hate me too."
Something cracks inside his chest. He sounds so lonely and lost. He can’t imagine what you must be thinking about him.
"I never thought that."
"I know."
"No." You take a step toward him before you even realize you're moving. "I really didn't, Michael."
Your eyes search his face.
"I chose you. And you were so easy to love."
He nods, tears gathering despite every effort to hold them back.
"I know that now."
A fragile smile touches his lips.
"Or I'm trying to."
He wipes quickly beneath one eye before the tear can fall.
"And I'm sorry it took losing you to believe it."
You stand there for a long time. Close enough that either of you could reach out. Neither of you does.
Eventually, you smile. It's small and sad, but real.
"I'm still angry with you."
"I figured."
"I might be angry for a long time."
"You've earned that."
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself.
"Don't get cocky."
He huffs a quiet laugh.
"I wasn't planning to."
"No?" You raise an eyebrow. "You broke up with me because you decided what was best for me without asking."
He sighs. For the first time, he truly tries to imagine the conversation with the roles reversed.
You looking him in the eye and deciding (for him) that he'd be happier without you. The thought twists something deep in his chest.
"Do you have any idea how infuriating that is?"
"I do now."
He gives you a small, almost hesitant smile.
"I'm glad you're doing better."
You look at him, but he doesn't answer right away.
"I tried to help. I know I couldn't, but I tried."
"You did. And you helped more than you know."
You look down at your hands.
"I heard you're seeing a therapist. Jack didn't tell me much."
"He wouldn't." A faint smile touches his face. "But... I'm really glad the two of you stayed friends."
"And I'm glad you're doing this."
He looks at you, almost surprised.
"So am I."
The words come more easily than he'd expected.
"I should've done it a long time ago."
Another moment of silence settles between you.
Then you take a slow breath.
"But I don't think we should get back together."
His smile disappears.
Not because he expected something different.vBecause hearing it still hurts like hell.
"Okay."
"But..."
He looks up.
"I also don't think today has to be goodbye."
His chest tightens.
"I don't want us to be strangers anymore."
"You don't?"
"I missed you." You let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "God... that sounds pathetic after everything that's happened."
"It doesn't."
You look away. "You were my best friend, Robby."
The words knock the air from his lungs.
He'd known it.
Somewhere, but hearing you say it out loud is something else entirely.
In so many ways that mattered, you'd been his too.
There were parts of himself only two people had ever truly seen.
You and Jack.
"And I just... I need to see whether the man standing here is the same man who left me before I can even think about dating you or simply being friends with you again."
He nods immediately.
"I understand."
"And I'm not promising anything."
"You don't have to." He lets out a slow breath. "I'll take whatever you're willing to give me."
For a while, you simply stand there.
The silence doesn't feel uncomfortable anymore.
Just... unfamiliar.
You glance toward the little café near the park entrance.
"I'm kind of thirsty."
He follows your gaze.
"You want tea?"
"I think..." A tiny smile finds its way onto your face. "Tea sounds safe."
He almost says, Let's go.
Almost. Instead, he catches himself.
"You tell me."
Your eyes lift to his and you hold his gaze for a long second before smiling.
"I hate that."
He blinks.
"What?"
"You're actually listening."
A quiet laugh escapes both of you.
"I came here fully prepared to argue with you."
"You still can."
"Oh, don't worry." Your smile grows just enough to reach your eyes. "I probably will."
You take a step toward the café before glancing back over your shoulder.
"But I think I'd rather have that tea first."
He falls into step beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside.
first time posting about one of my fanfics kinda nervous.. ok hi I haven’t publicly shared one of my works in so long and not even once on this account so here’s this sneak peak at what I’ll be working on for the next couple weeks or so.. they faces killing me why nobody gaf
☆ Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader ☆
(Part 1) // (Part 2) // Read on AO3
summary: After surviving his past and saving the woman he loves, comes the hardest part for Andrew: living happily ever after.
word count: 49.1K (sorry not sorry)
c.w: fluff, implied smut, a little bit of angst, religious imagery, birth scene, childhood trauma, FLUFF
a/n: Here we are. It took me two months to write this part and I sincerily hope that it's worth the wait. I love them so much (maybe one day will I add bonus scenes, who knows) and can say happily that they made me grow as a writer. Per usual, I thank my wife and soulmate @dyingofeverything for proofreading and motivating me throughout the process. Also, thanks @thatcorporategirlie and @st-kitten for everything - the advices, the laughs.
Finally, thank you reader for being part of this adventure.
The primary warning sign is in the water, which should flow around your shoulders in familiar ripples and conduct the sound of mirth and wrestling from boys who never mastered how to be quiet or drop weapons, ricocheting against the tiles and the walls of the backyard like it always does at their mother’s house, all brash and messy and alive…but it doesn’t. The absence of noise presses in on you, like your ears have been packed with cotton soaked in rancid vitriol, clinging to the inside of your skull and twisting every movement into a detached gesture.
You induce a push in your hands so they hit the water, anticipating the usual splash, only to be met by silence which swallows whole the sound before it can reach you – just the motion without consequence, like you are mimicking swimming.
You venture once more, slower this time, slicing your hand through the pool and awaiting the tiny mayhem that should ensue…nothing, it’s like you are grazing air. You opt for another approach and exert yourself to bring your hands in front of you to clap (just to force a sound into existence, to verify that the world hasn’t been stripped down to this suffocating house you have abhorred at first sight) but your fingers don’t quite connect, hovering apart like opposing magnets repelling each other.
Turning your head toward the other side of the pool in despair, you notice them: Craig, his mouth open in what you know must be laughter as he grapples with Deran, limbs tangled in their careless violent version of playing, but the image is wrong too, slowed down, delayed, like watching them via a pane of thick glass that distorts every motion and steals every sound – existence permutated into a silent film that you are forced to be a spectator of – their voices lost beyond your reach no matter how you strain.
Andrew is there as well, closer to you than his brothers, face in your direction and lips shaping around your name, yet it doesn’t reach you, none of it does: not the action, nor the intention. Like an invisible rampart dropped between you and the rest of the world, thick and impenetrable, making you question for a second if you’ve somehow descended beneath the surface of life without realizing it.
Your throat moves, your mouth too, but you can’t utter a word. There’s only the sense of trying and failing, panic creeping slowly and coiling around your ribs as the smell catches you.
An acrid metallic sting that coats the back of your tongue as if you’ve bitten down on rust, combined with the stomach-turning reek of flesh burning that you identify easily for knowing it all too well, and it doesn’t belong here, in the clean blue stretch of the Cody’s pool underneath a Californian sky that, with a bit more heed, feels uncanny: clouds frozen in time, reminding you of a painting by Constable, the sun gradually turning murkier.
You inhale out of the fear without meaning to and the putrid odor fills your lungs, heavy and asphyxiating, eyes peering down before freezing.
The water is no longer crystalline. It’s dark, viscous, dragging along your arms and torso, feeling wrong, wrong, wrong, and when you lift your hand, it comes up coated in red, sliding down in thick strands that don’t drip so much as stretch.
The red is everywhere but it isn’t the bright, playful reflection of Nick’s inflatable crab you bought him on his last birthday dancing on the surface, nor the chimera of late afternoon sunlight breaking into shards, no, it’s a red that is dense, absorbing light rather than mirroring it. For a second, your brain refuses to name it before the recognition hits like a physical blow, knocking the air out of you as your lungs strain to deny what they have already taken in.
Blood. Their blood.
You jerk your head up but the space where they were is empty, the pool suddenly vast and endless as the house looms silent beyond like it never held joy, never held life – nothing but a hollow shell observing you from a distance that keeps on growing no matter how hard you try to orient yourself to the ladder, your body declining to respond.
There’s a pull at your limbs, a constraint you hadn’t noted until this moment, attempting to lift your arms that refuses to rise and straining uselessly against the pressure at your back, wrists bound tight enough that the skin aches under the unseen grip and ankles locked in the same manner, forcing your legs into a helpless alignment that keeps you afloat only because the liquid is sufficiently thick to hold.
(fuck, no. it’s like in…in the- no. it’s not the warehouse. none of that is real…right?)
Your mouth opens wide, the panic breaking through your chest in a violent surge, but instead of a yelp or scream, it’s a thick liquid that spills past your lips, the taste of gasoline flooding your tongue, throat convulsing as you choke on it, trying to force it out, but more follows, pouring from you while the fumes make you teary-eyed.
“…hey, sweetheart…”
Andrew’s voice cuts through the silence in fragments, distorted and stretched thin as if it has been dragged from within the pool. Pool that subtly, like removed piece by piece, gives way under your feet with its tiles slipping and dissolving into oblivion, only for your body to sink lower, the blood ingesting you more with every inch that rises to your shoulders, licks at your jaw and creeps at your lips – parted in a futile attempt to breathe.
You contemplate, distantly, that this is how it ends. Slowly.
So unbearably slow that your body has time to comprehend what is happening, to catalog each second of it, recognizing the inevitability that unfolds without mercy: you are going to die in the place where you first met Andrew, drowning in the blood of the people you love, body bound and useless.
The liquid climbs over your nose and you perceive once more his voice, nearer this time. (or…maybe you are only hallucinating it because you can’t fathom let the last thing you listen to be silence?)
“…come on…you’re okay…just breathe…”
You wish you could tell him how much you try. How your chest expands for your lungs to fight for air, drawing in instead the coagulated weight that forces its way in, your body convulsing violently as you try to expel it, only to feel a pressure that encloses around your neck. Pulse hammering against it, frantic, your body reacts even as the rest collapses, every nerve in you screaming at once.
The lights of the pool snaps off, nothingness engulfing that one suspended second: no pool, no body, no breath. Only the certainty that, right now, you are not alone in the dark, a form occupying the same space as you and close enough that you can feel the displacement of it in the glide that sends a ripple along your spine, close enough to…
You wake with a broken sound tearing out of your larynx and hands flying to your neck, searching for the source of the pressure that still lingers but instead of it, you find the cool, familiar heart-shaped pendant beneath your fingertips. The obscurity is different here, edged with the outline of furniture that don’t match the house in Oceanside – wooden and warm with life, the defiance of a man born and raised in coldness.
(home. you’re home. back in Ojai. back with the bab-)
A hand touches you, provoking a recoil in your muscles, the ghost of the dream still near, present, and for a brief second, you don’t know who it is, no, not until you hear him.
“Shh…count with me. One. Two. Three. Four.”
Turning toward it instinctively, body slower to follow than your mind due to the weight of your pregnancy making each movement heavier, you seek him out, catching on each number as you force yourself to follow him. “One. Two. Three. Four.”
The words come out broken at first, uneven, but they exist outside of your head, and that alone feels like progress – the proof that you are still there, real. Without closing the distance or overwhelming you, Andrew’s presence stabilizes, granting you to come instead of pulling you in with his hands hovering near your arms. You end up half climbing, half collapsing into him, the movement awkward due to your center of gravity altered by the pregnancy, to which he responds immediately, one arm sliding around your back to guide and support you, while the other finds yours and draws them down to your belly where they belong, grounding you both.
“It’s okay, you’re okay. You’re not there anymore.” His chin rests above your head as you settle against him, face tucked into the space beneath it and breath still jagged but beginning to shadow his, your arm wrapping around his waist so that his warmth seeps into you to replace the cold and the panic in the pit of your stomach.
“I-I know. It’s so…stupid.” The term feels wrong as it leaves your mouth, shaped out of the frustration and the lingering embarrassment that always goes with the nightmares.
“It’s not stupid. You shouldn’t say that,” he replies, his brows – that even if you can’t see, you know – knitted together, body tensed while the pad of his thumb traces slowly all around your navel.
You exhale a long breath. “I just don’t understand why I still think about this even after all this time.”
“Four months is not a lot of time,” he answers with a slight edge in his voice that you know is not directed at you but rather at the manner you have of diminishing your kidnapping, expecting yourself to be past it already.
“Still. I wish they could stop.”
“It’s okay. They will pass,” he murmurs, words belonging to him and his nightmares, who still keeps him awake every night, as much as they do to you.
Shifting, your hand travels from his waist up along his bare chest, fingertips tracing the lines you know by heart, the gesture playful despite the lingering tremor in your muscles. “Were you still not sleeping?” you ask, trying to pull the moment somewhere else.
“No.”
“Talking again?” you continue, a smile finding its way back as you tilt your head, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, the contact brief but enough to make his breath hitch in a noise that still delights you, even after a year together.
“We were agreeing that you should sleep and rest more,” he breathes, words coming out rough under your touch.
You roll your eyes, a quiet chuckle escaping past your teeth as they catch gently at his jaw. “Not even born and already conspiring with you, hm?”
“Yes,” he answers with a tiny shift in his voice, lips curving up and hand continuing its slow path along each curve and striae.
A yawn catches you off guard, stretching a body that finally begins to let go while tucking your face in the crook of his neck, voice dropping as sleep starts to pull at you again. “Fine. But if…” You stop mid-sentence. No, both of you stop breathing at the gentle, repetitive movement beneath your palms. Lifting up your head with a light laugh, you reassure him and his frown, “Hiccups,” before echoing his previous words, “It’s okay. They will pass, Andy.”
He nods, the tension in his face easing as he leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips, then lower to the hollow between your breasts, then further still, his mouth brushing your belly before he settles there, his head resting as if listening for an answer.
You grin, fingers threading into his curls, knowing what will follow – the usual murmurs directed at what’s growing beneath his hand, words you are not meant to hear, discussions that belong to them. “Don’t stay up too late, ‘kay? Don’t want any crude jokes from Craig tomorrow ‘bout me keeping you up all night,” you whisper, voice thickening with sleep.
“He won’t,” he replies with certainty, his hand moving in time with each small movement under your skin, an incandescent smile shaping his mouth as he meets what feels like a head or a foot pressing back. “Go back to sleep, I’m handling it.”
“Fine,” you yawn, eyes closing and body sinking fully into the mattress and the safety he builds around you without effort. “But no more conspiring.”
“No more conspiring.”
──────────
“I think I’m being invaded by an alien. A greedy one,” you sighed, tiptoeing into the kitchen, one hand low on your stomach as if you could reason or bargain with the little marvel that had taken root inside you and now dictated the rhythm of your days with an unpredictable, sovereign appetite.
Andrew had been sitting at the table when you entered, a book open beneath his hand whose spine broke from how he had been reading the same page over and over in the past hour while you were napping without truly going forward, eyes fixed on the lines while his mind circled elsewhere, trapped in a loop of interrogations that had no responses yet – not until the first ultrasound tomorrow at least – and no mercy in the way they returned.
(What if something was wrong? With the baby? With you? With him. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the cracks on the table.)
He turned the page despite the grip he had onto it, though he couldn’t recall the last sentence he had skimmed. A book among the dozen he purchased yesterday at the library where he had felt so ill-adapted, encircled by families, fathers who were indisputably better men, who knew what they were doing, who hadn’t spent most of their lives breaking instead of building, who were not petrified of ruining a small being with a wrong move. But still, he had obtained those books. Because he had vowed himself to become worthy of his miracle.
(Craig had told two words. Easy. Natural. That it had felt like breathing for Nick. But it didn’t feel easy. It felt comparable to standing at the edge of a cliff. Like being permitted into a place he had no right to enter. Akin to waiting for a higher power to notice the mistake and revoke this joy. One. Two. Three. Four.)
He breathed through it, struggling to cease his inner spiraling.
(For he had almost lost you. The light he learned to follow. His reason to breathe. And he had nearly lost himself before being more than what made him. Before he could merit you. Just a few inches north and the world would have closed without him knowing how to stay.)
Instead, he got to sat at a kitchen table in a home far from Oceanside, with a book about parenting in front of him, awaiting a child that had no reason to exist except that somehow, impossibly, grace had found him – a sinner being handed a blessing. His gaze lifted up when you reached the fridge, tugging it open and inclining your forehead alongside the cool edge. The content had not changed since this morning: the same containers aligned, same milk, same vegetables and yet…you appeared less upset by them.
“I think the little bean is less picky today, honey,” you informed him, quiet but with a conspiratorial grin. A habit that you had initiated recently: narrating the invisible, shaping what he couldn’t yet discern or touch, telling him hourly how you and the baby felt, what it seemed to desire or refuse, the translator of a language he felt no right to master but hopelessly craved to acquire. Because devoid of it…he was sightless, circling back his thoughts toward how he would manage to turn his promised land to ashes.
Andrew rose from the chair without a blink, leaving the book behind him, forgotten mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-fear, because none of it held more significance than you and the baby standing there. He crossed the space between you in a few steps and slid his arms around your waist, cautious not to press too firmly while his palms settled on the soft curve of your belly. Chin dipped to your shoulder, his lips brushed behind your ear.
“How bad?” he murmured.
You hummed, considering. “Not bad-bad like yesterday,” you replied, tilting your head to the side just enough for him to pursue his kisses along your neck and inhaling the remnant smell of this morning’s sex, “Just…the baby seems craving a sandwich and sweet words.” A small teasing grin broke past your lips. “Like its father.”
(Father. He was going to be a father. To a child. A being that would grow. One that he couldn’t fail. Couldn’t hurt. The word resided in his chest like a psalm. A canticle. Father. The doxology at the end of his book would chant it. Father. Now and forevermore, Andrew Cody would be a father.)
The corner of his mouth curled up, sufficiently for you to sense in on your skin. “The baby has good taste then.”
“The best,” you whispered, head turned to peer at him over your shoulder, eyes tender. “Now…let’s try to feed this foodie alien.”
He nodded once before letting you slip free to scan the shelves again, surveying every small shift in your expression, each flicker of interest or rejection to catalog them for later. You ended up grasping the container of turkey, his stomach twisting.
(Not that. Not after yesterday. Holding your hair while your body spew it out. Hearing the contrite noise you made like you were the one that failed. Apologized as if it had been your blame instead of his. He should have done better. Asked. Learned faster. Anything. But no. You had trusted him with something as simple as food and he had gotten even that wrong. And you had been sick all night. Maybe harming the baby too in his ineptitude?)
“Maybe that’s not the bes-” he started.
“That’s what the baby wants, honey,” you cut in gently, opening it.
He watched as you set it down, reaching for the bread, then the peanut butter. His head tilted slightly. “You’re mixing them?”
You smiled. “Yep.”
“That doesn’t-”
“Make sense?” you finished for him, laughing. “No, it definitely doesn’t.” You glanced back, eyes bright. “But it feels right.”
You assembled the sandwich unhurriedly, scrupulously, all too aware of him observing, like the act itself mattered. Because to his eyes, it did. And he committed it to memory: the way you held the knife, the angle of your wrist, the arrangement, how you spread the peanut butter on one slice but not the other, how you placed four pieces of turkey. Just so he could make it later if you were not able to.
Taking a bite of your sandwich, it took less than four in his mind for him to see your face crumpling, tears welling up rapidly and spilling over before you could halt them.
“What’s wrong?” His hands were already on you, one cupping your cheek and the other steadying your arm, body angled closer in a feeble attempt to shield you from what was occurring inwardly.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counted your wet lashes.)
“I…” you voice wavered, frustration breaking through. “I wanted that, and now I don’t.” Another tear slipped free, shoulders trembling enough to hit him unforgivingly. “And I can’t stop crying for a fucking ridiculous sandwich.”
“Hey, it’s okay sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not ridiculous.” His thumb brushed the tear away, then another, handling the utmost sacred soul that he was terrified of shattering. “I can make something else,” he continued, already shifting in problem-solving mode, planning. “Or I can go out.”
“It’s late,” you replied weakly.
“I don’t care.”
(He meant it on his life. There was no scale where your distress didn’t outweigh the rest. Time. Money. Distance. Rule. He would dismantle all of it. Tell you that it was not foolish. Never with him. That you were carrying a miracle. The plan for the future was straightforward. Learn every version of your hunger like scripture. Every change. Every need.)
He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, then the other, lips lingering there as if he could replace each tear with his adoration. “What do you want?”
You sniffed, embarrassed. “I don’t know.”
“That’s fine. We’re gonna figure it out.”
Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding him there tightly. “I feel bad, Andy.”
“Don’t.”
“But I do!”
“Don’t,” he breathed, forehead brushing yours. “You’re growing our baby.” His hand flattened once more against your stomach, on the verge of getting back on his knees to worship the altar of your skin and hips. “You don’t have to feel bad about needing something, okay?”
You slowly nodded as he tilted his head to be able to keep the eye-contact with you.
“What about that cake?” he asked after a moment, continuing to search your face. “The red one you had last week with the frosting.”
Your whole face flickered up. “The red velvet?”
“Yes.”
You hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”
Relief moved through him. “Good.” He kissed your lips before adding against them, “I’m back in seven.”
Retrieving back his car keys, he heard your laugh, the one that still got him through a sensation close to television static or crackling embers, tingling all throughout his body. “It’s at least fifteen!”
Opening the door, he repeated, certain. “I’m back in seven.”
When he returned – four hundred seconds later – you were curled up on the couch, blanket pulled over your legs and television on, airing a documentary about seagulls in the background. He set the box down, beside your plate and fork, opening it with the same meticulousness he applied to everything else: corner by corner, watchful not to rip it before settling by your side, who instantly rested your head on his shoulder, one hand intertwined loosely with his over your stomach while the other picked at the cake in small bites.
“Better?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hairline to cover for the relief that flooded him at the view of food finally settling in.
You nodded with a yawn in your tone. “Much.” His hand moved along your arm in slow passes, a cadence meant to ground him as much as to soothe you, who added a soft, “Thank you, Andy.”
The television kept going, something about the water or the eggs, but he barely perceived the sound of it. All he heard was your breathing, all he felt was your weight against him and all he saw, when he allowed himself to look down, was your lashes resting on your cheeks, mouth parted.
Adjusting the blanket over you carefully, Andrew bowed his head once, thanking a celestial being for this.
(For his angel and his wonder. For the grace he didn’t earn. The penance. Paradise placed into his hands. One that he refused to turn into ash. Not this time. He would guard his blessings like relics. Let hell come later. He will meet it knowing he had held heaven in his arms.)
“You’re okay,” he promised quietly to your form and to the life under his hand. “Everything will be okay.”
──────────
And just like you had prophesied the night prior, Craig shouts, “Kept him up all night, huh?” the second he gets at the entrance of the house, grin wide, stepping forward to wrap you in an unrestrained bear hug. “Look at you! I can’t even put my arms around anymore!”
You snort, breath catching. (only a little. because well…that’s what six months pregnant does to you. and due to Craig Cody, who embraces the same as everything else he carries out: wholly, boisterously and short of moderation.) “Careful, Craigo,” you scold him, though there’s no real protest in it.
He turns a deaf ear to your words, pulling back only to pivot toward Andrew, clapping a hand against his shoulder and drawing him into a rough grip. “Hey man!”
Andrew receives it with his usual stiffness, unblinking, arms hovering gawkily at his sides before landing on his brother’s dorsum, appearing hesitant to what the appropriate comeback is meant to be. “We-” he mumbles after a beat. “We’re glad to see you.”
Deran rolls his eyes – sufficient to peer at his own skull – behind Craig, walking onward himself, quieter but no less affectionate as he drags you into a hug of his own. “Don’t listen to Craig,” he whispers, voice low near your ear. “You look terrific.”
You beam on his shoulder, leaning further into it. “Thanks Deran. It’s good to see you.”
Craig is already halfway across the house by the time you step back, his voice echoing from the garden. “Bro!” A beat. Then louder, impressed, “You built a ramp out there!” You perceive the sharp clap of his palms, the sound bouncing on the walls. “It’s so sick! When did you do that? I didn’t see it the last time I came!”
Andrew exhales, slipping back into the older brother mode, striding after him and shaking his head. “Yes. But don’t go th...” His voice fades as he disappears outside and to whatever chaos Craig is about to engender near your carefully maintained backyard.
You turn back to Deran, who is already observing you with that similar prudent gaze he continuously appears to have, subsequent to discovering in the same hour that you had been abducted, harmed and pregnant. (it’s in those moments that you perceive their resemblance. this matching spark in the Cody’s eyes. this manner of verifying a situation silently.) “Everything okay with Craig?” you ask, one hand lying under your belly to support the weight.
Deran nods, his arm wrapping around yours as he guides you back inside the house, adjusting his pace to match without comment. “Yeah, Yeah. You know Craig.” You smile faintly. “He woke up at five this morning,” he adds, still baffled. “All because we were coming to see you both.”
“That’s adorable,” you giggle, nudging his shoulder. “And you? How are you doing?”
He shrugs, even though there’s something there, a thing he’s attempting not to display and failing lamentably. “An ex of mine reached out,” he tells, struggling at a casual tone. “Adrian. He was away for a while. I mean…out of the country. Told me he was coming back soon.”
You lift your brows, interest sparking. “Oh…so?” you tease, already smirking. “Are we finally gonna see mister single and brooding Deran Cody settling down for good?”
He looks away, the tips of his ears turning crimson practically instantly. “Don’t know,” he grumbles. “We’ll see where it leads.”
By the time you both reach the nursery, Andrew has fruitfully retrieved Craig from whatever hazardous idea he had for the ramp. This nursery…still comes across as unreal each day you step inside it. It’s beautiful, yes, no doubt regarding it: with its walls painted by Andrew on one of his restless nights in celadon green (not laurel green. not pastel green. celadon. he had been very serious about the distinction.) paired with animals you had added yourself despite his protestation concerning the chemicals, and the glow in the dark stars you had guided him to stick on the ceiling shaped in your constellations, the bedroom can’t possibly be any warmer or softer. But still. It feels unreal to know that in less than three months, in this exact room, there will be cries and late-night bottles.
Andrew stands in the middle of it, encircled by the boxes – crib, wardrobe, changing table, rocking chair, Andrew had purchased every single item in the store that day – in line to be assembled, shoulders tense like awaiting for one thing: their approval.
And, for his brothers read him as much as you do, Deran whistles, nodding his head. “It’s great,” quickly followed by Craig, “Yeah. Like really good.”
Andrew dips his head just a little in relief before starting to unpack the packages, fingers twitching and gaze flicking at the crews Craig has scattered around, desirous of fixing and lining them up. But he doesn’t, breathing in and out leisurely.
You linger only a moment longer, letting them settle into the task and each other. Because that’s the whole point of this day: you didn’t suggest Andrew to call them on the account of needing assistance to put together the nursery, you did because he needed his brothers – their presence, their closeness, their bond, all the things he had been missing despite their regular visits. Just being a big brother.
-
You come back less than an hour later, partly to observe their progression, partly to ask if they desire anything to drink. That is up until you are outside the nursery door, hand resting against the frame, Andrew’s tone freezing you to your spot.
“…no, it’s just…I’m scared.” Your breath halts, heart hammering in your ribcage. “What if I’m not a good father? Or…what if I pass it on?”
Craig’s voice, gentler than you’ve ever heard him, strains to respond. “Hey, man-”
“No, I’m serious,” Andrew cuts in. “All the…the quiet and the thinking and the fucking darkness.” You hear screws falling on the hardwood floor and a sob. “I don’t want anyone to be like me.”
You move closer, just enough to witness through the small gap of the door the three brothers hugging, both on each side of Andrew, comforting.
“Well,” Deran declares, “I’d be proud if my nephew or niece was anything like you. You’re the one who took care of us. Not Smurf. You. Made sure we ate. Took hits for us.”
Craig chuckles, pulling out of the embrace. “Gave hits for us too.”
Deran smacks him behind the head without even looking, too busy trying to maintain Andrew’s eye contact. “This kid is not gonna get the worst of you, ‘kay?” he continues. “And you’re gonna be a good dad. The best kind.”
In a flash, Andrew turns his head in an endeavor to contain the sentiment too enormous for his chest. “I’ll try,” he replies quietly with a hoarse voice. “I swear.”
“And that’s more than what we ever had,” Deran smiles, patting his arm.
You noiselessly walk back to the living room, struggling to ignore your eyes stinging and wet while the weight of everything (your body, the heartbeats in it, the love) suddenly feels heavier than earlier.
-
The third time you return, the room has metamorphosed, hand flying to your mouth before you can pause it: the crib stands assembled near the window, wardrobe up and doors aligned, the changing table in place…even the rocking chair sits ready in the corner.
“Oh, boys,” you breathe, stepping inside. “It’s perfect.” You cross the room, wrapping your arms around Andrew first, pressing a kiss to his lips, then turning and drawing Craig into a hug, quickly ensued by Deran. “How about we eat now?” you ask, beaming with emotion. “We can finish the rest after. Andrew and I made crab cakes this morning.”
Craig lights up instantly. “That’s what I want to hear!”
You chuckle, turning to the threshold, thinking about plates and drinks and if it’s sunny enough to eat outside.
“Hey! Wait,” Craig calls out, pointing toward the last box – unlabeled and untouched. “What’s that?”
You glance at Andrew then back at them. “Oh…Right,” your hand drifts unconsciously to your stomach. “About that…” Andrew wraps his arm around your waist as you add happily, “there’s something we need to tell you.”
──────────
He let out a startled breath matching yours as the gel touched your skin, possibly even colder than anticipated despite the forewarning, spreading beneath the probe in a measured motion that made your body tense for a brief second before easing once more at the contact of his hand, which had tautened unconsciously as if the sensation had been inflicted on him instead of you, head bowed to catch your eyes, searching for a sign of unease.
(You’re okay. It’s common. The book said it would be cold. Said it would be stressful. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the sounds emitted by the ultrasound machine.)
You beamed at him, a soft curve at your mouth that utterly undid the knot in his ribcage, fingers squeezing back in silent reassurance, anchoring him back in the room like you continuously did when he didn’t recognize how to ask but still got a reply from you.
Andrew refused for his eyes to blink since you laid there, surrounded by a scent of antiseptic mixed with chlorine (which in any other occurrence, would have relieved him as it meant cleanness therefore a germ-free space), white walls and lighting designed to soothe or suggest safety. But he had discovered long ago that environments lied and that the most devastating moments often unfolded in places that looked precisely like this.
(What if there’s nothing there? Or it’s too small? Maybe his curse spread to the baby. To you. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted your lashes.)
The thoughts resumed, obstinate, circling back like it had all morning, or all week, or perhaps ever since the word ‘baby’ had entered his life. He shifted closer to you on the narrow examination table, vigilant of your position before placing a kiss on your shoulder, free hand hovering for a second up until settling on your thigh, thumb caressing once, twice…just enough to remind himself that today was supposed to be one of the most memorable of his life.
The sonographer spoke with a serene voice, practiced, explaining what she would be looking for or asking how far along you were (eleven weeks. Which meant seventy-seven days. Which meant more than six and a half million seconds.) and Andrew listened…or strived to at least, seizing fragments and holding securely onto the ones that felt important to let the rest slip past, attention solely absorbed on you – the rise and fall of your chest, the warmth of your hand in his, the curve of your body that began to show…
The probe pressed deeper onto your belly as the screen of the echograph flickered to life beside you, shapes forming and dissolving in shades of grey and white. He leaned forward regardless of grasping them, eyes fixed on it and attempting to view what he was supposed to.
(His child. Not abstract. Not theoretical. Real. His child. Inside you. Dependent on you. Dependent on him. His child. Child. Child. He needed to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.)
The sonographer halted. “Do you have any history of multiple pregnancies in your family?” she queried, her tone unchanged, neutral, as if the question held no substance beyond routine.
Andrew’s head turned, eyes snapping from the monitor to her and, body going motionless, latched onto the implication without fully understanding.
(Multiple. Why would that matter? Does it make it harder? Put you at risk? Should he have expressed it sooner? Does it-)
“Yes,” he replied, the word coming out hushed, mechanical, his fingers trembling around yours. “I’m a twin.”
She nodded, like suspecting this response or corroborating what she had witnessed and identified. Andrew’s gaze remained on her, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the confirmation that he had somehow destroyed something good again. Rotating the screen more toward you both, the doctor’s hand lifted to point at it.
“Okay,” she started, gentle. “So. Here, you can see an amniotic sac…”
Andrew followed the movement of her finger, eyes focusing to distinct shape from shadow, his mind working through it with a desperate attention.
“…and here is the second one.”
His breath stalled momentarily, unable to perceive your relieved laugh, unable to hear you asking for the doctor to clarify because he was attempting, with everything he had, to process what the word signified, what the word entailed. How on the monitor were two individual round shapes, side by side.
The woman pointed once more, finger precisely set on a small, pulsing form. “So here is baby number one.” His eyes locked onto it, unblinking, memorizing the shape, the existence of such a tiny- “And here,” she added, moving to the other form, “is baby number two.”
The axis of his entire world shifted under his feet, everything else – the room, the sound, the air – falling away for a moment as his mind tried and failed to recalibrate around what he had just been told. Your fingers squeezed around his, a gentle pressure that met his with certainty, thumb brushing over his knuckles once, twice, four times as if you were counting for him without saying it out loud. Your gaze remained fixed on the screen, tears gathering at the edge of your lashes, yet your hand never faltered in his. And though you didn’t peer at him, he sensed it in the language you had constructed together in the quiet of nights and in the spaces where words had missed him: the way you stabilized him without breaking from the moment, like you were holding both this miracle and him at once.
(Two. His angel and his grace, multiplied. Or…mayhap twice the chance to fail. To break them. Twice the chance for them to be like him. Because what’s in his blood will pass on. And he won’t be able to shield them both. He couldn’t even protect you. The warehouse. Your tears. Your nightmares. His failure. Bad thought.)
His chest constricted, the tension running through him like a current he couldn’t shut off nor contain.
“Two?” you echoed, a small, breathless laugh threading through the word in awe as you rotated toward him, not forcing him to mirror your amazement but letting him linger in his head. “As in…two babies.”
Andrew didn’t answer. No, worse: couldn’t. His gaze was still transfixed on the screen and the two forms, his mind splitting itself in half to carry both at once – all the joy and the terror like tides with no shore to break against. He swallowed, hard, head spinning and turning away from the screen because it was starting to feel too much, too fast, too-
“It’s okay, honey,” you murmured, words meant only for him as you pressed a kiss on his knuckles. “Everything’s okay.”
He exhaled a shaky, uneven breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding with the panic, attempting a nod.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the number of letters in love. One for each of you.)
You pivoted back to the doctor, voice steadier now, a touch of curiosity and wonder threading through it despite his own lack of reaction. “Can we…hear them?” you asked.
“Of course,” the woman smiled, adjusting the settings while the room fell into a suspended hum, Andrew leaning forward, unable to stop himself, too drawn toward the source and the confirmation and whatever came next.
The sound instantly became his second favorite in the universe – right after the memory of you speaking his name for the first time in the backyard of the Oceanside’s house as you were standing near the pool. It filled the room, louder than it had any right to be, louder than anything that small should produce: a rapid tandem of heartbeats that belonged neither to you nor him.
Andrew’s head dropped before he could cease it, forehead coming to rest against your shoulder, body folding in surrender, and his hand shaking around yours as the sound lasted, sealing every empty space inside him. The other one, who was still laying on your thigh, ran up gradually to caress the side of your stomach where there was no gel like he could reach them both if he tried hard enough.
“You…” he started, his voice rough and quiet as not to disturb them, swallowed, then tried once more. “You gave me…” The words faltered, insufficient for what he was straining to say, what he was feeling and for the enormity of it pressing against his ribs. His thumb brushed against your belly.
(You. Them. Him. One. Two. Three. Four. Even number. Good number.)
“You gave me everything.”
──────────
“Okay, how about…Apple and August?” you ask with enthusiasm, chin tilted to witness the precise moment Andrew’s whole body stills alongside you, one hand contracting around the handlebar of the cart while the other lingers mid-air upon a rack of small cotton onesies, gaze fixed forward like he’s bracing for impact rather than processing your words.
(three seconds to panic. new record. nice. next time you’ll come up with even worse just to see him fighting for his life.)
He doesn’t blink, not once. You can discern the calculation behind his eyes, the scrupulous determination to respond adequately, to not dismiss you, to not wound your sentiments, to not – under any circumstances – utter the incorrect thing about the names of children that don’t yet exist outside of you.
“A-Apple,” he repeats slowly, testing the structure of it, as if perchance it will rearrange itself if he gives it a sufficient amount of time, his thumb brushing distractedly against the cart as he resumes walking, guiding you down the aisle with the same silent watchfulness he has applied since the first day you met: slightly ahead of you, constantly angled in a manner that shields you without making it obvious.
You hum, pleased, one hand resting beneath your tummy to support its weight as he matches your pace, the other trailing along the shelves, grazing fabrics you don’t even register since your attention is entirely on him and the tautness in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches, the fact that he hasn’t yet shut his eyes – all is priceless.
“It’s…original,” he finally answers, voice measured and gentle, as if he’s navigating a minefield you laid out just to find how he’d cross it.
You bite back a smirk. “Frodo?” you offer next, tilting your head and surveying him from the corner of your eye.
That one nearly wrecks him. His lips part, then press together again, breath catching enough for you to perceive and his fingers knocking four times on the handlebar before he exhales gradually through his nose, composure stumbling for just a millisecond prior to reining it back in.
“Frodo?” he echoes, quieter this time, like perhaps if he speaks sufficiently low, the name will be wiped out into thin air to never be voiced anymore.
You can’t hold it more than thirty seconds, a giggle escaping you, whole-hearted and unrestrained as you step closer to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, lips remaining there longer than necessary just to feel his skin warming under the contact as the blood rushes to his face.
“I’m joking, honey,” you murmur, amusement threading through your voice. “You should see your face.”
He respires, the tension draining from him in a noticeable wave: shoulders dropping, jaw slackening, his head tilting in your direction – recalibrating his whole brain now that the hazard has passed and that he can properly breathe once again. “Good,” he responds almost to himself.
Chuckling, you slide your arm through his free one up until the pads of your fingers caresses along the inside of his wrist to sit where his pulse thrums steady and strong. And for a minute – just a tiny one – you forget about the names, the shopping, about anything that isn’t the way his thick veins stand out underneath his skin paired with the constellation of freckles disseminated on his forearm and the flex of his muscles as he pushes the cart forward.
(those arms should be illegal. you can quote your brain and hormones on that. honestly, asking him to skip the store to go home wouldn’t be that excessive, right? not that it would change much from your daily life nowadays. being pregnant has made you crave less for food than for him.)
You spend the next aisle feigning to examine small jackets while very noticeably not, ogling back at him again and again, from his sleeves that are pushed up sufficiently to display his entire biceps to his pants, who can barely conceal his co-
Andrew throws a glance over, catching you mid-inspection, eyes dropping first to where your palm lingers on his arm and your digits tracing his veins, before lifting back to your face, a darker expression settling there, mirroring your own. Still, he exhales through his nose, forcing himself to recede into reason. “No. We’re supposed to get clothes and we’re getting them.”
“But come on,” you pout, not even pretending to move away, your grip increasing an ounce, nails grazing all along his skin in a slow, absent drag, lashes lowering purposely as you peer at him through them. “We can still do this next week.”
“Remember what the doctor said,” he replies, although it sounds more like he’s attempting to persuade himself.
You scrunch your nose, pretending annoyance. “Yes, yes. ‘Twins birth often happens at the 36th week.’”
“So, let’s finish this,” he states after a beat, voice raspy but stable now that he’s dragging himself into his own mind structure that practically never fails him. “And then we can go home after, okay?”
Examining him for a second and how the word ‘home’ shaped his mouth, you nod, the teasing ebbing away. “Okay.”
He doesn’t budge instantaneously, gaze lingering on you, scanning and assessing with the same methods he has been applying ever since your body began to change faster than he had anticipated, his hand still hovering close to your arm. “You shouldn’t have come,” he adds cautiously, placing each word down with purpose. “It’s getting harder for you to walk.”
You roll your eyes, amused, leaning in to smooth another quick kiss to his cheek. “I’m okay, Andy,” you whisper, drawing away just enough to encounter his unwavering stare. “And if I’m not, I’ll tell you. Promise.”
Studying you for half a second longer, Andrew ultimately nods, the promise being ample for him. You slip your palm onto his arm and guide him forward once more, returning into the rhythm of the aisles, the textiles under your fingertips as you move, attentive to the racks in front of you filled with babies outfits – impossibly soft and small and each more absurdly adorable than the last.
You halt in front of a display, air gone from your lungs as you raise a miniature coat with fox ears sewn into the hood, the cloth all warm and plush under your fingers. “Andrew,” you call, dragging the last syllable of his name to make him perk up from his thoughts.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t question. His eyes flick over it once, at your face lighting up, mumbles a “Looks soft,” and into the cart the two coats goes.
Moving like that through the store, drifting from one shelf to another, hands constantly reaching, touching, lifting, and comparing, every action is deliberate, done with the awareness that Andrew – despite his longing – would have to combat his own brain to be able to do this, continuously pondering about the germs and how many people have touched these exact same spots. Picking two outfits with similar cuts but different colors, not desiring for your twins to be Tweedledee and Tweedledum, you can’t help but picture your boy and girl in each and every little thing. Which, slowly, leads you to discovering more: animal onesies, socks, hats, swaddles, Andrew keeping up with you without missing a beat, nodding, adding to the cart and never once checking the price tags that hang from each piece.
(you’re positive that he would empty the store and his bank account if you asked. isn’t it what he promises every night, panting and undone above you as if there is nothing in this universe he wouldn’t place at your feet?)
Halfway down the 6 to 12 months aisle, he stops. Frozen. Rotating toward him just as his gaze fixes on something at eye level, face caught between hesitation and adulation, you track his line of sight to catch on simple green onesies with words printed across the front. Best Dad Ever.
“Do you want to take two?” you ask gently.
He huffs a breath, almost a snort – an awful attempt to dismiss the idea before it can land. “It’s ridiculous,” he mutters, already shifting his weight like he’s about to move on.
You don’t let him. You can’t, not when it has soften his eyes like that. Hand coming up to catch his wrist, you reply with certainty, “I don’t think it is.” He stills, peering back at you. “They should each have one,” you continue, thumb brushing four times over his, speaking that silent language you always fall into with him. “Because their dad really is the best ever.”
His expression flickers – small, but unmistakable for someone who knew him through and through. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t deflect and just…reaches out to take two. And into the cart they go.
By the time you both reach the fitting rooms, your legs are starting to protest, the length of your belly growing in ways you won’t ever adjust to, hand pressing into the curve of your lower back as you breathe out, desire nothing more than Andrew’s arms to wrap from behind to aid you raise your belly up – the ritual he has established on the first day you complained about the pain.
You disappear behind the curtain with an armful of dresses, Andrew waiting outside for a minute, two, until he isn’t, stepping in noiselessly so the space between you doesn’t exist anymore, staring. You try on the first dress: too tight. The second: way too much cleavage out. Huffing and adjusting the fabric, your patience thins as you glance at yourself from different angles. “This is ridiculous,” you grumble under your breath. “I don’t want to flash people!”
The next one (of course the one Andrew picked, why are you even surprised anymore?) slides on effortlessly. Pastel yellow and flowy, it falls over your body instead of fighting it, landing around you in a manner that finally feels right. You pause, turning to look at him, who hasn’t yet moved, but his gaze is…heavier now, hazel all gone to be replaced by the darkness of his pupils.
You step closer deliberately, fingers brushing his shirt as you tilt your head. “You like this one?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding once for good measure.
Smiling and closing the distance fully this time, your lips find his without hesitation, the kiss soft for barely an instant before it deepens, warmth spreading through you as your hands slide up to his shoulders. “I’ll take this dress then,” you murmur against his mouth.
“What about the others?” he asks, eyes closed and mouth agape, restraint slowly giving in.
You smirk into the kiss, grazing your lips against his again. “I can always be naked. Not like you’d complain.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even pretend to. He simply hums against your mouth, hand gliding behind your back so you don’t bump against the fitting room wall, the only sounds echoing now being breaths and your husband’s belt as you unbuckle it with a knowing grin, ring on your finger.
──────────
The velvet box was smaller than it should have been for such heaviness. Andrew kept his hand in the pocket of his jacket nonetheless, thumb smoothing alongside the edges of it, then the hinge, followed by the curve where it would open, repeating the motion to anchor himself, hoping that the outline might become sufficiently familiar that he would cease feeling so repentant of grasping a sacrosanct object comparable to a bead on a rosary whose one prayer and oath would be echoed over and over until it became part of him.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He breathed in on one. Held it on two. Let it out on three. Blocked on four. Again. One. Two. Three. Four.)
The garden stretched in front of him, bathed in the remaining light of the day and that golden hour which softened all it touched, even his own soul. Just beyond the stone path, you were there, barefoot. You constantly ended up barefoot somehow – you once told him that you necessitated that tether to recognize for certain that this was tangible, that you were not in the limbo or back at the warehouse.
Laid out on the lounge chair like you were conscious that the glow of the setting sun had been arranged purposely to fall over you, draping the curve of your body to highlight the swell of your stomach that was just beginning to show. To him, right now, you resembled less like his angel and more like a deity who, somehow, had arrived into his life to absolve what he could never atone on his own. His throat constricted, realizing that he should have called out for you or announced himself – done something regular for once. Instead, he lingered where he was, committing to memory the sunlit tracing the line of your profile, the slow rise and fall of your chest, how your fingers enveloped your stomach in communion with what he could not yet reach.
You turned your head when you perceived him, unhurriedly, gaze finding his instantly. “Hey,” you spoke, pushing yourself up on your elbows, brow knitted together like you continuously did whenever you sensed something stirring beneath the surface. “Are you okay? You’ve been…distant today.”
He stepped closer with a barely noticeable nod, reaching the edge of the lounge chair and sitting down prudently, mindful of the space, of you, of the way every particle gravitated around you. “I’m okay,” he replied lowly, steady enough to hopefully pass. His hand found your calf, fingers wrapping around it so his thumb brushed once, twice, attuning to your skin’s language.
Head tilting and eyes narrowing to indicate that you didn’t quite believe him, you still chose not to push, hand instead shifting to caress his thigh as if to say ‘I’m here’ without requiring the words. “What were you thinking about?” you whispered.
The question reverberated in his ribcage, forcing him to look down, thumb still drawing absent patterns he didn’t register anymore, his mind struggling to organize itself into something that could be spoken aloud. “I don’t…” he started, then halted, searching for terms he had never been taught how to use, too fragile in his mouth, like porcelain that might shatter at any given moment before they extended to you. “I don’t know how to do this right. And I don’t think I ever will,” he continued, his gaze catching yours once more, forcing himself to stay there, to not retreat. “I just…have no idea.”
(He knew how to fight. To bleed. To endure. But this? This was a territory with no map, no instruction, no version of himself built to cross what lay uncharted. He could only hope that you, who had turned ruin into grace, would prevent him from burning it to ashes.)
“But I know I want you,” he breathed, and this time the words came without delay, as if awaiting fully formed for him to let them exist. “Every single day. However it comes and however it looks, for the rest of my life.” A pause reigned, in which he sensed both your breaths stopping. “And the next one,” he added, “if I’m lucky.”
His hand left reluctantly your leg then, withdrawing from your warmth to move back toward his pocket where the small box had been, fingers enclosing around it reverently, like touching a relic, and when he pulled it out, the gesture remained watchful and timid, for this was about to alter the course of his life purely by being revealed.
Your gaze followed his palm, widening as comprehension began to take shape and, in response, his own hand trembled. Sure that you could remark it, he constrained himself to tighten his grip around the package so that he could drown in the texture of the velvet, of the hinge, of all the mechanisms that composed it. The click was barely audible, and yet it gave the impression to resonate in the garden, uncovering the ring, which captured the last of the sunlight – the jewel he had bought so long along, prior to your abduction and Ojai and the children.
“Will you…” he began, but the words faltered as soon as they shaped, too scarce for the magnitude of what he was attempting to offer, what you symbolized to him, and he felt it: the inadequacy of language, how it shrank under pressure. He swallowed, forcing himself to resume. “Will you marry me?” The question sank between you, frail and naked. “Please.”
The reaction was prompt. Sitting up so hastily that the chair screeched, your hand came to his face without hesitation, cupping his cheek and eyes wet from tears that gathered without you repressing them, too busy grinning. “Yes,” you whispered, the word breaking under the force of it. “Yes, Andy. Of course, yes.”
Your lips found his before he could process it, warm and certain and real, sealing the one thing he had not known he was allowed to have. (His absolution. His grace.) He kissed you back, frightened of crushing the moment or you, he didn’t know – perhaps just petrified of proving himself correct in every doubt he had ever carried. When you pulled back, you were beaming through tears. “I love it,” you said as you extended your hand toward him. “And I love you.”
The ringing sound deafening his ears only amplified at each of your sentences. He was only able to nod, his fingers closing around yours with delicacy, yet trembled enough that, when he tried to guide the ring onto your finger, he missed, the metal brushing in between your digits instead of around it, his jaw clenching as a flash of frustration passed through him before he could contain it.
(He had to do it right. Just this once, to do it right. To approach this as one approaches a sacrament: clean hands, intent, with nothing in him that could profane it.)
His hand shifted to correct its position, the tremor even more visible as his focus narrowed to the point of contact, which he missed once more, met by your soft giggle. “It’s okay, honey,” you whispered, guiding his hand so that the ring was properly aligned before he managed to slide it into place. “There.” You looked down at it, at those three diamonds reflecting the light. “I…I really adore it.”
He exhaled, the tension leaving him in a disbelieving release as he leaned forward to press his forehead against yours, speaking for the first time since he asked the question, tone hoarse. “I love you.” Slowly, he moved behind you on the lounge chair, adjusting his position so you could lean back against him, frame fitting his like two pieces of a puzzle.
Arms extending around you instinctively, one sliding beneath your chest and the other relaxing over your stomach, finding your own to interlace your fingers over the curve that held his whole world. His chin dipped to rest against your shoulder, breath evening out against your skin as the last of the sunlight faded.
(One. You. Two. Three. His children. Four. Him. Even number. Good number.)
He closed his eyes then, because in that moment, with you in his arms, his angel, his grace, his fiancée, Andrew allowed himself to believe he had been absolved.
──────────
The church is empty when he sets foot in, the door of the narthex closing behind him with a muted thud that pushes the outside away as if it had never existed, leaving only the dense, stagnant air, thick with the residue of incense from the last service threaded with the scent of old wood that has witnessed countless seasons and generations. Andrew halts just past the threshold out of habit, his breathing slowing to match the silence of the nave as though it commands a certain tranquility to permit someone further.
(He has never been sure if places like this are designed for him. He tried when he was young. Tried with that megachurch years ago, back when he had broken more than mended. But in Ojai, he comes nonetheless, drawn in whenever the world feels too sonorous. When the thoughts don’t line up and numbers don’t succeed. He is present because this house of God doesn’t expect anything of him. Doesn’t demand that he be more than what he is.)
Moving down the aisle without sound, steps measured as he passes the rows of wooden pews, he slides onto the fourth bench with an exhale. His gaze drifts intuitively to the front where the altar stands, reminiscing for a moment about you, barely four months ago, walking to him in a white dress who danced in soft folds and your hand, resting over the round curve of your stomach while your other had looped through Craig’s arm, who had stood tall and proud, heedful – for once – of your frame like it had been crystal. Andrew had stood beside the pastor, utterly undone and his ribcage tightening so abruptly that he had been assured he was about to pass out before you even reached him.
His sight had narrowed, edges of surroundings fading into a haze that placed only you in focus, each step you took measured, all too slow and fast at once, until Deran’s voice had cut through it, amused from where he stood at his brother’s side. “Blink,” he had muttered. “Or at least try to smile. You look like you’re about to die.” He hadn’t been incorrect – and Andrew would have died a happy man if it had ended there, in that suspended second of bliss.
Now, staring at this precise spot, Andrew remains motionless, enveloped in the hypothesis that if he were to look hard enough, he might still see you there: the giggle you had let slip when Craig had leaned closer to murmur something in your ear that Andrew hadn’t caught but observed landing on your face, the vows you had exchanged, the golden heart at your collarbone reflecting the sun each time you breathed or spoke. His hand slides into the pocket of his jeans, retrieving his phone to check for messages or calls that he might have missed, thumb brushing over the screen before it lights up to the lockscreen that has been his for the past year.
It’s you. Asleep. Curled alongside him on the couch back in Oceanside, your head laying on his chest while his arm had been draped around you without a care in the world for a brief instant, and in the photograph – taken by Craig without warning nor permission – Andrew is oblivious of the camera, eyes unguarded and fixed entirely on you with a gentleness in his expression that resembled peace. His eyes drifts to the corner: no missed calls, no messages, nothing.
(You had asked for an hour on your own. An hour. Sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds in which all could happen. In which the body could betray, where his miracles could be tested by fate, where he would not be there.)
“I’ll be fine, Andy,” you had said, smiling at him in that manner that always made it challenging for him to argue. “And if anything happens, I’ll call you.”
Anything. The word pressures against his head, heavier than it should be and expanding into possibilities he doesn’t want to pursue and yet can’t fully stop from forming.
(Eight and a half months is too close. Too close to a moment that doesn’t delay for a call. What if it happens now? What if you are alone when it starts? How would you get in touch with him if you fall? And if he doesn’t hear the phone? What if agreeing to this hour because he couldn’t say no turns into the moment he fails you again? What if- Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the points of contact between your bodies in the picture.)
Pushing himself up from the pew, movement controlled, he redirects the restless energy into actions he can discipline instead of letting his mind wander where it doesn’t need to go. The votive candles sit to the side of the church, arranged in rows beside a wooden prie-dieu worn smooth by years of palms that came prior to his, reciting the Paternoster and supplicating and confessing. His fingers hover above the small cluster of unlit candles before selecting two – one on behalf of you and one on behalf of them – striking the match with a skillful flick, the scent of sulfur cutting through the air before the flame stabilizes, bringing it to the first wick and inspecting as it catches. The second follows, placed nearby the first, his hand remaining in the space above the flames, hesitant of the next step.
He bows his head so that the gesture holds intention. “I…” he starts, voice raspy.
(He has no psalm to offer. No practiced litany or structured pleas to fall back on. Only the fear lodged in his heart like a splinter impossible to remove. The recognition that if there is any higher power listening, it will have to take him as he is, unpolished and unworthy, or not at all.)
Exhaling, the breath leaves him slowly. “Keep them safe,” he whispers, barely above the hush of the church as if speaking louder might wreck the fragile structure of what he is attempting. “I know what I’ve done. But…” His jaw tightens, the sentence stalling, caught between divulgence and request. “But don’t let them pay for it,” he continues in desperation. “Not her. Not them.”
His hands travel at his sides, fingers curling so tightly that it forms crescent moons on his palms. “Let it stop with me. Whatever it is. Whatever is…” he swallows, throat shrinking. “Whatever is in me. Don’t let it reach them.”
Silence pursues. Vast, stretching in the wake of his own voice, echoing in the beams and the pews and the confessional. His gaze raises then, drawn upward by the light altering above the candles and the hues that spread across the wooden floor and climbs along his shirt in a kaleidoscope. The stained glass stands tall above him, its structure held in lines of dark lead with deep cobalt blue pooling in the robes of the figure at its center, solemn, amber scattering outward in halos at the edges of the scene and vermilion, threading through the contours of hands and faces, frozen in the act of blessing.
The man in the glass doesn’t look down so much as through, his hands raised in an unmistakable motion: fingers extended, palm open, and those gathered around him tilt their heads down, arranged in a manner that implies reverence. Andrew’s gaze drifts to the side of the pane, to the small inscription painted into its frame. Saint Oliver. He stands there a second longer before drawing out his phone to the image of you, typing reflexively the four digits of the day you met before searching for it. Oliver. The result comes up instantly, condensed into a one-word definition: peace.
(If his son could be anything…If there is one thing he could hope for without feeling like requesting for too much…it would be that. Peace. A life untouched by the necessity to anticipate harm. A mind that doesn’t turn against itself. A heart that loves and is loved in return without question.)
His jaw clenches as he lowers the phone, screen dimming back into darkness as he slips it into his jeans once more, the name reverberating in his chest like an epiphany he has been waiting for. You had already selected hers. Whispered it in the dead of the night while he was pressing his temple to the spot where his children kept rolling. His throat had closed, emotion rising and forcing him to blink slowly so the tears wouldn’t spill. And so, because you had found the girl’s name, you had handed him the other half.
(He had not known how to choose. Because names aren’t just sounds. They are intentions. An idea spoken aloud and given in the hope that it would become part of that someone.)
(Oliver. Peace. That’s a good hope.)
The sound of his phone vibrating cuts through the church, his body reacting before his mind can even come up with a new spiral of thoughts.
The message is from you.
Concise. Clear.
I think it’s starting.
──────────
The sun had started to dip by the time you were all on the shore, the July heatwave no longer hitting your skin, and the tide pulling back enough to result in a wide stretch of damp ground. You stood barefoot at the edge of the makeshift court Craig had insisted on scribbling with the heel of his foot, lines uneven, half-erased by the breeze, while the grains of the Oceanside’s sand clung to your calves and the hem of your shorts, hair still carrying faint traces of salt from earlier, when you had been lying on your towel with a book open but unread, too engaged in peering up every few seconds at the three men surfing like the water belonged to them, recognized them, answered.
(and Andrew…Andrew had been less showy than Craig, less poised than Deran, but precise, like moored to his board. he had feigned not to look at you each time the tubes permitted him to do an air reverse or a rodeo flip. you had feigned not to notice your mouth go dry at the sight of him. and in itself, it had worked. barely.)
“Alright, teams are obvious,” Craig announced, tossing the ball from one hand to the other, grin wide and edged with challenge. “Me and Deran, cause we are the best, against you and Pope. Sounds good?”
You rolled your eyes, stepping closer to Andrew without thinking, your shoulder brushing his just enough to register the heat of his skin before you moved past him, as though it hadn’t stirred anything at all while you were scrambling to gather yourself back. Andrew didn’t respond to Craig’s jab, taking position beside you where he could observe everything – the ball, his brothers, you – his gaze flicking toward your own for half a second before returning forward, controlled.
(he was trying so, so hard it was endearing. but he was just as terrible as you at pretending. two weeks together and you were acting like teenagers who didn’t want to get caught by their parents.)
“Try to keep up,” Deran added dryly from across the net.
You grinned. “Fine, if you promise not to cry when we’re finished with you.”
Craig barked a laugh, turning to his younger brother. “Oh, she’s confident today.”
The game commenced, ball snapping through the air as Craig hit hard, Deran coordinating his movements from years of playing together and knowing where the other would be without requiring a second glance. For the first few points, you were mostly reacting: swearing when you missed, laughing when the sand shifted under your feet, but Andrew…Andew was adjusting, mapping the rhythm, the angles, the way Craig favored power over precision, how Deran compensated for it, and now he played differently, forestalling where the ball would end up before it had crossed the net, his hand stroking your lower back once, twice, guiding you without words. “Focus,” he murmured under his breath.
You huffed a chuckle, breath vanishing as you pushed hair away from your face, already stepping back into position. “I am focused.”
He didn’t even look at you when he answered, mouth twitching. “Not on the game.”
The serve came rapidly once more, Craig sending it with unnecessary force just to prove a point, but you darted frontward this time, without hesitation, arms locking just in time to bump it upward, the impact stinging pleasantly as it left your skin and sending it straight between the two brothers before either could react, the sound landing sharp, quickly followed by their overlapping voices.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Craig groaned, taking back the ball.
Deran instantly shot back with a finger pointed at him. “How could you miss that?”
“You were right there too, man!” he replied, tossing it to him with no warning.
You giggled, panting, turning toward Andrew, who had stepped closer, halting just short of where it would be noticeable, hands hanging at his sides, not certain what to do with them or himself and managing a quiet, “Good.”
“Okay, okay,” Craig called, his competitive side creeping back in despite his heavy breaths. “Match point and the losers buy the beers.”
“Deal, Craigo,” you retorted.
Back and forth, the ball flew among you all in a tempo that kept building with each push, up until you slipped in the sand and your arms caught the ball low and sent it up in a high arc that hung too long. “Andrew!” you called, but he was already there, stepping in and timing it perfectly as his body aligned while he jumped, arm swinging through, the hit clean and cutting past Craig’s outstretched hand to end on the sand.
“Oh, fuck off,” Craig groaned, straightening up and dragging a hand over his face while you laughed brightly.
And before you could stop yourself or ponder about it, you were running, crossing the distance between you and Andrew in two quick steps, your arms wrapping around him as you hopped, the momentum carrying you high as he caught you mechanically, hands enclosing behind your back as if he had done it a hundred times.
“Did you see that?” you beamed, forehead resting against his. “We make a good team!”
He nodded, his fingers tightening on your hips. “Yeah.”
(and…that was it. not the massive realization that this man would be yours for the rest of your life. no, this one you had months ago, long before you were even dating. and anyone hearing you expressing that after a fortnight would most likely call you mad. fuck them. but what you realized, right here, right now, was that you couldn’t care less about what his brothers might think of you two together.)
His body stilled for half a heartbeat when your lips met his, caught off guard, but quickly giving in, hand traveling on your back to bring you even nearer as he kissed you back with the same intensity he carried in everything else.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Craig’s voice cut through, followed by Deran’s satisfied laugh.
“I told you,” he replied, and you witnessed, in the corner of your eyes, his hand reaching out. “C’mon, pay up.”
Craig grumbled, digging into the pocket of his shorts, pulling out a crumpled bill and slapping it into Deran’s palm. “I thought he’d never have the guts,” he muttered.
Pulling back a little, your fingers threaded into Andrew’s curls, legs still enveloped around his waist as you met his staring, completely undone gaze. “Hi,” you whispered, unable to stop the grin that spread across your face.
His digits caressed along your spine, eyes flicking past you to his brothers before returning instantly, like he couldn’t look away for long. “Hi,” he responded with a hoarse voice.
Behind you, Craig made a noise of exaggerated disgust. “Alright, alright, we get it. Can you not do that right in front of us?”
You huffed a snort, not even turning your head as you raised your hand in his direction, middle finger extended without ceremony as you leaned back in yet again, pressing another kiss to Andrew’s mouth, nose brushing his as you pulled away. “I’m not too heavy, right?” you asked teasingly.
His hands adjusted at your back and thigh, firm, holding you effortlessly, shaking his head as he answered, “I’ve got you.”
──────────
“I’ve got you.”
The words reach you despite all the layers: the sharp antiseptic smell, the distorted hum of machines, even amid the blur of passage and voices that don’t settle into meaning. You hold onto them the way you hold his hand, fingers tautening around his as if the pressure itself could help to anchor you into tangibility and not disperse with the crushing tide of sensations overtaking your body.
(it’s okay. he’s here. he made it.)
There had been a second (or ten, or a minute, an hour…you couldn’t recall) when you were alone, seated in the garden, back alongside the lounge chair that still contained the ghost of his proposal, your bare feet into the grass as the wind stirred through the oaks in a mesmerizing dance, leaves whispering together, and the next, an unequivocal warmth had flowed between your thighs – the rupture of the amniotic sacs. Just like that. No prelude, no noteworthy discomfort, only the realization that today was the day.
You recollect saying his name, or thinking it, or both, hand seizing for your phone with a slowness that didn’t match the urgency blooming inside your belly, your mind striving to hold onto the steps you had both created: call him or text, breathe, no exertion since Andrew is close. After that, the whole thing is hazy. You remember the text ‘I think it’s starting’ and his call while driving home (was he panicked? was he collected?), the door opening and his strong arms enveloping around you, muttering sweet nothings until you were sat in the vehicle. You recall the car too, or at least the motion of it, his hand gripping yours so tightly it had almost hurt while the other was on the wheel, gaze flicking from you to the road with an attention that bordered on alarm.
He didn’t let go. Even here, on your back, in a room that seems too incandescent, too clean and too full of doctors and nurses who are trying to reassure and act with purpose, none of it exists like the man at your side does, the one whose hand, with a wedding band alike yours, is right there, thumb caressing over your knuckles in slow strokes.
“I’ve got you sweetheart,” he repeats, gentler this time, leaning closer until his forehead is an inch from touching yours, as if proximity could shield from the pain. You look at him through your lashes, observing the lines of his face and the tension held in his jaw. Even his hazel eyes, so often controlled, are wide now, trembling no matter how hard he strains to contain it.
“I know,” you breathe, though your voice feels distant even to your own ears, grip tightening around his hand as another wave builds inside you, slow at first, then rising, rising, until it crests in an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. You gasp, back arching as it travels through you, nails digging into his skin as if you could hold yourself together through him.
“That’s it,” he whispers immediately, unwavering despite his eyes searching briefly toward the doctors before snapping back to you. “You’re doing so good. Just breathe. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Someone, much closer than presumed, enters in your visual field. “Okay, Mrs. Cody,” the person says and you could practically throw your arms (no, too painful) in joy at hearing this name because it’s now your name, “when you feel the next contraction, I need you to push so your babies can see how beautiful their parents are. Sounds good?”
You nod – or at least you assume you do. The next wave comes faster, stronger, crashing into you while your body bears down and the effort draws from someplace rooted deep inside you, primal, producing a push. It hurts, stings, stretching you in ways you can’t comprehend, and yet, beneath it, there is a vaster emotion. A broken sound escapes your lips, halfway through a sob and a laugh. “I can’t-” you gasp even if your body is already giving everything it has.
“Yes, you can,” Andrew responds, his lips on your knuckles, your inner wrist, your temple, marking every spot he is permitted to attain. “You are so strong, and…” he throws a look where the doctors are working, “…just one more push, okay? Give one more.”
This one is the worst, your vision blurring at the edges, tears slipping free, body quivering under the effort as the pressure builds and builds until- A cry. The sound cuts through everything because it signifies that a baby is here, in the world, breathing and alive. “Is…” you begin, but the words vanish as the weight is placed on your chest. The weight of your very tiny and very warm son. Your hands come up instinctively, cradling, wobbling as they attempt to take in the shape of him, the rise and fall of his chest, the sound of his cries that feel impossibly loud for such a small being.
“Oh my God,” you murmur despite your continuous sobs. “Oh, honey-” You look at Andrew, whose stare is already set on the baby, and his face is open like you’ve never witnessed previously, every barrier stripped away, tears spilling unreservedly down his cheeks without halting them, his hand still clutching yours while the other hovers above your son. “Hey,” you breathe, voice softening despite the exhaustion. “Do you see that?”
“Yes,” he answers with a wrecked tone as he finally allows his fingers to brush gently against the baby as if he is sacred and could disappear with one wrong contact. “He’s- He’s here.”
The doctors ask him something indiscernible, to which he agrees, his hands shaking as they place the scissors in them and guide him toward the cord, explaining where to cut, how to hold it with no hesitation. He swallows, hard, throat working around a fear that – you guess – has less to do with the act itself but what it epitomizes, glancing once to your eyes in search of a response before returning to the fragile tube connecting you to the newborn on your chest. It’s only once you begin to count with him that he finds the control to follow through.
“One,” you whisper, mooring him the same manner he has moored you with every wave of pain.
“Two,” he continues, his grip adjusting and the tremor lessened, contained within the structure you have constructed together.
“Three.”
“Four.”
The cord is severed with an exhale, his shoulders dropping as he sinks back beside you, the pad of his thumb stroking the fluid-slick curve of the baby’s ear. “I…I found the name. Oliver,” he says, the name leaving his mouth like a prayer and shaped with care. “Means peace.”
(peace. yes, you feel it in his weight. in his warmth pressed on your skin and in the frantic rhythm of his tiny heart that beats against yours. this boy is peace. not the kind that arrives after the storm. the kind that makes you forget there ever was one.)
“Oliver,” you repeat, tilting your head to peer up at Andrew once more, taking in the full extent of what this instant is doing to him, the man who rarely allows himself to be seen this way by strangers, bare and open, fingers splayed over his son’s back and counting under his breath. “I love it.”
The moment is cut short as the nurses come closer, their hands cautious but efficient as they begin to lift Oliver from your chest, their voices reassuring, explaining that they need to measure him, wash him, check that all is alright, except your body resists the separation intuitively, arms tightening around him for a second longer before you force yourself to let go.
“It’s okay,” Andrew assures, his hand returning to yours once the baby leaves your chest, unyielding. “He’s right there, don’t worry.”
You hum, though the absence feels wrong, like something has been taken from you too soon, your hands lingering uselessly in the space where Oliver had been, your body striving to focus and grasp that there is still- The contraction tears through you before the thought can fully form, harder than ever before. Your whole body attempts to arch, a cry escaping you freely, fingers clamping down around Andrew’s hand as the pain comes back in full force, more demanding.
“No.” you gasp as your head falls back, sweat running in rivulets along your back and temples. “I can’t do it again, Andy, I-”
“You can, sweetheart,” he cuts in, the tremor now long gone, buried beneath a newfound strength forged in the seconds since Oliver entered the world. “I’m right here, I’m not letting go.” His forehead connects with yours, handing you one of his smiles that uncovers the dimples. “You’re beautiful,” he adds, which earns in response the smallest huff of snort.
Instructions come faster, more urgent and insistent, your body responding despite the exhaustion that drags at every muscle, spent by the effort that has already occurred. “Again Mrs. Cody,” someone shouts.
You shake your head weakly, tears slipping sideways into your hair as you catch your breath. “Please, I can’t,” you plead.
Andrew’s grip only increases at your words. “Look at me,” he says, and you do, because you always do – and since even here, when all seems difficult, he is still the one thing that doesn’t blur nor fade. His eyes hold yours, unblinking. “One and it’s over. I promise, okay? You trust me?”
And when the next contraction comes, you meet it, for if there’s one certitude in this lifetime, it’s that Andrew would never lie to you. You use what you have left, every last piece of strength and oxygen and determination. The cry that ensues is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard, your body collapsing back against the bed as the tension releases, an exhale tearing out of you in a sob carrying relief and incredulity in equal measure, hands reaching before they even put her on you.
And there she is, placed against you. All humid and sticky and perfect. Your daughter. Oliver positioned beside her on your chest, the world narrows once again to this: the sound of their cries, the way their bodies fit on yours like puzzle pieces. You laugh through the tears as your palms shift between them, connecting, memorizing. “Hello Juliet,” you whisper with a shaky voice, an emotion too large to contain blossoming in your ribcage. “Hello Oliver.”
Andrew leans in, his lips brushing yours, traveling to your temple, then the space between your brows as if he can’t decide where to place his affection, rapidly followed by a kiss on each of the babies’ head.
“My angels,” he breathes, the word dissolving against your skin, and it’s more than enough to fill every space that ever felt empty.
──────────
“Honestly honey, if our babies turn out with dents all over, blame me,” you murmured in the dimness of the bedroom with a laugh that belonged to you and you alone – one that he loved, patiently coaxed out of hiding.
And Andrew, who had been resting his temple on the rounded curve of your abdomen, exhaled a low sound of amusement. “They won’t,” he answered, tone flat in a vain endeavor to conceal the gentleness beneath it, raising his head to glance up at you. “And if they do, we’ll say Craig dropped them.”
You snorted, fingers resuming their prodding from one side to the other, waiting with eagerness for the faintest response, who came before he could count to four with a ripple beneath his jawline. “There,” you chirped, tilting your head toward him. “Did you feel that?”
Shifting closer instead of answering right away, his body aligned alongside yours with attention, hand sliding over your stomach in an attempt to cover the space where the movement had been, where it might be again. “Yeah.”
(Again. Please. Let him feel it again.)
The mattress dipped under your motion as a hand threaded through his curls, fingertips grazing his scalp in slow, absent strokes that drew a hum from his chest. “Come closer,” you grinned, and even though there was barely any gap left to close, he obeyed, trailing kisses all along the waves. “They are pretty active tonight.” Your pinkie twirled around a piece of his hair. “I think they know you’re here.”
“They…You think?” he asked, a surge of hope breaching through before he could temper it, fragile and almost boyish in a manner he rarely conceded himself to be in the daylight. He didn’t budge a muscle. Didn’t breathe.
You smiled down at him, slowing your caresses in his hair to guide him a few inches to the side, where a new undulation brushed his face. “I do,” you answered, “you know why?” He shook his head. “Because every time you’re close, my heart is pounding like crazy.” The pad of your thumb rubbed along his temple, prying out another sound from deep in his chest. “And they feel that. They know it’s beating for their dad.”
Andrew swallowed, his throat enclosing as a sentiment rose: not honed like fear, not acrid like the void he had carried most of his existence with Smurf, but full, almost unbearably so. The man who had once been taught that affection came measured and conditional, that warmth was to be earned in only fragments as a reciprocity for whatever she commanded of him, was now in your arms, where there was no rationing, no withholding or negotiation for scraps of care. And he had one certainty: he would not starve ever again. His hand travelled up to rest on your heart, feeling its rapid pulses that matched with his own.
“They know it’s beating for their dad,” you repeated, observing him. “And that you’re their home, just like you’re mine.”
He nodded once, but the motion was small, almost imperceptible, not quite trusting himself to do more without shattering whatever fragile equilibrium he still held together. So…he did what he knew best instead: he kissed his wife, again and again, pursuing no clear pattern but his instinct, committing to memory your splendor through touch. His hand remained on your stomach, yes, but the rest of him moved up, lips connecting to the hollow between your breasts, then on each sensitive nipple, earning a small gasp from you and a hand tightening in his curls. He couldn’t stop. Not until his face found its place at the junction of your neck and shoulder, taking a lungful of your scent.
Quiet for a moment, your fingers continued their unhurried path through his scalp. “I’ve been thinking,” you ended up whispering with a tone that made him lift his head just enough to see your profile. “I…I might have an idea,” you continued, staring at the ceiling before making eye contact with Andrew. “For her name.”
“Wha-What is it?” he asked cautiously.
Leaning closer, your voice dropped to the word. “Juliet.” Silence ensued, only disturbed by Andrew’s sharp inhale. “It reminded me of…of Julia. And I thought-” Your voice faltered briefly, due certainly to his face, holding back tears, “I thought it could be a nice way to keep her close. If you want.”
(Julia. The one he couldn’t rescue from Smurf. From Baz. From drugs. From himself. The one they all left behind. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted your lashes.)
You were watching him carefully now, hesitant, almost like prepared to take the name back if it hurt. “It’s okay if-”
“No,” he cut in, his hand resuming its idle patterns on your stomach. “It’s…it’s good.”
Relief flickered across your face as your fingers weaved through every curl that fell on his forehead. “So, you like it?” you wondered timidly.
(How could he utter it? Put into words how you made him comprehend that not all had been lost? That you gave a way for Julia to no longer be abandoned. That you killed Smurf a thousand times. Defeated her in every way she would have feared. By loving him right. By burning her overpriced couch and overpriced clothes. By freeing what she had kept on a leach. No, he knew his daughter wasn’t Julia. And that was the point. You were not trying to give him back what had been taken. You were snapping the final nail in Smurf’s coffin.)
He nodded, his gaze dropping to your stomach, to the place where his children rested. “Yeah.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “It’s a pretty name. Juliet.”
Yes, Andrew loved how this was how Janine Cody ended: with children she would never touch and a name she could never ruin.
──────────
He strives to count but it isn’t fruitful, the numbers unraveling midway through the sequence, and even the room itself is hostile to a symmetry that could alleviate the noise in his head. His eyes keep staring at the painted patterns running along the hospital bedroom walls: uneven rows of triangles and squares and rectangles that don’t align properly, none sharing the same dimensions nor the same angles, just a cluster of shapes scattered on a chartreuse wallpaper without discipline as if whoever designed this place had never considered what it felt like to require order to be able to breathe.
(It’s supposed to be a square. But one side is longer. So it’s not a rectangle either. Wrong. It’s all wrong. The spacing is inconsistent too. Why would they- Stop. One. Two. Three. Four. He needs to count.)
His knee bounces a few more times before he stills it with a hand pushed hard against his thigh, jaw contracting sufficiently to ache while he forces his gaze elsewhere as long as it’s far from the crooked geometry threatening to splinter his concentration, searching for alternative task to latch onto while he waits. Standing by is worse than the fear itself. Worse because it leaves room for thought, and moments like this have always been treacherous territory for Andrew.
(What if one of them stopped breathing while he wasn’t there? What if you hemorrhaged? You had told him to go first in the room while they were stitching you but maybe he shouldn’t have. What if there was damage they hadn’t caught yet? Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Fou-)
The door opens before the spiral can wholly root, Andrew rising before his mind can even catch up, feet carrying him across the room as two nurses guide your bed inside while another pair roll the bassinets beside you, their inaudible voices and relaxed smiles altering the entire atmosphere of the room in a single instant.
“There we are,” one of the women murmurs warmly as she blocks the brakes beneath your bed. “Mom and Dad can finally get some peace and quiet with their babies.”
The other nurse laughs under her breath while carefully steering one of the cribs. “And what adorable babies they are.”
You beam despite the exhaustion pulling at your features, your entire body dragging the evidence of what it has endured in the last hours, and yet the sight of you strikes him with ample force to disrupt his inhaling. Because you are tired, yes, but beneath it…you are radiant. Not in the simplistic sense people use for beauty, but how stained glass becomes incandescent when sunlight dances through it – the ethereal angel who gave him the right to call himself your husband.
“They get it from their dad,” you reply sleepily to the nurses’ praise, voice coarsened by the crying and exertion with a pinch of amusement amid every syllable.
Andrew lowers his gaze at the remark, unable to formulate a response, for beauty has forever been deemed divine to him, and everything divine in his existence has arrived wearing your face, not his. The staff finishes settling the room into place, checking monitors one final time, offering reassurances and congratulations that start to blur together because his attention has narrowed onto you and the bassinets beside the bed. He doesn’t even hear the nurses leave, just a sudden silence that reminds him of the church’s sacredness.
Standing there for a few more seconds without budging a muscle, he takes the entire scene in, sealing it in its own kind of mental resin: you, lying under the pale blue blanket, painted by the low golden lighting of the bedroom and the babies in diapers too large for them, making noises he couldn’t wait to decode. His family.
You notice him staring. “Honey,” you mutter, “come here. I’m missing you.” He obeys promptly, crossing the distance between you in three strides. (Three. He wants to go back and make it four. No. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four.) Reaching the bed, Andrew intertwines your hands together before lowering his forehead against them, breathing once, deeply, relishing in the contact of your skin and the cool wedding band to steady himself. “You okay?” you ask.
The question undoes him. (You are the one who carried those babies. The one who labored through tears and agony. You are the one who should be cared for. Yesterday, today, and evermore. Not him. Never him.) He lifts his head to look at you properly, eyes slowly tracing the details of your features and cataloguing the damp strands of hair against your temples, the remnants of tears dried along your cheeks. “Yeah,” he replies hoarsely. “You shouldn’t ask me that, sweetheart. Are you okay?”
Your smile widens despite all the emotions, fingers brushing against the back of his hand so tenderly it could split his chest open. “Tired but…” Your gaze drifts toward the cribs. “It was worth it.”
Andrew nods immediately, for nothing on earth has ever been truer. “And no pain?” he adds, his brows drawing together with concern that refuses to depart him since the delivery room and witnessing your body strain beyond what he had thought tolerable.
You shake your head. “No pain. I promise.” Lifting one hand weakly, you point first toward Oliver, then Juliet. “Can you bring them closer? It’s…” Goosebumps rise along your arms as if even your body protests against the distance. “…empty inside. It feels weird.”
Releasing your hand hesitantly, he moves, conducting each one nearer with measured gestures, terrified of jostling them despite the wheel barely making noise against the floor. He stops between them afterward, heed captured by the tiny forms lying there, freshly cleaned, neither dressed beyond diapers for the two of you had insisted on skin-to-skin before the onesies and the photographs and whatever endless ritual awaits outside the door. “Is it good like that?” he asks without looking away from them.
“Yes,” you murmur sleepily. “It’s perfect.” When he returns beside you, you reach for his hand and lift it toward your mouth, smoothing a lingering kiss on his knuckles as he turns his palm to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye. You lean into the contact, lids half closed until your expression brightens abruptly with wonder, voice dropping conspiratorially despite the emptiness of the room. “Have you seen their feet? And their hands? They are so tiny!”
His gaze flickers back toward the bassinets, hand slipping from your face as he steps to them once more, bending at the waist as his pads brush carefully over Oliver’s soft soles first, followed by Juliet’s, each impossibly small beneath the breadth of his palm.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five on the other. Ten toes. Ten fingers. Good number. Her twin? Ten. Ten. Good. The babies are okay. Fine.)
“Yes,” he responds eventually, tracing the delicate curve of Juliet’s heel. “It’s…small.” But the word feels inadequate because…small could feel synonymous of meaningless, and if there’s one thing that Andrew is assured of, it’s that those two beings are the furthest definition of meaningless. He loves all of them already: the shape of their nose, Oliver’s cupid’s bow, Juliet’s thin curly hair, the rise and fall of their breathing…they are simply flawless.
The babies stir beneath his touch, tiny movements no larger than the twitch of a leaf in the breeze, yet it petrifies Andrew instantaneously as he withdraws his hand halfway and throws you an alarmed look, to which you smile, soft and reassuring. “It’s okay, Andy,” you yawn, sinking into the mattress. “You won’t hurt them.”
He poorly tries to conceal his frown at your tiredness now that the adrenaline no longer keeps you upright. “You should rest,” he says quietly. “You’ve done great today.”
A sleepy smile blooms on your face. “Okay.” Your eyes drift toward the babies before returning to him. “You can do the skin-to-skin while I sleep.”
Fear flickers through him so quickly he hopes you miss it. (Both? Alone? What if he holds them wrong? Or one slips? What if he isn’t enough for both?) Still, he nods since the last thing he wants is to place more worry onto your shoulders after everything your body has endured. “Yes.”
“You have to take off your shirt for that,” you add singingly.
Andrew’s brow furrows again. “Yes…I know.”
A grin appears on your face, weary, yes, but playful enough to make a blush spread from his chest to cheeks. “I know you know,” you whisper, giving him the smallest wink. “I just want to enjoy the view for some nice dreams.”
The sound that escapes him is half a snort, half a disbelieving breath, leaning down to press a kiss at the top of your head. “Fine, boss.” Straightening, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion, folding it thoroughly over the nearby chair.
One of your eyes open once more, travelling over him with obvious appreciation before you drown deeper into the pillows. “Yes,” you sigh contentedly. “Exactly what I needed.” He shakes his head, though the corners of his mouth betray him. Your lashes finally lower completely. “Wake me if there’s an issue,” you end up murmuring drowsily.
Andrew’s gaze softens at the trust embedded within the request, the ease with which you hand him your three precious lives before allowing rest to find you. “I will,” he promises to himself.
For a moment, after your breathing evens out, he remains motionless beside the bed, observing the exhaustion pulling you fully under, your hand loosely curled atop the blanket and your wedding ring glinting whenever the dim hospital light catches it, until eventually his focus drifts back toward the two beings and his pulse accelerates at the realization that the next part belongs entirely to him.
(It’s the first time he holds his children and he can’t mess it up. You’re sleeping and he doesn’t want to wake you and fail you. There’s no doctor or nurse either. Just him. He should know how to do this naturally, right? Isn’t fatherhood supposed to awake something? Maybe he is not made for that. Maybe he is a bad father already. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the wheels. He has to do the skin-to-skin. The medical staff said it was important. The book said it was important. Most importantly, you said it was important.)
He approaches so cautiously that the chair next to you barely makes a sound when he lowers himself into it, knees brushing the edge of the bassinets, positioned close enough for him to reach both without getting on his feet. His palms flatten against his thighs first, grounding himself through the contact of the textile so he can finally leans forward. Oliver naps profoundly, mouth parted and one tiny fist near his cheek, unaware of the apocalypse he has caused inside Andrew’s ribcage merely by existing, while Juliet remains awake, eyes half-open with heavy lids, like she is still attempting to comprehend the transition from darkness to light.
Hands hovering uncertainly over Oliver first, they slide beneath the baby’s body the way the nurses demonstrated earlier, supporting the weight of his head with care as he lifts him against his chest, the warmth immediate through skin-to-skin contact. And the instant Oliver settles there, Andrew understands two things concurrently: the first, that his son fits on him with terrifying perfection, heartbeat fluttering against his sternum in syncopation with the percussion of his own, and the second, that Juliet still lies awake, her small arms lunging weakly.
A sharp ache cuts through him. (Because he knows this sentiment. What it means to view affection install elsewhere first. To learn silence instead of reassurance. To become accustomed to being the second thought.) His jaw tautens at the thought. (No. Not here. Not with them. Never with them. He swore to himself that no one will spend a second wondering if they were left behind.)
Heart beginning to hammer against his ribs, Andrew shifts in the chair, adjusting Oliver higher along one side of his chest before inclining toward Juliet’s crib, actions slower now, more precise from fear of disturbing the boy already asleep. When he gathers the little girl into his free arm, she startles at the change, face scrunching in protest before he instinctively murmurs, “Hey, hey…it’s okay bug,” his voice low enough that it barely rises above the quietude, and somehow the sound reaches her because she relaxes once he positions her on the opposite side of his torso.
For a second…he simply halts there, overwhelmed by the notion that he has two entire futures entrusted in his hands. His children.
(This is what communion is. Not the wine. Nor the scripture. Not even the kneeling, begging forgiveness from a God he has never fully grasped. This. Holding his miracles close enough to feel their breathing on his skin. Holding until terror and devotion become indistinguishable. The only communion that will ever lead him closer to heaven.)
His pulse races violently beneath them, so loud he becomes convinced they must hear it too, and he forces himself to inhale slowly through his nose the way you had both worked on months ago whenever the nightmares threatened to pull you under. (One. Two. Three. Four. In. Out. In. Out.) The breath leaves him shakily. (Again.)
Oliver remains asleep through all of it, cheek pressed on the left side of Andrew’s chest, trusting and looking so much like you that it borders on painful: from the softness around his mouth, to the shape of his nose, and Andrew can’t help but stare at him in awe. But Juliet…Juliet is still awake and not crying or fussy. She is looking upward with intensity, tiny brows furrowed as if the effort of focusing on him requires all she possesses, her and her wide haz- His breath ceases. Hazel. Her eyes are hazel. Still very much clouded by the recent birth, but unmistakably close to his own shade.
No one bearing his eyes had ever peered at him with such unquestioning love before, yet here she is, only hours old, as though she had entered the world already certain that wherever he is, home will be there too. “Hello,” he whispers to her, panicked somehow of shattering the moment if he speaks louder. “I’m your dad. It’s okay.”
Juliet’s mouth opens briefly before shutting, his entire body bringing her closer despite the absence of space between them. He begins to rock, almost imperceptibly, just enough motion for the chair beneath him to shift in slow rhythm while his hands continue their adjustments minutely on their backs, terrified of supporting them incorrectly, or allowing their heads to tilt too far – all the catastrophes his mind can invent in the span of seconds.
But gradually, the movement becomes smoother. (Forward. Back. Forward. Back. Better than the breathing. Better than the counting.) “You’re okay,” he whispers again, even if he no longer can tell whether he is addressing her or himself. “Dad’s got you. You and your brother. No one’s going anywhere. I promise.”
He lowers his head, placing a kiss at the top of Juliet’s head, then Oliver’s, because yes, ‘dad’ is not an abstract word anymore. It’s his title. Andrew Cody is a father. A dad.
(He spent his existence believing he would never be one. Baz said so. Smurf thought so. A whole life thinking that inheritance could only mean damage. That the violence would be passed from hand to hand like a curse. A family ritual. Another Cody thing. Fear masquerading once more as love. But this…this is his legacy. Tenderness. Safety.)
Oliver shifts in his sleep before sinking deeper against him, tiny fingers flexing near Andrew’s chin, while Juliet’s eyelids begin to droop heavier and heavier with the help of the rocking motion. “That’s it,” he hums. “You can sleep, bug.” Her gaze lingers stubbornly for another few seconds, still fixed toward his face with a startling intensity, before at last they close fully and her small body melts into his chest beside her brother. It’s only then that Andrew slows, just enough to listen to their breaths. (In. Out. In. Out. They breathe.)
Careful not to disturb the sleeping babies, Andrew reaches blindly toward the bed until his fingertips brush your arm, and even unconscious, you lean into the contact. He doesn’t move afterward, grateful to all the stars above, for he is holding everything he has ever wanted.
──────────
Craig found you prior to the ceremony, pushing through the door separating the nave from the narthex with all the subtlety of a storm. The beige suit fitted his broad frame, long hair tied back up and clean for once, which in itself felt biblical enough to mark the date, his dress shoes clicking on the parquet until he noticed you seated on the wooden bench near the entrance, bouquet clasped so tightly in your lap that the stems had commenced to crook beneath your fingers.
“You know,” he started, leaning one shoulder against the wall with a grin pulling at his mouth, “it’s still time to run if you want.”
A snort escaped you before you could prevent it, one hand sliding down over your five-month pregnant belly covered by the white silky fabric. “What’s ‘running’ again?” you asked dryly. “I forgot a while ago.”
Craig barked out a laugh, sufficiently loud that it echoed throughout the room. Recalling where he was, he lowered it into an exaggerated whisper, dropping onto the bench beside you with his knees spread wide and hands clasped together in between. “Okay, so…” He glanced sideways at you. “What are we doing here? Contemplating our lives?”
You stared down at your pair of flats peeking from the dress, at the hem of the white fabric spilling around your ankles – anywhere but him. “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he parroted right back, nudging your shoulder with his own. “What are you thinking about?”
Your fingers slackened around the bouquet, at last, cautiously placing it by your side on the bench, inhaling leisurely through your nose while somewhere deeper in the church, you perceived the distant creak of pews and Deran speaking to someone – Andrew, who was likely standing at the altar and verifying for a thousandth time that his brother had the rings with him. “I’m just…” Your voice trailed off as your palm came to rest over your stomach once more, hoping to experience some movement today, but still nothing. “I’m just thinking about the people here today.”
