ana @rhettsunshine - Tumblr Blog

baby boy, honeybee ⋆˚࿔

pairing: Boyfriend!Pope Cody x fem!Reader summary: Pope spends the day at the mall with his girlfriend, buying everything they need to turn the little beach house he bought in secret into a home of their own. a/n: No one can convince me that Pope wouldn’t be the best husband and father in the world. warnings: (secret) established relationship, clingy!Reader, mentions of a blowjob and swallowing cum, reader touches Pope over his jeans in public once, references to murder and Smurf’s abuse, Baz hate (fuck him), past controlling relationship, anxiety and self-loathing, Pope scares a Sephora employee, these two are so sweet they’ll give you cavities!!! wc: 7962 k

I’d love to know what you thought, so please don’t be shy and leave me a little comment. Hearing from you truly means so much to me .⋆❀°

By the time you left Zara Home, Pope had six bags hanging from his hands and the receipt folded into the pocket of his jeans. You had offered to carry something twice. Both times he had moved the bags before you could reach them, so now you walked with your arm linked through his, pressed comfortably against his side while he checked the list you had written together that morning.

“Sheets, towels, bath mat,” he read, dragging his thumb down the paper while the shopping bags rustled around his wrists. “We got everything.”

You leaned closer to look at the list, although you already knew exactly what was written on it. “We got more than everything. We have four sets of sheets because somebody decided two wasn’t enough.”

“One’ll be in the wash.” Pope tapped the folded edge of the paper against his palm, as though that settled the matter.

“We only have one bed, baby.”

“Yeah, and we’re gonna use it every night.”

He folded the list before he could see what that answer did to your face and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. You tightened your arm around his and kissed his shoulder.

“You liked choosing them,” you said, staying tucked against his side when he began walking again.

Pope shifted the bags higher on his hands. “They’re good sheets.”

“But you checked the stitching on every set.” You ran one finger along the seam of his sleeve, imitating the way he had examined the fabric inside the store.

“Because one of them was coming apart.”

“And then you spent ten minutes touching towels.”

“I wanted the soft ones.”

You slowed, making him stop with you. “For me?”

“For us.”

The answer came easily. There was none of the hesitation that usually appeared when Pope had to talk about something belonging to both of you, no brief tightening of his mouth while he decided whether he was allowed