Craig’s expression changed, awkwardness creeping into the lines of his face as he began picking at the edge of his sleeve with rough fingers, undoubtedly regretting that the conversation had entered the emotional territory. “Is it because there’s only Deran and I?” he asked after a beat. “Pop-I mean Andrew, told us that it was your idea, but I can go talk to h-”
“Craig.” You cut him off, smiling despite yourself. “Don’t worry. I love that Deran and you are here.” Your gaze softened. “I wouldn’t have wanted more people.” He studied you carefully, still uncertain about your claim. “We both know it wouldn’t have suited Andrew.”
That finally earned a laugh from him. “True,” he admitted. “He would’ve tried for you, but…” He grimaced, a look that conveyed all the words in the world passing through his eyes. You laughed too, the sound lighter, and for a brief second, the tension inside your chest relaxed enough to breathe properly. “So? Why the pouting then?” Craig asked, tilting his head toward you. “Isn’t this supposed to be the best day of your life?” He gestured vaguely to the stomach. “At least until…you know. Gremlin day.”
You elbowed him. “I am absolutely telling your niece or nephew that you called them gremlins.”
“Your honor, in my defense,” he said solemnly, placing a hand against his chest, “this baby has been conceived by two gremlins.”
Despite the giggle that escaped you, the emotion still lingered heavily around your ribs, which he noticed (because of course he did. it was Craig. no matter how much he feigned otherwise, he was perceptive and good-hearted). “I just meant…” Your voice quietened. “That thinking about the people here reminded me of the ones who couldn’t be.”
The teasing left his face completely then, substituted by a sincerity so genuine it caught you off guard. “Your parents would’ve been really happy for you,” he murmured.
You blinked. “You think so?”
“I know so.” He shrugged before a smirk slowly returned. “I mean…it could’ve been worse.” He angled toward you with an exaggerated flirtatious face. “Could’ve been me.”
“Ugh, as if!” you snorted, even as tears gathered unwillingly at the corners of your eyes.
Craig reached over without hesitation, thumb brushing beneath your left eye before it could fall. “Exactly,” he said firmly, though amusement still remained in his tone. “Now you’re about to marry the kindest guy on earth, so no more crying, okay?” His grin widened. “At least not until you see him in the suit.”
A watery chuckle escaped you. “Okay.” You let him fuss over you long enough to aid you blow your nose. “I bet he looks fucking hot,” you added.
Craig choked on his own guffaw, glancing to the church doors as if the pastor might appear and smite you on sight. “Mind you, this is a church!”
That only made the two of you cackle harder, filling the narthex until it became the only sound in the room. Eventually, you cleared your throat, nerves returning all at once now that the moment was sufficiently close to be palpable. “Hey, Craig?”
“Hm?” He tried to rearrange his face into seriousness again and failed miserably.
You bit at your lower lip before asking, “Will you walk me to the aisle?”
The expression that crossed his face nearly wrecked you, for all the joked disappeared in the bat of an eye, leaving only tenderness behind. “It would be…” He paused, deepening his voice halfway through to hide the emotion threatening to crack through it. “It would be an honor, to bring my sister to the aisle.”
Slowly, you rose from the bench, the movement heavier with the weight of your pregnancy, and Craig’s eyes enlarged the second he saw the full dress properly for the first time, the sunlight coming through the windows, highlighting the lace sleeves and silk white fabric. “Fuck,” he blurted out instinctively. “You’re pretty.”
You smacked his arm. “Language!”
“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered, yet he was still grinning while you slipped your hand through his arm. Then, quieter, right before he pushed open the doors, he added, “My brother is gonna lose his mind.”
The church glowed gold when you entered it, the kind of color you had only seen in films, amber and blue scarred over the pews and altar due to the stained glass windows. Andrew was there, at the end of the aisle, in a camel-colored suit that fitted him so obscenely well you momentarily forgot every coherent thought you had ever possessed.
(oh, you were absolutely getting him out of that suit tonight. no. maybe not entirely out of it. the jacket would stay on. only the jacket.)
He looked devastatingly gorgeous. And the worst part was that his face screamed you those same kind of thoughts, for the second his eyes landed on you, every part of him went still – not blinking, probably not even breathing.
Your sinful train of thought got interrupted by Craig, leaning down toward your ear. “You forgot your bouquet on the bench.”
You looked down. “…shit.”
“Language,” Craig whispered smugly.
You ignored him entirely, too busy ogling at Andrew while you continued down the short aisle, and only then did Deran leaned toward his brother and mumbled something under his breath that forced Andrew to blink twice in rapid succession. You nearly chortled out loud and by the time you reached him, your chest throbbed from the overwhelming sentiment of love. Craig pressed a quick kiss to your temple before placing your hand into Andrew’s, the whole world narrowing to him.
You barely heard the pastor speaking. Barely registered the words about devotion and covenant and holy matrimony because Andrew was looking at you as if he was witnessing a revelation in real time, his thumb moving shakily against your knuckles while emotion climbed visibly up his throat.
When it was time for the vows, he swallowed hard enough that you witnessed the movement. “I’m not good…” he began roughly, eyes locked on yours. “With words. Or with love. But I swear that I’ll spend every day trying.” Deran silently handed him the ring before Andrew even had to ask. “I’ll love you when things are easy,” Andrew continued, voice breaking on the last word while he slid the band onto your finger with trembling hands. “And when they’re not. Or we’re tired. Or scared. Or life hurts.” Your eyes stung. “I love every version of you…” He stepped closer, the pad of his thumb caressing gently the heart necklace resting at your collarbone. “…with every version of me.”
You were already crying when your turn came. “The day we met, I thought you were the quietest man I had ever known.” A laugh rippled behind you both from Craig and Deran. “Which was strange considering you have the loudest brother on earth.” Craig snorted. “But then we spent time together,” you continued, smiling through tears, “and I realized you were actually the loudest one.” Andrew’s brows furrowed in confusion.
“In your acts,” you explained. “The way you kept me safe during skateboard lessons. How you guarded my drinks at parties. How you never let me feel alone.” Deran handed you Andrew’s ring. “Andrew,” you whispered with a trembling voice, “I know you spent a long time believing you were hard to love.” His throat bobbed. “But that’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done in my life.” You slid the ring onto his finger carefully. “And I love every version of you…with every version of me.”
Andrew kissed you before the pastor could even finish the ceremony. One second you were standing there, painted in light by the windows and candles, and the next his hand was cradling your face, mouth on yours with such tenderness…You didn’t catch the pastor blessing you and declaring you husband and wife afterward, for the only thing existing in that moment was Andrew, kissing you as though devotion itself had taken human form.
And later that day, when Craig and Deran took the car to go back to Oceanside, the bedroom door closed behind you both with a clicked that seemed to hush the entire world at once, leaving only the sound of your breathing and Andrew, standing there in the light of the bedside lamp, staring at you with a similar expression to the one he had worn at the altar: overwhelmed, reverential, undone.
For an instant, neither of you moved. Then, Andrew crossed the room to you, his hands finding your waist, forehead lowering briefly against yours before his mouth brushed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips. “So pretty,” he murmured on your skin. His fingers traced the back of your dress, fumbling until the buttons were found, each one off striping another layer of restraint from him as his breath grew rougher while the lace slipped open inch by inch beneath his hands. “So soft.” A kiss landed against your shoulder. “My wife.” Another along the curve of your neck. “Love you.”
The dress finally fell from your arms, Andrew’s pupils dilatating the more skin appeared, his hands smoothing over your sides and his lips trailing after every newly revealed part of you. “My angel.” It became increasingly difficult not to bury your fingers in his curls and tug. Andrew lowered himself onto one knee, helping you step out of the dress pooled around your feet before reaching for your flat shoes, fingers unfastening the delicate straps with concentration and not realizing that your focus was now set on the wedding band at his finger, glowing under the light.
He took the first shoe off gently, pressing a kiss on your ankle afterward, followed by the calf, then the knee and performing the same treatment with the second leg. “So beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely. By the time his mouth was on the inside of your thigh, your hand was threaded tightly into his hair, drawing a low sound from his throat that made warmth bloom in the pit of your stomach.
“Andrew,” you breathed. His eyes lifted at the sound of his name, dark and heavy and full of love. You guided him up, sitting at the edge of the bed, your dress forgotten on the floor while he remained standing between your knees. And since the sight of him like this: loosened tie, swollen lips, trembling hands, wedding band gleaming, was ample to make mischief spark alive in your veins, you tilted your head and whispered teasingly, “Come here, husband.”
The reaction was so genuine you couldn’t stop your giggle, Andrew frozen to the spot, blinking once, twice, and asking boyishly, “Can you say that again, please?”
“My husband,” you repeated, the sound coming out of his chest outright sinful, kissing you with desperation, both hands rising to cradle your face. You could feel the smile breaking on his face as he kissed you deeper, tongue dancing with yours. Pulling back just enough to breathe, your fingers traveled to the lapels of his camel jacket, smoothing over the fabric before grinning. “Everything off but this jacket.”
Andrew huffed a laugh against your mouth, forehead dropping on yours. “Bossy wife.”
──────────
Two in the morning has ceaselessly seemed dissimilar from the rest of the day, even when he was but a kid, an hour where all is stripped down to its plainest frame and left exposed in the dark, every creak of the house magnified till it felt like an earthquake. Andrew lies awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to your sleepy breaths, one of your legs tangled over his and arm curled around his waist, as if even unconscious you refuse to permit distance between your bodies.
He knows why he can’t rest. Or rather, he knows but attempts to sand the edges down into practicalities instead of naming the truth directly, for issues can be solved, or catalogued, or checked off one after another until they cease clawing at his ribcage. The doors are locked (He verified them three times before bed.), the windows too, the oven is switched off, the coffee machine unplugged, the baby monitor sits on his nightstand, volume high enough that he can even perceive the sound machine in the nursery – set on a cycle of artificial ocean waves. But still…his eyes remain wide open.
(In the book, it said newborns wake every two to four hours. Oliver woke up at midnight. Juliet ten minutes later. That suggests they could wake any second now. Perhaps they’re hungry already. Perhaps one of them rolled on their belly. Or the sacks opened. Or the monitor stopped working and he didn’t notice. Or- Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the corners of the ceiling. Again. One. Two. Three. Four.)
Your grip tautens around him in your slumber as he begins to move, your forehead pressing between his shoulder blades with a hum of protest that nearly persuades him to stay, for the bed is warm and you smell like milk and lavender soap, paired with the sweetness of the lotion you rubbed onto your skin earlier while he was feeding Juliet. But the thoughts persist. Therefore, prudently, Andrew untangles himself from your hold, lifting your arm gradually enough that you merely sigh and curl toward the empty spot he leaves behind.
For a few seconds, he remains on his bare feet in the dark bedroom, wearing nothing but his boxers, anticipating for a sign, but there’s none: no crying, no fussing, only the ocean sounds spilling from beneath the nursery door. The hallway floor creaks at each of his steps as he walks to it, pulse decelerating because movement at least feels useful here, his everlasting vigilance transmuted into ritual – father keeping vigil in the middle of the night for the sake of the two souls resting down the corridor.
The nursery is dim when he slips inside, illuminated only by the pale blue glow of the baby monitor and the greenish shimmer of the stars stuck to the ceiling above the cribs, both your constellations stretching over the children in uneven lines that you had insisted looked lovelier imperfect. (Andrew had reorganized them twice afterward anyway.)
Juliet sleeps on her side despite every attempt to keep her centered, dinosaur sleep sack bunched beneath her chin as one tiny hand rest near her face, while Oliver, in the crib beside hers, lies flat on his back wrapped inside a whale-patterned sack. Watching attentively, he stands there for a while, checking the rise and fall of their chests through the haze of fatigue and panic, until eventually his exhalation unconsciously syncs to theirs.
Checking Juliet first this time, Andrew notices, with a frown, a small striped fabric that couldn’t be larger than his palm, wedged under her cheek. Her sock. “Bug,” he murmurs, leaning down, “how’d your sock get here?” Very delicately, he unzips the dinosaur sleeping bag, uncovering her foot and sliding the sock back over her ankle and smoothing the fabric into place. “There. Better.”
His fingertips brush against the sole of her foot just to feel the smoothness there, before zipping up the sack. He hasn’t even arrived at four in his mind when Oliver startles awake, his arms jolting in the air and his face scrunching in distress, mouth opening around a breath that could become tears withing seconds. Andrew reacts before thinking: hands gliding beneath him, lifting him against his bare chest with urgency while his heart hammers hard enough to quake his entire ribcage. “Shhh,” he hums, low and solid, the vibration carrying from his sternum into Oliver’s little body. “Let’s not wake your sister.”
That was a thing you had discovered during the first few days home, bringing one of the babies on his torso during a crying fit, only for the humming coming out of his throat pacifying them rapidly. “They like knowing they’re not alone,” you told him later. “That their dad is never far.”
So…that’s what he does now, because he can’t sing the way you do, soothing them with melodies effortlessly, but he can offer this at least. Oliver squirms a little against him, panic receding with his cheek pressed over Andrew’s heartbeat. The chair near the window creaks when he lowers himself into it, one broad hand spread protectively across the baby’s back as the stars overhead glow on the ceiling, the only sounds in the room being the artificial ocean and his humming, guiding Oliver once more to doze.
Andrew smooths a kiss on the top of his head, scattered with tufts of hair. “You can go back to sleep,” he whispers. “Your mom and I are next door.”
(The words still feel unreal. Mom. Son. Daughter. In their own room. In this house. Far, far from the ghosts. From Oceanside and the jobs and the blood. Where nothing would hurt them. Hurt you. There are moments where he has to repeat to himself that it’s not counterfeit. That he is just beating the odds time and time again.)
Eventually, he goes back on his feet, placing Oliver heedfully into the whale sleeping bag and adjusting the zipper (making sure four times in a row if it’s correctly fastened), checking on Juliet for good measure, the pad of his pointer hovering near her nose just to feel the air against his skin.
(They are both breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts their inhales and exhales.)
When he slips back into the bedroom, you stir as he settles beneath the covers, drawing him backward until his shoulder blades rests alongside your breasts and your arm loops around his waist to pull him closer, breath warm on the shell of his ear. “Are they okay?” you mumble sleepily.
Andrew’s hand finds your under the blanket, fingers intertwining. “Yes,” he replies. “They’re breathing.”
A chuckle vibrates against his spine before you peck the spot behind his lobe that continuously makes him shiver. “Good,” you smile. “It was a very nice first week at home, don’t you think?”
He nods into the darkness. “Yeah.” A pause settles prior to the question escaping him. “You think they like the stars?”
“I’m sure they love the stars,” you whisper, another kiss ending up where his neck meets his shoulder as your fingers drift into his hair, nails scraping his scalp in slow motions that unravels every knot inside him one by one. “And I’m sure they’ll love the garden too.” His eyes start closing before he even realizes it. “And I’m even more sure they love their very attentive dad.”
The words make his brow furrow. “You don’t think I’m…” he hesitates. “Too much?”
Feeling your head shaking against his back in denial, you respond. “No.” Another soft kiss at the nape of his neck. “I’m so happy I know I can count on you.” Your voice grows quieter with fatigue yet again. “Thank you, honey.”
Andrew frowns even harder at that, genuinely unable to comprehend. (Of course you can rely on him. You carried two children inside your body until it hurt to be on your feet. You bled and sobbed and brought heaven into the world with your own hands. The least he can do is stay awake beside the children for the rest of his life. Why are you thanking him? Praising him when he should devote each morning to be on his knees at your altar?)
“Don’t,” His voice breaks with the exhaustion. “Don’t thank me.”
“Oh, shush,” you grumble, amused. “I can if I want to.” Your hand smooths lazily over his bare stomach. “After all, the love of my life is a good father, a good husband, and has the sweetest ass in the entire town.” A pause. “County. No…state. Maybe even galaxy.”
A snort spills out of him before he can think about stopping it. But what he desperately wants to tell you in return, it’s that the love of his life is the best mother he has ever seen, the gentlest wife, and the closest thing to grace he believes this world has ever produced. Exhaustion prevents him from responding though, his only thought being that down the hallway, the sound machine continues its endless tide for two babies, and that beside him, you breathe too. And for tonight, that’s sufficient to let him sleep.
──────────
“Look at that!” you cooed, balancing Juliet on your left side, her head on your breast, while Oliver rested in the crook of your opposite arm, both babies bundled in soft cotton cloths like mismatched little cocoons, their faces scrunched by languor and puzzlement alike. “That’s dada!” You widened your eyes in feign awe toward the twins. “Making sure you’ll be comfortable in the big scary Sardines Soak!”
Andrew, crouched beside the bathtub with one sleeve shoved halfway to his elbow and his entire attention fixed on the thermometer floating in the water, frowned without lifting his head. “Why are you calling it that?”
“Because it’s their first time in there, so it’s big, scary…” you replied matter-of-factly, kissing the top of Juliet’s head who kept drooling on your shirt, “and they are sardines about to be packed.”
His fingers stirred the bathwater yet again in anticipation of examining the display for what had to be the tenth time in the last several minutes, brows still drawn in a concentration so solemn, you could have thought he was back to studying the plan of a job rather than preparing two inches of water for newborns. “The bath is not ready. It’s ninety-seven point eight right now.”
You beamed amorously at the sight of him, feeling close to the woman you were a year and a half ago and who fell head over heels with him as he repeatedly saved you from dropping on your ass during skateboard lessons, or drove you back from a party because you had called him and were frightened. This man, who somehow became your husband (karma probably owed you some good deeds from a past life), had the patience of squatting for the better part of twenty minutes just so the water could be between ninety-eight and one hundred degrees.
(you knew, you fucking knew, he read it somewhere. probably…in three separate books. no, you had to be realistic. five books. and from now on, the numbers would live inside his brain. honestly? that was adorable. adorable and very attractive. so much that you regretted the general lack of sleep to show him some real gratitude.)
The bathroom itself looked very Andrew-like organized, every object aligned with military precision in and around the tub: the bath seats positioned side by side, stacks of muslins arranged by sizes and shades, miniature hooded towels with ears warming over the radiator, plastic jugs lined up near his knee alongside baby cleanser and lotion placed symmetrically. At last, he nodded to himself. “Okay,” he murmured. “Ninety-eight point six.”
“There he is,” you teased gently. “The protector of our sardines.”
Andrew rolled his eyes, even if the corners of his mouth twitched upward, standing up and moving toward you, hands reaching for Juliet with an extreme caution that hadn’t yet decrease despite five continuous days of parenthood in this house. “Okay,” he reassured the babies, voice lowering into that tone reserved solely for the three of you. “Let’s do this slowly.”
The first few moments were tentative, all conscientious palms and reassuring murmurs as the twins blinked blearily at the warm water surrounding them. Oliver startled at the contact, face crumpling in outrage the second it grazed his legs, probably persuaded that existing outside the womb was not worth the inconvenience, while Juliet kicked a foot on the surface, hard enough to create the smallest splash.
“It’s okay, bug. Mom and Dad are here,” Andrew murmured instantly, one wide hand supporting her stomach while the other poured a small stream of water over her legs from the jug. “See? It’s warm.”
(you were sure your ovaries just detonated on the spot. seven days. in total, the babies had spent seven days on this earth and he already sounded like he had been built for fatherhood. which…didn’t surprise you exactly. but it certainly didn’t help your common decision for only one more pregnancy. in a few years.)
Another spatter of water interrupted your thoughts. “Ouch!” you gasped theatrically, bringing one hand to your heart as if you had been hurt, the other still on Oliver. “Jules has chosen violence today.”
“She’s your daughter,” Andrew replied, deadpan. You snorted, reaching for the other jug to stream the crystal clear liquid along Oliver’s body, covered by the yellow muslin to keep his warmth, observing his fingers flex in response while Andrew supported your daughter’s head, using cotton wool to clean her face. His shirt clung to his chest, curls commencing to darken his temples from the humidity filling the bathroom.
The sheer domesticity of the scene overwhelmed you, your throat tightening unexpectedly. Perhaps sensing it, Andrew lifted his gaze toward you, carrying with it that familiar attentiveness that always made you feel transparent to him, as though he had devoted himself so completely to loving you that your emotions had become part of his own nervous system – an invisible string tying both your souls until you couldn’t pinpoint which belonged to whom. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked.
You nodded right before the sentiment could swallow you whole. “Yeah, yeah…” But the tenderness in his expression was becoming dangerous to your composure, so you did the only reasonable (absurd) thing you could think about, flicking your wet fingers directly at his face.
Andrew blinked once, twice. A droplet clung to one of his eyelashes while he stared at you with a tinge of disbelief, still attending to Juliet. “Did you just…throw water at me?”
“No, never,” you answered solemnly, pointing at Oliver. “He did.”
Three seconds passed before laughter burst out of you irrepressibly as you witnessed his frown expanding, giggle amply loud that Juliet let out a small indignant sound from her bath seat as Oliver’s mouth latched onto your pointer, probably as a reminder for you that feeding time was near. Somehow, Andrew’s expression only made it worse, for he looked bemused for a minute, not in possession of the textbook for this kind of situation.
(oh god. maybe it was the hormones. or maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t slept more than two consecutive hours in a week and felt the fatigue down to your bones. but this face…this gorgeous, confused, hesitant face cracked your heart open all over again. because Andrew had spent too many years deciphering people for danger. searching every smile for cruelty hidden underneath, and you knew that this sort of vigilance didn’t evaporate in the blink of an eye with love. there was no manual for dismantling decades of his mother’s voice in his head. no miracle switch that taught someone the difference between laughing at and laughing with. only this: thousands upon thousands micro moments until his body finally ceased bracing for impact.)
Parsing through your reaction, his gaze flicked from your face to his shirt who had now drips of it all over and then back at you, as if the answer might materialize somewhere between the two. “I don’t…” he muttered slowly, blinking a droplet away that rolled down his cheek. “I don’t understand what’s funny.”
And all at once, your smile faltered. “Andy, I wasn’t-” You glanced to the tiled floor fleetingly as blood crept up to your face in guilt. “I just…”
For a second, you felt the reflexive apology already gathering someplace behind his mouth regardless of the fact that he had done nothing wrong. But that only lasted a second. Because the next, water ran in rivulets all along your collarbone, a small tentative smile blooming on Andrew’s face, as if he was testing whether he had done the right thing. You gasped, intertwined with glee. “Andrew David Cody!”
A little more confidence entered his posture at your tone, sufficient that the smile reached his eyes, softening his features. “You started the war.”
You leaned a few inches to the side, maintaining a hand on Oliver’s torso and kissing Andrew, who himself was attempting to prevent Juliet from spattering larger amounts with her limbs. This was without taking you into account, who used the distraction of the kiss for your other hand to disappear beneath the hem of his shirt, running a wet palm all along his muscular chest. A groan escaped him and fell against your lips, jerking at the contact, not able to block your chuckle into the embrace.
“You’re impossible,” he murmured.
“And yet,” you replied smugly, “you’re the one who married me.”
“True.” His mouth brushed yours once more. “Terrible decision.”
“Mhm. Yes, tragic.”
The twins chose that exact moment to protest, noises rising in stereo until you both pulled apart with matching smiles, returning your attention toward them. And for a while, the bathroom did settle into a calmer rhythm, the two of you working as a tandem, alternating between cleaning and explaining to the babies step by step what was happening – even without them comprehending the words – just so they could associate baths with warmth and safety. Andrew stayed focused but less serious, tongue pressing the inside of his cheek as he rinsed Juliet’s wisps of dark curls.
Tickling your son to see him squirming, a gasp suddenly flew out of you as you felt something dripping beneath the waistband of your shorts. “Andy!”
His expression remained neutral despite the mirth lurking in his eyes, one soaked hand still hidden mischievously on the curve of your ass. “Sorry,” he said with no sincerity whatsoever. “My hand slipped.”
“You awful liar.”
A grin appeared fully, open and boyish, his dimples flashing while you stared at him in feign affront and pure affection. You scooped up another palmful of water to hit him directly across the chest this time. And suddenly the entire bathroom fell into beautiful chaos yet again: your husband retaliating, his laughter bouncing against the tiled walls – the kind of happiness people spent entire lifetimes hoping for. The kind that proved Andrew that the family he created would never resemble the one he survived.
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The drive back home seems endless, every mile carrying the peculiar ache of missing the three people who exist only twenty minutes away from him, yet inhabit each and every of his thoughts. Andrew keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other tapping four times on his thigh during the red lights, the repetitive pattern less desperate nowadays, more out of habit than compulsion. Weariness persists underneath his skin after a full day at the workshop: cedar dust clinging to his jeans, forearms sore from sanding and lifting, the scent of varnish embedded into the lines of his hands no matter how thoroughly he scrubbed them before heading out.
(He still doesn’t grasp how he ended up here. Husband. Father. Carpenter. Those terms remain too beautiful and unsoiled to fit within his head. But there’s peace at least. Even in the woodshop. In the silence. In shaping raw material into furniture. He enjoys that the work leaves proof behind. Like tables, cabinets, cribs. Those are tangible things. Useful. Far from his destructive past profession.)
The closer he gets to the house, the more the stiffness between his shoulder blades eases, antsy for the sound of your voice or the babies’ cries or the impossible softness of whatever domestic noise is awaiting behind the front door. Except tonight, ahead of reaching the porch…he hears music. Andrew slows midway up the path, keys still in hand, his brows drawing together as the melody spills faintly through the screen door alongside giggles and the muffled thump of movement across the hardwood floor. It’s one of those albums you replay nonstop in the car and shower, songs he has memorized inadvertently, so much that his brain anticipates the next verse before it arrives.
Pushing open the door soundlessly, he steps inside to attain the living room, who glimmers amber with the late afternoon light distilling through the windows…and there you are, at the center of it all, swaying barefoot on the parquet in one of his old shirts and shorts, hair loose while the twins sit on the colorful playmat disseminated with stacking cups, chew cubes and plush animals.
His gaze travels back to you, taking in the faint layer of sweat on your collarbone and the sway of your hips accompanied by the tune, his mouth lifting into a small smile as he leans a shoulder against the doorway without disrupting the scene, giving himself one suspended second to capture pictures in his mind.
Oliver is the first to notice him, letting out a squeal of delight so loud it nearly overlaps the music itself, small hands absorbed into an uncoordinated attempt to clap while his whole body rocks with excitement as he sits upright among the toys. Juliet turns a heartbeat after, her hazel eyes widening before she breaks into a delighted babbling, “Dadadada…” spilling from her mouth with conviction despite the fact that Andrew knows it doesn’t really mean anything right now, that she calls almost everything dada lately, including the dogs in town and the rocking chair in their nursery.
In the twinkling of an eye, both twins begin crawling fast toward him. Well, fast…nine-month-old version of fast. “Hey,” he breathes, dropping his keys onto the nearby table and crossing the room in two strides, crouching just in time to catch Oliver prior to a faceplant of enthusiasm as Juliet reaches him half a second later with an indignant sound, lifting both arms upward in demand.
Andrew snorts under his breath – still astonished every time the sound comes out of him this easily – and gathers both babies into his arms at once, one balanced against each hip as he rises to his feet. The reaction is instantaneous: his son squeaks once more, burying both hands into his shirt’s collar while the little girl presses her forehead on his shoulder before leaning back to grin at him, curls bouncing wildly around her face. And somehow, impossibly, they laugh harder as he bounces them in his arms.
(That part is yours. It has to be. He has no memory of guffaws looking like this when he was a child. No recollection of joy not interlaced with fear. Yet these two appear to find delight in him naturally, as though his existence alone is amply entertaining.)
“My bugs,” he smiles, kissing both his children’s temple. “What are you two doing, huh?” To which he receives as a response mostly spit and excited gibberish.
You’re walking toward them, smile sufficiently bright that it sands down the remaining edges left from his workday, your arms sliding around his waist, therefore encircling too the babies and forming one general embrace in the middle of the living room. “Hello, sir,” you greet flirtatiously, tilting your face to his with that expression that still makes his thoughts short-circuit. “You come here often?”
Andrew’s pulse stumbles, for even after all this time – eternally, he suspects – you still affect him with terrifying ease. He leans down to kiss you delicately, murmuring against your lips, “Only when I know you’re around.” The sentence comes out quieter than intended, more uncertain than smug, internally wincing because after two years together, one spent married, and hundreds of thousands kisses, he still has no idea how to match your effortless teasing.
But still…your gaze drops briefly toward his mouth and traveling back to his eyes, a little hitch in your breath he overhears, making him think that, perhaps, he answered correctly after all. Juliet interrupts the moment with a vexed noise from between you both, twisting in Andrew’s hold until it becomes obvious she wants to be put back down. “Okay, okay,” he whispers. “Bossy just like your mom.”
Lowering her first, followed by Oliver, both babies resume their determined expedition toward the pile of toys neither of you manage to keep organized for more than two hours at a time, abandoning their parents now that the reunion has been completed successfully. Each picks their activity: Oliver heading directly for the stacking cups while Juliet pauses halfway there to line two cubes side by side, choosing one to chew on, brows furrowed.
Andrew observes them for a few more moments before your arms return around his neck, properly this time, his own hands on both sides of your hips as the music continues, drifting through the room to engulf you both. And without realizing it, he begins swaying with you – unconscious motions side to side, children babbling nearby. He blinks once, twice, his chin lowering to your shoulder as comprehension lands into place. “Are you…” he mutters beside your ear, voice threaded with disbelief and amusement, “…making me dance?”
Your fingers glide into the curls at the nape of his neck, twirling one. “Only took two years.”
A quiet laugh leaves him under his breath, forehead brushing yours and hands clenching around your waist. “I…” Andrew starts cautiously, as if admitting it aloud might somehow alter the balance of the universe – his, at least. “I think I like it.”
Your gaze raises back toward his, triumphant and tender. “Good.” You kiss him once. “Cause I plan on us dancing for the next fifty years.”
And Andrew right there, in this house, children playing in close proximity, wife dancing with him beneath the evening light, realizes with an overwhelming clarity that fifty years…will never be enough time to kiss every inch of gratitude from your skin.
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(noise…so much noise…no. not just that. crying. someone was crying. not the usual fussing, but a piercing one. fuck. the babies were crying.)
Disoriented, your hand shot across the mattress to Andrew’s side of the bed, expecting his warmth and broad shoulders and the steady rise and fall of his lungs below your palm, only to encounter cold sheets instead. Not just empty, no, cold, indicating he had been gone for a while. The realization cut through the haze in your brain in a split second.
(what if one of them couldn’t breathe? what if they were sick? what if Andrew got hurt trying to pick them up half-asleep? what if- was that how your husband’s brain functioned? were you commencing to synchronize with his spiraling?)
You were already out of bed before the thought could finish forming, practically sprinting down the hallway barefoot, one hand braced against the wall to steady yourself as the nursery light spilled from underneath the door. The sight awaiting for you inside stopped you short: Andrew sat in the rocking chair near the window with one baby in each arm, shoulders slumped and bowed around them as if attempting to physically shield them from whatever had upset them, both Oliver and Juliet crying so hard their bodies quivered with it, Andrew seeming frighteningly close to collapsing.
Hair disheveled from his anxious hands dragging through it repeatedly and chest bare with faint stains of spit near his collarbone, his tears were trailing down his cheeks as he rocked helplessly the babies, attempting to soothe both at once and undoubtedly believing he was failing at it. The instant he looked up and noticed you standing there, something inside his expression fractured further. “I…” His voice cracked. “I think one of them had a nightmare and…and I can’t stop their crying.”
“I tried everything,” he continued hoarsely, panic crowding each word until they stumbled over one another. “Food. Diaper. Humming. I checked their temperature four times and-” His grip stiffened around the babies. “Nothing works.” Another tear slipped free. “I’m useless.”
“Oh, honey.” You crossed the room, voice soft despite your own lingering alarm, and crouched beside him to press a quick kiss against his humid temple before lifting Juliet from his arms. She was red-faced from screaming, tiny fingers trying to clutch desperately at Andrew’s skin even as you gathered her alongside your chest, hiccupping sobs continuing to shake her body as you began to sway her.
“It’s okay,” you murmured, speaking to Andrew as much as to the babies. “You’re doing your best.” Juliet buried her face against your shoulder with another broken cry. “I think you’re right,” you added. “Maybe there was a nightmare.”
Andrew brought Oliver closer to his chest after your daughter left his arms, and only then did you notice the extent of the trembling running through him. Not just his hands, but from his whole body. You reached over instinctively, fingers threading through his hair to soothe him whereas Juliet persisted crying weakly against you. He shook his head hard. “I was really trying,” he whispered, shame saturating each and every syllable. “I didn’t want you to wake up.”
The sentence stung in ways he most definitely didn’t intend to, because of course he hadn’t. Of course he had sat here alone, bearing all this terror and anxiety himself instead of calling for help, genuinely convinced that struggling on his own was preferable to burdening you. Making a clicking noise with your tongue, you adjusted Juliet higher on your chest as her fist tangled into the fabric of your pajama shirt. “Andrew,” you replied, “it’s okay. You’re the one always up during the night. Always feeding and changing…”
But he couldn’t respond, his throat working uselessly around the emotion lodged there as you viewed the panic still trapped behind his eyes no matter how tightly he held the babies. Something inside you ached with understanding, for this wasn’t truly about your crying infants…it was about helplessness, fear, about loving someone sufficiently that every tear felt close to the Armageddon.
Juliet’s sobs had weakened a little by then, turned into hiccupping little cries, her face flushed red and pressed against your breast, fingers still twisting into your shirt as though she feared being set down back into her crib. You transferred her into the crook of your arm instead, brushing damp curls away from her forehead. “I know,” you cooed. “I know it’s not funny to be a baby.” Her mouth remained turned downward. “Always hungry,” you continued. “Or dirty. Or sleepy.” Your pointer smoothed gently down her forehead to the tip of her nose. “It’s not easy.”
Blinking up at you through her damp lashes, you kept going. “But when you’re very, very sad,” you murmured, glancing briefly to Andrew, “daddy gets sad too.” His throat visibly bobbed up. “And we don’t want daddy sad, okay?” Juliet sniffed again, lower lip still trembling but the cries had stopped at least, replaced by erratic inhales as you resumed stroking her forehead. “Yes,” you smiled. “That’s better like that.” Her small body melted further onto yours. “It was a very scary dream, I’m sure it was Jules,” you soothed. “But now you don’t have to be scared anymore because mommy and daddy are here.”
From beside you came the sound of Andrew panting shakily. You looked over to find him attempting to mirror your gestures on Oliver, rough hand moving with astonishing delicacy as he brushed trembling fingers over your son’s forehead. “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely to Oliver, thick from weeping. “It was probably scary.” Oliver’s palm remained over his heart. “I…” Andrew swallowed hard. “I also have nightmares.” The confession landed between all four of you. “And they scare me too.”
Lowering his head to kiss the top of Oliver’s hair, your husband’s eyes squeezed shut for a few seconds afterward as if anchoring himself through the contact. “But you know what helps me?” he asked to an Oliver who blinked sleepily at him. “Your mom.” Andrew’s palm moved slowly along his son’s back. “She’s always there for my nightmares.”
The tenderness of this sentence nearly undid you in the middle of the nursery, for he had said it with such certainty and faith – like you were the lighthouse in his mind’s tempest, the gravity that kept him on earth. Side by side, you both kept rocking the babies during the next minutes as the sea of tears eroded away into fatigue. Oliver eventually went limp and heavy on Andrew’s chest as Juliet’s lashes fluttered slower and slower against her cheeks.
The room hushed up until only faint sniffles and the artificial ocean sounds remained, briefly interrupted by the whisper of your name, uttered by your husband. You hummed in response, unwilling to speak loudly enough to disturb the babies who were drifting to sleep yet again. He took a hitching breath, another tear rolling down his face. “I’m so scared,” he admitted. “What if…” His voice faltered. “What if their nightmares…”
(you read between the lines. that those were not baby nightmares filled with monsters under the crib or loud sounds or unfamiliar shadows. that those were his nightmares. the type that caused sweat soaked sheets. the kind where he yelled for people and begged for pardon.)
Heedfully keeping Juliet safe on your arm, you extended your free hand to his face, cupping his cheek, who leaned into the touch in the blink of an eye. “Shh…They won’t be like yours, Andy,” you breathed. “I promise.” His eyes closed at the connection with your palm. “Just like they won’t be like mine.”
(because despite this whole existence…the warehouse still remained in you. buried underneath the ordinary days and the diapers and the laughter, yes. but also visible through the scars and the distress of being confined and meeting unfamiliar individuals. but of course, now neither of you said the word aloud. who wanted to bring back the worst day of their lives?)
Andrew grasped nonetheless, and you witnessed his eyes turning from cloudy hazel to clear hazel, nodding at your oath, for you were the one who had spoken it. When you finally placed Juliet back into her crib, Andrew trailed with Oliver cradled against him, both of you moving with extra slowness so the mattresses barely dipped with the babies’ weight and the zip of their sleeping sack didn’t wake them after all those efforts.
You lingered there another moment, observing their breathing rise and fall, before turning to Andrew, who still stood beside the cribs, looking wrecked by the entire ordeal. Without a word, you stepped toward him and wrapped both arms around his waist, making him fold into you with an exhale of relief. Guiding him backward until he sat back onto the rocking chair, you climbed him, straddling his lap, fingers traveling through his curls soothingly, handing him the tenderness and adoration you wished someone had once offered the little boy he used to be.
For somewhere inside this man, beneath the husband and the father and the man he had taught himself to be piece by piece, there was still a child who woke from nightmares with no one coming when he cried. So you held him tighter, kissed and kept vigil over all the versions of Andrew Cody that had once been left isolated.
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The kitchen, thus far, contains remnants of the birthday party regardless of the fact that two days have elapsed since the twins turned one: stray ribbons reappearing every few hours in the most random places even if Andrew has already searched and scrubbed every corner, the paper crown Juliet refused to remove until bedtime resting crookedly beside the sink.
(Three hundred and sixty five days celebrated. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. More than thirty-one million seconds since the delivery room, the cries, the blood and hearing Oliver’s heartbeat outside your body for the first time. Thirty-one million seconds since Juliet peered up at him and tilted his entire world on its axis forevermore.)
Standing at the kitchen island, methodically peeling orange slices apart for the twins, Andrew removes every trace of the white pith with a concentration that reminds him of the pre-jobs reconnaissance while the two babies sit strapped to their respective highchairs (the first objects he had constructed in his workshop). Oliver smacks both palms enthusiastically on the tray in front of him, seeking attention whereas Juliet is opting for the observation of the process with a mirrored air of attention on her features, curls spilling wildly around her face after the afternoon nap.
(Too much skin makes them spit it out. Juliet doesn’t like the texture. Oliver constantly tries to swallow pieces whole even if they are too large. Better to fix it now than panic later. He has learned the lesson. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the seeds he takes away.)
Behind him, the microwave whirrs as you reheat the lasagna Adrian and Deran brought over after the party, insisting that the two of you shouldn’t have to cook for at least a few days after hosting everyone. (Andrew doesn’t know what he is the most grateful for. The food. The assistance the whole time to prevent a birthday disaster. Or that Adrian brought back the spark in his brother’s eyes.) You hum absently along with the music playing low from the speaker near the sink, swaying, entirely unaware – or perhaps extremely aware – of the fact that your husband has peeled the same orange slice for thirty consecutive seconds, unable to steer his gaze away from the curve of your ass.
(Focus. Focus. He is well acquainted with each inch of your body. Has traced it hundreds of times with his hands, his mouth. Knows all the idiosyncrasies that you veil to the rest of the world. And yet…he keeps picturing how easily he could lift you onto the counter and- No. No. One. Two. Three. Four. He has to focus on the orange. On the children.)
You glance over your shoulder without turning fully. “Andrew?”
He blinks at you, sheepish. “Hm?”
“You know I can feel your stare, right? And I’m pretty sure there’s no orange hiding in my shorts,” you joke, rolling said body part for good measure.
Heat crawls up from the back of his neck to the tip of his ears, and, clearing his throat, he finishes arranging the slices equally between both trays just as Juliet reaches for one in an attempt to feed a piece of it to her stuffed fox instead of herself. “No, bug,” Andrew coaxes, rescuing the plushie before it becomes fruit-coated forever. “You have to eat. Your fox doesn’t need it to grow. You do.”
Beaming at him with no remorse but a spark of comprehension behind her eyes, Juliet awaits a moment, two, and suddenly points directly at him, letting out a loud. “Dada!”
All things halt: the microwave buzz, the radio, your dance – even his own heartbeat comes to a standstill. For one hanging second, the kitchen appears submerged underwater, silence rushing around the single word pronounced by a little girl, currently radiating joy at the reaction she has caused. You turn toward him with an agape mouth, only to be met by Andrew who stares back, one orange slice still frozen between his fingers. Juliet slaps her hands against the tray. “Dada!”
The sound punches straight through his ribcage. (He has been called many things in his life. Most of them cruel. Some earned. A number in jail. Pope. The softer names only came because you came. And now…this.) The rind slips from his fingers onto the counter messily, but he can’t register for there is cotton packed inside both his ears, pulse hammering sufficiently hard to distort the room around him, barely overhearing you gasping her name.
She squeals happily at the excitement surrounding her and points once more at him with complete confidence in the term. “Dada!”
Andrew is convinced that right here, right now, he might faint in front of the three of you as Juliet continues chanting the word proudly, kicking her feet against the highchair – his little girl who could have picked many words as her first, but still chose him.
You crouch beside Juliet, face glowing with enthusiasm. “Who’s dada?” you ask her gently. “Can you show mommy where dada is?” Only for her to throw both her arms toward him, proud each time she repeats the word, chest puffed with accomplishment while Andrew stands there, slowly dismantled molecule by molecule via a twelve-month-old girl in a green tulle dress.
(There are moments in life that split existence cleanly in half. A before and an after. Meeting you. The first night you spent by his side. Kissing you in the parking lot near Deran’s bar. The bullet. The warehouse. The ultrasound. Becoming your husband. The delivery room. And now this. This tiny voice calling him with certainty.)
By the fifth ‘dada’, Andrew finally laughs weakly beneath his breath and steps toward Juliet’s chair, cupping the side of her face to place a kiss at the top of her curls. “Yeah bug,” he whispers hoarsely. “That’s me.”
A month later, the twins occupy the playmat on the floor directly in front of the television, surrounded by squeaking toys and the seventeen stuffed animals Craig continues bringing on each of his bimonthly visits despite your repeated warnings that the children most definitely don’t need a plush shark larger than themselves (to which he had counteracted last week with a giant teddy bear, claiming that he had respected your rule since it was not a shark).
Andrew absentmindedly runs his fingers up and down your periwinkle cardigan while your head rests beneath his chin, the two of you only half paying attention to the animal documentary aired because parenting has now permanently divided your brains into multiple directions at all times: currently to Juliet, who is chewing on a rubber dinosaur, and Oliver, transfixed by the television.
Outside, rain taps against the windows, the lamp in the living room the only source of light, glowing a range of warm colors around all four of you. Andrew can feel sleep commencing to drag at him – a fact that still wonders him after decades spent unable to rest properly, today nothing more but a memory, exorcised by every morning spent with your walls around him. But with a long day at the workshop and dinner and the baths…he enjoys nothing more but this pleasant buzz of fatigue.
Without warning, Oliver directs a finger at the television. “Bi’d!” Andrew blinks once as onscreen, a flock of barn swallow lifts into the sky, departing South Africa to migrate. The small boy repeats determinedly, with a frown on his face. “Bi’d!”
You both sit up. “What is he saying?” you whisper, before the realization hits simultaneously, “Bird,” you gasp.
Squeaking excitedly for someone has finally understand him, he continues. “Bi’d!”
Andrew reaches down to scoop Oliver into his arms while your own hands grab Juliet, breathing a small, “Yes. Exactly. Bird. I’m…” he runs his pointer along the bridge of his son’s nose. “I’m very proud of you, buddy.”
The documentary keeps going, long forgotten in the background as you both take the twins hands to help them clap, Juliet excited to not miss out a moment regardless of the context. “Good job Ollie!” you grin, guiding her palms together.
And sitting there with the three of you, listening to his son reiterating the word bird, Andrew can’t help but whisper, “Thank you,” to the woman by his side, the beautiful alchemist who transubstantiated the lead of his body into gold. The one he keeps falling in love over and over again, until every battlefield inside him has forgotten the shape of war, till even the oldest trenches have bloomed with lilies.
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The album lied open in front of you, blank pages awaiting patiently to be crammed, and every few minutes, your stare drifted toward it with a certain tenderness inside your ribcage whenever you thought about the twins, who would one day turn those pages themselves, years from now, fingers tracing images of lives that respired before they did. A hand sorting through the shots spread across the coffee table as the other supported below your stomach, you sat cross-legged on the couch while doing so, the weight heavy on your thighs.
(but you wanted them to know they were loved prior to even being born. that in this home, there had always been laughter and kisses and sunlight for them. proof. you needed them to have a physical proof.)
You had already displayed a few photographs of yourself as a child near the first page: one with a missing front tooth and grass stains on your knees, another at the beach, wrapped in a towel too large for your small body, mid-laugh with your mother. There were also the prints for the next pages: the ultrasounds slid into transparent sleeves, and a blurry snapshot Craig had taken of you and Andrew asleep together on the couch two months ago, your cheek on his chest while one of his arm curled around the swell of your belly – protective even unconscious.
Beside the album sat the old cardboard box Andrew had brought home weeks earlier from one of the Cody’s storage unit in Oceanside after you mentioned desiring pictures of both of you as babies and children for the first page, and though he had handed you the box without protest, there had been a reluctance in his posture afterward…something quiet and watchful in the manner he set it down before finding an excuse to leave the room with a muttered, “There’s probably nothing useful in there.”
At the time, you hadn’t thought much about it. But now…now you realized. For all contained her.
Your fingers slowed over another picture, brows knitting together as you studied the woman with a toddler Andrew perched stiffly against her hip, blond hair cut to her shoulders and a makeup immaculate that you could perceive in spite of the graininess of the old image, beautiful in the polished manner magazine actresses often were, and yet there was a hollowness behind her smile that made unease crawl up your spine, something performative about the affection in the picture, as though motherhood had merely been another role she liked wearing publicly.
Every shot was with her. Young Andrew and Juliet by the pool? Their mother behind in a lounge chair. Blowing a birthday candle? She was kissing his cheek. Even in one where he couldn’t have been older than four, her hand remained fixed on him too tightly as she pecked his lips, fingers curved into his shoulder with a pressure visible through the glossy paper.
But there was one…one that you stared at longer than the others: a small Andrew, sitting on the porch step of the house in Oceanside, clutching to a skateboard, curls messy from the wind with his mother inclined over him, smiling toward the camera. Despite the brightness of the image and despite the California sunlight, the little boy’s eyes already looked wary.
Still suspended onto that snapshot, you didn’t register Andrew entering in the room up until his arms slipped around your shoulders from behind and bent enough to press a kiss on your cheek, the familiar warmth of him easing the knots inside your chest and mind. “What are you doing?” he murmured.
You tilted your head to him, smiling faintly regardless of the heaviness lingering around the images. “I am…” Your fingers tapped against the album. “Starting a project for the babies. So when they are older, they get to have all the pictures.”
His gaze dropped to the table, following the spread of photographs till his attention landed on one in particular. The one you had just let go of. You witnessed the exact moment his expression altered through a tightness around the mouth. “And that?” he asked quietly.
You exhaled through your nose. “I thought it would be nice to have us on the first page when we kids but…” Your throat tightened. “There’s always…”
Andrew’s jaw flexed. “…Smurf.”
The nickname landed wrong inside you the same way it always did. You had never enquired where it came from because part of you suspected Andrew himself to no longer recall, but hearing such a childish, almost affectionate word attached to someone capable of so much cruelty had made you want to throw up since day one, like she had somehow corrupted language itself. You nodded. “Yeah.”
Andrew reached forward, picking up one of the shots with cautious fingers, eyes fixed on it with distantness. “She loved taking pictures with us,” he said eventually. “Don’t think you’ll find one where she isn’t on.” He lowered himself onto the couch by your side, posture tense in a manner that told you how his thoughts had traveled somewhere painful, and for several seconds the only sound in the room came from the ceiling fan overhead. He sighed. “What will I say?”
You frowned in lack of comprehension. “Wha-What do you mean?”
Andrew lifted his gaze toward you, and the sight of his eyes nearly undid you, moisture gathering in the corners, restrained only by the sheer habit. “To the babies,” he replied. “About Smurf.” His fingers tautened around the edges of the photograph, hard enough to bend it, guilt flashing across his face as he quickly loosened his grip. “What will I tell them? What…can I say?”
The vulnerability in the question was painful. Not because he was asking what story to tell – Andrew wasn’t a liar – but because he was questioning whether the truth itself was audible, survivable. You grasped the hand not clenched around the image, fingers threading through his. “You’ll say whatever you want, whenever you want,” you answered. “It might take years. Or decades. Or maybe you’ll never feel ready to tell them everything.” You lifted his knuckles to your mouth and kissed the back of his hand. “Andrew…”
His eyes closed at the contact. “…what you went through is terrible,” you continued. “And I understand if you don’t want to speak about her with them. This is your choice.”
His thumb caressed four times your skin, the movement embedded into him. “One day they’ll ask who their grandmother was,” he said after a long silence, voice coarsened by the emotion he was struggling unsuccessfully to contain. “And…” A bitter laugh escaped him. “…even if I want her to disappear for good…I don’t want to lie to them.”
“Then you won’t lie,” you whispered. “And the day they’re old enough to understand, you’ll tell them the truth about her.” You paused. “Or at least the truth you are willing to share.” Andrew lowered his eyes, breathing shallowly as you brought your palm to his cheek, guiding his face back to yours with infinite care. “And you’ll explain why you don’t want to talk about her,” you added. “Why their dad has nightmares some night. How certain wounds take a long time to mend.”
His mouth trembled as he whispered, “How their mom saved their dad.”
A watery chuckle escaped you (when did you start crying? you couldn’t pinpoint.). “That too.”
For a moment neither of you budged, the snapshots remaining dispersed across the table between you both like fragments of another existence. Eventually, his eyes drifted back to the one in his hand. “How about we just cut it?”
You blinked and didn’t try to hide your smile. “With pleasure.”
Reaching toward the coffee table, you grabbed the scissors beside the album while Andrew held it steadily between his fingers, and together, you cut around the outline of the small boy until the blond woman vanished entirely from the frame to fall at your feet. He stared at the altered picture, his thumb brushing over the child – over him – before placing it into the album, right by your side. Where he had always belonged.
──────────
The grass is uneven below and in all sides of the picnic blanket, soft in some places and prickly in others where summer has singed the ends. But Andrew has still spent the last thirty minutes flattening them for the comfort of the twins, who are both too engaged carrying on a conversation in their own language of babbles and squeals that seem important to them. Andrew listens without interrupting, not because he comprehends any of it, but for he adores the sound too dearly to break it apart with his words, the stream of their voices filling the garden while cicadas drone in the trees.
Today has been…quite the step in his fatherhood journey: the very first day completely on his own with the babies while you were somewhere else, relaxing, existing outside motherhood for more than ninety consecutive minutes. To achieve this small miracle, he had bought you a spa day three weeks ago after noticing on the calendar that this present day marked the two years of your abduction. The cursed day that robbed a piece of you: the one who enjoyed to be outside, to speak to others, to party.
“You can still cancel it,” you had told him for perhaps the fifth time this morning, hovering near the kitchen counter, chewing at your lower lip. “I don’t mind staying home. Really.”
Andrew recalls the kiss he had placed on his lip. “How about we make a deal?” Another peck. “You try taking your car. Try going in there and try to relax. And if at any moment you don’t feel well, you call. Deal?”
And you had nodded, accepting for your world to expand outside the breastfeeding, the sleeping schedules, the isolation even just for twelve hours.
(And anyway he would sooner fistfight God himself than let you believe there is a single thing on earth he would refuse you. One day, back in Oceanside, he had thought that he could give you his bed, room, house, air in his lungs if you desired so. And to this day, he still would. After all…you gave him peace. A home. Unconditional love. Twins. And somehow, you still thanked him every night for changing diapers and waking up during the night and being a good father to his own children. How could he not give you everything after that?)
So, he had closed the shop today, and plunged into his usual state of crisis management: temperatures of the bottles checked twice in a row on the inside of his wrist, the diaper tabs secured on both sides, assuring himself that the nap monitor functioned properly (by inserting new batteries), and that the baby shampoo was rinsed completely from Juliet’s curls for he read in the parenting books that residue could irritate the scalp, therefore devoting four minutes making certain no soap remained whatsoever.
(But yes, there had been small disasters. Juliet, who cried because Oliver touched her toy. Oliver, who cried because Juliet cried. And yet, it had been one of the happiest days of his life. This one and the nine hundred forty one who had preceded it since you had met. But today the babies had belly laughed every time he had put a napkin on his face. Oliver fell asleep drooling on his shoulder after lunch. Juliet kept offering him pieces of her crackers.)
Speaking of the devil, she interrupts his thoughts with a light smack on his knee via a teddy bear she has affectionately named C’aig, for his brother who holds his role of uncle (and housemate) extremely seriously by buying all sorts of toys and sugary food whenever he is in a store (to yours and Andrew’s despair.) “Dada!”
He looks down at her. “Yeah? Showing me Craig the bear?” He lifts the plush with its tropical shirt and shorts as she beams at him, nodding with her curls wild from the humidity. Oliver, probably deciding that a conversation with his sister should include him too, crawls back across the blanket and hands a squeaky giraffe into his empty hand. Accepting this offering, Andrew whispers, “Thank you. I like it,” to his son’s delight.
For a while, the three of them remain there, with the summer sunlight slowly giving away to large stripes of tangerine and apricot shades and the mild air, till the back door slides open, every head turning to the origin of the sound. To you, the sky colors catching the edges of your hair as you step barefoot onto the patio, carrying your shoes in one hand, with a bright smile. “Hi babies!” you wave.
The reaction is chaotic, both twins almost toppling sideways, their faces lighting up with pure joy before simultaneous cries of “Mamamama!” burst from them, sufficiently loud to scatter away the birds in the trees and quiet the cicadas.
You set your bag down near the patio steps, kneeling several feet away in the grass, arms opening wide to them both. “Come here, my loves!”
Launching first with no hesitation of any kind, Oliver drops onto all fours and barrels across the lawn toward you with astonishing speed, babbling excitedly the entire way. But Juliet…Juliet has a moment of delay, which immediately sharpens Andrew’s attention. For, instead of crawling, she grips his forearm tightly and begins struggling to get onto her feet: it’s slow and tentative, his daughter rising with a wobble in the standing position, knees shaking with the effort while her curls bounce around her flushed cheeks.
One step. And then another follows after, clumsy and miraculous beyond language, arms lifted to each side of her for balance while he trails beside on his knees through the grass with both hands hovering inches from her back, your eyes shining as you cheered, “Come on Jules! Look at you!”
(She is walking. This beautiful, wonderful little girl is walking. Fourteen months ago she fitted on one side of his chest while he counted her breathing, hand wrapped around his finger. One. Two. Three. Four. He presently counts the distance she covers.)
Attempting a third step, Juliet’s equilibrium fades right there, pitching sideways with a startled cry before Andrew catches her against him, amply rapid that she never falls to the ground, but the fright alone shatters her composure. “Oh, no,” he murmurs, rocking her through her tears. “Don’t worry, you’re okay.”
From the corner of his eyes, he perceives Oliver, freezing mid-crawl and turning around at the sound of his sister crying. Then, with complete determination, he deviates of direction to go back through the grass toward them as swiftly as possible, while Andrew witnesses in stunned silent his son arriving and pushing onto his unsteady feet at the very last instant, balancing with effort his body to stumble through the remaining steps toward his twin. Facing her, he babbles a sound, patting her shoulder clumsily with one chubby hand, once, twice, and before Andrew can even process the tenderness of this whole situation, Oliver leans forward and plants a spit-covered kiss directly on Juliet’s cheek, who ceases her sobbing.
The moment doesn’t feel like an epiphany nor a violent strike of comprehension, for Andrew already recognizes this truth down to the marrow of his bones: those two babies love instinctively, with no trace of the hunger or the cruelty or the competition that once passed through the Cody bloodline like a dogma. But today, another certainty lodges inside him.
(They will take care of each other. Long after childhood. Long after schooldays and scraped knees and graduations. Long after him. Long after you.)
Crossing the grass to reach them, you are laughing and weeping at once just as Juliet clasps Oliver’s hand to pull herself upright once more, determined to strive for another step now that she knows someone will always turn back for her, help her stand, and kiss the tears from her cheeks.
──────────
You blessed the daylight hours and its share of new adventures with the babies, but you blessed the dusk as well and its silence, minus the occasional muted creak of the wood. Today was one of those. Stretching across the mattress on your stomach, ankles kicking lazily in the air and your phone illuminating your face in the dimness, you were scrolling through the hundreds of shots accumulated over the last months.
There was one of Andrew that you adored, with his skateboard in the backyard, sunlight striking the droplets of sweat on his shoulders while he pushed wet hair away from his forehead, Juliet and Oliver sat on the grass applauding and beaming, cheeks covered in watermelon juice. Another, of the twins at the beach for the first time, seawater kissing their ankles while they stared at the Pacific with wonder in their gaze, grasping perhaps the immensity of the world and what it had to offer. Then, came the blurry selfie Deran had sent from Hawaii during a surfing contest, Adrian tucked beneath his arm with matching smiles at the camera, all bronze skin and ocean-light and felicity (even if you had suspected this journey to be more of the ‘elope’ sort).
Andrew entered the bedroom noiselessly, enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed him at all, yet your body recognized him instantly, attuned to his presence through an arcane instinct that had only sharpened with time up until even the quietude between you had become its own dialect.
“How are the babies?” you whispered, locking your phone.
“Sleeping,” he answered.
Your grin widened as you placed it onto your bedside table. “And Craig?”
Andrew’s voice remained perfectly deadpan as he repeated, “Sleeping,” which made you snort underneath your breath as you ducked your head in the pillow.
Craig had arrived three days ago in his truck with a duffel bag, two new plushies for the babies, and the vague announcement with a rueful smile that he ‘needed a break before he lost his fucking mind’ which translated after further interrogation from you (and beer bribery), into Renn, his everlasting on and off girlfriend, taking Nick away after a fight for an undetermined amount of time, ending up in Craig realizing that silence in his place felt less like peace and more like desertion. And Andrew, who loved with an absolute loyalty, hadn’t even required the explanation to let him stay there.
You finally turned your face as he got to the bed. (fuck. there remained moments where the sight of him still struck you with the force of kismet itself. as if the universe had aligned centuries ago solely so this exact man would one day walk to you in soft sweatpants after checking on your children.)
Sliding beside you on the bed, one leg slipping between yours while his palm rose to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushed below your eye before leaning down to press a slow kiss onto the skin just above your armpit, inhaling deeply after in the manner he perpetually did when he sought comfort from your very existence, as though you were the finest ambrosia and he could survive solely from breathing you in.
“Do you think he’ll be fine here?” he whispered, concern threading the question while his lips lingered against your skin.
Your gaze found his – those hazel eyes that had spent years, decades, trying to aid his brother with the drugs’ issues and still petrified that he could fall back in this trap. “Well…” Your fingers drifted into the curls at the nape of his neck. “Deran agreed that he needed the change of scenery with Renn and Nick gone and everything, so what better than here? Where he has us.”
Andrew exhaled leisurely. “Yes, I know, but-”
“But you don’t want me taking care of him on top of the rest,” you cut in knowingly, amused when his expression betrayed that you were correct. You kissed the top of his head. “Craig, and I know this might shock you, is technically a grown man.” You continued, “And anyway, when was the last time he actually did something catastrophically stupid since the twins were born?”
Andrew looked up at you with one eyebrow raised so high it nearly vanished beneath his curls. “Their birthday,” he replied without blinking. “When he tried hitting on the princess.”
An astonished laugh bolted out as you rolled suddenly until his back hit the mattress so you could hide your face in the crook of his neck while his arms wrapped around your waist. “Okay,” you wheezed between giggles. “So we keep all the princesses of Ojai far from him.” Andrew’s chest vibrated beneath your cheek with reluctant amusement.
You pushed yourself up onto one elbow, fingertips drifting absentmindedly along the broad place of his chest and arms, tracing veins, freckles, and all the familiar geography you could navigate blindfolded now. “Craig loves being here,” you added quietly. “And he needs support right now.” Your thumb traced over the curve of his collarbone. “That’s what families do, Andy. Helping each other. So we help him.”
A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, devastatingly beautiful. “I love you,” he rasped. “Have I said it enough today?”
You pretended to consider it seriously. “Oh, I don’t know…One more probably wouldn’t hurt.”
He raised his head, mouth finding yours with this particular kind of tenderness that bordered close to worship – your own, modern-day armorist. “Love you, Mrs. Cody,” he whispered against your parted lips.
Smiling into the kiss, you responded, “Love you, Mr. Cody.” You settled against his chest fully, head rising and falling with each of his breaths while his fingers wandered absently along your spine, the rhythm nearly enough to lull you to sleep. Nearly. For a thought had been sitting internally all day long, growing larger each and every hour till it became impossible to ignore anymore.
Eventually, you mumbled into the quiet, “I was thinking today.”
You didn’t require to view his features to hear the smirk in his voice. “Dangerous.”
“Hey!” you exclaimed while pinching his side sufficiently hard to make him laugh breathlessly.
“Sorry, sorry,” he surrendered, raising both hands. “I’m listening.”
You bit his shoulder lightly in retaliation before speaking once more. “I was watching the kids this morning.” Andrew hummed, his palms returning to your waist. “They were playing together, and laughing and…” You took a big breath. “And I started thinking that maybe…maybe they could have another little playmate.”
The reaction below you was instantaneous. Andrew froze as though even his heartbeat had ceased and inch by inch, his hands slid to your shoulders, elevating you to search your face directly with wide, startled eyes, attempting to decipher whether you were serious or teasing or somewhere in between. “You…” His throat worked visibly. “You’re serious?”
You wrapped your hands around both his biceps, basking in the strength displayed underneath the pads of your fingers and the prominent veins running along his forearms. “Very.”
“I thought we said-”
Tongue prying open his mouth, you swallowed the argument before it fully formed while his arms slid downward to cup your ass under the sleep shorts you wore, body responding prior to his brain managing to reorganize itself, a low sound spilling out of his lips.
“I know what we said,” you smiled once you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his as you wetted your eyes in an exaggerated plea. “But are you really gonna make your wife beg for another baby?”
Andrew sighed, the kind coming from a man recognizing his defeat in a discussion before it properly began. “What if they’re twins again?” he asked in silent acquiescence.
A delighted grin spread across your face as you sat up enough to tug your shirt over your head. “Then we’ll have two beautiful sets of twins!” His eyes darkened as they trailed all along your exposed skin, briefly closing as you reached for the hem of his next, dragging it off while he lifted his arms to help you remove it.
“And anyway…” you added brightly, hands traveling to his sweatpants, “isn’t it nice to make them?”
──────────
It’s six-thirty in the morning and Andrew, no matter how much he has sought for it all night, can’t summon sleep, lying flat on his back beside you while the pale indigo glimmer of Ojai commences to filter through the curtains, his gaze concentrated on the ceiling while his thoughts run in endless circuits that refuse to die down no matter how he attempts to organize them.
(The lunches are packed. He has prepared them last night after dinner. Apples slices soaked in lemon juice so they don’t brown. Sandwiches cut diagonally. Vegetables arranged in separate containers because Juliet dislikes when different textures touch. Their coats await by the entrance beside their shoes, laces loosened. The backpacks are ready. Folders checked. Four times. Extra clothes packed in case of accidents. Emergency contact sheet verified. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the rhythm of your breathing.)
His gaze flicks to the alarm clock on your bedside table, checking how many minutes have passed. 6:32. (Which means that if they wake at six-forty, breakfast can begin by seven, teeth brushed and dressed by seven-thirty, shoes on by seven-forty-five…)
Your fingertip presses suddenly on his jaw, redirecting his face toward you before the spiral can fully root. “Why so grumpy?” you whisper sleepily.
Andrew exhales through his nose, turning his head to look at you fully. “Do you think they’re ready?”
Your smile arises in the twinkling of an eye, fond with that effortless confidence he has so long exerted himself to comprehend and memorize. “Honey,” you reply, inching closer beneath the blankets, “they’ve spent all summer waiting for today.”
“I know.” His brows furrow farther. “I know, but I’m still…” The sentence evaporates halfway through and he opts for a sigh as a substitute. “What if they don’t make friends?”
You study him for a few breaths. “Are you afraid they won’t make friends,” you ask prudently, “or that Juliet won’t?”
The accuracy of the questioning lands with precision – a dart right in the bullseye – for yes… yes, that’s exactly it. At first it had been in the little things, habits easy to dismiss individually: how Juliet lined her toys in rows before playing with them, crying if someone moved an object out of the pattern, how loud sounds startled her into silence rather than tantrums, how she observed strangers instead of speaking to them, preferring the company of the animals at the neighboring farm.
But as she grows, the resemblance deepens beyond those peculiarities into something far more profound, till Andrew can recognize the architecture of his own mind inside hers, every similitude accompanied by visions of what it was like for him to grow up deeming your natural way of being as a flaw awaiting to be corrected.
(What if the other children notice? They are like wolves scenting blood. One. Two. Three. Fou- What if they mock the way she pauses before answering? What if they shove her aside because she doesn’t laugh at the right moment? Bad thoughts. What if they make her feel strange? Calling her weird. Or a freak. Broken. What if she comes home one day carrying the same shame, he spent half his life swallowing whole?)
He realizes too tardily that a portion of his relentless intrusive thoughts escaped aloud in a fractured soliloquy when your hand settles over his chest, thumb caressing above his heartbeat. “Sorry,” he mutters, clenching his hand four times in a row. “But I just…” He swallows with difficulty. “I want people to be gentle with her, you know? Don’t want her feeling wrong.”
The tenderness in your face aches worse somehow, as if you had mapped the labyrinthic path of his fears and entered it willingly, prepared to sand down the sharpest edges inside his soul with the same patience and devotion he uses on warped wood in the workshop until splinters transform into silk beneath his hands. You lean forward, brushing a kiss on his shoulder, followed by another at the base of his throat. “Yes, I know. And that’s why…” One finger lifts. “We’re starting with half-days.” An additional finger. “And we already talked with the teacher.” A third final one. “And you checked the background of every member of the staff. Twice.”
Andrew’s eyes narrow faintly. “You weren’t supposed to know.”
A grin spreads across your face. “Oh, I’m very aware of that.” You look unbearably pleased with yourself and Andrew desires nothing more than to mark love bites all along the delicate curve of your throat to make you confess how, when you add, “Craig can be a real rat when rightly bribed.”
He rubs a hand over his face, exhaling a long tired breath. “And he sold this information in exchange for…?”
“Watching The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives with beer and pizza.”
“Right. Of course.” The words leave him impassively, so much that you laugh, incandescent in the dawn light, with a pillow mark onto the cheek, all messy and Elysian at once, leaning forward to kiss him languidly – the sort that mutes the interference in his head better than counting ever does.
Rapid footsteps erupt without warning down the hallway. “One…” you murmur against his lips who bloom with a smile. “Two-”
The bedroom door bursts open before you can attain three. “Mommy! Daddy! It’s today!” Oliver launches himself on the bed with absolutely no regard for possible body damage or bed resistance, bouncing onto the mattress while Andrew instinctively makes a barrier with his arm between his son’s limbs and your ribs. Juliet, who arrives a heartbeat later, chooses another route and climbs with deliberate care, knees digging into the blankets before she folds herself right against his chest with a sleepy pout aimed toward her brother.
“Ollie!” she scolds, voice still thick with residual fatigue. “Stop! You’re gonna fall!”
You catch Oliver’s wrists mid-bounce before the prophecy turns into reality. “Okay, okay!” you laugh. “The little monkey can stop his acrobatics!”
Andrew brushes a curl away from Juliet’s face, pressing a kiss onto the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her strawberry shampoo. “Pancakes?” he asks, to which they both cheer like it’s Christmas morning.
You shake your head, lowering your voice into a conspiratorial tone. “Better hurry before Uncle Craig wakes up and steals all of them.”
“No!” both twins cry in horror.
“And don’t wake your sister!” you call after them while their footsteps thunder away down the hallway in sync with Oliver running too fast and Juliet shouting at him to slow down, allowing for silence to return after the storm.
For a second, Andrew lingers there, observing the doorway they disappeared through, a sentiment coiling in his chest at the reminder that there was once a version of him, years ago, convinced that children would fear him, that fatherhood would expose each fracture and ugliness inherited through Smurf’s blood. Yet…now his mornings begin with babies racing to the two of you, for excitement has to be shared with parents first.
Stealing one more peck from you before he can drown too deeply in his mind, Andrew pushes aside the blankets. “I should start making them now before it becomes war in the kitchen.”
“Good idea.” You stretch lazily, shirt riding up to expose patches of skin highlighted by the sunlight starting its ascent, and Andrew’s gaze catches there helplessly, dragging a hand over his face to remind himself of his initial mission. You go on your feet, smacking his ass as you pass behind him and whisper, “I’m gonna check on Evie,” the morning parting you into familiar rhythms.
The kitchen slowly fills with the scent of cooking, the butter sizzling on the pan while the twins are perched on the wooden counter chairs he finished building last month, their socked feet swinging beneath them while chatter overlaps between gulps of juice. Pouring pancake batter with concentration, Andrew makes sure that the circles are measured identically in size (half a ladle spread over two inches) before flipping them after counting till the perfect number, distributing evenly the number of chocolate chips on Juliet’s pancakes for the texture to not be ruined, and pre-opening in advance the syrup bottle for Oliver, who last time had covered the kitchen table with it.
(That doesn’t halt him from the usual ritual. Wiping the counter. Realigning the forks. Checking the stove knob. Twice. Not thinking about their school day. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the sound of steps approaching.)
And indeed, when he throws a look mid-flip, you are back, holding Evie by the hand, the two-year-old girl still wrapped in sleepiness with her curls mussed and her tiger plush tucked firmly underneath the arm as she rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. “Look who decided to wish you a good first day at school!” you announce.
Juliet beams instantaneously, her entire face lighting from within in that manner that never fails to remind Andrew of stained glass catching the light. “Vee!” The youngest blinks at her sister from the safety of your leg. “Today you’re gonna be alone with mommy and daddy!” she explains while pushing her apple juice toward Evie once she gets settled into her highchair. “But it’s okay,” Juliet continues seriously, “Ollie and I will come back in…” She pauses to count slowly on her fingers, lips moving silently at each number. “…five hours.”
Evie stares at her hand a second, two, before raising her own with a grin. “Five!”
Oliver claps excitedly around a mouthful of pancake. “Yes, Vivi! Five!”
And for a few minutes, a tranquil ambience ensues, the twins absorbed by the food and their attempts to help their little sister grasp the notion of school. While so, Andrew moves around them to avoid all sorts of catastrophes that could potentially derail the whole schedule: cutting Oliver’s pancakes into small bites so he doesn’t choke or stuff it into his mouth at once, wiping a drop of syrup prior to reaching Juliet’s sleeve, checking Evie’s cantaloupe for signs that it went bad…
Heavy footsteps resonate down the hallway in long drags, Craig making an appearance despite the early hour, wearing a Javel-stained jogging pants and a faded Metallica shirt that has officially survived two decades in his company, long hair wild as he squints against the kitchen lamp.
“Well, well, well…” he yawns, stumbling in the room as he wraps each child into one crushing bear hug after the other, making them all giggle. “Look at my favorite little students.” His hands land heavily on Juliet and Oliver’s heads, ruffling their hair.
“Now listen carefully. School is really important. Your dad, Uncle Deran and I…” Craig trails off, just for a moment, ample for Andrew to register the flicker behind his brother’s grin, how his gaze drifts to the lunchboxes lined neatly at the corner of the counter, probably to the idea of the loving parents who made them – those ordinary things none of the Cody brothers ever possessed long enough to take for granted.
(They had jobs before they had homework. Learned additions and subtractions and divisions for them. Learned how to steal before history. Smurf necessitated arms more than report cards anyway. So, of course she agreed when Craig quitted to drive Deran around. When Deran stopped to surf. She knew her claws were confining them further into boxes.)
Craig scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, forcing the grin back into place. “We weren’t that good there. So you little gremlins better learn cool things for me, ‘kay?” Both kids nod – Oliver eagerly and Juliet seriously. “And if someone tries to give you shit-”
“Craig,” Andrew warns right away.
“-to bother you,” he corrects without missing a beat, “bite them and run.”
Both you and Andrew sigh simultaneously just as the children burst into laughter. “Craig.”
“Fine, fine! No biting.”
Despite himself, Andrew feels an odd warmth observing this scene unfold, for his younger brother has become woven to this house so tightly that occasionally he forgets there had ever been a period where Craig wasn’t ensconced somewhere inside, eating their food or teaching the children questionable life lessons and vocabulary.
(Three years ago all had still felt temporary. Deran and Adrian were still dividing their time between Oceanside and their new house in Santa Barbara. But not late after, the three Cody brothers had taken a decision. Selling Smurf’s house to severe the last rotten root their mother had left buried there. Renn left eventually too, their relationship collapsing underneath the weight of all the things neither of them knew how to mend, the custody allowing him to have Nick two weekends per month. And for a while…Craig had wandered in that old familiar way of his, with wide smiles to conceal the emptiness, with rowdy jokes to hide the terror of being alone.)
(Both of you had been so tormented by the possibility of relapse. So he had resided for days. Who became weeks. That turned into months. Until the children stopped asking when Uncle Craig was visiting and instead questioned when he was leaving. Afraid that ‘one today’ could turn into ‘today’. But for now…this place stays a haven for him. The first home constructed without Smurf evolving at the center of it.)
Eventually, breakfast turns into shoes and backpacks and repeated reminders to use the bathroom before departing, until all of a sudden…everyone is at the front door. Standing very still as you zip her green fleece jacket, Juliet’s fingers are clutched around the straps of her backpack, whispering something in your ear that makes you nod and whisper in return – an exchange completely out of Andrew’s earshot as he zips Oliver’s own jacket.
After hugs and promises to Evie of coming back soon, the twins are scooped up by Craig in one motion, shrieking with protest and laughter all the same. “Go make me proud, little Codys.”
Ushering them gently to the truck, Andrew helps his children climb up into the backseat with their bag nearly their size while you stand in the driveway, holding Evie against your chest and waving (staying back for the drop-off intentionally, giving him the space you know he needs for this part). He looks one final time in the rearview mirror, in time to register you mouthing ‘I love you’ to him.
The drive to school goes on in a strange sort of quiet, broken mostly by Oliver’s nonstop excitement that constantly reminds him of you, while Juliet stays unusually silent beside him, hands fidgeting with the hem of her jacket.
He clears his throat. “You know,” he starts carefully, eyes flicking toward them through the mirror, “if either of you feels uncomfortable or scared or anything at all, you do like we told you with your mom and you warn an adult right away.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Oliver replies.
“And stay together,” Andrew continues, fingers whitening around the wheel. “Especially at recess. Protect each other.”
His son groans. “Daddy! We’re not babies!” Next to him, his sister stares out the window thoughtfully, though one hand has gripped to Oliver’s somewhere during the drive, reminding him Andrew of the past, when his Julia had looked for their comfort in spite of each and every issue that life had thrown at them.
By the time they reach the school parking lot, there’s already chaos everywhere with children darting between adults, teachers waving signs, car doors slamming…Andrew feels his pulse spikes at the overwhelming noise pressing against his skull.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Too many people. And germs. What if they get lost? What if someone pushes Juliet because she hesitates at the doorstep of the classroom? What if they are separated? Fuck, aren’t there scissors in class? He shouldn’t have said yes. Should have negotiated with you for one more year at home. No. They want to go to school. He needs to breath. In. Out. In. Out. His thoughts are making him think the worse. He knows that. It’s not real.)
Getting out first, he helps them both onto the sidewalk before kneeling in front of them to hug Oliver, small arms launching around his neck with ample force to knock him sideways. “Goodbye daddy! Love you!”
Andrew holds him tighter for a split second, kissing the top of his hair. “Love you too, Ollie.”
Then Juliet steps forward soundlessly, wrapping her arms around him too, more cautious than her brother, cheek pressing against his shoulder, both closing their eyes. Very softly, she whispers near his ear, “Everything’s gonna be okay, dad.” His throat tightens. “I love you.” There’s a moment where he is certain he is about to cry there, in front of his children’s school.
Instead, thinking about the terrible start it would give them, he kisses her forehead and responds, “I love you too, bug.”
──────────
Beads of sweat kept dripping from his forehead, only to evanesce on the plywood surface of the ramp beneath him, absorbed by the sun-warmed timber as the wheels of the skateboard maintained their pattern (Back and forth. Back and forth.), one sufficiently repetitive that his mind began to forget the nightmare that had woken him up at dawn, now lost to the movement of his knees bending with the curve of the vert ramps.
He couldn’t recall when he had started – an hour ago mayhap? Two? Time behaved oddly once he entered this state, each pass across the half pipe aiding him to restrict the world to questions of balance and momentum. The only thing that his mind could pay attention to anyway, was the oath he had taken last night during dinner to the twins: a whole day dedicated to them before summer ended and their first year of school commenced, each choosing an activity without any compromise with the parents.
And now there he was, absolutely not terrified by the choice made by his son…skateboarding.
(Lie. Because boards broke bones. Ramps meant head injuries. Children were smaller and therefore closer to concrete. The helmet could loosen. The knee pads could slip. Wrists were fragile and teeth too. Every possible injury replayed. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. But what if he hit his head wrong? No. Bad. Thought. In. Out. In. Out.)
When Oliver finally burst into the backyard a dozen of minutes later, carrying his own skateboard with two arms and a grin that seemed to be painful for his cheeks, Andrew crouched to recheck the equipment despite the certainty that you had done it inside the house: the helmet strap was secure, the elbow pads aligned, the shoelaces tied tightly to not get caught in the wheels…Then once more, for his fingers still felt uneasy.
“You remember how to fall?” he asked seriously.
Oliver nodded impatiently. “Roll on my shoulder.”
“And?”
“Protect the head.”
“And?”
“Don’t lock my arms.”
He exhaled slowly, kissing the helmet as he lifted him to get on the half pipe. “Good.” Then, because he realized how he sounded, added, “I’m proud of you.”
The first few attempts remained hesitant, wobbling a little till finding balance as he rolled at the center of the ramp where it was flat, Andrew hovering beside him, hands close enough to catch without actually touching, every muscle inside his body wound tight with vigilance. And despite himself and the panic scratching at his ribs, another memory bled through the present: you, six years ago, laughing breathlessly in the skatepark of Oceanside as he lingered the same way, pretending stillness while internally cataloguing every possible angle you could fall from.
“I look stupid!” you had complained with a sigh.
“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.” He had attempted to comfort you while swallowing his smile – a futile endeavor.
(Back then, in the halcyon days, the skatepark had been its own country. A refuge. An excuse to steal a handful of hours with you every week to be hidden from the rest of the world. In a bubble remote from the jobs and the parties and the weight of being a Cody. Just two souls building a series of moments that neither realized would become a lifetime.)
But alas, like often, the memories turned sour.
(Because the warehouse happened. The instant where he had turned back and discovered what a world without his other half inside it felt like. What came after had never entered the ledger of his atonements and the men he executed never joined the procession of his sins. The blood, the wails, the fire he left behind…none of it visited him at night. There was no remorse. None. Not when he could still picture you on that chair, bounded, the sight carved with a precision no knife could rival. Time softened many wounds. But not that one.)
His jaw tightened unconsciously as Oliver rolled past him. (No. Not today. One. Two. Three. Four. He refused to let that memory spread its poison to the present.) So, Andrew set himself into motion, skating next to his son, who laughed every time he managed a smooth turn, matching his pace.
“Very good,” Andrew called.
Oliver beamed of pride at the compliment, dimples testifying for it. “Really?”
The approving reply didn’t even emerge from his mouth when the board under his son’s feet rolled in the wrong angle, making him crash sideways onto the ramp hard enough that the sound echoed throughout the yard. For one horrifying second, he was transported once more into the past: to you, crumpled against the concrete of the skatepark, blood running down your eyebrow as the panic drowned his mind.
Dropping to his knees, he breathed a shaky “Oliver?” hoping for an answer – any would do – only to be met by…a laugh?
The little boy sat up with a delighted grin, knee pads half-twisted and wrist guards scraped. “Did you see that, dad?” he gasped. Andrew stared at him for a few more moments, his pulse hammering in his cranium as he managed to nod. Oliver pushed himself up on his feet, adjusting the pads and helmet with determination as he repositioned the board. “Again, please?”
Andrew exhaled slowly through his nose. “Okay. But-” He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and shook his head. “Nothing. You did great. Good reflex.”
So they persevered, side by side, Oliver’s confidence growing with each attempt, his son’s elation amply loud to extinguish the darker burning corners of his mind for a little while, correcting posture sometimes and praising always. By the time the back door slid open, Oliver was achieving nice turns on his own. Glancing up, Andrew caught your eyes as you stepped into the yard holding Evie with Juliet walking beside, carrying a cardboard box that contained the unfinished puzzle she had been focused on all week.
The three girls of his life sat in the grass, Evie taking up the space between your legs to observe her big sister with wide curious eyes, Juliet organizing the pieces into rows of colors next to you, explaining patiently why she had to start from the corners to work outside in. He found himself staring instead of skating for a moment, just a little brief millisecond dedicated to watching how the daylight turned your cotton blouse in a diaphanous-like material, how his daughters leaned on you, whose attention was divided between both without either feeling left alone.
(Two decades ago he had picked up – stolen – a copy of The Odyssey from a bookstore to impress Cath. He remembered attempting to read it in secrecy so no one could mock him. Reading about Odysseus crossing oceans for twenty years to return to his wife and son. And he had understood it…at least partly. But so many years spent fighting and surviving gods and storms and shipwrecks and monsters? The idea felt romantic like so many stories were. Romantic but chimerical.)
Now, as you sat in the backyard with the two little girls and his son skating two feet away, Andrew comprehended with clarity that twenty years wasn’t that impressive. That for a man like him, it could have been fifty years or two lifetimes and it wouldn’t have been relevant, for in the end he would have ended back in the arms of his own modern-day Penelope.
He was able to see Odysseus now – his desperation, his devotion – as there was no distance he wouldn’t travel to return to you, no storm he wouldn’t walk into and absolutely no length of time that would convince him to stay away.
The only story he had read and never grasped even to this day, was the one of Orpheus, the bard who had descended into the underworld to retrieve the woman he treasured, Eurydice, and nearly succeeded, being handed an impossible miracle only to turn around and lose her all over again. What Andrew knew deep to the marrow of his bones was that he would have kept walking.
(Even if his legs gave out. If every gate to heaven had closed and every mouth of hell opened. Even if every god had barred the way. He would have kept walking. Would have dragged himself over shattered glass and rusted nails before looking back. Crawled if he could not walk. Bled if he could not crawl. He would have burned anything, even himself, if there was nothing left to offer just to make sure you made it home.)
He didn’t know when his legs had brought him here, board in hand and the shadow of his body covering you from the sun, just that all of a sudden he had the urge to exorcise your demons long held sheathed under your smile. So, he held out one of his hands toward you without a word, only a stare that carried the unvoiced request.
“Honey…” you breathed, realizing what he was implying through the gesture.
“I know,” he whispered so no one else would hear. “But just-” He tilted his head to the board in his other hand. “Just try. Please.”
Eyes flickering to the object, then to the ramp, and quickly back to him, you ended up nodding prudently, a hint of apprehension in your eyes, taking his hand and getting up. You turned to Juliet and asked, “Jules, can you watch your sister one minute?”
The girl, who was already showing to her little sister how the pieces of her puzzle connected together, nodded seriously. “Yes mom!”
Guiding you to the half pipe, Andrew’s fingers hastily found yours to lace through as your breathing grew shallower the closer you got to it, face painted with fear of the last memory you had of being on a board – the one day who had tainted and altered the rest of your existence. Your hands trembled as you placed a foot atop of it. He stepped closer. “I’ve got you,” he murmured as a reassurance, squeezing your hand twice.
The words seemed to reopen a Pandora’s box of memories because without warning, he could smell Oceanside all over again: the hot asphalt of the skatepark, the lingering aroma of saltwater, the perspiration and sunscreen of your skin after a long day at work paired with his lesson…
You pushed forward precariously. The movement was uncertain, your body summoning up the mechanics but not yet trusting them, knees bent but the shoulders tense. “One,” Andrew counted, hand locked around yours as he matched every inch of progress. “Two…”
“Wow!” Oliver shouted, coming to a halt in the middle of the flat portion of the vert ramp, awe sparkling in his eyes. “Mom! You’re doing like me!”
“I know!” you laughed breathlessly, the sound carried away by the breeze as you pushed once more, forcing Andrew to loosen his grip as his fingers slid from your palm to your knuckles, then to the tips of your own digits, maintaining that last thread until he sensed you no longer needed him to hold on.
Only a few feet were bridged. Nothing that would impress anyone else. But he knew the truth there, – the one that untied the knot in his chest – knew that each accomplishment was a form of cure, a manner of refusing for the worst day of your life to have the final word. The ramp, the board, the wind…none of that belonged to it. You didn’t. And witnessing Juliet abandon all interest in the puzzle to clap enthusiastically for her mother, Evie copying her sister for the joy of it all, while you asked Oliver for advices, Andrew knew.
(Yes, now he understood Odysseus. The stubbornness required to keep choosing the same course no matter how many times the sea tried to draw him under. Because he had spent his own life treading water too. Smurf’s voice had been its own kind of siren song, pulling every one of her boys toward the rocks and convincing them that the wreckage was part of love. The violence, the cash, the substances…endless tides dragging them farther from the shore until Julia drowned. And Cath. And Baz.)
Long gone was the man who had been standing at the mouth of inferno, imploring fate to rewrite his prophecy, for his journey was over. His children were calling for him and the one woman he would spend a thousand lifetimes finding again and again was laughing in the noontide.
He was home in his Ithaca.
-
The afternoon unfolded far differently from the morning: there were no cheers this time, no wheels rattling on the plywood, no excited voice shouting to pay heed to another trick, only the quiet. Juliet was not the type of child who filled every corner with words. With her it was simple: she talked when she had something to say and remained silent when she didn’t. As surprising as it was for the people who didn’t know the five-year-old girl, Juliet wasn’t one for contrived niceties.
And Andrew…comprehended that. Perhaps a little too well. Therefore, that was why, walking hand in hand inside the neighboring farm, neither seemed to mind at the quietness surrounding them.
The owners of the farm, Rhonda and Diane, had never minded the presence of the family, especially not Juliet’s, who, with her wild auburn curls, had spent so much time among the animals over the years that she had become part of the landscape herself – a small shadow drifting between the paddocks and the fences with pockets brimming with carrots and apples.
Glancing down at her as they followed the dirt path cutting through the property, her hand curled tighter around two of his fingers as her gaze remained fix somewhere ahead, studying the movements of the animals. However, after a while, Andrew noticed her pace changing, and at first it was subtle…until it wasn’t. Her legs accelerated with determination, a crease appearing between her brows and her mouth tightening in an air that he recognized as frustration – one directed at her body for not quite keeping up with the speed she sought after.
This facility of reading her every micro expression was mainly imputable to the fact that he had lived with similar ones since he was born: this irritation addressed to the self, the common agitation when not being able to catch if a stranger talking was joyful or sad…But here, all was straightforward.
Without a word, he bent down and scooped her effortlessly, the frown vanishing in a flash to make room for her smile as she looped both arms around his neck, cheek resting on his shoulder as if she had secretly been hoping for this exact outcome. “There you are my bug,” he murmured, running a hand four times alongside her back.
Her nose scrunched. “I’m not tired, dad.”
“I know you are not.”
“So why?” she asked, dragging the last word with a pout that resembled too closely to your own – the best kind of weapon there was against Andrew’s heart.
He looked at her, stare meeting stare. “I really want to see the horses too,” he replied (Not quite lying since watching the horses meant watching his daughter near them. And he really wanted to be witnessing another one of those moments.)
The grin she gave him in response was worth all the stains of mud he would end up with at the end of the day on his clothes and shoes (Yes, he realized what that meant. Stiff-bristle brush. Cold water. White vinegar. Fifty minutes. Rinse. Twice for good measure. If it was not clean by then…He couldn’t do it three times. Odd number. So he would do it four. But there was no price he wouldn’t pay for his daughter.)
Together, they continued until the horse paddock came into view, and even prior to their arrival at the fence, one particular horse lifted its head from the grass and began trotting toward them – it was the yearling appaloosa that Rhonda and Diane had let Juliet named personally after viewing one of your childhood films that had made the children jolly almost all the way whereas he had escaped to the bathroom twice to hide his tears.
Juliet straightened in her father’s arms. “Arthax!”
The horse neighed as they approached, Andrew lowering his little girl to the ground before she darted away, producing apples form the pockets of her coat, to the great pleasure of the equine who accepted the offering enthusiastically by licking the fruit clean from her hand, earning a giggle from her mouth. The sound filled Andrew somewhere deep in the chest and made him smile as well.
Reaching through the rails, the pads of her digits brushed through the horse’s dark mane before moving to stroke the velvety muzzle. “So soft,” she whispered, and it took a few seconds for Andrew to absorb that she was not addressing herself or the horse but him, like she couldn’t help but share this observation.
Andrew crouched beside her. “Yeah?”
She nodded seriously, like presenting the most essential facts to adore this horse as much as she did – narrowed down to one undisputable argument. “He is very soft.”
It was in those instants that he wished for his daughter to always know what he had spent most of his life wondering: that she was never too much, or wrong, or difficult to love.
(And it was also in them that Andrew saw an uglier truth. Because every day he spent loving his children made it harder to excuse what had happened to him. To understand. Harder to forgive it. He would cross oceans for his son. Would burn kingdoms for his daughters. So what did it signify when the woman who was supposed to love him and his siblings had so often chosen not to even cross the room?)
Arthax wandered away and back to the rest of the herd, interrupting Andrew’s bitter thoughts just as Juliet waved goodbye at the animal, assuring herself that he was returning to his mother before taking once more her father’s hand to go visit the goats – which habitually consisted in her attempting to persuade them not to chew her coat in exchange of carrots. Next were the chickens. Then the geese. And the cows.
Staying beside her through all of it and only intervening when she required it, Andrew sighted, as he looked up at the sky, that the afternoon was giving way around them. The light that had painted the paddocks in gold when they arrived was now deepened into ambery shades, long shadows spreading across the farm and cooling the air. And besides, Juliet’s energy had ebbed by then, at least enough that her steps grew slower and closer to his side.
When they reached the gate leading back to the road, Juliet halted her walk, Andrew following the action. She stared down at the dust gathered at the tip of her shoes, twisting a button of her coat between her pointer and thumb before tilting her head back to him. “Daddy?”
He hummed. “Yeah?”
She looked down at their joined hands. “Thank you for today. It was really funny.” The words arrived quietly, earnest.
Getting on his knees until they were eye-level, he replied, “You’re right. It was funny.”
Juliet smiled, a small one at a corner of her mouth at first, that quickly widened across her face, and before he could add another sentence, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. Andrew’s breath stalled. Instantly, he folded around her, a hand settling between her shoulder blades while the other cradled the back of her head, gathering her close against his chest and ignoring how her curls tickled his jaw. His eyes drifted shut. “Thank you,” he murmured, repeating her words back to her.
(Thank you for allowing him the privilege of being her father. For the laughs, the questions, the hugs. For the miracle that transformed a man who once believed himself unworthy of love into the recipient of it. For all of it. For her.)
For another few moments, neither moved and the farm behind them set into its evening sounds, full of crickets singing in the distance and horses galloping. Andrew remained there, holding his daughter, wishing that he could preserve moments as beautiful as this in the same manner people pressed flowers between pages.
──────────
“And here,” Craig announces, with in his hand a camcorder that should reside in another century, its red recording light blinking every two seconds, “we have the disgustingly beautiful married couple in their natural habitat that you also call ‘mom and dad’.”
You don’t even bother to look up from the birthday cake as you let out a sigh. “Craig.”
“Observe carefully Evie,” he continues as though you haven’t spoken, the noise of the zoom lens whirring through the kitchen as you adjust the final decorations on the birthday cake and straighten the seven candles, “when you’ll watch this in eleven years, I want you to know that your mother has spent three hours making this cake abomination.”
You seize the cake knife in hand and feign to threaten Craig. “This what?” you banter, still attempting to retain an ominous edge.
Andrew stares from the counter he has been wiping for what must be the third time in the past ten minutes, hazel eyes narrowing toward his brother with a lethal quietude – ample that Craig visibly reconsiders his life choices. “Masterpiece,” he corrects without delay but his older brother keeps glaring. “Actually, I would like the camera to officially record that this is possibly the greatest cake ever made by human hands.” Only then does Andrew nod and returns to wiping the cloth over the marble. “Thank God,” Craig addresses the camera. “I almost died. Evie, use that stare when you’re older if you want to scare men.”
You snort despite yourself while across the kitchen, Andrew finishes with the countertop and folds the cleaning cloth and gloves with his habitual precision before walking up behind you to throw crumbs into the trash. His other hand finds the small of your back as he passes, fingers brushing there in the silent grammar of your marriage – like when he pulls out the chair for you to sit, check whether you have eaten, make himself useful afore words are necessary. The kiss on your shoulder ensues a second later, all swift, delicate and natural as breathing.
Craig groans. “Oh come on! Seriously! I hate you two,” he proclaims to the camera with amusement wrapped in the complaint. “You’re absolutely sickening. Look at them, Vee.” He points at the two of you. “Look at your parents! Do you know what this leads to?”
“Don’t.”
“Of course you know. Cause when you’ll watch this, you’ll be eighteen and we won’t have to talk about ‘the bees and the birds’ anymore,” he keeps going, ignoring your word of warning. “So if you end up with twelve more siblings by the time you have access to those images, this is why.”
Andrew and you answer at the same time. “No.”
“That’s exactly what people say and then they still have another baby.”
Shaking your head, you reply, “We are not having another baby.”
“Isn’t it what you said after the twins?” Craig asks rhetorically, zooming even more on the area where your faces are, only to be met by two pairs of eyes rolling in perfect synchrony, the coordinated movement only making the younger brother burst into laughter.
(there are days where you ponder if Craig will still be the same at eighty, sitting on a porch somewhere with silver hair, a beer balanced on the armrest and making awful sex innuendos to whoever poor person happens to be trapped withing hearing distance. realistically he will probably end up the type of man who flirts shamelessly with every woman at the retirement home so…the answer is yes. some people grow older and then there’s Craig.)
Outside, the garden has become its ordinary carnival of noise, which signifies that Adrian and Deran have cast aside any hope for serenity while lying on the lounge chairs, the children now sprinting through the yard in search of one another while Bodhi, the two men’s labrador, follows Oliver around in ecstatic circles with his tail whipping the air and looking on the verge of fainting from joy whenever he gets pet. Even Nick, who was pretending an hour ago of being too old at thirteen to play hide-and-seek, is now grinning as he helps Evie locate the best hiding spot available and lets himself be discovered by her every single time.
Arriving the previous week at Craig’s house, only two streets away, for the holiday season, Nick – with the self-conscious posture of a teenager trying hard to act older – had been nothing but helpful, always saying yes. He has said yes to hang the decorations with Andrew and you the night before, carrying boxes without being asked or complaining, to cheer louder than anyone during Juliet’s latest show-jumping competition with Arthax, to accompany Oliver to the much bigger skatepark in Ojai to show him additional tricks, and has even accepted to watch The Parent Trap with Evie three times in seven days, learning for the birthday girl the secret handshake.
There is a kindness in him that echoes Craig’s so faithfully it makes your chest ache, because for all his jests, eyerolls and perpetual endeavors to appear unaffected, Craig has always loved people with his entire heart. He simply mastered early on the art of disguising it as irritation, to wrap concern in teasing and devotion in complaints. Nick, however, has not picked up that trick.
“Found you!” Evie screams outside while Nick clutches his chest and collapses into the grass, making her and the twins giggle at their cousin’s theatrics.
Craig’s voice pulls you back. “Earth to birthday mom.”
You blink. “Hm?”
“The cake.”
Glancing down at the finished product with its heart-shaped form covered in chocolate fudge frosting and ornamental stars, you wipe your hands on a dish towel. “Well…I think it’s good,” you announce before pointing a finger at Craig, who is still holding the camera. “Now go outside and film there instead of here. We’re bringing the cake.”
“Sure I can’t have a few more scenes of your mating rituals?” he asks with a smirk.
“If you don’t go film your niece in the next thirty seconds-”
Craig clasps his heart in mock scandal and comments to the camcorder. “Fine! Fine! I am leaving the kitchen. But my niece has to know it was not without protest.” And right before stepping through the backdoor he adds, “Just don’t conceive in the kitchen!”
You open your mouth to respond, armed with at least three different threats involving the cake slicer and the garbage disposal, but he is gone before you can deliver any of them, wearing the delighted expression of a man who has survived another encounter with your husband’s deathly stare. For a second, the kitchen falls blessedly quiet and you see in the corner of your eyes Andrew, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose “Is it just me or is he getting worse with the years?” you ask, incapable of dissimulating the snort.
Andrew nods. “He is. Still don’t know how we put up with him here for so long.”
Chuckling, you reach for the box of matches during which time Andrew prudently slides both hands beneath the cake plate, counting under his breath to overcome the wave of pressure (about the precarious equilibrium of it? or about the seven candles placed there for your youngest? knowing him, it can very well be both.). Catching rapidly, the small flames dance on his face and accentuate his piercing hazel eyes, not fixed on the cake but on you with the attention of a person who has spent a decade cataloguing the shape of your existence and still hasn’t grown tired of it. “There,” you murmur with a smile.
“It’s perfect,” he replies with a raspy tone, the word not directed to the baked good.
Shaking your head, you rise onto your toes and press a kiss to his mouth – a peck at first, only for him to tilt his head into it, stealing another few seconds until permitting you to pull away. “Come on Mr. Cody, let’s not make the kids wait.”
His gaze trails all along your face, nodding before he walks a step behind you with the cake while you hold the door open for him. The song is all messy and pure at once, with Craig who can’t resist harmonizing in the worst possible key, and Adrian, sticking his tongue out to make Evie break the feigned solemn air she is taking of a princess surrounded by her court. Placing the birthday cake diligently in front of her, Andrew adjusts its position by less than an inch to the left before deeming it acceptable.
(you can bet good money that he just centered it with the wood grain of the table and his daughter’s chair.)
He steps back, hand finding yours just as the little girl closes her eyes, pressing her lips together and making a wish, blowing out the candles in one determined breath. The table erupts and for one picture perfect moment, while everyone celebrates, you look at Andrew – whose eyes are already fixed on your face. Judging by the smile spreading across his face, you suspect that whatever Evie has just wished for…he is thinking that he already got his.
Later, after the cake, the sticky fingers and the smear of frosting on Oliver’s wrist that Andrew notices and wipes before it can spread all over, it’s time for the gifts. Without being solicited, Nick glides by her side into the role of assistant, retrieving each package and handing it over, even if the first one necessitates also the help of Deran, considering the size of it. Not wrapped in paper, his and Adrian’s present is a hand painted surfboard, spattered in shades of bright blues, yellows and the names of the family intricately hidden in the patterns.
“You have the best reason to visit us in Santa Barbara for the summer,” Adrian smiles, assisting to lift it up so she can observe it closely.
Deran adds. “Yeah, we can teach you properly with your own board now.”
When it gets place to the side, Evie launches herself at both of them, thanking like she has been gifted the moon and promising to listen to her uncles when she’ll be there. Craig’s present is next, and somehow, even prior to the wrapping paper being ripped out, you just know that a disaster is coming, for his face bears the gleeful guilt of a man who has set a spark and is now awaiting for everyone else to contemplate the fire. The box reveals a drum set scaled for a child, which makes you briefly consider murder with a cymbal.
“Craig,” you articulate very quietly, concealing it with a smile and a thumbs-up directed at your youngest, “you know that I hate you, right?”
He raises his hands and shrugs, amused. “I know, I know…But what can I say? She has rhythm and I’m nurturing it! Hey, Evie!” He leans toward her and stage-whispers, “You should play it on Sunday mornings! It’s the best hour.”
(years ago you aspired to murder your brother-in-law with the closest heavy object on behalf of leaving you in the middle of a party to snort drugs so…poisoning him here would only be a ‘long-time coming’ situation, right?)
Nick delivers his present with less fanfare: a massive science kit, seeing that he heard her claiming to be the next astronaut to go walk on the moon, then Oliver, who gives her a set of acrylic paints, that he had been saving up for since she eyed it up through the shop window. Evie lights up at it, at being seen for all the things that she is: a surfer, a drummer, a scientist and a painter – young enough to believe that she can be all of them at once. Juliet hands over a bracelet she spent weeks making herself, beads spelling out ‘Vee’, accompanied by a journal with a lock, hugging her sister tightly and murmuring something in her ear that makes her grin.
Then, Andrew disappears briefly, not without squeezing your hand first. What he brings out from the garage is so large that everyone falls silent…even Craig. It’s a dollhouse. Not a flimsy toy-store version, but an entire miniature house built entirely by him, with walls painted by hand and stairs and small furniture and even a room upstairs that has bookshelves no bigger than your palm.
Evie’s mouth falls open. “Dad…”
Andrew clears his throat, placing it next to her to avoid showing how much the moment affects him, not because his children shouldn’t see him cry – he has spent many years teaching his son that tears are not to be mistaken with weakness. And you know it has nothing to do with Deran or Craig either, if anything, they would comprehend better than anyone: they had endured the same house, the same mother. But still, there are days like this one where you can witness the truth hidden beneath his features and eyes, this small part of him that whispers in his ear that it’s never meant to last. “I made it for you,” he ends up saying.
She jumps into his arms, her father now smiling through the impact while she wraps both arms around his neck, and you can see the way his face softens when the devil on his shoulder lifts its claws to let him appreciate the embrace.
Stepping forward last, you place in Evie’s hand her photo album, tied with a silver ribbon. When she opens it, her hands move page by page with growing wonder, each spread filled with pictures and notes in your handwriting. Among them: Andrew as a child, circa 1981, caught in one of the rare photographs where he is smiling, the rest of the frame meticulously trimmed away since it belonged to a history none of the children cared to revisit (a point they had made to Andrew adamantly), leaving only him and a silver glitter inscription, Your cute dad. There is also one of you with a missing tooth and a teddy bear clutched tight to your chest, annotated with Your mom who always wanted a hug.
Another picture of Andrew and you, prior to even being a couple, standing next to each other at some party Craig had forced his older brother to attend. You are cradling a beer and smiling at something he has just said while Andrew, true to form, wears his usual stern expression but yet, the image betrays him: his body angled toward yours, attention fixed solely on your lips, a softness in the eyes that makes it obvious – as clearly as if it had been underlined – that he had already fallen long before confessing it on the parking lot of Deran’s former bar.
Evie’s ultrasounds, Juliet and Oliver asleep on either side of your belly, there is even a picture of her in the crib the day she was born, another of Andrew holding her for the first time, face wrecked with awe, the twins on your bed as you show them their new sister, and a few sheets later one of Evie perched on Craig’s shoulder while he wore heart-shaped sunglasses in pure cool uncle spirit while she ate ice cream.
A page. Then another. She keeps turning them long after the others have moved on to finish their plates and drinks, and although he participates when spoken to, nods when Craig talks, answers when Oliver asks a question…you notice that part of Andrew never truly leaves Evie, his gaze returning to her over and over with the same certainty a compass returns north.
When the party finally winds down and Craig, Deran, Adrian and Bodhi pile back into Craig’s truck for the night, Nick preferring with his usual enthusiasm to stay for a sleepover with his cousins, you find Evie sitting on the sofa, album open across her knees.
Her eyes are fixed on one of the wedding photographs. You set down the face product that you are about to apply on the coffee table to sit beside her. “What are you still doing up, Evie-Lou? Don’t you want to go with the others?”
“In a minute,” she says, without looking away.
You tuck a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “What is it?”
She frows faintly while still staring at the shot of you and Andrew outside the church after the wedding, his hands framing your face while you kiss. “If…If I tell you my wish,” she asks in a small voice, “is it true that it doesn’t come true?”
You smile and smooth your hand down her back. “Well, I’m your mom, so I’m certain that the stars would still make it happen.”
Evie glances toward the hallway to make sure no one else can hear her before leaning closer. “I wished for Uncle Craig to find someone who looks at him just like you look at Daddy.”
You throat contracts painfully, enough that you have to kiss the top of her head before answering. “That’s a very good wish.” Looking up at you, her eyes are soft with all the solemnity of a child asking the universe for help. “And I’m sure,” you add gently, “that one day your wish will come true.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” You smile and press your lips once more to her hair. “Now go to bed. And don’t stay up too late with the others!”
She nods, tucking the album against her chest, but a moment later, right before she disappears in the hallway to join them, she throws you a grin, one that tells you in a second that she has absolutely no intention of following that instruction whatsoever.
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Andrew had assumed he could postpone this conversation for a few more years. Not forever, no, he had never been naïve enough to think that…but longer would have allowed him to pretend a while more. Long enough that the children would be older when the questions ultimately occurred, just enough that Her cursed name wouldn’t reverberate like a corpse dragged across the floorboards of the life he had devoted over a decade building with his own hands.
He had been reiterating the same novena since his children were born, an obstinate litany of avoidance to keep them safe and permitting him to form a world where no one had to know the woman whose acrimonious love wore the face of syrupy words and tight leaches. How five children had mistaken their fear for devotion. He almost convinced himself that because She was dead, that the years had gone by and that his own children had grown up far from Her damaging nature, then perhaps the past could remain where he had locked it away.
Instead, the assignment came home on a random Tuesday afternoon, folded into their backpacks on a poster of pastel paper with an instruction from their first-grade teacher that said ‘Write about the people who make up your family’. By the time the three children had spread out around the living room coffee table that afternoon, Evie on her knees with a bowl of crayons – too little for school but eager to prove her drawing skills – while Juliet sorted them for her by shade, Oliver leaning so far over the work that his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth in concentration, Andrew knew that the safe route was already long gone.
At first it was manageable, the children filling the branches they already were familiar with: mother, father, their uncles Craig, Deran and his husband Adrian, their aunt Julia…even Baz found a place there. Then came your mother and father, the ones you had spoken about so naturally over time that the twins had long ago realized how the shape of your grief had modeled your family map, with a mother who went among the stars, as you told them, when you were twenty-one and a father who later joined her.
Oliver had been the first to ask about his own branch, pointing at a blank space that Andrew filled in with little to no information. Colin. Dead preceding Andrew and Julia being born. Not a family name. Not even a photograph of him. A father known mostly through the hollow outline of what Billy painted about him, the kind of man whose life remained a mystery because the deeper parts had been buried in the fields with him and the war in his head.
Then Juliet, who had been coloring the trunk of the tree, lifted her eyes and asked her father the one question he had wanted to avoid. “What about your mom?”
His chest constricted, as though a hammer had installed itself directly atop his ribs, but he kept his voice neutral and expression meticulously composed. No, worse, he even smiled to not reveal the hurt lurking beneath it, not knowing whether, deep down, if it was for his own sake or Juliet’s, who observed the world the same manner he did: through collecting details, patterns, pauses and drawing conclusions from all combined.
“She was…” he began, but the sentence withered before it reached the air, like flowers wilting at the sound of Her name – vowels and consonants carved onto a monument he had spent so long striving to abrade into dust. “Her name was Janine Cody.” Saying it tasted rancid, like spending years building the Hanging Gardens of Babylon stone by stone, only to glance down and discover the soil beneath his nails still came from her tomb – the decaying body in his empyrean world.
Oliver wrote it down with application. “How do you spell Janine?”
He told him, then came the next question, and the next, and the next…Andrew kept going because if he stopped now, he was certain he might never start again. “When was she bo- October eleventh. Nineteen fifty-three.” The words were clinical, stripped of love, as though he were reading information from an old file instead of speaking about the woman who had raised him.
But still…the more interrogations came…the more the panic rose in him like the flood, and in the blink of an eye, he was up on his feet, excusing himself. The bathroom door shut behind him with a soft click, bracing both hands on the sink and bending his head down over the basin, eyes shut tight as his breath came unevenly through his nose and bile climbed in the throat. For a moment, all he could hear was the rush inside his ears and the numbers he forced himself to count since counting was still one of the few things left in the world he could trust when everything began to splinter and you were not there to reassure him.
(One. Two. Three. Four. She was dead. The children were safe. It was not Oceanside. You were not back in that house. She was dead. You never met her. One. Two. Three. Four. No. She had no right to come back. No right to be here. He didn’t want her name on their family tree. She was nothing. One. Two. Three. F-)
He splashed water on his face, keeping his palms on the cool porcelain long enough for the shock of the temperature to drag him back to the present, eyes open now toward his own reflection. He stared at the face he had inherited from the one person he didn’t trust, jaw tight, eyes too bright and the mouth set in that grim line he hated sighting on himself.
(One. Two. Three. Four. In. Out. In. Out. He counted the tiles. Four across. Four down. Good number. Even number.)
He remained in the room until the fear ceased asphyxiating quite so hard, unlocking your shampoo to inhale its familiar scent, fingers lingering on the fabric of your pajamas draped over the chair to seek reassurance in the proof of your existence. When he eventually made his way back, conscious that the storm was still inscribed on his face, he found the children exactly where he had left them: bent over their drawings and giggling about the shape of Juliet’s leaves.
Sitting down, Andrew only had to wait a minute before Oliver asked him, “Was she nice like Mommy?” and the question should have been simple to answer, but how could he explain to a six-year-old that the absence of kindness can still wear the face of a mother, can still feed her kids while teaching them how to shoot a gun or rob a place, calling it love.
Andrew swallowed before responding, and even then his voice came out rougher than intended. “No.”
“She didn’t comfort you when you had a bad dream?” A shake of the head. The boy’s brow furrowed, asking earnestly, “Help you with your homework?” Again, Andrew shook his head. “Sing you a song before bed and kiss you goodnight?”
Not knowing when the tears occurred, only that warm rivulets suddenly descended his face to drop onto his jeans, Andrew covered his mouth with one of his hands, trying and failing to keep himself and his sobs together because there once had been a time where the term mother had signified surveillance and the brutal requirements of being useful. Now there was a child, no, his child, who was born out of love, asking him whether that woman had even done the simplest sort of kind acts in the world, and every answer was no, no, no, while his eyes burned and the room went blurry around the rims.
The twins comprehended what he sought perhaps better than he did, for before he could speak again, and with no discussion, nor exchange of glances, Juliet arose from her kneeling position to walk to him, small arms reaching around his waist as Oliver followed right away, curling at the other side. Then, noticing that Evie was still at the table with a pencil in hand, staring with a confusion painted across her features, her sister lifted a hand and made a beckoning motion. The crayon was abandoned, rolling uselessly in favor of a group hug.
Oliver brushed his father’s back once, twice, three times (Odd number. In. Out.), replicating the gestures he had witnessed his parents do to the siblings whenever they had a bad dream or felt sad. Now he desired to return the favor. “It’s okay, daddy,” he whispered against his shirt, voice muffled. “If you want…” He paused, probably searching for a solution clever or large enough to fix whatever was wrong. “Mommy can sing you a song!”
“Yeah?” The sound that escaped Andrew was halfway between a laugh and a sob, pulling closer his three children until they were tucked against him. “Yeah. I’d love that.”
They stayed there, in a tangle of arms, for a while, letting the panic retreat like a tide moving away from the shore, up until Oliver tilted his face up into his father’s shirt and asked, in the softest voice, “Dad?”
“Hm?”
“You know how you always tell me we are safe?”
Andrew closed his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Well,” he said quietly, squeezing him harder. “You’re safe too.”
(He couldn’t utter a word. Couldn’t even inhale past the ache in his trachea. Safety had always been the thing he provided. The thing he assembled around you. Then around the children when they were born. Through the locks and the counted exits, the background checks and the emergency plans. Never once did he expect to receive it in return and still…he did. A decade ago in the dead of the night when you had comforted him after a nightmare, when he was so convinced that you saw him as nothing more than Craig’s brother. And every single day since, as long as it was passed in your company, he knew the sentiment could be found in your embrace. But here, now, safety came from his son.)
Later, much later, when the tears had long been eased and the room no longer felt like it was tilting around him, the children came back from school with their final version of the project. When he peered at the tree laid flat across the kitchen table, he went very still, for in the careful branches and colored leaves, there was no mention of Smurf. None. No name, no date, just an empty space.
And even though he recognized that this exclusion could never fully undo the corrosion of what had been done – the Cody brothers would forever bear those scars – Andrew also knew in that instant that the blight she thought she could pass through the bloodline hadn’t been invited onto that poster. Nor into their lives. That meant only one thing: the family was safe.
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“Wow, wait, wait, wait young lady!” you exclaim, the apple peeler stalling midway through the motion as your gaze lifts from the kitchen island and catches sight of Evie walking past the doorway. “Is it my dress?”
She stops dead in her tracks, offering a sheepish glance in return, one that does little to veil her guilt, particularly when framed by the telltale traces of your makeup on her face with the sweep of your mascara along her lashes and the tint of your lipstick adorning her mouth. “Mom, please,” she laments, stretching the first word out.
You lower the apple in your hand with painstaking slowness, allowing the silence to expand between you, loving nothing more than to drag her suffering another minute for the theatrics of it all. “That’s strange,” you muse. “I don’t remember saying yes to you borrowing my dress.”
“Oh, please, mom.” Her expression turns Andrew-like, the eyeroll clearly wanting to happen while every muscle in her face fights to maintain composure, leaving only her eyes to communicate the full extent of her exasperation. “You never wear it.”
You look up and down once more at the dress in question, with its soft white fabric and floating shape who conveys a whole string of memories with it. The last time you wore it was, what? Eighteen, maybe nineteen years ago? It had been for a party organized by Craig and Deran in the Oceanside house, your palms jittery from craving to store your sentiments for Andrew somewhere private and safe and covert from Craig’s loud interference, therefore placing it in the purchase of a new pair of gloves so he could scrub without tearing his skin. Party where the two of you had ended up sharing a bed since Craig had stolen the couch, pretending there was nothing already half-formed between you, that you were not standing on the edge of something.
(you can still recall knocking on his door. the linen fabric of the sheet. his tense body on the mattress as you had ached to touch him. the unbearable relief when you had held each other.)
Looking back at Evie, you exhale through your nose, covering the smile. “Fine. But don’t stain it and don’t rip it.”
She makes a strangled sound of gratitude and throws herself in your arms before you can brace, hugging you so tightly that the apple almost slips from your fingers. “Thank you,” she breathes into your shoulder. “I promise I’ll be careful.”
“Mh-hm.” You kiss the top of her head. “And don’t forget protections either.”
Pulling away with such speed and horror that you are on the brink of breaking the serious façade, she grimaces. “Okay, I’m leaving!”
You place the apple and its peeler back on the counter before following her to the doorstep as she grabs her handbag from the entry table. “I’m joking. But…not really. Don’t forget tha-”
“I know,” she cuts in quickly, reciting the list that she has heard so many times she can’t omit an element while lifting her fingers. “Condoms in the slip pocket. Pepper spray and spiked drink tests in the front one. If I don’t feel safe I call Dad.” She pauses after opening the door, one eyebrow raised in the exact same expression Andrew produces when he is being asked to tolerate nonsense. “Mom, you know it’s just a party at Shelly’s.”
You raise a finger at her in warning. “Exactly. It’s a party and you’re fifteen. I’m preparing for every scenario.” A car horn sounds outside, making Evie visibly perk up as you mouth, ‘Saved by the bell’.
“Okay that’s me!” she smiles, kissing your cheek and shouting to the rest of the house, “Bye Dad! Bye Ollie!”
You shake your head as she runs down to the vehicle where Areesha, her closest friend since fifth grade and drum lessons, awaits in the driver’s seat, one arm out of the open window while music erupts from the speakers. The second she notices you watching, she calls, “Good evening Mrs. Cody!” with the same cheerful politeness she has greeted you with for years now, ever since she was a ten-year-old girl nervously asking whether she could stay for dinner after practice.
“Good evening girls, be safe!” you reply, returning the wave as Evie slides into the passenger seat beside her. And that is the reason why your anxiety loosens its grip by a fraction. If your daughter is to be somewhere other than home tonight, well at least it’s with Areesha: the girl who spent half her childhood in your kitchen, who knows where the spare blankets are kept, cried in your arms after her first heartbreak and always texts when she arrives safely. There are few people you would entrust with your children, but Areesha has always been one of them.
Evie leans out of the window to wave one final time before the car pulls away from the curb while you watch the taillights disappear into the evening. Remaining there for a few more minutes, you breath the fresh air, noticing the shadow of Juliet appearing on the path that leads the house to the farm, still in her riding breeches and muddy boots, with the peaceful demeanor she wears every time she comes back from a few hours spent in the company of Arthax and the other animals, a place where nobody requires from her to be more than she is.
“Hi mom, Vee left?” she asks as she halts just outside the threshold, bending to remove her boots and lining them against the wall and alongside the outdoor carpet.
Helping her shrug off her equestrian quilted jacket that holds the scent of hay and sweat, you nod. “Yes. She’s staying over at Shelly’s.”
Juliet gives a little hum, glancing toward the road. “You know Javier will be there.”
(of course Javier is there. the boy who started dating your daughter three months ago. her age and sweet enough in Andrew’s opinion…after background checks for a juvenile record and days of stalking. he wanted to be certain that the boy who would step foot in the house for dinner and went to the cinema with his youngest wasn’t hiding something.)
“I know, I know…” You make a vague helpless gesture with the jacket in your hand before placing it on the coat rack. “I asked her to wear protections.”
Juliet snorts while triple-checking the front door latch, then the deadbolt, and the chain. “Mom, I think she knows. She had the talk with Dad, you, and even Craig. Uncle Craig, mom!”
“Well, at least she’s informed!” At your daughter’s amused face, you shake your head and laugh, giving up entirely. “Fine. Fine. She knows.” Changing the subject, you glance at the hallway and add, “How about a movie tonight? You go take a shower and I’ll ask your father and Ollie to join us.”
“Deal!” Juliet exclaims while heading toward her room by the time she finishes the word, straightening the picture frame on the wall as she passes it and adjusting the rug by the baseboard right before she closes her bedroom door with one push and one extra check on the latch that you can overhear from the end of the hallway as you head for the back door, where you know the boys have been skateboarding earlier.
Instead of finding them on the ramp, it’s at the backyard table that you notice them, sitting side by side and backs turned to you, their voices sufficiently low that you can tell that the conversation is serious. At first, you only catch fragments of it. “-and I don’t know what to do,” Oliver bemoans, voice thin with frustration and embarrassment. “Every time I try to speak to her, I feel like the words just…vanish. She’s my best friend and now I look like an idiot!”
Andrew, with his elbows braced against his thighs and his attention fixed so completely on his son that he looks like he is holding the boy together with his stare alone, replies without judgement, “You don’t look like an idiot.”
Oliver lets out a groan and scrubs a hand over his face. “I wanted to throw up this morning before I even talked to her! She asked if I was okay and the only thing I managed to do was a thumbs-up. A thumbs-up! And the next thing I knew, my head ended up against a locker.” He drops his forehead onto the table with a long expiration. “Why is it so hard to ask someone on a date? I mean…I know her so well it should be easier, right? Not- Not so messy.”
Your husband’s answer comes after he has searched his son’s face by tilting his head until meeting his gaze, like he perpetually does when he wants his sentence to be heard loud and clear. “It’s messy because you think of the bad,” he declares slowly. “But what if it’s good?”
Oliver blinks at him, pensive, and after a beat, he asks, “How was it?”
“What?”
“For you,” your son wonders. “With Mom. Was it difficult?”
Looking down at his hands and rubbing them four times over his thighs, he answers honestly, “I was scared. Not your mom. And you know her, she is…”
“Stubborn?” Oliver offers with a small grin.
Andrew’s mouth twitches, revealing the corner of a smile and its dimples that he struggles to contain. “Yeah. She saw right through me.” His eyes drift to the sky for a moment, to the starts that commence to show in the early dark. “She’s the one who kept making all the first steps.”
Oliver is silent for a while after that answer, and you can tell by the way he leans forward that his next question has been lying in wait inside him for some time, growing roots. “When did you know?” he enquires at last. “That she would be…the one?”
Turning back to him with a gaze that makes the rest of the garden disappear, he responds, “Honestly?” and Oliver nods once. “The moment I saw her.” Despite already knowing the story, hell, despite already living the story, your heart stutters. “Your uncle Craig had told me that he wanted to introduce me to one of his friends. But the house was not clean, so…”
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(Craig should have warned him beforehand. Like the previous day. Fuck, even the morning would have been ample. Just enough time to scour the whole house three times until he was appeased. Until he felt like his pulse wasn’t hammering in his throat. But no.)
Last night there had been one of his brother’s infamous parties, and Andrew had spent most of it stationed at the back door that connected the kitchen to the backyard, cataloguing every water ring on the wooden tables, every muddy footprint threatening to ruin the floor, which guests wandered too close to a breakable object. And by every measurable standard for a ‘Craig’s party’, the night had gone fine. Yet now, all he could brood over were the mistakes.
(He shouldn’t have retreated so soon after the last person left. Should have scrubbed more. Or vacuumed. Instead he had lied rigid beneath the covers of his bed, staring at the ceiling while the ghosts of Smurf and Baz prowled near him in the dark. Now this guest would notice the uneven number of apples in the fruit bowl. That the labels in the cupboard weren’t facing the same direction. Would see that the outdoor carpet still showed traces of footsteps from the preceding night. Think that they’re slobs. Lazy. That he was useless. One. Two. Three. Four. He breathed while attempting to forget how much his brother should have told him earlier.)
But of course no, Craig had simply strolled shamelessly into the kitchen during lunch, hangover and naked except for a towel slung low around his hips, hair tied up, announcing as if discussing the weather that he had invited a friend over to meet them. When Andrew had inquired – with all the patience in the world he could muster – at what time that friend was coming, his brother had merely shrugged and continued drinking orange juice directly from the carton to make the oldest grind his teeth.
“Soon,” he had replied. (But soon was a useless term. It could signify right now or in an hour or not at all considering Craig’s ‘buddies’.)
So, Andrew did the most rational thing in his mind, and put on his gloves. At one o’clock he was outside the backyard, brushing leaves around the pool, cleaning the waterline of it with a sponge and chlorine, rubbing the springboard. By two he relocated inside, steam vacuuming Smurf’s bright red couch until he was certain there would be no germs, then dusting the television, the coffee table, wiping fingerprints from every flat surface…
And by three, he was in the kitchen, washing dishes that were already clean, wiping the island until even the gloves smelled like the lemon cleaner, realigning bottles in the refrigerator and turning the labels outward in the cupboard, all of that to lead to 3:59, when he heard the gate opening and his brother shouting from somewhere near, “It’s her!”
Andrew went still, as if his bones had frozen in place.
(Her? He had presumed Craig would invite another one of the coke-snorting idiot who temporarily orbited around him. One he kept close because he was bored or lonely or both. A guy he would later laugh about while smoking outside with the two other Codys. He had not prepared for a woman. Not at all. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. He counted the apples in the bowl. Uneven. Wrong, wrong, wrong.)
He sat at the kitchen counter, straightening his spine, placing both hands flat on his thighs, trying to recall what to do with his face, his body, even with his breathing. Craig’s warm voice echoed from the front door, welcoming the woman inside and teasing her for a thing Andrew didn’t understand with the sort of tone he perpetually used with the people he felt sufficiently comfortable to embarrass for jest. Footsteps approached across the parquet, each one landing closer to the kitchen until a sentiment prickled all along his spine.
There were some arrivals that didn’t feel ordinary even before they occurred, some presences that announced themselves via gravitational force rather than sound, like an irrational trajectory that always led back to the same thought. This morning, Andrew wouldn’t have grasped this notion, but now that his eyes found yours in the kitchen entrance, holding a greasy paper bag in both hands, he knew for certain that such forces existed, and that somehow they had directed you straight to him.
Craig, standing beside you with a grin, gestured toward Andrew and commented, “My brother Pope. Don’t mind him, he almost doesn’t bite,” but the oldest barely heard it – all cognitive function had deserted him the very second he took a look at your face.
Not beautiful. Beautiful was too common of a word, too diminished by overuse and too insufficient to explain the spear that just pierced underneath his clavicle to end right in his heart. You resembled a deity masquerading as a woman, the kind sculpted in marble and worshipped with blood sacrifices, the sort whose existence alone could alter the trajectory of history by the mere accident of being noticed.
It was right at this moment that Andrew comprehended why an entire city had burned, why Paris had looked at Helen and decided the world was disposable compared to the privilege of being blessed with her affection, for if even a fraction of Helen’s beauty had carried what you held so effortlessly before him, then Troy had deserved the flames and the Gods had been merciful in limiting the destruction to only one city and the war to two decades.
(He would have burned kingdoms too for one second of your smile.)
His throat constricted as his gaze traveled greedily over all the details his mind could gather before the moment vanished: the way your shoulders rounded as though attempting to make yourself smaller in an unfamiliar house, the nervous shifting of your weight from one foot to another, the parting of your lips around a breath you hadn’t yet released, and those eyes… (Jesus.) Those eyes were so impossibly alive that Andrew found himself staring while each and every violent instinct and dark impulse he had ever possessed readjusted themselves around a new unrestrained and terrifying truth: he would die for you.
Worse, he knew he would kill for you just as readily. Afterall, he had killed before, and for way less. If Achilles himself descended from Olympus, he would walk forward barehanded without hesitation, indifferent that he was to fight a man protected by gods – because what was fear measured to this? Measured to the realization that he had been waiting for you his entire life without knowing it?
(He would recognize you even if the world were plunged into the obscurity. Would perceive you were darkness absolute, silence eternal and were death itself foolish enough to separate you. In another lifetime, beneath another name and inside another body entirely, or in centuries not yet born and worlds not yet formed…he would know you still. And he would spend each borrowed existence falling in love with you over and over again.)
That thought struck Andrew with embarrassment, sharp enough that he nearly grimaced at himself.
(Craig wanted to introduce him to his friend. Friend. He shouldn’t look like the weird brother. But Craig being Craig he couldn’t cease thinking…maybe he sought for more? Was it the reason why he brought you here? Because he intended on something later? Would he have to listen to this? See you kissing and touching? One. Two. Three. Four. Friend. Just friend. He counted the blinks of your eyelashes for the seventeen seconds that had just passed since you entered the room.)
Slowly, almost timidly, you extended your hand to him, a simple gesture that made his pulse pound against his ribs so violently he became convinced that Craig could catch it from where he stood. “H-Hi,” you stammered, quickly followed by your name – emerging as the most valuable word he had ever heard.
(He wanted to repeat it right away. To memorize the shape of it. To hold the name in his mouth somewhere private and examine the sonority from every angle.)
The problem was that he stared at your hand for so long that your breathing changed and you pulled it back, clutching the bag of pastries to your chest. The sight of you retreating made him understand with horror that he had been too slow to answer, forming the worst kind of first impressions with his grim silence and jaw locked so stiffly that the muscles in his neck twitched.
You threw a look at Craig, then back at him, struggling to rescue the awkwardness of the meeting. “I brought pastries. I didn’t know what you all would like so…I kind of…guessed.”
“Thank you,” he finally managed, voice low, almost raw.
Craig, noticing his failure at being social with the friend he had brought, hissed, “Stop being weird, bro!” while Deran stepped inside the kitchen, all easy confidence and cool detachment, nodding once at you in introduction before handing beers to the three of them.
With his skin feeling too tight for his body, Andrew held the bottle with a strong grip, feeling the glass threatening under the pressure of his palm while his younger brother started to make conversation with you. “You fuckin’ with me? You live in Oceanside and can’t stand on a board?” Deran laughed, raising a brow in mock disbelief. “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.” You shook your head silently but politely, awaking in him the urge to tell his brothers to stop talking to hear what your voice sounded like uninterrupted.
Too focused in the impulse, he almost didn’t catch your face turning to him with a smile, turning the blood in his veins into lead and setting his nerves alight underneath the epidermis. It was a small thing perhaps – at least for most – but for Andrew, to witness that smile gave him the sentiment of being at perihelion: so close to the sun that his fingertips could have reached out to skim the edge of your light and returned gilded.
“Um…Pope,” you stumbled in a quiet voice, the sound of his nickname in your mouth so wrong that it made him feel physically ill, something hot and sour climbing up in his throat. Everyone called him that, most out of fear of what the ‘crazy Cody’ could do, but fear was the last thing he wanted you to feel.
He interrupted you before you could finish your sentence. “Andrew.” Ignoring his brothers’ shared looks, he kept his unblinking gaze on yours. He had no ability for pretending and no appetite for justifying to them why he dragged his true name from the bottom of his past, where it had sat ever since Smurf died, like a coin gathering rust in a fountain. He knew that if he were to tell his thoughts or ask his questions to Craig (Was he playing friendly only to get you in his bed? Was there someone else already?) he would sound insane – at least more than his brother thought – which was probably true.
He had only heard a few words from you and already, he wanted to hear you talk for the rest of his life. So, when you lowered your eyes to complete your earlier sentence, he flew before he could halt himself, standing too fast and, without another word, walking straight out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room.
(Closed the door. Walking in circles. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the creases on the bedcover. Rearranged them. Then counted the steps between the door and the bed. The door and the window. The bed and the window. One. Two. Three. Four. Again. And again.)
Later that night, after Deran and Craig went on with their lives and the house quietened, Andrew lied on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling in the dark and struggling not to think of your face…which only meant he thought of it more. In the end, he surrendered, for the darkness allowed what the daylight wouldn’t, whispering your name into the bedroom, again and again until the syllables grew strange and it no longer felt like a word. Murmured it until his mouth went dry. Until he felt drunk on the sound of it.
He kept pronouncing the loveliest word language invented even as he wondered guiltily, desperately, if from wherever you were sleeping, you envisioned him too.
When sleep finally claimed him, your name was the last thing he tasted.
──────────
When sleep finally releases you, your name is the first thing you perceive.
It’s exhaled against your face in the softest manner, – sensing more the feathered warmth of it rather than the sound – succeeded by an unhurried procession of kisses laid one after another with devotion across your cheek, your temple and the corner of your mouth while his weathered hands, calloused with the decades and the veins more pronounced than they once were, come to cradle your face as if committing to memory the shape of your features like it’s the first time.
“Mm,” you mutter drowsily, prying your eyes open to find Andrew studying you, silver hair mussed from the pillow and the lines around his mouth and eyes deeper, yet impossibly dearer. Without a word, he reaches to your collarbone where your necklace sits twisted, centering the heart shaped pendant before depositing another kiss on your cheek.
“My angel,” he whispers, the words going straight through you.
Grinning, you brush a curl away from his forehead, answering him with the same tenderness. “My Andy.”
Something boyish flickers in his expression, and it reminds you that loving someone for this many years means learning that time alters the body without ever truly brushing the soul. Particularly one like Andrew’s. You inch closer beneath the blankets until your foreheads meet, sharing the same air for a suspended moment before he exhales, reluctant. “I should start soon.”
You groan. “Everyone is bringing something. And I thought we said no cooking for you today?”
He sits up, seizing his glasses on the nightstand. “I know.” Mouth twitching at your stern look, he adds. “It’s for safety.”
“For safety?” you repeat, struggling to hide your amusement. “You’re impossible.”
“You married me.”
“True. Terrible decision.”
He dives for your lips once more, only pulling back seconds later to study your half-lidded eyes. “Tragic,” he smirks.
You help each other up slowly, getting into the choreography perfected over the thirty-six years that made your marriage, his fingers zipping up the back of your dress meticulously, you fastening his shirt button by button, brushing the crease flat on his shoulder simply because you can. Because it has never mattered whether either of you required aid to do these things…what has always mattered is that you chose to do them anyway.
Breakfast is occupied in its familiar domesticity, with coffee warming in the mugs, bites of toasts stolen from the other’s plate with a grin, the fruit divided for two into the same neat sections he insists on. Andrew, then, retreats into the kitchen where he begins preparing two separate dishes for lunch to accommodate everyone’s diet and appetite and texture issues. In the time that he measures the quantity of spices to place into the lamb koftas, you sit on the couch with a book open in your lap, throwing him quiet looks over the top of the page, amused at the way he checks the ladle twice before moving to the curry where he strives to get the proper consistency for the rice.
Every so often he glances back to catch you staring, trying to maintain an air of seriousness, which fails catastrophically when you wriggle your eyebrows at him after he stretches to get the cumin, blood running up in his cheeks and collar. At some point, to ease his stress for the incoming day, you go set the table outside, placing plate after plate beneath the oak trees until fifteen of them await there for the guests with cutlery and flowers you pick from the garden – gardening being one of Andrew’s favorite activities now that he can’t skateboard that much anymore.
By the time you return to the kitchen, voices are already arriving at the front door. You cross the room to slip behind your husband at the stove, kissing the soft spot behind his ear, whispering, “They’re here,” with so much delight in your voice that he looks up, listening to it too as the small line between his brows smooths out.
The door opens to Oliver, carrying bags in one hand and a foil-covered plate in the other, broad-shouldered and kind-eyed – the spitting image of his father. He pecks your cheek with a grin, hair falling over his forehead in careless waves. “Hi, Mom.” He looks around. “Where’s the man of the day?”
“In the kitchen,” you answer.
Oliver sighs as though betrayed while heading past you without missing a beat. “Dad! I thought we agreed we were bringing the food.”
“Nonsense,” Andrew replies and you hear in the edge of his voice that he is determined to be helpful today (as if he isn’t any other), whether anyone asked for it or not.
A pause. And softer, “Happy birthday, Dad.”
“Thank you, son.”
Interrupting your eavesdropping, Shani, your son’s wife, rolls into the house in her wheelchair. (there had once been a teenage Oliver, sitting at the backyard table, nearly throwing up over the possibility of asking his best friend on a date. and now here she is. the same girl from prom night. the one who had been beside him through every fertility treatment and every moment of doubt. the woman your son loves with the exact same devotion Andrew loves you.)
Across her lap naps Ava, their youngest, mouth open and head resting on her mother’s shoulder. “Let me guess,” Shani chirps quietly to not wake the three-year-old when she comes to you. “Andrew cooked?”
You shake your head, helplessly fond. “Good guess. I told him everyone was bringing something, but you know him.”
Mia, their oldest, emerges at the threshold and throws herself into your arms with the full force of a six-year-old tornado and a shrieked “Grandma!”.
“There she is,” you smile, holding her close with a hand on the small of her back. “You are the first to arrive.”
Shani arches a brow, maneuvering in the room. “Really? I thought it would be Jules.”
“No,” you reply. “She had to meet the new farrier and then stop at Craig’s to drive him here.”
That earns you a snort from the woman, who knows well that once Craig’s eyesight began to fail a few years ago, paired with the passing of his wife, it became Juliet’s personal mission to keep him from setting his house on fire and chauffeuring him whenever she was not too busy at the farm – the one that had once belonged to Rhonda and Diana up until they retired and sold it to Juliet.
Andrew comes forth behind you, wiping his hands on the towel and halting when he spots Ava, still asleep on Shani, the little girl stirring just enough to blink up at him, grin, and declare in sync with her sister Mia. “Happy birthday, Grandpa!”
Bending to kiss the crown of their heads, his face carries the same open and warm expression he wore the first times he held his children to his chest at the hospital. “Thank you Plums.”
Shani hugs him too, exchanging easy smiles with her father-in-law, shaped by twenty years of memories. “Happy birthday, Andrew.”
The front door fills with a voice you know as well as your own heartbeat. “Yeah, what’s it like turning eighty, old man?” Craig is there with a pack of beers, long hair graying in disparate patches and smirking. “How are you doing, brother?” he asks, holding his older sibling’s hand and side-hugging at once.
“Good,” Andrew replies, looking him up and down. “You even showered.”
Craig presses a hand to his chest, feigning injury. “That hurts me, man. Thinking I wouldn’t shower for this?” He crosses a few steps to wrap you in a bear hug. “There’s my favorite sister,” he says in your ear, before lowering his voice with a slight conspiratorial edge. “He cooked?”
You snort and nod. “Yep.”
“Incorrigible man.”
Juliet arrives shortly after, stepping in from the front with a quick hello to Shani – whom with her daughters head to the backyard. You ask your daughter, “How was the road? Craig wasn’t too annoying?”
She throws a look toward Craig with a deadpan tone. “Oh, he was only very annoying for the…what? Four minutes drive?”
“Hey!” he points at her immediately, scandalized. “Reminder that if you exist it’s because I introduced your mom and dad, so-”
Juliet gives him a long-suffering look. “Fine. Only annoying.”
“Much better,” Craig smiles.
She kisses her father’s cheek while he bends a little to receive it, his hand on her back. “Happy birthday, Dad.”
Andrew’s answer is almost too soft to hear. “Thank you, my little bug.”
Soon, everyone empties the house to get to the backyard, Oliver already there to set Mia and Ava on their chairs. Spotting Juliet, he practically barrels toward her, wrapping both arms around his twin with enough force to lift her half off the ground like they haven’t seen each other in a year when in reality, it has been six days. Despite living an hour away, your son comes back every week, partly to see the family and partly so that Mia, obsessed with the animals, can spend time in her aunt’s farm.
But the little girl has never known Arthax, who passed seven years ago. Juliet had cried for four consecutive days, requiring the help of her family to go on with the daily tasks of the place before waking up one day, ready to devote herself in caring for his foals with the same tenderness she had given him. She never sought more than that, no romance, nor partnership. And the day she told all of you, a decade ago, that a love of that kind simply didn’t exist inside her and never would, that children were not part of her future either, nobody questioned it. Nobody mourned what she didn’t desire. Love had always existed abundantly within Juliet…it simply lived elsewhere: in her family, her animals, in the fields – the life she has assembled herself.
The rest gets there in layers, with Deran and Adrian first, equally silver-haired and sun-kissed from the decades passed under the Santa Barbara sun and ocean, the second already shaking his head at whatever nonsense Craig is about to say.
“Still alive?” he indeed calls.
“Unfortunately,” his younger brother answers with a fist bump.
Twenty minutes later it’s Nick’s turn, transporting a cake box with his husband Yaseen by his side, one hand resting casually on the shoulder of their teenage son Sami, who quickly disappears toward the patch of grass where his younger cousins are inventing games. You smile whenever you observe Nick and who he has become – how a few months after Evie’s seventh birthday, he had moved in with Craig for good, never once returning to Oceanside.
(you have forever suspected that Oliver and Juliet told him everything they knew about Her. about what She had done to the Cody brothers. to his father. you never said Her name aloud. you know now that no one ever will. and Nick, just like everyone else, moved on from Her existence and grew up in Ojai. learned to cook and opened a bakery on Main Street. and one day, a young man named Yaseen began stopping in every morning for apple pie. at first Nick had assumed he simply liked the pie…turned out he liked Nick’s smile considerably more.)
“Sorry everyone!” The words cut you mid-thought as Evie steps through the backdoor, one hand braced on the underside of her stomach, six months pregnant and radiant. “We had to make two stops because this little bean,” she point to her bump with a helpless laugh, “had decided to make my life hell.”
Javier comes in right behind her, steadying his fiancée by the elbow and helping her into a chair before greeting Andrew with a handshake. Once everyone is finally settled, it’s easy to fall once again into the usual affectionate banter that has long defined the gatherings in this house, the backyard filling with overlapping voices and laughter while Andrew goes quiet – not the uneasy or overwhelmed one, no, the watching one. The kind where he sits back in his chair and simply absorbs everything surrounding him.
Instead of disrupting his cataloguing gaze, your hand searches for his underneath the table until they find his warmth. His reaction is immediate, thumb brushing across your knuckles and whispering numbers under his breath. Counting. And when the eighty candles arrive, you know without a doubt that your husband has no wish that he wants fulfilled, not when all he ever needed is already here, around the table with him.
Afterward, when your children and grandchildren are chasing each other across the grass, Craig and Deran recounting old stories while Adrian laughs into his glass, you sit down beside Andrew on the old lounge chair – the same one where he once asked you shakily to marry him, the one who was there when Oliver and Juliet took their first steps and there when Evie announced she was pregnant.
Your fingers slide into his, making you beam when he turns his hand over to lace them together fully. “I think we did a good job, no?” you ask.
His thumb brushes over the back of your hand four times, nodding. “The best.” He looks at you with that steady, unblinking expression you recognize so well whenever he desires to preserve an image forever, to press it into himself and not let time take it from him. You don’t need him to explain what it means. Thank you for this life. Thank you for staying. Thank you for letting me in when I thought no one would.
So, you answer the only way that feels large enough for a man like Andrew, lifting his hand to place a kiss on his knuckles. Thank you for loving me through it.
No other words ensue – none would feel sufficient to cover the extent of all that has made your life so full. Instead, you place your head on his shoulder and, hand in hand, surrounded by everything that you had both been hoping for when you were young back in Oceanside, you let yourself relax at the absolute certainty that if there is another life waiting beyond this one…
summary: After the kiss by the pool, pope runs away to his room. he's not sure if he's running from you or waiting for you.
|| pope cody x reader || smut MDNI 18+ angst, some fluff, it's got it all, baby! pope is socially awkward and shy (at least at first), touchstarved!pope, jealous!pope, pope has some violent thoughts about asshole who touched you, but reader loves it and is turned on by it, fake dating trope, requited love, non canon timeline, character study, pinv, warning: mentions of smurf being fucking weird, breast play, sweet to rough, f!receiving oral, fingering, handjob, dirty talk, both reader and pope have a praise kink, sorry the smut gets real nasty but pope gets nasty when he's into it ||
wc: 7.5k
part one | part two | masterlist
He had hidden in his room the second he could walk across the yard without sporting a tent in his jeans.
Nobody really cared enough to notice anyway. Except maybe Deran, who had laughed at him wrapped in a towel around his lap as he made his way inside. And Craig, who’d caught his eye from across the yard with that huge shit-eating grin splitting across his face. Pope had practically bolted into the house without another glance at either of his brothers.
He wasn’t sure where you’d gone either—probably back into the party with Nicky trailing behind again, but he kept wondering if your lips still tingled too. If you kept touching them absentmindedly the way he did now.
He'd stayed in his room, just sitting, listening, waiting.
He sat and watched the daylight crawl slowly across his walls for hours, the room now dark except for the weak yellow spill from the outside lights coming through his curtains. The party finally began to thin out over the last few hours, the house settling into quiet little by little. Pope sat stock still on the edge of his bed in his same jeans, same shirt, his shoes toed off by the door.
Every so often his tongue would drag unconsciously across his bottom lip, catching phantom traces of you. If he closed his eyes and let his mind wander a bit, he could still feel the warmth of your mouth against his. And that little gasp you'd made when he'd kissed you back…
His cock had finally gone down enough to stop hurting sometime in the last hour, but not fully. The denim of his jeans still stiff and awkward over it, and twice he’d thought about jerking off just to make the ache stop, but the idea died immediately every time he looked at the bedroom door. Smurf never allowed locks in the house. What in the world would you have to hide from your mother? she'd said once. I've seen it all anyway, baby.
So Pope sat there instead with his spine tight and his jaw tighter, listening to the sounds drifting through the house beyond his walls.
At one point, sometime around one or maybe two, when he thought it was safest, he’d finally gotten up for a glass of water because the house had gone so quiet he figured everybody must’ve finally left. But the second he stepped into the kitchen and looked out through the windows over the sink, he saw you and J in the pool together in the empty backyard.
Blue underwater lights rippled over you while you splashed at each other playfully in the deep end, your body only a mirage beneath the water from where he stood. Pope had frozen there with the cabinet door still hanging open beside him, unable to move while he watched you float backward through the water giggling, hair pulled up on top of your head, J swimming after you through the glowing light.
Pope had returned to his room and sat for a while longer, though he wasn't sure how long anymore. Only that his thoughts had gone from a little ashamed of how hard you'd made him to downright possessive and angry and wishing he could just be normal, normal enough to stay out at the party all day, to find you again, to kiss you again. To make you explain to him what you'd meant.
At some point—he couldn't tell if it was minutes or hours later—he heard the door to his bedroom open.
He first thought maybe it was one of his brothers coming to say goodbye, though he knew better. They never did that anymore. Then his stomach tightened at the thought it might be Smurf checking in on him, asking him why he'd disappeared all night, why he looked so wound up.
But then he heard your voice, and his neck turned so fast he nearly put a crick in it.
“Hi,” you whispered.
His eyes were on you in an instant, standing there in the doorway with the warm light from the hallway turning most of you into silhouette, but he could still make out the tiny strings of your bikini at your hips. Your denim shorts were gone.
Pope opened his mouth automatically, but nothing came out at first. His throat felt tight in a way he didn’t know how to fix, so he cleared it roughly before managing a quiet: “Hi.”
“Can…I come in?”
He nodded once and immediately looked away from you again, eyes fixing hard on the curtains over his window. You sighed softly and stepped further into the room.
“J just, um, went to bed,” you explained. You didn't sit down or make yourself comfortable. It felt like neither of you really knew what to do or why you'd come in here at all. Pope could smell the chlorine follow you inside, the smell of your shampoo stronger now that your hair had gotten damp.
"Listen—Andrew…" you said with a sigh, clutching your fists a little tighter.
"It's fine," he said softly. "You don't have to explain."
"I—" you started, but then paused. Maybe because you hadn't expected him to say anything at all. But the blood was pounding through his veins now, his head going in circles. So many times today he wished he could snatch you from Asshole's arm, to tell J to go fuck off to one of his other girlfriend's houses. But he couldn't. When he'd open his mouth, he knew it would only scare you. He scared everyone, after all. And he was too afraid of what you'd do if you realized just how violent his most inner thoughts really were. He wasn't even sure why he had them, why he thought that way. Maybe it was the only way people actually listened to him was when he got angry. A ticking time bomb, his brothers called him.
"I want to explain, though." you said. "Is…that okay?"
Pope still couldn't really look at you again, but your question caught him off guard all the same. He spared a glance up, and immediately regretted it. He could just make out the reflection of the light in your eyes, the pearl drops of water from your hair dripping onto your shoulders.
He nodded, hands tightly strained on his knees.
Slowly, you sat beside him then, and took a deep breath.
"I… should've told you the truth sooner." you said gently. "And…I know I shouldn't have pounced on you like that."
He could feel the warmth of the long day of sun on you, so close his body as you turned towards him. He didn’t even care if whether or not your bathing suit was wet on his bed. Though he did wish wished he could reach over and find out for himself. The little ties were so close, just barely up against his jeans now. Normally that sort of thing would wring his mind to no end— the wet spot on the comforter, the sheets underneath, whether it would soak through and make him feel it later when he tried to sleep—but right then all he could think about was the bare line of your thigh beside his and the small drop of water sliding from your hair to your shoulder and down your arm.
You sighed when he didn't answer. "Andrew? Are we… okay?"
He nodded just once, almost more of a tick than a real answer. Why did he have to be like this? He had no clue what to say, what to do to make it right. And as his hands were still clenched on the planes of his thighs, rubbing just a little back and forth over his knees, he thought there had to be were words somewhere. He knew there were. Other people found them and put them in the right order and made girls want to be beside them instead of having to sit through this awful silence.
Your hand came down onto his arm. Oh, you were so cold. Your fingers frozen from the pool water, but somehow still warm where you sat next to him, the touch spreading under his skin until his whole arm felt too aware of itself.
"Did I make you uncomfortable today?" you murmured, "If I did...I'm sorry."
He shook his head quickly before squeezing his eyes shut. No—no, no no. That made it so much worse. That you thought it was you who did something wrong. That you were apologizing to him. When it had been him hiding in his room like a dog with his tail between his legs, his dick in his pants going between strained and half hard over a kiss.
"No." he finally said. And then, pulling all the courage of a man who had robbed banks, who had fought for less and killed for far higher stakes than a kiss, he looked up into your eyes.
"I've wanted…that…too."
You blinked at him, your mouth parting only a little. He wanted to bring his hand up to your face, or to where the shine of a water droplet slid down your neck. The room seemed smaller now, now that he'd said the thing that had kept him locked in his own head this whole time.
"You… want…?"
"Yes." he whispered immediately. Instead of reaching up like he'd wished, he settled for something more gentle, easier. He had done the thing, he had jumped off the cliff, waiting to hit the water below. Whether he'd live through the fall or not, he'd done it. He brought his hand up to cover yours where it laid on the crook of his elbow. So careful at first, unsure if he was allowed to. But his fingers curled more firmly around yours as your eyes softened up at him.
"Show me." you whispered.
Pope's mouth parted under your changed gaze, the soft look in your eyes shifting in the dim bedroom light. He noticed how dark they'd gotten, your pupils taking up that pretty color of your eyes. They'd looked so nice in the sunlight today too, but he thought he maybe liked them like this best—reflecting the weak light from the hallway, glazed as you watched him lick his lips.
His hand moved up your arm, achingly slow—still unsure, still wanting to do the right thing. Your skin was so fucking soft, warm from the heat of the day, cold where the water still pearled on your skin. His thumb caught on one of those little drops and dragged it up the inside of your arm, spreading it thin until it disappeared under his touch.
He leaned in.
His breath felt so heavy coming out of him, even as shallow as it was. His chest hurt with the effort of keeping himself still when every part of him wanted to grab, pull, take. That was the part he didn’t trust. He could feel it sitting under his skin, mean and hungry and too big for the quiet room.
You were so close again, so close he could feel the breath of your shaky lungs on his face. And then you were holding it. A small, cute little gasp before he was brushing his lips against yours.
He pulled back just as quickly as he touched you, but it was no matter. You were following him, not letting him run away or listen to the fears that screamed in his head to run and hide like always. How could a man rob banks and commit the worst crimes of humanity and not be able to fucking kiss a woman?
It all happened very fast.
One moment, it was just him, brushing his lips against yours, pulling away, uncertain, and now—now you were slotting your mouth with his, warm and wet and so eager that the sound he made got caught between you. His hand tightened once on your arm before he made himself loosen it again. Careful. Careful. He had to be careful with you.
He let you push him back, your still partially wet body climbing over him, knobby knees bracketing his wide thighs, your hands pushing into his hair. The mattress dipped under the shift of your weight, springs giving a dull little creak beneath you both. Your damp skin pressed through his shirt, cold at first, then warm, then all he could think about.
"You're so—" he whispered, "—cold—"
He wasn't sure if that was the right word—your skin was actually scorching from the sunshine all day, but your hair that dripped down, your hands that carded through his hair—they were so cold it made his skin rise in goosebumps. Little beads of water fell from the ends of your hair and landed on his neck, his collar, the hollow beneath his throat. His whole body kept reacting before his head could catch up.
"Warm me up then, Andy," you murmured before diving back into him.
He let his hands finally reach out to rest gently on your hips. He wanted to be so, so careful. Didn't want to spook you. Didn't want to move too fast and see your eyes change. But there was something about you today—something new, something changed. A bravery he'd never seen in you before, not like this, not turned directly on him. Asking for exactly what you wanted.
"Touch me," you said, one of your hands coming from his hair, down to his hand where it gently laid over your hip. You brought his hand closer, sliding it over the skin of your waist, up to your ribcage.
His palm followed because you told it to. Because your hand was over his. Because you were breathing harder now and looking down at him like he wasn’t too much, like you wanted every awful thing he was trying to keep leashed. His thumb brushed the curve beneath your breast, and he stopped there, frozen, throat working around nothing.
You sat back then on your haunches, onto his aching denim covered length that strained and throbbed beneath this layers. He was panting harder than ever before, just staring at you, the silhouette of the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. You were so fucking pretty, that was the word. Pretty eyes, pretty hair, pretty as your hands folded behind you, then lifted to the strings at your neck, untying it all, letting it fall onto his chest with a wet slap.
Oh.
Oh, you were so pretty.
"You think so?" you giggled.
Fuck, did he say that out loud?
"Yeah," he said hoarsely.
The bikini top sat bunched against his shirt, damp, useless, but he couldn’t stop looking at you. At the way your skin rose in goosebumps too. Your chest rising with every breath while you waited for him to do something. His hands flexed.
"Want you to touch me, Andy, please."
He would never make you beg, not tonight. You'd never have to beg him to do anything. It was he—he who should be begging you, thanking you. He brought his hands up again, only skating them both over your ribcage, careful even now, careful enough to make his arms tremble. His palms spread over your sides, thumbs moving just beneath the soft weight of your breasts.
Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling, a gasp of breath inhaled from your lips.
He didn't touch you fully yet, his hands flattened just under your breasts, cupping the weight of them from beneath—perfect. You weren't just pretty—you were—
"Perfect," he said, sitting up a little, pushing his hands up under your breasts to squish them together before putting his mouth over your nipple.
The sweetest little moan escaped your lips as he latched onto you.
"Oh, fuck—" you whimpered, your hands going immediately back to his hair.
He moaned louder into you, the sound coming up rough from his chest before he could stop it. Your skin tasted like chlorine, that same smell of apple shampoo and sunscreen still caught on you, stronger where his nose brushed against the curve of your breast. Your nipple was cold to his touch, a little damp from your swimsuit, but it warmed under the wet muscle of his tongue as he flattened it over you, brushing up and around before nipping lightly.
Your hips jerked at that.
He kissed across your chest, down the valley between your breasts, and then did the same to the other. He noticed everything—the hitching of your breath, how you moaned louder when he bit down on the peaked nub of your nipple. He felt how you were starting to grind down on his aching cock, the seam of his jeans catching hard against him each time your hips moved.
"Feels so good, Andy, oh god—" you moaned, throwing your head back as you pushed your hips harder onto him.
"You're—" he breathed between moans ,"you're so good, baby."
"Yeah?" you said, a breathless little smile pulling your lips wide as you looked down at him. He was looking up at you—and he knew how it looked. His eyes wide, glossy, like you hung the fucking moon for him. Your mouth opened, the smile wiped off your lips when he took the other breast in his big hand—big enough to squeeze and cup and pinch your cute little peaked nipple hard.
"Oh, oh Pope—Andy, Andy—I might—I think I might come like this—please don't stop. You're so good, Andy, you're doing so good—please don't stop—"
He wouldn't fucking dare.
He moaned at the praise, eyes fluttering shut, only to open again because he wanted to watch. Needed to watch. He wanted to see every change in your eyes, the rising heat in your cheeks, the way your lips parted around his name. Praise did something ugly and sweet to him. It went straight through his ribs and down to his dick, making it strain against his pants even worse.
Good. You thought he was good. And you were saying it like you meant it, like there wasn’t a single part of him you needed to flinch from.
Both of your hands were in his hair now, nails scraping his scalp. He could swear he was purring like a kitten in your hold, his own hips twitching up into the crook of your lap. If he wasn't careful, he could come like this too, untouched except for the wet heat of your body grinding over his jeans and your voice breaking right above him.
You were chanting his name, music to his fucking ears. A symphony only for him—Andy, Andy, Andy—
And then you stopped, your mouth open in a sweet 'o', your eyes wide, head fallen back on your neck as you shook. Your body stayed locked up, and he could swear he felt the pulsing of your cunt over his throbbing length, even through his pants.
He watched, enamored as realization passed through him. He'd done that to you. Him. With his mouth, his hands, his name on your tongue.
He kept kissing your breasts, letting his tongue lave over you hungrily, dragging up and down over your nipple while your body trembled through the last of the pleasure. Finally, your body fell boneless, collapsing over him, your head falling into his shoulder.
"That's it, that's it. S'okay," he said, letting his lips skate over your shoulder. His voice sounded wrecked to his own ears, lower than usual, hoarser. "Come here, lay down."
He turned you over now, letting you lay in his perfectly made bed.
"Don't wanna—" you sighed, letting your arms stretch out, the high of ecstasy making your muscles ache—"don't wanna get your bed wet, Andy."
His stomach did another flutter at the nickname. Even if you'd said it a hundred times, he'd never get used to it. It made him smile.
"Okay if I take these off then?" he whispered, his fingers going to the strings of your bottoms. You hooked your top teeth over your bottom lip, the sweetest little vixen he'd ever seen in his life, and nodded.
"What a sweet girl—" he murmured.
There was something about this—something that had just changed his mind about everything he thought that was true.
Because before, he thought maybe you were only choosing him out by the pool because he was the scariest of the Codys. He was an easy tactic to scare of that Asshole. He was there, sitting practically alone if it weren't for Craig. Maybe you knew he would never say no to you. Maybe he was the idiot for thinking you could feel something else.
But now…
Now, the way you were moaning his name, the way you'd ground down on him like that in his lap, the way you kissed him harder at the smallest show of equal want… Pope Cody had realized something.
You wanted him.
And you wanted him badly.
Maybe just as much as he wanted you. Maybe more.
It changed his chemical makeup. Just within the last ten minutes, he felt himself go from Andrew, shy and awkward, to Andy—yours. No one ever dared to call him that anyway. He was Pope to his family—fucked up, violent, a ticking time bomb. He was Andrew to his mother, who only saw him as a dog to sic on people to get her way.
But you saw Andy. The man who would do anything for you. The man who would be the best version of himself for you. He would take care of you like you deserved, would do it right. Right now, like this, but in other ways too. He would learn your favorite way to eat a sandwich. He would learn your coffee order. He would find out if you liked chocolate or sour candy more. It made his tongue tingle just thinking about it.
You squirmed in his hold as he pulled the little bikini strings, slowly, unwrapping his own present, his own skin on fire as he looked at the cute trim of fuzz over your pussy. His mouth began to water in earnest now, and before he could think of throwing the bikini from his bedsheets, he was diving in.
"Oh!" you squealed when his hot tongue dove between your legs. You let them fall open, hand going back to his curls.
His hands pushed your thighs open, spreading you wider over his perfectly made bed, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin there to hold you open for his mouth. You were so warm here, slick and swollen from grinding on him, and the first taste of you made his hips twitch against nothing.
He licked and ate at your pussy—tongue flat, collecting your sweet arousal on his taste buds. You tasted like honey and musk and something so you it made him moan. His eyes threatened to roll to the back of his skull as he situated himself in the cradle of your hips, your knees getting thrown over his shoulders.
"Oh, Andy—" you moaned, arching your back, "I'm already so—so close, please, oh fuck that feels so good—"
He brought two fingers up then to prod at your entrance, watching the way you clenched before he even pushed in. He could feel you already pulsing against his mouth at how he licked at you, suckling gently on your swollen clit before licking up from your entrance again. His two fingers gently slid only to the first knuckle before he felt your hand pushing his head back.
"Too—too much!" you said, craning your neck to look down at him, a frown on your pretty, fucked out face.
His whole body went still, mouth hovering wet against you even as he panted, fingers barely inside. For one sharp second, panic punched through his ribs so hard he could barely breathe. Too much. The thing he’d been trying not to be all night—all day—the thing he was always trying not to be. His fingers flexe before he forced them still, his eyes lifting to yours from between your thighs.
"I have to—I have to baby," he panted.
"Nooooo—they're too thick, Andy."
"How'm I supposed to fit my cock in here if you can't take my fingers?"
Your head fell back into the pillows as you heaved in deep breaths, whining. "Oh, godddddd—"
The sound of your sweet little cries, the way your body squirmed around the little bit of his fingers you’d taken— it made his stomach go tight. His cock ached so bad it made him dizzy, trapped against the mattress and his jeans, but he kept himself still instead of moving. He could wait. He would wait. He would make himself wait if it killed him.
"Slow, I promise I'll be slow—I'll be good," he whispered.
"You are good, Andy, you are."
He hummed at that, kissing back up your slit, the glistening mess you'd made now sopping, collecting over his lips. His brain felt like it was short circuiting again and again as you said it—that you thought he was good. Every time it landed somewhere in his chest, somewhere deep and locked away.
He licked the beads of your arousal off his top lip before diving back in, suckling again at your clit before pushing his fingers in to the second knuckle.
You gasped, hands tightening in his hair.
"Slow, slow," he whispered as he flattened his tongue. You nodded.
He watched your face the whole time, every little pinch between your brows, every parting of your lips, every pull of breath into your chest.
"Gotta get her ready is all," he said, then pushed both fingers in until the palm of his hand was cupping your pussy.
You wailed at the feeling, hips jutting, fingers scraping his scalp raw.
"Good girl, good girl, sweet girl," he whispered against your skin.
He gently began laving his tongue gently over your pussy again, and could feel your velvet walls contracting around his fingers. The tight heat of you made a terrible sound tear out of him, despite how hard he tried to contain it, and his mouth worked harder while his fingers stayed buried, letting you adjust around them. He curled them only a little, careful, watching your stomach tense and your thighs pull tighter around his shoulders.
"More," you whispered, and he felt your muscles relax a little.
"More?"
You nodded, looking back down at him. "Feels so gooooood…"
He smiled up at you, bringing his mouth down to eat at you hungrily, a yearning in his mouth to give it as good as you'd ever had, better than you'd ever had. If he did, if he was good to you, maybe you'd never leave him, you'd want to stay—stay just with him. It was a stupid thought. A desperate one.
"I'm gonna—please don't stop Andy, fuck me with your thick fingers, pleaseeee— I'm gonna—oh!"
He didn't stop. He wouldn't have even if the house burned down around him.
He was pushing his fingers deeper inside, crooking them as he pulled back, pistoning them into your walls as he pushed his tongue up against your clit faster and faster, until your body shook again, locking up, your thighs clamping down around his ears. He couldn't hear your moans as you mewled, too muffled behind the press of your skin around him. But he watched you—watched your jaw unhinge from your skull, watched your cute breasts rise and fall rapidly. Until you loosened your hold on him, and let your knees fall bonelessly to the mattress again.
He was climbing over you, not wasting a moment. He kissed you again, your breathless moans still filling his ears, louder now, as he let you taste yourself on his tongue. Your delicate hands went to his pants, your tongue dipping out to lick the droplets of your arousal from his face, down his chin, kitten licking at the mess you'd made of him.
"How are you? Are you okay?" he asked.
You giggled a little, "Yes, Andy, I'm more than okay."
"Okay, okay, good." he smiled a little shyly.
Your fingers dragged over his belt, his waistband, the front of his jeans where he was still so hard it hurt. His stomach jumped under the brush of your knuckles.
"Would be better if you could help me get you out of your clothes."
He smiled at that too, quickly disrobing himself of his shirt. Your hands were all over him in an instant—he nearly moaned just at the feeling of your fingertips skating over the skin of his chest, down to his belly, over his hips and around his back. You dug your nails in a little as you dragged them down his shoulders.
His skin lit up everywhere you touched—like you were lighting a fire against his body. Over the lines of his back, the scars at his arms. His head dropped for a moment because of how embarrassingly good it all felt. He hadn't been touched like this…
"Taking too long," you whispered in his ear when he began unzipping his pants.
He couldn't help it—he was smiling so fucking much around you. How could this have happened today? One second he was pissed off about some Asshole with his arm around you and now…now you were under him, in his bed. Pope Cody's bed.
"Sorry—I'm sorry—" he breathed. You kissed his jaw, his chin, up to his lips again, and finally, finally he was free of all the confines that kept you from touching him. As he laid over you, you hooked your legs around his hips, hot skin to hot skin, his arms coiled around you tightly. The first press of his bare cock against your stomach made him grunt into your mouth when your lips pressed against his again.
You pulled him in tighter, your lips going back to his ear.
"Are you going to fuck me now, Andy?"
"If—if you want." he said, gasping into your neck when your hand moved down between the two of you, stroking his cock. He groaned into your skin, your hand so fucking soft and delicate and perfect. Your thumb stroked over the velvet head of his length, making him gasp and shake above you. His hips twitched forward before he could stop them, the movement small and helpless into your palm.
"So sensitive…" you whispered.
He was a mess. He knew he could've pretended to be cool, pretended it didn't affect him—the simplest touch from you. But fuck, this was all he'd ever wanted. He was moaning into your neck as you let your hand drift up and down his cock that throbbed for you, a dribbling of precome dripping down onto the softness of your belly. His hips jutted of their own accord—back and forth in your hand, just fucking your grip.
"Want you inside me, Andy, please…" you said, and then, pulling your face away, looked up at him. The hand that wasn't holding his cock came up to his face, gripping his cheek so he'd look at you. "If you want. If it's okay."
"I do—" he answered quickly, "I want you so badly. It's all…all I've ever…" he hiccuped as you pulled him closer.
"I've only ever wanted you too, Andy. What took us so long, huh?" you smiled, then reached up as you kissed him gently on the lips.
He wanted to answer you, and say—I don't know, I'm sorry, I was a coward—but he couldn't because you'd pulled his length closer so it was slipping between your lower lips, pressing into the thick honey you'd made for him. His stomach tightened at the feeling, at the way your body opened under him, wet and warm and waiting.
Both of you gasped, the air leaving one mouth to the other. So close. So intimate. Your hand adjusted him against your wanting entrance, sweet little thing you were, lining him up while your legs tightened around his hips.
Pope held himself there for one shaking second, the head of his cock just pressing into you, his forehead nearly touching yours.
He forced his eyes to stay open.
To watch.
To watch your eyes shut, then shoot open like you'd thought the same thing. Like you wanted to watch him too. He wanted to see your mouth open wider, to watch your lungs shudder, the way the pretty color of your irises had completely disappeared. He pushed slow, so slow his arms started to shake from holding himself back, every inch of you tight and hot around him. His breath kept catching in haggard pulls, mouth hovering open around yours. When you'd exhale, he'd inhale. When he'd exhale, you'd inhale. Breathing each others breaths.
He had the most violent thoughts all of the sudden.
Not of you—you, sweet, beautiful thing.
But of today. What it would've been like if that Asshole had gotten his way. If he'd thought he could take you out on a date and fucked you in the back of his parents car.
Or, what if Pope had had his way after all? What if he could've stood up in front of everyone, taken the kid by the head and thrown him into the pool? What if he'd jumped in after him, held him down at the bottom until the bubbles stopped coming up? What if he'd listened to those thoughts and found out what his skull sounded like against the cement of the backyard?
"Andy?" you whispered, looking up at him, "Are you okay?"
He was still inside you. Buried all the way now, his balls up against your skin, your thighs hooked around his hips, your cunt clenching around him in little pulses that made his stomach twist. Belly to belly, limbs tangled, your breath shorter, and all he could see for one hot second was Asshole’s face going under the blue pool light.
"I wanted to kill him," Pope whispered.
Your cunt tightened down around him. Pope’s eyes snapped back to yours. He was here, he was with you again.
"Who, Andy?"
"That asshole—I wanted to—I wanted to kill him for making you upset."
"Derek?"
Pope nearly snarled hearing his name on your lips. He didn't have a name. He was Asshole. He was a pair of hands where they didn’t belong. He was a mouth too close to your ear. He was a body Pope should’ve buried along PCH tonight.
Asshole deserved a bullet in the head.
But Pope had to be very careful—he didn't want to scare you. This night was too perfect, he wouldn't ruin it. He couldn't. You were too perfect.
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—" he began to say, wanting to lean into you, to bury his face against your neck and swallow the rest of it down, forgetting he'd ever said it.
You shook your head, your hands going to his hair. "Say it again. Tell me… tell me what you would've…"
Pope tilted his head at you.
"What I would've what?"
"Done," you finished. "To Derek."
"Stop saying his name." he growled.
You gasped, Pope not realizing he'd jerked his hips so his cock drove deeper into you.
Your eyes went wide, your mouth parting, and he felt the way your body grabbed tightened, your cunt pulling him in like the growl had gone straight between your legs. His jaw flexed as he held himself back and looked down at you, trying to piece together what was happening. Something in his face must have changed because your fingers tightened in his curls.
"Yes, Andy, okay, I'm sorry," you said obediently. "I only wanted… tell me what you wanted to do today to him."
He leaned down, lips heaving, breathing in your air.
Oh.
You were just as fucked up as he was, weren't you?
Because why else did your pussy tighten up on him just now? Why else were your nails digging into his neck, urging him on? Why else did you look up at him with those glassy eyes, asking for the worst parts of his head like you wanted him to hand them to you one by one?
"I wanted to fucking kill him." Pope said again, very, very carefully.
He pulled his cock out only a little, and your hands scrambled for purchase on him, pawing at him to keep him close, your ankles locked around his back.
"I wanted to bash his head in," Pope said, teeth bared.
You nodded. "Yes, yes, tell me more."
He was breathing heavily, unable to believe his ears. Unable to believe you were still under him, legs spreading wider, still looking at him like this was not the thing that would finally send you running. If anything, it had you pulling him closer.
"He's never going to touch you."
You shook your head, mouth opening, head tilting back, eyes hooded. "Never, Andy. Never."
"You're mine, mine, mine—" he said, pushing his cock back inside slow enough to make you feel every inch. In turn, he let himself slide against your walls, tuned to just how badly your pussy was sucking him in, clenching down around him at his words.
His brain had started to go fuzzy as he leaned into you, his arms circling your body, holding as tightly as you held him. The bed creaked when he began to move in earnest, hips beginning to saw back and forth. The headboard slapped against the wall when he picked up his rhythm, wanting to hear more of your pretty moans.
"I'm yours, Andy, I'm all yours," you moaned into his ear, kissing the shell of it, panting heavily, "I'm all yours,"
"I should've drowned him," Pope went on, "I should've—should've fucking killed him for the way he looked at you, thought he could take you—have you."
"Never, Andy, he'd never," you chanted, "oh god, please, please keep fucking me. You're so big, Andy. You're splitting me in half—oh god—"
His hand slid beneath your shoulder, pulling you flush against his chest, your damp skin sticking to him, your nails scraping down his back as he drove into you again.
The room was hot now, the remnants of damp pool water on his sheets cooling under your hip while the rest of you burned around him. He could feel every place your skin pressed against his. Your mouth at his ear, your ankles locked at his back, your hips against his. Your cunt taking him so tight he could barely keep his head.
"Does it feel good, baby?" he whimpered, trying to keep himself in check, trying to keep a rhythm. He wanted to be good for you, no matter how depraved his thoughts could be. He would be good. He had to be. Even with his teeth bared against your skin, even with his hands tight enough to leave bruises. He would be good.
"Oh, yes," you breathed, kissing his neck. "Feels amazing. I want more, Andy. Harder. Harder."
He moaned loudly as your pussy clenched down on him as he bit into the crest of your shoulder. You mewled for him as his hips swung back almost completely before he buried himself into you again. And again. And again.
The sound of it was filthy, skin meeting skin, the mattress squeaking under both of you, your breath breaking every time he filled you. You were a squirming mess beneath him, and yet, he held you tighter. Your ankles stayed locked, but it was like you couldn't decide if it was too much or not enough. Like you were trying to match his speed, but were wailing when he'd push in too hard.
"Are you sure, baby? Are you okay?"
"Andrewwwwwww—" you moaned, dragging the name out until his hips stuttered. "Please, please—promise me—promise me you'd do it."
"I'd do anything for you—anything." he admitted.
"Promise me!" you cried out.
"I promise, I promise," he whispered, pulling back just enough to kiss you, his lips planting over yours, opening and letting his tongue slide against yours. Both of you were moaning, sweaty messes, the sounds lewd and obscene filling the room as the headboard hit the wall even harder now in uneven knocks.
"I'm gonna come, Andy," you whimpered against his lips, muffled because he just kept fucking kissing you—licking behind your teeth, nipping at your bottom lip so much it began to swell and fatten up, a little kiss bruise forming there.
"Me too," he whimpered.
"Come with me," you begged, hands flying to his hair, holding him close. "Please."
He nodded as best he could.
"I love you Andy, come for me, come for me."
He was a moaning mess, unable to contain any multitude of normalcy, of trying to seem like anybody else. He ate at your mouth like an animal, fucked you like one, hips losing rhythm, his hands greedy and squeezing at your flesh until he shunted his hips against yours one last time, burying himself deep. Your pussy squeezed him, milking every rope of come that he had out of his cock, his balls wet from your arousal that soaked him, dripping onto the bedsheets below.
Your back arched at the feeling of him filling you, your mouth falling open under his as you shook through your orgasm. He could feel the flutter and grip of you pulling him in deeper while his own body kept giving, giving, giving. It was too much. It was everything.
His head dropped to your shoulder, breath punching out of him in rough little sounds he couldn’t swallow down.
"So good," he heard himself say. His mouth moved over your face, your jaw, your neck as you crashed down from the euphoric high, your lungs suddenly filling with air again. "You're so good, such a good girl, I'm sorry—I'm sorry—you're so good, baby, so good. I'll be good. I'll be good for you."
As you sucked in more air, your eyes fluttering and hazy, you looked up at him. Your hands pushed through the mess of curls at his forehead that had fallen sweat-slicked onto his skin.
Both of you were still breathing too hard, his lips dry against your skin, his body too heavy. He was softening slowly, pulsing, his wet spent cock sticky inside of you.
"Why're you sorry, silly?" you breathed, swallowing dryly.
He laid his head in the crook of your neck and let his mouth press into the soft column of your throat, nuzzling. He inhaled your smell—different now, now that the room filled with the salty mix of sweat and breath. But still you. You still smelled like green apples and chlorine. It settled him a little, let him pull in even breaths.
"Hm?" you asked when he didn't answer.
"I wish I was…normal." he finally answered.
You tilted your head so you could look at him as he stayed laid over your collarbone.
"I don't want you to be normal," you answered, your hand petting through his hair and down his neck, trailing over his freckled shoulder. "Hey, Andy, look at me."
He finally did.
Your face was close enough that he could see every damp lash stuck together at the corners of your eyes. Your lips were swollen and a little bruised from his mouth. Your cheek was warm under the hand he hadn’t realized he’d brought up to touch you.
"You don't scare me," you said softly.
He frowned a little at that.
You shook your head. "You don't."
"I should."
You cracked a sad smile at that.
"No, I don't think so," you whispered, and leaned in to kiss his nose. Your lips were still wet with spit from his mouth on yours. "I think we're the same, actually."
Oh?
You nodded at his change in expression, your fingers sliding back into his curls like you were making sure he heard you, not just soothing him out of it.
"I think we're just…different. And no one else will ever understand that. But I do." You sighed, your thumb brushing once over his temple. "And I understand you. I want you."
"You said… you said you… love me." he whispered.
You smiled wider. "See? You're not the only crazy one here."
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Maybe you were. Maybe you both were. And maybe… that was why today had happened, after all. You, coming to him, asking him to kiss you to show off how crazy you could be, to be with him. And him, giving in so easily, wanting so easily.
"I do love you, Andy." you admitted under your breath. Your thumb brushed over his eyelashes, over his temple, his cheekbone, down the bridge of his nose and over the cupid's bow of his lip. "Is that…crazy?"
Your skin was still warm as his palm moved from your face, gently trailing over your shoulder and down to your wrist to keep your hand against his cheek.
Maybe it was a little crazy.
He kissed the pad of your thumb.
But it was his kind of crazy.
And then he was leaning in and kissing you again.
🏷️ tagging those of you who were interested in a p2!! thank you so so much on the love for the first part :') hope I made you proud!!!! ilysm @hopelesslyspookyspooked, @t4medicroe, @here4the-reader-fics, @iramagnus, @sir-thisisadndserver, @seraphimsentinel, @lokis-fenris-wolf, @starlitflora, @myotakureprieve, @velvetmourning13, @cowboylover2000, @highhellkisses, @prttydarlin, @thebookbutterfly, @zipzappsmash, @t4medicroe, @mayemperess, @baileysinjune, @idontwanttobetheone, @jennataurus, @norman1967, @plummetingangel7, @jmlilypad, @milestellerismybf, @straykids1011, @queenmalhinewahine, @willbereturningshortly, @supernovatardis, @fanggq, @batouttahell13, @timefightrs, @reverieandwords, @kneelforloki, @anna97almeida, @brandycorso66, @equinoxdivine, @unopenedcomics, @thriving-n-jiving, @yurinals, @joelmillersbabygirll, @langostino-lover
Overview: (this is apart of to have and to hold, it picks up right where chapter 11 stops) it skips a bit in time, about two/three months in, and recounts how reader's/titus's feelings have slowly started to change
A/N: as always, this fan fic is on ao3 with the same title n user, if you prefer that format!
Word count: 3.1k
Previous Chapter
You’re lying out by the pool, enjoying the sun’s warm rays. The tiny bikini clinging to your skin barely covers anything, and you know wherever he is, Titus is watching you from somewhere. He insisted on picking it out and rubbing sunscreen over you, with a clear focus on your boobs and ass. But you’ve come to accept his rough hands constantly pawing at your body.
And now you’re ‘permitted’ to be on the grounds without him, but he made it clear he’s always watching. And the guards now know not to let you out the main gate. Not that you’ve recently thought about escaping, at least not seriously. Today Titus told you to stay out of the main house, suggesting the pool house, until he’d come and get you. He even offered to have some of the younger female staff come out to keep you company. Something about a very important work meeting; you didn’t really pay attention. He’s always doing something with ‘work.’
You let yourself think about everything that has happened in the little over three months of being with Titus. The thought still makes you cringe a little, saying with as opposed to being held captive or kidnapped or enslaved, but it definitely sounds nicer. And, he really has gotten better and less psychotic, or maybe you’ve just gotten used to it. Either way, he has grown considerably on you, even though you have incredibly conflicting feelings still.
He did make you officially sign drop-out papers. But then turned around and surprised you with the degree anyway. He vaguely mentioned something about calling in a favor, and added a little ‘Don’t worry about it.’ And he made you call up your parents and extend your little charity trip lie. That one was a little hard because you knew you were cementing at least another full year living with him. It was so tempting to try to get out the truth, but he held the phone for you and was watching you like a hawk. He threatened you with so many things if you tried to tell the truth, from hunting down your family to forcing you to live full-time in the basement, as he said, to show you how a “true sex slave” would be treated. Interestingly, he never threatened to kill or seriously hurt you; that was always off limits. It definitely did not stop him from making what you’re starting to see as empty threats about anything and everyone you’ve ever loved. But, his reward after the difficult call was so many orgasms you genuinely nearly passed out and had to beg him to quit. It was heaven, and conveniently did work in getting you to not think about your parents.
Speaking of, you do sort of like his punishment/reward system he pushes on you, even if it infantilizes you. If he makes you do something you don’t want to do, he always promises, and follows through, with something you do really want. If you don’t do it, he gets incredibly creative with making you wish you had and then forces you to do the original thing anyway. The worst was when he left you tied up on his bed for practically an entire weekend, while he jerked himself off in front of you and teased your cunt, never quite letting you come, but getting you so close you felt totally numb. He hand-fed and poured water directly into your mouth, forcing you to fully rely on him, while calling you stupid pet names. The embarrassment of it was torturous, but pretty hot, and you knew he definitely loved it. You vaguely recall the reasoning was because you demanded access to your own room and didn’t want to sleep with him.
You’ve also gotten to see his soft, but still possessive, side. He insists on you sleeping with him every night. Which, in theory, sounds great, but it usually means sleeping in his office or car or plane, or wherever he needs to be for ‘work.’ His explanation was he likes seeing you defenseless, but hates the idea of others seeing you like that. And, he needs to protect you, which scares you, because what could be scarier than Titus?
He also started making a considerable effort to treat you like a real girlfriend, not a kidnappee. He plans date nights, even if it’s in a totally cleared restaurant with an unusually high amount of men with big guns, and buys you luxurious gifts that you’d never even considered you might own one day. Just yesterday, he brought home a gown from a designer brand that just sounded expensive. The soft and glistening material fit you like it was handmade just for you. Which, technically, it was; Titus didn’t feel the need to share that he snuck measurements of you in your sleep. Another reason he needs to be there when you’re asleep, he thought to himself when that happened, proving his reasoning that you did not need to sleep unattended.
You do sort of hate that you never have anything to offer him. Which you could have never guessed you’d ever feel for the man who genuinely ripped you out of your life. Except you do, of course, as he constantly reminds you. A month or so into being held captive, you realized how much more fun the time passes if you started to play into the freak girlfriend role he clearly wanted. One of the nights he came home late, you had already crept under the covers after you stripped and snapped a pair of his handcuffs over your own hands. Knowing you weren’t supposed to ever fall asleep without him, you closed your eyes and lay as still as you could. Even after spending basically every day for the past month with him, you still struggled to detect his footsteps, and he almost always crept up on you when you least expected.
“Baby,” his voice growled, instantly hovering over you and grabbing at the sheets. The look of annoyance faded away as you sweetly looked back up at him, completely naked.
“I was waiting for you,” you whispered, raising up your handcuffed hands. “I’ve been all horny and alone; I got stuck in these,” you fake-pouted and used a sultry voice, hoping to strike a chord. That performance earned you a smile and a toe-curling orgasm. And a lecture about the dangers of handcuffing yourself and being naked alone.
Thinking about that night, you decide you want to poke the bear a little right now. Because if you're going to be held captive, you might as well take advantage of the good parts, like the fact Titus is incredibly at drawing orgasms out of you. Ever so slowly, you slide a hand underneath your bathing suit bottoms. Taking your time on purpose, you rub your folds, thinking back to the first time you two had sex. Tipping your head back, you let your legs fall open as you move up to your clit. Drawing it out, you squeeze your own boobs, pushing them up and making a purposely lewd face and over-the-top loud moan. Slipping back into your bathing suit bottoms, you lazily continue. Until you hear a voice clearing from behind you within 10 minutes of starting.
“What are you doing?” Titus gruffly asks, leaning down to look at you from over the chair. With a giggle and a shriek, you take off running without saying anything. This is probably your favorite way to get him in a good and pliable mood. You don’t know why it’s so sexual, and kind of don’t want to know, but he loves a good chase. And you have grown to like being chased, another new thing you have discovered about yourself. He watches, giving you the smallest head start before he’s locked into you and running full force. It’s never even close, but this time, as his fingertips catch your bikini top strings, you turn suddenly and dive into the pool. Standing there, in one of his neatly pressed suits, holding just your bikini top, he raises an eyebrow. “You know, sweetheart, you can always just ask for attention if you’re this needy.”
You smirk at him, “Is big scary Titus afraid of a little water?” You splash up at him, and he doesn’t move, letting it hit him. If anyone else acted this way, he’d genuinely have them begging for their life within seconds. But he loves when you do it.
“You know I have work; why don’t you come out and I’ll take you back with me? You can show the very important men why I had to step out,” he says it teasingly, and you know he’s not actually mad.
You groan, “It’s so boring being here all alone when all you do is work.”
Titus rolls his eyes, a habit he’s gotten into since being with you, “Sorry, I have to keep the literal world running, princess. I told you to make some friends with the staff; they’d be more than willing to hang out with you.”
“That feels weird. They’d only be hanging out because they’re terrified of you, not because they actually wanted to. And you always say that, but never actually say what you do,” you splash at him again; this time he crouches down to your level, raising an eyebrow.
“If you are so desperate, I will take your topless little self and fuck you over the boardroom table. You can put on a little show for everyone; how does that sound?” He smirks at the idea of this, but you know it’s an empty threat. He’d never let anyone see you fully naked.
“Maybe I’ll go home with one of them, find a new boyfriend who has time,” you fake pout again, knowing it always works.
He sighs, really wanting to jump in the pool and fuck you right there, but knowing that he could not explain it to Father and Ursula, who are both in attendance at this particular meeting. “I really do need to go back to work, baby. But I think you’re ready to learn about the Danforths and the Council. Tonight, during our dinner date, I’ll have the Lawyer come by, okay? I’ll answer all the questions your heart desires.” This is how his system always works: if you don’t get what you want, he makes sure you get something better.
You eye him; he’s been hinting since he’s taken you that he’s in some weird demonic cult. Not even really hinting, just kind of outright saying insane shit like being in charge of the world. You kinda just chalked it up to the general psychoticness of him, not really buying into it. And you have guessed the reason you haven’t met any family or learned anything about his work is because of said cult. So, the idea of having an open conversation does pique your interest. “I guess,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant.
His smile turns into a lip bite and half-smirk. “And afterwards, I’ll make you come so many times, you wish you hadn’t asked,” he adds, getting up and watching you for a few seconds before turning back and heading into the house.
You swim over to the side where he was, looking for your bathing suit top. Covering yourself up with one hand, you pull up out of the pool. Only to see a smirking Titus waving the top around before he heads inside, leaving you topless. I kinda walked right into that one, you think to yourself. You can’t help but wonder what batshit story he’s going to tell you tonight; whatever it is, you promise yourself you’ll react very calculated and rationally, so as not to break any of the trust you’ve been trying so hard to earn. Very much an afterthought, you add, to yourself, for my escape. But, you are starting to fantasize less and less about escaping, and an embarrassing amount about a wedding. Then again, where are you going to find a hot, rich man who can give you everything and is good at sex? Shaking your head to yourself, as if to erase the impure thoughts, you drop back down into the pool to chew on your conflicting thoughts a bit more.
Titus is so tired of meetings he can barely keep his eyes open. Father sits next to him, and Ursula is on his left. He enjoyed the small break he got with your teasing; he keeps his phone on his lap for that very reason. He wants nothing more than to be with you, or at the very least, have you under the table, sucking him off. The thought brings a small smile to his face, despite some president or other rambling on about war and famine. He’s never really had a true interest in taking over the High Chair, but he knows the alternative is his sister. And that would be very bad, not just for him, but for you. She has the gift of Father, the one that makes her completely heartless and all business. To be fair, Titus knows he has his touch, but you've shown him he can be humane. She would definitely not permit an outsider in the family; he knows she’d probably hunt you down herself. With him having the High Chair, you’d be able to follow him quite literally everywhere. He relishes in the idea of you becoming the world’s most powerful woman, under him, of course. And you’d be able to be under the table right now, a definite plus for him.
The speeches finally end, and the people start to file out. Father motions for both him and Ursula to stay, which you both don’t even think about disobeying. With a huff, Titus sits back down, irritated that he’s keeping you from him.
“Ursula tells me you have a girlfriend; is that what made you feel it necessary to leave the meeting?” he questions, looking at Titus. A little shocked, he eyes her. Ursula simply smirks, knowing she has him trapped.
“Something like that,” Titus huffs again, wanting nothing more than to claw at her skin right now.
“For how long?” Father asks, staring him down. Titus knew they’d find out eventually; he just was hoping it’d be a little further down the line.
Ursula jumps in before he can even get a word out, “It’s clearly distracting him, Father; he’s slipping and letting his guard down,” her voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard in Titus’s ears. “And she’s not from the Council; she’s just one of the dumb whores he picked up.”
Titus knows he has to play it off, but he can’t help but lunge slightly at Ursula, causing her to step back. He smirks at the reaction, “She is not dumb. And not a whore.” Turning to Father, he adds, “We need heirs; I am getting us heirs. Ursula clearly is incapable of providing them.”
The dig causes Ursula to scowl at Titus, but Father merely raises his hand, “You know the rules, Titus. Do not disgrace this family by breaking them.” And with that, he walks out, leaving Ursula glaring at him.
Before she turns to leave, she tauntingly snarls, “When the time comes for the hunt, I am going to take great pleasure in maiming her. Maybe, if you ask nicely, I’ll leave her intact enough you can get a few more good fucks from her cold, lifeless body.” Titus knows she’s pissed that her own picks always got killed off during the games. She hasn’t brought up a man since her mid-30s, finally having enough when it was Titus who slaughtered her secret boyfriend of nearly 5 years. They’ve always had such a violent and aggressive relationship, even more so that Father is aging and one of them will soon get to take his place. Securing heirs, though, would make him the easy choice.
Titus lets out a sharp exhale, swearing to Satan and all things demonic that he’s going to kill Ursula when the time comes. Stupid, dumb bitch, he thinks to himself, beyond irritated he couldn’t defend your name as he clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms. Not familiar to worry, he experiences an almost crushing weight of anxiety when he thinks about you being hunted down by his family members. He doesn’t want to picture it, but he can’t help but visualize Ursula sticking her knife into your throat, or slicing down your delicate chest, or whatever other sick and twisted shit she’d do to your pretty little body. The ideas flood his head, but he tries to shove the vivid imagery down.
He also does know the rules. He knows you can’t stay his girlfriend forever; he needs to go through with a wedding. And before that, he needs to make sure you know how to defend yourself during the hunt. With a quick realization, for the first time, he fully understands what he’s going to be dropping on you tonight. Even with his lack of general empathy, he knows it’s going to be a lot to take in. He hates to be throwing this all on you, but he knows you’ll be able to handle it. You kind of have to; he’s already dragged you this far in. The only way out now is through marriage or death. And she seems to have an awful lot of desire to continue living, so it should be an easy choice, he thinks to himself. He just hopes you see it that way.
His only real fear is you turn against him after he shares everything about his family and what you’re going to have to do. Everything else, he can take care of or fix eventually. Fondly, he thinks about how much progress he’s made with you in just the few months you’ve been together. You not only haven’t tried to murder him or escape recently, but you have been the one initiating sex. And blowjobs. And messy make-out sessions. And asking him to go down on you, something he didn’t think you’d ever do. His all-time favorite session was when you woke him up in the middle of the night by tugging down his boxers. He bites his lip, reimagining the desperate look on your face as you swallowed his cock, before almost immediately slamming yourself down on it. He still isn’t quite sure what possessed you that night, but he definitely enjoyed it thoroughly. And he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t fall asleep nearly every night praying you do it again.
Sighing, he truly hopes you’ll still be that way for him after he tells you what’s going to happen in the coming months. Not that he would stop having sex with you; he just thinks it’d be a shame to undo all of his hard work with just one conversation. And, he definitely enjoys the sex more when you’re mostly willing, something he really wasn’t expecting. He’s always loved the thrill of taking what he wants, but having you ask him to do something is even more thrilling. Then again, he has discovered a lot outside of sex about himself in these past months. Mostly that he is capable of love, he would do anything to protect you, and he’s tired of his damn family putting you down. At least I’ll know her future by the end of tonight, he thinks to himself. He knows, however you take it, he won’t let anything happen to you regardless.
Overview: Titus sees you at a bar and decides he needs you. But, unlike his usual catches, he doesn't want to just use and discard you. He wants you to love him. And Titus gets what Titus wants.
Tags: Smut, Rough Sex, Predator/Prey, Extremely Dubious Consent, Rape/Non-con Elements, Degradation, Forced Orgasm, Long Shot, Praise Kink, Kinda Stockholm Syndrome but Reader thinks Titus is hot from the start, Age Difference, Awkward but Horny and Aggressive Titus, Animalistic Chases, Handcuffs, Gun Kink, Aftercare (In a Fucked-Up Titus Way), Angry Sex, Branding, Voyeurism, Sex Toys, Public Blow Jobs, Violence, Titus would literally kill for Reader
A/N: this is alr on my ao3 under the same user, but thought i'd give tumblr formatting a shot since i love reading them over here just as much + am so open to feedback lol. mostly just playing around with the formatting over here, but def open to suggestions/comments/requests with either this work or other shawn hatosy characters (i have seen pm everything he's been in lol, thank god (or satan?) for summer break and a remote internship lmao). first fr fanfic i have ever written, shawn hatosy j does that to a girl ig!
Current word count: 27k (oops sorry lol, currently a work in progress tho, so expect a part 2 when i get another good chunk written up for ao3)
Chapter 1
Your eyes slowly open, feeling unusually heavy. You reach around for your phone, but find nothing except something that feels gritty. It’s oddly like dirt, but that doesn’t make any sense, you think to yourself. Slowly, fully waking up, you realise you're lying in the middle of an actual forest. You went hard last night, but surely not this hard. And, damn, your head is truly pounding. Maybe the last couple of shots were a little bit overkill. You’ve heard stories of people getting wasted and wandering off, so surely you’re just around the corner from your apartment. But you don’t even remember leaving the bar, or at least you don’t right now. Slowly sitting up, you search your pockets for your phone. However, they’re unusually empty, no phone, no keys, not even your ID. There is, however, a crumpled-up gum wrapper-sized piece of paper.
Unfolding it, there’s a neatly written message in heavy black ink: “Had fun last night, I thought we’d continue it. - T.” Turning it over, there’s no phone number, or even a full name. Getting hit on isn’t really unusual for you, but you get a weird feeling in your stomach. Something about the lack of contact info is weird, and what does it mean by ‘continuing it’? You didn’t sleep with anyone, right?
A flashback of last night suddenly hits you. It’s slightly fuzzy around the edges; maybe you did drink a little too much. But it’s of a man, he’s older, and he’s chatting you up, encouraging you to stay for just a “littleeeee bit longer.” You can’t really recall his face at the moment, but you do feel yourself blush; he was attractive, even if he was a little outside your normal dating range. His curls stand out, as does the way his tight-fitting plain black t-shirt clung to his fit body, his huge and perfect bice- Titus, his name was Titus! You remember your friends telling you they wanted to go, but it was getting late, even for you guys. But you kept insisting you wanted to stay with Titus; he looked like he could be someone’s grandpa; what harm could he possibly do? They said they had finals in the morning, and that you had a final in the morning.
“Oh shit, fuck it has to be later than 9 am,” you say out loud. You’re definitely not making it back in time for the exam, you need to get back now and beg for a retake. Or extra credit, or really anything at this point. You need this class to graduate. Wishing you would not prematurely gone out celebrating, you gingerly stand up. You feel a little lightheaded and dizzy, but all things considered, you don’t feel waking-up-in-a-fucking-forest-bad. Instead of a hangover, it’s just a little grogginess paired with a bad headache. You mostly just feel tired.
Trying to find a clue, maybe of what happened, you fidget with the note in your hand. You vaguely remember Titus talking to your friends, promising them he’d get you home safely and explaining he had his own children your guys’ age. Being pretty drunk themselves, they checked in with you one more time, you agreed you’d be “totally fine,” and they left.
Looking around now, all you can see are trees. There’s no sign of a road or any other people in the area. It’s oddly quiet, and still, it’s almost completely silent, save for the occasional sound of a bird chirping. You gingerly step forward, deciding it’s better to start walking than to stay here forever. Walking aimlessly, you desperately try to recall more pieces of last night. You remember your friends leaving, Titus offering to take you home, but you can’t fully remember ever getting home. But, at least you don’t remember doing anything, like, super embarrassing. So it could definitely be worse.
Stepping over a fallen tree, the feeling in your stomach suddenly feels significantly worse. The last of the alcohol must be leaving your system, and the panic is setting in. It feels sort of like you were under a sedative (which is concerning all by itself), but now the reality of your situation is incredibly clear; no phone, no location, and no idea how to get back to civilisation, you start to freak out. Immediately, you start screaming for help, yelling into what feels like an endless abyss of trees.
“Help! I need help! Is anyone there?” You call out, over and over again. The worry of the exam and the fuzzy memory of the bar start to fade away; you might actually die out here. You don’t have any idea about surviving in the wilderness. You don’t even like camping. The tears slowly start to well in your eyes as you begin running in a random direction. “Please! I don’t want to die. Can anyone hear me?” Your screams are starting to sound incredibly desperate…
just like Titus likes them, he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since seeing you at the bar. Smirking to himself, he casually flips through the screens, like he’s watching any generic TV. But they showcase you in all of your panic. From every imaginable angle, he has access to it. There are cameras everywhere, and they record every single moment. He leans back in his chair, congratulating himself on another great catch, and considers what approach he’ll take with you. Last time, he played a hero hiker, miraculously showing up at the last second and saving the poor, lost girl. She cried at his feet, practically worshipping him as soon as she saw him. That was a fun one. The time before that, he let the girl make it to one side of the compound fences. It took her two or three days just to get to the edge. But, with the wall standing at over 15 feet tall and made of solid concrete, even in a normal state, she stood no chance of escaping. When he appeared, as a fireman who was called to the scene after hearing screams, he blissfully remembers the look of pure relief on her face. How grateful she was for him, how dependent she was on him just to survive. Each time, he lulled them into a false sense of security before breaking and discarding them. It was all part of his game, his favorite game. He’s lost track of how many women he’s turned out into his compound; it has to be in the hundreds by now. It never loses its novelty, though, every single time he’s loved it.
You seem different, though, he can’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was the fact that you actually went willingly into his blacked-out SUV from the bar. He wonders if you’re always that trusting, or if it was the liquid courage. Regardless, you practically begged for him the whole way home. Reaching over and grabbing at his cock when he was driving, he literally had to peel you off of him. Not only that, he outright told you who he was and what he did. And, when he told you he planned to do the same, you said, “I don’t think you could hurt a fly, you’re so cute and pretty and sexy.” Titus isn’t one to get flustered, but you practically had him blushing last night. The highlight was when you grabbed the needle, stuck it into your own neck and said something along the lines of, “Now, pretty please, could we fuck?”
He smugly watches the tears roll down your cheeks on the screen; you obviously don’t remember any of that. Maybe you’re the one for him, or maybe it was just the alcohol. Either way, you're his now, to do what with, he’ll decide later. Just the thought of getting to be alone with you makes his cock twitch. Despite it being enjoyable just watching you, he wants you now. And Titus always gets what he wants, so he takes one last look at you, in all your desperation, and heads to the woods…
You have no way to track time, but it feels like it has been literal hours. You’re covered in scratches, your feet are killing you from your going-out shoes, and you can’t think straight. Your heartbeat thumps loudly in your ears as you begin to fully accept you’re totally and completely lost. You slink down against a tree, slumping to the ground. You’re hot, hungry, and thirsty. A stick snaps behind you, causing you to jerk your head back.
“I’ve been watching you,” the voice is deep and steady. It sounds almost amused, but something in it is unsettling. It also has an air of familiarity, but from where you can’t recall. “I thought you would’ve noticed by now, but you haven’t.” You can’t quite see the figure; he’s mostly hidden behind a tree. But you see him drop a small, snapped stick from his hands. Now you’re really panicking, watching you? This cannot be real. Maybe your friends orchestrated some sick joke. You desperately try to find ways to rationalize it, but he cuts your train of thought off. You feel too tired and weak to run, but the adrenaline is starting to kick in.
“You probably don’t remember anything, do you? It’s okay, we have all the time in the world to rehash how we met. I will say, though, it’s the first time someone ever drugged themselves for me,” He steps out into the clearing, and your eyes widen. It’s definitely the man, Titus, from the bar; he’s wearing what looks like the same black shirt with the same blue jeans. Despite everything going on, he’s still really attractive. What a fucked up thought to be having right now, you think to yourself.
“Please, I don’t have anything, and I don’t even think my family could give you a ransom. I really just want to go home, please. My friends know where we are; they’ll call the police.” You frantically say, ignoring nearly everything he said.
“Oh, I own the police, no one, and I promise you, no one is looking for you. No one is coming to save you, ‘you' told your friends you already went back home for the year." He stares at you hungrily, taking a step forward.
You press your back further into the tree, “And I’ve taken the liberty of informing your parents you are studying abroad. Doing some sort of charity shit in a place without cell service. Off the grid type living for the next 3 months,” He crouches down, an arm's length from you. “Which gives us some time to figure out what you can offer me.” He half smirks, refusing to break eye contact with you.
Pooling all your energy into one last move, you lunge at him, grabbing at his throat with both hands. You make contact, but within seconds, he has you pinned on the ground. Clamping a hand over your mouth to muffle your screams, he smiles down at you, “I love the initiative, but it was not incredibly well thought out. I bet you can do a little better than that.” He flips you over, pressing your chest and the side of your face into the ground. “As you begged for last night, I will fuck you, just not right now. It’d take the fun out of it. Instead, we’re going to play a game.”
You buck into the ground, desperately trying to get away. But one of his strong hands remains on the back of your neck, and the other over your mouth. He presses his knee into your back as he continues, “I am going to give you a head start, not because you deserve one, but because it’ll be more fun for me.” You hear him digging in the bag that was on his back. There’s suddenly something in front of you, it looks like some sort of dog collar. “As much as I’d love to hear your pleading and begging, I’d rather explain the rules uninterrupted.” He drops his hand from your mouth, giving you a chance to interrupt him a final time.
“Please, please, I don’t even know you, and I have finals, and I have a-“ You’re suddenly silenced by the gag he’s pushed in, which is secured by a metallic click behind your head. He slips what looks to be a key into his pocket.
He grabs at one of your ankles, ignoring your mumbled screams. His knee is still pushing you into the ground, holding you down. You’re fully sobbing now, using all your weight to thrash around. You feel a coarse rope wrapping around your ankle. “I don’t even think I’ll drug you this time, or rather let you drug you. Just some basic ties and then I’ll leave. There might be some extra little traps lying around from games in the past, so watch out for those too.” He snatches your other ankle, pulling it tight against the other and binding them together. “When I am gone, I suggest you untie yourself as fast as possible. Unfortunately, there’s really no winning for you in this situation, but you can try to escape. I want you to try to escape.” He roughly turns you back over, this time gathering your hands into one of his. They receive the same treatment as your ankles; bound tightly together.
Titus stands up, hovering over you and staring down, seeming to think to himself. “It is maybe a little warm today, do you think we should take your shirt off?” You scream into the gag and try kicking at him, only for him to catch your feet. “So you agree, wonderful.” He holds up a rather large knife, “You might want to hold still, I’d hate to damage something prematurely.” You ignore him, still flipping around like a fish out of water. “Okay, can’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says as he brings the knife to the neck of your shirt. Almost instantly, you feel a sharp jab along your collarbone, letting out a hiss, you try to look down and see it. “Superficial, just a small cut, but try to hold still or it might be deeper next time,” he says. It does almost sound like he cares. You lie still, not wanting a repeat of the first cut. With one quick motion, Titus slices your shirt down the front, exposing the red lacey bra you have on under it. “Mm, I love red,” he says to himself, “Matching set?” He smiles, a true full-toothed smile at you now, and it feels almost animalistic.
You silently beg him to stop with your eyes, but you know what he means. You feel the knife gliding along your already too-short skirt. The material falls away, and he gets his answer. “So sexy,” he whispers as he bites his lip. “We are going to have so much fun together, princess. You really will enjoy it, eventually, at least I think so.” He leans forward, close enough you can feel his hot breath on your neck. Suddenly, you feel his hand on top of your underwear. “It seems like you already are enjoying this,” he smirks and applies a little pressure, earning a squirm and soft whimper from you. “So wet and from what, the knife? Or is it the rope? Or maybe it's just me, darling?” Leaning forward, he kisses your neck and then sucks hard on the spot. “The first of many, many marks I’ll leave on you.” Through tear-blurred vision, you see him pull out a camera from the bag. “Smile, sweetheart, or at least try.” You hear the click, and the flash temporarily blinds you. With that, he slips the key to the gag out of his pocket and onto your chest, grabs the remains of your outfit, and stalks off.
Mind reeling, you curse yourself. Why are you so wet? You just got tied up, cut, and stripped by a complete stranger. He clearly is a psychopath, and you don’t have any idea when he’s coming back. Frantically, you begin pulling your hands apart, trying to give yourself enough room to loosen the knots and slip out. This goes on for a while, until you are finally able to slide a single hand free. You quickly unwind the other hand and sit up. The knick on your chest stings a little, you see a small stream of blood running down your chest and in between your bra. There’s not much you can do for that now, you think as you hurry to unwind your feet.
It’s been over an hour of you struggling with the ropes; Titus has long since returned to the compound. Holding your clothes in one hand, he eagerly watches you fighting for what you can only assume is your life. But he loves knowing it is all in vain. He will win; he always wins. His breathing hitches when he sees you carefully touch the stab wound. You grimace almost immediately. He gently rubs himself over his jeans, letting small groans escape his lips. She is truly so beautiful; watching her struggle only adds to it, he thinks to himself. His eyes lock in on you as you desperately crawl around, trying to find the intentionally small key to your own gag. Stopping himself, he silently watches as you find it and can visibly see how satisfied you look with yourself. The gag quickly gets ripped off and discarded onto the ground. “Oh, darling, don’t get too pleased with yourself,” he says out loud.
You gingerly open and close your jaw, testing the soreness of it being forced around the gag. So he’s some kind of sex crazy serial killer, you think to yourself. You try hard to remember last night, what did he mean by 'you drugged yourself'? It hits you fast. You remember getting in the car, basically forcing yourself onto him. You remember him telling you how he loves collecting girls, turning them out onto his compound, and slowly reeling them in, only to get bored and sacrifice them to Satan. You remember him saying you would be next and showing you a long needle. Flushed, you do remember grabbing it, desperate to fuck because he was really hot. Shortly after pushing in the plunger, the world went black, and your memory stops. Wide-eyed, you don’t even know your next steps. He clearly has experience and knows where you are. He snuck up on you after watching you for who knows how long. For all you know, he could be watching you right now. Your body is almost too exhausted to run, but you know you have to do something soon. So you ease yourself up onto your elbows and look around. He said something about traps, too. What did he mean by that? You figure you’ll find out eventually, but hopefully not anytime soon.
Something lying on the ground catches your attention, in the direction Titus went, glittering in the sun. Slowly, you force yourself to basically crawl towards it. A knife! Why would he leave you a knife? In the same neat handwriting, it reads ‘You’ll definitely want this. - T’ So he wants you to try to kill him? That doesn’t make any sense. What kind of satan-worshipping serial killer arms his victims? A cocky one, you answer yourself, one that is certain you have no chance to survive.
You decide running isn’t the answer, but maybe hiding is. You look around you again, hoping to find some place to squeeze into. Off in the distance, there looks to be a larger tree stump. You force yourself to stand, feeling every muscle in your body cry out. Fighting against the ropes for so long took a toll on you; everything already feels so tired. But you can’t just give up; you have to at least try to win.
Titus smirks; he loves that you carefully crafted some little plan. It’s endearing, thinking you even stand a chance in hell to somehow escape your new reality. He’s slid his pants down now, fully sliding his hand up and down his hard cock. He has the picture he took of you on one monitor. Your mascara running down your cheeks, your face red from the struggle, your limbs tied tightly. Titus isn’t sure if he’s ever seen anything so perfect before in his life. Watching you in real time, and the picture is proving to be too much, he needs to get off now. Watching you struggle to stand, sore from fighting against his ties, he picks up his pace, letting a soft moan escape his lips. He spits into his hand and eagerly returns it to his cock. With his free hand, he grips your clothes and brings them to his face, enjoying the scent of you. With a deep inhale, he finishes, but doesn’t close his eyes. He continues staring at you, barely able to stop himself from going back out and finding you right then and there.
You’ve made it to the tree stump, and to your great satisfaction, it is almost entirely hollow. You see a tiny hole near the front, barely big enough for you to squeeze into. You push yourself in, feeling the wood scrape against your bare arms and legs. It catches a piece of your bra, ripping it slightly in the back. Ignoring the pain, you give yourself one last push, fully engulfed within the tree stump. Wiping your tears, you feel some semblance of safety. If you could barely fit, no way Titus is going to be able to cram in. And, lifting your feet up and pressing them against the other side of the trunk, you’re completely invisible from the outside. You hold the knife close to you, hoping you don’t have to use it, but willing to if you must.
Except Titus knows you’re there, he watched you squeeze in. In a way, he’s disappointed. He thought you’d be the runner type; a hider isn’t as exciting. Regardless, he uses your clothes to wipe off the mess and pulls his jeans up. Since you won’t be moving anytime soon, he might as well cut the game short. Slinging his backpack over one arm, he sets off to get you.
Taking a golf cart, he stops a ¼ of a mile away, wanting to fully sneak up on you. Getting out, he starts to whistle, a slow, steady whistle. Shit, how is he already fucking here, you think to yourself. You curl your legs up into your chest even further, gripping the knife so hard it turns your knuckles white. You can’t help yourself, you start to cry again, but you try hard to hold the sounds inside.
Titus, carrying a large vintage-style axe from the golf cart, comes up to the back of the tree stump. He’s stopped whistling, wanting his arrival to be a bit of a surprise. Raising the axe, he brings it straight down on the stump, making a notch in the wood directly where your head is. “I didn’t take you for a hider, that’s a tad disappointing. I was hoping for a bigger fight, honestly.” He calmly says, bringing the axe down again, this time cracking the wood enough that you see light. “It’d be a shame if I killed you here. I’d still have fun with your pretty little body though, so,” like your life is merely an afterthought in his mind.
Trying to calculate your best move, you hunker down further, squeezing to the ground to avoid the axe. You know you have to try to stab him to gain some time to maybe run or hide again. You can’t just die; you don’t want to just die. Making your decision, you start to squeeze through the little opening again. Titus, distracted by his drive and obsession with getting to you, doesn’t seem to notice. You grimace as you feel the wood cutting into your sides. Staying low to the ground, you practically drag yourself around the stump, coming eye level with Titus’s ankles. As he goes to lift the axe, you drive the knife down with everything you have, directly into his foot.
“You fucking bitch!” He yells, falling down and grasping at his foot. Taking no chances, you take off. You still have no idea where you are or how to leave, but you seem to have bought yourself at least a little time. As you run, Titus’s yelling gets quieter until everything around you is silent again.
Titus debates going back to the house, but only very briefly. Despite his new injury, this is the most fun he’s had in what feels like decades. No one has ever even tried to stab him, much less been successful. Usually, they beg and cry and scream, but they never fight back. Leaning against the tree stump, he slips his boot off and evaluates your work. You got him pretty good, but not enough to stop him. Taking off his shirt, he wraps his foot tightly, wincing slightly. He starts to limp in the direction he saw you take off in. When he finds you again, you won’t be getting away, he thinks to himself.
You’re still running when suddenly you’re snatched up in the air. The suddenness gains a yelp from you as you’re now dangling by a single ankle, roughly 3 feet in the air. Hearing this, Titus smiles and starts to run, despite his foot. He knows you’ve been caught; the game is over for you. Or at least the first part.
After all you’ve been through, you’re truly exhausted. You try to grab at your ankle, hoping to be able to slip the loop of rope off. But you can’t lift yourself upright being so far off the ground. And any movement causes you to swing wildly back and forth. You hear him approaching; his breathing is heavy. You know this is the end; you don’t see any escape this time.
“Wow, all this to get caught up in a simple snare trap. How pathetic,” Titus sounds genuinely irritated. “I thought you’d be smarter than your average dumb animal.” You close your eyes, not wanting to look at him or give him the satisfaction of any reaction. This only seems to provoke him. “You were all handsy last night, what happened baby?” He asks as he ties your other ankle up, providing some relief, but still leaving you upside down. You stay silent, but feel anger boiling up inside you. Mixed with pure fear, you can’t think about your next move or what to say; you’re frozen. “It’s okay, you don’t have to talk for this next part, I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
Hearing this, you open your eyes. He’s standing in front of you now, and you’re eye level with his crotch. His shirt is gone, revealing a perfect body with his muscles slightly flexed. His chest is heaving from the run to get to you, and sweat has beaded around his forehead. You momentarily flush, despite literally everything you’ve been through; he is still exceptionally attractive. “I do expect eye contact, though. And I promise, if you bite, you’ll regret it.” Bite? What does he mean, bite?
He slowly unzips his jeans, letting them sag down a bit. Then, almost torturously slow, he frees his cock from his underwear. You can’t help it; a small gasp comes out just because of the sheer size of it. This causes him to smirk down at you, “Don’t worry, you’ll adjust quickly when it comes time for it, sweetheart. Eyes on me, now,” his voice commanding. You whimper and consider begging him for mercy, but you slowly raise your eyes to meet his gaze. “Open.” You don’t move, you continue staring into his eyes, yours starting to well with tears. “I won’t ask again,” he snarls as he grabs your hair roughly. As the first of the tears rolls down, you let your mouth fall open. He wastes no time and pushes in until his balls rest on your nose. You gag, trying to push yourself away, but his grip in your hair holds you in place. He starts to pump in and out at a brutal pace, grunting and groaning in pure pleasure. “You’re such a natural at this, it’s like Satan made you just for me.” Your eyes bulge, and your hands slap at his abs and thighs, hitting anything you can make contact with.
You start to see stars and let your eyes close, causing him to pull out just enough for you to get a tiny breath. “I said eye contact, I’ll correct you later,” he promises, as he drives into your throat again. Gagging, you use your new breath of air to claw into his thighs, digging your nails into him. Despite your intentions, this sends him over the edge, and he pushes himself in for one final time. You feel his warm cum running down the back of your throat, not even giving you the chance to spit. He moans, holding you tightly against him. Pulling his twitching cock out, what feels like your throat, you sputter and cough. “Mm, that was so good, darling. I think you might be of spousal quality. I can’t wait to see what some training will enable you to do.” You barely hear him, still feeling lightheaded and dizzy from the violent face fuck he just gave you. “Let’s see how needy you are,” he roughly whispers as he lets go of your hair.
He slips a hand into your underwear, causing you to jerk away. But he can already tell how dripping wet you are, and he hasn’t even given you anything yet. Using his other hand to grip your thigh, he slips two of his fingers into you. You bite down on your lip, trying to suppress any noises you would otherwise make. He notices, regardless, “Let them out, I want to hear how desperate you are for more after I just violated you.” With this, he curls them inward, hitting deep inside you. You’re biting your lip so hard that you start to taste blood. “I was going to let you finish, but I guess not now, since you want to be bratty.”
He leans forward, and you feel his breath on your thighs. He grips each of your thighs, forcing your legs apart, and ever so gently kisses your clit through your underwear. You whimper, finally breaking your silence, “P-please. I don’t want this.” You sound weak; you are weak right now. Everything hurts, and it feels so incredibly surreal.
“Really, you don’t want this either, right?” Titus suddenly pulls your underwear to the side, latching onto your clit and sucking in hard.
“F-fuck,” you whisper, your hips uncontrollably moving up towards his face.
Pulling away, but replacing his mouth with his thumb, he says, “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” He grins down at you, rubbing your clit in perfect circles.
“This isn’t right, you are ra-“ you cut yourself off with a moan. Fuck, how is he doing this to you? You’re being assaulted, but he is really attractive, and you did technically sort of assault him last night.
“That didn’t sound like a stop, did it, princess?” He slips a finger back inside you. You’re starting to feel good, too good.
“S-stop,” you cry out, “I don’t want this.” Your hips are still rising up to meet his hands. You’re so wet you can audibly hear yourself. You’ve never really felt this way before, what the fuck.
Titus lets out an actual giggle, “Did you really believe me? I am not going to stop until I’m ready to stop.” He returns his mouth to your clit, this time expertly biting down softly. You whimper, but you can feel something building in your core. He keeps going, sliding another finger inside and pushing down into you.
“S-shit,” you whisper between moans. As you start to tense up, Titus suddenly stops and pulls away. You look up at him, eyes wide and crazy. He shakes his head and stares down at you.
“I told you, you have to listen to get rewards, sweetheart, but don’t worry, I’ll be giving you plenty of chances soon.” You mindlessly stare back at him, silently pleading for something you said you didn’t want in the first place. Some kind of mix of pride, dignity, and shame stops you from vocalizing your wants. He reaches up and undoes the binds around your ankles, letting you crash into the ground. You cry out, between being upside down for so long, the exhaustion of earlier, the denial, and everything in between, you feel completely spent.
Titus knows this, but always has to push. “I think you should thank me for touching you,” he says, his figure blocking out the sun and dominating over you. You don’t know what he means. What else could he want from you?
“Kiss my cock and clean your spit off it.” You barely registered that he never put it away, but with another rough yank of your hair, he pulls your face level with it again. “And say thank you,” he adds with a cruel smile.
Wincing from the pain radiating from your scalp, you lean forward and half-heartedly kiss Titus’s tip. “Thank you,” you mumble.
“For?” he prompts, pulling you closer. You look up at him, scared to not answer correctly, but also just hoping to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“Touching me,” you finish in a barely audible whisper.
He lets your hair go, causing you to hit the ground once more. “Second part, clean. Use either your bra or underwear, but I’ll let you decide.” He steps back now, taking in the sight of you. Your bra is barely holding on, you’ve lost your cute little kitten heels, and your underwear is soaking wet. You have dried blood running from your collar bone to between your boobs, spit all over your face, and last night’s makeup smeared everywhere. You’re covered in scratches and scrapes, and several areas where he can tell bruises are going to appear tomorrow. You stare at him, defiance still radiating in your eyes. That, Titus thinks, is what makes you so special. You still envision a future in which you get away.
You gingerly slide your underwear off, grimacing as you shimmy it down your legs. It was your favourite set, and you had been hoping to get lucky at the bar. Clearly, the complete opposite has happened. Titus eyes you, not fully believing you’re actually going to do what he instructed. But you’re all out of fight for now. You reach up and wrap your underwear around his cock, swiping up and down in an almost mechanical way. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. You feel him twitch under your hands. Once you finish, you let them fall to the ground, and you fully lie down, letting the exhaustion win. “Wow, no attempt to run? Or stab me?” He prods as he pulls up his underwear and jeans.
Observing you like this, Titus feels a pang of something deep inside him that almost resembles sympathy or maybe something like compassion. But, it’s almost instantly overruled by the high of complete power. He crouches down, causing you to bring your knees up, rolling yourself up into a fetal position. He drags a finger along the scrapes on your back, pressing down just a little too hard on them and causing blood to ooze out. You squeeze your eyes closed, too exhausted to even cry. He continues, observing your body like you’re livestock he’s intending to buy. His rough hands run over your body, poking, squeezing, and grabbing as they go. He starts down at your feet, moves up your legs, squeezing extra hard on your ass and thighs. He runs his hands over your waist, then to your boobs. Unlatching the hook, he slides the bra straps down your arms to get a full look at you. He pinches at your nipples, causing a slight reaction from you as you shiver. Then, his hands go up to your shoulders, gripping your neck just tight enough for you to know he could kill you if he wanted to. Cupping your face in his hands, he leans down and aggressively kisses you. You don’t kiss back, but rather just let it happen. He pulls back, letting you lie untouched again. “Two options now. One, I leave you here, and we repeat today’s events tomorrow. Except now you’re fully naked. Two, I take you back to the house on the compound,” he says very matter-of-factly.
You don’t move, hoping he just leaves you alone. You don’t know what the compound is, and you vaguely remember something about not leaving with kidnappers. Something about leaving lowers your chance of survival. But, honestly, what chance of survival do you have naked in the woods? Titus lowers himself down, and hovering just above your ear, whispers, “I’m the only person in the world who gets to decide if you live or die. Your entire existence depends on my will, and my will alone. When I ask you something, I expect an answer,” with an out of place sense of gentleness, he brushes the hair off your face. “So, one or two, what will it be, darling?”
Chapter 2
You can feel his eyes assessing your nude body as you try to put together some semblance of a rational thought. No food, no water, and no protection make staying outside a death trap. But agreeing to go with him means, well, you’ll be with him. Titus lets out an annoyed and impatient huff, letting you know you have to give an answer. “Two,” you dryly whisper, not looking up at him or moving.
“Good choice, you’ll enjoy the house much more than you will out here. And you’ll get to eat. After you earn it, of course,” he says with a smirk as he slips his arms under your body. He rotates you until he has your boobs pressed into his chest and your face near his neck. Your mind is empty, and you’re so exhausted. As he carries you with ease towards the golf cart, you cling to the hope that this is all some twisted dream. Titus hums to himself as he lays you on the floorboard of the golf cart and turns it on. You curl up instinctively, trying to protect your body and dignity to the best of your ability.
You must drift off at some point because you’re awoken by Titus lifting you up again. House was an understatement; a genuine mansion is in front of you. You groggily try to mentally map windows and doors; you know you need to stay alert for potential exits. “Home sweet home,” he says as he walks up the steps, cradling you like a newborn. You’re shocked to see two men standing at the door; they’re dressed in all black and have large guns strapped on their hips. Seeing this, you feel a glimmer of hope, other people!
“Please help, please, he’s kidnapped me, and I am hurt. Call 911!” you desperately yell at them. Titus giggles. You feel his chest move against yours. The men don’t even flinch, but instead open the door and step aside.
One even greets Titus and comments on you, “Good afternoon, Mr. Danforth. She seems…hopeful.” You feel their stares on your body, and a wave of pure horror washes over you. Everyone is in on it.
“Afternoon, unfortunately, boys, I don’t plan on sharing this one. At least not right now,” he says as he casually walks past them and towards an elevator. In a much lower and rougher tone, he says so only you can hear, “Silly little girl, everyone here is mine. No one is coming to save you.” The elevator dings as the door slides open, and he steps in, setting you onto the floor. You immediately walk to the corner, attempting to make yourself as small as possible, covering yourself with your hands.
Finding a bit of courage, you quietly ask, “What do you want with me? Why did you pick me?”
Titus tilts his head, his eyebrows raising in clear shock that you’re speaking to him at all, much less asking him questions. “You came up to me at the bar. As for what I want…” The elevator dings again, and the doors slide open, interrupting him. He motions for you to get out. When you hesitate, he grabs your wrist and half pulls you out.
“…it varies,” he finishes. The hallway you’re in can only be described as medieval. It’s dark, lit only by candles running along the wall. The walls are grey stones, and there’s a red carpet running the length of the hall. He pushes into your back, guiding you towards an intimidatingly large wooden door. Not feeling much of a choice, you open it to a huge room.
The inside makes you gasp; it looks like something from a fairy tale. The bed sits in the dead center of the room; it has luxurious curtains around it, gathered up and neatly tied at each post. The walls are ornately decorated with painted floral designs. There's a large, carved wooden dresser up against one wall, and a couch next to a chair against another. There’s a desk with a vanity mirror and a table next to it. The floor is a soft carpet that matches the walls' floral pattern. The whole room is illuminated by a gorgeous chandelier and two large, stained-glass windows. You look around in pure shock, not really knowing what to expect next.
Titus watches you for a few more moments. He’s never actually brought someone back to his house before; they never usually make it out of the woods. If he keeps them, he usually puts them in the barn or the shed. He doesn’t want to contaminate his living space. But you are different. He finally speaks, “When I don’t require you, you will stay here. The workers are gathering things you might need,” he stares at you, looking for any reaction, “And, with good behavior, I’ll allow for requests too,” he finishes.
“I want to go home, T-titus,” it slips out without you even thinking. Scared of his reaction, you turn yourself to cautiously look at him.
He offers you a half-smirk in return, “You are home, sweetheart. I took you for a fast learner, maybe I was wrong.” Although you knew it to be true, hearing him say it out loud hurts, and you feel your eyes starting to well up. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry, you start to turn away. He grabs onto your shoulder, forcing you to turn around and face him. He looks at you hungrily, as if he’s turned on by seeing your fear and sadness. Abruptly, he kisses you, smashing his lips into yours. His tongue pokes at your teeth, not wanting to anger him, you defeatedly let your jaw go slack. He explores your mouth greedily, running his tongue along everything he can reach. It feels less like making out and more like some sort of weird inspection. His hands paw at your boobs, kneading them roughly. You whimper and try to pull your head back, opening your eyes just slightly, and you find him staring back at you. Startled, you step back, feeling your legs hit the bed.
He doesn’t move, but instead says, “I won’t fuck you until you want it. You’ll have to beg for my cock until I decide you really do want it. Everything else, though, I will take when I want and how I want.” You cringe, both at his vulgarness and the reality check that he is fully capable of doing whatever he wants. He continues, “We’ll go over some rules while I bathe you. I don’t want you dirtying up everything. I highly suggest you follow me without trying to run off; the alternative will be much worse.” With that, he goes out the door, leaving you standing there.
Barely hesitating, you go after him. You don’t know anything about where you’re at, and it doesn’t seem like a logical choice to piss him off right now. This gets a small smile from Titus; he can’t believe you’re being so good so early. He walks down the hall a bit and opens another door. Inside is much smaller than the first, with a large bathtub against the back wall. A skylight lets in natural light, giving the room a peaceful atmosphere. There’s a bench on one side with a stack of towels. Next to the tub, there’s a small wooden table holding a variety of different bottles. A bath has already been drawn, and it smells faintly of vanilla and sandalwood. “Get in,” he says as he works to remove his belt.
As you obediently walk towards the bathtub, you hear the sound of his belt hitting the floor with his jeans, leaving Titus in his underwear. Wincing, you ease yourself into the tub. Each scrape and cut you received earlier screams, but the hot water soothes your aching muscles. Titus silently walks up behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders and rubbing them with expertise. A small moan escapes your mouth, causing you to pull away, disgusted with yourself.
He lets you, “You’ll have to get over yourself sooner rather than later. I am going to make you feel good in ways you never thought possible.” You glare at him from the other side of the tub, causing him to smile once more. “Since you were able to stab me, I’ll permit you to bathe yourself. But, this is a one-time offer, so enjoy it.” You carefully observe him as he opens a cabinet and pulls out some sort of medical tape. He squints as he unties his shirt, replacing it with the tape. Noticing your stare, he looks up at you, “Don’t worry, you barely got through the shoe. I’ll have the staff take a look before bed.” You avert your eyes, not appreciating the remark.
You cautiously reach for one of the bottles, realizing it's exactly what you use at your apartment. “I didn’t want too many changes at once, so I had some of my people do some research into you.” You’re starting to realize Titus might not be a run-of-the-mill psychopath; he clearly has a lot of power, money, and people under him. “Anyways, rules,” he casually continues, “You will always be naked, unless I say otherwise. You will not engage in any sexual activity with the staff,” you let out a scoff, as if you would want to sleep with any of the insane people here. He isn’t phased and keeps going, “Unless I permit it or tell you to. You will answer each time I talk to you, and you will do everything I say.” You start to feel like he’s reading off a poorly written cliche serial killer script, but don’t speak. “Before I go to bed, each night, you will kiss me and say you love me.” Oh, even better, a psychopath with mommy issues, you think to yourself. You refuse to look up or give a reaction; instead, you gingerly start running your fingers through your hair. “Outside of that, you should remember I can kill you when and if I want. It is in your best interest to please me. Any questions?” he finishes, slightly shocked that you kept quiet during his little spiel.
The potential questions you have swirl in your mind, there’s so much you’d like to ask, and you aren’t sure how long you’ll have the opportunity. “Can I see my family?”
“Eventually, maybe, probably not anytime soon though,” he answers.
“Can I go home?”
“This is your home,” that one seems to irritate him, as he thought he had already made it clear.
“Are you going to kill me?” You sort of don’t want to hear the answer.
“Right now, no. But, eventually, maybe. But your death won’t be in vain; it’d be a sacrifice to Mr. Le Bail and Satan.”
“So, you believe in Satan?” You look up at him, your eyes taking in his near-naked form. Although something is clearly wrong with him, you do believe he isn’t going to randomly kill you. Maybe it is in your best interest to play into his insane fantasy; maybe then he’ll let you go eventually. At least he’s not ugly, you think to yourself as some sort of fucked up afterthought.
Titus laughs, a real laugh this time, “I don’t just believe in Satan, I work and live for him. He is who enables me to have the highest power in the world. I control everything because of Mr. Le Bail and Satan,” you scrub at your arms. Great, now he’s been upgraded to a mentally ill, psychopathic murderer, Satan-worshipping serial killer.
Thinking back to his rules, you ask, “You’re going to make me have sex with other people?”
He clearly likes hearing this one, and the cocky smirk returns, “I usually do. It can be fun to watch, especially seeing as I want us fucking to be your idea. And it raises morale among the staff.” You cringe, not wanting to imagine having sex with anyone under Titus’s command. Seeing your discomfort, he adds, “I also have quite the collection of toys.” You fully grimace now. “Speaking of, you need to finish up here. I’d like to show you our bedroom. Are you done?”
Although you’d like to delay the inevitable, you nod. Maybe if you just pretend he’s some sort of bad boyfriend, time will pass faster. Maybe he’ll soften and slip up, giving you a real shot at escaping. He comes to your side, offering you his hand to get up. The gentleness mixed in with the psychopathic things is confusing and hard to process. You grip it, and he pulls you up, then lets go to get a towel. Holding it, he silently beckons you over to him with his fingers. You walk over to him, still trying to cover yourself with your hands.
“Good girl, I'll dry you.” You tense up as you feel him wrap you in the towel, slowly moving it down your back. He takes his time, making sure not to miss any spots. He gently scrunches your hair with the towel, rubbing his fingers along your scalp. When he reaches up to turn you, you feel how hard he is against your back. Purposely, he pushes his crotch against you, grinding softly. You feel your muscles lock, but don’t move away. He moves a hand up to your mouth, pushing two fingers between your lips. “Suck,” he grunts. Despite not wanting to, you part your lips, allowing his fingers inside. He uses his free hand to push against your lower abdomen, pinning you against him. You feel his arm flex against you as he pushes his fingers further into your mouth, nearly gagging you. His grinding gets more erratic and desperate. “Get on your knees.” You whine, not wanting a repeat of the earlier events, but you listen. “Take it out.” Carefully, you slide his underwear down, letting his cock spring free. Almost immediately, he lets spit fall out of his mouth, narrowly missing your face. Instead of shoving it into your mouth, he wraps his hand around his length and starts working his hand up and down. He bites down on his lip, still looking down at you. “Tell me you love me,” Titus grunts, and, despite everything, this is one of the more shocking demands he’s made.
“I l-love you,” but it comes out flat and insincere. His piercing eyes and raised eyebrow caution you to do better. “I love you, Titus,” you try again, this time it sounds more real, but hearing yourself say it out loud makes your stomach knot. You hate him; you would do anything to get away from him. But this seems to satisfy his demand as he starts to go faster, letting out small moans.
“Open,” he says, barely audible. You squeeze your eyes shut and open your mouth, disgusted. Titus doesn’t seem to notice, or at least doesn’t appear to care. With a final grunt, he cums, coating your tongue and lips. You recoil, but feel his steady hand on the back of your head. It feels like he’s never going to stop, but his hand eventually drops from your head. “Swallow.” And you do. He takes a deep breath and uses your towel to clean himself, before slipping his underwear back up. Without acknowledging what just happened, he casually says, “Okay, bedroom time, hold my hand.” You bite your tongue and put your hand into his. He squeezes your hand, not enough to hurt badly, but enough to kill thoughts of running.
Titus is winging all of this; you’re making him feel things he’s never really felt before. In a way, it’s making him more angry, how are you doing this to him? He’s the one who’s in charge. Maybe one day you really will be married, Titus ponders the idea as he walks you back to his bedroom. With a push of the door, he concludes that he would like that; he’s never even had a girlfriend, much less a wife.
His room is even bigger than the first room he showed you. It’s all black, though with accents of gold. The bed is truly larger than anything you’ve seen. There’s a large window overlooking the wooded area you just came from, with a bench in front of it. There are all the ordinary things, like a desk, a small couch in the corner, a huge dresser, and a chest at the foot of the bed. But there’s also an array of more…concerning things littering the room. You notice how some of the bedposts have chains drilled into them. How the chest at the foot of the bed has a large metal lock. How there are straps on the bench by the window. Worst of all, above his bed is the photograph he took of you in the woods; it’s incredibly large and insanely detailed. He takes in the moment, fully smirking as he watches your eyes widen. “I thought you’d appreciate that touch. The staff did some minor updates. You’re the first woman to be in here. I usually don’t let them inside the house,” he admits.
Now it’s your turn to be surprised. Without thinking, you ask, “Why?”
“Quite frankly, they’re boring. They just want to cry and beg. You are different, though, and I need a spouse. I need heirs to the Chair. But only time will tell,” he lies on the bed, patting next to him.
You swallow your pride and sit next to him, facing away. “How many people have you killed?”
He seems to take a second to think about his answer. “You mean girls like you, or in general? Girls, probably hundreds. Generally speaking, singlehandedly, it’s maybe in the thousands. By running the world and all of that, more like millions. But who really counts those?”
You don’t really know how to process this; he obviously cannot be in charge of the world. That doesn’t even make sense. But, something inside you is starting to come to some sort of realization that he may not be just a mentally ill serial killer. Maybe there is some truth behind what he’s saying. “Anything else?” he asks.
“I am hungry,” you say, and as if on cue, your stomach growls.
Titus nods, “Very well. But you do have to earn it, your pick.” You furrow your brow and briefly consider how long just starving to death would take. Deciding probably too long, you turn to face him. With a hard swallow, you reach for his underwear, only for him to grab your hand. “No, I want to see some creativity, not a half-assed blowjob.” You let out a quick breath, irritated, but also slightly relieved. You don’t really know what he wants, but you have some idea.
Moving back towards the end of the bed, you let your legs fall open. You feel his amused eyes on you, silently awaiting your next move. For the first time since this ordeal started, you suddenly feel like you have a little bit of an advantage and like this could be fun. Without breaking eye contact, you gingerly slide your hand down your abdomen and between your thighs. With the smallest smile, you start rubbing yourself. You’ve been, as much as you hate to admit it, turned on for most of the time he’s been around you. His perfect body is still able to turn you on, even if he is a serial killer. Honestly, maybe that makes him even more attractive for some unknown twisted reason. You bring your other hand to your mouth and start sucking on one of your fingers, exaggerating the noises. He noticeably twitches with that addition.
“Alright,” he huffs, snatching your wrists. “That'll be enough.” You can’t help it, something about making the psycho lose control is a little fun. A reality check hits you almost immediately; this isn’t some sort of game or movie. He genuinely could kill you at any moment. You watch as he gets up, walking over to the dresser. He throws you a t-shirt, slipping one over himself and reaching for a pair of jeans. You gratefully grab it, willing to accept any amount of coverage. Sliding it over your head, you breathe in the scent of him mixed with fresh laundry. In a normal situation, this would be a cute little shared moment. But it’s not a normal situation. You don’t like that you have to remind yourself of that. “The chef should have lunch waiting for us. I don’t need everyone seeing you all slutty,” Even though he doesn’t say it, he’s already thinking about a future in which you rule beside him. You feel a wave of embarrassment wash over you. For a few seconds, you thought it was simply a nice gesture done out of care. Why do I even care if he does like me? You think to yourself as Titus reaches for your hand.
Chapter 3
He guides you to an outside courtyard with a large table in the center. There are two places set directly next to each other. “Sit,” Titus points to one and takes his spot at the head of the table. “I, or rather the staff, found some Chinese takeout in your trash. So, the cooks prepared Chinese food. Is that what you eat normally?”
You can’t help but notice how awkward he suddenly seems now. What does he mean by normally? It’s almost like he has had no real human interactions. “Late night study session, it’s all that’s open late,” you respond. A small fleet of well-dressed men walks out carrying platter after platter of food. Just the smell alone makes your mouth water; it feels like you haven’t eaten in days. As they set the plates down, one of them hurries to put the food directly on your plate for you. “I can get it myself, that’s okay, you really don’t have to,” you say, not wanting to inconvenience the man. He nervously looks at Titus, who gives him a sharp nod and waves him off with his hand. You take note of the interaction; maybe some of the employees aren’t here by choice. You immediately start eating what was placed on your plate, savoring each bite.
Titus shifts uncomfortably in his seat; he’s never really been on a date before. If this even counts as a date, Titus decides it does. Usually, the staff gives the girls he captured whatever leftovers there are; he can’t be bothered to be involved that closely with them. He’s never formally sat down with any non-Council members, and for some reason, it’s making him feel a little nervous. Wanting to break the silence, he asks, “So, do you, or rather, did you have a boyfriend?”
You shake your head. Your dating life has been beyond dry after a bit of a messy break-up freshman year, “Had a rough breakup,” you add. And the occasional hook-up, sure, but nothing ever seemed to stick, or maybe you just made it so things didn’t stick. Hence, being at the bar and so willing to leave with the unknown man who is now holding you captive.
“Rough how? I, we, can take care of him. It could be fun for us,” Titus says, and you notice a hint of excitement in his voice. You don’t want to endanger someone’s life, and you can tell he is very capable of “taking care” of people.
So you lie, “It wasn’t actually bad, it was mutual.” Although he doesn’t say it, you can tell by the way he stares that he doesn’t quite believe you.
“You fuck a lot of guys? Make it a habit of getting in strangers' cars?” He changes the subject. You stop mid-chew and feel your face getting warm, but you shake your head again. “Really? I find it hard to believe you’re an innocent angel.”
“Every once in a while, I guess,” you mumble, hoping he moves on. However, this seems to be the wrong answer as Titus visibly looks angry now.
Frowning with furrowed brows, “How many?” he directly asks. You grip your fork in your hand, squeezing it hard.
“It’s really none of your business,” you quip back, starting to get irritated. How does the murderer who admitted to kidnapping hundreds of women have the audacity to slut shame you? Titus pushes his chair back, stands up, and comes over to you. Almost immediately, he roughly grabs your face, forcing you to look at him.
“How many?” he says through his teeth. He clearly sees the fork in your hand, but doesn’t make a move to take it from you. “I don’t think you want to do that,” he adds flatly.
“I remember 8.” You loosen your grip on the fork, but he tightens his grip on your jaw.
“Remember?” he questions.
“I mean, yeah, 8 I remember. I don’t know how many sick freaks like you from the bar,” you snap back. Titus practically growls hearing this.
“And to think I was special, it was just a matter of time before someone picked you up for good,” he releases his grip. You have to physically stop yourself from instinctively rubbing where he held. “So you’re a whore?”
You feel the sense of embarrassment creep back up. Why do you even care what he thinks? But being talked down to and evaluated this way feels just bad. You stare down at your feet, not knowing what response he’s looking for. “I’ll have to keep you isolated from the staff. I don’t want you seducing any of them or impregnating yourself,” he pokes, evaluating you for a reaction. Getting none, he pushes further, “It makes sense why you’ve been so horny, apparently it doesn’t take much for you to give it up. I can’t believe the first woman I bring back is just some slut,”
You snap, wielding the fork, and you lunge at him. Clearly anticipating the attack, he sidesteps your swing and catches your wrist, squeezing until the fork clatters to the ground. Wrapping you into a bear hug with flexed arms, he bites his lip and whispers into your ear, “It’s okay, baby, it’s cute you have some experience. It’s even better knowing that you’ll never get to touch, much less fuck another man ever again. Besides me, of course.” You fight against his grip, wanting absolutely nothing to do with him.
“Let me go,” you say with gritted teeth, mindlessly kicking and trying to claw at him blindly. He pins your arms flat against your side, squeezing just enough that you can’t really do any damage. But it doesn’t stop you from trying.
“You’re going to tire yourself out. Is that really how you’d like to spend the rest of the day?” He asks, there’s a hint of arrogance in his tone that really just irritates you. Leaning forward, he says quieter with a smug smile, “I knew that you’d be into being humiliated, but I wouldn’t have guessed it fired you up this fast. Because you are turned on, aren’t you, whore?” Despite his awkwardness with small and normal talk, he seems to have nailed dirty talk. You’d never admit it, but you are. “Admit it, and I will let you get off.”
Heat blooms across your face, and you feel butterflies in your stomach. He’s been teasing and playing with you all day. You’ve already sort of accepted that you won’t be escaping anytime soon, so why shouldn’t you be able to at least feel some pleasure? You nod subtly.
“Say what you want, I don’t know what you need slut,” He pulls you towards a chair, sitting down and placing you on his lap.
Thinking, you hesitate. You don’t know if you really want him to fuck you; you do, but you also don’t. Playing it safe, you mumble, “To get off.”
Titus bites his lip and turns you so you're facing him. “So needy, I like it. Straddle my thigh,” you shift your weight, sliding a leg on either side of him. “Damn, you’re practically dripping, so hot for me because I called you a stupid little whore,” he groans, feeling you now fully pressed against him. He pulls the shirt over your head, leaving you once again, fully naked. “I think you know what to do,” he says, looking up at your face and moving his hands up to your boobs.
You are needy, and you hate it. You hate him, right? Breaking you from your thoughts, he starts to bounce his thigh a little, the subtle movement pushing against your clit. You moan, to which he smirks. “I want to see you do it,” he says, pulling on your nipples. You’re only doing this to keep him satisfied, you tell yourself as you rock your hips back and forth. The feeling shoots waves of warmth through you. After a day of denial, you are already so close. Titus starts kissing around your neck, moving torturously slowly down to your boobs. You whine and grind harder, not wanting to give him a chance to change his mind. Or maybe because you are starting to enjoy it. “You look so pathetic humping my leg. I bet none of your hookups ever made you feel this good. And I’m not even touching you,” he whispers between kisses.
You reach your hand down, desperately wanting to touch yourself, knowing it’d put you over the edge. Titus’s hand gets there faster than yours. “P-please,” you whimper, “Need,” you add.
Titus grins, “Need what?” You’re rocking back and forth furiously now, leaving a mess on his pants.
“T-touch,” you choke out. The familiar feeling in your core is there, and it’s building fast. You want, in the moment, more than anything to cum.
“Touch where? Here?” He presses down on your clit, causing you to moan and nod furiously. He starts to rub as you showed him earlier, going purposely slow.
“More,” you whine, and he obliges. You feel your body start to tense as the orgasm washes over you. Almost instantly, you collapse inward, unintentionally pulling Titus into a hug. Your legs shake as you come down off the high. Titus, not fully expecting the hug, slowly wraps his arms around you. He likes the intimacy, he decides, even if you’re only doing it subconsciously.
He holds you for a few minutes until you start to squirm. “You made quite the mess,” he observes, looking down at the wet spot that has bloomed across his jeans. “I don’t know how we’ll be able to get back to the room like this,” he jokes, raising an eyebrow.
You feel a pang of disgust, not fully wanting to accept that you just got off to the degradation of your kidnapper. Getting up, you don’t fully know your next move, but you don’t have to decide. Titus lifts you again, this time throwing you over his shoulder. With a shriek, you can’t help but let out a little giggle. For a fleeting moment, it really feels natural and normal.
Chapter 4
Returning you to his room, Titus throws you on the bed. He slips the belt out of his dirtied pants and tosses his shirt on the ground. He jumps into the bed, immediately pulling you close. You want to fight it, but a part of you is craving human touch, even if it is from a psycho. He wraps a leg over yours, pinning you to the bed, and lets his hands wander over your back.
Clearing his throat in a way that could almost be mistaken for nervousness, he asks, “Why did you come up to me in the bar?”
Not wanting to make him mad, but also not wanting to embarrass yourself, you offer up a half-life, “I don’t really remember.”
“Really, you don’t remember anything?” You feel him press a little harder into one particularly sore area on your mid back.
Wincing, you admit, “Okay, I do. I thought you were attractive.” You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smiling.
“So when I cut you, was it the knife, the rope, or me?” he asks.
Deciding to give him what he wants, you abandon the facade, “You, I guess. I’ve never been tied up and had my clothes cut off before, though. That was scary, but also hot, I guess.”
“Mmm…so you like being scared?” he returns to gently tracing your scrapes and scratches with his finger.
“I don’t know, maybe, no. I don’t know,” and you really don’t know.
“It’s okay, baby, you don’t have to think for yourself anymore, I’ll make all the decisions for you,” he responds in a taunting tone, not able to resist the opportunity to mess with you. “Do you watch porn?”
“I don’t like being talked down to,” you say curtly, ignoring his question.
“Well, I like talking down to you. And you clearly do like it, you just humped my leg while I called you a slut and a whore until you literally had an orgasm. I’d say you love it, actually. Did you watch porn?” he repeats, still in his purposefully mocking voice.
“I do not like it,” you respond, “And yes, who hasn’t?”
“Don’t make me prove to you that you like being degraded and humiliated, because I will. What kind of porn?” he asks, digging deeper.
“I swear to God I don’t, I’m not a freak. I’m normal. And I don’t know, normal non-freak porn,” you say, getting in a small dig at him.
“I think we’ll call up one of the staff for tonight. Would you rather be embarrassed by a girl or a guy?” He casually asks, “I am partial to a girl, but your pick princess.”
“Neither,” you coldly respond, deeply regretting letting yourself grind on him.
“Both it is. A foursome will be fun, I haven’t had one in a little bit.”
You try to turn around to get a look at his face, noticing the joking tone has now left. His legs alone force you to stay with your back turned towards him. “I don’t want to have sex with anyone, you said I wasn’t going to have sex with anyone, you said-“ he calmly cuts your protests off.
“I said another man would never fuck you. And that I wouldn’t until you were begging me for it. There are ways around that, baby, you’ll see,” he smirks, reaching around you to squeeze your boobs. “I honestly could go for it right now. What do you think?” Without giving you time to respond, he gets up and picks a corded phone up off the nightstand. You start to protest, but he holds up a finger to you, and for some odd reason, you find yourself falling silent.
“Send 2 up to my room; one guy, one girl. Young, pretty ones. Clean and naked too,” he says as if he were placing a take-out order. With that, he sets the phone down and looks at you. “Have you ever been with a girl before?”
You shake your head, still not fully believing he’s going to go through with it. “I am not into girls, not like that,” you say.
He bites his lip, “I think you’ll find a woman knows how to take care of you much better than the average man. But, of course, I’m not the average man.”
You feel the sense of panic rising again, no way he's actually going through with it. He must be trying to scare me. Titus notices your scared face and lets out a small laugh. “I promise you’ll enjoy it, even if you only realize it after. I think you should start preparing, though.” He nods towards the big chest at the foot of the bed. “The key is in the drawer.”
“Please, I don’t want to do this. I wasn’t being serious. I don’t want to have sex with strangers. I don’t want to have sex with anyone. I just want to…I just want to go home,” you finish as the tears start falling. Titus doesn’t say anything and simply points at the drawer.
“I can assure you, you want to prepare for it, they’ll be here in a moment,” he says, immune to your begging and tears.
You feel your stomach sink; you know he’s being serious. Slowly, you sit up and scoot to the end of the bed, opening the drawer. You find the key he mentioned and go to try it on the chest. It, unfortunately, works. Inside is an array of what looks like torture devices. The sinking feeling turns into pure panic. What if he kills me right here and now? “Please, T-titus, I don’t want this. I am sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. I promise I’ll do better,” you beg, thinking about throwing yourself at him to prove your worth.
He simply smirks, “You’re not being killed, sweetheart. Nothing in there is worth all this over. And you didn’t bother me, you said something incorrect, and I have to prove you wrong. Otherwise, you’ll never learn.” This does relatively nothing to calm you down, so he casually saunters over. He roots around for a second before pulling out two things he throws on the bed and motioning you to get them.
Wiping your tears, you climb back up on the bed. At least he isn’t going to kill you, even if he might be destroying the last bit of dignity you were clinging to. Looking down, though, you don’t feel any better: it’s two huge, almost disturbingly realistic dildos. Your eyes widen, and you look back at him.
“Don’t be so shocked, princess, they’re carbon copies of the real deal,” he grins, flashing his teeth. “It’ll be a nice test of how well you fit me, for when that day comes. I think you should probably start trying anything you can to get them wet; it’ll make them go in easier.” You hate that you know what he’s implying. You gingerly pick one up as someone knocks on his door. “Come in, the party’s just getting started,” he says, not taking his eyes off you.
The door swings open, revealing two people, a man and a woman, who seem roughly your age. They’re wearing some sort of contraption around their waist with an o-ring above their crotches. The guy has on boxers, but the woman is fully naked. “Good afternoon, Mr. Danforth,” she says first, “It’s an honor to be chosen.”
“Yes, agreed,” says the man. “Any specific plans?”
Titus smiles, “She’s actually just getting started by lubing up your cocks. I think she’d appreciate it if we watched that, wouldn’t you, baby?”
You silently plead with him, but not wanting to make a bad situation worse, nod. Picking up one of the dildos and squeezing your eyes shut, you start to put it in your mouth. You cannot believe you’re being forced to blow a silicone mold of the freak’s dick. What kind of narcissistic, egotistical-
The line of thought is gone as Titus cuts in, “Stop. I think it’d be more realistic if they were attached, so you can really get into it.” He motions for them to step in, and they do so eagerly, their hands extending for the didlos. Within a few seconds, they have them fully pushed into their weird little harnesses. Titus smiles cruelly at you and then addresses them, “Don’t be gentle on her for my sake. She likes it very rough.”
You open your mouth to protest, but the man suddenly shoves you onto your stomach. The woman takes the opportunity to shove her dildo into your throat. You gag, eyes bulging out in pure shock. “Make her look at me.” You barely register Titus’s voice, but feel the man yank your hair up. Jerking it at a painful angle, he forces you to strain your neck until you're staring at Titus, who is casually leaning up against the wall.
The woman is ruthless, but almost as quickly as it happened, she pulls hers out, causing a long strand of spit to follow. You cough and get ready to apologize to Titus. But she grabs your hair, trading places with the man, who pushes his dildo in as soon as your mouth opens. He face fucks you with it for what feels like several long minutes, causing your eyes to squeeze shut. As he pulls his out, you cough, trying to process what just happened. “I want her to get a taste of you; she’s never experienced a woman before,” Titus says to the woman.
You now know better than to protest. You’re in the room with three psychos, not just one. The woman lies down, spreading her legs wide. You don’t move, not knowing what’s next. The man helps make that decision for you, returning his grip to your hair, and he pulls you towards her. “I want to hear you both degrade her,” Titus instructs.
“You’re going to make her cum, stupid slut, can you do that?” The man gruffly says, now pushing your head down towards the woman. You rear back, slamming the back of your head into his nose. With a shout, he uses both hands to grab at his face, the blood almost instantly pouring out. The woman doesn’t appear to flinch; instead just mindlessly stares at Titus, awaiting her next instruction. Taking the distraction as a chance to run, you spring off the bed, headed for the door. But you don’t get very far. Titus grabs you by the back of the neck.
“I knew you still had some fight left in you. I knew you were playing docile,” he whispers in a low tone. He sounds almost impressed. “But, you have to know you are not going anywhere.” His nails digging into your skin cause you to wince as he half-leads, half-drags you back to the bed. “You are excused,” he unconcernedly tells the man. Without a word of argument, the man gets up and walks out.
“I don’t want this,” you protest again.
“Well, I do. You already hurt one, the least you can do is be a good girl for me and do as you're told,” he says flatly, leaving no room for arguing. He pushes you down on the bed with your back flat on the bed and legs dangling off, “Stay.” Walking up to the woman, he says something in a low tone you can’t quite make out, but she obviously understands. She nods, getting up off the bed and walking in front of you. Slightly worried about what is going to happen, but more worried about what will happen if you move, you lie there. You look up as you see her kneeling in front of you. Then you feel her fingers on you, slowly massaging the inside of your thighs, but creeping closer.
“I am going to fuck you, but Titus wants you to beg for it,” she says definitively. “Get on your hands and knees bitch.” You hesitate, earning a harsh slap directly on your clit. It causes you to yelp out, scrambling to position yourself as requested. Titus stands directly in front of you, just observing. “Tell him how much you want his silicone cock inside of your worthless cunt,”
You grimace, but decide it’s probably best if you play along. “Please, I want it a lot,” it comes out very flat and monotone. She notices and slaps your ass hard.
“We both know you crave this. You know Titus is right, he always is, isn’t he?” she questions you, now gently gliding her fingers along your lips. You buck your hips slightly in reaction.
“Y-yes, he is,” you bite your lip as she slides the very tip of the dildo in.
“Look how into it you are, your cunt is practically swallowing his cock,” she pushes it in harder for effect, still only hitting about ¼ of the way in. You can’t help but let out a moan as she hooks back your lip, forcing you to half smile. “This really is all you’re good for, isn’t it?”
Your hips are starting to unconsciously rock back harder now, and you nod, sort of hoping she does actually fuck you. Titus’s hard stare is only making it harder for you to hold on to your thoughts.
“Answer me when I ask you a question, or are you so needy and easy that you’re getting overwhelmed with just the tip? How are you going to be able to fuck him? Maybe he should just kill you.”
You look up at Titus now, whimpering helplessly, “P-Please,” is all you’re able to get out. He nods at the woman, who immediately steps away from you.
“You may leave,” he tells the woman, who leaves just as quickly as she came in. “See, princess, I told you you love it. Nothing to be ashamed of.” You flop flat on your stomach, still hoping a teeny bit that he continues with you.
You look up at him, “Please,” you repeat, louder this time.
He cocks his head and teasingly asks, “Please what?”
You hate that he always has to push. But you also do kind of like, no, love it. Something about relying on someone else, especially someone so fucking unpredictable and crazy, is sexy. Not able to fully get over the embarrassment, you mumble, “I want you to fuck me.”
Titus bites his lip, and you feel his eyes scanning over you. “Mmm, I don’t want to, I don’t think you’ve earned it quite yet.” You huff, not believing the sex crazed kidnapper is turning you down.
“But you said, when I wanted to, we would,” you protest.
“I actually said when you beg for it. And to give it up on Day 1, that’s not very exciting, is it?” He slides into the bed with you. Ever so slowly, you move your hands down to your clit, hoping to get yourself off at least. The constant denial and teasing are too much. “What are you doing?” he asks, but you know he already knows.
“Nothing,” you mutter, and he’s already grabbed your wrists.
“Do not try that again,” he warns, pulling you closer to him. “I will get you off when I want you to cum. You do not decide anything.”
“I am not dumb,” you weakly say, wanting to counter somehow.
“I never said you were. Just that you need to do what I say when I say because you’re mine,” he practically growls, then in a softer voice, “I don’t like hurting my favorite playthings, but you have to learn your place. And that’s below me, in quite genuinely every sense.”
Slightly irritated, but emboldened by the fact he did call off the woman at your request, you ask, “Why don’t you just pay someone to come play into your little fantasy? Why do you have to hurt unwilling people?”
“Because there is nothing in this world that feels better than bending another human being's will. At some point, you, like all the other ones, will do anything and everything I ask. You won’t even think about your needs or your feelings. All you’ll think about is pleasing me and catering to my every demand. You’ll worship me,” he replies. His answer, though expected, is nonetheless unsettling. As you stay silent, he adds, “And that sweet determination in your eyes will fade over time; you’ll only think about how you can continue to hold value in my eyes.”
“So you will eventually kill me?” you ask, wanting to just get it over with.
“That depends on you. Something about you is different, but I haven’t decided if it’s different enough,” but deep down, he already knows you’re special. Today proved that.
“What happens if you don’t kill me?”
“We get married and bond together through a blood pact. You will give me heirs to the high chair. Depending on the circumstances, I will assign you some minor tasks, but you’ll primarily deal with keeping up the Danforth image. The families involved in the Council are very important, image is really everything,” he says matter-of-factly.
“So I am either going to die or be forced to serve you for the rest of my life?” You can’t decide which seems worse.
“Yes. But a marriage is as equal as you’ll get. And it’ll be much longer than the rest of your natural life, as long as we hold the High Chair, we don’t die. Hence, why I need to start reproducing. You would raise them to be strong and capable, in the event the families are called to a game,” he explains.
What the fuck is he even talking about? Titus seems to sense your skepticism and gently rubs your shoulders, “I know it is hard for someone like you to comprehend this, but over time, you’ll learn about it. Our wedding night will be a very critical period for you.” You tense up, not really liking the discussion of a wedding already, but also not really liking the alternative of being killed. He digs his fingers in a bit harder, attempting to force the muscles to relax. You are incredibly tired, and it does feel good. You yawn and curl your legs up towards you. “You’ve had a busy day. I called off my evening activities to spend your first night here with you. Do you want to sleep?”
Yes,” you answer, trying to pretend Titus is just a normal boyfriend and not the satan-worshipping murdering freak he actually is. You know what he’s waiting for, so you decide to give it to him before he takes it. Rolling over, you kiss him hard on the lips, which catches him off guard. As sweetly as you can manage, you say, “Goodnight, Titus, I love you,” and flip back over, not giving yourself a chance to see his face.
Titus genuinely blushes, not expecting you to even remember. It does feel good to have someone willingly kiss him and say they love him. Even if it’s probably not all the way technically willing, he doesn’t mind. Pulling you in even tighter, he whispers in your ear, “Goodnight, my future wife, I love you too.” A first for him, he’s never told anyone ever that he's loved them, and, unlike you, he doesn’t have to convince himself of it.
Chapter 5
Titus patiently waits for you to fall asleep, listening closely to your breathing. He wants to watch you and fully take in what will be his for the rest of time. Once he’s confident you’re asleep, he slips his arm out from under you and slowly slides off the bed. Taking a seat in the chair next to the bed, he looks at your face. Fuck, she is so perfect, he thinks to himself. For the first time, he’s seeing you fully relaxed and completely vulnerable. He feels some foreign and new to him, a desire to protect. From what he doesn’t know. He just knows nothing, except him, of course, will ever hurt you again. I will give her everything she could ever want, he thinks to himself. In exchange, all he needs are heirs, which he deep down hopes will be something you’ll want to give. And perhaps even love, he isn't quite sure what love is, but he knows he'd like to experience. And that he loves you, so eventually maybe the feeling will become mutual.
Regardless of your thoughts or feelings, he’s already chosen you, and Danforths always get what they want. He smiles softly to himself, imagining your wedding day. His father and Ursula, his twin, were always rather cruel to him when it came to the topic of finding a spouse. When he was younger, he never really was allowed outside of the compound because they thought he was a ‘danger.’ But I’ll show them, we’ll have a perfect wedding. You won’t go into the games prepared.
The day’s events are finally starting to get to him. Titus’s eyelids start to droop, but he tries fighting against them. He wants to spend more time thinking about you. He can’t decide if he’s more excited about you learning how to please him or how to kill his obnoxious relatives. Or maybe to see you pregnant with his children. Half asleep, he offers a final smirk before completely drifting off. Maybe she can do all three at the same time.
You wake with a start, not completely certain yesterday was real. But you immediately see Titus sitting in a chair in front of you. With a small frown, you pull yourself up so you’re resting against the headboard. He seems like he’s still asleep. Maybe this is some kind of fucked up test, you think to yourself. Waving your hand near him, he doesn’t stir at all. Immediately, the realization hits you: this could be my chance. You ever so slowly ease off the bed, dropping down in front of the chest at the foot of the bed. The key is still in the lock from last night, and with shaking hands, you gently lift the lid up. As quietly as humanly possible, you start digging through the things, looking for the handcuffs you spotted earlier. Using just the first rays of the sunrise, it’s taking too long to figure out what is what. But, finally, you spot them and immediately pull them out. Then, you start to tiptoe back to Titus. Hands or feet, you think to yourself, which would be harder to move with?
Slinking up to him, you hold your breath and say a silent prayer that he doesn’t wake up now. You click one part of the handcuff to the chair, causing Titus to stir slightly. Trying to touch him as little as possible, you slide the other side under his wrist and snap it shut. Letting out a breath in relief, you purposely snap off the key inside the lock, hoping to slow him down. The sound and pressure on his wrist wakes him up.
“Hey, I wasn’t trying to be creepy or anything, I just-“ he sounds sweet, and it almost makes you regret it. “What the fuck?!” The change in his voice is immediate as he yanks his now handcuffed wrist up.
Now it’s you who smiles cruelly, “I guess this time I give myself the head start, I’d say see you later, but I hope I never see you again.” You step back, sort of wanting to see his next move, but also wanting to take advantage of every precious second you have.
“You fucking bitch, what the hell?! I promise you will regret this. I will find you,” he growls, now frantically trying to grab at you with his other arm. The chair is too heavy, though, forcing him to fall back. Seeing him like this, like a chained animal, is doing something to you you would never admit. Noticing the threats aren’t working, he decided to take a different approach. Practically on his knees, with his arm bent at an uncomfortable angle, he softens his voice and says, “Sweetheart. I know you don’t like this, but you will eventually. The staff will hurt you if they find you; you won’t make it out. Just give me the key, and we’ll forget this.”
You giggle, pleased that he is the one begging for a change. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to; the key broke off in the handcuff.”
Hearing this, the anger floods back into his face, “If you don’t let me out, you’ll fucking wish I had just killed you,” he says through gritted teeth. He’s pulling so hard trying to get you, even from where you’re standing, you can see the metal biting into his wrist. Playing with him just a bit, you step close enough that he is able to grab your shoulder. He digs his fingers in hard enough that you shriek and try to jerk away. Almost instantly, he is wrapping his legs around you, forcing you down. Out of pure desperation, you grab and squeeze his balls, causing him to scream. Staggering away, you watch as he doubles over, breathing heavily and grimacing. Although it was fun while it lasted, you know you need to go. Before he has a chance to say anything, you run out of the room, letting the heavy door slam behind you.
Remembering the first room Titus showed you and his promise of things you needed being there, you run to the first door in the hallway and barge in. With a bit of shock, you notice almost all your belongings from your college apartment are now in the room. Hurriedly, you throw open the closet and start tearing through your clothes. Finding a pair of jeans and a dark shirt, you throw them on. Nearby, you find your shoe rack and slip on a pair of shoes. Grabbing a hair tie from the vanity, you can’t help but feel a little bit bad for hurting Titus. Clearly, he does have some sort of feelings, or he wouldn’t have gone through the hassle of bringing all my things here, but you counter that nearly immediately. He stole all of my fucking things and is keeping me captive here. With that, you run out of the room and back into the hallway. Now you can hear Titus’s shouts, so you know he’s still handcuffed to the chair. Not having a completely solid plan, you decide the best bet is to get out of the building. You push the elevator button, and it pops open with a ding. You slide inside and immediately hit the ‘G’ and try to think of what you’re going to say to the men guarding the door.
As it opens, you try as best as you can to calm your rapid breathing. With a deep breath, you step out and head to the front door. You feel the men staring at you, but clearly Titus has made it clear they are not to question him as they pause to even speak to you.
“Uh…good morning, ma’am…” the one says hesitantly. You force yourself to offer up a smile and a small nod.
The second one eyes you suspiciously, “Is Mr. Danforth going to be.. um..joining you?”
“No, he is feeling a bit sick at the moment,” you say, hoping it’s coming across as confident. “He actually requested no one visit his room,” you quickly add.
The two men glance at each other, but appear to take your word and don’t say anything else. You can barely keep from showing your excitement and have to force yourself to keep walking calmly. Smiling to yourself, you can’t believe you’re free. With pure hope, you keep walking down the seemingly long driveway until you hit the line of trees and a tall iron gate. Cautiously, you push it, and surprisingly, it pops open. On the other side, it looks like a normal road. Certain you’re out of view of the guard, you immediately take off sprinting as fast as you can. Please let there be a car, please let there be a car.
Titus cannot believe you trapped him. With his own damn handcuffs, nonetheless. After the gut-wrenching pain of you squeezing his balls passes and the pure rage of being handcuffed, he uses his leg to kick at the arm of the chair. Breathing heavy and getting sweaty, it finally snaps cleanly off, letting him slide his arm free. He rubs at his now sore wrist and shoulder, considering where you might’ve taken off to. She doesn’t know shit about anything; she couldn’t have gotten too far, he thinks to himself as he calmly gets dressed. Despite the fact that you embarrassed him, he does feel a bit of pride in knowing you have some fighter in you naturally. He knows you have to be able to join the Danforths, and you definitely have a strong will to survive, even if it’s misplaced. Heading to the elevator, he presses the call button and notices it takes a little bit longer than usual to arrive. She definitely ran. He smirks, biting down on his lip as he steps inside. I wonder how long until she realizes she’s not free.
As soon as it opens, he steps out and calls for the guards with a flat tone. “Did she leave?” he asks, careful to hide his anger.
They look at each other, eyes wide. It takes a few seconds, but one answers, “Yes, sir, she said you were sick. We didn’t think you would have let her out if it wasn’t intentional.” As he says it, he unintentionally looks down at the dangling handcuff on Titus’s arm. Without saying anything, Titus tucks his hands behind his back.
The other chimes in, “She looked like she was just going for a walk, she headed down the driveway.”
Irritated by their pure incompetence, he extends his uncuffed hand and simply says, “One of you give me your gun and a pair of handcuffs.” They fumble as they reach for their guns, eager to make up for their early mistakes. Titus snatches one, tucking it into the back of his waistband and putting the cuffs in his back pocket. Let’s see how you like being handcuffed, he thinks as he strolls down the steps and out towards the gate.
Chapter 6
The adrenaline coursing through you carried you on your run for several miles. But now your chest hurts, and your legs are starting to cramp. Notably, you also haven’t seen a single car for the few hours you’ve been running. Feeling okay with the distance between you and the hellish situation you escaped, you step off the road and lie on the grass. Breathing heavily, you stretch your arms and legs out as you hear your heartbeat in your ears. I have to see somebody soon, you try to reassure yourself. The all too familiar feeling of complete despair is starting to creep up, though, as you stare up at the sun. You consider taking a small nap, not fully considering that Titus has not only already escaped, but is after you. The warmth of the sun and the road next to you lull you into a sense of comfort. You escaped, you’re free, you tell yourself. Slowly, you start to doze off, letting yourself feel safe in the fact that you’re no longer in Titus’s house.
Titus, believing you would’ve followed the road, casually strolls down the center of it. Unlike you, he knows there’ll be no cars. It’s a road he had put in to make his house feel even more ‘real.’ It stretches for 20-or-so miles in this direction, but stops abruptly at the real gate guarding the compound. He narrows his eyes as he looks into the woods, half-expecting to see you running or hiding again. If he really wanted to, he could find you within seconds using his surveillance cameras. But that’d ruin the fun of hunting you down like a helpless little rabbit. There’s a pride in catching prey as our ancestors did, he thinks to himself as he scans the tree line. And, he knows it’s not like you really escaped. Up ahead, he notices something alongside the road and immediately knows it’s you. His breath hitches as he starts to run; he’s slightly concerned by the fact that you don’t appear to be moving at all. But as he gets closer, he can see your chest softly moving up and down.
You are fast asleep; the run really took everything out of you. As Titus hovers, you don’t move at all. The urge to protect has completely vanished; now, he just wants to ruin you. He wants you to not just pretend to respect him, but actually mean it. Without hesitation, he crouches down and snaps the cuff over one of your ankles. He roughly grabs the other and, before you can react, cuffs your ankles together. Your eyes fly open, and you try to stand up, only to fall flat on your stomach at his feet. Screaming in pure terror, you try to push yourself up from the ground with your arms. Titus watches with no trace of empathy, “And I thought we were starting to enjoy each other’s company, princess.” Still screaming, you desperately try to get away from him. But, with your ankles bound, you don’t make it very far and can’t even seem to stand up. Titus grabs you by the hair and roughly flips you over, so he’s staring straight down at you. He pulls a gun out from his waistband and is pointing it directly at you.
Stunned, you try to sit up, but he steps down on your one wrist, pinning you to the ground and forcing a whine from you. “T-Titus I j-just wanted to g-go back to my f-family,” you say, too in shock for even the tears to come. “I-I don’t want to d-die, please.”
“You embarrassed me,” he says with no emotion, “And you hurt me,” he finishes, and it does sound like there’s a twinge of true hurt behind it. He keeps the gun trained on you and his boot on your wrist. “You do not get to do that to me.”
“I am so sorry, I promise it will never happen again. I will be so good and perfect, and do whatever you want, whenever you want it. We can have kids, and I will do all the image keeping you want me to do. I swear to god I didn’t mean anything by it, I just wanted to-,” you ramble, desperate to get out of this situation. Or at least get the gun off you.
“Take your shirt off,” he cuts you off, still staring down the gun at you. Without even thinking, you slip it off and slide it down to the wrist he’s holding on to, genuinely willing to do anything to make him happy. “Bra too. Actually fuck it, get naked right now.” He steps off your wrist and motions at your pants with the gun. With shaking hands, you slide your own shoes off and pull your jeans and underwear down to the handcuffs. You unlatch your bra and slip the straps down, letting it fall away. Titus’s eyes soften slightly, looking over your naked body. But his voice doesn’t. “I can’t believe you thought you could outsmart me.”
Staying silent and still, you look at his feet, not wanting to piss him off any further. You visibly are shaking, genuinely thinking you’re about to be killed. He crouches down and grabs your face with one of his hands. The other brings the gun alongside your cheek. “I want you to know, I didn’t want to hurt you like this. But I have to. You made me.”
“Please, Titus, I love you. I just wanted to go back to my life.” In this given moment, you don’t know if you mean it. And you don’t care, you just want to survive.
“How do I know that isn’t a ploy to let my guard down? You made it clear you don’t love me when you handcuffed me with my own fucking handcuffs in my bedroom,” he practically spits it out. Although he isn’t showing it, a small part of him hopes you do truly love him. But who wouldn’t say they love the psychopath with a gun if they thought that’s what he wanted to hear. “We’re going to have some fun, and then we have some... matters to attend to at the house.”
You don’t move, but feel the cool metal of the gun digging into your jaw now. You also feel the sweat running down your forehead and back. He drags the gun to your mouth, using it to pull your lip down. “Open,” he commands. With a wild and crazed look begging him to stop, you let your jaw go slack. Agonizingly slow, he slides the barrel of the gun inside your mouth until it forces you to gag. “Unless you want me to kill you right here and now, I suggest you do everything in your power to make me happy.” You nod desperately, hoping more than anything that he gives you a chance to say sorry. He holds the gun like that for several more seconds, until the drool starts to run down your chin. With a smile, he retracts the gun and throws it down alongside you.
Relief washes over you, and you fold forward, embracing his legs. “Thank you, Titus, and I am so sorry, I will never do that again; that was wrong of me,” you babble as he carefully watches you. He registers it as genuine and bites his lip.
“Oh, sweetheart, we both know you’ll keep trying to escape. I think this lesson is more to motivate you to try harder,” he says, “Right now, I want you to prove you’re sorry.” You look up at him, honestly still willing to do anything he says.
“I will do anything, really anything, I swear,” you quickly say. Titus smiles.
“I know, darling, that’s the fun part. I think we leave your legs together like this. I don’t think you’re deserving of being properly fucked anytime soon. What do you think?”
You flush, but wanting to play into his fantasy, “I agree….sir,” you add. You have read your fair share of smut, but you hate how awkward and weird it sounds, actually coming from your mouth.
“Mmn, sir, that's a nice touch, I like that, let’s keep that. Since your cunt is undeserving, what else do you have to offer?” You can visibly see his cock hardening in his pants.
With a small shudder and barely audibly, you mumble, “My mouth?”
“We’ve tried that, darling, as good as you are at swallowing my cock, I want something new,” he says, enjoying the look of fear on your face. “Unbuckle my belt while I think.” But he already knows what he’s taking from you today.
You cautiously reach up and undo his belt, sliding it out from the loops. “Loop it around your neck, like a leash,” he instructs. Embrassed, but not willing to fight with a gun within his reach, you do so. Grabbing the end of the belt with one end, and sliding his pants down with the other, he kneels down in front of you. “This will hurt. And I want you to think about why this is happening. I will take care of you after, I promise.” He says as he flips you over, “Up on your hands and knees.”
Realizing what he’s getting ready to do, you feel the panic rising again. But you slowly get on your hands and knees, exposing yourself to him. His free hand pushes on your back until your stomach is almost flat on the ground, pushing your ass up for him. “Have you ever tried anal?” he casually asks, and you feel the belt tighten around your neck.
You have, and you hated it. Your first boyfriend begged and begged for it until you finally gave in. You nod, to Titus’s disappointment. You feel his free hand pushing something into you. “A vibrator for you, I won’t have a free hand for your clit, but internal is better than nothing, I suppose.” You gasp as you feel it click on, sending waves throughout your body. Using the wetness it’s drawing from you, Titus dips his fingers in slightly and rubs it on your ass. Then you feel his warm spit dripping onto you. The vibrations deep inside you are almost enough of a distraction. But then you feel one of his fingers prodding at your rim. Instinctively, you jerk forward, tightening your muscles. You moan as you accidentally clamp down on not just his finger, but the vibrator he shoved in your cunt. Titus lets out a laugh, seeing you struggle between your hatred for him and your building pleasure. “It’ll go by faster if you relax,” he points out the obvious. Trying to force yourself to relax, he withdraws his finger, and you breathe a small sigh of relief.
But it’s short-lived. Almost instantly, you feel something much larger pressing against you. His cock. “Think about the pleasure,” he says, and with a sickening pop, he slams into your ass. You cry out, digging your nails into the dirt. The belt around your neck tightens in his grip, forcing you to hold your head up. “Fuck, it is so tight,” he groans, slowly moving himself out. You scream out in pain, desperately trying to claw away from him, but the belt holds you in place. Just as he’s almost fully out, he slams all the way back in again. The pain rips through you, outweighing whatever pleasure the vibrator is offering you. You know he’s doing this on purpose to punish you for trying to escape.
“Please. I’m sorry, T-Titus,” you manage to get out, your eyes starting to bulge from the lack of oxygen and pain.
Pulling out slowly, he slams back in before answering. “Begging isn’t going to work this time, unfortunately,” he says before doing it again. You shriek, still trying to pull yourself away. The vibrations start to get more intense, mixing the pure pain with significantly more pleasure. “Last hard time,” he says as he forces himself all the way in again, getting another scream from you. “Now it’s just for me.” Having forced you to adjust somewhat, he sets a steady pace, letting out small moans as he pumps in and out. You feel him twitch inside you quickly. “Fuck,” he groans as he shoots his cum deep inside your bowels, pulling tight on the belt. He holds you like that for a moment before letting you fall flat on the ground, completely spent. The vibration continues to pulse deep inside you, but he doesn’t bother turning it off. He pulls his own underwear and jeans up, not bothering even to acknowledge you. In some twisted way, this hurts more than anything.
He turns you over, so you’re once again looking up at him from your back. You feel his cum starting to leak out of your ass, making you feel dirty and used. Without saying anything, he pushes his fingers inside your cunt and pulls the vibrator out, letting it fall next to you. Wanting to break the silence, you whimper again, “Titus, I’m sorry.”
He offers you a half smile as he reaches down to uncuff your ankles, still not saying anything. As he digs for the key in his pocket, you notice how close you are to the gun. Immediately, you reach for it, Titus seems not to notice. Pulling it up to his head, you try to hold it steady with shaky hands. You are not a murderer, you think to yourself, but you might have to be.
Uncuffing your ankles, Titus looks up and smiles at you, seemingly unfazed by the gun you’re pointing directly at his head. “No bullets in it, darling. I wouldn’t want to actually hurt you,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Glad to see this didn’t completely break you. I admire the fight in you.” Eyes wide, you let the gun fall, hoping you didn’t just make things worse.
“Titus I-“ you start to say, but he cuts you off.
“It’s okay, I won’t reprimand you for that. I like that you fight back. And for future reference, you can’t actually kill me, though. Part of the whole, selling your soul to Satan deal I made,” he says as he sits down on the ground, pulling you into his lap. “Now, you’ll say thank you for teaching you a lesson and that you love me, and we’ll move on from this whole ordeal.” He gently wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his chest.
Biting back the anger and shame flowing throughout you, you grumble, “Thank you for teaching me a lesson. I love you, Titus.” He rubs your back in small circles, still keeping you tightly in his embrace. His cum is still running out of you, mixing in with your own wetness. Despite the given situation, you are a little turned on by his possessiveness. And his ability to truly get you to say and do whatever he wants.
“Anytime, darling. I love you too.” He smirks. “I’m not sure if you’re going to be able to walk the whole way back, you’re out about 3 or so miles. Do you want me to carry you?”
Hating that he always gets you to submit to him, you nod, feeling the soreness radiating through your body. His strong arms wrap around you, cradling you as if you were a baby. He kisses your forehead and stands up, leaving your clothes scattered on the ground.
“It’s like I’m getting deja vu,” he teases as he starts to walk back towards the house with your naked body curled up in his arms. You press your head against his neck and think about what he meant by ‘matters to attend to.’ At least he isn’t ugly, you think to yourself. And the possessiveness is a teeny bit, okay, very hot.
Chapter 7
Titus carries you back the entire way without a single snarky comment. You can’t deny that it is attractive how he’s able to hold you for so long without struggling at all. The silence ends when you hit the gate, and Titus carefully sets you on the ground. Wobbly from your legs dangling over his arms and sore from earlier, you latch onto his arm. At this point, you don’t even bother to try to cover up in front of him.
With a small chuckle, he says, “Take your time. We have all day.” You squint in annoyance, still not fully accepting the switch from psychopathic maniac to sweet, loving boyfriend.
“It hurts,” you reply through gritted teeth, but being careful not to push too hard.
“And whose fault is that?” He says, the irritatingly familiar mocking tone back in his voice. Digging your nails into his arm, maybe a little harder than necessary, you gingerly start to walk forward. Titus watches you, getting enjoyment from knowing he caused you to be like this. “I guess I won’t have to worry about you running away anytime soon.”
The two security guards are still by the door, and they clearly notice something has happened. They both seem shocked to see you alive. “Good afternoon, Mr. Danforth,” the one says. You notice his gun is missing and briefly wonder if that’s what Titus shoved in your mouth.
Titus nods, not really acknowledging them. You feel their eyes taking you in, but don’t move to do anything about it. Stepping inside, he presses the button for the elevator and lets you lean up against him. With his hands on your shoulders, he rubs them roughly, kissing your neck. As soon as the door opens, you move to stand on the opposite side of him. With a raised eyebrow and the signature lip bite, he remarks, “You’re going to go all cold on me now? You know I didn’t want to do that.”
You huff and turn around, your backside facing him. Silently Titus steps up to you, slipping his arm around your waist and, in one smooth move, tossing you over his shoulder. You shriek, “I don’t want to do this, I am tired and-.”
He cuts you off and steps out of the elevator, “I didn’t know my wife was going to be such a killjoy. I guess Satan couldn’t let everything be perfect.” Ignoring your protests and hands slapping his back, he walks you into the bathroom from earlier. This time there is no giggling, you're back to hating him. Mostly. Lifting you off, he slides you into the already drawn bath. Its warmth instantly soothes your muscles.
With a smile, he strips himself and joins you. “I will wash you this time, as promised.” He moves next to you, pulling you so your back is against his chest. Almost too delicately, he uses one of the towels on the table to rub down every inch of your body.
“I can do it myself,” you protest, trying to move away from his reach. With a quick hand, he catches your waist and holds you down.
“I thought you’d have learned by now. I'll tell you what happens, and you listen. When we’re married, it’ll perhaps be more equal. But we’re not, so you’re not my equal.” He says, moving his hands up to your hair and gently massaging soap in.
“So, if we get married, you’ll let me be in control?”
“Mmm, no,” he answers in an amused voice. “But, you’ll get to have input, and our interactions will be much more consensual. A wife gets respect.”
“So, you’ll still hurt me?”
“In ways we both like. Don’t think I didn’t see how wet you were getting from choking on the gun,” he says.
Interested in the idea of something ‘more consensual’ and wanting to avoid the topic of the gun, you ask, “When will we get married?”
Using the handheld shower head, he runs it through your hair, washing out the soap. “Soon, ideally. But you have to be prepared for the game that follows.”
“Game?” Of course, the Satan-worshiping freak has some sort of fucked up idea of a wedding.
“It’s tradition for those on the Council. When we are married, you’ll draw a card to determine the game. If it’s hide-and-seek, the entire family will spend the rest of the night hunting you down until dawn,” he says causally, now rubbing your back.
“What the fuck??” you exclaim, pushing away from him and turning to look at him. Actually, what the fuck?!
He offers one of his animalistic grins, “You’ll be so well-prepared, I personally will ensure it before we get married. So, the faster you learn, the faster you become my wife, and the faster you get more freedom.”
“So, there’s a chance I just get fucking killed by someone? What if we don’t get married?” You’re genuinely stunned by how casually he dropped this on you. You were sort of thinking he was some sort of lone psycho; you didn’t even consider there could be more Tituses wandering about. Much less multiple goddamn families.
“Our relationship stays as it is now. But we will get married because I need true heirs and I..” he hesitates for a mere second before continuing, “I love you. And there’ll be no chance of you dying, I will ensure it.”
“What the hell, Jesus Christ, you really are insane.” You step out of the tub a little fast, wincing from the pain it sends radiating through your body. Titus doesn’t stop you, but watches you closely.
“It really isn’t that bad. I can tell you will be a natural at it. After you prove you’re not going to try to run away or attempt to kill me, we can start building up your skills,” he says, stepping out of the tub and drying himself off. “And I will be in the arena with you, of course.”
“I. Don’t. Want. To. Play. Your. Games,” you say, in shock at the idea of slaughtering people. And being hunted down like an animal.
“Don’t have a choice, sweetheart,” he calmly says, tying the towel around his waist. “The sooner you accept that, the better.”
You groan, irritated by the cockiness that seems to radiate from him. Turning around, you practically knock into him. And damn. He is still hot as hell. He offers you a smile.
“I promise no one will ever hurt you, besides me of course. I will protect you until the end of time,” he says softly, looking directly into your eyes and resting his hands on your shoulders. You can’t help but believe him. And, fuck, his puppy dog eyes are doing something to you. “Onto our next matter to take care of?” He asks, taking your hand into his and leading you out.
“Can I get dressed?” you ask, still having just the towel around you.
“No need to,” he replies, purposely being mysterious.
“I don’t want to have sex with anyone. You said you wouldn’t make me,” you snap.
“Relax, you’re not. I think you’ll enjoy this.” He pulls you into a new room. It looks almost like a stereotypical conference room. But there’s some sort of open, but contained, flame situation on the table with two metal rods sticking out of it.
“Titus, what is this?” you demand, not liking the lack of information he’s offering or the fire.
“I don’t like tattoos; they can be removed. A brand is much more permanent. And I want you to have my name on you,” he says, as if it’s a completely normal request. “And I am putting your name on me.”
Your eyes widen. “I do not want to do that at all. Please, Titus, I have been through so much. I don’t want to be hurt more.”
Ignoring your complaints, he sits down next to the small fire pit. “I want it right here.” He points to the right side of his chest. Even from across the room, you can see that the rods are glowing red-hot. “You wanted to hurt me, now’s your chance,” he smirks, patting the seat next to him. Reluctantly, you sit. “You’ll pull this one from the flame and press it right here. Hold it there until I say stop.”
“Titus, I really don’t want to do this. I don’t like this at all,” you continue, knowing it’s pointless to protest.
“This is just a step in proving our commitment to each other,” he casually says, and you do not want to know what else he could possibly mean. “Make sure it’s straight.”
“Please,” you say, but with an eyebrow raised from him, you know you have to do it. Picking up the rod he pointed to, you see your name written out in a cursive font, burning red on the other end. For a brief second, you think about trying to burn his eyes out, or maybe his dick. But the thought fades as fast as it pops up. Incredibly carefully, you line it up with where he pointed and press into his skin. He grimaces, but doesn’t say anything. You visibly watch as all his muscles tense up.
What feels like an eternity passes before he calmly says, “Stop.” You pull the iron away and see your name burned into him. You genuinely don’t know how to react. He looks down at it, gently tracing it with his fingers. “You did a good job, I knew you would.” He smiles at you, “Your turn.”
“Titus.”
“I will tie you down if I have to. It doesn’t even hurt that badly, and it’ll heal very nicely. I promise, I’ve given them before.” You think about how he mentioned he’s killed hundreds of women before and wonder if that’s who he’s referring to.
“Titus, please.”
“I thought you could just listen this time.” He suddenly gets up and picks you up by the waist, dropping your towel in the process. Pushing you up against the table, he forces you to bend over the table and leans himself into your legs, forcing you to stay still. “We’ll do it right here.” He pushes his finger into your lower back.
You start to scream, not even words, but just pure desperation. Titus ignores you, and you hear him clinking the metal rod against the fire pit rim. “If you move too much, we’ll just have to do it again. And you’ll have a nasty scar.”
“Please, Titus. Please,” you beg, but go limp as you remember the knife incident. “Please don’t do this,” you whimper.
With a quick move, you feel the blinding pain of the iron burning into your skin. Screaming, you try to lurch forward, but he holds you steady. For what feels like full minutes, he presses it deep into your skin until you’re certain you can smell burning flesh. How did he not react?! You certainly are, as he takes the iron away, you collapse onto the table. Crying, sweaty, and red, you cannot believe the pain flooding your back.
Admiring his work, Titus touches the skin, causing you to jerk. “How perfect, princess, you did such a good job. And now, you really are mine.”
Not even capable of forming words, you just lie on the table, waiting for his next move.
Chapter 8
Titus loves seeing your new tramp stamp. His name on your skin looks so good. He feels an unusual warmth flooding his body that he can’t quite put a name on. Joy, maybe? Or is this love? Possession? he thinks to himself. Either way, he likes the feeling. And he likes having your name on him. It’s even better knowing that you’re the one who put it there.
“Sweetheart?” he coos softly.
You snatch the towel off the floor and rewrap it around you. “I wish you’d just fucking kill me,” you say. “This weird toying with me is psychotic.”
Titus raises an eyebrow and notices the warm sensation is dwindling. But you continue. “You should just get it over with. I am never going to be subservient to you. You sick freak.” His mouth pulls into a frown, but he doesn’t say anything. You keep going, sick of him messing with you for the sake of it, “You’re a monster.”
“You know you don’t mean that,” he says. You detect some semblance of hurt in his voice. You can’t tell, but don’t really care if it’s genuine at the moment.
“You’ve cut me, had me beat, hunted me down, raped me, threatened me with a gun, just scarred me, and everything else. How could I ever love you?”
“Stop. You’re just angry, you don’t mean this,” he says again, this time a little louder. You know you’re right on the line, but you don’t care.
“The worst part is if you’d act fucking normal, you’d have no problem finding a girlfriend. You’re hot, and you have money; you genuinely could get anyone you wanted.”
“I have you. I want you,” he says, taking a step toward you. “Do you really think I’m ‘hot’?” he asks, and you see his eyes light up a little bit.
“You know you’re hot, that’s why you act so cocky.” You step back, not wanting to be touched by him. Taking the hint, finally, he sits down in one of the chairs.
He bites his lip and looks up at you. “So, you could get used to me? You think I’m savable?”
Astounded that that’s his takeaway, you just stare at him. “I mean, I don’t think therapy is going to fix whatever you have going on, if that’s what you’re asking.” He looks vulnerable right now, and it’s making you feel sympathy for him, even if you absolutely don’t want to. It’s probably another fucking act, you think to yourself.
“I can try harder to control myself with you, but I know we both enjoy it,” he says, still gazing up at you. “I promise I love you.”
“Kind of a fucked up way of showing it,” you half-snort back.
Letting out a small sigh, he continues, “If I wanted to kill you, I would have. I am not going to, I promise. I just want you to love me, sweetheart.”
You hate that he thinks he can just force you into being his wife. But something about the seriousness of his voice, paired with the sadness, does make you feel something for him. And growing up doing who knows what with whatever cult he’s in probably fucked him up pretty good. In a moment of weakness, or maybe it’s just sympathy, you walk over to him. Sitting down on his lap, you pull him into a tight hug. He hesitates for a few seconds, like he’s not quite sure what he should do, before wrapping his arms around you.
In a low, unusually soft tone, he practically whispers, “I’ve never had a girlfriend before.” You roll your eyes and scoff, thinking he’s joking. “Honestly, I haven’t. I didn’t care to do all the feely stuff and cutesy shit.”
A little shocked, but you consider his awkwardness and hesitation to talk about anything even slightly normal. “Really?”
“Never,” he affirms.
“So, then, how’d you get so good at the sexual stuff?” you ask, not even realizing the indirect compliment. But Titus does.
“So you think I’m hot and a good lay, noted,” the lighthearted tone reappears as he explains, “I wasn’t lying about the girls before you. I had no reason to look for a wife. And they really are all the same, you, though, stood out almost immediately as different.”
Curious at how far you can dig, you ask, “So when was your first time?”
“I was 16. It was a housemaid Father had kept around. She wanted to get impregnated by me, and I was more than willing,” he replies.
“What happened to her?”
“I accidentally choked her a little too hard,” he admits, and he feels your body tense up, “I was young, I really didn’t know any better, and she kept telling me to ‘squeeze harder.’”
“How many have you said ‘I love you’ to?” You change the subject. Deep down, you do sort of hope none.
“Only you. Danforths don’t say I love you, so no one else ever actually.” Something about that makes you a little sad, and helps to explain why Titus might be the way he is. You subconsciously start to rub his back, and he lets it happen without saying anything. Maybe she’s starting to come around a bit, he thinks to himself, enjoying the soft touch.
You are coming around. Well, truthfully, at least sexually, you have been into him from the moment you met him. But it’s a little hard to feel actual love for him, everything considered. He did just literally brand himself with my fucking name. That is hot. But also, he branded me with his name. His honesty and softness right now are starting to warm you up, though. Titus takes your silence as an opportunity to be the one to ask questions.
Still hugging you, he softly asks, “Maybe we could go out later tonight? Where do you like to go?”
You don’t really believe him, you both know you’d try to run, but you answer regardless, “The Drop, that little bar we met in. Every college kid ever goes there, it’s pretty fun.”
He pulls away to look at you, “Let’s go, would you…like that?”
You study his face, trying to see the strings you know are attached to the offer. He seems to catch on to your hesitation and adds, “We’d just go out. It’d be like a date?”
You smile at the uncertainty in his voice. It’s so weird seeing him be so nervous. “Really?”
“Really,” he affirms. You nod, still not fully trusting his intentions. “One catch, I guess, actually. Can I pick out your clothes? From what you already have here, of course.”
Tilting your head, you think about saying something, but wanting to keep him in a good mood, simply say, “Sure.”
“Let’s go right now,” he says, sliding you off him and grabbing your hand. “Do you promise to be good?” You nod, willing to agree to basically anything for a chance of being out in the real world. “Perfect,” he stands up and briskly walks out towards the room he called yours, practically dragging you behind.
He sits down on the bed and points towards the closet, “You go through the clothes. I want something low cut and tight, but cropped enough to show my name. And something low-rise. Heels too.” You nod, walking over to the closet and sliding the doors open with your free hand, the other still holding the towel. “Drop the towel, princess. I want to see you.” Irritated, you let a huff out as the towel falls, and you start rooting through the clothes.
Titus leans back onto the bed, appreciating the view of your naked backside with his name scorched into it. I hope some little college boy tries to talk to her tonight. He wants nothing more than to show off for you.
Turning, you hold up a skimpy lace black V-neck baby tee. Titus nods his approval, so you slip it on, purposely choosing to forgo a bra. It clings to your boobs and, without even looking that closely, anyone could clearly make out your nipples. “No bra?” Titus asks, cocking his head. You offer him a little half smirk and go back to looking through your clothes. Finding what you’re looking for, you throw it to Titus, who snatches it midair. “Damn, you are a little slut,” he practically moans as he uncurls it, revealing the tiniest leopard skirt. You giggle, and, enjoying teasing him, purposely bend all the way over, showing everything off for him. You hear his breath hitch, but he doesn’t say anything, and you grab a pair of heels before standing back up.
“Does the outfit get your approval?” you ask, walking back to him, holding your hand out for the skirt.
He nods, “What about underwear?” You smirk and shake your head no. You can visibly see the excitement in his eyes, and it’s turning you on so bad. But you can’t, at least not yet, let him know, so you pull up the skirt and bend to put the heels on. In an instant, Titus is kneeling in front of you, motioning for you to let him do up the straps. You pull your hands back as he gently latches each shoe. Jesus, why is this making me so horny?
“Thank you,” you say, hoping it came out as even. Looking up at you, Titus bites his lip, clearly wanting to help more than to put your shoes on.
“Of course, sweetheart. You stay here while I go get dressed. Your makeup and everything is here if you want it. I’ll be back soon,” with that, he forces himself to take his eyes off you and leave for his room.
You feel your heart jump, but know this is another test. Instead of trying to run, you sit down at the vanity, digging through the mix of expensive makeup and your own cheap drug store makeup. It’s not just the fact that you know he’d catch you if you ran that’s keeping you here, waiting for him. A part of you really does want to go on a date with Titus. So, with the same energy you would for any other night out, if not more, you do your makeup for him. Fuck. Is this Stockholm Syndrome? You think to yourself. No, because I did want to go with him, but does that even count?
Titus rustles through his clothes, not quite sure what he wants to wear. He wants to come across as normal, but also well put together. But not over the top, he thinks to himself. Settling on a safe bet, he chooses a plain black t-shirt and dark jeans. Scanning his line-up of shoes, he pulls out a pair of leopard-skinned boots. Satisfied with the fact that they match you in a subtle but noticeable way, he walks back to you. He sort of expects you to have tried to run, and can’t help but be surprised to see you sitting at the mirror.
“So, you stayed?” he asks, watching you use your finger to rub a small spot of mascara off your face.
“Course I did. What else could I have done?” you say back.
“Seems odd for you. What tricks do you have for me tonight?” he asks knowingly.
You scoff, "Nothing, I swear. You’ve been with me 24/7, how could I have anything?” Happy with your makeup, you stand up to join him, teetering slightly on the tall heels on the carpet. Noticing, he meets you in the middle and offers his arm. You don’t hesitate to grab onto it.
“Like last time, if you do decide to try something, you will regret it. Or enjoy it, who knows with you. Are you ready?”
You nod, and you both walk down the hall and into the elevator. Outside, a stupidly expensive-looking car waits. “I think it’d be more…authentic if it was just us, so I will drive us,” Titus says, opening up the passenger side door.
“What would the alternative be?” you ask.
You feel his eyes on your back as you lower yourself into the car. “A driver?” he responds, as if it’s common sense. I forget he’s rich, you think to yourself as he clicks the door shut.
Walking to the driver's side, he slips in and immediately reaches over to buckle your seatbelt. “I can do it myself,” you huff, but he pulls on the belt, warning you to let him do it.
“I know, princess, but you don’t have to do it. I like doing things for you.” With that, he takes off, flying past the gate and down the road you ran down earlier. “Would you rather be fucked over the car or in the bar bathroom?” he casually asks, clearly trying to provoke you. You don’t take the bait.
“So, we’re going to have sex tonight? That’s the catch?” You ask, knowing there was something he wasn’t letting on to.
“Only if you beg me enough, answer the question,” he says, slapping his hand down on your thigh and squeezing a little.
You jump slightly and take a second to think. “Car probably.”
“You seem like a bar bathroom kind of girl. The desperate kind willing to do whatever to get a cock inside of them,” he coolly responds, creeping his hand up higher, pressing under your skirt.
You know he’s baiting you, and you hate how easy it is for him to get you flustered, but you stop yourself from saying anything as he speeds down the bending road. Continuing to press, he asks, “What do you think about letting me put a vibrator in you before we go in?”
You turn to look at him as his fingers rub the inside of your thigh, getting dangerously close to making contact with your clit. “I don’t even have underwear on,” you whine, not really regretting it either.
“So, you’ll just have to be extra careful it doesn’t fall out. That would be embarrassing. I think you’re pretty tight, though, you’ll be fine. Open the glovebox,” he says as he points towards it. Without opening it, you can guess what’s inside. You hit the latch, and it pops open, revealing not just any vibrator, but your little pink bullet from your apartment. “I thought you’d appreciate the familiarity.”
Despite knowing he had people ransack your apartment, this somehow feels especially violating. “You took this from my apartment?” you ask.
“Everything from your apartment is at the house. If it makes you feel better, only I touched it, none of the staff did,” he says as he slows down to approach what looks like a toll booth. “When I am talking to my guard, I want you to have your legs up on the dash and that pushed inside your needy little cunt. Make eye contact with him.”
You slowly put your legs on the dashboard, which completely exposes you as the skirt rolls up. Titus rolls the window down and comes to a complete stop. The guard walks out, offering a quick greeting, “Good evening, Mr Danforth.”
Titus smiles with a toothy grin. “Good evening. My fiancée has something to show you.” What a fucking dick, you think, still holding the bullet in your hand.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were engaged, Mr Danforth, how nice! Congratulations! When is the wedding?” he stops as he leans in and sees you. Titus is clearly enjoying both of your discomforts. Wanting to get it over with, you quickly plunge the bullet inside yourself with a small moan. You don’t let yourself break eye contact with him. The guard’s eyes widen, clearly shocked and a little nervous about Titus’s reaction. “Oh, sir, I am so sorry. I didn’t see anything, I swear. I would never do that to you.”
Titus, still grinning, casually asks, “You didn’t see anything?”
“No, no, of course not!” he replies, clearly not wanting to get in trouble.
“Baby, he didn’t see you do it. Take it out and do it again.”
You glare at Titus, who simply winks at you. You open your mouth to protest, but suddenly feel the vibrator click on. Titus flashes you a remote, clearly the reason behind it. Instinctively, you slide your fingers in and yank it out. “Remember, eye contact,” he whispers in a tone low enough so only you can hear him.
You look back up at the guard, who is now beet red and clearly desperate to escape the situation. Blankly staring at him, you slide the now turned-on bullet back inside. You try to push down the moan, but it escapes regardless.
“Did you see her that time?” he asks, looking back at the guard, who now understands it is you he’s trying to humiliate, nods quickly. “Good, maybe on the way back, and she can help with your little hardon. Open the gate for us. We'll be back late, so feel free to jerk yourself off in the meantime.” The guard scurries away, and the gate swings open. Titus clicks the remote, killing the vibration now deep inside you.
“You dick,” you huff, trying to catch your breath.
“Admit it, you love being shown off. And I love showing you off,” he says, still with the shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
You did like it a little bit more than you’d care to admit. It was pretty hot seeing that man get all flustered from just looking at me, you think to yourself. As almost an afterthought, you try to look around, in case you need to tell the police where he kept you. That is, if you even try to escape tonight. Maybe it’d be better to play along, get Titus to trust you. At least that’s how you justify it, but it is undeniable that at least a little piece of you wants to experience a date night with him.
“We’re going to have so much fun tonight, baby,” Titus says, and you have an idea of what he might mean now. “You’re such a natural cocktease.”
Chapter 9
You still cannot believe Titus really is taking you out into the real world, even as the car rolls into the familiar parking lot of The Drop. The parking lot is mostly dead, but that’s not shocking since most of the college kids have gone home for the summer.
“Remember, if you try anything, you will regret it,” Titus says it more like a promise than a threat. And you know he means it. He follows it up with a smile as he gets out and walks around to open your door. You step out, taking in the fact you’re back in the real world. You’re so close to being free. With his hand on your back, he guides you into the bar.
You notice that the bouncer and bartender are both the regular guys. Momentarily, you feel a twinge of excitement that they might be able to help you. Titus walks you up to the bar and motions for you to sit down at one of the stools. You offer him a slight smile and sit. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear before walking off towards the bathroom.
The bartender comes over, offering you a smile. He’s always been nice, but in a definite pervy way. He’s only a few years older than you, maybe max 25. And he is slightly above average attractiveness. You would never admit it, but you have flirted a few times before. And, even if he didn’t control who got free or stronger drinks, you still wouldn’t mind flirting with him. His eyes wander down to your boobs, and he noticeably stares at them as he addresses you, “What can I getcha?” Usually, you would be uncomfortable, but Titus has definitely made your tolerance significantly higher.
Wanting to give it some more thought before you make a move, you order a Malibu Pineapple, one of your favorites. He nods and turns to make the drink. You look around the nearly empty bar, only seeing a singular group of fratty-looking guys near the pool tables. As you reach up to take the drink from the bartender, the vibrator inside you suddenly buzzes to life.
You moan softly, and the bartender raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. “Actually, can I get a shot of vodka too, please?” You shift uncomfortably in your seat, not appreciating Titus’s decision. He nods and pours it out for you, which you immediately down.
“What are you up to this summer, anyway? Are you sticking around?” he asks, still eyeing your boobs.
You ditch the straw in the other drink and take a long drink of it before responding. “Um…yeah, I’m here. Remote internship or whatever. What about you?” You pinch your thigh, hoping to help counter the pleasure you’re currently feeling.
“I mean, I dropped out a few years back. So, yeah, I will probably be here all summer.” He raises an eyebrow as you exhale sharply. “You okay?”
“Oh yeah, all good,” you say through gritted teeth, picking back up the drink for another swallow. Where the fuck is Titus? You think to yourself. “Actually, I’m going to go to the bathroom. Can you watch this, please?” You slide the drink up and excuse yourself, hoping no one noticed the wet spot on the barstool.
You half-waddle, half-run into the women’s bathroom. In a hurry to get rid of the vibrator, you don’t even lock the bathroom door. With a foot pressed up against a stall door to hold it shut, you slide your hand under your skirt and start to blindly feel for the vibrator. You’re so preoccupied, you don’t even hear the door open again. Just as you’ve taken it out, the door to your stall slams open, forcing your leg to snap back. Expecting Titus, you scowl. “Titus, I told you, I don’t like the stupid games.”
But the scowl instantly turns to pure terror as you see the bartender standing there. As you open your mouth to scream, he clamps his hand down hard over your mouth. “Don’t scream, just let it happen, and it’ll be over before you know it.”
You try to bite down on his hand. He notices and slams your head back, hitting it against the solid tile. You feel the sharp pain instantly spreading from the back of your skull. “Don’t be a bitch, you clearly wanted this. I heard your little toy,” he says, looking at the vibrator in your hand. He rips it out of your hand, smirking as he presses it against your clit.
You whine, trying to pull away, but his grip on your face tightens. It feels like your head is going to explode from the pressure. You need Titus to come get you. “Aw, are you going to cum for me before I even touch you? I bet you never get laid being a sugar baby, do you?” Your stomach clenches, partially in disgust of being violated, and partially from the building pleasure of the vibrations directly on your clit. You continue screaming into his hand, begging for Titus to save you.
But Titus planned this. He knows every single employee, some even longer than you’ve been alive, and he owns the bar. He wants you to see how helpless and vulnerable you really are. He needs you to see why you need him. He watches from the back room of the bar as the man forces an orgasm out of you. Your screams and tears turn him on, but seeing them being drawn out of you from another man also activates something deep inside of him. The agreement was that the man would attack you, make you cum, do a ‘little groping,’ and then Titus would ‘lightly’ beat him up for show. Titus promised the man he’d walk away a millionaire if he took the beating and kept quiet. But, as he rushes up the bathrooms, he doesn’t know if he can just stop at a light beating.
You feel the waves of pure pleasure wash over you as you come down from your high. The man drops the vibrator, but gropes your boobs, squeezing hard enough to make you wince. “P-please,” you say, following sobbing. He doesn’t respond and continues to manhandle you, pinching hard at your nipples. You scream, partially for Titus and partially for literally anyone to make the attack stop. Where’s the fucking psycho when you need him?
Finally, you hear the door slam open. Within a second, you see Titus tackle the man to the floor with a heavy thud. They both slam into the stall divider, the man taking the brunt of the hit. You shriek and move off the toilet to the bathroom floor, curling your legs up and wrapping your arms around your knees.
“Did he hurt you?” Titus sounds scary, significantly more scary than you’ve ever heard him sound. You shake your head. The man, starting to try to explain what was happening, quickly falls silent as Titus punches him directly in the stomach. As he doubles over, Titus pulls him up into a chokehold, dragging him along the floor until he’s in front of you in the stall. “What did he do to you?” Titus asks you, in a softer voice this time, but you can see the anger burning in his eyes.
Still in shock, and knowing what Titus is capable of, you shake your head, “It’s fine, really, I’m fine.”
“It is not fine,” he says, sharper this time. He grips the man’s hair, forcing his head up, before slamming it down into the floor. The man groans, and you see the blood running down his face from his now busted lip. You jump, pressing your back into the wall. “No one touches what is mine.” Titus forces the man to his feet. “Take off his pants, baby,” he says softly.
The man starts to protest, “Hey man, you didn’t say-“ Titus hits him square in the balls, causing him to groan and pull forward. Titus’s arm around his neck doesn’t loosen, forcing him to stay upright. You notice Titus says something to him, but you can’t really gather what. But you stand up, not sure what Titus is getting at, but you undo the man’s pants all the same. Titus smiles at your willingness.
“What should we do with him, princess?” Titus eyes you, wanting you to decide the man’s fate.
You shake your head, eyes widening. “Titus…”
“Should we cut off his useless little dick and make him eat it? Or maybe castrate him and let him bleed out?” Titus says, and the man starts to squirm.
“Titus,” you say again, this time in more of a pleading way. You do kind of like how psychotic he is about you; none of my past boyfriends would be able to do this.
Titus looks at you, still holding the man up. “I guess my wife is more forgiving than I am. You lucked out. I would’ve liked to torture you and give you a painful and slow death,” he spits out, letting the man crumple up on the ground. Moving away from him, Titus bends down to pull you up, trying to read your face.
In this moment, you are completely grateful for him and aren’t really sure what would have happened without him. So, his plan worked. You can’t even fathom running away right now, much less leaving his sight. He gently pulls you to your feet and wipes at your tears, “I am sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t know this would happen at all. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
You shake your head, “It’s really no worse than anything else that’s happened…recently. I’ll be okay. We need to call the police or something, though,” you say. He helps you stand up and then evens out your skirt with a quick tug.
“I’ll take care of it. Do you want to go home?” He asks, looking directly into your eyes. You shake your head, not wanting to lose your chance of being involved in the real world with normal people again. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive, I really am fine. I want to finish my drinks.”
“Drinks, plural?” Titus asks, raising an eyebrow.
You scoff, “I mean, the whole kidnapping thing has been a bit to process, if you didn’t know.” Picking up his hand, of your own complete free will, you push past the bathroom door, leaving the man groaning and lying on the floor.
Titus smiles to himself, completely satisfied he’s shown off just enough to prove his worth to you. And to make the rest of the right go exactly as he planned it.
You practically pull him to the bar and reach across it to grab your drink. Lifting it up, you down the rest of it in one hard swallow. Titus watches, but doesn’t say anything. “Great, what are we supposed to do now about drinks?”
He smiles and, with ease, hops over the counter. “What do you want, sweetheart?”
“Titus,” you giggle, finally starting to feel a little bit better. “You can’t do that.”
“I think the bartender will be preoccupied for some time; he won’t mind,” he rustles through the bottles, clearly looking for one in particular. “I’ll make you a surprise drink.” With his back to you, you gaze at his strong muscles, flexing ever so slightly. His arms are so hot. He turns and slides a red drink at you. Barely catching it before it flies off the edge, you smell it. The smell alone makes your nose wrinkle.
“What’s in it?” you ask.
“A surprise, it is not a sipping drink though,” he replies with a smile.
Appreciating the opportunity to get drunk, you chug it. The aftertaste burns, and you feel the warmth of the drink all the way down. “What do you think?” Titus asks.
After you’re done coughing, you sputter out, “Chaser?”
“Shit, of course.” He pours some kind of sweet juice into a cup and hands it to you. He was too engrossed in watching your reaction to think ahead. Downing it, the aftertaste and burn subsides only partially.
“You don’t drink?” you ask.
“I do, but with you here, I want to be fully aware,” he responds, and the response, or maybe it’s partially the alcohol, makes you feel warm and tingly.
With a small smile, you stand up, not quite feeling the full effects of the drinks. “Let’s play pool or something.” You walk, mostly straight, over to the tables. The fratty guys look up at you, their ringleader saying something to make the other guys laugh. You barely register it as you grab for the pool cue. Titus follows close behind, not wanting to let you out of his line of sight. Despite knowing the employees, he doesn’t know these guys. “I win, we get to go to my apartment tonight?” you ask, looking up at Titus.
“You won’t win, princess,” he replies with a smirk.
“Okay, but if I do?” you ask again.
“Then, if by some deal with the devil, you win, you can go back to your apartment tonight. But you won’t win,” he says again.
You smile and line up your cue with the ball, the alcohol now fully in effect. Leaning over, you don’t even think about the fact that you don’t have underwear on or that the guys behind you are 100% staring at you. Striking the cue ball, you send the pool balls scattering across the table.
You notice the guys now laughing with each other and whispering. You turn as one comes up to you, setting his hand on your waist. “Hey, you wanna come play with us? You’re too pretty to be with an old man,” he says as he creeps his hand lower, dipping under the band of your skirt.
Before you can even process what he’s said, Titus materializes next to you and grabs the man’s hand. “Do not touch her,” he says through gritted teeth, letting the guy’s hand fall.
“Damn, bro, she clearly isn’t that into you. She’s showing off her pussy to us. How much do you pay her an hour? We can double it,” he says, turning back to you.
Without thinking, all you can say is, “I’m not a prostitute.”
Titus, on the other hand, is done with words. He punches the man square in the face, and the blood comes gushing out of his nose. “Man, what the fuck?!” he grabs at his face, stumbling backwards.
“Do you know them?” Titus asks, whispering it so only you can hear. You shake your head. “I want you to blow me right here. It can be like a thank you for saving you twice.”
Feeling a little drunk, but not that drunk, you whine. “In front of them?” He grins his animalistic grin, and you see the fire burning in his eyes.
“Yes, right now. Prove to me how grateful you are,” he stares down at the group, now just awkwardly watching you two from their pool table.
You sigh, but you do want to show that you’re thankful for him, and you do want him to be proud of you. With that in mind, you drop to your hands and knees, purposely exposing yourself as you crawl to his feet. You quickly undo his belt and tug his pants down just enough to slide his cock out. Without thinking too much, you push it down, gagging slightly. Titus continues to psychotically stare the guys down, barely reacting to your touch. You sink further onto his cock, taking it almost entirely into your mouth. This does get a reaction from him, and he bites his lip, holding back a groan. You start to move your head back and further quickly. You creep your hands up to his balls and gently massage them. Titus can’t control himself and grabs your hair, forcing himself in and out of your mouth faster. You can feel the shocked stares of the guys behind you, and it is making this even hotter, for some fucked reason. Now recognizing the feeling, you notice him start to twitch, and his thrusts are getting sloppy.
“Good girl,” he whispers as he comes, instantly flooding your mouth and dripping down your chin. “Don’t swallow it yet, hold it for me, princess.” Eyes slightly watering, you nod, curious what his next move is. “You,” he points at the apparent leader, the one he punched. “Here. Now,” he says, pointing next to him. Something in his voice is a little scary, and apparently, scary enough, the guy doesn’t want to piss him off further. Now, helping you up, Titus whispers in your ear, “I want you to spit all of my cum directly into his mouth, okay?”
You nod, getting exceptionally horny from Titus’s commands, even if they're weird. “You wanted her so bad, kiss her. Now.”
The guy takes a step back, clearly not wanting to have anything to do with you. “Nah, man, really it’s alright, didn’t realize you were with her like that.”
Titus stares and points at you. “I didn’t ask.” The guy looks genuinely confused, but leans down anyway. Making direct eye contact with Titus, you lean in, still holding his cum in your mouth. As the guy starts to kiss you, you force your tongue, and Titus cum in. Immediately, he spits it out, gagging and wiping at his mouth.
“Nasty man, what the fucking hell??” His buddies laugh, not fully believing the chain of events. He goes to hit Titus, but one look from Titus quells any desire he had to fight.
“Be grateful that’s all I am going to do to you,” Titus says, now with a slight smirk. The guy walks back to his buddies, muttering who knows what under his breath. They hurry out the door, not wanting to stick around and see what’s next. “You made quite the mess, princess. Why don’t you clean it up?”
You turn to get paper towels from the bar, but feel Titus’s hand pushing down on your neck. “I don’t think my cum should be wasted. Why don’t you clean it up?” He says again, making it clearer. You feel a hot flash take you over. It’s disgusting, but also a little hot. He pushes harder until you give in and return to your hands and knees. “Make eye contact,” he instructs.
You lower yourself over the puddle of your spit, the guy’s spit, and Titus’s cum. Looking up at Titus, you lap at it. Maybe I am drunk, you think. Maybe that’s why this isn’t embarrassing and is making me so horny. You continue to lick at the mixture, not wanting to leave anything on the floor for Titus to complain about. He watches you, not really believing you were going to do it, much less without complaint. He loves pushing you past your limits and seeing what you’re willing to do for him.
“So perfect and so willing for me, I love you, sweetheart. Come here,” Titus pats the pool table, eager to return the favor.
one shot ✮ michael robinavitch x resident!reader ✮ 18+
summary: when robby leaves pittsburgh for a three month sabbatical, you’re left house-sitting his apartment. what starts as the occasional check-in text quickly becomes part of your daily routine, and somewhere between late night phone calls, shared photos and thousands of miles apart, neither of you realise you’re falling until it’s far too late to stop.
tags: age-gap but not mentioned massively, long distance, robby is yearning, friends to lovers, slow burn, texting, photo texts, eventual phone sex, masturbation, dirty talk, happy ending.
wc: 12.8k
a/n: i haven't included any visuals of the reader in place of where selfies are sent bc i want this to be inclusive for anyone who reads. also sorry for some of the gaps / spacing between texts n paragraphs, i hate the tumblr word block limit and ANOTHER sorry if the pics aren't transparent. i reached the end of my tether at this point
✮
"Silver key is lobby, brass is front door." The bunch jingled between his fingers. "This one is for the mailbox, you can just leave anything that comes in on the side."
You stood in front of Robby with your arms folded, letting him run through his spiel even though you were a grown woman and could probably figure out which key got you through which door. Still, you nodded along, even made a joke about taking notes that seemed to fall flat, and then he was pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket with four digits scribbled across it.
"This is the alarm code-”
"Jesus, what neighbourhood do you live in again?"
"You don't have to use it, but a young woman staying alone? I want you to feel safe."
He handed you the note. That felt sweet.
You weren't entirely sure how you'd ended up being the one house-sitting for Robby while he disappeared on a three month sabbatical. You were the newest resident, barely eight months into your time at PTMC, but for whatever reason he seemed to trust you. He liked the way you taught, how patient you were with the med students, how you somehow managed to balance nurturing them without letting them walk all over you.
You'd been a little intimidated by him when you first arrived. Robby didn't take mistakes lightly. If you fucked up, you fucked up. There was no sugar coating it.
But he'd turned out to be a better teacher than you'd expected, taking you under his wing and dragging you into procedures most residents would have had to fight to get near. Sometimes you wanted to call it favouritism but it was probably just him doing his job. Probably.
"Anything else I need to know?" you asked. "Weird neighbours, paranormal activity, stalker exes?"
You tried to keep a straight face, only for the corners of your mouth to betray you.
He shook his head, laughing. "You sure you're okay doing this?"
"Are you kidding? This is gonna be like a vacation for me."
Robby nodded once, seemingly satisfied, and dropped the keys into your palm.
"Good. Call me if you need anything."
He started backing away towards the chaos of the ER. "Hey, remember. No parties, no pets, no boyfriends. Yours or anybody else's."
You scoffed, not quite loud enough for him to hear. Party? Required more than three friends. Pets? Required energy. And boyfriend? Don't even go there.
You didn't see Robby again before he left. Maybe the apartment handover had counted as a goodbye, or maybe the ER had simply done what it always did and swallowed every spare second before anyone got the chance to wave him off into the sunset.
Either way, all you could really focus on right now was three whole months without roommates and a bed bigger than a single. Happy days.
-
You managed to slip off shift without attracting any attention from the nurses or the night shift. Robby had said the only person he'd told about the house-sitting arrangement was Abbot. If you wanted to tell people, you could, but he didn't particularly care either way.
You decided to keep it quiet.
Work wasn't really where you made friends. You had three good ones on the outside but that was mostly it. Everyone was nice enough in the ER, and there had been the occasional invitation for drinks after a shift, but by seven o'clock you were usually too exhausted to be anything but horizontal.
Your circle stayed small, mainly Mckay and Ellis within the hospital.
You worked with Cassie every day and had become close over the months, and Parker had been your person during those brutal night shift rotations when you first arrived in Pittsburgh.
Either way, you made it to Robby's building without interception. Silver key for the lobby and brass for the apartment. Just like he'd said.
The building itself was nice. Clean hallways, warm lighting, planters hanging in the windows. The kind of place that felt looked after without trying too hard about it. The apartment was even nicer. Or maybe it just felt huge compared to the place you shared with four other girls.
"Well, fuck." The words slipped out before you could stop them as you flicked on the light switch.
The front door opened into a small hallway that led into a spacious living room, all exposed brick and worn hardwood floors. A brown leather sofa sat opposite a huge TV, surrounded by shelves packed with books and an almost concerning number of CDs.
You drifted towards them automatically, scanning album titles as you went. Pearl Jam, R.E.M., Jeff Buckley. A laugh escaped you.
"Checks out."
Your finger brushed across the collection before you moved on, abandoning your investigation in favour of something far more important.
Bed.
The guest room had already been made up for you, fresh sheets stretched neatly across the mattress and extra towels folded at the end like you were checking into a hotel instead of crashing in your attending's spare room. It made you smile.
Maybe your standards for grand gestures were embarrassingly low, but between that and the hundred dollars waiting on the kitchen counter with a note that read for anything you need, you couldn't help it.
There was still plenty left to explore. The contents of his fridge, the bookshelves, photo albums (or lack thereof) and most definitely the bedside drawers. But not tonight.
You peeled off your scrubs, barely managing to change before exhaustion caught up with you. Within minutes you were under the covers, eyes heavy, asleep before your head had properly settled into the pillow.
-
Turns out this house-sitting gig was absolute heaven.
Two days in and it was already starting to feel less like a favour and more like a reward.
Today was your day off. You'd actually eaten breakfast instead of inhaling a protein bar, spent the afternoon doing absolutely nothing productive and met up with a couple of friends for drinks that evening. The friends who weren't doctors, nurses or in any way connected to the hospital.
Then you'd come home, changed into something comfortable and settled onto Robby's sofa with your book.
Life was good.
So far, the hundred dollars he'd left behind had contributed to a half-full fridge and a bottle of wine, which felt perfectly reasonable considering Robby had specifically said it was for anything you needed. It was somewhere around chapter twenty-three of your hot romance fantasy novel (not one of Robby's) when your phone buzzed beside you.
Robby:
Hey, hope you're good. Just checking in to make sure everything's okay?
You smiled before you could stop yourself. He was so proper. So formal. Even his texts somehow read like work emails. Still, you appreciated him checking since you honestly hadn't expected to hear from him at all.
The whole point of this trip was supposed to be getting away. You'd heard him say more than once that he wanted to leave Pittsburgh and everyone in it behind for a while. No calls. No emails. As close to no contact as he could realistically get. According to Robby, that was the only way to properly clear your head.
The one exception had always been Abbot, maybe even Dana. Apparently now it was the three of you.
You:
all good! your apartment is insane by the way
and thank u for the money, u didn't have to!
You took a sip of wine as you hit send. A reply came almost immediately.
Robby:
You're doing me a huge favour!
Spend wisely…
A laugh escaped you. You were a little tipsy by now. Not drunk, just pleasantly warm from the two glasses of pinot you'd had at the bar combined with the one currently sitting beside you. Which, admittedly, was a lot considering you barely drank.
Without thinking too hard about it, you snapped a picture of the glass balanced on the coffee table. Then you zoomed in slightly. Mostly to crop out the fact you weren't using a coaster.
You:
wise you say???
The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. You frowned at the screen.
For some reason, a flicker of self-consciousness crept in. Maybe the photo was weird. Maybe the lipstick mark on the rim was weird. Maybe it was weird to be sitting in your attending's apartment drinking wine and texting him on a Friday night.
Before you could overthink it further, another message appeared.
Robby:
Naughty!
Your stomach flipped. It was ridiculous. The word itself wasn't even remotely suggestive. If anything, it was probably about the coaster.
But between the wine and the book currently sitting open beside you, the message seemed to land somewhere deep in your belly. You stared at it for a second longer than necessary.
"Time for bed." You said it out loud, as though hearing it might make it true.
Leaving the glass on the coffee table with a single sip left, you gathered your book and headed for the guest room.
-
Robby stared at the photo for longer than he meant to. Not at the wine or the coffee table and certainly not at the missing coaster.
His attention had landed on the faint lipstick mark circling the rim of the glass and stayed there for a second too long before he caught himself. He sat back against the headboard of the hotel bed, somewhere around Chicago, after a long day on the road.
The room was forgettable. Beige walls. Generic artwork. The low hum of an air conditioner fighting for its life in the corner. Exactly the kind of place he'd expected to find himself in.
He'd only been checking in. That was all.
You were doing him a favour and it seemed polite to make sure everything was going smoothly.
Except now he found himself picturing you in his apartment. Curled up on the couch, feet tucked beneath you. A glass of wine in one hand and whatever book had managed to distract you from answering his text in the other.
His apartment. His couch. His glass.
He exhaled through his nose. It was ridiculous. Of course you were there, that was the entire point. For the next three months you were going to be using his mugs, watching his TV, standing under his shower and sleeping in the guest room.
None of that should have felt strange. And it didn't. Not really. It had just been that split second when the photograph appeared on his screen and his brain had connected the image to a real person rather than the vague idea of someone looking after his place.
Someone he'd see almost every day at work. Someone currently sitting exactly where he usually sat. Robby shook his head once, more at himself than anything else.
Then he typed out the reply.
Naughty!
The second it was sent, he dropped the phone onto the bedside table and turned off the lamp. Tomorrow he'd have another few hours of driving ahead of him. That was what he should be thinking about.
Not a lipstick stain on a wine glass.
-
It was strange how different work felt when you had somewhere peaceful to come home to.
The shifts were still long and the patients exhausting. None of that changed. But when there were no roommate arguments waiting for you at the end of the day, no mountain of dishes that didn't belong to you and no obnoxiously loud sex through the wall at midnight, everything felt a little more manageable.
You had energy again. Energy to come home and shower. Energy to cook. Energy to actually enjoy your evenings instead of collapsing face-first into bed.
You'd always been a good cook. Your mom had made sure of that. While other kids were watching TV, you'd been standing beside her in the kitchen learning how to chop onions without crying and season food without measuring every ingredient.
Your family tree contained exactly zero Italians, but your signature dish was carbonara. Real carbonara. The proper kind. The kind that required ingredients expensive enough to make you wince in the grocery aisle.
Which was exactly why you rarely made it. But with Robby's hundred dollars quietly subsidising your lifestyle, you figured you deserved a treat.
The plan was going perfectly until you tried to turn on the hob.
"Come on."
You twisted the dial until it clicked. Nothing. You tried again.
Another click. Still nothing.
By the fourth attempt, you were staring at the appliance like it had personally offended you.
"Am I losing my mind?"
Getting a burner lit should not have been this difficult. You glanced at your phone sitting on the counter.
No. Absolutely not.
You were not texting Robby because you couldn't operate a stove. You were a doctor, a functioning adult. You could figure this out.
Another click. Nothing. "For fuck's sake." The curse echoed around the kitchen. A few seconds later, you picked up your phone.
You:
i don't want you to think i'm completely incompetent but i cannot work your hob…
Three states away, Robby's phone lit up. He'd spent most of the day hiking through some forest outside Rockford before ending the evening under a shower hot enough to steam up the entire bathroom.
He walked over to the phone, towel slung low around his waist, hair still damp. The text made him laugh.
Robby:
You have to turn and press. It's more of a button than a switch!
Also don't worry, I couldn't work it for the first six months I lived there because of that…
It was strangely comforting to know a physician widely regarded as one of the smartest people in Pittsburgh had also been defeated by a kitchen appliance.
Following his instructions, you pushed the dial inward and a blue flame immediately burst to life.
"Oh thank god."
You set a pot of water on one burner and poured oil into a pan on the other before reaching for your phone again.
You:
life saver. i was about to starve
and the great robby also not knowing how to operate a stove makes me feel better so thank u
Back in his hotel room, Robby laughed quietly at the screen. A small smile lingered as he reread your message.
He'd answered your question, technically the conversation could end there and it probably should. Instead, his thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a second.
Robby:
What are you cooking anyway?
You saw the message while stirring egg and cheese into freshly drained pasta. Not now. Carbonara required concentration and you weren't risking scrambled eggs for anybody.
Five minutes later, when the sauce was silky and clinging perfectly to the noodles, you twisted a generous serving onto a plate and admired your handiwork.
Then you grabbed your phone.
You:
carbonara!
You attached the picture before hitting send.
The photo sat open on his screen for a moment. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected, certainly not that. It looked better than anything he'd eaten in the last week.
After a moment he tapped the heart reaction and tossed the phone onto the mattress beside him. He ignored the part of himself that wanted to ask for the recipe.
-
The next two days brought two hellish shifts.
First a mass casualty then a stomach bug that seemed determined to take down half the ER.
Dana did her best to pull people in for extra coverage, Abbot came in early and somehow ended up working a double, but even that barely kept things afloat. It was chaos. The kind that left you running entirely on adrenaline until your body remembered it was human.
You finally made it home just before eleven: a personal record. The worst part was that when you dragged yourself up the stairs, peeled off your scrubs and collapsed into bed, you couldn't sleep.
You were trapped in that miserable state of overtiredness where your body was begging for rest while your brain stubbornly refused to switch off.
You hadn't looked at your phone once during the shift. Not during the mass casualty or the endless stream of patients. Not even while inhaling a granola bar somewhere around hour twelve. It stayed buried in your pocket until you stepped through the apartment door.
It wasn't until you were under the covers that you finally saw the notification waiting for you.
Robby:
I had diner food for the third night in a row tonight, your carbonara is making me look bad…
He'd given you a rough outline of his route before he left and, if you remembered correctly, he should be somewhere near Minneapolis by now. An hour behind. Not too late.
You:
trust me, my carbonara is the least impressive thing about my week
i just survived a mass casualty and half the department trying to die from a stomach bug
diner food sounds peaceful honestly
Robby:
Mass casualty?
You:
three car pile up
and before you ask everyone survived
mostly because abbot worked about seventeen hours straight
Robby:
I leave for one week…
You:
i was waiting for someone to blame
Robby:
Blame Dana…
You:
do you think i have a death wish???
that's not the attending wisdom i was hoping for
Robby:
🤷🏻♂️ ️
You stare at the screen. He's using emojis now? Something about that feels strangely significant.
The conversation probably should have ended three messages ago. Instead, another text appears a few seconds later.
Robby:
You okay?
The question catches you off guard. Not because it's particularly personal, just because he seems to actually mean it. You stare at the message for a moment before replying.
You:
yeah
just tired
too tired to sleep which is apparently a thing
Robby:
Been there. Your body's exhausted but the brain's stress response overrides it
Makes for a very restless night
You:
oh good
thought i was dying
Robby:
You're a doctor..
You always think you're dying
A quiet laugh escapes you. You weren't entirely sure why any of this felt comforting.
After one of the worst shifts you'd worked in months, you were lying awake in your attending's apartment, texting your boss from beneath the covers.
On paper, it sounded ridiculous but the knot that had been sitting between your shoulders since this morning was slowly beginning to loosen.
Your eyes felt heavier, your body sank deeper into the mattress and the first time all night, sleep actually seemed possible.
You:
night robby x
You hit send before thinking too hard about it. A second passed. Then two. Then your phone lit up.
Robby:
Sleep well!
You smiled at the screen. By the time you set your phone on the bedside table, your eyes were already closing.
Robby didn't go to sleep straight away.
Instead he sat against the headboard, phone still in his hand, staring at the open conversation. The room was quiet. Outside, somewhere beyond the hotel curtains, a truck rumbled along the interstate.
His thumb drifted across the screen and paused, hovering over the last message.
night robby x
Just one stupid little letter. It probably meant absolutely nothing. For all he knew, you signed every text that way. You were exhausted when you'd sent it, practically half asleep and already drifting off. He knew that. So why was he still looking at it?
With a quiet huff of amusement at himself, Robby locked the screen.
Tomorrow he'd drive another few hundred miles, stay at another hotel, eat another mediocre meal. Continue doing exactly what he'd left Pittsburgh to do.
And yet, as he finally switched off the lamp and settled back against the pillows, he found himself wondering whether you'd text him tomorrow.
The thought stayed with him longer than it should have. Long enough that sleep didn't come quite as quickly as usual.
-
The next few days settled into something that almost resembled normality (or at least as normal as life in the ER ever got).
The stomach bug finally burned its way through the department, leaving a trail of exhaustion and empty electrolyte bottles in its wake. Everyone looked tired and complained constantly. You included.
It was nearing the end of another shift when your phone buzzed in your pocket.
You ignored it only for it to buzz again.
And because every doctor secretly believed they were the most important person in the building, your brain immediately convinced itself it could be an emergency.
You pulled it out while waiting for the elevator.
Robby:
Rode twenty minutes off route for this
You opened it. Then frowned. Then laughed.
You:
what the fuck is that
Robby:
The world's largest prairie chicken
You:
of course it is
you rode twenty minutes out of your way to see a giant chicken?
Robby:
Yes.
You:
no further questions your honour
The elevator doors opened. You stepped inside, still smiling at your phone. Another message appeared.
Robby:
Thought you'd appreciate it!
Your lips curled at the suggestion he had taken the picture with you in mind.
You:
i'm genuinely concerned about how you're spending this sabbatical
Robby:
That's fair
For the record I did also spend six hours riding through some very beautiful countryside today
You:
and yet it was the giant chicken you sent
Robby:
Correct.
You laughed, probably too loud for the setting as others in the lift glanced over before you quickly looked away.
You:
well i'm glad my attending is making good use of his time
Robby:
You laughed didn't you?
You:
immediately
The elevator dinged and people shuffled out around you while you lingered behind, looking down at the conversation. At the completely pointless exchange.
The kind of conversation that served no purpose whatsoever and yet somehow it had made the end of a miserable shift feel lighter.
Robby:
Worth the detour then
You shook your head but the smile wouldn't disappear. It stayed with you all the way to the parking lot.
Across the county, Robby sat on the edge of his hotel bed with the television murmuring quietly in the background.
The hotels he was staying in were nice, he had the money to stay in much nicer but there wasn't much point when only passing through.
The final destination was a cabin in Alberta. That's where he'd spend the rest of the sabbatical when he got there, that he had spared no expense on.
But he didn't find himself thinking of his trip. The conversation still sat open on his phone. Nothing important, just the giant chicken staring back at him amongst a handful of messages and a stupid amount of amusement considering the subject matter.
After a minute, he locked the screen and set the phone aside. Then despite himself, he found his gaze drifting back towards it as though another message might somehow appear.
He'd be crossing into North Dakota soon and if he happened to see anything ridiculous along the way…
Well he knew exactly who he'd send it to.
-
The next few days followed suit. You and Robby started speaking like it was part of your routines without ever actually agreeing to it.
Nothing constant or heavy, just small check-ins threaded through the day. Snapshots from the road. Snapshots from the ER.
Things you'd caught out of the corner of your eye like the giant pigeon on a fire escape outside the hospital that made you stop mid-conversation just to take a picture.
Food also became a kind of currency between you. The home-cooked meals you'd send, still steaming on the plate whilst he'd drop his roadside breakfasts, gas station coffee, or whatever local specialty he'd found himself staring at that day.
You started waiting for the messages without really meaning to. Both of you did.
Robby:
This morning's view
You:
versus my morning's view
—
You:
i'm going old school and listening to your CDs
you have good taste old man
Robby:
I'll ignore those last two words and take it as a compliment...
—
Robby:
Got caught in a thunderstorm on the road today
You:
😭😭😭 😭 😭 omg
just know i'd be laughing if i were there
—
You:
robby
a guy came in today with an action figure up his ass
and dana made whitaker deal with it
Robby:
Nothing says good evening quite like a HIPAA violation
You:
i know you won't tell x
—
Somewhere between shifts and miles, the apartment stopped being the reason you spoke. It just became something that existed in the background, as if you'd both forgotten the house-sitting gig and this was all normal.
An excuse that had quietly turned into a habit. You didn't really notice the shift until one night you didn't text him at all.
Not on purpose, because of pure exhaustion. A shift that ran too long, a body too tired to think in sentences.
And on his end, Robby found himself checking his phone more than he liked to admit. Each time with a little more irritation than the last.
"Stupid." He muttered under his breath, tossing the phone face-down on the bed.
It didn't stay there long since he picked it back up a minute later.
His trip was still everything it was supposed to be. Long stretches of highway and peaceful mornings. Mountains, towns, weather that changed without warning.
It was all the kind of distance he'd been looking for and for the most part, the noise in his head had settled. It wasn't gone, he needed more than a solo road trip to fix that but it was quieter.
It was at its quietest when you text. Or when he took a picture and thought, without really meaning to, that you'd probably laugh at it.
Then his phone buzzed.
You:
sorry
today's been awful
The irritation disappeared immediately and he sat down properly on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, he stared at the message longer than he needed to. His first instinct was practical, to ask what happened and if you were okay. But it was nearly midnight your time and he knew, instinctively, that whatever you needed wasn't a barrage of questions.
Robby:
Do you want to talk about it?
You:
think i just need bed
speak tomorrow
He stared at the screen a moment longer than he meant to, leaving the chat open, your name sitting at the top of it. He didn't reply.
There wasn't anything else to say that wouldn't feel like too much.
-
The next day didn't actually bring a text. Or the day after that.
Shift patterns blurred together in the ER anyway, time measured in admissions and discharge paperwork rather than hours. You were exhausted, that was your excuse for not texting Robby. But by the second night, you were wondering what his excuse was.
It wasn't anything dramatic, just… absent.
No photos from the road or pointless updates about whatever strange thing he'd stopped to look at. There'd been no diner food commentary that made you roll your eyes while smiling at your phone.
You told yourself it made sense. Robby was on a bike somewhere between states and you were drowning in back-to-back shifts. There wasn't always going to be time.
Still, your phone felt heavier in your pocket than usual.
On his end, Robby told himself the same thing.
He'd spent most of the day on the road, miles of open highway stretching out ahead of him, the kind of silence he'd gone looking for. It should have felt good and it did, mostly. But every time he stopped for fuel, or pulled off to check a map, his hand drifted to his phone out of habit.
There he would find no new messages and he told himself that was normal.
It was normal. Until it wasn't.
-
It happened on a night that started like any other.
You'd left the hospital later than you meant to, fatigue settling into your bones in that familiar way that made everything feel slightly delayed.
The apartment was quiet when you got back.
You climbed the stairs and only realised something was wrong when your keys didn't turn properly in the lock. You tried it once, twice, three times and nothing. You paused then tried again but the lock didn't budge.
"Oh come on," you muttered under your breath.
You stared at the door for a second, exhaustion making it harder to think than it should have.
Of course this was happening now.
You pulled your phone out, looking who to burden with your troubles and force to come to your rescue. For a second, you considered calling Mckay but her shift had been just as rough as yours and Ellis' night was only just starting in the ER, suddenly you were out of options.
Your thumb hovered. Then moved.
In some hotel in one of the Dakotas, Robby's phone lit up on the bedside. His brow furrowed slightly, not expecting to see your name across the screen.
"Hello?"
Your voice came through slightly breathless and oh so tired.
"Hi," you said. "I have a problem."
He sat up a little straighter without thinking. "Are you okay?"
You let out a short laugh that didn't quite sound amused. "Your lock hates me." There was a pause.
Then, quieter, "Which one?"
"Front door."
"Right," he said. "Stay there."
"I am there."
"No," he corrected. "I mean don't try anything else. Just- stay."
You leaned back against the wall, sliding down slightly until you were sitting on the floor outside his apartment door.
"Robby," you said, "I am physically incapable of breaking your door at this point. I'm too tired to commit crimes."
That earned a small exhale of something that might have been a laugh.
"Good," he said. "I prefer it that way."
There was movement on his end. Fabric shifting, something being set down.
"Okay," he added. "Walk me through what happened."
-
The locksmith said he'd be there in twenty minutes which, judging by his tone, probably meant thirty. You thanked him anyway before ending the call and letting your head fall back against the apartment door.
"Well," you sighed, stretching your legs out in front of you. "Guess I live here now."
The laugh that came through the speaker was soft. You'd heard Robby laugh a hundred times at work, usually in passing conversations or when Dana pulled it out of him, but hearing it through the phone felt strangely personal.
"Could be worse."
"How?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"I'll let you know when I think of something."
You smiled. For a while, neither of you said anything.
The silence wasn't awkward, which surprised you. You could hear faint traffic somewhere on his end of the line, the distant sound of a television through a hotel wall perhaps.
"Where are you?" you asked eventually.
“Just outside Sioux Falls."
"Fancy..." You shifted against the wall, tucking one knee up towards your chest. "How's the trip?"
There was a pause. Not because he wasn't going to answer, but because he seemed to actually think about it.
"Good." You waited. "Actually, really good."
"Wow."
"What?"
"I don't think I've ever heard you sound that enthusiastic about anything."
"That's not true."
"Robby, I've worked with you for eight months."
"And?"
"The highlight of your emotional range is usually a nod."
That earned a proper laugh. The kind that made you grin before you'd even realised you were doing it. Why were your cheeks getting hot at the idea of making him laugh?
"That's harsh."
"I think you mean accurate."
"I'll have you know I've been having a great time."
“The giant chicken gave it away."
"Don't mock the chicken."
"I'll mock the chicken all I want."
He sighed dramatically. "This is exactly why I send you things."
Your smile lingered, you weren't entirely sure why. Like even if you wanted to get rid of it you couldn't. Maybe because it was nice knowing someone saw something during their day and thought to share it with you. Or maybe because lately, you'd been doing the same thing.
"Seriously though," you said. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."
The teasing slipped away a little and you could hear it in his voice when he answered.
"Yeah. I think I needed it more than I realised."
You looked down at the floor. You'd thought that yourself. The difference in him was obvious, even through a screen. The texts were lighter. There was an ease to him that hadn't existed back in Pittsburgh.
"You sound happier."
He didn't answer immediately.
"Maybe."
It wasn't much of a response. Coming from Robby, it felt like a confession.
The conversation drifted after that. Work came up eventually, because it always did. You told him about the latest departmental disaster and he laughed harder than he probably should have at Whitaker's expense. Then somehow you ended up talking about music, and when you admitted you'd been making your way through his CD collection, he spent five minutes defending an album you'd called objectively terrible.
Before either of you realised it, headlights swept across the apartment parking lot. You glanced through the stairwell window to see a white van pulling in.
"Oh."
"What?"
"That's him." You pushed yourself to your feet, brushing imaginary dust from your scrubs. "The locksmith."
"Right."
You checked the time. Nearly forty minutes since you'd spoken to him on the phone.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then you laughed softly.
"I don't think we've ever actually spoken like this before."
"Spoken like what?"
"Just…" You searched for the right words. "Talked."
He huffed a laugh. "We talk all the time."
"About work."
"Hmm. True."
You shook your head. "I know more about a giant prairie chicken than I do about you."
"Now that's probably not true."
"It definitely is."
The locksmith was already making his way towards the building entrance. You tightened your grip on the phone.
"Thanks for staying on the phone with me."
The words slipped out before you could think too hard about them and for a second, there was only the sound of his breathing on the other end.
"Of course." Robby said it with such ease, as if there'd never been any question about it. Something in your chest warmed at that.
"I should go."
"Yeah. You should."
Neither of you hung up immediately. You smiled even though he couldn't see.
"Night, Robby."
"Night."
-
Robby eventually made it to Alberta, trading motels and roadside diners for a cabin tucked between trees and more open sky than you'd ever seen in one place. The photos changed after that. It was less giant roadside attractions and more mountains, lakes so still they looked painted. Sunrises taken from a porch with a mug of coffee balanced somewhere just out of frame.
Your own contributions remained considerably less scenic.
You:
this mornings view
Robby:
Stunning!
You:
i know
thinking of getting it framed
Robby:
You should. Really ties a room together
The conversations drifted in and out of your days. Sometimes twenty messages. Sometimes two.
But there was rarely a day that passed without hearing from him. It had become your normal and that probably should have concerned you more than it did.
One afternoon you were halfway through a grocery shop when your phone buzzed.
Robby:
What's for dinner?
You snorted. Most days he was interested in what you were cooking, never quite getting over how good that carbonara looked weeks ago.
You:
demanding aren't we?
Robby:
I've been living off campfire food
Let me live vicariously
You balanced the basket awkwardly on your hip. Typing with one hand was becoming increasingly impossible so after a moment you sighed and held down the microphone button.
"Okay, so technically I haven't decided yet," you said, navigating around a woman studying avocados with suspicious intensity. "But I was thinking maybe chicken, potatoes, something easy because I had a twelve hour shift and Mckay spent most of it arguing with a guy who was convinced Red Bull counts as water."
You stopped recording and sent it, immediately forgetting about it as you continued to shop.
Robby was sitting on the cabin porch when the notification appeared. A voice note.
For a second he just looked at it before pressing play. Your voice spilled through the speaker, lighter than he was used to hearing at work, less hurried.
He could hear the wheels of a shopping cart somewhere in the background, people talking. The automatic doors opening and closing. It felt strangely intimate. Like being invited into a moment he wasn't supposed to be part of.
Before he knew it, the recording had ended and he found himself smiling Then replaying the first few seconds just to hear it again.
Robby:
Red bull absolutely counts as water
You:
you're part of the problem
-
A few days later you sent him a photo of a coffee shop you'd stumbled into before work. The picture was supposed to be of the ridiculous chalkboard menu, pretentious and completely overpriced.
Unfortunately, the reflection in the window caught most of your face and you didn't even notice before pressing send.
But Robby did.
He was halfway through replying when he stopped and stared at the photo. Then stared a little longer.
It wasn't as though he'd forgotten what you looked like, he'd worked beside you for months, seen you almost every day and yet somehow seeing your face appear unexpectedly on his screen felt different. Like it was more personal than bumping into you across an ER.
He zoomed in without meaning to then immediately felt ridiculous.
Robby:
That coffee costs more than my first apartment
You:
i knew you'd focus on the important issue
He didn't mention the photo but it stayed open on his screen longer than necessary.
The next Saturday night, you went out with friends.
The three you socialised with maybe once a month, the ones you'd gone out with on your first week at Robby's.
The evening disappeared beneath cocktails, bad music and stories that got funnier with every retelling. By the time you got home, your shoes were in one hand and your keys were in the other.
Your phone buzzed before you'd even made it upstairs.
Robby:
Survived?
You:
barely
my feet are filing formal complaints
Robby:
Worth it?
You:
yeah
free drinks always help
There was a pause before the typing bubbles appeared then they seemed to disappear before appearing once more.
Robby:
Free drinks?
You:
some guy at the bar bought them
either he was being nice or I looked desperately in need of a margarita
Robby stared at the screen. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, he found himself reading the message twice.
Some guy.
An entirely normal sentence since people bought drinks for each other every day. It meant absolutely nothing. Yet his thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Robby:
Which was it?
The message sent before he could overthink it and he immediately regretted it. Not because it was inappropriate, just because he sounded interested.
And he wasn't sure why he was interested.
You:
definitely the margarita
he started talking about crypto ten minutes in
That pulled a laugh out of him. An actual laugh.
Robby:
My condolences
You:
thank you
it was a difficult time
The conversation moved on after that. But later, after you'd gone to sleep and the cabin had settled into silence around him, Robby found himself thinking about the message again.
Not the drinks. Not the guy. But the fact that he'd wanted to know. And the fact he still wasn't entirely sure why.
-
You hadn't really talked about the house sitting arrangement to anyone at work.
It never seemed relevant and, if you were honest, you quite liked having something that belonged entirely to you. That was until Abbot casually asked how it was going in front of Parker and Shen. Both of them had turned so quickly you would have thought they'd rehearsed it.
John loudly slurped through his straw.
You immediately regretted coming into work.
You'd spent the next five minutes trying to explain that, yes, you were staying at Robby's apartment and no, it wasn't a big deal. At the same time, you were reassuring Abbot that everything was fine and that the place was still standing.
Parker wasn't convinced. She waited until the handover was done and everyone had started drifting away before falling into step beside you as you gathered your things from your locker.
You'd only just pulled your phone out when it buzzed. The smile arrived before you could stop it and Parker saw immediately.
"Message from your boyfriend?"
"Just Robby-”
You stopped and looked up to see her already grinning.
"Oh."
"Oh indeed."
"Haha. Very funny."
"I'm just saying," she replied, holding her hands up in mock surrender. "That man hasn't been here for nearly two months and I've heard his name more than I have some of the attendings who actually work here."
You rolled your eyes. Except the comment lingered because you didn't talk about him that much. Did you?
Sure, you texted most days, you snapped pictures when something made you laugh. You answered when he called and never made a secret of it because, in your mind, there was nothing to hide.
But maybe Parker had a point.
You were always quick to tell people where he was, what he'd been up to, what ridiculous thing he'd sent you that morning. You were also one of maybe three people who actually knew how his sabbatical was going and that felt strangely significant when you stopped to think about it.
Which was exactly why you decided not to think about it. Instead, you bumped your shoulder into Parker's arm.
"Leave me alone."
"Never."
You laughed despite yourself, waved goodbye to everyone and headed out through the main doors.
-
Even without a department full of doctors reminding him, Robby found himself thinking about you more often than he probably should.
Alberta was beautiful, exactly what he'd imagined.
The mountains seemed endless, the lakes impossibly clear and every evening the sky stretched so wide it barely looked real.
He'd come here to breathe. To remember what it felt like to wake up without immediately carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
For the first time in years, it was working and yet every time he stumbled across a view that took his breath away, he caught himself reaching for his phone.
The bear he'd spotted at the edge of a trail or the river he'd nearly slipped into while trying to take a photo. The sunset that turned the entire lake gold. All of it was filed away somewhere in the back of his mind. Something to show you, to tell you later.
He enjoyed those moments for himself, he really did, but there was always a second thought afterwards. A quiet one of she'd like this.
And that was dangerous territory for a man who had left Pittsburgh specifically to be alone.
-
Today had been a bad day for absolutely no reason. Work hadn't been worse than usual. There was no mass casualty or outbreak, no disaster waiting for you.
You'd left almost on time and the handover had been unusually smooth yet, somehow, by the time you found yourself curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine balanced on your knee, you felt like you might burst into tears.
You probably wouldn't but it was comforting to know you could if you wanted to.
The apartment was quiet. A CD hummed softly in the background while the evening light spilled through the windows. You'd been enjoying the solitude for weeks now.
Your phone lit up. A text from Robby. It was just a small update about his day, a picture of a lake with a note underneath telling you there was a viewpoint about a mile from the cabin that you would absolutely love.
You stared at it for a second and then pressed call without thinking.
The phone rang twice.
"Hey, you okay?" He'd answered immediately.
Not because he'd been expecting the call but quite the opposite.
You almost smiled at the concern in his voice.
"Hey. Yeah, I'm good."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." A pause. "Can you talk?"
On the other side of the continent, Robby was sitting on the cabin porch with a beer bottle in hand, watching the sky darken over the mountains.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I can talk."
You exhaled. You weren't entirely sure why. Just hearing his voice had already made something feel lighter.
"Bad day?" he asked gently.
"A little."
"Want to talk about it?"
You considered it.
"Not really."
He laughed quietly. "Fair enough."
You took a sip of wine.
"Does it sound stupid if I say I just wanted to hear your voice?"
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
For a moment, all you could hear was the wind moving through the trees on his end of the line. Then Robby shifted in his chair.
"Well," he said, amusement colouring his voice, "I sure feel special."
You groaned. "Don't make it weird.”
"I'm not making it weird."
"You absolutely are."
His laugh settled something warm in your chest.
"I can tell you about the bear I saw today if you need a distraction."
You smiled. "Yes please."
And he did. He told you about the trail, about spotting movement through the trees and realising it was considerably larger than he'd first thought. Halfway through the story your phone buzzed with a picture he'd sent while still talking.
You put him on speaker to zoom in, immediately informing him that he was insane for getting that close. He disagreed.
You told him he was objectively wrong then somehow you were refilling your wine while he wandered into the kitchen for another beer and the conversation simply kept going.
Hours slipped past unnoticed. The topics changed every few minutes. Canadian wildlife became grocery shopping.
Grocery shopping became work which became Dana. Dana became the night you'd gone out with your friends. It felt effortless.
Like no matter what either of you said, the other would find it interesting, as if there were no rush to end the conversation.
Eventually, somewhere between your third glass and his third beer, Robby circled back to something you'd almost forgotten.
"So," he said casually. "Any more plans to go out and let random men buy you drinks?"
You scoffed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that sounds suspiciously like jealousy, Michael."
Using his first name felt deliberate. The kind of thing you couldn't take back once it left your mouth.
For a moment he didn't answer and you could almost hear him thinking.
"I think I'm just curious."
"Curious?"
"You mentioned him." His voice was careful now. "And then I spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering whether you actually liked him."
Your stomach flipped unexpectedly.
"And did you come to a conclusion?"
He laughed quietly. "Yeah."
"Which was?"
"That anyone who talks about crypto for ten minutes straight probably doesn't stand a chance."
The warmth that spread through you had nothing to do with the wine. You sank further into the sofa, smiling into your glass.
"Good answer."
For a second neither of you spoke. The silence felt different now, like an awareness blooming.
On the other end of the line, Robby stared out across the darkening lake, suddenly very conscious of the weight in his chest and the dryness in his mouth. He wasn't entirely sure when the conversation had become the best part of his day.
He was even less sure what that meant.
On your end, the wine bottle was looking considerably emptier than when the call had started.
"How much longer have you got out there anyway?" you asked eventually.
He leaned back in his chair.
"Couple more weeks."
You hummed. "A couple?"
"Three."
You did the maths automatically. Three weeks. For some reason that felt shorter than it should have.
"That's weird."
"What is?"
"You coming back."
Robby laughed softly. “I haven't left forever."
"I know."
You picked absentmindedly at the label on your wine bottle.
"Still weird though."
He understood exactly what you meant. The cabin had become normal, so had the mountains. Waking up and sending you a picture of whatever he'd found that day had become normal too.
The thought settled uncomfortably somewhere in his chest.
"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "It is."
For a moment neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't awkward, if anything, it felt too honest.
"You'll probably be sick of Pittsburgh again within forty-eight hours."
He laughed.
"Probably."
"And I'll have to move back into my shoebox apartment."
He laughed again.
"You laugh, but I've become accustomed to luxury."
"My apartment is not luxury."
"It has an en-suite."
"It does."
You smiled into your glass.
"I'm gonna miss it."
The words came out before you really thought about them and then, after a beat, you added, "The apartment, I mean."
Robby looked out across the lake. The moonlight stretched across the water in silver streaks. He wasn't entirely sure why that qualifier felt necessary.
"Yeah."
Because he was going to miss something too, he just wasn't sure it was the apartment.
"I'm glad I gave you the keys."
The words slipped out naturally.
"Because I've been such an excellent tenant?"
"Questionable."
You laughed. "Rude."
"You locked yourself out and you don't use coasters."
"That happened one time. And yes I do."
"One time that I know about. And, no you don't."
You shook your head, laughing. "So why are you glad?"
The question hung there. For the first time that evening, Robby didn't answer immediately. He could have made a joke and he probably should have but instead he found himself telling the truth.
"Because otherwise…" He trailed off and you waited. "Otherwise I don't think we'd have ever talked like this."
Something in your chest tightened, just enough to make you still. The sounds around you seemed to disappear for a second. The music, hum of the refrigerator, everything.
"Yeah."
It came out quieter than you'd intended. Because he was right.
Without the apartment, he would've stayed your attending, you his resident. You would've chatted during shifts and maybe grabbed a beer with a group after work once or twice.
But this? The hours spent on the phone, the daily messages, knowing what the other person had for dinner. Sharing parts of yourselves that had nothing to do with medicine.
None of that would've happened.
"I guess not."
Robby stared down at the bottle in his hand. His pulse felt oddly loud.
"Would've been a shame."
The words were barely above a murmur. Honest enough that neither of you quite knew what to do with them. You swallowed. Suddenly very aware of the warmth spreading through your stomach.
And not because of the wine.
Another silence settled between you but this one felt different. It felt full. Like there was something sitting quietly between the two of you that hadn't been there before. Or maybe it had and neither of you had looked directly at it until now.
"Yeah," you said softly. "It would've."
For a second, neither of you spoke, neither of you hung up either.
Somewhere between Alberta and Pittsburgh, with a lake outside one window and city lights outside the other, it felt like the conversation had shifted onto unfamiliar ground.
Not enough to turn back yet not enough to move forward. Just enough that both of you knew something had changed.
-
The next morning arrived with a headache.
Not a catastrophic one, just enough of one to remind you that two glasses of wine had somehow become four and how you clearly couldn't handle your booze anymore.
Thank god it was your day off. You'd spent most of the morning moving slowly, making a trip to the store for supplies before returning to the apartment with a bag full of groceries, painkillers and absolutely no intention of leaving the house again.
After a shower, you pulled on an oversized t-shirt, climbed into bed and put something mindless on the TV. You weren't really watching it. Your attention kept drifting back to your phone. In between doom scrolling TikTok, you kept flipping to your messages.
Nothing from Robby.
You told yourself it was normal since he was a couple of hours behind. He could still be asleep or hiking, he could be doing literally anything.
Still, your thumb hovered over the conversation and you found yourself thinking through parts of last night's call. Especially the end.
Would've been a shame.
You groaned and tossed the phone onto the bed beside you. "Get a grip."
The phone buzzed almost immediately.
You grabbed it so fast it was actually embarrassing.
Robby:
Morning
You:
afternoon actually
Robby:
Right
How's the hangover?
You:
presumptuous much?
Robby:
I'll take that as confirmation
You:
i’ve survived worse
Robby:
Doctor approved medical assessment
You:
exactly
The conversation stayed comfortably familiar at first. Small things, nothing important. What he'd done that morning and what you were doing now. The weather in Canada versus Pittsburgh. The coffee he'd burnt.
You laughed quietly at something he'd sent and snapped a quick picture in response.
Mostly intending to show him the disaster of snacks you'd surrounded yourself with on the bed.
You hit send before really looking at it.
A few moments passed, longer than usual. You frowned.
You:
???
The typing bubbles appeared.
Robby:
You know you're in that photo right?
You opened the image again. Your stomach immediately dropped.
Between the blankets and the snacks was a very obvious stretch of bare leg disappearing beneath the hem of your t-shirt. If you zoomed you could definitely see the edge of lace from your panties.
Heat crept into your cheeks.
You:
well
too late now
His reply took a little longer this time.
Robby:
Suppose it is
Something about the message felt different though you couldn't have explained why.
The conversation slowed. Not because either of you wanted it to end but because both of you seemed suddenly aware of it. Aware of each other.
You:
you're being weird
Robby:
I am not
You:
you absolutely are
Robby:
And what if I'm just thinking?
You:
dangerous
Robby:
That's rich coming from you
You laughed and the tension eased for a moment then returned just as quickly. The phone sat warm in your hand. Neither of you quite saying what was on your mind.
Both of you hovering suspiciously close to it.
Then-
A knock sounded at the apartment door. You sat upright.
"Oh for god's sake."
You:
one sec
Robby:
What?
You:
someones here
terrible timing honestly
Robby:
That sounds ominous
You:
don't go anywhere
Robby:
Wasn't planning on it
You tossed the phone onto the bed and headed for the door.
When you pulled it open, Abbot stood on the other side with two coffees in hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Jack?"
"Good afternoon."
You stared. He stared back.
"Why are you here?"
"Robby asked me to check the place hadn't burned down."
You folded your arms.
"And?"
Jack looked past you.
"Still standing."
By the time Abbot eventually left, the afternoon had slipped away with him. He'd actually brought you coffee because he was passing by, knew Robby cared about you and wanted to check in. Sweet actually.
Your conversation with Robby had fizzled into a couple of harmless messages before disappearing entirely which somehow felt worse. Because now you were thinking about it and judging by the phone call that arrived later that evening, so was he.
You answered on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"I can't believe you left me hanging like that."
You laughed immediately. "Excuse me?"
"We were having a conversation."
"Jack showed up at your apartment."
"And somehow that's my fault?"
"Everything's your fault."
His laugh crackled through the speaker.
"You know," he said, quieter this time, "I did actually spend the next few hours wondering what happened."
Your heart stumbled slightly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
There was a pause. Comfortable but dangerous.
"Well," you said, settling deeper into the sofa. "Lucky for you, I'm free now."
The silence on the other end lasted just long enough to make your stomach flip. Then Robby laughed softly.
"Good."
The word settled somewhere low and God you hated that it did. Or maybe you loved it. Either way, you found yourself smiling into the darkness of the apartment.
"You sound very pleased with yourself."
"I am."
You laughed softly.
"Because I answered the phone?"
"Because I was beginning to think Abbot had kidnapped you."
"Trust me, if he'd kidnapped me, you'd know about it."
You eased into conversation again, tucking yourself deeper beneath the blanket, listening to him talk about a trail he'd found that morning. He was halfway through describing some impossible view over a lake when he suddenly stopped.
"Can I ask you something?"
You frowned. "Depends."
"That picture earlier."
Your pulse immediately betrayed you. "What about it?"
There was a pause. "Nothing."
You laughed. "That's not how questions work."
"I know."
"So?"
Another pause. You could practically hear him weighing his words.
"I just didn't realise you'd sent it like that."
Heat crept up your neck.
"Like what?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
Unfortunately, you did.
The worst part was how carefully he was speaking. How neither of you was actually saying anything and yet somehow both of you knew exactly what the other was talking about.
"It was an accident."
"I figured."
"You sound disappointed at that."
The silence that followed lasted a fraction too long. Your breath caught, just slightly. Then Robby laughed low and quiet.
"That's a dangerous thing to accuse me of."
You stared at the ceiling. Very aware of the oversized t-shirt you were still wearing and how your nipples were suddenly hard beneath it.
"I think you've become a lot more confident since Alberta."
"Oh yeah? Is that a bad thing?" he asked.
"No, it's kinda sexy actually." You laughed, so did he. Then a second passed and you felt the boldness creep in, so much so it decided your next move. "Do you want me to send another?"
You could practically hear Robby choke on his own breath and in the time he tried to get on top of his words, you'd pulled the blanket away, your phone up high with the front camera on, snapping a pic that showed a lot more than the last.
This time it was the bottom of your face, lips plump and pouty, your t-shirt tugged 'innocently' higher to give way to the band of your panties flashed across your hip. Your legs were crossed, not for the picture but to try and ease the now insatiable ache between them. As for your nipples? There was no denying they were the star of the show.
You sent it before thinking twice.
"Fuck." Robby breathed and you knew he was looking right at you.
"Is that better?"
You heard him take a deep breath and could imagine the blush on his cheeks. "You're gonna be the death of me."
You couldn't help but smile. His voice had gotten lower, a little huskier, almost like he was out of breath.
"Robby?"
"Yeah?" He breathed.
"What are we doing?"
He took a minute to answer. Not sure of what he should say, what he wanted to say. "I don't know." You couldn't see but he rubbed his face over his hand, coming to rest at the base of his neck. "I don't fucking know."
He was sat on the sofa at the cabin. The fire was going, lights dim and warm. Ever since you'd sent that first picture he'd been tight against his jeans but then you sent another and fuck, his hand came to adjust himself over the denim.
"But I'm not sure I can pretend I'm thinking of anything other than that picture right now."
You felt a little smug. That was, after all, why you sent it. It was so nice to feel sexy, for someone to be looking at you the way he was, someone you wanted to see you this way.
"Yeah? What you thinking about?" You knew what you were doing. Knew how it would draw the last breath out of him but you also knew you'd crossed a line and there was no going back. Not that you wanted to.
Your hands trailed over yourself, light touches over the cotton of your t-shirt. Your body jolted when finger tips ghosted the outline of a nipple, trailing left to pay the other as much attention. Fuck, it felt good.
Robby knew the pair of you were in dangerous territory but god, he wanted to be there. His head fell back in disbelief, as if he were mad at himself for what he was about to tell you over the phone.
His resident.
"You touching yourself in my apartment." He paused, waiting to see if he'd taken it too far only to hear a quiet moan from you in response. "Playing with yourself in the guest bedroom..."
"I am." Your hand snaked from your tits slowly to your panties, cupping yourself over the lace and that's when you felt it. "Fuck Robby I'm really wet…”
Jesus Christ. He felt himself jolt against his own hand, the one that was palming the growing outline of his cock.
"Fuck, baby. You're really trying to kill me huh?" He huffed a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief that this was happening. Almost three months of texts, phone calls, voice notes. A camera roll shared, bad days eased by mindless humour and companionship. A relationship built on all of that.
"You want me to go to your bed?" You almost panted down the line as you moved against your hand. "Fuck myself in your sheets?"
"Shit," He exhaled.
"You want that?"
"Yeah…" His reply was too fast and he cursed himself for it. But all he wanted was the image of you, two fingers deep, coming to his voice while soaking his bed spread. "Please baby, do it for me."
And with that, you got up. He heard rustling down the line as you made your way from the guest bed to Robby's. It wasn't a room you'd gone in much. You'd said you were going to snoop through his drawers, his closet just to be nosy but turns out you had too much respect for his privacy. That was months ago. Now you were crawling onto the bed, setting your phone on speaker next to you as you positioned yourself right in the middle.
Robby was waiting patiently. He'd done no more than rub himself a few times over his jeans, grinding a little into his hand but then knowing it'd be too much and he'd end up blowing his load like a teenager. Instead, he waited. For you. To enjoy you.
You laid your head back against his pillows, inhaling him as if he were right next to you. "Mmm, smells like you in here." You said quietly. "It's like you're here."
He wished he was there. You did too. Wished it was his fingers swiping through your wetness, dipping into your panties and feeling how worked up you'd got from sending him one (not even) dirty photo.
"Tell me what you're doing." It felt like an order even though it wasn't and your pussy jumped at the idea. "Wanna hear you."
"Fuck. 'M rubbing myself over my panties." You whispered lightly. "Wanna take them off."
"Take them off baby." He'd hoped you'd throw them to the side and forget, only for him to find them on his return. "Spread your legs, let me hear."
It'd be hard for him not to hear with how soaked you were.
It was amazing how one phone conversation and suddenly this is how you found yourself, legs open for Michael Robinavitch.
With your panties gone, you anchored your legs apart. Fingers sliding through your dripping slit, gathering your arousal to swirl it in tight circles around your clit. The slick sounds filled the room, they filled the cabin too.
Robby couldn't take it anymore. You heard the sound of metal, a belt unbuckling before a zip slid down in haste. He freed himself, pulling his cock from his boxers, thick and hard. He was leaking from the tip, all red and worked up just from listening to you. It felt so fucking good when he finally stroked himself.
"Oh fuck." He tried to bite it back, failing miserably.
That was music to your ears.
"You hard for me Robby?"
"You have no idea. Feels so fuckin good, thinking about you." He fucked his fist nice and slow, wanting this to last and despite his cock not being inside you, he wanted you to cum first.
You decide it wasn't enough. After all this time, the calls and the pictures, you needed to see him. And you wanted him to see you.
"Wanna see you." You picked up your phone, hand still working your pussy. "Can I face- face time you?" Your words faltered a little as your fingers sped up, rubbing your sensitive clit.
Robby froze for a second. He'd got this worked up just by thinking of you in such a state and now, you were actually going to show him?
"Mhmm, yeah."
And within a second you'd pressed the button the change this to a video call. When he accepted, he saw the dark room lit by a single bedside lamp. You'd slowed your motions for a second, to pick up the phone properly and see him for the first time in months.
"Hey." You smiled, like it didn't matter what the pair of you had been doing just seconds ago. You were so happy to see his face. The slight tan he'd caught, his greyed out beard and stubble around the neck.
"Hey." He couldn't help but smile too. Knowing your hands were down your pants but not being able to get past the heat in your cheeks, how your hair had fallen across the bed and despite stating you had a hangover, you were fucking glowing.
He pondered it for a second, how he might have not noticed this before. The way your eyes narrowed when you smiled, how you looked at him.
"You look beautiful."
That might have turned you on more than anything in the last fifteen minutes. You were breathless, a little wrecked, in disbelief at any of this.
Then you set the phone down on the bedside table to free up your hands. That's when you pulled off the t-shirt entirely, leaving your perfect tits in plain view for Robby to see.
His eyes grew wide as he surveyed every inch of your skin before you laid back into the cushions as you were before, shifting to your side facing the phone.
"Is this what you were thinking about?" You snaked your hand back down to your cunt, dipping in but not all the way, just enough for Robby to hear the slick mess.
"Even better." His hand slowly started to work on himself again, matching your rhythm as he held the phone in front of him.
Your mouth parted when you finally sank a finger inside, then another. Two digits curled deep in your pussy, rolling your hips against them and you never took your eyes off him.
"Fuck Robby." You sped your motions a little, so did he. "Wish it was your fingers, wish it was you inside me."
You weren't sure where it came from. The filthy tongue, the boldness. You weren't shy in bed but he was your boss. The boss you were innocently house sitting for until you decided to get attached.
"Christ." He bit back a moan at your obscenity. "Imagine it's me baby." He started fucking his fist faster, wishing it was your pussy. "Imagine it's my cock deep inside you, I'd fuck you so good, make you feel so fucking good."
It dropped from his tongue with little effort. He thought about how much he wanted to be buried inside you, how he'd wanted that for a while and was too scared to admit it.
"Mmmph Robbyyyy." You whined his name, breathing hard, riding your fingers as you felt the coil tighten in your belly. "Let me see you."
He did the same as you, positioning the phone on the side table that sat at the same height as the sofa. It left him in view from the waist up, free hand roaming his covered chest, the other pumping his cock hard.
You watched him intently. Heard the sounds of precum slickening his strokes as his hips drove up with every beat.
"Fuck I'm close-” You worked yourself with both hands, two buried to the knuckle and the other rubbing your clit with such ferocity. "Really fucking close Robby I think I'm gonna cum soon."
"Cum for me angel, let me see. Such a good girl."
Your hands worked even faster and suddenly, the coil snapped with words of praise and you were coming in Robby's bed.
"Oh my god oh my-” Then silence, your body went rigid as you clamped your hands hard, riding out the most intense orgasm you'd had in years.
You were a sight for sore eyes. Mouth wide open, tits bouncing with every movement and all it took was your guttoral moans for Robby to feel himself close to the edge too. He was fucking himself so hard and fast, it was almost a blur on screen until you heard him pant, a strangled "Uh uh uh" and then-
"I'm gonna cum baby oh fuck-”
You watched him spill his load all over his hand. Thick white ropes dripped down his knuckles, marking his jeans as he stroked himself through it, twitching at his now very sensitive cockhead.
You were both left breathless and sweaty, each reaching for your respective phones.
"You-” He was trying so hard to catch his breath. "-are something else."
You both laughed breathlessly. Fuck, this felt good.
You stayed on the phone for hours after until he ordered you to bed. Told you to sleep well, that he'd be thinking of you.
And that night was the best sleep of your life.
-
Everything felt different after that night except it also all stayed the same.
You spoke every day. Called most nights, FaceTimed, voice noted when you were cooking dinner or carrying groceries. But now it seemed like nothing was left unsaid, that you were both being honest with each other. It was amazing.
The only thing eating away at you right before you fell asleep was the idea this might end. When the three weeks crept closer, when the sabbatical would end. Would everything go back to how it was before?
"Hey can I ask you something?" You broke mid conversation.
"Anything."
"When this is over. Your sabbatical I mean. When you come back and I'm not here." You trailed off slightly. "...Will this all go away?"
There was silence on the line for a second.
"Not if I have anything to do with it."
Your smile reached your ears. Good because-” You inhaled deeply. "I don't think I can go back."
-
You worked like a dog over the next four days.
At one point you'd even picked up a double because Lena had practically begged for night shift cover, and despite every intention of saying no, somehow you'd found yourself agreeing anyway.
It meant you barely saw daylight all week and you didn't get to speak to Robby much either. Not in the way either of you would've liked.
You checked in between shifts, during breaks and whenever you made it home with enough energy to keep your eyes open. He'd send the occasional text during the day, but most of your conversations happened at night. Sometimes a quick call, sometimes longer if exhaustion didn't drag you under first.
It was a brutal four days. By the end of it you were running almost entirely on caffeine and stubbornness, convinced you'd briefly developed double vision somewhere around shift three.
When you finally crawled into bed at the end of it all, you slept hard.
Since your FaceTime call, you hadn't stepped foot in the guest room. Every night you ended up in Robby's bed instead, tangled in his sheets and surrounded by things that smelled faintly like him.
He loved knowing that.
Day five arrived with something close to actual rest. You woke around nine and, for the first time all week, didn't feel like death.
After a shower you made coffee, pulled on some loungewear that wasn't technically pyjamas and settled onto the sofa with every intention of finally finishing the book you'd started at the beginning of all this.
You'd texted Robby before getting in the shower. There was still no reply. You assumed he was asleep or hiking or somewhere without signal. Either way, you weren't worried.
Twenty-five minutes later there was a knock at the door. You sighed immediately.
It had to be Jack.
Apparently nobody trusted you to spend three months in an apartment unsupervised.
Already preparing your speech, you marched towards the door and pulled it open.
The words died in your throat.
"Robby."
For a second your brain simply stopped working. Because Robby was supposed to be in Canada. Robby was supposed to be another two thousand miles away. Robby was supposed to be a voice coming through your phone speaker. Not standing in front of you.
"Hey."
His smile spread slowly across his face, tired and genuine all at once. His cheeks were pink from the road and his eyes looked glassy around the edges, like he'd spent too many hours behind the handlebars and not nearly enough sleeping.
You stared. "What are you doing here?"
He laughed softly. "Good to see you too."
"No, seriously." You gestured vaguely at him and the doorway. What are you doing here? You were in Canada. That's like-" Your brain searched desperately for a number. "It's like five thousand miles."
"Not quite."
"Robby-”
He kissed you.
Just stepped across the threshold and kissed you.
His hands came up to cup your face as he guided you backwards into the apartment, the front door swinging shut somewhere behind him.
Every thought disappeared. All the questions and confusion, gone.
Because he was here, after months of messages and phone calls and hearing his voice through a screen, he was finally here. The last four days worked in his favour, you being so busy. He'd hit the road almost immediately, covering far too much mileage to be considered safe. All to make it back to you.
You kissed him back immediately, both hungry and relieved. Like you were making up for every mile that had sat between Alberta and Pittsburgh.
When he finally pulled away, it was only far enough to look at you, forehead resting against yours.
"Two and a half thousand miles," he corrected quietly.
You laughed.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
"You know," you murmured, fingers still wrapped around his wrists, "this is a very dramatic way to get your keys back."
Robby laughed, the sound warm and familiar.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His thumbs swept across your cheeks.
“Good thing I never came back for the keys”
Your heart squeezed.
And this time, when you kissed him, neither of you had anywhere else to be.
Series Summary: You’re a traveling nurse on rotation at the Pitt. Dr. Robby lives across the alley, watching you from his window. What starts as tension builds into something neither of you can ignore, even when it hurts.
Part One: Across the Alley (3.4k) ❀
Part Two: Sweetheart (4.2k)
Part Three: To Be Wanted (2.54)
Part Four: Settled (6.6k) ♡
Bond (Complete)
Series Summary: You're the first omega ever to join the beta- and alpha-dominated PTMC emergency department. Over time, you find yourself relying on your alpha boss, Dr. Robinavitch, for more and more personal tasks. He becomes your friend, your protector, and, if the two of you can figure it out, even more.
Chapter One: Personal (2.4k)
Summary: Starting your residency at PTMC, you fall into step with your attending, Dr. Robby and ask him to do you a personal favor.
Chapter Two: Gourmet (4.0k) ☆
Summary: You heat comes on for the first time since working at the Pitt and Robby takes it upon himself to keep you safe.
Chapter Three: Preening (4.0k) ❀
Summary: Back at work, Robby's treating you -- and himself -- differently. And, when a patient attacks you, he goes feral to keep you safe.
Chapter Four: Starlit (2.7k) ❀
Summary: You make Robby a home-cooked meal and ask for his help with something personal.
Chapter Five: Drive (4.0k) ❀
Summary: You and Robby travel back to your hometown to stay with your parents under the guise of him being your boyfriend.
Chapter Six: Mine (6.5k) ♡
Summary: At your parents' anniversary party, Robby plays his part of your boyfriend a little too well, triggering your heat early and forcing you to confront your relationship head on.
Chapter Seven: Bite (4.5k) ♡ ❀
Summary: Robby takes care of you during your shared heat and rut and you officially become mates.
Bundle (Ongoing)
Series Summary: This companion series to bond features a collection of moments of you and your alpha, Dr. Robby, going through your first pregnancy together, no matter what it holds.
Chapter One: Wonder (4.1k)
Summary: When your scent begins to change, your alpha Robby realizes you're pregnant before you do.
Chapter Two: Sensitive (2.8k)
Summary: After a ribbing from your alpha friends, Robby laments that he hasn't yet found the right engagement ring for you.
First (Robby x Reader & Jack x Reader) (Ongoing)
Series Summary: A love triangle develops between you and the ER cowboys, with Jack becoming infatuated after you hook up while you fall for Robby in earnest.
Chapter One: Consult (6.4k)
Summary: On a recommendation from one of your nurses, you ask Dr. Jack Abbot to take your virginity in the name of sexual experience.
Chapter Two: Hypothetically (3.5k)
Summary: When a TORCH virus hits Pittsburgh, you lend your time and expertise to the Emergency Department, putting you in close contact with both Robby and Jack.
"Yours" Universe
Presented in chronological order.
Yours (14.3k) ☆
Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
Daddy (5.2k) ♡
Summary: With your daughter learning to speak, you start to call Robby 'daddy.'
One Shots
Special Treatment (6.7k) ⚠︎
Summary: How Robby treats you vs. your attacker after an assault.
Caught (2.9k) ♡
Summary: Your roommate (and long-time crush) Dr. Robby walks in on you masturbating when he wasn’t supposed to be home
Human Resources (11.0k) ♡ ☆
Summary: After finding Dr. Robby’s Tinder profile with a suspiciously large outline in his shorts, your friends make a bet to see who can get definitive proof of his big dick -- and you, despite being wildly in love with him, agree to participate.
An Untenable Situation (3.3k) ♡ ⚠︎
Summary: You’ve been secretly seeing your dad Jack’s best friend Robby for the better part of a year. When he walks in on the two of you in your childhood bedroom, you’re all finally forced to confront it.
Whole (1.6k) ⚠︎
Summary: Getting pregnant has never been a part of your plan, especially right when it feels like your life is about to start.
Bags & Bows (3.1k) ♡
Summary: The one where Robby kind-of-accidentally-on-purpose steals your panties.
A Taste of His Own Medicine (2.0k) ⚠︎
Summary: When Robby gets a little too reckless, you scare him straight.
If (8.7k) ⚠︎
Summary: Robby’s always kept his five daughters close to his chest, but a serious accident sends them all out of orbit. An exploration of family dynamics, forgiveness, gratitude, and connection.
Mouthing Off (3.3k) ♡
Summary: You and Robby are always fighting as the two day-shift attendings, to the point of screaming matches on the ED floor. After a particularly brutal back-and-forth, it seems like using each other to get off is the only way to settle things.
Ficlets & Blurbs
outdoor sex & humiliation (500) ♡
hurt/comfort after miscarriage nightmare (700) ⚠︎
omorashi (no sex just piss) (1.0k)
semi-public corruption kink (1.1k) ♡
pregnant wife, protective robby (1.3k)
magic horny cookies breeding (1.4k) ♡ ❀
anal sex, gags, & noncon (1.4k) ♡ ⚠︎
sissification (1.6k) ♡
rabbot x reader breeding (2.1k) ♡
you wear a tail plug (2.5k) ♡ ❀ ☆
Series Summary: Jack Abbot takes you, your baby, and your dog in when you finally leave your abusive boyfriend.
Chapter One: Bird by Bird (3.9k) ⚠︎
Chapter Summary: It's not the first time you've shown up at the ED because of your boyfriend, but, this time, Jack Abbot's going to make sure it's the last.
Chapter Two: As Long As You Want (2.8k)
Chapter Summary: Jack helps you get settled & you start to learn to accept his help.
Chapter Three: Guest of Honor (4.8k) ☆
Chapter Summary: You join Jack for the ED picnic, leading to a serious discussion between you and Dr. Robby.
Chapter Four: Explosive (2.1k) ⚠︎
Chapter Summary: In moments when you expect the worst, Jack consistently shows you the best.
Chapter Five: Chocolate Cherry Cake (3.4k) ❀
Chapter Summary: The day before & of your ex's sentencing hearing, Jack never lets you falter. And, for maybe the first time, you really see him next to you.
Chapter Six: No Place I'd Rather Be (3.6k) ♡
Chapter Summary: You make it perfectly clear to Jack that the feelings are mutual.
Material Girl (Complete)
Series Summary: Opposites attract: Serious, intense, widower, army veteran, and emergency room doctor Jack Abbot finds love in a sweet, sexy, silly bimbo.
Chapter One: Sincere (3.3k)
Chapter Summary: During a night out, you end up in the ER with a hurt ankle and can't resist flirting with the handsome attending, who ends up taking you on a date.
Chapter Two: Gentleman (3.7k) ♡
Chapter Summary: Jack Abbot is old-fashioned when it comes to dating, it seems. You, on the other hand, are not - and you decide to take matters into your own hands when it becomes frustrating.
Chapter Three: Jackie (4.8k) ❀ ☆
Chapter Summary: After he gets called in early, you bring Jack lunch at the Pitt.
Chapter Four: Boss-Ass Bitch (4.5k) ♡
Chapter Summary: Jack brings you flowers to thank you for lunch (and then continues thanking you in your back office).
Chapter Five: Pity Party (4.2k) ☆
Chapter Summary: After getting ready with the girls, you attend the Pitt's holiday party, where Michael Robinavitch absolutely steps in it with you and Jack.
Chapter Six: Love, Actually (2.8k) ❀
Chapter Summary: You and Jack celebrate Christmas together & it's really sappy.
Chapter Seven: Taste (4.9k)
Chapter Summary: Christmas dinner at your place featuring your little sister, your father, Dennis Whitaker, and Jack Abbot.
Chapter Eight: With Sparkles & Rainbows (2.6k) ❀
Chapter Summary: At your New Year's party, Robby finally finds a way to apologize.
Material Girl Universe
Peanut (3.3k)
Summary: Hosting your Halloween party turns into a visit to the ER when you discover an adult-onset peanut allergy.
Ceremonial (3.0k)
Summary: After you win a prestigious award, Jack's stressed-out dismissiveness leads to your biggest ever fight.
First (Robby x Reader & Jack x Reader) (Ongoing)
Series Summary: A love triangle develops between you and the ER cowboys, with Jack becoming infatuated after you hook up while you fall for Robby in earnest.
Chapter One: Consult (6.4k)
Summary: On a recommendation from one of your nurses, you ask Dr. Jack Abbot to take your virginity in the name of sexual experience.
Chapter Two: Hypothetically (3.5k)
Summary: When a TORCH virus hits Pittsburgh, you lend your time and expertise to the Emergency Department, putting you in close contact with both Robby and Jack.
One Shots
Never Have I Ever (8.9k) ♡
Summary: An uncomfortable, childish game between your coworkers stuck together during a power outage at a medical conference leads to you revealing that you're still a virgin - until you end up in bed with the attending you've been crushing on for ages.
Quitting Time (4.9k) ♡
Summary: You want your husband Jack to knock you up, but that means it's finally time for the both of you to quit smoking. He comes up with an unconventional way of helping your withdrawal.
That Kind of Man (5.7k) ❀
Summary: Jack Abbot doesn't know how to express his feelings in words, so he does what he knows best: Action.
Too Old For This (3.1k) ♡
Summary: Your fiance Jack doesn't like going out to clubs, but a fight with you might convince him otherwise.
Every Other Perfect Thing: Part 1 (6.9k) ♡ & Part 2 (2.8k) ♡
Summary: Jack Abbot hasn’t been with anyone since his late wife, which means he’s a little pent up when he finally gets up the courage to go home with the new fellow he’s been crushing on (who turns out to be a total freak).
Vices (4.1k) ♡ ⚠︎
Summary: When you use your key to Jack’s apartment for the first time, you discover that he has a vice you never knew about.
Family Secret (6.4k) ❀ ⚠︎ ☆
Summary: You've managed to keep your relationship and family with Dr. Jack Abbot private from his work for an entire decade. But your last pregnancy doesn't seem to care about that as you get brought to PTMC for an emergency delivery.
Stupid (16.5k) ⚠︎ ♡ ☆
Summary: When you’re lost in a sub drop spiral after being ghosted, Jack’s the one person who realizes what’s actually going on – and knows how to fix it.
Ficlets & Blurbs
singing "baby got back" in the shower (.4k) ❀
body worship (.5k) ♡
caught in the supply closet (.7k) ♡
explaining to him that you're dating (.7k) ❀
caught trying for another baby (.8k) ♡ ☆
bruises/hickeys (1.0k) ♡bad at flirting (1.0k) ❀
sex toys used on restrained jack (1.0k) ♡
breeding & corruption (1.1k) ♡ ⚠︎
dark!jack virginity loss somnophilia (1.1k) ♡ ⚠︎
foot fetish (1.2k) ♡
mean!stepdad!jack catches you teasing him (1.4k) ♡ ⚠︎
cozy cockwarming (1.5k) ♡
rabbot x reader breeding (2.1k) ♡
long-distance cybersex (2.1k) ♡ ☆
stepdad!jack virginity loss & impregnation (2.2k) ♡ ⚠︎
cherry chaser (2.3k) ♡ ⚠︎
♡ Mama's Gonna Give You Love (11k) | Hardly able to take her eyes or attention off of you for months, Baran finally takes the initiative to break the ice you seem so intent on keeping frozen between you. When she proves herself to be someone you can finally trust your heart with, she makes an offer to Robby as well to join her in loving you, as she only wants for you to be happy and content.
BRENDON PARK
♡ Just One Taste (10.1k) | The moment he sets his eyes on you, Dr. Brendon Park is sickened by how soft and weak you seem. As such, he makes it a personal mission to get under your skin every time he crosses your path as revenge for you invading his every thought. Intoxicating little thing that you are, however, he can hardly get enough... Despite his efforts to the contrary.
FRANK LANGDON | ( DRABBLES )
♡ You Can't Keep Me Away From Her (7.6k) | During his time off for rehab, Frank keeps in contact with you to keep up with the goings-on at PTMC. But when things go from bad to worse—Abby threatening divorce & a custody battle over their children, him continually relapsing, & the worry that if he can't get & stay clean, then he may lose his license & job as a whole—he begins to lay his baggage at your feet when he believes you to be all he has left. What begins as you trying to be a good friend ends in you running to Robby for help when you begin to fear for your safety due to Langdon's obsession.
JACK ABBOT
♡ As in Angelfish (2.5k) | When Dr. Park is called down to the ED for a consult, Jack's jealousy is riled when he gets a little too familiar with you, & you're then made to spend the rest of the evening reassuring him that you belong to one man only.
♡ Constantly On My Mind (4.3k) | You & Jack have both pined after one another since day one. Due to always believing the other to be disinterested, however, it's led to resentment, jealousy, & hurt on both sides. Just when he thinks he's about to lose you, Jack traipses up to the roof to fix things before any chance he might've once had with you is gone for good.
♡ I Care About Her, Too (3.4k) | After a patient attacks & strangles you, you're put on a short leave of absence so you can recover in peace. When you return to PTMC, you stay practically glued to Robby's side. Jealous, Abbot tries keeping his distance—granting you time & space, so as to allow you to come to him when you're ready to discuss the events of that day... Which he emerged from with bloody knuckles on your behalf.
♡ I'll Come Running Part I (1.6k) & Part II (1.9k) | When an unspeakable truth becomes apparent at work—that you're harming yourself—Jack refuses to let the issue slide when he has a private heart-to-heart with you in the women's restroom. Later does there come a night when you relapse & pick up the phone to call the only person you know to. As promised, he races to your side to take care of you.
♡ It's Your House Too (1.9k) | What starts out as a cozy night in while Jack & Robby watch a Steelers game on TV soon sends you spiraling because of their endless shouting at coaches & players who can't hear them. You step out in attempt to calm yourself down & end up making nervous wrecks out of each of them when they can't find you.
♡ Let Me Be That for You (2.5k) | What begins as a good day with a service dog visiting the Pitt because it's still in training nearly ends with you being admitted as you spiral during a horrible panic attack outside, due to believing that you're going to soon be without a place to live. Until Jack rectifies the situation.
♡ Tell Me What You Feel (2.2k) | After another grueling shift, you feel like you're at your wit's end. On the verge of a mental break & about to make an irreversible decision, Jack finds you on the rooftop & talks you down... Both literally & metaphorically.
♡ That's What I'm Here For (3.8k) | Due to seasonal depression, your own self-care, & accuracy at work both begin to suffer. Unwilling to stand by while you're put through the wringer for the next few months until spring rolls around again, Jack takes it upon himself to look after you in the meantime.
♡ Things a Man Provides (4.3k) | After catching you on Tinder at work, Jack puts himself on a mission to get you off of the obnoxious app & into a meaningful relationship with him instead before it's too late. Learning you've never so much as been on a date before & are doubtful about ever finding someone worthwhile, he expends every effort to win you over.
♡ To the Rescue (2.3k) | A patient presents with alcohol poisoning when she's brought into PTMC after getting rowdy at a bar. Jack attempts to treat her & when she gets physical... You see red & go to an extreme length to defend your husband.
♡ While You Were Sleeping (2.8k) | When a med student accidentally sticks you with an anesthetic intended for a patient, Jack sits with you until its effects wear off to ensure you don't have an allergic reaction. While under the effects of the drug, you make many confessions which he finds to be both entertaining and endearing.
♡ You Come First (3.2k) | When a patient attacks you & embeds a scalpel in your abdomen, you go to Jack for help. Overwhelmed & irritable, he snaps at you to go find someone else for whatever it is which you're running to him for. Once Robby has tended to your injury, he informs Jack of how he royally screwed up & your husband comes home after his shift to make amends.
♡ You Have to Lean On Me (2k) | All you've ever known is emotionally invalidating & abusive relationships. As such, bottling up your emotions comes firsthand to you now. The damage it's wrought comes to a head one night on the roof of PTMC, where Jack finds you falling apart on a familiar ledge.
MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH | ( DRABBLES )
♡ I Need You (2.3k) | Able only to find relief between your legs, Robby expects to be given access to what lies between them each night after walking through the door after a traumatic day at work. Now sore because his beard has rubbed you raw, you think to tell him to wait a few days, until he insists. And when he looks at you like that...how can you deny him anything?
♡ Right Where I Need to Be (12.6k) | When Robby goes on sabbatical, he asks you to watch his house for him. You agree & spend the next two months looking after the space while he's away on his road trip. It's only when he returns & completely latches onto you that you become aware of the feelings he's been harboring for apparent years & find yourself reluctant to tell him no in anything—to the point of lying to protect his feelings—because he's become so unstable.
♡ The Right Thing (6.7k) | When you present to Dr. Robby with clear signs of domestic abuse, his efforts to try & convince you to report your abuser to law enforcement fall upon deaf ears. Knowing that once you leave PTMC, you may wind up in a morgue next, he takes a drastic step to save you by offering you a room in his house.
♡ Time May Forgive Me (6.2k) | Feeling like he's slipping away from himself, Robby pushes you away as well, thinking that he's saving you from an ugly fate at his side. Being one who is unable to let go once you've fully committed, however, you both end up headed down a dangerous road when you discover exactly why he eventually purchases his Bonneville.
♡ We On for Tonight? (9.4k) | What begins as mistakenly sending an erotic video to your boss late at night eventually blooms into something more when he makes clear that he's very much interested in taking over the role of being your late-night hookup when you're at home & looking for a bit of fun over the phone. But with you both being lonely, it was never just going to be some casual fling.
♡ You Can't Keep Me Away From Her (7.6k) | During his time off for rehab, Frank keeps in contact with you to keep up with the goings-on at PTMC. But when things go from bad to worse—Abby threatening divorce & a custody battle over their children, him continually relapsing, & the worry that if he can't get & stay clean, then he may lose his license & job as a whole—he begins to lay his baggage at your feet when he believes you to be all he has left. What begins as you trying to be a good friend ends in you running to Robby for help when you begin to fear for your safety due to Langdon's obsession.
RABBOT ( Robby x Reader x Abbot) | ( DRABBLES )
♡ Happy Birthday, Sweetheart (2.3k) | When the day of your birthday rolls around, no one but you seems to know about it. What you'd hoped would be a good day ends in upset when Robby lays into you for making a mistake. Come the following afternoon, he & Jack are made aware of how they screwed up & make strides to set things right.
♡ How a Woman's Body Works (3.3k) | Due to accidentally syncing your period tracking app to your work email, the entire ED is notified when you begin ovulating. Unable to not do something about it, Robby & Jack get you alone & all to themselves after work in a dark parking lot so they can tend to your needs.
♡ Maybe if We'd Met First Part I (3.6k) & Part II (2.7k) | Tired of Robby's calling you pet names & referring to himself as a sort of surrogate husband, Jack pulls him aside for a chat about the unwanted behavior. When Robby begins to drift away because of it, you try to fix the situation. Unsuccessful in your endeavors, however, Jack finally admits a hard to admit truth to the both of you which shifts your dynamic from one extreme...to the other.
♡ People Who Love You (3.4k) | Seeing that Robby is at the end of his rope, but also the way he looks at you—liked you're the last buoy in a sea with no shore on the horizon—Jack makes a decision: not to be selfish with you, but to instead share with his best friend, and the man he considers a brother, hoping that maybe by loving you, too, he can be pulled out of the dark abyss he finds himself trapped in.
♡ We're Here Now (5.4k) | Broken & hopeless, you let go of the prospect of living. But like so many others who made a heartbreaking decision in a moment of absolute darkness, your mind changes. When Jack tries to save you...will he succeed?
♡ You Have to Choose (8.5k) | Due to initially undisclosed reasons, Jack begins berating you at every turn—eventually making you afraid of his very presence, his emotional abuse becomes so extreme. Robby eventually moves you to the dayshift with him so you & Abbot can get some needed distance between you. But with his mental state worsening & you being the only spot of sunshine left in the perpetual darkness Robby's life has become, your situation goes from bad to worse when you get caught between them.
♡ You Wish This Were Him? (2.2k) | What begins as a simple FaceTime call on an iPad ends with you, Jack, & Robby all orgasming together as loving admissions are made.
Fresh out of prison, Pope Cody wasn’t supposed to look at you the way he did. But once you step into the Cody family’s orbit, it becomes impossible to ignore the tension pulling you toward him, no matter how dangerous it feels.
notes: Long-time ff reader, first-time writer! 😬 I really hope you guys enjoy this. What started as a lovely, spicy little Friday night dream somehow turned into this story. I had so much fun writing it, and I’m so excited to finally share it. A huge thank you to GM for being my muse and supporting this work. Having you read the first go at my very first ff felt incredibly vulnerable, and I’m so lucky to have such a supportive partner by my side, encouraging me to share it with the world. 🖤
warnings: takes place at the start of season 1, swearing, alcohol, age gap (reader is mid-late 20s, pope is early 40s), pope is a yearner, obessive!pope, no use of y/n, mildly uncomfortable male encounters, pope gets possessive, jealousy, emotional manipulation, unhealthy family dynamics, mentions of sex work, SMUT (protected piv, making out, dirty talk, "good girl", light hair pulling), 18+
word count: 4.8k
chapter one | homecoming
The bass from the speakers rattled through the Cody backyard hard enough to make the pool water tremble beneath floating neon lights.
Bodies crowded every inch of the place. Girls in bikinis draped across lounge chairs. Guys already drunk before sunset. Beer bottles clinking together. Somebody shouting over music loud enough to shake the windows.
The party was supposed to be for Joshua. Or J as everybody called him. Smurf’s long-lost grandson. He’d moved in shortly after his mom overdosed. From what you’d heard, Julia never talked much about the Cody family while J was growing up. Probably for good reason.
“Welcome to the family.” you muttered under your breath as you made your way further into the backyard.
At least that’s what the night had started as before it turned into something else entirely.
You spotted J almost immediately near the pool. Skinny kid in borrowed board shorts standing awkwardly beside Nikki Belmont while Craig loudly explained something neither of them seemed interested in.
The kid laughed too hard at whatever Craig said and tucked her brunette hair behind her ear.
“Kid,” you nearly laughed at yourself for thinking it because in reality, you were only eight years older than her. That didn’t sound like much on paper, but in this world it felt different.
Nikki still looked at the Codys like they were exciting. Untouchable. Like danger was something thrilling instead of something that hollowed people out from the inside.
“You’re making that face again,” Chrissy said beside you while lighting a cigarette. “The one where you act like you’re above everybody here.”
“I am above everybody here.” you joked, stealing a drag from her cigarette before handing it back.
Chrissy barked out a laugh. “No you’re not. You’re late on rent.”
She was right. You’d been late on rent for almost two months and Chrissy had been covering more than her fair share lately. You lost your diner job almost a year ago after the owner cut half the staff without warning. Chrissy told you that you could make decent money dancing at the club where she worked and at first, you did.
But after a while, it became obvious the real money came from what happened after the dancing stopped. Men always wanted more if they thought they could pay for it and eventually you got desperate enough to let them.
Even then, money still disappeared faster than it came in. Everybody was struggling these days. Everybody except the Codys, apparently.
You rolled your eyes and leaned against the fence with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. The California heat clung to your skin and already you wanted to leave.
“I told you I didn’t wanna come.”
“And I told you rich criminals tip better than businessmen.” Chrissy took a drag from her cigarette. “You see Baz yet?”
Your jaw tightened immediately.
“No.”
“Cath here?”
You didn’t answer, which meant yes. Across the yard, Cath sat beside Baz near the outdoor kitchen while Lena rested sleepily against his chest. And Cath looked at you with a short, knowing glance.
You looked away first. You already knew Cath knew. Maybe not every detail but she was smart enough to connect the dots. To be fair, Baz never hid his habits very well and you knew damn well you weren’t even close to the only girl he’d slept with behind Cath’s back. Somehow that almost made it worse.
Baz caught your eye seconds later and grinned.
You grabbed a beer from the cooler instead of acknowledging him. Chrissy nudged your shoulder lightly.
“You still mad about Baz?”
“He’s a pig.”
“You liked the pig.”
“I liked the money.”
Chrissy snorted loudly. “Oh, how I love your honesty.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your mouth. Then the noise near the gate shifted suddenly. Craig’s voice cut through the music first.
“No fuckin’ way!”
Heads turned instantly. Deran straightened from his chair near the pool. Baz stood slowly. Even Smurf froze for half a second before her face lit up. Across the yard, you noticed Cath glance down immediately before pulling Lena a little closer against her chest, almost instinctively.
Andrew Cody. Pope. Fresh out of prison.
The entire energy of the party shifted immediately, like somebody had dropped a loaded gun into the middle of the backyard.
He just stood there, tall and broad-shouldered beneath a white tank top and an open flannel shirt, with rough-looking hands and a jaw set tight under the dim backyard lights. You’d only ever seen photos of him around the Cody house before and even those were rare, tucked away between pictures of the brothers and old family memories Smurf liked displaying. Somehow, none of them did him justice.
He looked better in person. Rougher. Older. The kind of man who carried something heavy in him without ever talking about it. What caught you off guard most was how controlled he seemed. Everybody else around him suddenly felt louder, messier and more chaotic while Pope watched the yard in complete silence.
Craig practically tackled him into a hug.
“You asshole! You didn’t call?”
Pope barely reacted. His eyes moved over everybody carefully instead, already annoyed by everyone’s presence.
Smurf wrapped her arms around him tightly. “My beautiful boy.”
Something uncomfortable flickered across Pope’s face before disappearing completely.
Sometimes after sex, Baz would talk too much. Little bits and pieces about the family slipping out during lazy pillow talk you never really cared to hear. It was enough for you to understand Smurf’s love came with conditions attached to it. She controlled her sons with affection the same way other people used fear.
Baz handed Pope a beer with an amused grin.
“Well,” Baz said casually, loud enough for half the party to hear as he lifted his beer toward Pope, “guess J’s welcome party turned into a homecoming.”
J stood nearby beside Nikki looking completely overwhelmed, staring at his mother’s twin brother for the first time in his life. Pope barely glanced at him. Then his eyes found you and stayed there.
The world didn’t exactly stop, but it slowed enough for you to feel the shift. Most men looked at your body first. That was easy to read, easy to manage. Pope looked at you like he was trying to figure out what you were doing there, or maybe why you weren’t looking away. His dark eyes locked onto yours without hesitation.
Chrissy leaned closer immediately.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“He is staring at you.”
You kept your expression neutral even though something twisted low in your stomach.
“Maybe he stares at everybody like that.”
“No,” Chrissy whispered. “That man looks like he’s deciding whether to kill somebody or I don’t know, something darker.”
You nearly laughed. But you didn’t look away and neither did he.
And for the first time since he walked into the yard, something shifted faintly in Pope’s expression. Surprise maybe. Like he expected fear and found none.
Truthfully, you’d seen men far worse than Pope Cody. Men who smiled while hurting people. Men who cornered girls in apartment hallways. Men who thought money bought affection.
Pope looked dangerous but not cruel. There was a difference.
**********
As the night dragged on, the party slowly emptied. Cath eventually took Lena home after a quiet tense argument with Baz near the kitchen. On her way out, she paused beside you for half a second.
Neither of you spoke but Cath’s eyes softened slightly. Almost tired. Like you weren’t really the problem anymore.
Then she left.
By midnight only the usual stragglers remained. Half-drunk surfers. Girls floating lazily in the pool. Craig disappearing upstairs with two blondes hanging off his shoulders. Deran sitting by himself in the living room nursing a beer.
J and Nikki sat together near the patio steps talking quietly while Nikki leaned into him. Kids, you thought again, letting a small chuckle out from under your breath.
Meanwhile Pope barely said a word all night. But every single time you looked up, his gaze found you again. Like something about you kept pulling him back.
Inside the house, Smurf gathered her boys in the living room while the muffled bass from outside vibrated through the walls. You stayed near the doorway until Baz called you over.
“Hey, baby.” Baz whistled softly, crooking two fingers toward himself for you to come over.
You already hated his tone. The way he called you baby like you belonged to him somehow, like money and a few nights together gave him ownership over you. Baz always acted like everything around him existed for his convenience.
Baz lounged comfortably across the couch while Pope sat nearby with his elbows resting on his knees and a beer dangling loosely from one hand. Smurf watched the whole thing with quiet amusement, like she already knew exactly how the night was about to unfold.
“C’mere.”
You walked closer slowly and immediately felt Baz’s hand brush against the small of your back, lingering a little too low for comfort. You shifted a step forward before he could touch you properly, slipping out of reach easily enough that his drunk ass didn’t even notice.
Baz grinned wider and tilted his head toward you while looking straight at Pope. “Got a welcome home gift for Pope.”
Pope’s jaw tightened immediately.
“Baz.”
“What?” Baz laughed. “Come on, man. You just spent the last three years locked up. Thought maybe it’s time you got back on the saddle.”
“What I do ain’t your fucking business.”, Pope snapped.
The room quieted instantly. You noticed how fast everybody went careful around Pope once his tone sharpened, like they expected him to explode at any second.
Baz looked back toward you with that grin you once found charming. Now you mostly wanted to smash the beer bottle in your hand over his face.
“Show him a good time tonight,” Baz said as he pulled a few hundred-dollar bills from his back pocket and slid them into the small gap between your shorts and bikini bottoms. You hated how casual he made it feel. Like you were part of the entertainment.
Baz always knew exactly which buttons to push on Pope and part of you got the feeling he was doing it on purpose now. Baz used to talk too much, slipping out between cigarettes and half-drunk conversations. He once told you Pope had been obsessively in love with Cath since they were kids, long before Smurf adopted Baz and made him part of the family.
You thought back to the way Cath looked the second Pope walked through the gate earlier tonight. Maybe something happened between them before he went to prison. Honestly, after all the shit Baz had put her through, you couldn’t really blame her if it did.
Pope’s eyes flicked downward briefly, catching where Baz’s hand lingered against your skin a second too long. Then he stood abruptly.
“I told you to shut up, Baz.”
You stiffened slightly, but not because of Pope’s intensity. Because Baz was starting to play with fire.
Pope stood there perfectly still, but the tension rolling off him filled the entire room. His eyes stayed locked on Baz now, sharp and unreadable in a way that made even you feel careful for a second.
“Relax,” Baz said with a grin before looking back at you. “Listen, babe, don’t be scared of him. He’s just…intense.”
The joke hit wrong immediately. You saw it in Pope’s face. Small enough most people probably wouldn’t notice.
And suddenly you understood something important. Everybody in this family treated him like a problem waiting to happen. Nobody defended him. Nobody softened around him.
So before you could second-guess yourself, you stepped closer toward Pope and tilted your head slightly.
“Come on,” you said casually. “Let’s go to Baz’s room. It’ll already be more worthwhile and probably last longer than when I was with him.”
Baz pointed dramatically at you. “See? This is why I like her.”
Even Smurf laughed softly into her drink.
And Pope smiled. Small, quick and gone almost immediately. But real enough for you to catch it. Like nobody had ever chosen his side before.
Pope looked at you another second before speaking.
“We’re not stayin’ here.”
Baz raised his eyebrows cockily. “Atta boy.”
“I got a hotel.”
Smurf nodded approvingly. “Suite’s nice and quiet.”
You shrugged lightly. “Lead the way.”
The whistles and jeers followed you both all the way out the front door.
**********
The drive to the hotel stayed quiet. Not uncomfortable but heavy.
Pope drove with both hands gripping the wheel tightly while streetlights flashed across his face. Every so often at a red light, you caught him glancing at you through the rearview mirror. Quick, careful looks like he thought you wouldn’t notice.
Even with the windows down, the heat still clung to your skin. Small beads of sweat slid slowly down your neck and you wiped them away absentmindedly before rubbing your palms against your shorts.
When you looked up again, you noticed Pope’s eyes had dropped lower this time, lingering briefly on your legs before flicking back toward the road. His jaw tightened slightly after, like he was trying hard to stay patient. Like part of him wanted to forget the drive entirely and pull over somewhere dark just to get his hands on you.
You looked around the car and wondered who this belonged to. Baz’s maybe. Or maybe Smurf handed Pope keys before he left. You wanted to fill the silence. Usually you did. Men usually liked easy conversation and fake intimacy for the right price.
But Pope felt different. Like a man who moved entirely at his own pace.
So you stayed quiet too.
**********
The hotel suite surprised you. It was big and spotless. Of course it was spotless.
“Jesus,” you muttered while looking around. “This room’s bigger than my apartment.”
“I like it clean,” Pope said immediately. “Away from my family.”
There was exhaustion buried deep inside his voice. You understood more than he realized. Chrissy always teased you for keeping your apartment “Monica-clean.” It reminded you that just before she dragged you to the party, you were more than content staying home watching Friends. Even after seeing the show a thousand times, it still comforted you. You remember sitting at the kitchen table doing homework while your grandma cooked dinner for you while the show played quietly in the background.
Pope’s stare snapped you back to the present. You stepped closer carefully and reached toward his chest. His hand caught your wrist instantly. Not enough to hurt but enough to stop you. Pope’s breathing shifted unevenly.
“I don’t like being touched.”
You studied him quietly for a second before nodding once. No attitude or teasing. Just understanding.
“Okay.”
Something unreadable crossed Pope’s face. Like he expected resistance or mockery and didn’t know what to do when neither came. The room went quiet again.
“You just got out?” You asked softly. “How’s it feel?”
Pope ignored the question and focused entirely on you instead.
He stood close enough now to feel the warmth coming off your skin. Close enough to smell the cigarettes, sunscreen and lingering heat from outside still clinging to your body.
The room had gone completely silent except for the sound of your heartbeat pounding loudly in your ears.
“Take your clothes off,” he said quietly. “Keep your eyes on me.”
The command sliced through the silence. You slowly pulled your shirt over your head without looking away once. Then your shorts. Then the strings of your bikini loosened beneath your fingers before the fabric dropped to the floor beside the bed.
Pope watched every movement carefully, not just your body but your face too. Waiting for hesitation, fear or even regret. None came.
“Get on the bed.”
You climbed onto the mattress slowly and sat near the edge while Pope stared at you like he was trying to understand why you weren’t backing away yet.
Most people eventually looked away from Pope, but you didn’t. Something about that nearly undid him.
Then he leaned down and kissed you hard, messy and hungry. Your teeth knocked together awkwardly the first time and for half a second you thought maybe he’d pull away, embarrassed by it. But then he kissed you again and somehow it only made the whole thing feel more real.
There was nothing polished about it, nothing smooth or practiced like Baz.
The comparison slipped into your head automatically and guilt twisted in your stomach almost immediately after. It felt wrong comparing the two of them at all, especially while Pope was kissing you like this. Baz knew exactly how to touch people. Pope kissed like he was figuring it out as he went, driven entirely by instinct and want and years of loneliness he didn’t know what to do with.
And somehow, that made it impossible to stop kissing him back. The longer he kissed you, the harder it became to think about anybody else at all.
You could feel him get harder against you even through his jeans, the tension in him almost unbearable now. Every breath felt heavier than the last.
You wanted him. All of him. Heat pooled low between your thighs and you could already feel how badly your body was reacting to him.
His hand moved slowly down your body, dragging from your neck to your chest and lower still, deliberate enough to make you shiver beneath him. You could feel your nipples harden at every touch. There was something almost playful in the look he gave you then, dark eyes locked onto yours while his fingers explored inside of you carefully, like he was fascinated by every reaction he pulled from you.
“Look at you,” he murmured softly, voice rough with satisfaction. “So wet for me already.”
The approval in his voice sent another rush of heat through you.
Pope’s hand slowly traced back upward afterward, lingering against your stomach before moving higher, his touch almost gentler now despite all the intensity in him. Every part of this felt new to him in a way you couldn’t fully explain. As he moved higher, he stopped at your mouth, putting the two fingers he had inside you at your lips, letting you taste yourself on him.
“Good girl,” he whispered against your ear.
Pope sat back slightly and pulled his shirt over his head. Up close, you noticed details you hadn’t before. The size of his arms. The freckles scattered across his skin. The light colour of the fine hair along his forearms catching beneath the warm glow of the lamp beside the bed.
Pope undid his belt impatiently, shoving his jeans down enough before tearing open a condom wrapper with his teeth. There was nothing smooth or practiced about any of it. Everything about him felt tense, restless, desperate.
“Do you want to feel how hard you make me?” he asked.
For somebody who hated being touched unless it happened on his own terms, there was something almost vulnerable in the question. Like even now, with his hands all over you and his body pressed against yours, Pope still needed reassurance that you wanted him there. That he needed to know you wanted him the same way he wanted you. You nodded immediately as his hand slid along your jaw.
“Good girl,” he said quietly, the soft praise making you want him more. You wanted to keep pulling those reactions out of him for as long as he’d let you.
And when he finally pushed into you, it was rough and messy just like his kisses had been. You didn’t care. You were already aching for him long before he touched you.
Pope moved against you with an intensity that bordered on overwhelming, like he was trying to lose himself in you completely. Beneath all that rigid control, there was still something frantic in him. Something barely holding together.
He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other moved between your breasts and on your waist like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you most. Every movement felt intense, almost conflicted, like he was fighting himself while trying to keep you close at the same time. You moaned softly against his neck and felt the way he reacted instantly to the sound, his breathing turning rougher beside your ear.
Then suddenly he shifted, flipping you onto your stomach in one swift movement. His hands gripped your hips firmly, pulling you back against him with an urgency that made your breath catch. The sharp sting of his hand spanking your ass made you gasp and you already knew there’d be marks left behind by morning.
Part of you expected this whole thing to be fast. Quick and desperate the way most men were after being locked up for years. But Pope didn’t seem interested in rushing through any of it. He wanted this. Wanted you. And if he had it his way, you got the feeling he would’ve kept you in that hotel room all night just to stay wrapped around you a little longer.
Pope let himself inside of you again, thrusting faster and deeper. Rough and relentless in a way that felt less about control and more about desperation. Like once he touched you, he couldn’t stop. You could feel yourself starting to shake beneath him and instinctively reached back, needing even the smallest second to breathe, but he caught your hand immediately and held it down against the mattress.
“Don’t move,” he said, voice low and rough. “I want all of you.”
His grip tightened slightly against your hip before he leaned closer, breathing uneven beside your ear.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he murmured. “Say it.”
The possessiveness in his voice made something tighten low in your stomach and sent warmth rushing between your thighs.
“I’m yours, Pope,” you whispered back immediately. “I’m your girl.”
As he moved against you again, the pressure finally became too much and you came loud and hard enough your knees nearly gave out beneath you from the weight of him pressed against your back.
You buried your face into the pillow as heat rushed through your entire body and you could feel the aftermath of it between your thighs, sliding down your skin and onto his as he held you tightly against him.
You tried to muffle the sounds leaving your mouth against the pillow but Pope didn’t seem to care whether anybody heard you or not. There was something possessive in the way he fucked you, like he wanted the world to know you belonged to him already.
“What do you want?” he asked, the words strained and uneven as his hand twisted gently into your hair, pulling you back just enough so that you were pressed against his warm chest.
You could feel how hard he was breathing against the back of your neck, like he was losing control little by little every time you made a sound for him.
“I want you. I want you to come inside me.” You whispered back at him.
That seemed to undo whatever control he still had left. In one final thrust, he came long and hard inside of you. Even from the layer of protection between you both, you feel every little pulse he makes as he slowly makes his way out of you.
Every movement felt hungry and possessive. Like he wanted proof you were still there beneath him. And underneath all of it, you still felt the same thing you noticed the second he walked into the party.
Loneliness.
**********
Later, you sat beside him pulling your clothes back on while Pope sat at the edge of the bed near the window, staring out into the parking lot below.
He’d pulled his jeans back on but hadn’t bothered with his shirt yet. Not that you minded. You let yourself take a selfish little look you could save for later.
“You and Baz,” he said finally.
Straight to the point.
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“On and off.”
Pope’s jaw flexed.
“I stopped after I found out about Lena,” you admitted quietly. “She deserves better than that.”
That softened him immediately. It was a tiny shift. But enough.
“I haven’t slept with your other brothers,” you added quietly. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”
Pope glanced over at you then, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“And J?”
You blinked for half a second before realizing he was joking. Actually joking. A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“I just met him tonight,” you said. “Besides, he’s too young for me.”
You tilted your head slightly and gave him a teasing wink.
“I like my men older.”
Something almost smug flickered briefly across Pope’s face before disappearing again. Then his expression shifted more serious as his eyes settled back on you.
“You see other men?”
You laughed again but this time, without humour. “I do what I gotta do to survive.”
His fists tightened instantly.
You noticed the tension in his jaw immediately and the way his shoulders stiffened like he was physically trying to hold something back. Beneath all the calm silence he carried around, there was jealousy there.
“I don’t like sharing,” he said quietly and firmly.
You raised an eyebrow. “You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
Silence stretched between us. Then Pope finally looked at you again.
“How would you feel,” he asked slowly, “if I was the only one you saw?”
You blinked.
“You serious?”
“Yes.”
“You got exclusivity money, Pope Cody?”
Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pocket and left another stack of cash on the table beside the bed.
“I got enough.”
You looked over at the money, then back at him, studying him carefully. He was a man desperate for softness and terrified of it at the same time. You leaned back against the headboard slowly.
“If we do this,” you said carefully, “you don’t own me.”
Pope stayed quiet.
“I come when you call. I see only you. But you don’t treat me like property.”
Another pause. Then finally:
“Okay.”
You eyed him suspiciously. “You agreeing that fast is kinda terrifying.”
A small crooked smile appeared again.
“Probably.”
You reached out your hand and Pope silently handed over his phone, your fingers brushing together for the briefest second. The phone was brand new, the thin layer of plastic film still clinging to the screen. Another gift from Smurf, no doubt.
You typed your number in before calling yourself so you’d have his saved too. Pope watched quietly the entire time, his eyes following every little movement like he was trying to memorize you already.
A sly smile pulled at your mouth before you could stop yourself. Under contact name, you typed: Pope’s Girl.
When you handed the phone back, his eyes dropped to the screen and something dark and pleased flickered across his face at the sight of it.
**********
A few minutes later you grabbed your purse from the floor and slipped your shoes back on. Pope looked over immediately.
“You’re leaving?”
The question came quieter than expected. Not offended, not angry, just… uncertain. Like part of him genuinely didn’t think you’d come back after this.
For somebody who looked so dangerous, Pope carried around an almost painful kind of loneliness underneath everything else. Like he was always expecting for people to leave him first.
“You don’t even like people touching you, Pope,” you said gently. “I’m not climbing into bed with you after one night.”
He stayed quiet after that. He just looked at you for a long moment like he was trying to understand why none of this upset you. Most women probably either pushed too hard or got scared and left.
You walked over slowly and stopped in front of him, close enough now to see the exhaustion sitting behind his eyes even after everything that had happened between you.
“Get some sleep if you can.”
Pope gave a short humourless laugh at that. Neither of you believed it. Even exhausted, there was still something twitching beneath his skin. Memories that never seemed to leave him alone.
You reached for the money Pope left on the table before pausing near the door. Between that and the cash Baz shoved into your shorts earlier, rent would finally be covered for the month. Maybe even enough left over for one of those overpriced tubs of ice cream Chrissy always begged you to buy but could never justify.
“You can call me anytime,” you said casually. “Doesn’t gotta be for sex either.”
Pope looked at you sharply. Like the idea genuinely caught him off guard. Nobody offered him things without expecting something back.
You gave him one last look before heading toward the door. As you slipped into the hallway, you glance back and catch him staring down at his phone, thumb hovering over the contact you’d saved yourself under.
Hell was the journey but it brought me heaven - A.C
☆ Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader ☆
(previous part) (next part)
summary: After a life shaped by violence, Andrew finds something he was never meant to have: love. That is, if he can protect it from his world.
word count: 42.2k
c.w: graphic violence, blood, religious imagery, kidnapping, torture, trauma/ptsd, implied past child abuse, murder, smut (piv, unprotected sex).
a/n: me to my wife "It's gonna be 20k at best". as you can see, it was a lie. thank you so much to her for proofreading it. dealing with the 1000 blocks rule was a nightmare, so please forgive how it looks.
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading!
Andrew wakes up, gently pulled upward from the dark.
At first, he doesn’t know why his body feels so different: no jolt, no sharp inhale like he’s surfacing from underwater, and more importantly, no agonizing screams from the ghosts in his head. No echo of Smurf’s voice into his ear, telling him that he only matters when he is useful, no Julia, no Cath, no Baz…just him and the undeniable feeling of warmth and gentleness enveloping his body.
For a disorienting second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes. He lies perfectly still, too anxious that the absence of dread might be the sign of another delirium. After all, his mind has built kinder lies than this in the past: mornings where he woke up believing he was out of harm’s way, that somebody was alongside him, that he would at last be spared, only to open his eyes and discover nothing there but air. Andrew implores.
(Please. Not like the other times. Let this be real. May mercy, for once, choose him. He would take every punishment. Trade all he possesses. His remaining years. His blood. His soul. Live an eternity in the noise of his ghosts if he could just keep this single second of bliss untouched.)
Something shifts below him, and only then does he truly register it: the warmth is not a trick of his mind, not another tender cruelty meant to vanish the second he trusts it. It’s…you. You and your body, receiving him like he has always belonged there. His cheek is pressed just above your breast, his ear resting over your heart, each inhale from your chest lifting his head in small motions. He feels the rhythm: the pulse under his skin, the expansion of your ribs, the heat radiating from you into him.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Your heart answers his, beating leisurely. Bare skin against bare skin, he feels like a man who is wandering into a cathedral with mud on his boots.)
The longer he lies there, the more details surface: your thigh draped loosely over his hip, one of your hands tangled lazily in his curls, probably falling asleep holding onto them and never loosening your grip. He wants to etch every detail of your body someplace within him where nothing can distort it. He inhales deeply. You don’t smell your usual shampoo and soap, no, that version of you belongs to the sunlight and the outside world. This morning, Andrew gets to know the one that is bare in his sheets. You feel musky, like the earth after a rainstorm when the air turns heavy and thick. It takes him a few more moments to grasp that it’s the scent of sex.
He slowly opens his eyes, bracing for the possibility that the illusion would fracture, leaving him alone once more, but nothing moves. You remain where you are: lashes resting against your cheeks, lips slightly parted in sleep and your hair spilled messily across the pillow. His hand, which had clutched your waist and – he notices with guilt – left a bruise from holding on too tightly in the bliss of last night, shifts now to brush the thin gold chain at your collarbone, thumb sliding along the heart-shaped pendant. He doesn’t understand how he ended up here. How a man like him gets to wake up like this, to touch you like this.
(Profane hands that have broken things. People. Fingers that know how to stitch wounds closed and how to open them. He feels like he should apologize. Wash and scrub himself raw before touching you again. Impious hands on consecrated skin.)
And yet here they are, resting on you as though designed for this all along. Moving upward by a few inches, pressing his palm into the mattress to lift his weight enough so he doesn’t disturb you, Andrew hovers above your body to study the shape of your face in the morning light that slips in through the blinds. How it paints your features in golden lines like sky itself marvels at his own creation.
He lowers himself until his nose finds the curve of your neck, breathing you in once more, slower. He can distinguish the salt that lingers in the faint traces of sweat and saliva where his tongue had traveled last night along your collarbone and throat. He recalls how, spent and trembling, you had pulled him down, guided him to your breasts and how, overwhelmed by the sentiment of being the one held, he had kissed every inch of skin he could reach. He lets his lips trace a path of unhurried kisses along the delicate line of your bones: where your jaw meets your neck, the smooth curve of the shoulder and the sensitive hollow beneath it, before going downward to your sternum.
(He wants to know you through every sense he has. To map this morning with his lungs and mouth. To memorize the striae of your skin, the birthmark under your left breast that he had found last night. To learn the language of your body. The world can have the composed version of you. He gets this one in his bed.)
He tries not to disturb you, to keep his caresses light, but your body responds anyway with a drowsy protest, brows knitted and fingers tightening unconsciously in his hair. “Mm…Andrew,” you mumble, voice hoarse with sleep, burying your face against his shoulder. “it’s too early.”
He goes perfectly still at the base of your neck, lifting his head just enough to have a look: your eyes are shut, yet there’s a smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers.
You crack one eye open, unimpressed. “Liar.”
He huffs a quick breath, no longer attempting to suppress his smirk. “Maybe.”
Squinting up at him, your hand slides from his curls to his chin, thumb stroking sluggishly along his cheek. “Mornin’,” you murmur.
“Morning.” You tug him down by the back of his neck to kiss him, lips already parted in expectation. He stays dumbfounded for a beat, then two. He gets to have this. To experience kisses in the morning with a woman who reaches for him. To have someone in his life who really wants him for the man, not the weapon. To be just like his brothers in this simple, ordinary way. To be loved and to love back. He melts into the embrace, one hand braced against the mattress to keep on crushing you with his weight, the other settling on your ribcage.
Your mouth moves against his lazily, before travelling along his jaw and back to his lips, grinning. “We barely slept,” you breathe in-between, voice low and satisfied, “and I entirely blame you for it.” He feels heat climbing up his neck. “You’re blushing,” you observe, elated, pulling back just enough to see it for yourself. Before he can protest or deny, you shift beneath him and, with a push at his shoulder, roll him onto his back. He lands there, momentarily dazed, curls falling across his forehead as he blinks up at you.
(He could stop you. Reflexes honed by years of training and jobs. He knows how to pin someone. How to reverse leverage. However, the woman he loves is naked. And he is not good at refusing her anything.)
You climb and straddle him, knees on either side of his hips and hands shifting up his chest as you lean, hair spilling around your faces like a curtain, kissing him again. He tilts his head, meeting you, afraid to respond too avidly as his fingers wander along your body, avoiding the breasts. “Andrew…” you murmur against his lips, “you know you can touch me, right?” He nods once quietly, but his hands refuse to budge. “Hey, hey,” you smiled gently, palms coming up to cradle his cheeks, “it’s okay. Just because we made love yesterday doesn’t mean we have to do anything more today.”
(Made love. Not a transaction. Not something timed and watched by Smurf through the half-open door. Made love. Not fuck. The phrase is beautiful. Better than anything he has associated with sex. How you say it easily. Love.)
“There’s no need to rush,” you continue gently. “We can just stay like this.”
He clears his throat, the sound rough. “It’s not that I don’t want it. I just…” He exhales, frustrated with himself, with his body. “I don’t always…it doesn’t always…cooperate.” He braces himself for the awkwardness, the disappointment. Instead, there is only your smile.
“Oh, Andrew,” you say quietly, leaning down to press a peck to his mouth. “Last night was amazing but we kinda strained ourselves. And if we add up that you barely sleep on a regular week…I think your body is allowed to rest.”
“You’re not disappointed?” he asks quietly, still searching your face for pity.
“Disappointed? Andrew. Honey. I’m naked on top of the man I love. I’m pretty sure I won at the lottery of life.”
His throat works to respond but you plant another kiss on his lips. Pulling back, your gaze gravitates to his jaw. “Oh,” you giggle.
“What?”
You reach up and swipe your finger just below his ear, near the hinge of his jaw, shimmers on the pad of your thumb. “Sorry but you’ve got a little souvenir,” you tease.
He frowns. “From what?”
“Me. I kissed you there.” He touches the spot automatically, trying to feel it. “Do you want me to…?”
“No,” he replies quickly before shrugging, eyes lowering for an instant. “I can keep it. It’s fine.”
“Andrew,” you say half amused, half incredulous, “you’ve got my lip-gloss all over you.”
“I don’t mind.”
(It’s not about the gloss. It’s about the mark. The mark you left on him. Other people will think and proclaim that you are his. Pope’s girl. The title will shield you from harm and men. The truth they won’t understand is he is yours. Blessed by the simple fact that you chose him.)
“Fine,” you whisper, dragging your thumb gently across his lips to smooth some of the shimmer down so it’s less obvious without erasing it entirely. A faint sheen still catches the light whenever he turns his head. Satisfied, you shift, sliding off his hips and curling into his side instead, tucking yourself against him as his arms close around you. Head resting over his chest, leg draped across his thigh, your fingers trace idle, absent shapes along his skin while you hum contentedly. “You’re very quiet,” you comment, nails scraping lightly over his sternum as you tilt your face up to look at him.
He studies the ceiling for a moment before answering. “I’m always quiet.”
“Not like this.”
(He doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows. There is the silence he wears as an armor. Carved from years of swallowing words so they could not be used against him. The one that makes him efficient. And there is this one. The silence when he is full. When he isn’t waiting for something to go wrong.)
He lowers his gaze back to you and your cheek resting on his heartbeat, looking content, serene. He doesn’t know how to explain aloud the way it is brand-new for him. That right now, in this bedroom, he feels like standing in the aftermath of a storm, realizing that the sky has no intention of collapsing. That Smurf won’t ever be able to ruin this. Before he can try, the quietude is interrupted by a small, unmistakable growl that makes you freeze, blood rushing all along your neck and face. “Pretend that you heard nothing.”
“You’re hungry.”
You peek up at him, an embarrassed smile on your face. “Maybe.”
(Hungry. You made him happy. Held him. Let him sleep. Fed a part of him he didn’t know how to name. Called it ‘make love’. Now you’re hungry. The equation feels simple. You fed his soul. He will feed your body.)
“I’ll make breakfast,” he responds, already moving deftly beneath you and mentally inventorying what’s in the kitchen.
“Andrew, it’s okay. I’m not going to faint if we wait a bit longer.”
“You’re hungry,” he repeats.
Your body slides off his with a reluctant noise, the air cool against his bare skin. He stands up too, taken aback when you cup his jaw and press your mouth to his softly, lingering for a beat. “Morning,” you murmur once more.
His hand goes instinctively to your waist. “Morning.” Pulling away slowly, his fingers trail down before he turns toward the dresser and opens the top drawer, retrieving a pair of black boxers. He steps into them without ceremony in the same quiet ritual he performs every morning.
You, however, ignore your own clothes on the chair entirely. Instead, you reach past him, your bare arm brushing his back in the process, and grab one of his shirts, softened from years of wear and faded in places. You slip it over your head, the fabric falling down your frame and settling just past your hips. Then you bend, unbothered by his staring, and fish out another pair of his boxers, stepping into those as well. He goes very still. You smooth the shirt down over your hips and look up at him innocently. “What?”
“That’s mine.”
You step closer, barefoot against the floor. “Well,” you whisper, hooking one finger into his waistband, tugging him closer by an inch. “Guess we’re sharing now.”
“You can keep it,” he manages to say.
(You can have them. His clothes. His truck. His house. His name. His heart. Lay claim to all of it and he would not protest. Let this be the altar he chooses willingly. Take what is his and make it holy.) “Come on,” he adds quietly.
You narrow your eyes playfully. “You gonna cook?”
“Yes.”
“Eggs?”
“Yes.”
“Sunny side up and not letting the bacon touch it?”
“Yes.”
You beam. “God, I love you.”
──────────
Andrew was fourteen. Smurf called him into her bedroom, not raising her voice. She never needed to, each summon traveling through the walls to his spine. “Baby,” she said when he stepped inside, her smile already in place all bright and practiced. She was sitting at her vanity, brushing out her blond hair, gold bracelets chiming at her wrist while her room smelled like a heavy perfume and cigarette smoke. “Close the door.”
He did. He stood straight, hands at his sides, shoulder squared in the way she liked, waiting. There was a man in town who has been “messing the business,” she told him. A supplier who thought he could shave a percentage off the top and not get noticed. A man who forgot who was running this coast. She said it lightly, like it was gossip, like other mothers might mention a neighbor who borrowed sugar and never returned it.
Andrew listened. “I need you to remind him,” she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror, “that we don’t tolerate disrespect.” She turned on her stool, crossing one leg over the other, studying him like she was appraising a weapon she kept polished and hidden under the bed. “You’re my good boy, right?” she asked gently, tilting her head. He nods. “That’s what I thought.”
They drove together in silence, just the two of them. She didn’t explain much more. She didn’t have to. He knew what ‘remind him’ meant. The man was waiting behind a storage unit near the marina, pacing, already defensive when he saw Smurf step out of her car with her oversized sunglasses. “Janine,” he started. “We can talk about this.”
She didn’t even look at him, just at Andrew, her Pope. A slight tilt of her chin and that’s all it took before he stepped forward. The first hit was almost anticlimactic, just a fist to the gut that folded the man in half with a startled wheeze. The second was harder. The third started to make him bleed. There was shouting: from the man, from the seagulls overhead, from somewhere far away. But not from Pope. He knew where to hit to make it hurt, to keep someone conscious long enough to understand what was happening to them. Knew how to stop just short of permanent damage because that was what Smurf preferred: a pain that lasted, a reminder to not fuck with the Cody family. The man went down and Andrew followed. Another strike. And another.
His whole world narrowed down to the impacts and the dull satisfaction of the noise inside his head finally going quiet. When he stopped, the man was bleeding from the mouth, one eye swelling shut, curled on his side in the dust. Andrew stepped back automatically, looking at the ground, waiting.
Smurf approached slowly, heels crunching over the gravel, sunglasses still in place. She crouched beside the man and removed them, folding them neatly before tucking them into her neckline. “You see,” she said conversationally, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hate when people mistake my generosity for weakness.” The man tried to speak but it came out wet. She leaned closer, voice lowering. “If I have to do this again, I will.” Her hand brushed along the man’s lips, wiping away a smear of blood with her thumb before deliberately smudging it across his cheek. “And next time,” she added, almost fondly, “my boy won’t stop where he did.” She looked up at Andrew with a radiant smile. “My guard dog is very loyal. Aren’t you baby?”
“Yes.”
Smurf stood, brushing dust from her clothes. “Let’s go,” she said lightly. On the drive home, she hummed along to a cheerful tune on the radio, reaching over to squeeze Andrew’s thigh. “You did good,” she told him. The words felt like a reward, not yet understanding that his mother was building him brick by brick.
Back at the house, Julia was on the couch, Craig perched on her lap and trying to read his first book. She looked up when they entered. Her eyes flicked briefly to Andrew’s knuckles, already reddening, then to Smurf. She didn’t ask questions. She never did. Andrew washed his hands in the kitchen sink, the water running pink for a few seconds before clearing. He scrubbed harder than necessary, until the skin stung. He didn’t comprehend why he felt like he needed to erase his bones.
That night, Smurf kissed his mouth before bed. “My protector,” she whispered.
He lay awake long after the house went quiet, staring at the ceiling, replaying the afternoon and the man’s face. The sound of the bone cracking under his skin. The way the noise in his head had gone silence when he was hitting. Smurf’s hand on his thigh in the car, how she had called him good.
He wondered if that was what love felt like.
──────────
You follow him into the kitchen clothed in nothing but his shirt and your smug smile. The fabric hangs loosely around your waist, collar falling just enough to expose the dim constellation of marks he left along your neckline that you make no attempt to conceal.(no, you’re too pleased of them. that’s why you picked this precise shirt. if he can walk around with your lip-gloss smeared on his mouth and chest, you can fucking parade. fair is fair.)
Andrew moves through the kitchen, already absorbed on his task. He opens the refrigerator, takes out the bacon and the carton of eggs, lining four of them up on the counter in a straight row before he even grabs the pan. You lean against the doorway and simply observe. There’s something nearly ritualistic about the way he acts, hitting each egg on the exact unchanged spot on the post. Same slant, same pressure.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
The shells go neatly into the trash, before he rapidly rinses his fingers under the faucet and dries them thoroughly. The pan gets on the stove, the flame adjusted with precision and lowered right before he adds oil, bottle back into the cabinet the instant he’s done with it.
(the more you spend time with him, the more you realize this isn’t just preference. it’s what makes him feel balanced, structured. he likes knowing where things are. that they go back where they belong. that the fridge door closes all the way. that the seal gets checked with an extra push. lining up objects seems to line up his mind.)
You step near him silently, acknowledging the invisible bubble he’s created around the stove. You grab plates and forks from the cupboard, adding paper towels to the pile because you already know he’ll want them and arranging everything on the table. He doesn’t speak while he cooks. But you can distinguish that silence now and how it’s not dismissal or detachment, he is simply…in it. Entirely absorbed in the task: spacing the bacon strips evenly on the separated pan so they don’t overlap, adapting the heat, glancing back at the eggs to make sure the whites set properly.
You place your hip against the counter, tilting your head to watch him.
(he looks outrageously domestic like that. barefoot, making breakfast without being asked. how andrew cody went from ex-convict and criminal to husband of the year is still beyond you. but you know better than to complain.)
(also: you’re still a bit glad he hasn’t brought up the wedding dress comment from last night. not that you’re scared. fuck no, you’d marry him yesterday if you could. but this little bubble you’re in right now? you love it.)
And the worst part about the whole breakfast-making thing? He is doing it in nothing but his boxers. Back broad, shoulders eased, curls still mussed from sleep. You don’t hesitate. You step closer and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades, your hands flattening on his stomach. He stiffens for half a second at the contact before relaxing. You start drawing kisses along his spine and going upward, until your mouth discovers the spot just behind his ear, making him inhale sharply. “You’re distracting,” he murmurs.
“Oh, am I?” you hum against his skin, utterly unapologetic, fingertips stroking the edge of his boxers.
“Careful,” he stammers, glancing down at the stove. “Hot pan.”
“Mm.” You press another kiss on the same spot watching, delighted, goosebumps ripple across his shoulders. “Seems under control to me.”
The bacon pops abruptly in the pan. Before you even register it, his hand drops to your hip, determined and instinctive, nudging you a few inches to the other side of his body without disrupting the movement of his other hand flipping the bacon. You blink. (oh. okay. that’s actually…hot. you don’t know which 101 boyfriend class he took but it’s definitely not the same one the rest of the male population attended.)
You settle again, undeterred, resting your chin on his shoulder so you can observe what he’s doing. His forearms make most of the work, flexing with each maneuver of the spatula under his freckled skin, making it particularly tough to concentrate on anything remotely close to breakfast.
(you might be drooling a little.)
“You know I’m a grown woman, right?” you whisper after a moment.
“Oil pops,” he answers simply, the bacon snapping again to illustrate his point. “Wouldn’t want you to get burn.”
“And…you can’t?”
He shrugs. “I don’t mind it.”
Your fingers, which had been resting loosely at his waistline, start tracing patterns along his stomach with the lightest drag of your pads, refusing to utter another word to this sentence. (you don’t ever want to know why he wouldn’t mind getting burnt. you’ve seen enough of the scars scattered across him to understand that pain is an aspect of his life he learned to accept long before you ever met him.)
He lifts the eggs cautiously with the spatula, sliding them onto the plates with precision so the yolks remain perfectly intact. Same with the bacon, arranged neatly beside them. You step away, retreating to the table so he can have the space to finish his ritual: the stove knob turned off and checked twice, the pan moved to the sink, the quick wipe of the stovetop. Only then does he turn toward you, plates in hand. And suddenly, you grasp that this whole breakfast is him trying. You can see it in the small frown carved between his eyebrows and the tremor in his hands as he sets the plates down on the table like he’s afraid of ruining the moment.
He loves you. Truly. Yes, he told you so last night but that was mid-sex. This, is different. Just him, you and the certainty landing heavy in your chest: Andrew Cody would burn the entire world, including himself if it meant protecting you. (probably not the right moment to tell him you’d do the same. ready to burn and destroy whoever attempts to rip Andrew away from you. which is insane considering you’ve never punched anyone in your life. you’ve seen the guns the Cody brothers keep hidden in the house. never dared touch them. wouldn’t even know where the safety is. still. you would figure something out.)
“Eat,” he orders gently.
“Aye aye, sir,” you reply enthusiastically, your fork going straight into his plate to rob a piece of bacon.
He pauses halfway through sitting down beside you, brows furrowing like he’s struggling to understand the reasoning behind this. “You…you have bacon.”
“I know,” you say brightly, biting into it anyway and chewing with exaggerated satisfaction while keeping your eyes on his face. “Yours tastes way better.”
He studies you for a second longer, still frowning in pure confusion. Then, instead of protesting, he quietly pushes his plate a few inches to the side towards you. The gesture is tentative and careful, like offering without fully knowing if he’s doing it right. You open your mouth to tell him it’s not necessary, that it was just teasing, that he doesn’t have to surrender his breakfast for this but before the words come out, he picks up his fork and reaches over, stealing one of your own pieces.
You lean back in your chair, observing him with growing amusement as he attempts to act casual about it. Trying very, very hard. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, probably comparing this moment with the way his brothers are around the people they see. But Craig wouldn’t even be here right now. No, he would send the girl home before breakfast while Deran would act like this whole thing was effortless without the intent of calling back. Andrew looks like he’s carefully following instructions from a manual he doesn’t quite understand. And that’s infinitely better. “Good?” you ask.
He swallows. “Yeah.”
“Better from my plate?” A pause. He nods once, more confidently this time. “Wow, look at you.”
“What?”
“Sharing the germs and all,” you tease.
He looks down at the food, then back you. “I don’t mind your germs.”
You try to hide your grin, but it still creeps across your face as you sneak another bite of his bacon, which he retaliates with a mouthful of yours. You gasp, pointing your fork at him in mock outrage. “Now careful mister, if it’s war you want, war you’ll have.”
“You started it.” His voice is calm, but there’s laughter in his eyes. The stiffness in his shoulders loosens, the crease between his brows fades, his movements stop being so cautious. You can see it happening in real time. He’s relaxing. And you realize, seeing him like this, that he’s learning. Learning how to be Andrew.
Your foot nudges his under the table. “I think we’re good at this.”
“At what?”
You gesture between the two of you with your fork. “This.” He follows the motion with his eyes: the table, the plates, your leg brushing his under the table. Something softer settles in his expression, a small grin forming just enough for the dimples to appear.
“Yeah.”
And the thing is…the smile doesn’t fade. Not when the plates slowly empty. Not when you both linger at the table afterward, your legs tangled beneath it while you ramble about work, Andrew listening like every word matters. He barely interrupts, just the occasional quiet “yeah,” or a small nod, his hands resting on his thighs while his eyes drift between your face and your hands as they move when you talk. And every time you catch that smile still there, your brain goes stupid. (seriously, it should be illegal for a man like him to smile like that while you monologue about someone trying to pay in Canadian dollars.)
The smile stays. And it’s still there when you take his hand and tug him toward the bathroom, still there when it fills with steam, still there when the two of you step beneath the spray of the shower, warm water trickling over your shoulders as your bodies naturally find their way into each other’s space. You reach for the bottle of soap resting on the shelf and squeeze some in your palm. “Turn around,” you murmur.
He does without hesitation, your request apparently carrying more weight than you thought. Your hands move slowly, working the lather over his warm skin, a small sound escaping Andrew’s lips as your palms glide down the length of his arms and over the muscles that flex instinctively beneath your touch. He leans into the contact without realizing it, another whimper coming out when your thumbs press tenderly into the knots near his shoulder blades. You shift around his sides now, soap trailing paths across his ribs and stomach. He watches your face the entire time. Like he still can’t quite believe you’re here.
He lets you wash him completely without protest. And when you reach for the shampoo bottle next, he tilts his head forward automatically, the gesture so instinctive it almost makes you kiss him against the glass wall. Instead, you pour a little of the content into your hand and work it into his curls, massaging his scalp. Andrew’s shoulders drop immediately. “You have really nice hair,” you murmur.
He opens one eye halfway. “…Yeah?”
“Mhm.” Your thumbs circle slowly near the base of his skull. “Very nice curls.” Another hum escapes him. “And you’re being very good right now.” His breath stutters faintly at that. You conceal a smile, rinsing the shampoo out and guiding the water through his hair until the foam disappears fully. “You’re doing great,” you add softly.
His eyes stay shut. Like he’s storing the words somewhere deep inside himself. Once you’re done, he reaches for the soap. “Come here.” His movements are slower than yours, but there’s a tenderness to them that makes your chest sting a little. His palms travel across your back, down your arms, over your sides. Every touch deliberate, every inch of skin treated like worth remembering. “You smell good,” he whispers.
“That’s your soap. Are you complimenting yourself right now?” you laugh.
His mouth twitches. “Maybe.” The kiss that follows is clumsy with water and bubbles, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Eventually, you both step out, wrapping yourselves in clean towels as the steam continues to fog the mirror and moving around the bathroom in the awkward dance of two people sharing this type of space for the first time. Andrew opens the cabinet, pulling out a toothbrush from a sealed pack and holding out to you without a word.
“Mine?” He nods once. All done, the brushes go into the same cup, side by side, his red against your green. You stare at them for a second. “How about we watch something?” you suddenly ask.
“What?”
You shrug, nudging your hip against his. “Heard there was some new documentary on Nat Geo, sounds good to you?” For a second he just looks at you. The dimples follow quickly after.
“Sounds good.”
──────────
A week after meeting his brothers, Craig had texted you to ‘come by’, which in his language apparently meant ‘there will be fifty people there and we will all end up hopping in the pool fully clothed or fully naked’. You showed up with a six-pack you could barely afford on a barista wage and the vague understanding that this was purely how friendship with Craig worked: loud, chaotic and a little intense.
Someone had dragged speakers into the backyard, shitty music blasting from them while people you didn’t know were everywhere: on the patio, inside the house, perched along the edge of the pool with their feet in the water. Craig spotted you instantly. “Yo, there she is!” he shouted from a lounge chair, jumping up and crossing the yard in three long strides, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you straight off the ground.
You almost dropped the six-pack. “Craig!” you yelped, laughing as your feet dangled helplessly before he set you back down.
“You made it!” he smiled, already thieving a beer from you. “Can’t believe you got out of your cave, doll. How does it feel to be human again?”
“Hey, hey,” you whispered to Craig, curling your finger to beckon him closer. “How about you shut it, doll. Some of us have real jobs.”
“Oh, she’s feisty tonight!” he exclaimed, completely unaffected, taking a long swing of the liquor. “I like this version of you.”
“You like every version of me as long as they bring alcohol,” you shot back.
“True.” He slung an arm over your shoulders and dragged you through the backyard crowd to the side of the house where a ladder was placed against the wall. “Gonna jump from up there,” he announced proudly, already planting one foot on the first rung. “Good luck kiss?”
“In your dreams, Craig,” you snorted, shaking your head.
He threw his hair back dramatically. “Cold. Absolutely fucking cold. If I die, you’ll have it on your conscience, doll.”
“And I’ll be so sad,” you replied, wiping fake tears. “Now get climbing, Craigo.”
He didn’t demand further encouragement. Within seconds he was up the ladder, beer bottle somehow still in hand, several people in the yard beginning to notice what was happening. “Craig’s on the roof!” someone shouted, a cheer rising instantly while you stepped back near the edge of the pool, folding your arms. (these men are idiots. nice and funny, yes. but also idiots.no doubt who the middle child was.)
He downed the rest of the drink and tossed it away, launching himself off the roof with absolutely no hesitation. He hit the water hard, drenching everyone standing nearby, including you, who jumped back with a startled sound as cold water sprayed over your legs. Craig resurfaced in the middle of the pool, triumphant.
And that was when you sensed it. That strange pull of attention where your neck felt warm before you knew why. You turned your head to see Andrew, standing near the back door of the house. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t cheering or drinking. His arms hung slackly at his sides, shoulders still and his posture rigid compared to everyone else around him. He felt like a rock in the middle of the current. And his eyes…they were on you. Not the pool or Craig. You. The moment your eyes met his, there was a shift in his expression, like he realized you had caught him staring. For a split second, you expected him to look away. He didn’t. You broke eye contact first. (don’t look back, don’t look back. be cleverer than that.)
A few seconds passed before Craig returned alongside you, dripping water and grabbing another bottle from a cooler. “Hey,” you said quietly enough for only him to hear.
“Sup?”
“Your…brother. He’s been looking at me.”
Craig peered at his brother, still at the same place, still watching. He shrugged. “Yeah, that’s just Pope.”
You frowned. “He’s not partying.”
“Doesn’t really do that.”
“No drinking either?”
Craig took a sip from his bottle. “Nah.”
You studied Andrew once more, how he hadn’t shifted an inch even as several people squeezed past him, smoking weed and laugh-tripping. “Is he always like that?” you asked.
“Pretty much.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Got a little worse after prison though.”
You blinked. “Prison?” Craig nodded. “For what?”
Craig waved his hand vaguely. “Some…thing. Look, my bro’s weird, ‘kay? Always has been, always will. You’ll get used to it.”
Later that night, you got home a little buzzed.
The quiet of your apartment felt disturbing after the anarchy of the Cody’s house. You stumbled into bed, tossing onto one side, then the other, incapable of erasing Andrew’s eyes from your mind. You ended up looking at the ceiling. (this was so stupid.)
After a few minutes, you sat up abruptly. Your laptop sat on the small desk across the room. You hesitated for maybe three seconds before swinging your legs out of bed and padding across the floor. The screen glowed in the darkness when you opened it. You sat down slowly, fingers hovering above the keyboard.
(you are absolutely not doing this.)
A pause.
(okay, you are absolutely doing this.)
You typed before you could talk yourself out of it.
Andrew Cody.
The results appeared instantly, but most of them were boring: property records, a few local mentions about a skatepark in town. You clicked one, nothing useful. Another, still nothing. Then, a small article from 2013 popped halfway down the page. The headline was short.
Local Man Sentenced in Robbery Case
Your stomach tightened as you read the whole thing: Andrew D. Cody, 36, had been sentenced to six years in Folsom State Prison following a robbery involving multiple suspects. Authorities confirmed that no weapons were used during the incident. Three accomplices have not yet been identified, if you have informa-
You shut your laptop before finishing the sentence, leaning back in your chair and staring at nothing. Folsom. Robbery. Six years. (you had heard of Folsom. even people who had never been near a prison knew that name. one of the worst prisons in the state. maybe the country. you had read enough over the years to know that prisoners there were packed like animals and treated like even less. that men coming in were getting out…as someone else.)
Your brain tried to reconcile the information with the image of the quiet man in the doorway watching you like the rest of the room didn’t exist. Six years. (he probably got out before. that happened, right? good behavior, reduced sentences…not that you would ask him. god, no. ‘hey andrew, quick question, I googled you and saw you went to prison, care to elaborate?’. yeah, great opener.)
You pushed yourself up from the chair and walked back toward the bed. The apartment felt so much smaller and quieter suddenly. You slid under the covers, staring up at the ceiling again. Folsom. Six years. Robbery. Three accomplices. (you were sure you could guess two of them.)
The article lingered somewhere at the edge of your mind, but it wasn’t what kept you awake. No, it was the image that kept returning vividly of Andrew Cody, standing there, and looking at you like he had been doing it for much longer than just this evening. And the strange realization that the thought didn’t scare you nearly as much as it probably should have.
──────────
“Andrew! Look!”Your voice cuts through the noise of the skatepark like sunlight breaking through clouds, all bright and excited and utterly impossible for a weak man like Andrew to ignore. Not that you need to call for his attention. He is always watching. His vision is beginning to blur at the edges, the lack of blinking drying his eyes, but he refuses to look away.
(He doesn’t care. He can’t. He has been attempting to blink as little as possible the past one thousand six hundred and twenty seconds. He counts your pushes on the board. One. Two. Three. He doesn’t like three. Odd numbers feel unfinished and crooked. But he refrains from asking to do just one more for his peace of mind.)
You turn near the edge of the bowl, wheeling along the lip instead of dropping in.
(Not yet. But he knows you. Knows the obstinate woman you are. Soon enough you’ll want to try it.)
You roll back to him, your face catching the light, his attention moving to the line above your eyebrow. The stitches he removed a few days ago left only a pale mark, hardly noticeable unless someone knew where to look. He knows and tracks it instinctively. He remembers standing in your bathroom with tweezers, his heart pounding harder than it ever had throughout the jobs, delicately snipping the thread and pulling each stitch free. You had sat on the edge of the sink, observing him patiently, a warmness blooming inside his chest the entire time. You hadn’t been worried, not even a little. Just calm and trustful that he would not mess it up, that he would take care of your fragile skin.
(He still recalls each stitch. The way the skin had opened when you tumbled. The blood. The sound. He still hears it sometimes. Replays it when he wants to punish himself. To remember that you will carry that scar on your face forever because he was too slow. Too far away. Too…)
“I think I’m getting better! What do you think?” Your voice pulls him back. You’ve rolled to a stop in front of him, one foot to the ground, the other still resting on the board, face a shade deeper from the effort and the sun.
“You’re good,” he replies, remembering Craig’s advice ‘You gotta speak, man. Chicks don’t like dating a brick wall’ and how he had patted his back after saying it. Andrew had taken notes. “Very good. I’m…proud, sweetheart.”
(Did he say it right? Too much? Too little? His brothers had told him a lot of things. Craig had insisted women liked compliments. Deran had just said to bring condoms. Neither of them explained what to do with his hands.)
His palms hover ineptly on the side of his jeans as he studies your face closely.
(Signs of failure. That he is not a good boyfriend. That he said the wrong thing. That his solace will be taken away from him.)
But your grin only broadens, your fingers lifting to your necklace, thumb rubbing along the little heart pendant. Andrew feels his brain short-circuiting a brief instant. The woman he loves, the one he gets to date, the one who chose him, is in front of him, coy, because of what he said. You glance down a moment, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, before looking back up at him through your lashes. “Proud?”
“Yes,” he answers quietly. “You did well.”
“And?”
Andrew blinks. “And…?”
You tilt your head, eyes glinting in amusement. “That’s it?”
“You’re good at…” he clears his throat, suddenly very aware of the heat rising along the back of his neck, “…many things. You’re balanced on the board,” (You understand him wordlessly.) “You’re very…determined.” (Stubborn. Annoyingly so. Especially when you refuse to sleep until he puts his head on your chest.) “And your foot placement is better now.”
Your mouth twitches. “Okay,” you whisper, leaning a little closer. “But if I want a less…skateboarding coach-compliment and more a boyfriend-compliment?” (He thinks of what Craig would say. Immediately discards the idea. Craig’s compliments often involve the words ‘hot’ and ‘bangable’. You deserve more than that. To hear that you are his sun. Warm enough to make him forget the cold places in his head.)
“You look happy,” he replies quietly, studying your face again.
“Well,” you say, almost shy now, “it’s because I am, mister Cody.”
“I…I like seeing you happy.”
Your fingers tighten around the pendant, thumb brushing the little heart again. Andrew is enraptured by the movement. He thinks of that night during the job, when he saw it on the velvet cushion, how small it had looked compared to the diamonds around it. How he had wanted you to have something from him, even if you were not his. (Back when he thought it would just be that. A gift. A thing you might wear occasionally. A thing that would make him feel…closer. Like he left a small mark somewhere in your life without disturbing it too much.)
You continue rocking the board back and forth under your foot, observing him patiently, probably expecting him to continue. Andrew’s mouth opens. Closes again. (There are other things he wants to say. The things he can’t say aloud. How every time he buries himself deep into you, the noise stops. Everything: the ghosts, the shouting, the old memories scratching the inside of his skull, they go silent. And there’s just you. So, he stays there for hours. Until the room grows dark and the only thing he can feel is the rhythm of your fingers running through his hair. How you never complain, never push him away. You even whisper that he’s doing good.)
He clears his throat, trying to come up with words safer to say. But before he can continue, you unexpectedly lean forward and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Maybe…maybe I should go back to skating now,” you whisper.
Andrew nods. “Okay,” and when you start to wheel away, he adds automatically. “I’m watching.”
You turn your head back to him, chuckling. “That, I have no doubt honey.” Then you push off again. (One. Two. Three. Odd. He tries to let it go.)
You ride along the edge of the bowl first, testing your balance before going downward and climbing back up, a little more confident with each pass. He inspects everything: the shift of your weight, the bend of your knees, the corrections you make with your hips when the board wobbles. The rest of the skatepark fades to the edges of his awareness. All he sees is you. (He guards his sun. That’s what it feels like every morning when he wakes up. That the world handed him something impossibly bright and said, ‘don’t let anything happen to it’.)
You slow down after a few more back and forth, coming back to him, sneakers scraping the concrete as the board stops, your eyes sparkling with stubborn pride. “Did you see that! That was good, right?” you ask, breathless. “No longer looking like a total rookie?”
“It was good.”
You lean closer. “Say it again.”
“It was…good?”
Your nose wrinkles with your grin. “No. The other thing.”
Andrew pauses, before it occurs back to him. “I’m proud of you.” Your entire face lights up, and before he can process what’s occurring, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him down into a kiss, right there, in the middle of the skatepark. He still isn’t entirely sure how he ended up in a life where a woman like you embraces him proudly in public, but his freezing state lasts one heartbeat before his palms move to your waist and neck.
Someone whistles nearby, probably one of the teenagers who come up every weekend. Andrew barely hears them, all he registers is you. Your mouth, your breath, the softness of your tongue against his. The way the kiss lingers just a little longer than would be considered appropriate, even in Craig’s standard. When you finally pull back, your foreheads almost touch, your breath mingling with his. “Can we go?”
“Go?” (He is confused. You told him this morning before work that you really wanted to try skating again today. That you needed it after the accident. That you had been thinking about it for days. You’ve barely been here an hour. You don’t want to stay?)
Your fingers slide onto his shirt. “Yeah.” Your voice drops in a low murmur. “Somewhere quieter.”
“You don’t want to skate anymore?” he asks carefully.
You shake your head. “We can go back tomorrow. Let’s drive somewhere.”
“Where do you want to go?” he asks, instantly taking your hand in his and the board in the other.
You lean up, brushing another quick kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Your place, my place…whichever you prefer.”
“The house is closer.” (Seven minutes if traffic is clear. Nine if the light on Mission Avenue is red. Five if he sends laws to hell.)
Your smile curves at that, like you can hear the calculation happening inside his head. “Then the house it is.” Your fingers tighten around his hand, tugging him toward the parking lot, walking faster than before. Fast enough that he has to lengthen his stride to keep up, the skateboard now tucked under his arm. When you reach the car, he opens the passenger door automatically, the movement practiced after the number of times he drives you around. To work, to the grocery store, to the beach, wherever you want him to take you. You climb in, tossing your bag on the floorboard while he walks around and slides the skateboard into the trunk. He takes a second longer than necessary before closing it, just to keep his impatience down. “Hey,” you say after he settles in. “I’m proud of you too, Andy.”
Andy. Andy. Andy. He doesn’t hesitate. His hand moves to the back of your neck and he leans across the space between the seats, not caring about the painful twist of his body it requires from him. Your mouth meets his immediately, like you were waiting for it.
(He is your Andrew. Your honey. Your Andy.)
He counts the sounds he draws out from your lips.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Even number. Better.)
──────────
Moving Craig’s furniture had been a terrible idea. Not because you didn’t want the things. There was a never-used television, a bunch of recent game consoles, speakers that were undoubtedly costing four digits. Those were worth it. When you lived on a barista’s salary, ‘free’ had a kind of beauty that couldn’t be argued with. No, the terrible part had been the lifting.
“Okay,” he had exclaimed thirty minutes earlier while dragging a leather chair down the hallway. “One more trip.” It had not been one more trip. Now, your shirt clung damply to your back, sports shorts sticking unpleasantly to your thighs, and sweat rolling down your temples, which had very likely reached an impressive deeper shade. You didn’t even want to question your current state of odor. Craig looked worse. His shirt had been discarded halfway through transporting the television in his car (which, considering the man, was not that surprising. always a good occasion to remove clothing.), leaving him barefoot in the kitchen, bare-chested and sweaty, his long dark hair tied up roughly. “Man,” he huffed opening the refrigerator and leaning halfway inside it, “want something to eat?”
You wiped the back of your hand across your forehead, realizing just how soaked you truly were. “Yeah, that would be cool.”
He emerged holding food wrapped in plastic. “Here.” You accepted it without question. (you were too hungry and exhausted to be suspicious.)
But the instant you took the first bite, regret struck with immediate and undisputable force: the texture was wrong, the taste even worse. Your brain tried desperately to identify the flavor and fell somewhere between ‘rotten eggs’ and ‘it had once been turkey’. Craig was watching you expectantly. “Great!” you managed with a smile, mouth still full. But your eyes intuitively drifted across the kitchen to land on Andrew, who was at the counter, assembling a sandwich silently, fully absorbed on his task: bread laid out side by side, mayonnaise spread in four slow strokes to cover each slice, cheese trimmed to fit the edges, two slices of ham placed with a vigilant symmetry. (patterns. you realized he liked patterns. or at least that he seemed serene when things followed one.)
Over the past two months you had started noticing things like that: the way he sometimes counted under his breath, the way he lined up objects when he set them down, adjusting them until they felt correct, the way every text he sent ended with ‘Andrew.’ as if you might forget who you were speaking to if he didn’t sign it properly. The way he observed everything around him without ever seeming to move much himself. You had known him just long enough now to stop being intimidated by the silence, to realize it wasn’t emptiness.
Andrew Cody looked still most of the time, but everything was in his eyes. You had seen amusement there, concern, confusion, a gentleness that seemed almost embarrassed to exist. And right now… Right now, he was glancing up at you. Just a second. Enough for his gaze to flick to the food in your hand, then back to your face, reading the desperate plea you mouthed silently, “Help.” The corner of his mouth twitched. It was quick, almost invisible, but unmistakable. And that was all it took. A laugh bubbled up your throat so suddenly you had to bite down on it before it escaped, turning it into something halfway between a cough and a choke.
“You good man?” Craig asked, patting your back. Andrew’s stare traveled to Craig’s hand on your back, watching the gesture before returning his attention to the counter. (you briefly wondered how the hell you got there. how you went from ‘doll’ and ‘sugar’ accompanied by a suggestive smirk and the occasional half-serious invitation to stay the night to…’man’ and ‘bro’ and a thump between the shoulders like you’re part of his crew. the flirting had stopped almost overnight. you thought it might have been the day he saw you and Andrew sitting side by side at the beach, quietly talking and staring out the ocean.)
You nodded quickly, giving Craig a thumbs-up while still trying not to swallow the first bite. “Yeah,” you managed through the mouthful. “Good. Great. Amazing.” (awful. you hate it. you’re fairly certain that death tastes sweeter than this.)
Craig grinned, satisfied. “Knew it.” His phone buzzed loudly on the counter and, glancing at the screen, he muttered. “It’s Renn. Fuck.” He answered as he walked toward the sliding glass door. “Yeah yeah, hold on a sec.” Before stepping outside, he peeked a look at the two of you: you against the counter, Andrew pretending to focus on his sandwich. You could feel the slow smirk spreading across his face when he added, “Don’t eat it all. I want some when I get back.”
“Yeah,” you said immediately, “no problem.” You waited precisely three seconds after the door shut, lunging for the trash. You spat the bite out and rinsed your mouth under the tap before stepping up to the counter, right next to Andrew and his still amused expression. “Andrew. Your brother just tried to kill me.”
“You trusted Craig with food,” he corrected, like that explained the whole thing. (which…sure.)
“Okay, fine,” you conceded with a laugh. “It was suicide.” His expression didn’t change much when his eyes dropped to the sandwich in front of him, staring at it with a frown before reaching for the knife. Slowly, carefully, like everything he seemed to do in life, he cut the sandwich diagonally in half, sliding the plate toward you. “…You serious?” He nodded once, the faint crease between his eyebrows deepening at the idea you might doubt him. “You’re giving me half your sandwich?”
“You…” he took a small breath. “You can have it all if you want.”
(eating the entire sandwich he had just spent twenty minutes assembling? you were sure people could go to hell for less than that.) You shook your head quickly. “No way. Half is perfect.” The first bite made you close your eyes in pure delight, a tiny sound of pleasure escaping your lips treacherously. (okay, hey. would it be really unreasonable to walk up to Craig and say ‘I’m kidnapping your brother to marry him and live off his orgasm-worthy sandwiches forever. Don’t mind?’)
“This is really good,” you said, still chewing. “You just saved my poor empty stomach from starvation and food poisoning.” He didn’t respond, though his shoulders had relaxed. You both ate silently your half of the sandwich, watching each other. (maybe he was doing it out of habit. or maybe that was what made him, him. and you were nothing but a fierce competitor in this silent staring contest. maybe even a little of a cheater.)
You leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, his eyes immediately flicking to the empty plate on the counter. “Thank you,” you murmured. You pulled back with a grin. “It will be our little secret.”
Eyes traveling briefly between you and the glass door where Craig was still talking on the phone outside, Andrew’s voice came lower and rougher than before. “Our little secret.”
──────────
“Isn’t your boyfriend’s name Andrew?”
You’re reasonably confident your head has never snapped up so rapidly in your entire life. You’re still halfway bent over, one arm buried inside a cardboard box of syrup bottles on the floor of the back room, the abrupt motion making you feel dizzy. “Um. Yeah…why?” you reply carefully.
Behind you, Deon and Maira exchange the sort of look people get when they know something you don’t. Which, from experience, is never a good sign. You hastily straighten up, discarding the inventory sheet and dusting your hands on your apron while trying to read their faces. Maira is leaning against the doorway, the sleeves of her hoodie pushed up to the elbows, her smile suspiciously wide. Deon, next to her, his apron no longer tied to his waist, has one elbow casually perched up on her shoulder. “Oh my god,” Maira laughs, nudging him. “It is him!”
“Who is ‘him’?” you ask, attempting your absolute best to keep your voice natural. (no need to panic. or get too excited. this could be nothing. maybe it’s a random customer named Andrew. Andrew is a very common name. there are millions of Andrews. millions. statistically speaking, at least three of them probably exist withing a five-mile radius.)
Deon jerks his chin toward the front of the shop. “There’s guy out there asking for you.”
At those words, your stomach performs an impressive acrobatic trick. “What guy?”
Maira raises an eyebrow. “The postman. He wants to know if you’re free for dinner,” she replies dryly. “Are you listening! The guy you’ve been yapping about for the past, what? Two months? Three?”
Deon interjects. “Think it’s closer to four.”
“…What?”
“Scary,” he responds, counting on his fingers. “Curly hair. Built like a sex god. Very quiet.”
Maira nods enthusiastically. “Yes! And he said your name!”
“Is he…” you clear your throat. “Is he at the counter?” Both of them nod enthusiastically in perfect synchronization. (okay. stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. there’s no need to panic. it’s just…a perfectly normal situation. just a guy whose name is Andrew, who sounds like Andrew and who probably is Andrew.) “How do I look?” you ask, panicked and hands flying to your hair.
“Great,” Deon reassures you, stepping forward to help you rearrange the apron strings that twisted themselves behind your back. “You are gorgeous, you are confident, you have a great ass. All is well!”
“Thanks Dee.”
“You’re welcome, Sponge Cake.” He pats your shoulder. “Now come on May, tell her she’s super hot to impress her man.” Maira snorts but plays along, placing a hand over her heart. “You’re super hot,” she declares flatly. “And he’s gonna fall on his knees when he sees you. Probably gonna ask you to marry him on the spot because of your wonderful brewing technique.”
“That was the least convincing pep talk I’ve heard. And that comprises the day I told my dad I was dropping out of college and he said, ‘as long as you’re happy’.”
“I’m a nursing student!” she exclaims. “My encouragement style is mostly ‘please don’t die’.”
Deon claps his hands. “Okay, now go!” You hesitate a brief instant, aware of your heart pounding intensely once again.
(why are you so nervous? it’s Andrew. your Andrew. you’ve literally seen him naked every day for the past thirty-two days. not that you’re counting. but since you’ve started dating and he realized you were taking the bus, he has so far: picked you up from work. dropped you off at work. waited in the truck outside work.)
Yet Andrew has never crossed the threshold. Which means this is the first time he’s visiting you in your little universe. Your café. Your register. Your apron (that will forever smell like vanilla syrup after you poured half a bottle on it eight months ago).
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “You are gorgeous. You are confident. You’re not gonna fall. It’s gonna be fine.” You push through the swinging door, and there he is. Andrew stands at the counter, hands flat on the wood as he studies the menu board above the expresso machine, eyes proceeding with the lines of drinks and options. And you know, you know, from the stiffness in his shoulders and the tremor in his forearms, that he is struggling not to feel overwhelmed. (eighteen drinks. four milk options. twelve syrups. three sizes. anyone would be.)
“Hi,” you say softly as you step behind the counter.
The moment he hears your voice, his whole face and posture seems to unlock, the tension along his spine easing like a knot untied. “Hi,” he breathes.
“You okay?”
He nods. “Yeah.” His eyes flick between the menu and you. “You have…a lot of options.”
Extending your hand across the counter, the tips of your fingers brush the back of his hand. “It’s okay,” you reassure him. “I don’t know what half of those are.”
That earns the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. His voice drops lower, careful. “Can you make something like what we drink at home?”
The word ‘home’ lands deep in your chest. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Of course. What size?”
Andrew hesitates. It’s subtle, but you recognize the signs instantly: the dim flare of his nose, the way his jaw clenches when he feels like he’s taking too long to respond. “…Normal?”
“Okay. Normal it is,” you smile, grabbing the medium cup and walking up to the machine, letting the familiar routine settle your hand. (you’re fine. totally fine. your boyfriend just casually used ‘we’ and ‘home’ in the same sentence. no need to cry right now.)
Behind the swinging door that separates the back room from the counter, you can feel Deon and Maira trying to eavesdrop. You hear the sound of their shoes squeak against the tile and their whispers. You ignore them and grab the black marker near the register. Technically, you’re supposed to write the customer’s name. Just the name and nothing else. Your hand hesitates a brief instant above the cup. The first letter is the toughest to write, heart thumping so loudly you’re convinced Andrew can hear it. You continue nonetheless.
Honey
The word sits there in your handwriting: the real one, not the usual rushed barista scrawl. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you add a small heart next to it. One beat. It’s how long you stare at it before sliding the cup under the machine.
Behind you, Andrew clears his throat. “Oh my god, yes. Sorry,” you stammer, turning back to him. “I swear I’m not usually this...”
“Am I bothering you?” he asks suddenly. Your head snaps up. His hands have clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff. “I can go if you want.”
“No!” you exclaim, startling him. You clear your throat, trying to regain some composure. “No, I’m very happy to see you here. I’m just surprised. The good kind, I promise.”
The small exhale coming out of him is endearing, like he expected your reply to be yes, to reject him from this side of your life. Like he doesn’t know that every part of it has been making space for him since the moment he walked into it. He shifts his weight, gesturing toward the pastry display. “Can I also…get one of those?”
Your eyes follow his finger to the glass. “Yeah, of course!”
“That one, please,” he whispers.
You lean back to see that he’s pointing at the cinnamon roll. “Okay, perfect. And…do you want that for here or to go?” you ask, punching the order into the register.
He glances around the shop, taking in the small tables, the windows looking out onto the street, the student typing. “For here. Please.”
Before you can move, the swinging door bursts open, Deon sliding behind the counter like he hasn’t been listening to the entire conversation. “Got it,” he intervenes, grabbing the metal tongs and placing the roll on a small plate. “Deon,” he adds, offering a hand across the counter. “I work with this one.”
Andrew hesitates, the gears in his head turning and certainly going: germs – counter - stranger. He shakes it anyway. “Andrew.”
“Oh, I know,” Deon laughs, shaking his head. “Trust me I know.” (how about poisoning your coworker’s coffee?)
The tray gets filled with his drink and plate, Andrew’s gaze dropping to the cup, fingers turning it until the word you wrote rotates into view. Honey. For a moment he doesn’t budge. His eyes stay there, on the letters, undoubtedly checking twice their existence. The corner of his mouth twitches. He picks it up guardedly, like it contains something fragile. It’s the only thing he takes from the tray. Checking briefly on Deon, who is suddenly incredibly invested in reorganizing a stack of napkins, Andrew clears his throat. “It’s…” he murmurs, sliding the tray containing the plate back to you.
“What?”
“It’s for you.”
You stare at the plate, then at him. “For me?”
“You didn’t eat a lot at lunch.”
“So…you bought me food?” The faint frown in between his eyebrows returns. You recognize it now: how his brain is probing the moment for mistakes. How it must loop the same questions. Did he misinterpret something? Was that incorrect? Did he embarrass you? Before the worry has time to grow roots, you add, “Thank you.”
The change is immediate, the words fully settling in: his shoulders loosening, his whole expression softening and his breathing quieting. He nods once, picking up the cup and stepping away from the counter like someone trying not to disrupt a carefully balanced structure and chooses the table by the window. Not because it’s comfortable. Because it faces the door. You know that instinct, he told you about it once, late at night, when you asked him about his scars. He doesn’t pull out his phone to scroll or check the time, no, just sits there, looking out at the street, where nothing interesting ever happens: just a bookstore, a florist and a bank. Deon bumps your shoulder. “Go talk to him.”
“I’m working.”
“So what? The guy came here to see you! And don’t tell me it’s just to drink cause who in their right mind pays four dollars for a black coffee?”
Maira pushes the door open with her hip and grabs you by the shoulders. “Put on your big girl pants,” she says warningly. “We got the counter.”
You look at the two of them then back at Andrew. Who hasn’t moved. Still watching the street and holding the cup and waiting. You grab the roll and walk toward the table, where Andrew looks up at you when you slide into the chair next to him. Not startled. More like…a man who sensed you getting closer. He is still holding the cup, his thumb brushing the edge of the little heart. “Hey,” you say softly, tearing off a piece of the roll. “What are you looking at?”
“The street.”
Your smile creeps back. “Why?”
He takes a slow sip of coffee before replying. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“You.”
“But…” you’re pretty sure your brain stutters, “I finish in an hour.”
“I know.”
“You’re gonna sit here an hour?”
He nods calmly. “Yes.” (I love you, I love you, I love you.)
“That’s ridiculous,” you whisper, resting your hand on his thigh under the table.
That earns you a tilt of his head. “Why?”
“Because you could go home.”
Andrew considers the idea for a split second. You can witness the thought across his face before he shakes his head. “I like being here.”
You gesture vaguely around the café. “This place is boring.”
But Andrew is not looking at it, just you, one hand still around the coffee, the other traveling to yours on his thigh and lacing them together. “No,” he says quietly. “It isn’t.”
──────────
Andrew was eight. Sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet with a plastic bowl of marbles spread out in front of him, Andrew was not playing with them, no, he was sorting them.
(Green in one row. Blue in another. Then yellow. Clear ones last. One. Two. Three. Four.)
He arranged them cautiously along the dark lines of the carpet pattern, making sure each marble touched the next but did not roll away. That was the best thing he had discovered so far, through trial and error, to ease the pressure in his rib cage without breaking anything. Across the room, the television aired a movie Smurf had left running before walking out with a man. On the screen, someone screamed while another man bled on the floor, gunshots cracking every few seconds in the empty house. Smurf said it was important to see how things worked. Julia sat beside him with her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on them. But she wasn’t watching the movie. Her focus was set on him.
“Andy,” she said quietly. He didn’t answer, too busy adjusting a marble that had rolled too far from the others. “Andy.” He glanced up. His twin sister’s hair was knotted, falling into her eyes. In moments like this, she appeared older than eight, an old soul that had seen too much of the world and how rotten it might be for kids like them. “Remember the pool?” Of course he remembered. How Smurf had laughed when the boy called him weird, how she leaned down and purred in his ear to show him what happened to people who said things like that. The water had been cold and the boy’s hair slippery in Andrew’s hands. He could still hear the screams when the head went under: the kid’s voice bubbling into the water, Julia shouting behind him, Smurf laughing somewhere above it all. How he hadn’t felt anything but the sense that he was doing what he had been told. “That was bad,” Julia whispered.
Andrew studied the row of green marbles. “Smurf said it was fine.”
“Smurf says lots of things.” From down the hallway came the cry of a baby, small enough that the sound was weak and uneven, the sound of a being that had not yet understood that his mother would never answer. Julia shook her head, anger flashing across her small face. “She didn’t even check on him.”
Andrew stood, feet carrying him to the nursery room and the baby’s noise growing louder with every step. Craig lay in the crib with his tiny face scrunched and red, fists waving helplessly through the air. His cries calmed the moment Andrew leaned over the rail, climbing onto the lower run to lift him carefully. He tried to hold him the way he had witnessed people do in the hospital when Smurf brought the baby home: one arm under the body and the other supporting the back of his head. Craig quieted almost immediately, the howling breaking into small hiccups as he pressed his cheek against Andrew’s shirt.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Andrew swayed him. He wasn’t sure if he did the right thing. All he knew was that Craig cried. Crying meant sadness. He didn’t want his baby brother to be sad.)
“He loves you,” Julia murmured from the doorway, watching them. Andrew looked down at the baby. Craig’s tiny fingers clung to the fabric of his shirt, innocent eyes fixed on him with the absolute trust only babies possessed: a love that came easily and without question, unaware of the faults in the person it chose.
(Andrew loved him too. If someone hurt his brother, he would hurt them back. He already knew how to punch. How to break. How to make someone bleed. For the people he loved, he could learn how to do worse.)
“We should leave,” she said suddenly.
Andrew looked up. “Leave where?”
“Anywhere! Somewhere that isn’t here.”
He stared at his brother once again, at the small hand gripping his shirt. “Smurf would be mad.”
“She’s already mad all the time!” Julia stepped further into the room, her voice dropping to a whisper like the house itself might be listening. “She makes you do things. Bad things.”
(The pool. The boy under the water. Smurf laughing. Smurf laughing. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted Craig’s hiccups.)
“I saw the bus station when she drove past it last week,” she continued softly. “People leave there. They go to different towns.” Andrew attempted to picture it: a bus, a road, a place where Smurf wasn’t. Where nobody praised and applauded when someone drowned. His brother had fallen asleep, warm and heavy in his arms. Andrew contemplated taking him. “He can’t come,” Julia spoke quietly, as if she had overheard the thought. “He’s too small.” Andrew couldn’t answer.
Later, Julia discovered a backpack in the hallway closet and stuffed it with the things that seemed important: crackers from the kitchen, two apples, a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and a twenty-dollar bill she had hidden weeks ago under her bed. Andrew folded Craig’s baby blanket and slipped it inside. His twin sister didn’t ask why. They departed after midnight. The house was silent then, the television finally dark and Smurf still gone someplace with a man whose name Andrew did not know. Outside, the night air was chilly and Andrew instantly held onto Julia’s hand to walk down the street.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the cracks in the pavement.)
Julia kept whispering about plans animatedly. “Maybe we can stay near the ocean! Or somewhere with trees. Or a big city. Andrew listened but kept counting. The bus station waited under a buzzing yellow light, making them both halt when they reached it “We did it.”
(His sister sounded happy. But the world felt too large here. Too open. One. Two. Three. Four.)
And then, abruptly, the way most vile things in Andrew’s life occurred, he heard a resounding noise inside his head: Craig crying, alone in the crib. Andrew felt frozen on the spot. Julia turned toward him. “What?” Andrew stared back down the street they had come from.
(Craig was still there. Craig couldn’t climb out of the crib. Couldn’t open doors. Couldn’t stop crying if nobody came. Sad. Sad. Sad.)
“He’s alone,” he managed to reply.
Julia’s face crumpled. “We’ll come back for him later.” Andrew imagined that.
(Craig waiting. The crying. The empty house. Smurf leaving him there. Sad. Sad. Sad.)
He shook his head, his voice quiet but unmovable. “No. He’s our brother.”
Julia shut her eyes, seeming very small all of the sudden. “Okay.”
The walk back was silent, but Andrew counted every step of it. The house waited at the end of the street, looking exactly the same as when they had left it. But something had changed. Because now, Andrew understood what he hadn’t before.
The house was not a house.
It was a mouth.
And they were walking back into the place that would swallow them both whole.
──────────
Two weeks after he came to the café, you understand.
Why Andrew chose the table by the window. Why he sat facing the street instead of the wall. Why his eyes kept drifting to the street. At the time you supposed it was just one of his habits, one more quirk among the many you had started noticing and loving: the way he aligned every product in the bathroom until the labels faced the same direction, the way he checked door locks twice before bed. It could have been caution, or anxiety, or something he learned in prison.
Now you know. The television hums in the living room, Friends playing to an audience of exactly one person: you. The house is dim except for the light of the screen, your feet tucked beneath you on the couch, an empty mug resting on the coffee table and your hands hiding inside the pocket of Andrew’s hoodie. (he said they’d be back before midnight. it is way past midnight.)
The issue with loving a man like Andrew Cody is feigning ignorance. Because you know. Not everything, never everything, but enough. “The less you know, the safer you are from the cops.” They have repeated that sentence to you so many times it has practically become a household rule, a silent pact that exists between the four of you like an invisible line across the floor: you don’t cross into their world and they try, as much as they can, to keep it from touching yours.
You respect that. Mostly. But knowing something in theory is not the same as sitting alone in a quiet house while the clock moves closer and closer to one in the morning. Not when the man you love is out there in the city doing a dangerous job. You hide your hands into the sleeves of the hoodie you borrowed weeks ago and never gave back. You will, you keep telling yourself. When it won’t smell like him anymore. When it will just be you left on it. (he swore he’d come back.)
And the way he said it had been so quiet, so certain, that you believed him. Because Andrew rarely promises things. You had been standing in the kitchen, making your coffee and pretending to be much calmer than you really were when he stepped closer, his hands finding your waist. “Hey,” he murmured.
You recall smiling a little. “Were you staring at me again?”
His thumbs brushed lightly against your sides. “I like looking at you.”
You reached up and adjusted the collar of the fake security uniform he had pulled on for the night. “Just come back to me.”
And when he pressed a kiss to your forehead, and whispered back, “I will,” you trusted him. (he promised.)
The television audience bursts into laughter the moment you catch it: the metallic click of a key turning in the front door. Your head snaps toward the sound. For a brief second, your brain refuses to process what your ears are telling you, the moment stretching oddly long as the laugh track from the show continues behind you, bright and oblivious to the sudden rush of panic in your chest. But the handle really turns and your body moves before your mind catches up, feet dropping from the couch to the floor as you stand quickly, relieved.
It’s sharp and immediate, your lungs remembering how to breathe because they’re back. Andrew came back. Craig comes in first, loud as always, carrying two heavy black duffel bags slung over his shoulders. Deran follows close behind him, halfway through dismantling one of their guns, hands still gloved. “Jesus Christ, that was close man, I can’t…” Craig stops mid-sentence when he notices you in the middle of the living room, the expression crossing his face quick but unmistakable: guilt. It sits on him awkwardly, like he tried to wipe it off before walking in but didn’t quite manage. “Hey.” (you don’t like that face. you don’t want to know why there’s guilt there. you only want one thing.)
“Hey,” you reply, but your eyes move past them, searching for the last brother entering the house. Andrew closes the door cautiously behind him, one hand remaining against the wood for a beat. And another. Something about that slight pause, the way he stays there, shoulders hunched and breathing heavy, sends a thread of unease to crawl down your spine. He looks…wrong. Your brain begins detecting details faster now: the arm close to his side, the way he moves slower than his brothers, the curls damp and sticky to his forehead. The unnatural paleness of his face. (don’t panic. if you panic he’ll shut down.)
Craig and Deran are already proceeding through the house, vanishing down the hallway to stash the bags and weapons in places the cops, or even you, will never find. But Andrew doesn’t follow. He takes two steps into the living room, passing by you without registering your presence. Then three. His hand reaches out, gripping the arm of the couch like he abruptly needs something solid to hold onto. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. “Honey?”
He lifts his head when he hears your voice, turning back to you. For a moment, his eyes don’t quite focus. His breathing remains wrong, too shallow and uneven. But he forces a soft expression onto his face anyway. “Hey,” he murmurs.
You step closer, freezing when you distinguish it: the dark stain spreading across the side of his shirt. You always knew it would happen one day. But it’s always ‘one day’ until it becomes ‘today’. The blood is darker than you anticipated, almost black under the dim light, soaking slowly through the cotton of his uniform. Andrew notices where your eyes went, hand travelling instinctively to press against his side, attempting to cover it. Your throat tightens. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” (of course.)
He lowers himself onto the couch with careful control. Except you are watching closely enough to see the truth: his jaw clenching when he sits, his breath catching halfway through. Your feet move before you can stop them, kneeling in front of him. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Andrew,” you reply, calm and firm, leaving no room for discussion. “Move your hand.”
He hesitates. You see the instinct fighting inside him: endure it, downplay it, pretend it isn’t happening. You lean closer, lowering your voice. “Move your hand. Or I will move it for you.” His eyes search your face for several seconds before he exhales through his nose and lets his hand drop from his side. The cotton of the uniform is soaked along his ribs. Your stomach flips again, but you swallow it down as you reach for the hem of his shirt again. “Okay. Good. You’re doing good. Now, lift your arms.” It isn’t loud, but it’s unmistakably an order. You feel guilty for doing this, but you know that Andrew Cody has spent most of his life obeying commands and that he will follow yours too. He lifts his arms just enough for you to peel the shirt up and see the wound beneath: how the blood glistens along the cut, still seeping. You straighten abruptly. “Okay, stay here.”
“Wasn’t planning on leaving,” he mutters faintly.
You rush to the kitchen before he can see your hands shaking, pulling open every drawer until you find what you need. Scissors. Towel. Alcohol. When you return, Andrew has shifted and you didn’t hear it. He’s no longer sitting upright, no, he’s stretched out across the couch, one arm hanging over the edge, eyes half-closed like the effort became too much. Your pulse spikes. “Andrew.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles.
You kneel beside the couch and slide the scissors under the edge of the uniform. “Don’t move.”
“No worries.”
You cut the shirt open delicately, exposing the wound. “You’re late,” you say suddenly.
“What?”
“You promised we’d finish the season tonight.”
He frowns. “Season?”
“Friends,” you reply, reaching for the towel and pressing it against his ribs, your shaking getting worse. “We had four episodes left. Phoebe was going to give birth.”
Andrew exhales slowly, eyes drifting toward the television still on. “Right.”
“You said we’d watch it after,” you continue lightly, casual. Almost like you’re bothered and not beyond frightened.
“Sorry.”
You keep talking while your hands work, pressing the wound and forcing a teasing tone into your voice. “Oh, you should be. Do you know how long I waited? I had to rewatch those of last night and almost started the next episode without you.”
Andrew’s eyelids droop. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“You better.”
You glance up at him. His eyes are drifting again. “Andrew.” He hums and your hand moves to his shoulder, shaking him. “Hey. No sleeping.”
He blinks slowly. “Tired.”
“No, you’re not. You don’t fall asleep okay?” His head tips to the side. “Andrew.” He doesn’t respond, his eyes rolling back. “Hey, hey, hey. No, no. Look at me. Come on,” you shake him harder, realizing that his breathing slows, “Andrew, baby, look at me.” Your voice cracks. “Andrew?” No response. You grab his shoulder. “Andrew, wake up, please.” The head rolls with the gesture, heavy and unresisting. Still nothing. “Pope, wake up! It’s an order!” You scream desperately, the word tearing out of your throat.
The hoodie is warm with his blood now, soaked through where your hands press against the wound, but you don’t let go. You press harder instead, like force alone could keep the life inside him from slipping away. “Craig! Deran! Help!” Your voice cracks again as it echoes through the house. “Craig!” You turn your head toward the hallway, toward the garage, toward anywhere they might still be. “Deran!”
You pray they’re still here. That they haven’t left yet and that they’re close enough to hear you. Because a part of your brain is already trying to rewrite the last ten minutes, trying desperately to replace this moment with something else, something normal. You should be on the couch right now, half-asleep against Andrew’s shoulder while the two of you finish the last episodes of Friends. Or he could be resting his head over your lap, staring at you instead of the television like he always does. You should be tugging him in bed to kiss him until your lips were numb. Should be making love until the only thing he utters is your name. Andrew should be alive and warm beside you instead of lying motionless under your hands. But no one wakes you up.
“You promised,” you sob, your forehead pressing against his chest who slowly rises, your fingers gripping his shirt to hold him here. “You promised you’d come back.” Only silence replies to you. “Please don’t do this.” Your voice breaks completely now. “Please.” Behind you, the television audience erupts into another burst of laughter. And in the middle of that cheerful noise, with your hands covered in his blood and your heart breaking open in your ribs, you understand a thing that makes the terror swallow you whole. Andrew Cody isn’t answering you anymore.
──────────
“I hope you’re taking off the shirt for me.”
He paused halfway through pulling the shirt over his head, one arm still caught in the sleeve as he turned toward the sliding doorway that opened to the backyard. You leaned against the doorframe, observing him with the sort of easy smile that constantly made his heart squeezing in his chest. Andrew finished removing the shirt and tossed it onto one of the lounge chairs beside the pool without looking. “You’re gonna have to focus,” he replied.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Oh, I am,” you grinned, stepping outside and letting the screen door slide shut behind you, “I just didn’t realize that the focusing came with…such nice scenery.”
He didn’t smile but felt the warmth creeping up the back of his neck anyway as he turned to the punching bag hanging from the metal frame Craig once used for pull-ups, steadying it with one hand. He wished this moment were something else, simpler, ordinary. Just a boyfriend showing off. What belonged in the kind of life where teasing led to laughter instead of preparation for violence. But that wasn’t the existence he had.
He loathed that it had come to this, the cold logic sitting in the back of his mind and reminding him of the things he knew all too well: that he had enemies, men who knew his name, his brothers, men who would not hesitate to aim for whatever hurt the most if they sought to reach him. And the thing that hurt the most was standing shoeless in his backyard, smiling at him.
(And if that day came and he had not prepared you…Stop. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four.)
He forced the spiral down the way he had learned to do as a kid, breathing slowly through his nose until the numbers lined up in his head and the tautness in his chest loosened enough that he could turn back toward you without allowing any of it to display on his face. “You ready?” he asked.
You tilted your head. “Define ready.”
Andrew gestured toward him. “Come here.”
You strode forward without hesitation or apprehension, just the faith that had constantly been when it came to him. He reached for your wrist, closing his hand around it firmly enough to demonstrate but not enough to hurt. “Someone grabs you,” he coached. “First, don’t panic. Second, don’t try to pull straight back.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re stronger than you.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Hey! Keep the mean talk and tonight you sleep on the couch.”
Andrew ignored that part and transferred his grip on your wrist, directing your arm so you could observe the angle. “You rotate here,” he explained, guiding the motion toward the base of his thumb. “That’s the weak spot. ‘kay?” You twisted your wrist the way he indicated you, hand slipping free. “Again.” He seized your wrist once more. You repeated the action, faster this time, the angle a touch incorrect at first before you corrected it halfway through and slipped free. He nodded. “Again.”
You did it three more times, movements gaining confidence with each attempt, the hesitation giving way to instinct. The fourth, you twisted free so quickly he barely felt it, looking almost pleased with yourself. Andrew let go and stepped back to the punching bag. “Next thing.”
Your eyes followed him, a small sigh escaping you as you walked over. “You know, when you said, ‘training session’, I have to admit it wasn’t quite what I pictured. Especially when you took off your shirt.”
He grabbed the bag to steady it and gestured toward it. “Just punch.”
The first hit landed with a thud that barely made the bag sway. Then the next. And another. You weren’t graceful about it. Your stance shifted too much, your shoulder rolling forward awkwardly, but you kept trying anyway, stubborn in the way you were about everything that mattered to you. “Okay,” he acquiesced after a moment. “That’s enough.”
You stretched your fingers, wincing. “Good. Cause I absolutely hate that.”
“It’s not over,” Andrew interjected, stepping in front of you. “Punch me.”
You stiffened. “No.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
“I refuse,” you protested, arms crossed. Andrew didn’t budge, holding your bewildered stare with the same persistence he used when waiting for Craig to finish one of his ridiculous arguments. “Andrew.”
“Do it.”
“Fuck,” you muttered, lifting your fist and punching his chest.
He grabbed your wrist instantly. “You’re hesitating.”
“Well yes!” you huffed, exasperated. “Because I love you!” (The words still felt unreal every time he heard them.)
“Don’t hesitate.”
Your jaw tensed at that, pulling your hand free to hit once more. This time, the impact landed properly against his chest with a solid sound. “Fuck, did that hurt?”
Andrew shook his head. “No, I told you.”
Fingers lingering against the spot you had hit before leaning forward, you pressed a quick kiss where your fist had gone. “Don’t ever make me do that again,” you murmured.
(He wants to vow that you won’t. But the world he lived in didn’t spare saints. And if the day ever came when he wasn’t there to stand between you and the men who might want to hurt him…)
Andrew raised his gaze to the open sky above the backyard.
(Please. Let this knowledge never be necessary. Please never let the world touch you the way it has touched him. Let him always be there first.)
Because if the day ever came when you had to use what he was teaching you, Andrew wasn’t sure there would be enough left of him to forgive the sky for it.
──────────
Everything is a blur.
Moving like fog inside his skull, swallowing time and moments whole so that Andrew can never tell where one hour ends and another begins, whether he has been here minutes or days. Only that he drifts up and down through layers of pain and noise and darkness like he’s sinking beneath the water and occasionally brushing the surface long enough to gulp air before the current drags him under again.
There are voices. They come and go, distant waves crashing beyond the edge of his consciousness, too far to make out, then closer, then gone again. Deran’s voice is the easiest to recognize despite the muddle, loud and furious even when he is trying to whisper. “It’s all your fucking fault!”
Another voice answers him, fearful and shaky. Craig. Andrew attempts to open his eyes then, to comfort him, to tell him it was not his fault, but the effort collapses before it truly arises, his body heavy and unresponsive, limbs weighed down by the feeling of sand being poured into his bones.
Pain exists too. It pulses somewhere along his side, blooming through his ribs every time he breathes, but even that sensation feels distant, dulled, as if it belongs to someone else. Everything is bizarre there, moments sliding into each other without edges, the world flickering in and out like a weak signal struggling to stay connected.
He descends again in the shadows.
-
The next thing he registers is a voice. Your voice. It arrives differently from the others, softer but sharper all the same, cutting through the fog. “Andrew…” Your voice breaks, and he craves nothing more than to hold you, to comfort you, to tell you he is here. “Please, stay with me.” He attempts to respond but his mouth doesn’t budge. Warmth presses against his skin, a compression against his ribs that sends a ripple of flames through his body despite the haze, and he realizes vaguely that hands are holding him down or holding him together.
(Your hands. He knows them by heart now.)
There are more voices. A stranger. He wants to tell him to go away, to leave his family alone. That he desires to die in peace with the voice of his angel close to him. But the stranger keeps speaking. “Hold him.” “He’s losing a lot.” “Keep pressure there.”
Hands run over him. Bandages. Cloth. It tenses around his ribs and the pain slices abruptly enough to drag him halfway toward the surface before the darkness swallows him once more. But despite it all…your voice remains.
Even when everything else fades.
-
Time dissolves. He floats. At some point, he becomes aware of the smell: wrong, metallic and thick. Blood fills the air, intense and unmistakable, mixing with something sharper he gradually recognizes as alcohol and antiseptic. The scent coats the inside of his lungs every time he inhales, yanking him closer to consciousness whether he wants it or not.
He perceives voices again. His brothers. They are arguing beyond the edge of his vision, the words warped by distance and the cloud inside his head. “You should’ve done more!”
“I know! But I didn’t ask him to do this!”
“You know that’s what he does! And that almost killed him!”
His body refuses to stir, the stinging in his ribs throbbing harder now and tugging a rope of fire through his chest. He sinks. But a gentleness interrupts all this chaos. The voice of his angel. “Stop it, boys.” The room goes quiet, your voice trembling, but the authority in it lands that even Deran doesn’t contest it. “Please, stop. You’re not helping.”
Silence stretches for a moment.
(He wants them to keep fighting. To keep shouting. To break things if they have to. Anything to prove him that the world still exists outside his skull because the silence inside feels too much like being buried alive.)
But a hand brushes tenderly through his hair, pushing the curls away from his forehead with a care so familiar that his body recognizes it before his mind can follow. “Andrew,” you whisper, the word reaching him like a line thrown into the deep water. He senses the soft pressure of your lips on his forehead, “you’re okay, now.” He desires nothing more than to have faith in your words.
-
Time folds in on itself.
Sometimes he drifts so far that nothing exists at all, the world melting into a blank and merciful quiet where even the pain can’t track him, and other times the edge of things returns in scattered pieces: your voice nearby, the gentle stroke of your hands, the rhythm of your breathing rising and falling beside him.
At one point, he feels the bed shift beneath his weight, the mattress dipping as someone moves beside him, warm water touching his skin. A cloth follows it, sliding slowly across his chest, and it takes several seconds for the disjointed fragments of sensation to have a meaning.
You are cleaning him. The fabric travels over the dried blood along his stomach and ribs that ache even through the haze. He hears himself make a sound, small and weak and unfamiliar that barely resembles a voice. Your hand pauses instantly. “I know,” you murmur, fingers smoothing over his hair before returning to their work. “I know, honey.”
You move slowly, patiently, like every inch of him matters while Andrew floats there, half aware, half gone, your hands traveling across his skin. A peculiar discomfort curls in his chest. Not pain, no. Shame. Because you witness him like this: fragile, damaged, helpless. The same hands that have choked men, held knives and guns, broken bones without remorse now lie useless at his sides while you wash blood from them.
He doesn’t deserve the way you handle him, and yet your hands never dither to cleanse the blood from his shoulders, chest and the long smear of it throughout his stomach. When the cloth leaves his body, the absence registers instantly and he starts counting the seconds until your return.
(One. Two. Three. Fou-)
Your breath strokes his temple as you lean close to wash his hair, warm water trickling within his curs while your fingers comb gently as you wipe away the last traces of blood from his scalp. Water runs down the side of his face, but you are already there to steady his head. His whole world now narrows to the sensation of you.
(His angel is kneeling in the dirt. Lowering herself to touch what is ruined. Washing the sins from a body that has no right to ask for forgiveness.)
Your voice breaks the thought. “There you go.” Andrew feels a palm cup the side of his face, lips finding the tip of his nose. “All handsome again.” The words are meant to be light, teasing even, but your voice trembles, betraying the exhaustion and terror underneath. He can’t open his eyes to tell you he hears you and that the sound of your voice is the only thing pulling him out of the shadows.
That his angel is still beside him, and as long as she refuses to let go, even death must await.
-
When Andrew finally wakes for real, the confusion is gone. Pain remains, of course. It rests deep along his ribs like a smoldering coal, flaring brighter each time he breathes too deeply or shifts even minimally against the mattress, but it’s a clean pain now, contained, no longer the distant echo of something happening to someone else.
No, this time it’s a clear and undeniable signal from his own body. Which means he is here. Alive.
The ceiling above him comes slowly into focus: the familiar crack running across the plaster, the discoloration where the paint never quite dried evenly after the last repair, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains across the room.
He’s in the house.
Andrew lies still for a long moment, hollow and drained. Memory sluggishly returns the same way everything else has since he was shot: in fragments that find their places. The couch. The smell of blood. Your voice screaming his name. Your palms against his side. The room spinning while you begged him not to close his eyes.
Andrew swallows, turning his head to try to forget. You are there. The chair alongside the bed has been pulled close enough that your knees touch the mattress, folded into it like your body simply stopped wherever exhaustion caught you, hand still wrapped around his and your thumb on the inside of his wrist, checking his pulse. Your head rests on the edge of the mattress, face wan. The skin around your eyes is swollen and in a deep shade of purple, hinting at him how you must have shed tears long after your body had nothing left to give.
He keeps studying the lines of your features the way he has done a thousand times before when you were laughing, or reading, or concentrating on a simple task of your daily life. But this is different. This is the face of someone who has witnessed horrors and survived them.
He recalls the sound of your voice breaking when you shouted his name, your fingers refusing to stop the pressure against the wound even when the blood soaked through your sleeves. Andrew stares at the ceiling once again. The room is quiet now. The whole house is quiet. Even the world outside the windows seems to be holding its breath.
The existence he has lived, the one that had been crafted by Smurf, the jobs, the violence, the endless cycle of danger and escape had constantly been his only to carry. Not anymore. Now there’s you. And loving you means something different than what he has known his whole life. More than shielding you and promising to come back. It means making sure you never have to go through another night like that.
Andrew turns his hand slowly in yours, the gesture small but sufficient for your eyes to flutter open. For a second you look confused, disoriented. Then your gaze finds his, relief and disbelief spreading across your face. “Andrew,” you whisper, the name cracking. You sit up too quickly, your free hand reaching for his face and brushing his cheek as your eyes fill up. “You’re awake.”
Andrew manages to nod, still observing intently your face and the fear and exhaustion lingering behind your relief, the way your fingers tremble even while you smile at him. This is what nearly breaking you looks like. He can’t live with that, not ever again. He squeezes your hand, making you inhale sharply like the smallest proof of life still feels impossible. One last look at you is enough to realize there was never a choice to make.
Because if loving you means saving you from the life he lives…then he will burn that life down with his own hands.
──────────
He exhaled loud enough for you to hear on what must have been the fifth time. “You’re gonna hurt your back.”
You grinned without turning around, chin resting on your bent knees. “I’m comfy.” A small pause ensued, the kind that suggested he was contemplating whether it was worth arguing again. (it was not. he should know it by now.)
“You could sit up here.”
“I like the floor.”
Another sigh. “You’re stubborn.”
You tipped your head back just enough to glance at him upside down. “Oh, so you’ve noticed?”
Andrew was sitting on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under him and the other planted firmly on the floor beside you. The remote rested forgotten beside his thigh. His attention had been pulled away from the episode the instant you had walked into the room with the brush.
Which came in contact with your hair after you felt him hover tentatively above your head for a while. “Hold still,” he murmured.
The first slow pass of the brush slid through your hair. He didn’t tug or rush, halting when he found a knot, fingers replacing it to untangle the strands before continuing, the back of his hand stroking your neck every now and then. Each movement was methodical, thoughtful, like he was solving a problem one piece at a time.
The television audience burst into laughter, neither of you reacting. You simply…sat there, paying attention to the noiseless rhythm of the brush traveling on your head. You leaned into it without thinking. “You’re good at that,” you complimented after a moment. He hummed, not quite answering. “No, seriously,” you insisted, smiling to yourself. “You’ve done this before.”
His hands paused for half a second before starting to divide the hair into three even sections. “Yeah.”
You pivoted just enough to throw him a quick look over your shoulder, but his eyes remained focused on the braid forming between his fingers. “Who?” you asked.
“Julia.” The name landed quietly in the room. You knew it already. The basics, at least. That she had been his twin, that she was gone now, that her absence resided inside him. The wound that would never be allowed to heal properly. Andrew’s fingers proceeded steadily, crossing the strands over each other. “She liked braids,” he added after a moment. “Two of them.”
“Like pigtails?”
“Yeah,” he pulled one section tighter before crossing it once again. “Said they stayed out of her face better.”
You grinned. “Smart girl.” Andrew didn’t respond, but you could sense the corner of his mouth lifting behind you. “How old were you when you used to do that?”
The weaving came to a standstill. “Kids.”
“That’s pretty young to learn how to braid.”
“She showed me. Our mother wouldn’t help.” (yeah. from what you’ve gathered about that woman, that tracked.)
You waited, giving him the space to continue if he wanted to. About Julia. About his mother. About anything from his past that gave him those nightmares. He didn’t. The plait resumed instead, his fingers moving a little slower, like he was savoring the feeling long buried in his memory. “She liked it tight,” he added quietly. “Said it lasted longer that way.”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “What was she like?”
Andrew’s hands stilled again, long enough for you to notice. “She was…” he cut himself short, searching for a word and abandoning it almost immediately. “Julia.”
The braid was almost finished now, the strands neatly woven together down your back, and the gentle tug you felt each time he crossed another section “Hey,” you said quietly, “you don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to.”
Andrew tied off the end of the braid with the elastic he had slid around his wrist earlier. “I know.”
You reached back and pulled it over your shoulder before resting against him. He didn’t protest this time, no, his arms moved, sliding under yours and around your waist, dragging you altogether onto the couch for your back to rest against his chest. His chin came to rest on your shoulder. (fine, maybe it was better than the floor.)
You played absently with the end of the plait. “I think we could have been friends.” He didn’t answer right away. His nose brushed the side of your neck when he shifted, his breath warm against your skin. One of his hands found yours, fingers lacing together. The question slipped out before you could stop yourself. “You think she would have liked me?” The room went quiet again except for the television that you both didn’t pay attention to. The answer came like it was never a question in his mind, his other hand settling over your stomach as he pulled you closer to kiss behind your ear.
“She would have loved you.”
──────────
“Hold still.” Your hands slide guardedly around his arms before he can protest further, steadying him as you step closer, careful not to press where the bandage sits beneath the fabric of his shirt.
“Okay, honey,” you murmur. “Slow.”
Andrew allows the help. It’s not something that comes effortlessly to him. For most of his life, assistance has been another word for weakness, something Smurf had trained out of him the same way she had trained hesitation out of him, to take pain silently and keep running. But this is different. Because whenever he peers down at your hands holding onto him, helping him walk, he sees the tremble of your fingers and how you keep glancing up at his face, checking his pulse in the middle of the night to assure yourself that he is still there. Alive.
“Ready?” you ask. He acquiesces once. The first step into the hallway is slow. The second even slower, his arm draped around your shoulders while your own remains wrapped around his waist, guiding him through the house as the floorboards creak beneath your combined weight. “Better today, right?” you question, the hand that isn’t around him lifting to brush the back of it across his forehead. “No fever? How’s the pain?”
Andrew tilts his head toward the touch, letting you examine him like that, the cool sweep of your skin against his skin before your hand drops again.
(It’s the sixth time today. Not that he minds. His angel counting his pulse like beads on a rosary, making sure that death hasn’t come back to finish its work. Hell will take him eventually. It won’t matter. He has already tasted heaven.)
“I’m fine,” he answers.
Your eyes narrow in warning. “That was not the question.”
“It’s better,” he corrects.
You seem to accept it, or at least decide that pushing further right now would only make him retreat into silence, a quiet, “Okay. Better is good,” escaping your lips. He moves carefully. Not because he can’t walk, he can, but because the wound along his ribs reminds him with every breath that bodies have their limits, even his, and ignoring them now would mean disappointing the woman currently holding half his weight. “Slower, please,” you remind him (or his body) gently.
“I am.”
“No, not that.”
Andrew glances at you, frowning. “Walking?”
“Breathing.”
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your lashes to dull the pain. Good thought. It works. A distant heat is better than a blade.)
“See?” you whisper happily. “Much better.”
He doesn’t point out that the improvement has very little to do with the mechanics of breathing and everything to do with the fact that you are still here, beside him, in the house that nearly became his grave. The hallway opens toward the living room and its long windows that overlook the trees, Andrew’s eyes drifting there automatically, cataloguing every detail the way he always does: doors closed, locks intact, nothing disturbed. The result of the training Smurf carved into him before he was old enough to grasp what it represented.
But something else draws his attention next: the couch. Or rather…what remains of it.
The large red sectional sits in its traditional place near the glass table, but the cushions along one side are absent, stripped away to expose the interior frame underneath them and the material that once covered the spot where he collapsed seven days ago has been removed entirely, leaving raw foam where the blood had sodden too deep to clean. The cushions are now stacked unevenly against the far wall while a blanket has been thrown over the exposed section in a hurried attempt to hide it.
Andrew stops walking, his gaze lingering on the couch. “What’s wrong?” you demand, tightening your grip around his waist.
(There had been so much blood. And your voice shattering somewhere above him. Screaming for his brothers. Screaming at them. To help him. To rescue him. This is the part that remains with him at night. The terror. The pleading. Thinking that he would die there and that you would witness it. He doesn’t know if that will ever leave him or be another ghost along the way.)
His arm shifts around your shoulders. “You didn’t clean it.”
Your eyes flick toward the furniture and then away again so hastily it would have escaped anyone else’s notice. But not his. “I…I tried,” you reply quietly. “But the blood soaked through the cushions and I…I didn’t want to throw the whole thing away. I mean…Craig and Deran said that I could get rid of it, but I didn’t know about you since it belonged to…” you swallow, cutting before the cursed name can come out, “So I just took the worst part off.”
Despite the silence, Andrew hears the word anyway. (Smurf. The house is full of things that belonged to her. Furnishings. Walls. Memories that crawl through the floorboards like insects.)
He recalls Smurf sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, bracelets chiming while she observed the room like it was a chessboard, her sons scattered across it like obedient pieces. Pawns and knights and whatever she needed them to be. Each of them pretending they had chosen the square she had already decided they would die on.
He had stood exactly where he stands now, younger and quieter, waiting for her next move. Waiting to learn whose blood would prove he was still useful. “We’re getting rid of it.”
You blink, clearly not expecting that answer. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“But…” your eyes go back toward it uncertainly, “I thought maybe it meant something to you since it was…”
“I never liked it.” The sentence comes out calm and certain. “Always been uncomfortable.”
(Not the real reason. It sits deeper. Tangled in the memories of Smurf’s voice. Smurf’s orders. Smurf’s kisses. Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts his breaths before focusing back on you.)
“Good,” you exhale with a smile. “I hated it so fucking much. I didn’t know how to tell you it was the most horrendous couch I’ve ever seen.” The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s small, brief enough that you almost miss it, but your face brightens anyway like you had been waiting days for that tiny gesture. “See,” you murmur triumphantly. “There’s my smile. Now come on Andy, a few more steps and we’re in the kitchen.”
Andrew lets you guide him forward again, the two of you advancing past the living room while the furniture remains behind, a discarded relic of something rotten by time and love. He doesn’t look at it.
(And plans on never doing so ever again. Soon he will drag it outside and burn it until there’s nothing left but ash. Exorcise the altar of his old religion.)
“Okay,” you pull one of the stools out before he can argue, hands close enough to catch him even though he hasn’t stumbled once since leaving the bedroom. “Sit.” Andrew lowers himself carefully, one hand braced against the counter while the muscles along his side flare around the wound. “You okay?” you ask.
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“No, because…I’m still scared you’re about to pass out.”
“I won’t.”
You squint at him, a few seconds stretching between you before you sigh dramatically and plant both hands on the kitchen island. “You’re so bad at this, you know?”
“At what?”
“Being taken care of. You’re a very…very bad patient,” you reply, a smile making its way on your face. “And honestly, I don’t know how nurses do it.” Reaching out, your fingers brush lightly along his jaw before you lean forward and press a kiss against his mouth, half for affection, half for reassurance. Andrew can almost taste it.
“I thought you liked playing nurse,” he murmurs against your lips.
“Oh, I do.” You peck another kiss on his lips. “But that was funnier in bed.”
(It was. How you had stuttered the first time you suggested it. How, on top and breathless, you had proposed his fireman outfit next time. And how there hasn’t been a next time.)
The memory turns sour. He despises the wound. Not just because it slows him down…but it has also placed a distance between the two of you he cannot seem to be able to close.
He had tried. Three days ago, when the worst of the fever had faded and you were lying beside him in the bed, careful not to be too close, Andrew had murmured the suggestion on the pillow. But your hand had come up, two fingers pressing against his lips.
“No,” you had whispered. “We’ll wait.”
Andrew didn’t mention it again. Even right now. Instead, he watches you as you pull back from the kiss, your fingers still resting against his jaw while the playful expression slowly fades into thoughtfulness.
“But seriously,” you add after a moment, “if you need something…you ask me, okay? Anything.”
“I will.”
You study him, probably searching for signs of lies, before finally seeming satisfied enough to step away. “Good.” You glance toward the refrigerator. “I was thinking about going to the store. We’re running out of milk.”
(He knows what it is. It’s subtle, but he recognizes it. You want him to ask for help so you can aid. Not because he needs it. Because it makes the fear in your chest settle a little. Helping means he’s alive. His angel keeping vigil.)
Andrew tries to think. “We need eggs.”
He hasn’t seen your face brighten like that since the day. “Okay. Eggs. Perfect.”
“And coffee.”
“But we already have coffee here.”
“More coffee, please.”
(He would go willingly bankrupt on coffee if it meant seeing you light up like that.)
You grab his truck’s keys from the counter, running back to him and pressing a quick kiss against his temple. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” you say, walking to the front door.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the seconds until the car disappears behind the gate.)
Andrew remains seated, listening to the fading sound of the engine long after it has gone, the house settling back into its usual quietness around him. Then, he exhales through his nose and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen lights up, the page he had been staring at the night before is still open where he had left it when you stepped out of the shower, wrapped in steam and one of his shirts, pretending to scroll through something meaningless. Houses for sale. Rows of them scroll beneath his thumb: white siding, narrow driveways…He keeps moving.
(Not Oceanside. Too close. Too many men who know his name. Too many memories that could follow him in the dead of the night.)
He adjusts the search radius to two hours. Three at most. Far enough that the old life would have to work harder to find him, but not so far that Craig and Deran would become strangers. He won’t disappear, no. But he will throw the board in the fire and start a new game. One where he is no longer a pawn waiting to die for someone else’s victory.
The results refresh with new houses appearing. He studies each image: front yard, windows, distance from the road, blind spots…He moves past them. A white house near a freeway. No. A narrow bungalow with cracked siding. No. He scrolls again. There is no budget filter selected: Craig and Deran had handed him a cut of the job big enough that he hasn’t decided what to do with most of it. They stated it was because he took the worst of the risk that night, but he knows better. His brothers gave it to him because they were scared. Scared of seeing him bleeding out on Smurf’s couch.
Somewhere in the haze of that night, between the pain, the blood and your voice, he remembers a single clear thought. If he didn’t make it, at least Craig and Deran would take care of you. They would make sure you never had to worry about rent or food or the thousands of small things that made your life…yours. They would show up when things broke, fix what needed fixing, keep the world from being too hard on you.
The knowledge had been strangely comforting in those final drifting minutes before the darkness. But he didn’t die. And now the money sits there waiting, untouched. Until now. He keeps scrolling until the fourth house appears on the screen and Andrew’s thumb pauses.
The photo shows a house tucked into the edge of a quiet valley, oak trees stretching wide above the roof. The siding is painted a deep green, nearly the same color as the leaves surrounding it, the kind of place that looks like it belongs exactly where it stands instead of fighting the land for space. Ojai. He taps the listing. More photos appear: a kitchen filled with light and windows open toward the trees, a living room without heavy furniture choking the space but sunlight stretching across the wooden floors. The backyard appears next: wide and flat behind the house, bordered by oaks. No steep slopes. No crowded neighbors. Just open ground beneath the branches. Large enough for a ramp. And…three bedrooms.
Andrew goes still.
(Three. Three. Three. Odd number. But good number.)
He doesn’t know when the thought first started appearing in his mind, but sometimes, in the quiet instances between sleep and waking, he sees it. A small figure running through a house like this. Curly hair that refuses stubbornly to be tamed no matter how many times he tries and a laugh that sounds like yours. He never sees the face clearly, doesn’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.
Just that they have his curls and your smile. The idea sits in his chest, all fragile and impossible at once, and if that day ever comes, if a sinner like him is allowed that kind of grace, Andrew finds himself hoping they inherit everything from you. Your kindness, your softness, your light. Everything that makes you…you. Let them have his hair if they must. But the rest of him: the violence, the darkness that follows his blood like a curse. He hopes that part stops with him.
His eyes move back to the house. Ojai. Population 7,527. Close enough to the ocean that he could still drive there if he needed the sound of the waves and far enough for Smurf’s ghost to lose the trail. Because the truth is…He cannot let this house swallow you the way it swallowed Julia. He will not watch these walls poison you the way they poisoned her.
His thumb presses the save icon, the small star beside the listing turning gold. Andrew leans back on the chair, the phone still resting in his hand, observing the images of the house.
(Three bedrooms. Three. Three. Three.)
You brought heaven into his life the moment you walked through the door. The least he can do now is build a haven strong enough to keep it.
──────────
“No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.”
The words landed before Andrew even recognized that Baz had spoken them. Maybe they had been shouted. Maybe they hadn’t. He couldn’t recollect the volume of them, only the certainty. The way Baz said it like a fact. Something obvious. Something that didn’t require explanation because everyone already knew it was true.
For a moment he didn’t move, hands staying exactly where they were, resting against the edge of the table.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you.)
He tried to blink, to shake the sentence loose from his head.
(Ever.)
The word seemed to echo louder than the rest.
(Ever.)
He inhaled slowly through his nose.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
The argument about Lena had already started evaporating around the edges of the moment, the details slipping away almost instantly. It could have been about Baz’s new girlfriend. Or about food. Maybe about him interfering too much. About him acting like she was his. He couldn’t recall the exact words anymore, and it didn’t matter now. What mattered was the sentence.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)
He had spent most of his life trying not to ponder about that possibility. Not for lack of wanting it. But desiring had always been treacherous in this house, Smurf having a way of seizing those wants and twisting them until they became something ugly and humiliating. That she could hold between her fingers and turn until it broke.
So, Andrew learned early not to voice those thoughts out loud but still, they emerged sometimes. A small kid running through a room, someone small enough that he could pick them up with one arm. The image had never lasted long, pushed away before it could take shape.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
But now Baz had said it. Out loud. And Baz wasn’t just anyone. Not some stranger on the street throwing words around without knowing what they meant. Baz grew up with him. In the same house, the same rooms, with the same suffocating rules. Saw him when he lost control. When he hit things too hard. When the anger came too fast and too sudden. Saw him being Pope. The part of him that never seemed to come back clean.
But Baz also knew what Andrew was like when the world went quiet. And if Baz believed it…then maybe it had always been true.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)
Andrew swallowed, throat dry. He focused on the counter once more: on the scratches carved into the wood, on a water ring left by someone’s glass.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Counting usually worked, it pushed things away. But the sentence kept slipping back between the numbers.
(One. Two. Three. Four. No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever. One. Two. Three. Four.)
He attempted again but the words followed the rhythm of the counting.
(No one. One. Is ever. Two. Gonna have. Three. A kid with you. Four. Ever.)
Andrew shut his eyes briefly, the vision of Lena appearing instantly, uninvited. Her small hand gripping his when they crossed the street, the sound she made when she laughed, all sudden and loud. He had spent more nights taking care of her than Baz had. More mornings making her breakfast. More afternoons picking her up from school. But now Baz’s voice slid into the space where those memories resided.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)
He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask Baz what he meant because somewhere deep inside him, beneath the counting and the silence, a thought had already taken root.
Who would want that life?
Want a child with a man like him?
Maybe it had never been a possibility in the first place.
And hours later, back in Smurf’s house, when the lights were off, and the rooms had gone silent, the words still followed him into the dark. The kind that sounded less like an insult and more like a curse.
No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.
──────────
The alarm rang ten minutes ago but you have not yet swallowed it.
The phone lies face-down on the nightstand where it had vibrated against the wood earlier, the familiar tone meant to remind you of what you have done every morning for years: a small ritual as ordinary as brushing your teeth or tying your hair up before work, yet your hand remains motionless instead of stretching toward the blister pack, waiting patiently beside the glass of water.
Andrew is awake. You sense it in the fluctuations of his breathing, the subtle tension that travels through him when consciousness returns. But he stays exactly where he is, curled against you with his back along your chest, legs tangled together beneath the sheets, one of your arms draped around his waist while the other has your fingers running through the thick curls at the base of his neck.
You’ve discovered quite early in your relationship that Andrew sleeps best like this. Not holding you. Being held.
It had surprised you the first time he drifted into it without thinking, turning until he rested against you, his head tilting so your pads could slip into his hair, and the second you began scratching down his scalp, his entire body had relaxed so instantaneously and helplessly you almost giggled. Now it is routine. Every night, he feigns to just settle for a moment. It’s never just a moment. Your thumb traces slowly behind his ear, nails scraping gently along it as his breathing deepens, savoring the sensation while your gaze drift to the nightstand once more and to the packet of pills that remains there.
Andrew shifts a little against you, one hazel eye opening to glance toward the bedside table before flicking back to you. “You didn’t take it?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.
You hum tenderly, digits combing through his curls as he angles himself a little further in them while you watch the morning light creep along the ceiling. “No…Not yet.”
He goes still for a moment in that silent, cogitating state you’ve learned signifies he’s noticing everything and speaking nothing. “You always take it when you wake up.”
“I know.”
His fingers glide absently along your forearm where it crosses his chest, tracing small idle patterns on your skin. “You forgot?”
“No.”
He turns his head so he can completely look at you now, not blinking much, not moving much…just that steady, intent gaze that makes it feel like every word you say is being placed carefully somewhere in his mind where none gets lost.
Your pads continue their movement because if you halt, he’ll notice, and if he notices he’ll start thinking too hard, and if he starts thinking too hard the quietness of this morning will evaporate under the weight of all the things Andrew Cody has learned to fear wanting. “You didn’t forget…?” he questions after a moment.
You shake your head against the pillow. “No.”
Silence sinks between you while his thumb keeps dancing along your forearm, back and forth, back and forth, his favorite thing to do every day to ground himself in the fact that you’re there. He peeps once more toward the nightstand and the tablet before going back to you. And this time you perceive it: the uncertainty, the carefulness when his chest rises before he speaks.
“You think about stopping them?” he murmurs.
“Maybe...I mean…” you exhale, the words seized someplace amid your chest and throat. Your fingers remain exploring his curls, half because you know he adores that and half because it gives your hands work while your thoughts stumble over themselves. (why is this suddenly so tough to say. it’s not like you hadn’t envisioned this conversation a dozen times in your mind over the past week. weeks if you were honest with yourself. envisioned it playful. casual. blurted out during breakfast or after sex.)
But now that you’re actually here, with Andrew warm and quiet in your arms, the words feel enormous. Andrew notices. (of course he does.) His thumb pauses mid-pattern. “You…don’t want to take it today?” he rasps.
You swallow. “Maybe, yeah.”
The words fall into the room, fragile and that could collapse if either of you gets too loud and for a long minute Andrew doesn’t speak, doesn’t budge in your limbs, doesn’t even breathe. They seem to travel through him, lodging in the cautious machinery of his mind where every possibility must be examined before it is trusted. He stares at the ceiling before his eyes return to you. “You didn’t forget,” he repeats.
“No.”
Adam’s apple bobbing, his hand resumes its repetitive path. “But if you don’t take it,” he says slowly, the sentence forming piece by piece, “then that means…” he stops.
The term stalls inside him, and you sense it: that hesitation that belongs only to Andrew, that instinct not to assume anything good too quickly. You tighten your arm around him, pressing a small kiss to the back of his shoulder. “It means we’d see what happens,” you murmur.
His eyes close momentarily. “And what happens,” he breathes, “could be a baby.”
Your heart stutters a little hearing him voice the word. “Yeah.”
The expression on his face is so unguarded it makes your chest ache. There’s hope there, fragile and almost fearful to exist. “You want that?” he asks.
You nod. “I think I do.”
“With me.” It comes quieter this time, like stepping onto a rope he isn’t certain will hold the weight of his emotion.
You smile gently, sliding your palm down from his curls to the side of his shoulder so you can guide him onto his back, the two of you untangling a split second before you follow him, straddling his hips without breaking the warmth between your two bare bodies. “Yes.”
“You want that…with me?” His eyes flick away, ashamed by how much the answer matters.
The vulnerability in the question cracks something wide open inside your chest. Andrew Cody is many things: careful, observant, frighteningly composed every time the world goes wrong. But he is not a man who asks for reassurance unless the answer truly matters to him.
(And right now, it so clearly does.)
You see it in the way his eyes shine, the faint wetness gathering along his lower lashes, trying very hard not to let it spill over. In the manner his mouth closes afterward like he already regrets questioning because good things, in Andrew’s existence, have continuously had a habit of vanishing the moment he reached for them.
“Oh, honey.” Your voice softens as you bend down before he can retreat in his self-hatred, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, his temple…little kisses scattered across his skin while you cradle the nape of his neck. “Of course.” Another kiss. “Yes.” Another. “Yes.”
His breath shudders out of him, something long trapped inside his lungs that found a way, free. His hands come up slowly along your back, afraid of holding you too tightly, that the pressure might somehow break the fragile miracle of you lying there above him and speaking those words. “You’re sure?” he rasps.
“So fucking sure.” Your mouth travels down the line of his jaw and lingers there, warm touches alongside him while your fingers slip back into his hair and gently tug, the motion making his eyes flutter closed.
“I want you to be the father of my kids,” you mutter against his throat, the words knocking the air out of him. “I want little versions of you running around.” Another kiss. “With your curls.” Your lips brush the faint freckles dotting his shoulder. “And your cute freckles.”
His hands clench on your waist. “You don’t know…what you’re signing up for,” he says softly, but the protest is weak, almost wonder-struck.
You chuckle on his chest. “Oh, I do.” You lift your head enough to observe him all over again while your hand slides deliberately by his torso, tracing the lines of him. “And if you want five kids,” you confess, “I’ll give you five.” His eyes widen but you continue. “If you want seven,” you press a kiss at the center of his chest, “I’ll give you seven.” You move lower, your mouth brushing above the month-old scar where the bullet injured him. “And if you want ten,” Your lips skim his stomach. “I’ll give you ten.”
The laugh that evades him then is quiet and breathless and so full of disbelief that it makes your chest ache. You don’t reckon hearing him laugh like that before. “You’d be pregnant for a decade,” he hums.
“Hm. Pretty sure it would be worth it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You push back up on his body, your hands trailing the same path your mouth just traced, your nose rubbing his. “But seriously, all I know is that I want them with you. No one else.”
His gaze searches your face like he’s still trying to find the trick in it, still attempting to locate the moment where you’ll laugh and say you’re joking, but all he finds is you looking back at him like the future you’re describing is the most obvious thing in the world. “You would…do that?” he whispers.
“A whole baseball team of kids? For you?” you smile softly, a kiss ending on his lips. “In a heartbeat.” The second kiss loiters, deep and unhurried, your bodies fitting together naturally as his arms pull you closer. You use this moment to tug at his tousled hair, earning a whimper from his mouth while yours progresses down his jaw, your voice dropping to a low sound. “So…”
“So?” he grunts.
“What if,” you ask against his ear, “we tried now.”
His breath hitches. “Right now?”
Your fingers guide his head deeper into the pillow while you hover above him, biting his jaw. “Why not?”
Andrew looks up at you as if he’s still struggling to comprehend how this morning became real, how the conversation that had started with an alarm and a pill you hadn’t taken has somehow veered into this. “Okay.”
“Okay?” You echo, rolling your hips on him, a soft breath that sounds like relief leaving him. Your hand slides down his chest, palm flattening beside his healing scar. “We’re gonna have to be careful,” you remind him.
His gaze drops on it, then back to your face, nodding. “I…I trust you.”
And with each caress that worships his body, he makes small sounds in the back of his throat. “Look at you…” you coo softly, “so sensitive this morning.”
Andrew closes his eyes briefly, breathless and helpless. “Don’t stop please.”
(and who are you if not someone who refuses to starve him any longer)
(yes, maybe it’s a little reckless after only a few months to be entertaining this. Most people would call it too soon.)
(a baby after, what? three months? but this man under you is not most people. and the way he looks at you right now makes the entire concept of caution fucking laughable.)
(he can burn and destroy for the ones he loves. that doesn’t frighten you.)
(if anything, it makes you ache for him. no one ever taught him the other side of it. no one ever showed him what it feels like to be loved like that in return.)
“Let’s make our baby.” Your whispered command ghost over his lips, your chest pressed together as your eyes locked on his, pupils blown wide with want.
“Yes,” he begs like a prayer. “Anything you want, please.” He pushes himself upright beneath you, bringing you with him until you’re sitting securely in his lap, and your hands rise to his shoulders, nails pressing into the firm muscle there as you steady yourself.
A sharp gasp leaves you when his mouth latches on your breast. Andrew makes a small sound in return, almost awed, his hands tightening at your waist while his forehead rests on your chest, the heat of his mouth causing you to arch into him. One of his hands goes from your hip to run his knuckles against your heated core, his other splaying gently over your ass in an attempt to not grip you too hard. He is pure tension beneath you, energy wound tight in every line of his body and waiting to be freed. And as you look at him, really look, you comprehend deep into your bones that this man, with all his shadows and all his gentleness, is someone you would follow anywhere life chose to twist and bend.
Because Andrew handles you like time has not yet promise you forever. Like he is attempting to carve this moment inside his brain. His palms travel reverently across your skin, like you are not solely a woman in his arms, but the entire sky he has finally been allowed to reach. “Andrew.” His name comes out strangled. You’re on fire, body tipping dangerously close to the edge while he licks you slowly, savoring you and ignoring his name.
And you sense it a few seconds later: Andrew reacting to your body betraying how close you are with a tremble that runs through him, absorbing every small change in you as if it were occurring inside his own skin. He peers up at you, the sound of your name departing him, the syllables stumbling from his mouth like they belong there. (because they do.)
Even when his breath grows uneven and the muscles in his shoulders tense beneath your fingers, his eyes stay on you with that same unblinking intensity you have come to recognize as uniquely his. Andrew likes seeing you. No…he needs to.
Your nails press deeper into his shoulders as your body tilts forward, Andrew releasing your nipple from between his lips while your inhales stammer closer as his knuckle keep circling and pressing your clit. You huff a soft snort that is half laughter, half protest. “Andrew.”
“Hm?”
“That’s not how we’re gonna have a baby.”
The corner of his glistening mouth lifts against your skin. “I know,” he replies, pushing the tip of his finger into your heat, “Just want you to feel good first.”
“Honey,” you moan, tugging on his curls so he has to look at you properly, “That’s so fucking sweet. But right now,” the second finger makes you shut your eyes in pleasure as your entire body shook, your core nearly dripping with desire to be filled by him, “Right now, I really, really need you, ‘kay?”
Andrew’s darken hazel eyes find your face the second you ask, wide and attentive, already watching the way your lashes fall closed and the way your mouth parts on the words. He nods without hesitation, the swollen head of his cock replacing his fingers in, his gaze focused utterly on you, your pleasure being the only thing anchoring him in the moment. “Okay,” he breathes, all thick solid muscles taut as he lays back in bed, letting you take control. His panting gets labored as you rock your hips back and up, taking him fully. His hand is at your hip, holding you down to allow you to grind your hips freely. “I love you,” he whispers, keeping his hooded gaze on you. “I’ll take care of you both. I promise.”
His soft words cause your cunt to clench around him, lights prickling at the edge of your vision. “I know you will,” you reply, increasing the pace of your hips. “Gonna spoil us rotten.”
“Yeah,” he says, a ragged breath escaping as he thrusts up, making you moan out his name. “I’ll give you everything…everything I have. You and our baby.”
“Ours…they will be just ours,” you reply in wonder. “I love you, please don’t stop.” Words fall from your lips in fragments you barely recognize as language anymore, because all you can see is him: the man underneath you, the man whose gaze holds yours with such fierce, unguarded intensity that the rest of the world feels like it has simply fallen away. There is only Andrew.
His hands clinging onto your skin like he craves the proof of you, like he is mooring himself to something physical while the universe tilts dangerously on its axis around the two of you, your bodies moving with urgency. His words keep reaching you through the storm of sensation, low murmurs against your skin, your name leaving him again and again like a vow he cannot stop repeating. The space of the bed becomes its own small universe where nothing exists except the pull of him, the steady heat of his hands, the way his eyes refuse to leave yours even when his breath falls short.
You are sparks colliding in the dark. Galaxies brushing against each other. You are a kaleidoscope of collapsing stars, breaking apart and reforming in endless patterns that only the two of you can see. Wave after wave crashes through you, dragging you somewhere deep and bright and terrifyingly alive, and Andrew’s name spills from your mouth in a long, trembling sound that feels less like speech and more like surrender. You feel every line of him. Every breath. Every ounce of the strength he uses so carefully when he holds you.
For one suspended moment you feel like nothing at all, like your edges have dissolved completely. And in the same breath you feel like everything.
──────────
The first thing Andrew noticed was the man’s eyes.
Not the voice, not the laugh among the cluster of guys at the far end of the bar, not the beer bottle turning between his fingers under the light hanging above the counter, but the eyes: narrow, calculating, fixed across the room with a patience that Andrew recognized instantly because he had seen it before in men who believed they had time.
That the thing they were surveying would eventually wander close enough to take.
Andrew had been standing against the wall near the pool table, a beer untouched in his hand. At first the room had been just that: noise, movement. Just an ordinary night in his brother’s bar…until his gaze snagged on the wrong detail. The man was looking at you. You were with Craig at the pool table, courtesy of Deran who had recently brought it after he ‘purchased’ (stole) it from another bar.
One hand braced on the felt, you leaned forward to line up your shot, the hem of your dress high on your thigh when you bent while Craig gave you instructions that you were clearly ignoring judging by the way you laughed and nudged him out of the way with your hip before striking the cue ball. Craig cheered and the room kept moving. But the man didn’t.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
You straightened with a grin, raising the cue stick happily, and Andrew felt the familiar, unwelcome awareness rise in him of cataloguing like he had learned as a kid: tracking the way people watched you when you laughed, when you bent over the table, when you pushed your hair behind your ear.
(Too graceful for a place like this.)
That thought irritated him. You were just Craig’s friend. Craig’s sweet, beautiful, kindhearted friend who kept showing up beside him without making a big deal out of it: at the skatepark asking for another lesson, at parties finding him in the crowded room to stay against the wall so he wouldn’t be lonely. Who treated him like he was simply Andrew instead of the strange, broken thing most people eventually decided he was.
Andrew shifted his weight while his eyes drifted once more toward the corner of the bar where the man stood now half-shadowed, and the longer Andrew observed, the more certain he became that the man’s attention had not wandered once away from you. Not to Craig’s loud voice, not to the cluster of drunk girls laughing at a table, not even to Deran who handed him another drink. Just you.
The man’s stare stayed fixed in that heavy manner Andrew identified clearly, the kind that stripped a person down piece by piece and kept going with a lazy tilt of his head when you moved forward to line up another shot.
His jaw clenched. Not because of the dress or the way the fabric rode up. None of the Codys cared about that. Craig didn’t, he had already clocked Andrew’s interest and promised that he wasn’t stupid enough to get in the middle of it. And Deran…Deran had never looked twice at a woman in his life. But the man cared. Andrew could see it in the way his fingers stopped turning the neck of his beer bottle when you spun with joy, the way his mouth pulled into a slow, private smile like he had already chosen something.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
The man thought he was watching prey, that the world belonged to him. Probably the type who hid in dark corners and took his time, anticipating for the moment a girl would drink too much or wander outside alone. Scanning over the room, Andrew logged distances.
(Door to the alley. Six steps. Seven if someone stepped into his path.)
The bar was loud enough to swallow any possible noise. Andrew imagined crossing the room calmly, just another man walking through the bar, pausing beside where the stranger sat and telling him it was time to leave. And if the man refused…The alley behind Deran’s bar was narrow and dark without cameras. His brother had refused to put them, something about how the things that happened back there didn’t belong on a tape.
He envisioned the man’s confusion when the door shut behind them, the instant when realization hit that the predator had drifted too close to a creature larger than him. Andrew’s hands closing around his throat, pushing more and more until the struggling stopped and the body went slack. Until the space inside Andrew’s chest that had started squeezing the moment those eyes settled on you finally went silent again.
(It would take six minutes. Maybe less.)
Afterward would be plain and simple: Craig would help, Deran too. They always did. They would wrap the body, load it into the truck, drive far enough out of the city for the lights to disappear behind them with only the desert, and the man who thought he had spotted something soft and easy across a pool table would vanish into a hole in the ground so deep and nameless that nobody would ever remember him. His gaze didn’t leave the man who smiled when you laughed. If the man didn’t stop observing…if those eyes didn’t travel away from you…he might take them himself.
Warmth touched his arm, the contact so unexpected that his body jerked a little before he even grasped what had happened. You. Your hand rested against his forearm, eyes a little glassy with the soft buzz of alcohol. “Andrew?” He blinked. The bar rushed back into focus around him. “You okay?” you asked, thumb brushing the sleeve of his shirt. Andrew glanced past you to the man who was still here, still watching, still… “Andrew,” you repeated gently.
His attention snapped back to your face. “Yes.”
You tilted your head. “I asked if you could drive me home?” The words came out a little sheepish, probably because of the hour and that you were drunker than you had intended to be. “Craig is staying,” you added. “And Deran obviously isn’t leaving, so…”
“Yes.”
You smiled. “Thank you.”
The walk to the truck felt longer than it actually was. Andrew remained a step behind you the entire way, his instinct reminding him to look at the parking lot, at the possible shadows between the cars. The man never came out. But still, he kept monitoring.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Sliding into the passenger seat with a quiet sigh, you leaned your head back against the seat while he started the engine. For a moment, neither of you spoke, you watched the passing streetlights across the windshield while Andrew drove, occasionally looking in the rearview mirror, searching the empty road behind them for headlights that never appeared.
“You’re very quiet tonight,” you murmured eventually.
Andrew shook his head, dragging his attention back to the present. “You had fun?”
You nodded sleepily. “Craig cheats at pool, you know that?”
“It’s Craig.”
“True,” you chuckled, your eyes closing for a moment before reopening. “Next time we play against him together, ‘kay?”
Andrew glanced at you then, just for a second, watching the way your head tipped against the window and the faint smile lingering at the corner of your mouth, the easy warmth of a person who had spent the evening with friends and drinking a little too much, trusting the world to remain harmless.
(Too trusting.)
But he only nodded. “Okay.”
Back at your place, you unbuckled slowly, fumbling with the latch before laughing quietly at yourself. “Okay,” you said, turning toward him. “I can make it from here.”
“You sure?”
“No worries, I’m a grown woman, I can still walk.” Andrew was going to protest to at least walk you to your door when you inclined across the seat. The kiss settled between his cheek and the corner of his mouth, soft and messy while your hair brushed his jaw. “Thank you, Andrew,” you murmured. Then you were out of the truck, your steps a little unsteady but determined as you walked toward the entrance. He kept counting until you were inside, safe.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
He could leave. He should. But he didn’t. Because the man at the bar had stared at you like you were a prey to catch and ravage. And men like that didn’t always give up when the night ended. Andrew shifted in the driver seat, his gaze fixed on the front door of your building. Minutes passed. Then more. No one came. But still, Andrew stayed. Eventually the sky began to pale at the edge of the horizon and only then did he start the truck.
But the next night he came back.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
He didn’t tell you. His angel didn’t need to know someone was out there keeping the wolves away.
──────────
“Wait, wait…you’re doing what?”
Craig’s voice bounces off the kitchen walls in that familiar half-laughing, half-confused tone he constantly has when his older brother says something important too calmly like it’s nothing more than a grocery list. Andrew doesn’t answer right away. It’s easier to stare at them than to repeat himself and the words he had been rehearsing in his head for a week.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He has to do this.)
“I’m leaving,” Andrew declares.
Silence follows. Not the empty one, that doesn’t exist with the three of them, but the dense thoughtful kind that falls between brothers who have spent their entire lives in the same house and recognize when a sentence is about to change their routine. Craig leans back against the marble counter, eyebrows raised with a grin spreading across his face, probably waiting for the punchline that will never come while Deran, who seems way more serious and focused, stands with his arms folded across his chest.
“Leaving the house?” Craig asks.
Andrew shakes his head. “The jobs.”
Craig squints. “You mean, like…taking a break from them?”
“No,” his voice stays level. “I’m done.”
Craig straightens slowly, the grin fading from his face as the words land properly this time, his gaze flicking briefly toward Deran like maybe the younger brother will say something first but nothing comes out. Deran studies Andrew with an air that shows he has been expecting this conversation for a while. Andrew’s eyes drift out the glass door to the backyard and the patch of darkened dirt where the couch had burned. Or what used to be a couch.
He can still see it clearly in his head: you, near the pool with a hammer in your hands while the three of them dragged it outside, swearing under their breath about how heavy the thing was. It had always been heavy. Heavy with years. Heavy with every job planned there, every lie told there, every order Smurf had given from the center cushion. Andrew had transported that couch before, when he was younger. Back when Smurf redecorated every few years and the boys were expected to move the furniture obediently. Even then it had felt like lifting a thing larger than a couch, perhaps the center of the house itself.
And you, all fierce and shaky with joy, were waiting to swing the hammer down into the wooden frame.
Crack. The sound echoed through the backyard.
Again. The frame splintered.
And again. Wood split open like a bone.
“Fuck her!” you had shouted, breathless with laughter as you raised the hammer once more. The three brothers had heard people curse their mother before: neighbors, enemies, the occasional drunk who didn’t know better…but never like that.
Craig had choked on a guffaw and cheered, Deran had stepped forward next, grabbing the hammer from your hand before bringing it down hard on the armrest. And Andrew had observed the dismantlement of the last throne Smurf ever sat on.
Then Craig dragged the broken pieces into a pile, Deran poured lighter fluid over the wood and you…you lit the match. The flames climbed rapidly, the couch cracking as the wood inside it gave away under the heat, collapsing on itself while sparks ascended into the darkening sky. You were standing there in the glow with a wild, triumphant grin on your face when you grasped Andrew’s hand to yank him closer and kiss him like the victory belonged to both of you.
(His angel defeating the curse. Freeing the three boys they used to be. The ones who had once believed this house was theirs before it became Smurf’s kingdom and they grew to be the weapons she stored indoors.)
The memory lingers for a second longer before focusing back on the kitchen and his brothers still staring at him. “I got shot and-”
Craig snorts. “Yeah, man, thanks but we noticed.”
Andrew doesn’t smile. “And I could have died.” He keeps his eyes on the countertop, on the scratch running through the marble where Baz once dropped a knife a lifetime ago. Another ghost carried by the house. “I know we say that all the time. That danger comes with the jobs.”
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Andrew exhales slowly through the nose. “When I was laying there…” his fingers rest flat against the furniture, “…all I could think about was her. And how I wouldn’t get to know.”
Craig tilts his head. “Know what?”
(One. Two. Three. Four. He has to focus on the counter. The scratch.)
“What it feels like,” he says slowly, “to live a life with someone who loves me.”
Deran studies his oldest brother’s face, shaking his head with a slight smile. “Sounds like you’re announcing more than just leaving.”
(Breathe in. Breathe out. One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe in. Breathe out.)
“I found a house,” Andrew confesses.
Craig lets out a laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course you fucking did.”
“It’s in Ojai,” he adds.
“Okay that’s…wow. That’s not exactly down the street.”
Andrew nods. “It’s quiet.”
(That’s crucial for him. Quiet means no sirens at three in the morning. No strangers showing up at the door. No jobs planned over the same kitchen where they’re standing now.)
He hesitates for a moment before adding, his voice a little rougher than before. “That doesn’t mean I’m…gone.” Craig looks up. Andrew shifts his weight. “I’m not disappearing,” he continues. “You can come over. I’ll come here. We’re not…” He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “…not that.”
Deran’s mouth twitches while Craig observes him, shaking his head with an amused expression. “Pope,” he replies, softer now. “You’re our brother.”
Deran acquiesces. “Not exactly something you can move out of.”
Craig bumps his shoulder against Andrew’s, the warmth of it grounding in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. “Yeah, you could move to the moon and it wouldn’t change that.”
For a brief moment the three of them are simply there. Brothers. Then he clears his throat abruptly, remembering he is Craig and honesty can only last so long. “Anyway,” he says, pushing off the counter, “you already bought it?”
“Yes.”
Craig shakes his head. “Jesus, Pope.”
(One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe in. Breathe out. He can’t react to the name.)
Deran watches him cautiously. “You told her?”
“No, not yet.”
Craig’s eyebrows shoot up. “You bought a house,” he repeats slowly, “and she doesn’t know about it?”
Andrew finally looks up from the marble. “I’m going to tell her.”
Craig stares for another second, then lets out a snort under his breath. “Man,” he mutters, pushing his hand through his hair, “please call me when you do, so I can see that.”
(His brother doesn’t understand. But that’s alright. To Andrew it’s simple. He loves you. You love him. You want children. This house cannot be the place those children grow up in. The rest follows logically.)
“There’s more.”
There’s a collective exhausted groan to these words. “Oh fuck,” Craig mumbles. “Of course there is.”
Reaching into the pocket of his pants where the small red box feels heavier than it should and that had sat there the entire conversation, Andrew places it on the counter, opening the box. The diamond catches the sunlight, a brief sharp flash of light across the marble to which his brothers whistle with variations of “holy shit”, leaning over the counter to examine it.
Andrew attempts to close the box with two fingers but Craig immediately slaps his hand. “No, no, leave it open.” Andrew pauses, allowing his brother to stare at it once again. “Fucking Jesus Christ.”
Deran tilts his head. “How many carats is that?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Craig questions, straightening up.
“I didn’t ask.”
His brother stares like he has personally offended him. “You didn’t ask.”
“No.”
Craig turns to Deran in disbelief. “He didn’t ask.”
Deran is still studying the ring, turning the box slightly so the diamond catches the light again. “That thing is not small.”
“Must be at least two carats,” Craig ponders, bending closer.
“More,” Deran replies without looking away.
“Three?”
“Looks like three.”
Craig looks at Andrew. “How much did it cost?”
“I didn’t check.”
Craig nearly chokes. “What? You didn’t check?”
“It was for her.”
Even Deran starts laughing. “So, what? You walked into a jewelry store, pointed at the most expensive ring, and said ‘that one’?”
“Yes.”
(He doesn’t add the rest. Doesn’t mention that the ring had been bought seven days after you got together. That he walked past three other jewelry stores before finding one that felt quiet enough to think. That the woman behind the counter tried to show him a dozen different rings and he ignored every single one until he saw that one sitting under the glass.)
(Doesn’t tell them that he didn’t need to guess your size. That he had just measured silently one of the rings in the small dish beside his sink while you slept.)
Deran is still peering at the ring box when he states it with a smile. “Smurf would have hated her.”
Craig snorts. “Oh yeah,” he replies, pulling out beers from the fridge and tossing one to Deran before setting a third in front of Andrew. “Would have fucking despised her.”
The youngest leans back against the counter, taking a sip. “She would’ve tried to tear her apart in about five minutes.”
“Five minutes is very generous, bro.”
Andrew shakes his head, certain. “She wouldn’t have succeeded.”
Craig glances at him and grins. “No,” he admits. “She wouldn’t have.”
For a moment the three of them stay there in the kitchen, the afternoon light pouring through the glass door before Craig looks at the ring box again. Then at Andrew and Deran. He lets out a slow breath through his nose before raising his bottle. “Well,” he declares thoughtfully, “If Pope can pull this off…” He gestures vaguely toward the ring. “…there might actually be hope for the rest of us.”
Deran laughs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Craig bumps his shoulder lightly. “I’m serious, man. Look at him.”
Andrew raises an eyebrow.
Craig tilts his beer toward him. “Our big brother,” he says. “Retiring from crime. Buying houses. Proposing.”
Deran lifts his bottle too. “Well…to Pope getting married.”
“Andrew.”
Craig clinks his bottle against Deran’s. “Fine,” and taps it against his. “To Andrew.”
──────────
The bell above the entrance rang quietly when Andrew stepped in. He paused just inside the doorway, letting the door close behind him while his eyes adjusted to the dim lights of the place.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
He had already walked past three jewelry stores that afternoon: the first had been too noisy, the second too crowded (Too many voices. Too many strangers brushing past each other.), and the third had windows too exposed to the street. Andrew hadn’t liked the idea of standing under bright lights where anyone could observe him from the street. This one felt better. Like a place where he could think. A woman behind the counter looked up with a polite smile when she noticed him. She was older, silver hair pinned back and glasses sliding down her nose.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Andrew nodded, walking toward the counter. “I’m looking for a ring.”
Her expression softened the way people’s faces probably did when they heard that sentence. “An…engagement ring?”
“Yes.”
The word sat in the air between them.
(Engagement. Ring. Engagement. Ring.)
The woman smiled warmly. “Well, that’s wonderful. Do you know what kind she might like?”
He shook his head, quietly replying. “No.”
“Well, that’s alright! We can look together!”
She unlocked the glass case and began pulling out velvet trays one by one, placing them on the counter delicately. Rows of diamonds under the lights: round, square, clusters, thin bands, thick ones…She began explaining the settings, the cut, the metals, but Andrew barely heard the words.
(Not that he needed to. Courtesy of his profession.)
He examined each ring and imagined your hands, wrapped around a coffee mug when you were half awake in the mornings. Sometimes sticky with sugar from the pastries you stole from the café. Other times tangled in his hair.
(He pictured one of the rings sitting there on your finger. While you are standing in the kitchen barefoot and opening the fridge. Brushing your teeth at the sink. Tucking your hair behind your ear while you read. Reaching across the table to steal the last piece of toast from his plate.)
“This one is a classic solitaire,” she said gently. Andrew nodded politely but didn’t touch it. Another tray immediately came. “This one had side stones.” Another. “This setting is very popular right now.” He continued to listen but his eyes kept drifting across the case, searching.
(It had to be the best one. Anything less wouldn’t make sense. Something bright enough to keep up with you.)
The woman slid another velvet tray onto the counter. “This one is very elegant…”
Andrew’s gaze moved past it. And then it halted. The ring wasn’t on the tray she had just placed down. It sat apart under the glass in the display case beside them, resting alone on a small velvet stand like it had been waiting patiently the entire time. Three stones. The center diamond larger, oval and clear with two smaller ones flanking it. Andrew stepped closer to it and watched the light above the counter strike the stone and scatter back in return. The realization didn’t arrive like excitement but like an answer.
(Like the universe had placed it there for him to find.)
The woman followed his gaze. “Oh,” she said softly, opening the case and lifting the ring carefully with a small pair of tweezers before setting it on the velvet pad between them. Up close the diamonds looked almost alive under the lights. Three stones. The first one was you, bright and warm. Impossible not to notice when someone entered a room. The second was him, standing beside you, keeping watch. The third…Andrew’s breath paused.
(The third could be the future. The future with small fingers wrapped around yours. A little voice in the kitchen while you made coffee and Andrew made pancakes in the mornings. Someone learning to skate.)
(Too soon. You hadn’t talked about that. He hadn’t asked. He didn’t even know if he was allowed to hope for it.)
(Three stones.)
(Of course it would be this one. The answer had simply been waiting there for him to see it.)
“Yes,” Andrew said quietly.
The woman looked up. “Sorry?”
Andrew pointed once. “That’s the one.”
──────────
You know Andrew will be a fantastic father. You recognize it in the way he handles the little boy who fell on the other side of the skatepark.
There’s the sound before anything else: the sharp smack of small knees hitting the ground, followed by the wavering inhale children make when they’re hesitating between laughing and crying. Andrew turns instantly. Jogging across the park, he is already crouching before the boy has even shed a tear, his voice low and calm in a tone he reserves for children and frightened animals.
You observe him from where you stand, near the edge of the ramp, one foot remaining on the brand-new skateboard Andrew gave you yesterday after you came back from a shitty day at work. Andrew crouches in front of the boy, checking the kid’s elbow, the other brushing off his knees while he murmurs something that makes the boy sniff and nod bravely. You smile without meaning to. (of course he’ll be good at this.)
It’s no longer just a thought, it’s a certainty deeply anchored to your chest. You’ve seen the way Andrew watched children at the park when they skate past him, too fast and fearless, his eyes tracking them with that attention he gives to the ones he wants to protect. This sentiment is in all he does. In the way he always shifts you to the inside of the sidewalk when cars pass, his hand resting at the small of your back. In crowded places where strangers press too close, his fingers finding yours inevitably. In the quiet patience he has when you ramble about meaningless stuff, listening with attention. (you think you’ll do it tonight.)
The idea slips into your minds, probably waiting there all along. (you imagine Andrew’s face when requesting him to drive to the store. his confused frown. his eyes widening when he realizes what you’re asking him to buy. the two of you waiting together in the bathroom afterward, hand in hand while the minutes pass. Andrew counting under his breath.)
Your chest warms at the thought. Across the skatepark, the little boy is giggling now, wobbling back onto his board while Andrew steadies him cautiously with both hands, making sure the wheels are balanced before letting go. (yeah. he’s going to be fantastic.)
Your fingers brush absentmindedly over your stomach, just a split second of anticipation, a smile on your face.
The movement is so sudden your brain doesn’t grasp it at first. One moment, the sun is warm on your face, the sound of wheels mixing with children’s laughter, Andrew’s voice across the park.
The next, something closes around you from behind. Hard. A pair of arms wrap around your waist with a crushing force, lifting you straight off the ground before you even have time to turn your head. The world tilts. Your skateboard rolls away from your foot.
“What-” The word barely leaves your mouth, a hand slamming over it, large, rough. Your scream dies against the palm on your lips. Your brain scrambles to catch up with what your body already knows. Someone is holding you. Your feet kick wildly in empty air, your elbows jerking backward to hit the solid muscles behind you, but the man doesn’t loosen his grip. If anything, he tightens it, dragging you backward across the concrete so quickly your shoes barely graze the ground. Another set of hands grabs your legs.
(no. no, no, no. please, no.)
Your entire body lurches sideways, disregarding the violent rhythm of your heart against your ribs. You twist violently, nails clawing for anything you can reach, but the men move with efficiency: one arm pins your torso against a chest that smells like sweat and motor oil while the other man lifts your legs like you are nothing but a ragdoll.
(Andrew. he’s right there. just across the park. you only have to scream. now.)
A fabric presses against your face, the smell hitting you instantly. Strong. Chemical. Your lungs pull it in before you even gather what’s happening. When you do, your face instantly attempts to pull away but the hand only constricts more your mouth, forcing the cloth harder against your nose.
The world spins. Body jerking in their grip, panic floods your veins as your brain tries desperately to stay awake but the skatepark blurs more and more in shades of purple and green. The open door of a truck. Dark inside. Andrew. You try to shout his name, but your tongue feels heavy. Your arms suddenly won’t listen to you. Your vision tunnels. The sunlight disappears.
One more breath of the bitter chemical smell. And the world goes black.
-
Consciousness returns all at once. The first thing you notice is that everything is wrong. Your body feels wrong. Your arms ache, a deep burning pain that stretches from the shoulders down to your wrists, legs cramped and stiff beneath you, folded in an impossible position that, when the truck jolts over a bump in the road, sends a bolt of pain straight through your spine. Your head throbs. The air smells stale. A mix of gasoline, dust and sweat.
You attempt to open your eyes but nothing changes, just complete darkness. You recognize with the sensation on your face that you have a thick and suffocating bag on, each inhale rebounding against the inside of the cloth. Heart stuttering, you try to move your wrists, but only pain answers. A thing bites into your skin. Plastic. Your hands are pulled behind your back, wrists crossed and locked together so firmly that when you twist them, the band only cuts deeper, digging into the skin like a knife.
Zip ties.
Legs shift next, desperate for balance, but they don’t move freely either, something tight around your ankles so that when the vehicle makes a sharp turn, your entire body slides helplessly across the metal floor until it slams against the wall.
Voices wander ahead of you. Men. At least three. Talking. You can’t understand what they’re saying. (think.) Andrew’s voice appears in your mind, calm and steady the way it always is when he is explaining a rule. “Don’t panic.” For a moment, you focus on breathing the way he trained you. (in. out. slow. in. out. slow.) The pulse is still rapid but your thoughts begin scrambling for something solid to hold onto. For the things Andrew taught you in the backyard. (how to twist your wrist when someone grabbed you. how to strike the nose. the throat. the knee. how to shoot if you ever needed to.)
You try to recall, to force your body to follow the movements you practiced. Your wrists twist against the plastic restraint. Nothing happens. You try again. Push one hand outward. Pull the other inward. But the zip tie only gets even more restrictive. (okay. think.)
Your fingers press against the plastic band, searching for any gap, any weakness, anything you might be able to slip through if you turned your hands the right way. There isn’t one and your shoulders only burn from the strain of the position. Andrew never showed you how to escape this. He instructed you how to fight, to run, to hit, but this…Hands tied. Legs bound. Bag over your head. There’s nothing you can do without vision, nothing you can do if you can’t stand. Fear starts creeping through you in slow, icy waves.
(what if they ki...no. don’t think that. Andrew would want you to fight.)
The certainty arrives with surprising strength.
(he would want you to stay calm. to wait. to watch. to look for the moment when they make a mistake.)
You can hear the men laughing in the front of the vehicle, relaxed, like this is nothing to them. You force your breathing to slow once again. (you will fight. the first chance you get. Andrew taught you that much.)
You might not know where they are taking you, not know how far you’ve gone. But one thought, quiet and unshakable, settles inside your mind. Andrew will notice you’re gone. That something is wrong. And wherever these men think they’re taking you…Andrew will find you.
-
He knows how lucky he has been. How the dices of his existence have stayed on the same face long enough for him to forget what it feels like when they turn.
(Lucky. That’s what he has been. Not in the way people would get the word. No, Andrew has never confused luck with comfort. Luck to him has always meant survival. Luck meant a job that went wrong but not wrong enough. Luck meant walking away when someone else didn’t.)
But the kind of luck he has been living in lately is entirely different, quieter and more fragile and infinitely more dangerous to lose. Because for the past few months, Andrew Cody has been waking up next to you, breathing the warmth of your skin and the rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his cheek, feeling your fingers slipping into his hair. Every morning since the first day has felt like someone rolled the dice for him and somehow they landed in his favor every single time. And today, the dice rolled again. Only this time…they came up wrong.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
The road stretches empty ahead of the truck, long bands of asphalt cutting through the industrial outskirts of Oceanside while the sun slowly sets, but Andrew barely sees any of it, his attention fixed on the screen mounted beside the steering wheel where you location pulses with a blue dot. Moving. Still. His eyes keep flicking toward it, measuring the direction, the speed, the road, the signal that crawls along in slow, merciless increments, eyes never lingering long, conscious that staring at the screen will not bring you back any faster.
(He has work to do. One. Two. Three. Four. Andrew forces his gaze back to the road. He must not recall the rest. The truck door. The arms around you. The cloth. How he sprinted. How the distance was already too great. How the truck disappeared. One. Two. Three. Four.)
(And the faces he recognized. Not the names. Just the faces. Pete’s crew.)
The blood running down his face two years ago when Andrew took the man’s eye with pliers slow enough that Pete had time to understand exactly what was happening before the world went dark on one side forever had been a lesson. A simple one. A warning carved directly into his flesh, left alive so he could remember it. Apparently, he didn’t learn enough. Andrew exhales slowly through his nose, his expression unchanged as the blue dot continues to move across the map.
(That’s alright. Some lessons require repetition.)
The road narrows as the truck turns off the highway, gravel beneath the tires while the industrial outskirts of the city begin to unfold in rusted silhouettes of metal buildings and silent loading docks. Andrew observes the blue dot slow, then pause entirely, the signal settling over a structure. A warehouse.
(Of course. Men like Pete have faith that empty places mean safety.)
Andrew turns the headlights off before the truck even reaches the path leading toward it, the vehicle rolling forward under its own momentum, engine idling low while he guides it behind a row of rusted shipping containers where the structure disappears from the view of the highway. Andrew sits there for a moment, hands resting lightly on the wheel while the last vibration of the motor fades beneath the hood.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Gravel crunches beneath his boots as he steps out, the smell of rust hanging around the building while the wind pushes loose sheets of metal along the roof with a rattling sound that echoes across the empty lot. The trunk opens quietly. Beneath the spare tire and tool kit, his fingers slide to the lining and lift the panel that hides the compartment built into the frame of the vehicle, a small false floor designed for the exact moments when his world stops pretending to be civilized. The gun comes first, fitting into his palm like an old friend from another life.
(Checks the chamber. Loads it. The magazine locking into place.)
The bottle and lighter sits beside it: clear liquid inside, thick and volatile, the smell alone enough to remind any soul who has worked with it what fire can do when it’s given something to eat.
(Twists the cap once. Confirms it’s sealed.)
The warehouse stands fifty yards ahead of him, dark, but not silent. Andrew pauses long enough to listen to the voices through the half-open metal door.
(Men. Three. Maybe four. The sound of boots on the floor. None from you.)
A sudden, violent crack interrupts him. A man howls. “Fuck!”
Another voice (Yours. He would recognize it anywhere. Even if the world split in half and you stood on the other side. Even if heaven locked its gates and hell opened its mouth beneath his feet. He would cross it for all eternity to reach you.) bursts into laughter, cut off by the sound of a slap. The sound rings through the hollow space of the warehouse and travels through the thin door, the echo of skin against skin sharp enough that Andrew feels it deep beneath his ribs where the cold control in his chest sits.
Inside, one of the men laughs. “Still got some bite, huh?”
Another voice interrupts, irritated and nasal. “Stupid bitch broke my nose!”
(Good. If you fractured it, then you had enough strength left to do it. They have not shattered you. And for the hand who just hit you…)
Andrew envisions it calmly, the bones inside it, the tendons running through the fingers, the way the skin stretches across the knuckles when a fist closes, and he wonders briefly whether it would be cleaner to cut it at the wrist or the elbow and whether the blade would slide easier between the joints if the arm were bent backward first.
Another wet sound interrupts the men’s conversation. “Did she just spit again?”
“Fucking little psycho.”
“Yeah,” another voice mutters. “Like her man.”
Andrew slowly unscrews the cap of the bottle in his hand, the chemical smell rising.
“You know what your problem is?” the broken-nose man continues, his voice thick with blood and humiliation. “Nobody ever taught you manners.”
“Maybe the belt wasn’t enough of a lesson earlier, huh?” one of them laughs with the unmistakable sound of a knife running on metal. “Think Pope is still gonna like what’s left of your face when we’re done?”
Andrew closes his eyes for half a second. When he opens them, the man standing outside the door is no longer Andrew Cody. Andrew is the man who buys groceries. Andrew is the man who listens when you talk about your day. Andrew is the man who kisses your forehead when you fall asleep on the couch. The man outside the warehouse now is something else entirely. In the ancient scriptures, angels of death walked through burning cities, the destroyers sent in the night to mark the doors of the guilty and pass judgement upon those who believed themselves untouchable.
The man entering is no longer Andrew Cody.
It is Pope, and wrath walks with him.
The door swings open with a long metallic groan, the men standing only a few feet away from the entrance, their bodies half turned toward the noise but not yet fully comprehending what they are seeing, the mind always necessitating a moment to accept the shape of its own ending. Andrew doesn’t look at you. Not yet. Looking would slow him down.
(Rapidity is the key. Every second that passes gives them a chance to think. To react. To harm you again. The only law that matters here is the one written in the oldest instincts of the human body. Move first. Finish fast. Leave nothing behind that can still hurt the one he came for.)
The bottle in his hand swings as he crosses the distance between himself and the first man, the one closest to the door who has just enough time to widen his eyes before Andrew’s arm snakes around his neck and locks there with brutality, the man’s back slammed against his chest while Andrew’s other hand tilts the bottle upward and empties its contents over the man’s head and shoulders in one motion, the liquid soaking instantly into his shirt.
The man smells it before he understands. “Wait!” Andrew strikes the lighter, the flame reflecting in the man’s eyes before Andrew touches it to the gasoline, the fire blooming. The man’s scream tears through the warehouse, ripped straight out of hell itself as the flames leap up his chest and face, devouring the fabric of his clothes in seconds before he even manages to stumble away, his body thrashing wildly as he crashes in the walls and runs blindly toward the open door behind Andrew, the smell of burning cloth and skin spreading through the air while his screams fade outside into the gravel lot beyond.
(If there had been more time, he would have rolled the man in the pebbles with his melted skin. Not today.)
One of the other men reacts, in pure primal fear, bolting after the fire and sprinting toward the exit with his hands half raised. Andrew lets him go. Because the last man there is close to you, a knife in his hand that glints under the flickering light of the burning man. He grabs you by the shoulder and jerks your head back roughly, the blade lifting toward your throat in a trembling hand.
“Don’t move!” he shouts. Andrew doesn’t slow, striding to him. The man drags the knife closer to your neck, the metal hovering dangerously near the skin just beneath your jaw where your pulses beats. “I said don’t-” He never gets the chance to finish his sentence. Andrew’s hand closes around the man’s wrist before the knife has a chance to cut your skin, the grip precise and brutally controlled as he twists the joint outward with a sharp motion that sends the blade clattering across the floor. The sound of the man’s wrist breaking follows immediately after, like a branch beneath sudden weight. Driving him backward into the ground with his full weight, the two of them hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of the man’s lungs while Andrew’s knee pins his chest and his hand traps the broken arm. Andrew calmly picks up the knife that lies inches away from them.
“Please, man. No…” the man sobs.
Andrew tilts his head slightly, studying the face in front of him. “Were you the one who slapped her?”
The man freezes, eyes flicking briefly toward you before going back to Andrew. “Yes.”
Andrew nods once, almost politely. “And the belt?”
The man’s lips tremble. “Yes.” The word barely forms before Andrew strikes, the blade flashing once through the air. The man’s scream is immediate and piercing, but Andrew doesn’t look away while the hand separates from the wrist.
He simply picks it up and places it carefully in the man’s remaining hand who is crying, shaking violently on the floor while the blood spreads rapidly across the concrete beneath him. Andrew leans down close enough that the man can hear him clearly through the ringing in his ears. “Take that back to Pete.” His voice is quiet, almost conversational. “Tell him that the next time he touches my family…I’ll take off his eyelid so he can watch me carve open his chest.” Andrew stands, the man clutching the severed hand to his chest and fleeing the place.
The chair you lie on is to its side now, where the struggle knocked it over earlier, the zip ties rigid around your wrists and ankles, dark marks already rising along your cheek and throat where the men had tried to teach you their version of obedience.
You are not fighting anymore. Your head has fallen forward, body still. Andrew crosses the room rapidly, dropping the knife as he kneels beside you and slides his hand carefully beneath your jaw to lift your face toward the light. Your pulse is there, fast and strong. He cuts the zip ties with the knife in practiced movements before pulling you against his chest, one hand pressing against the back of your head while the other steadies your shoulders. Your eyes flutter open, unfocused. Then they find him, fingers curling against his shirt, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I knew you’d come.”
Andrew exhales slowly through his nose, moving his hand through your hair with careful fingers before pressing a kiss at the top of your head. “Always.”
──────────
You didn’t ask. Just perceived it the moment he walked through the door: the tightness in the way Andrew carried himself, not outwardly visible to anyone who didn’t know him. But you did now, enough to distinguish the difference between his usual quietude and the one that pressed inward, coiled beneath his skin, waiting for a place to go. His shoulders were a little too rigid, the eyes lingering too long on nothing. His jaw held a tension that didn’t belong to the room, to you, to anything here.
So, you didn’t ask. Aware that Andrew didn’t untangle himself through questions. That whatever storm traveled through him had to run its course before he could even begin to name it.
The door shut behind him with a soft click that seemed louder than it should have been, and for a moment he just stood there, like he needed a minute to adapt to the silence, to the absence of whatever had been outside. Your apartment held its usual warmth despite your recent absence in it: the scent of your burnt candle mingling with the apple pie you baked after work, something gentle and lived-in, but he didn’t step into it right away. Not fully. You watched him from the couch, your legs tucked beneath you, fingers playing with the edge of a blanket you had draped over your lap. (he seemed exhausted. not the kind that sleep resolved. even if he was improving at that, this was the other kind. the one that sat deep inside.)
You reached for the remote without saying anything and turned the television on, scrolling briefly before selecting a documentary you had seen before but knew he hadn’t and the ocean filled the screen. Blue. Endless. Lulling. A narrator’s voice began to speak about the migration patterns of the whales and how they communicated across vast distances, voices traveling miles beneath the surface where no one could see them. (reaching each other even in the dark.)
You didn’t peek at him when you did it, it was just about letting the sound fill the room. Gradually, like he was remembering how to exist in a place that didn’t demand anything from him, he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping under his weight. You kept your eyes on the screen, allowing the silence to stretch in that comfortable way that didn’t feel empty, just…open. A few seconds ensued before you sensed him leaning against you, shoulders brushing. Your legs unfolded from beneath you, body turning as your hand came up to the back of his neck, fingers stroking the curls in an instinctive motion. “Come here,” you murmured.
He dithered. (he constantly did, just for a second. like he was testing if he was permitted to do so.)
Andrew sank until his head rested against your lap, his body stretching along the length of the couch while one of your hands remained at the base of his neck, steadying him there until you adjusted your hand so your fingers could slip into his hair, brushing along his scalp, the pads tracing circles the way you had learned he adored. He went completely still. Like an animal that had decided not to run to find shelter. The documentary played on: whales swimming through the ocean, their massive bodies gliding effortlessly through a world that seemed untouched by everything above it. Your fingers maintained their path, repeating the same gesture over and over, never rushing, never resting.
It didn’t take long. It never did when Andrew was so pliable. His head angled involuntarily into the contact of your nails grazing the skin, stating more than whatever he could have expressed out loud. You kept going. Same pace, same gesture. Over and over. His hand, which had been resting against his chest, went on your thigh to caress it before going still again. You glanced down at him. His eyes were shut and his face, usually so controlled, so carefully composed, felt unguarded. You observed how his lashes rested on his cheek, the faint furrow between his brows smoothing out as the last remnants of tension left his body. He didn’t fight it, didn’t try to stay awake. He let go.
You leaned back against the couch, one hand still buried in his curls, the other resting on his shoulder, refusing to budge. Not when your arm began to ache from the position, not when the documentary ended and rolled quietly into the next, not even when the night superseded the day. You stayed, because a part in you understood, without requiring languages for it but the one his body spoke, that this was how he rested. Not alone. Not guarded. But here: with his head in your lap, your hand in his hair, the world quiet enough that, for a little while, nothing could reach him.
And you would remain like this for as long as he needed.
──────────
You are cold.
Not the kind of cold that comes from the wind or the night air, not the kind that disappears when someone wraps a blanket around your shoulders, no, the deeper kind that sits inside your bones like something has been emptied out of you and the space it left behind has filled with ice. You look down slowly. Andrew’s hand. You don’t recall when you seized it. You only know that you can’t let go of it.
The truck moves beneath you, tires humming against the asphalt while the sky outside the windshield slowly darkens, but the world feels distant, like you are watching it through glass, body sitting in the passenger seat while your mind floats a few inches above it. Your hand tightens, the gesture making him glance at you from the driver’s seat, one hand still on the wheel while the other remains locked inside your grasp, like he has been waiting for you to wake up. “I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. His voice is steady. Always steady. You try to answer him, to voice simple words like ‘I know’ or ‘I’m okay’ or even just ‘Andrew’, but they get lost, stuck in your throat, forgetting how to exist.
(why can’t you speak? it’s just words. you know them. you can hear them in your head. so why won’t they come out? are you…still in there?) Your throat works, but nothing comes out. You blink slowly to ease the sting of your eyes, trying to focus on anything in front of you, but your vision keeps traveling toward the dark stains on Andrew’s clothes where blood dried in streaks. (not his blood. you’re sure of that. you should tell him you tried. that you listened. that you remembered. that you didn’t just freeze.)
The road stretches long and dark ahead of you, the headlights cutting through the night while the ocean wind creeps through the open crack of the window Andrew lowered earlier when you started shaking so violently that the seatbelt rattled against the side of the door.
You hadn’t understood why you were shaking. You still don’t.
But the cold inside remains. Andrew’s thumb moves leisurely over the back of your hand, the movement repetitive and grounding, like the counting he executes when he assumes you’re not noticing. (one. two. three. four. you identify the rhythm. he’s soothing himself. or maybe you. it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.)
He doesn’t seek to free his hand, you know he never would. He just adjusts his fingers so your palm fits more comfortably against his, letting you hold on as tightly as you need.
The truck slows abruptly, pulling onto the shoulder of the empty road while Andrew shifts the gear into park, turning toward you completely, his face softer now that he’s no longer watching the road. It takes a few seconds to realize that he did this because your breathing has altered again. Your chest moves too fast, pulling air in short shallow bursts that don’t seem to reach you. Andrew leans slowly, careful. “Hey,” he murmurs. Your breath keeps stuttering, lungs not quite opening all the way. “Hey,” he repeats, closer this time.
His hand lifts from your joined grip, but only for a second, lingering near your face and asking silent permission, waiting to see if you will pull away, if your body will flinch once more like it did earlier when the ordeal was still too loud and too close and too much. You don’t shift. You don’t believe you can.
“Look at me, sweetheart.” Your eyes drag themselves up to his face, heavily, like everything else inside you, and when they finally meet his, he is already observing you with an unwavering focus, a steadiness. The only thing solid in a world that has suddenly lost all its edges. “Breathe with me,” he says quietly, inhaling slowly so you can follow. The air shakes on the way in, but you force it further despite the ache in your chest with the effort. “That’s it,” he whispers, “you’re doing real good.” (you don’t think you are. but he says it like you are. and right now he’s the only one you trust. in. out. in. out.)
“One…two…three…four…” he counts under his breath. And that’s the easiest thing to do: listening to his quiet cadence, creating a sense of order in your body. The air ultimately reaches your lungs, shoulders dropping and the sharp edge of panic dulling just enough to let something else settle in its place. Not calm. Not really. Just…space. Enough for another sentiment to rise. Your eyes remain on his, too absorbed and aware, like if you look away you might lose him. (he’s here. he’s real. i’m here. i’m… i’m real.)
Before you can think about it, before you can understand it, before you can even form the intention into coherence…you move.
Your other hand comes up, fingers catching the fabric of his shirt, pulling him toward you with a sudden, desperate force that surprises even you, your mouth finding his in a kiss that is too hard, too urgent, too unsteady to be anything but need. After all…if you can feel him enough, you might be able to regain your way back into yourself. Your eyes stay open. His do too. For a few seconds, Andrew stills and you can witness it, the moment where he comprehends. (that you crave something. that it’s him. it has to be him.)
His hand comes up to your face, steadying you, thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone, grounding your relentlessness without interrupting it. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t deepen it either. He just…meets you there. Solid. Present. Real. Breath catching against his mouth, uneven and trembling, you kiss him again, and again, chasing what you can’t name, what persists in slipping just out of reach. (feel. please. prove you’re still here. prove you’re still inside your own body.)
“Please,” you murmur against his lips, the word barely there, fragile and breaking as it leaves you. “Please…”
He exhales softly against your mouth. “I’m here,” he replies. “Easy… I’ve got you.” But you don’t want easy. You kiss him again, harder this time, your grip tensing in his shirt, tugging him closer, frightened he might vanish if you don’t hold him there. Nothing matters except his warmth and the fact that he is alive and here and touching you. Hand shifting, he cups your jaw more fully now, guiding the pace just enough so you don’t evade yourself utterly in it, his thumb stroking faintly along your skin in slow motions.
“Hey…” he whispers softly between your breaths. “Stay with me.” (you’re trying. it’s just… arduous when all keeps luring you under.)
You don’t notice it instantly, the moment of fracture. You keep kissing him, your movements losing their urgency, grip slackening as something else begins to take over…blurriness in your vision. It takes you a second to grasp that there are tears on your face. They slide down your cheeks, unnoticed at first until one of them reaches the corner of your mouth and mixes with the taste of him. And when he perceives the stumble of your breath, this time it’s different: it’s not panic, no, not quite. Just…too much. Your forehead presses weakly against his, lips barely brushing his as the tears keep coming, silent at first, then heavier, your chest squeezing in a way that has nothing to do with air anymore. (why are you crying?)
Body folding on itself, the tension snaps all at once, your hand falling from his shirt as a broken sound escapes you, small and raw and completely unlike the silence you had been trapped in before. Andrew moves instantly. His hand leaves your face to tug you toward him, awkward in the confined space of the truck, your body half climbing over the console without either of you thinking about it, your shoulder knocking against the gear shift as he wraps his arms around you as best as he can from the driver’s seat.
“I’ve got you,” he breathes, one hand cradling the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
You shake your head weakly against him, fingers coming up to clutch at his shirt once again but without the earlier urgency, without the desperation, just…holding. Craving. “I-” your voice breaks, incapable of forming the word. “I-” The sentence dissolves before it can exist but Andrew doesn’t ask you to finish it. He just embraces you.
His hand moves slowly through your hair, over and over, the same motion, the same rhythm, his other arm tight around your back to keep you steady as your body trembles in release. The sobs come quietly at first, then stronger, your breath catching between them, your face buried against his neck where his skin is warm and real and alive. “I know,” he mutters, even though you haven’t uttered anything. “I know, sweetheart.” (you don’t know what he gets. you don’t understand what’s occurring inside you. you can just tell it hurts.)
Time stretches. Or maybe it doesn’t. It’s difficult to keep track of it.
The world narrows to the space between his arms, to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, to the quiet sound of his voice when he speaks again and again in low, anchoring murmurs that you don’t fully hear but perceive on a greater level. Your body slowly calms and the crying fades. Not because it’s done, no. You just don’t have the strength to continue, eyelids growing heavier with every passing second.
Andrew doesn’t budge: not when your weight settles more fully against him, not even when your head slips on his shoulder. He just accommodates his hold, one hand sliding cautiously to support your neck, making sure you’re comfortable even in the awkward angle between the seats. “I’m right here,” he murmurs again. (you know. you’re holding onto that.)
The last thing you register is wetness falling onto your hair where his face is the closest.
-
You don’t sense the moment he shifts. Only the absence. The slow, gentle manner Andrew untangles himself from you without ever truly letting go, one arm remaining around your shoulders while the other guides your body back across the console, repositioning you in the passenger seat. Your cheek brushes the fabric of his shirt one last time before the distance and cold returns. Not all at once. Just enough to perceive. Your head tips weakly against the seat, eyes closed. (don’t open them. if you open them, it all comes back.)
The engine starts again beneath you, the vibration traveling through the frame of the truck and into your bones, comforting, enough to keep you suspended in that fragile space between alert and catatonic. Andrew’s hand finds yours while the world only subsists in fragments: the inaudible hum of the road, the dry evening air slipping through the open window, the rhythm of Andrew’s breathing beside you, the sporadic shift of his thumb against your skin like he is still counting, still making sure you are here. (one. two. three. four. you can overhear him.)
Time passes.
Minutes.
Hours.
You don’t know.
In your drifting at the seam of consciousness, there’s a thought. A thing you were supposed to do, that you had planned. It floats up slowly, rising from deep water, blurred and shapeless. It was after the skatepark. The thought slips the instant you attempt to hold it, gone, too distant to reach. You don’t understand why it matters. Don’t identify why it feels crucial.
The truck decelerates. There’s a change in motion, a transition from smooth asphalt to something rougher, the tires crunching as the vehicle rolls to a stop, engine cutting soon after. For a moment, nothing happens.
“Love, hey… Can you open your eyes for me?” his voice is close, gentle.
Your lashes flutter at the sound of it. (love. when was the last time he called you that? yesterday? last month? ever? time feels too blurred to know the difference.)
The world comes back in pieces yet again, light first, then shape, then meaning, your gaze unfocused a little too long before it finally lands on him, on the familiar lines of his face that appear sharper now, more defined under the dim light. Leaning toward you from the driver’s seat, one of his hands is still hovering close, not touching yet, waiting.
You blink to the structure emerging behind him through the windshield. The house is small and wooden, set back from the road, almost seeking not to be uncovered, the land stretching quiet and dark around it, the trees around moving in the night wind, a silence so complete it almost feels like the world has halted just for this place.
Andrew examines your face cautiously, tracking the way your eyes move, the way your breathing settles, the slight delay in every response of your body, catching up to somewhere your mind hasn’t fully returned from. “We have arrived,” he murmurs. His hand finally comes to rest against your cheek, the touch light, thumb brushing once beneath your eye where the skin is still damp. You don’t flinch. Not this time. “I need to step out for a minute,” he continues quietly. “Get the keys.”
(don’t go. please don’t go. you don’t know how to stay here without him.) It presses against your chest, small but urgent, but when your mouth opens, nothing comes out, the feeling dissolving into that same frustrating emptiness where language should be.
Andrew notices. “I’m coming right back, okay?” he adds with a tentative smile. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”
That almost makes it pull at your mouth. You try. You really try. Your lips part, the words take effort, way more than it should. “You wish,” you manage, barely above a whisper. It’s very little. Fragile. But it’s there.
He stills for just a fraction of a second, exhaling a breath you don’t think he realized he had been holding, the sound almost imperceptible, but you feel it in the way his shoulders slacken, in the way his hand pauses on your face before easing. “There she is,” he replies, like he’s speaking to something that had almost slipped out of reach and has now, somehow, found its way back, “That’s my girl.”
The phrase settles inside you, warm in a place that had been untouched since the cold entered, and for a moment, just a moment, the void amid your body and your mind shortens, stitching themselves back together one thread at a time. You don’t smile yet. You’re not sure you can. But you seek all you have in your features to convey how much right here, right now, yes, his girl is gradually rising back.
His hand lingers a moment longer before he forces himself to pull away, counting under his breath the distance in cycles of four. “I’ll be right back,” he reassuringly says.
The space he leaves behind doesn’t feel as hollow. Your eyes follow him again through the windshield, watching the way he strides across the gravel toward the house. Another man stands near the porch, older, keys glinting in his hand, and the two of them speak in low voices that don’t quite reach you, fragments stumbling through without forming anything whole.
“…papers are all signed…”
“…place is yours now…”
The words drift past you, half-heard, half-understood, your mind too far to hold onto them properly while the man presses the keys into Andrew’s palm.
“…quiet out here… good for that…”
A pause.
“…you and your wife will like it.”
It’s gentler than the rest, but heavier somehow, deeper than the others. It doesn’t jar you. Doesn’t seem wrong. And in your mind, the word keeps running. (wife, wife, wife.)
You don’t feel like a wife. But honestly right now, you don’t consider yourself much of anything. (but the idea…the idea of being his wi-)
That’s a warm term, one that goes beyond the cold within your bones, one that is untouched by all that occurred tonight, that can’t harm you. The night air trails Andrew as your door opens, sealing the distance between you and him, nothing else subsisting elsewhere out of his hazel eyes. “Hey,” he murmurs, crouching so his face is level with yours, gaze searching yours with the same focus that has been holding you together since the world slipped. “We’re gonna go inside, alright?”
You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t desire to, no, but because everything still feels sluggish. (stay there. don’t lose him. underwater is not a place to remain in.) You nod. Andrew’s expression softens, something easing behind his eyes before he stands and moves carefully, one arm sliding around your back, the other guiding your hand, never pulling, never rushing. “I’ve got you.”
The ground appears uneven when your feet touch it, legs uncertain beneath you but not truly discerning it, not when you have him to hold onto, not when his arm stays around you, anticipating every movement you don’t have the strength to control and keeping you upright without making it feel like you’re falling apart. You don’t examine the house. Just a brief flickering look toward it: the shape, the soft light behind the windows, the outline of a place that might be welcoming. But it doesn’t carry you. Nothing does.
Except him.
The steps to the porch blur beneath your feet and you cross the threshold without really feeling it. Inside. Somewhere. It doesn’t matter. Your hand hasn’t left his, the only thing that you deem real enough. It takes a full minute for your voice to come, quiet and rough from disuse, barely more than a breath. “Where are we…?”
The question feels distant, belonging to someone else. Andrew doesn’t hesitate. “Home,” he answers.
You don’t question it, you don’t look around to confirm it. You don’t need to. The term doesn’t reach the walls, doesn’t reach the house. It stops at him. (you already know you’re home.)
Andrew is here.
──────────
“And this one?”
Your voice arose tenderly, already halfway through the ritual you had created weeks ago, fingertip resting against the ridge of an old scar along his shoulder blade, tracing its uneven edge like it was a delicate relic instead of skin that had once been torn open. Andrew didn’t answer straight away. He lay with his back pressed to your chest, curled so your arm could drape over his waist while the other danced across his skin, mapping him the way no one ever had, with hands that sought to understand rather than assess or judge, touching instead of taking, reverence instead of inventory.
(One. Two. Three. Four. The body of the sinner, and no voice rising to call it that but his own.)
Your nail followed the line once more, lighter this time. “Andrew?” you murmured.
He exhaled. “Knife.”
Your hum vibrated against his back, the sound warm, thoughtful, like you were receiving the word instead of reacting to it, holding it somewhere gentle instead of letting it fall heavy between you. “How old?”
“Sixteen.”
Your finger lingered, tracing it again, slower this time, committing it the way you always did: like nothing about him was allowed to be forgotten once you had uncovered it. Your lips followed in a soft kiss, placed exactly where your fingertip had been, loving and deliberate and…reverent. Andrew’s breath faltered.
(It always did. Because it didn’t feel like affection. No, it was something else entirely. A sentiment he did not have a name for. Close to absolution.)
Your hand moved again, drifting across his back with quiet intention, pausing at another mark, smaller, almost faded. “And this one?”
He swallowed. “A job.”
“Mm.” Your thumb brushed over it, smoothing it as if the years hadn’t already tried and failed, as if your touch could succeed where time had not. “It’s a very small one.” A kiss followed. Then another.
(His angel making something holy out of what had only ever been used.)
“And this one?”
“Prison.” The word left him flat, as always, but your hand didn’t falter, your touch didn’t recoil. You only traced it again.
(Once. Twice. Three. Four. Even number. You knew now. That he needed it like that. He had told you once. Hesitant. Apologetic. How four made things silent inside. And you hadn’t turned it into something to laugh at.)
You leaned down, pressing your lips to it with the same tenderness as the others, no reluctance, no differentiation, no hierarchy in the way you touched the wounds that had shaped him.
(No categories of deserved or undeserved. No measurement of them. You did not question which ones he earned. You kissed them all the same.)
The starving part of him, buried so profoundly it had forgotten its own name and fed on scraps and silence, stirred at being called back in the home of your embrace.
At the scar he got when he was young, your lips lingered longer, as if that one demanded more, as if the child he had been was still attached to his skin and needed to be acknowledged separately from the man he had become. Andrew’s eyes slipped closed, not a single muscle held in readiness, not a single instinct braced for impact.
(He did not do this anywhere else. Because nowhere else did it feel like this. Being unmade. Not brutally. Not forcefully. Piece by piece. Each of his scars a verse. Each of your kisses the response. His angel undoing a life tainted by violence. Rewriting it in mercy.)
And in the quiet that followed, with your arm still wrapped around him and your fingers slipping once more into his hair, Andrew felt the overwhelming need to anchor himself before it could fall away, holding onto the sheet. Because if this: this warmth, this softness, this impossible, undeserved gentleness…if this was what it meant to have every mark acknowledged and not condemned, to be touched without expectation of pain…then maybe this was what people implied when they spoke of being forgiven.
And if this was what being cleansed felt like, he understood why people believed in God.
──────────
He found it the day you asked him to leave for a while.
The request had not been cruel, nor abrupt, nor even unexpected, yet it had still sat inside his chest with a weight he didn’t know how to carry, your voice gentle but firm when you told him you needed some time, even just an hour, to process alone all that had happened without his eyes on you, without his hands reaching to help you when you were screaming in the middle of the night. He had nodded because you had asked it and loving you had already taught him that care didn’t always mean staying, that sometimes it meant stepping away even when every instinct inside him recoiled at the idea of leaving you unguarded.
He had driven without direction at first, counting.
(One. Two. Three. Four. The trees. The houses. Distance from you measured in numbers instead of steps. Time instead of touch.)
The road had stretched ahead, quiet, the hills folding into one another beneath the afternoon light, and his hands had remained tight on the wheel, gaze scanning reflexively for threats that didn’t exist there, for movement that never came. His body still held in that rigid state since the warehouse, every nerve tuned to the possibility of harm.
And then he had spotted it. Small. Set back from the road. A chapel that didn’t announce itself, that didn’t demand attention, its wooden white frame worn by time, the door ajar, probably left open for anyone who might necessitate it and had not yet decided how to ask. He had parked without thinking. And inside, it had been silent. The kind that didn’t feel abandoned, but contained, preserved from the noise of the world outside, the light filtering across the benches and floorboards, dust flying in the air, undisturbed.
Andrew had not known what to do in a place like that. He had stood near the entrance longer than necessary, boots quiet against the floor, his gaze moving across the room, cataloguing details without purpose: the shape of the altar, the faint scent of old wood and candle wax, the way the space seemed to exist outside of time.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
He had not prayed. He didn’t exactly know how, no matter the number of times he had attempted. Him. Pope who couldn’t pray. But still, he had remained there for a while. Long enough for his breathing to slow. Long enough for the thought to settle.
(This is where he will bring you. Where the world cannot touch what it doesn’t deserve.)
-
And two weeks later, he does. The door opens with a soft creak under his hand, the sound echoing inside the small chapel as he steps aside to let you enter first, his gaze moving to you rather than the room, tracking the way you cross the threshold, the slight hesitation in your step, the way your fingers curl loosely around the sleeve of his shirt before letting go.
(One. Two. Three. Four. You’re steady. Still here. Still breathing. Still his to guard.)
You pause just inside and your eyes travel slowly across the space, taking in the light and the absence of anything that demands attention. “It’s…” you begin, your voice smaller than it used to be, not fragile, not broken, but tempered by everything your body has learned in the past weeks, “…nice.”
Andrew nods once, closing the door behind you with care. “It’s quiet,” he replies.
(Quiet is safe. Quiet means no one is coming. A place set apart. Removed. Preserved. His angel does not belong to the world outside. Not to men like them. Not to what raised him. Not to the kind of life that stains everything it touches.)
You move further in, your steps unhurried, hand brushing along the back of one of the wooden benches, fingers tracing the grain absentmindedly, grounding yourself in the texture, in the reality of it while Andrew stays close.
(Not touching. But near enough. A distance small enough to cross in less than a second. Close enough to intervene. Close enough to reach before harm does.)
You sit after a moment, choosing a bench near the center rather than the back, your body turning toward him when he lowers himself beside you, leaving just enough space between you that you can close it if you want. For a while, neither of you speaks. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers intertwined, your thumbs moving against each other in a slow, absent rhythm. “I like it here,” you murmur.
Andrew nods again. “I thought you might.”
You glance at him then, a faint curve at the corner of your mouth, not quite the full smile he knows, but closer than before. “You were right.”
(He wants to keep being right if it keeps you like this. Breathing. Here. Untouched.)
Silence settles again, softer this time. You draw in a slow breath. “I…wanted to say thank you.” The words come carefully, each one placed with intention, your gaze dropping briefly to your hands before lifting again. Andrew’s body stills.
(Thank you. For what? For doing what should have been done before they even reached you? For failing to stop it sooner?)
“You stayed,” you continue, your voice steady despite the tightening in your throat. “These past two weeks. You didn’t…leave me alone with it.”
Andrew’s jaw tightens, just a little. (There was no version where he would have left.) “I wasn’t going to,” he says quietly.
You nod, your fingers tightening together. “I know.” A small exhale. “I just…wanted to say it.” He watches you closely, noting the way your shoulders hold, the way your eyes avoid his for a second before returning. “And I’m sorry,” you add.
That makes him frown. “For what.”
You huff a small, breathless laugh that breaks halfway through. “For being…like this.” You gesture vaguely to yourself, your body, the invisible weight you’ve been carrying. “For being ‘sick’. For not…” You stop.
Andrew doesn’t. “For not what?” he asks, his voice still even but lower now.
Your gaze drops again. “For not being…normal,” you finish quietly. “For not…touching you. For not wanting to have sex righ-”
“No.” The word cuts through the air immediately, firm, leaving no space for you to continue that line of thought. You blink, looking up at him. “That doesn’t matter,” he says.
(You being alive matters. You breathing matters. Nothing else comes close. The rest is irrelevant.)
You swallow, your lips parting slightly. “But it’s been weeks,” you murmur. “And I know that’s not-”
“It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, softer this time but no less certain, his hand finally moving, resting over yours where they sit in your lap.
“You don’t owe me that,” he adds.
(You don’t owe him anything. Not your body. Not your healing. Not your pace. He owes you everything. All that remains of him. That still knows how to be used for something other than destruction.)
Your breath stutters, your eyes searching his face, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that might contradict the certainty in his voice. There is none. “You’re not…annoyed?” you ask, the word small, almost tentative.
Andrew’s expression shifts, not quite a smile, but something warmer. “No.” A beat. “Not once.”
Your lips tremble, a sound escaping you that is halfway between a laugh and a sob, your shoulders lifting slightly before dropping again, the tension breaking in small increments. “That’s insane,” you whisper, shaking your head.
Andrew tilts his head. “Why?”
“Because most people would be!” you reply, a soft, disbelieving breath leaving you. “Most people would have left by now or…” you cut yourself off, pressing your lips together.
“I’m not most people,” he says, voicing the thought simply. “And weren’t you the one who told me that it didn’t matter if I couldn’t be…intimate? That together was all you needed?”
That makes you laugh again, a real one this time, even if it’s threaded with tears, your head tipping forward slightly. “Yeah,” you admit. “That’s…true.” The sound lingers in the chapel, light, fragile, but real and Andrew can’t help but to watch you, committing it to memory.
(This. This is what he protects. Not the absence of fear. The return of this. His light.)
Your hand turns beneath his, your fingers curling around his palm now, holding him rather than being held, your grip gentle but intentional. “I’m getting better,” you say after a moment.
He nods. “I know.”
You glance at him, a hint of curiosity there. “How?”
“You’re laughing.”
A small smile returns to your mouth at that. “Good point.” You inhale slowly, your gaze drifting toward the front of the chapel, toward the altar, the quiet space beyond it, your expression thoughtful. “I know I’m not…all the way there yet.”
“I don’t need you to be,” he replies.
You look back at him. “I know,” you say softly. “But I want to be.” A tear slips down your cheek then, unexpected, and you laugh again through it, wiping it away quickly with the back of your hand. “Fuck, I’m a mess,” you mutter.
Andrew shakes his head. “No.”
You huff. “Oh yes, look at me. Cursing in a church.”
He doesn’t argue further and reaches up, the pad of his thumb brushing beneath your eye, catching the remaining dampness there, his touch careful.
(He has seen blood on this skin. Bruises rising. Hands where they should not have been. This, this he can handle.)
You lean into the contact without thinking, your eyes closing briefly, your breath evening out again under the motion. For a moment, the two of you remain like that. Quiet. Held in a place that doesn’t ask anything of you except to exist. Then you pull back slightly, a small, almost mischievous spark returning to your gaze, faint but present. “Hey,” you say.
Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Do you think,” you begin slowly, “you could drive me to the grocery store after this?”
He blinks once. “The grocery store.”
You nod, a soft smile forming. “I want to try a new recipe.”
(A recipe. Ingredients. Steps. Future.)
Andrew exhales slowly through his nose.
(One. Two. Three. Four. You are here. You are choosing to stay. To build. To continue. He will buy you the whole store if he needs to.)
“Yes,” he answers.
Your smile widens, just a little. “Good,” you say, squeezing his hand once.
And in the quiet of the chapel, Andrew understands with a clarity that does not require words, does not require prayer, does not require anything beyond the rhythm of your breathing beside him that whatever this place was meant for, whatever it once represented to those who built it, to those who came here seeking answers… he has already found his.
It sits beside him.
──────────
At twenty-one, Andrew did not ask questions.
He learned early that questions did not change outcomes, that answers were rarely given without cost, and that the only thing that mattered in the end was whether he had done what was expected of him, whether he had moved when told, stopped when told, hurt when told, because in that house usefulness had always been the closest thing to love that any of them were allowed to touch.
Smurf was sitting in the living room when she called him, not raising her voice. She never needed to. “Andrew.”
He was already turning before she finished saying his name, stepping into the room with that attentive posture that had been carved into him over years, his eyes finding her immediately, reading the angle of her body, the tilt of her head, the small details that told him what she wanted before she said it. She was smiling. The one she used when she had already determined someone’s fate. “Come here, baby.” He did. Of course he did.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Called. Answered. That was how it worked.)
She was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, bracelets shimming when she shifted, her hand reaching for him the moment he stepped close enough, fingers sliding along his thigh in a slow, absent stroke.
(He wondered if this meant comfort in other houses. Affection in other families.)
“You’re my strong boy,” she smirked, her gaze lingering on his face with a warmth that never lasted long enough to hold onto. “My protector.” Andrew stood still beneath her hand.
(Protector. That’s what he was. That’s what he was for.)
“There’s a man,” she continued, “who forgot how things work around here.” Her fingers pressed against his leg. “Can you remind him?”
Andrew nodded. “Yes, Smurf.”
She smiled wider. “I knew I could count on you.” Her palm lingered a second longer before withdrawing, the absence of it immediate, noticeable, leaving behind that quiet, familiar emptiness that always followed once the task had been given.
(He had to do it well. To come back. To be useful. Be worth it.)
The man was not important though, that Andrew grasped the moment he saw him. He was not a target because of what he had done, Andrew actually didn’t know what it was about, but because Smurf had declared he had forgotten, and forgetting, in their world, was sufficient.
“Please…” the man started as Andrew approached slowly. Not out of uncertainty, out of precision. The man kept talking, words spilling over each other, apologies, explanations, promises, the kind of desperate language people used when they believed there was still a possibility of being heard. Andrew didn’t listen. Listening would imply that the outcome could change. But here, now, it couldn’t. He reached for the man’s jaw first. “Wait, I have a family,” the man choked out, his voice cracking under the pressure. “Please, I have ki-”
The first hit cut the sentence in half. Andrew observed the impact: the way the man’s head snapped to the side, how the sound echoed in the room, the way silence pursued for a moment before the man tried again, his words slurring.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Andrew adjusted his stance before continuing. Each movement controlled, measured in the similar rhythm he employed for everything else, the same manner he counted steps, breaths, distances, because this too was a task, and tasks required precision. The man’s voice deteriorated rapidly. Words turning into sounds. Sounds turning into broken attempts at forming something coherent.
(One. Two. Three. Four. The mouth was no longer functional. This man was sentenced to months of silence, jaw rendered useless. Children without their father’s voice. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted his fist striking.)
He couldn’t halt, not out of rage or cruelty, but out of completion. Because stopping before the job was done meant coming back, which meant therefore failing the first time. The man ceased to speak long before Andrew stopped. And silence, in this case, meant success.
When he returned home, the house was empty, the lights were off. No music. No voices. No Smurf. No brothers. Andrew stood just inside the doorway for a moment, his hand still on the handle, the quiet pressing in around him, unfamiliar after the structured noise of the task, the man’s voice and the impact of bone and skin and breath.
The living room looked exactly the same: the couch, the table… Everything in its place. Except there was no one there to tell him he had done well. No hand reaching for him. No voice calling him baby. No warmth. Just the absence of it. Andrew sat on the couch, in the same spot where Smurf had been earlier. His hands rested on his thighs, still, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, his body waiting without realizing it was waiting, as though the next instruction might come at any moment.
It didn’t.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
(What now?)
There was no need for the question to form fully, because there was no answer. Just the quiet. And him inside it.
-
At twenty-one, you were not supposed to end up alone.
Not with the way people gravitated toward you, the way your laughter filled spaces without effort, the way professors remembered your name and classmates sought you out not because they required something from you but because being near you felt easy, light, uncomplicated.
You studied psychology out of appreciation to understanding people. You enjoyed the way patterns formed, the way behavior made sense when you looked at it closely enough, the way even the most confusing reactions had roots if you were patient enough to find them. Your mother used to say you were good at seeing the best in others and of course, since she was your mother, you used to believe her. At twenty-one, your life had been full: classes, friends, late nights spent talking about nothing and everything at once, a future that stretched out in front of you in clear, manageable steps…
And then it wasn’t.
The hospital room had been too white, quiet, final. But your mother’s absence didn’t arrive all at once, no, it unfolded gradually in the empty chair at the table, in the silence where her voice used to be, in the way the house felt different even though nothing had moved.
You tried to go back to your classes, go back to your routines and the version of yourself that existed before, but everything felt heavier, louder. Too much. The words blurred on the pages, the voices felt distant and time stretched in ways that didn’t make sense. Until one day, sitting across from your father at the kitchen table, you said it. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
He looked at you for a long moment. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just…seeing you. Your sorrow, mirrored in his own eyes. “All I want,” he said quietly, “is for you to be happy.” And it shattered something open inside your chest, because you didn’t know how to tell your father you couldn’t recall how to be that anymore.
So you moved. From Los Angeles to Oceanside. You told yourself it would help: a nice change of air, a reset, a chance to find a life that felt manageable again. The apartment was perhaps modest, but clean. Boxes still half unpacked in the corners, you sat on the floor the first night, back against the wall, phone in hand with no one to call. You drew your knees to your chest, your chin resting on them, your eyes moving slowly across the unfamiliar space, trying to make it feel like yours.
(What now?)
But you knew there was no answer to this question, just the silence. And you inside it.
──────────
The notification is simple, clear. Just one sentence. You haven’t logged your period in 7 weeks. It sits there on your screen longer than it should, and for a minute, you don’t budge, you just look at it, your thumb hovering above the glass without touching it, without dismissing it, without opening anything else, suspended in that small space where nothing has changed yet but still, everything has. (seven weeks. seven. seven.)
The number doesn’t feel real at first, it feels misplaced, as though it belongs to someone else’s life, to a version of you that exists somewhere adjacent but not quite here, not quite now, not in this bed, not with him sleeping beside you.
Andrew breathes deeply against your back, one arm draped over your waist, heavy and warm, his palm resting flat on your stomach where it had settled sometime during the night without either of you noticing. His grip is loose in sleep but present enough that you can sense it, the weight of it securing you to the mattress, to the moment, to him. Your eyes drift down to his hand. (seven weeks.)
The skatepark returns in fragments, not as a full memory but as scattered impressions: sunlight, the sound of wheels, Andrew crouched in front of the little boy, your fingers brushing absentmindedly over your stomach while the idea had slipped into your mind. you think you’ll do it tonight. You never did. Everything after that moment had fractured, rearranged itself into something darker and harder to hold. The plan had dissolved somewhere between the truck, the warehouse, the three weeks that followed where time moved in uneven stretches and your body forgot how to feel like yours.
That’s what bodies do, you remind yourself, they shift without asking permission, break rhythm, lose track of time when stress settles too deeply into them, when fear rewrites the way they function. Your eyes remain fixed on the screen a moment longer. (you could just be late.) The thought arrives quietly, offering itself as something solid to stand on, something rational, something that makes sense in a way the other possibility does not. (you haven’t been sleeping properly. you haven’t been eating right. your body is still catching up. it would make sense.)
Your stomach is flat beneath Andrew’s hand, unchanged, unremarkable, offering no sign, no confirmation, no disruption of what has always been there. (no nausea. no difference. nothing.) But… (seven weeks. what if it is? worse, what if it isn’t? even worse, what if you let yourself believe it and it disappears?)
Your throat constricts around that one, the air catching for just a second before you force it down again, refusing to follow that path any further. Behind you, Andrew shifts at the change in your breathing, his fingers tightening against your stomach in reflex before loosening again, his body settling back into its quiet rhythm as though nothing has happened. Your hand lifts, hesitating only for a moment before resting over his, your fingers brushing against his knuckles. (you can’t tell him.)
The realization does not arrive all at once, it builds slowly, piece by piece, until it settles into something firm and unmovable. (not like this. not with uncertainty. not with a number on a screen and nothing else to hold onto. you won’t put that in his hands unless it’s real.) You know what his face would look like. You know the way he would still, the way everything in him would narrow down to that single piece of information, how carefully he would compartment it, how seriously he would take it, how completely he would believe it. (you won’t take that away from him.) Your eyes close, breath moving in and out with effort. (relax. he told you to count. one. two. three. four.)
The thought of the chapel returns then, threading itself through the moment, a reminder of the plan you both made the night before when he had asked you in that careful way of his, probably unsure whether you were ready to step outside after weeks spent mostly within the walls of the house. “There’s a place I want to show you.” You had said yes. And this, whatever this is, will have to wait a few more hours.
Lying there longer than necessary, you open your eyes now, fixed on nothing in particular while you listen to the rhythm of his breathing behind you, your own falling into it, counting without meaning to, matching the cadence you have learned from him, the one he uses when he thinks you cannot hear.
(one. two. three. four.)
-
(one. two. three. four.)
You don’t stop counting when the automatic doors slide open in front of you, the brightness of the store almost too sharp after the muted quiet of the chapel, the sound of carts rolling and distant voices folding into each other, almost unreal. The rhythm stays with you, something to hold onto while everything else threatens to shift too quickly beneath your feet.
Your only plan had been that. The chapel. Sitting beside him on the wooden bench, your shoulder brushing his, your hands folded in your lap while you spoke more than you had in weeks, words coming back slowly at first and then easier, thanking him, apologizing for things he refused to let you apologize for, laughing through tears until your chest felt lighter. (but you still had felt the need to know)
The thought had stayed quiet, waiting until you stepped outside, until the air changed, until he looked at you with that steady patience and you realized you couldn’t carry it any longer without moving. “Do you think you could drive me to the grocery store after this?” (you need to know. before you say anything. before you look at him and change everything.)
And now you’re here. The cart moves in front of you, your hands resting on the handle, your fingers tightening and relaxing without rhythm except for the one repeating in your head. Andrew walks beside you, close enough that your arm brushes his every few steps, his gaze drifting occasionally past you, past the aisles, scanning the entrances, the exits, the people moving in and out of his field of vision with that quiet vigilance he never quite turns off. You reach for the first thing you see. “Pasta.” It drops into the cart. “Tomatoes.”
He picks them before you do, placing them carefully inside. Olive oil. Garlic. You continue. Bread. Cheese. Something sweet you don’t need. Herbs you won’t use. You keep moving, your hands busy, your mind split between the list you’re building on the spot and the aisle you are deliberately not looking toward yet. (in, out, in, out.) You speak more than usual, not enough to draw attention, just enough to fill the space, to make this feel like an ordinary trip, an ordinary afternoon, something that does not carry the weight pressing quietly beneath your ribs. He answers simply, briefly, following your lead without question.
Your chest feels tight, your breathing just slightly off, enough that you notice it, enough that you slow for a second before forcing your body forward again. Effort quickly interrupted by the aisle you were looking for. Pharmacy. The cart stays still beneath your hands, your fingers pressing into the plastic while you keep your eyes on the shelves ahead, not moving toward them, not quite ready to close the distance.
You swallow. “Can you…” your voice is calm, almost, “…grab me a book?”
He looks at you. “A book.”
“There’s a section near the front,” you add. “I just…want something to read.”
He studies you, not questioning, not suspicious, just observing the small changes, the ones you cannot hide from him even when you try. “Okay.”
You wait until he disappears before you move. Fast. Your hand reaches for the box without hesitation, pulling it from the shelf in one motion before your thoughts can catch up, before doubt can slow you down. Digital. You don’t read the label. You don’t check the price. For a second, it rests in your hand, heavier than it should be, your eyes fixed on it without truly seeing it. (seven weeks. seven. seven.)
Quickly, you drop it into the cart, covering it with whatever is closest, pasta, tomatoes, anything, layering it beneath the groceries until it disappears completely from view, hidden. By the time Andrew returns, you are still, composed, your hands back on the cart. He hands you the book. You take it, your fingers brushing his for a brief second, leaning in just slightly to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” you murmur, your voice low, warm, real, “I’m sure I’m gonna love it.”
Andrew stills for half a heartbeat before nodding. “You’re welcome.”
You pull back, the book resting against your chest now, your fingers curling around its spine and not looking at the cover. You don’t need to. Together, you move toward the checkout and, thankfully, the line is short, quite the opposite from every grocery you’ve been in Oceanside, the number of people in there often overwhelming Andrew. The cashier begins scanning without much attention, items passing one by one over the machine, the soft beeping steady, repetitive, almost syncing with the rhythm in your head. (in, out, in, out.)
You keep your eyes on the counter, on your hands, on anything that is not…the box. It appears in the pile. Time stretches as the cashier picks it up, your gaze lifting to meet hers, and in that brief moment there is understanding there, immediate, quiet, unspoken. Don’t. The word never leaves your mouth. It sits behind your teeth, behind your throat, in the way your fingers press harder against the edge of the counter, in the way your shoulders hold just a little too still. Don’t say anything. Please. Andrew stands beside you, but not here, not fully, his attention angled outward, his gaze moving past the glass doors, scanning the parking lot, the cars, the people, every exit, every movement, the same way he always does.
The scanner beeps, the sound feeling louder than with any other product. Or maybe everything else has gone quiet. You don’t breathe. Not properly. Just enough to stay upright. The box is placed aside, not with the rest, not immediately swallowed into the routine of scanned items and rustling bags, but held for just a fraction longer than necessary, the cashier’s fingers resting against it as her gaze flicks up to yours once more, quick, knowing, the smallest shift in her expression that doesn’t draw attention and yet carries comprehension all the same.
The cashier doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Her hand moves instead, deliberate but casual, folding the rest of the items into the bag before her fingers close around the box, separating it from the others, keeping it out of sight from the counter, from the open space between you and Andrew.
Then, as she passes the bag toward you, she slips it in. Not inside the bag. Not with the groceries. Into your hand. The gesture is small, hidden in the natural motion of handing things over, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest second as the box transfers between you, her eyes lifting once more, just long enough for a faint, almost imperceptible wink to follow. It’s quick, gone immediately, as though it never happened. Your hand closes around the box instinctively, your body moving before your mind can catch up, slipping it into your handbag in one smooth motion, the fabric shifting softly as it disappears inside, concealed, secured, yours again. Hidden.
Stepping away from the counter so Andrew can pay, your heartbeat is louder than it should be, your fingers brushing once against your bag as if to confirm it’s still there, still real, still within reach. All that remains is to find out which life you are about to step into.
-
“I’m just gonna…go change in pajamas, okay?” Your voice sounds almost normal when you say it, the words slipping into the space between you without weight, without urgency, like it’s the most natural thing in the world after coming back from the store and setting the bags down.
Andrew looks up from where he stands near the counter, one of the grocery bags already open, his hands moving through it efficiently, placing things aside in groupings before putting them away, his attention shifting to you as soon as you speak. “Okay.” No question. No hesitation.
You nod once, holding onto the strap of your bag before you turn away, your steps carrying you down the short hallway toward the bathroom while the sound of him behind you fades. The door closes, and just like that…the whole world narrows. The light in the bathroom is too bright, too sharp against your eyes, the mirror catching your reflection before you look down, hand already moving to unzip your bag with fingers that do not feel completely like yours.
The box is still there, but it feels different. Real.
Your breath comes shallow as you pull it out, the cardboard cool beneath your pads, the printed words blurring for a second before you blink them back into place. You glance at the instructions, barely. Words pass your eyes without quite settling. (it’s simple. it has to be simple. plenty of people do that every day.)
You follow the steps mechanically, your movements precise without being conscious, muscle memory forming where there was none before, guided only by instinct, by the need to finish, to know, to end this suspended state where everything exists and nothing is confirmed.
The test rests in your hand and for a second, you just look at it before reaching for your phone. Ninety seconds. The timer begins. Suddenly, there’s nothing else. The bathroom fades, the light dulls, the edges of the room slipping away until all that remains is the small device in your hand and the quiet, relentless ticking of time you can’t even hear but feel in your chest. Your body feels distant. Like you are watching yourself from a removed place, aware of your hands, of your posture, of the way you lean back against the sink. (this could be nothing. this could be everything. don’t hope. don’t ho-)
The timer rings. The sound cuts through the room. For a moment, you don’t move. Just stare at the test in your hand, your vision focusing, blurring, then settling again as you bring it closer, as the word comes into view, clear, unmistakable. Pregnant. It sits there and doesn’t change. There is a delay, a quiet gap between seeing and understanding, between reading and knowing. (pregnant.)
Your hand squeezes around the plastic. Your other hand lifts your shirt without thinking, the fabric bunching beneath your fingers as you look down at your stomach, turning on one side, then the other, as though something might have changed in the last few seconds, as though there should be a sign, a mark, anything to match what the test is telling you.
There is nothing and everything all at once. A tear slips down your cheek before you even register it, your hand lowering slowly, your fingers brushing once over your skin. (there is something inside you. a tiny part of him and you.)
It takes one second. Two. Three. Four, before you are moving, the hallway feeling shorter than before, the house coming back into focus as you walk toward the kitchen. Andrew is at the fridge, one hand braced against the door while the other places the food inside, his posture relaxed, unaware, steady in the way he always is when he thinks everything is as it should be. You stop behind him, hand lifting to rest on his arm as you lean in, lips brushing his shoulder blade and your breath catching against his skin. “Andrew…” Your voice is barely there. You press your forehead against him before the words find their way out, quiet, fragile, real as a tear falls. “I’m pregnant.”
The movement of his hand stops mid-motion, the fridge door still open, everything in him going quiet in a way that feels immediate, absolute. He turns slowly towards you, eyes finding yours, searching. Disbelieving, but not in doubt, just when something too important takes a second longer to settle. “Really?” he whispers.
You nod, your lips trembling and voice breaking. “Yes…Andrew…” Another breath. “We’re gonna have a baby.” Your hand lifts, resting over your stomach. “Our baby.”
Something in his face shifts and you have barely the time to register the movement before his knees meet the floor, his palms coming to rest gently at your waist, careful and reverent. For a second, he just looks. At you. At the place beneath your hand.
His fingers brush your skin lightly, almost hesitant, as he leans forward, pressing his lips to your stomach. Your fingers slide into his curls, holding him there, your other hand still resting over where his lips touch you, breath uneven now that your body finally catches up to the weight of this whole moment. A soft, broken sound escapes you. In between a laugh and a sob. And you don’t pull him away, don’t move. You just stay there, your hand in his hair, your body steadying around the place where his mouth rests.
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!
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.
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.”
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Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content. nothing specific in this one.
main masterlist // transatlanticism masterlist
Gwen is in the hospital for four days. Four days of worrying yourself sick, of being at the hospital around the clock, and using up a good chunk of your annual leave for the year on being able to stay with her.
Jack does the exact same. Having spent the last eighteen months working around the clock to avoid dealing with emotions, he’s accrued more PTO than he’s ever had before in his life. God bless PTMC’s rolling days policy.
Whenever he’s not at Gwen’s bedside, he’s with one of the hospital case-workers, pouring over each and every bill you’ve accumulated over the past few days.
Five hours in the ER racked up almost ten thousand dollars alone, from the bloods, X-Ray and treatment.
Each day in the NICU set you back a further twelve thousand for the private room, leaving almost sixty-thousand to be paid now.
In an ideal world, Gwen would be on Jack’s insurance, and everything would be paid for already. Unfortunately, in the few weeks he’s been in her life, neither of you had quite gotten onto the paperwork yet. Despite an appeal filed the day she was admitted, with both of you acknowledging that had Jack known about her, she would be on his insurance, you were denied.
So, he’s left to work the numbers.
It’s a burden he takes on entirely by himself - if you won’t let him at the delivery bills, he wants to cover this. Through haggling, favours, and even trying to invent a physician discount for doctors who work at the hospital.
Eventually, he gets it to thirty-thousand. Still not ideal, by any stretch, but he writes a cheque without complaint. It’s the least he can do.
Returning to Gwen’s room, he’s glad to see you relaxing for once - curled up in the corner with some book about Carolyn Bessette. All is quiet from Gwen’s crib, and Jack drops onto the couch beside you, letting out a heavy sigh. His back is categorically not happy with the fact that he’s slept in an upright chair the past couple of nights.
But he wasn’t about to make you sleep in a chair, and there’s definitely not enough room on the couch for both. Sleeping at home was also out of the question - he’s going to be there for both of you even if it kills him.
“She okay?” He asks, voice low.
“Yeah,” You reply, shooting him a glance. “The doctor said we can go home whenever the discharge forms are filled out. I was just waiting for you.”
Home.
The word leaves a sour taste in Jack’s mouth. Home, to you and Gwen, is a crappy apartment on the bad side of town, with a broken lock on the front of the building, and a bathroom that’s falling apart at the seams.
Meanwhile, Jack’s townhouse is sitting mostly empty, allowing him to live in a luxury that feels almost shameful. Who is he to sleep on a silk-covered king-sized bed, while you’ve spent the last three months on a pull-out couch?
He’d considered moving, briefly, after you broke up. Didn’t seem like much point having such a huge house, with not a single other soul to share it with.
But after spending the last decade or so remodelling it for his disability, he simply didn’t have the energy to start over. Finding a place with an elevator had been hard enough in central Pittsburgh.
The most he’d managed was moving out of the primary bedroom, and into one of the smaller ones. Not the one his mom had stayed in during her final weeks - that one has remained almost entirely untouched since her death.
Since finding out about Gwen, all his time not spent at work or with you has been dedicated to getting a nursery ready for her. Initially, it had been with the hope that you would one day trust him enough have her overnight. But as time has gone on, as he’s reconnected with you, and begun building a relationship with his daughter, he’s been thinking more and more about the idea of you both moving in with him.
You would have your own space - bedroom, bathroom, nursery. He’s even gone so far as to put a desk in one of the guest rooms, so that you could work from the house in peace.
He’s considered it far more than he would ever let on. In the quiet mornings, thinking of how you might lounge about in your pyjamas, Gwen in your arms while he cooked you breakfast before your classes.
How, even if you weren’t together romantically, you could be a family. A proper unit. He would be able to look after you both properly. Take care of you the way he should have been this whole time.
“Listen, I was thinking - with Gwen being sick and all-”
Potentially manipulative, Jack knows. But he truly cannot stand the two of you living in that unsafe dump anymore.
“-That maybe you’d be better off living with me for a while.” Upon seeing your expression shift into something unreadable, he stumbles on. “Not forever, obviously. But for as long as you wanted, until you were back on your feet. You wouldn’t have to pay rent or bills, so you could save properly. Get somewhere nicer.”
You fall into a silence, and Jack can practically hear his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. After the whole argument about bills, he knows that bringing up money is potentially a terrible idea. Especially when you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days (or months, really, if he’s being honest), and you’re worrying yourself to death over Gwen.
Lip between your teeth, you glance over at the crib, before meeting his gaze again. “Can I think about it?”
That’s not a no.
Jack’s not sure he’s ever been more relieved in his life. He’d been fully expecting a firm no, tossed in his direction and inviting absolutely zero discussion.
Maybe there’s hope yet.
*****
It pains Jack to leave you both that night, but you make plans for the following morning. He can work with that.
What started as plans for ice cream and a walk in the park is quickly dashed when it rains all night. Instead, it shifts to a museum and brunch. Gwen’s still about two years away from appreciating anything in a museum, but you figure she might like the colours.
Jack insists on driving, and picks you both up half an hour early, as usual. The militaristic internal timing still hasn’t left him.
He gets her stroller out while you get Gwen out of the car-seat that’s been in Jack’s car since the day after he found out about her. Cooing softly, you settle her, glancing up at the sky as you do. It’s grey and gloomy, but you’re hoping it’ll last the day without another downpour.
You tuck Gwen’s hat down a little more snug over her ears as you step up onto the curb, the stroller bumping lightly behind you. She makes a small, offended noise at the interruption, then settles again.
“Sorry, sweetie,” you murmur, glancing down at her.
Jack’s beside you, one hand on the stroller handle now, the other shoved into his coat pocket, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.
“You’ve got her zipped in like she’s going to summit Everest.”
You shoot him a look. “It’s thirty-eight degrees.”
“She’s fine.”
“She’s four months old.”
He huffs, but there’s no real argument behind it. He knows that you’ll be feeling protective after the hospitalisation. You fall into step beside him, and it strikes you how real this all looks. Sure, you and Jack are a family, courtesy of Gwen, but most passers-by will assume you’re together. Maybe even married.
You try not to think about it too much.
*****
The museum’s already busy - families shaking out umbrellas, kids dragging parents toward the entrance. Warm air hits you as soon as you step inside, a welcome change from the cold outside.
Jack pays for the tickets, despite your protests.
“My treat,” said in a voice so low and gravelly that it makes you a little dizzy.
You start at the dinosaur end, figuring it may be slightly more stimulating for a baby than the paintings. Granted, it’s much more of an outing for you and Jack than Gwen, but after the past week, you’re just glad to be out with her.
Jack steers the stroller carefully through the crowd, one hand on the handle, the other occasionally reaching down to tuck the blanket back around Gwen when it slips. As usual, he’s vigilant - arm ready to pull you into his side whenever a group of kids bustle past, entirely unaware of where they’re going.
“Reckon she’s impressed?” He murmurs, nodding toward the towering skeleton ahead.
Gwen blinks up at the ceiling, completely indifferent.
“Overwhelmed, clearly,” You say dryly. “I’m sure she’ll remember this experience for all of four hours.”
A kid barrels by, nearly clipping the stroller. Jack shifts it out of the way without breaking stride, his shoulder brushing yours as he does.
“Watch it,” He calls after them, not sharp, but enough to make the parent turn and mutter an apology.
You drift toward the massive dinosaur skeleton, its ribs arching overhead like a cathedral. Jack stops just off to the side, giving other people space, rocking the stroller gently back and forth with his foot. You start to murmur random facts to Gwen, as if she can even comprehend what a dinosaur is, much less care, when a lady approaches.
“You three are such a lovely little family,” She smiles, cooing down at Gwen. “Is she your first?”
Jack tries not to think about a world where this could have been your reality years ago, had he not been selfish and terrified. Maybe you would have had more than one. Gwen, and then maybe a boy, who looks just like you.
“She is, yeah,” You reply, reaching out to stroke Gwen’s cheek with your thumb. “It’s been an adjustment.”
“Oh, I remember the early days well. The days are long, but the years are short. You’ll have a stroppy teenager on your hands in no time.”
You let out a small laugh. “I’m trying not to think that far ahead.”
“Enjoy this bit, even when you’re exhausted. It goes quicker than you think.”
Jack shifts his weight, still rocking the stroller, eyes down on Gwen. “We will.”
The woman gives one last look at the baby, softens, then moves on with the flow of people.
*****
You don’t make it through much of the museum.
A couple of exhibits, slow wandering. You pause more than you move - adjusting Gwen’s blanket, checking her bottle, trading the stroller back and forth when one of you gets tired of pushing.
At one point, you duck into a quieter gallery, dimmer lighting, fewer people. Gwen’s eyes start to droop, her fussing tapering off into soft, uneven breaths.
Jack lowers his voice automatically. “She’s about to crash.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“She is. Look at her.”
You glance down. He’s right - her lashes flutter, and she yawns up at you.
“Okay,” You whisper, easing the stroller to a stop. “Okay, yeah.” You tuck the blanket around her more carefully this time. She sighs - tiny, content - and drifts off.
“How much time do you think we have?”
“With this much stimulation? At least an hour.” You pause for a second, then, quieter, “Coffee?”
“Please.”
In Jack’s words, the museum café is “overpriced and overrated”, so he takes you to another, leading you to a quiet booth in the corner. “Your usual?”
“Yeah, that would be great-”
He’s already standing again before you finish speaking, shrugging out of his coat slightly as he heads for the counter. You watch him go, the way his muscles shift and flex with each movement.
Swallowing slightly, you turn your attention back to the sleeping baby. “Your daddy’s never been able to buy t-shirts in his own size. Always has to go one too small. If we’re being honest, it’s probably one of the reasons why you even exist. But you can’t tell anyone I told you that. Especially not your dad. Don’t want him getting a big head, do we?”
All too soon, Jack is back, carrying a tray of two of the largest coffees you’ve ever seen, and a whole array of pastries. “I uh, I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got a selection.”
“This has got to be like $30 worth of cakes,” You reply, but a smile tugs at your lips anyway.
“Try $47,” He winces, and your jaw drops. Before you can reply, he holds up a hand, shaking his head. “Which is totally fine, because today is my treat.”
There’s no sense in arguing with him. Even before Gwen, he’d always been old-fashioned that way. Never in an expectation of gendered stereotypes, but he liked to pay for things. A by-product of Gwendoline Abbot Sr. raising her son well.
You lift the cup, wrapping your hands around it, letting the heat seep in. For a minute, you both just sit there, watching Gwen breathe, the small rise and fall under her blanket.
“It’s nice seeing little hints of her personality. She did good today,” You say eventually.
“Yeah,” He replies. “So did you.”
You glance up at that, a little skeptical. “For… walking around a museum?”
“For getting out of the house.”
You look back down at Gwen instead. “It’s easier with… help. I like spending time with you both - makes me feel like I’m doing right by her.”
Jack’s expression is different now, less guarded. “I know this isn’t… simple. And I’m not trying to-” He exhales, a small shake of his head like he’s resetting. “I just… wanted to say thanks.”
You blink, caught a little off guard. “For what?”
“For letting me be here.” His gaze flicks down to Gwen, then back to you. “With her. With you. You would have been well within your right to tell me to go to hell - a-after what I did. But you didn’t, and I’m more grateful than you could ever know.”
“I thought about it,” You admit, casting your eyes down. “Disappearing. But… I think deep down, I wanted you to meet her. All those times during my pregnancy, whenever I was going to PTMC, a part of me hoped and prayed so desperately that I would bump into you. That you would have to talk to me.”
When you look back up at Jack, you’re shocked to see a tear roll down his cheek. “God, I wish I’d seen you. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“I’m not pretending it’s all fine,” You say slowly. “I’m still… working through it.”
“You should be,” He adds quickly. “I don’t expect…” He cuts himself off, reins it back. “Take whatever time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
*****
Jack’s expecting a call from you after your classes the next day. Normally, you let him know when you’re finishing up for the day, and he meets you back at your place with dinner made.
When his phone rings at 13:15, he’s more than a little concerned.
He answers on the first ring. “Is everything okay?”
“The heating is totally fucked. My afternoon classes got cancelled, and when we got home it was freezing. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Your voice drops when you swear, and Jack has to bite back a smile. It’s the teacher in you. Never cussing in front of the baby. “Are you at work?”
“No.” A lie. “You want me to come over? See what I can do?”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to-”
“Give me like half an hour,” He replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Jack Abbot has never fixed a heater in his life, but in November in Pittsburgh, there’s no way that you can do without one. Suddenly, he’s very glad for Al-Hashimi insisting on there being multiple attendings on every shift.
There’s no way he’d be able to slip out otherwise, but he figures Robby can handle himself for an hour or so, until Jack can get back. He’s out the door before you can finish whatever you were about to say next.
“Half an hour,” He repeats, already grabbing his coat. “You might want to bust out that fluffy coat thing for Gwen.”
“I think I have that part covered,” You say sarcastically. “Drive safe.”
*****
The door opens before he even knocks.
You’re standing there in a jumper that looks like it’s doing nothing against the cold, Gwen bundled against your chest in what might be three different layers.
“You are such a liar,” You gasp, upon seeing his scrubs. “Jack, I wouldn’t have bothered you if I’d known-”
“It’s not a problem,” Jack dismisses. “Really.”
“It’s your work.” You stare at him.
“It’s handled,” He murmurs. “I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t.”
Gwen shifts against you, letting out a small, impatient sound. You adjust her automatically, but your eyes stay on him.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is, a little,” He says. “You needed help.”
“I could’ve called someone.”
“You called me.”
A silence settles over you both, full of something you don’t want to try and unpack.
“Kitchen,” You say finally. “Cupboard.”
Jack follows you through, and pulls up a chair so he can look at the boiler without worrying about his leg. He turns one dial, then the other, to no avail.
Not a great start.
A hollow click. Then nothing.
From the doorway, you shift Gwen against your chest, rubbing small circles into her back. “That bad?”
He glances over his shoulder. “I mean… it’s not good.”
“That’s reassuring.”
He huffs a quiet breath, sits back on his heels, and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. There’s a beat where he just looks at the thing, like he might be able to will it into working. He starts googling, trying everything he can think of that might be wrong, but it stays stubbornly silent with every intervention.
You watch him for a second. “You don’t have to stay. I know you’ve got work. I can call someone,” You say. “Just - not until payday.”
He fights every urge to offer to pay for it, and just nods. He has a better idea anyway. “You thought any more about what I said?”
You frown slightly. “About…?”
“Coming to mine. Just for a few days. However long you need.”
You shift your weight, instinctively tightening your hold on Gwen. “Jack-”
“I’m not saying move in,” He adds quickly. “Not like that. Just - until this gets sorted. It’s warm, it’s closer to the hospital if anything comes up, and you won’t have to deal with this.”
He can tell you’re still unconvinced, so he presses on.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” He adds after a second. “You can bring what you need, stay a couple nights. If it’s weird, you leave. No questions.”
You look down at Gwen, her little face scrunched slightly from the cold. “I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not.”
“It feels like I am.”
“Do it for Gwen. Even if you don’t want to do it for yourself. She can’t be in a freezing house at the best of times, much less when she’s recovering.”
Gwen lets out a sharper cry this time, and you bounce her slightly, trying to settle her. The cold’s getting to her now. You press your lips together, thinking, then exhale. “Okay.”
Jack looks up.
“Okay,” You repeat, a little more certain. “Just for a few days. Until I can get someone in.”
He nods once, offering you a small smile. “Yeah. That’s all.”
*****
The drive over is quiet. Not awkward, exactly - thankfully you both seem to be past that phase, but you’re deep in thought.
You keep your eyes on the window more than anything else, watching familiar streets come into view a little sooner than you expect.
“Here we are,” Jack says, softer than usual, like you didn’t almost live here once.
The door clicks open and it hits you straight away.
Warmth, for one. Proper, steady heat that seeps into your skin almost instantly. And then everything else - familiar in a way that makes your chest feel a little tight.
Jack steps in first, flicking on the light and hoisting Gwen’s carseat up into his arms.
“Watch the step,” he says automatically, glancing back at you.
You don’t need the warning. You remember it. Still, you step over it anyway. The house hasn’t changed.
Not really.
Same worn spot in the rug near the sofa. Same coat hooks by the door. Even the smell - always faintly of coffee - it’s all exactly the way you remember it. You’ve only been in here once in the six weeks Jack has been back in your life, but you were so exhausted after work that you don’t even really remember it. Today, you’re struck with the prospect of living here again, however briefly.
Jack immediately busies himself, setting up a travel cot in the living room, and transferring Gwen as quietly as possible. “I have something to show you,” He mumbles.
“Me?”
“No, the sleeping baby. Of course, you. I mean, well - it’s for her too, but I thought you should see it first.”
He leads you upstairs, and you try to ignore the way your chest tightens as you pass the primary bedroom. Thankfully, Jack continues on to a room at the end of the hall.
You don’t understand what you’re looking at at first.
The door creaks open under Jack’s hand, slow and hesitant. Where you’d been expecting a bare room, or maybe a crib in the corner, you’re instead met with colour.
Soft, gentle colour. Pinks, yellows, greens. Warm light spilling across freshly painted walls, a fully built crib, and a changing table - all in matching tones. There’s a wardrobe in the corner, largely empty, but with a few little dresses.
In the corner sits a rocking chair, topped with a zoo full of animal teddies.
The shelves aren’t full - yet - but it’s almost like they’re waiting.
For Gwen.
This is the kind of bedroom she deserves. Your hand comes up without thinking, pressing against your mouth like you can hold the sound in, stop yourself from crying. “Oh my god,” You breathe.
You glance over at Jack, who appears to be equally misty-eyed, and the distance between you closes before you even realise you’ve moved. One second you’re standing in the doorway, and the next you’re crashing into him, arms wrapping tight around his torso, fingers clutching at the back of his shirt to ground yourself.
The impact makes him stagger half a step, caught off guard, and then his arms come up around you - strong and enclosing. One hand spreads wide against your upper back, the other anchoring at your waist, pulling you in closer against him. It’s the closest you’ve been since before you broke up.
You press your face into his shoulder, breath shuddering out against the fabric, and it’s warm - he’s warm, solid, safe - and suddenly that’s too much too.
“Thank you.”
It’s barely audible, mumbled directly into Jack’s ear. His hand starts a circular motion, rubbing softly at the tension in your shoulders.
“Don’t need thanks,” Jack murmurs. “It’s what you both deserve. A proper space. ”Room next door is for you. I’ll get an office space set up for you too.”
“Jack, you don’t need to do that-”
“I want to,” His voice is firm, and you finally start to pull back. His arms loosen, almost a little reluctantly. “I uh, I also have this-”
He trails off, disappearing into a closet in the hallway for a second, before he emerges with a box.
Your brow furrows, before you realise that you recognise every single thing poking out of the top.
“You kept my stuff?” A tear trickles down your cheek as you reach for it. Most of it is menial, random books and a few sweaters. A bracelet you forgot you had. Earrings he bought you for your birthday one year. Anything you didn’t take with you when you left is here in this box.
And really, you’d never assumed Jack would be so petty as to throw it all out, but you hadn’t really thought about what he would do with it either.
Jack shifts his weight, watching you take the box. “Figured you might want it at some point.”
Your fingers brush over the top - spines of books you half remember reading here, a jumper you used to steal from him more than wear your own clothes.
“I thought about dropping it off,” He adds, a little quieter. “A few times.”
You glance up. “Why didn’t you?”
He swallows. “Scared, I guess. Of seeing you again. Of realising I made the biggest mistake of my life.”
You nod slowly, blinking the tears away as you pick up the bracelet, turning it over in your fingers. “I forgot about this.”
“Yeah,” Jack smiles softly. “You wore it all the time.”
You let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Clearly not enough to remember to take it with me.”
“It was a rough day,” He says, before he can stop himself.
You set the bracelet back in the box. “Yeah. It was.”
Without thinking, you reach for his hand. His thumb rubs over your skin soothingly, and he presses a small kiss to the back of it. “I should probably get back to work before Robby kills me. But you’re welcome to anything in the fridge, and I’ll sort dinner tonight too. Just focus on getting settled. I can take the night-shift with Gwen, too.”
“This is like, hotel level service,” You reply. “Not sure I could tell you when I last had a full night’s sleep.”
In his house that night, knowing that Jack is tending to Gwen, you sleep for thirteen hours straight.
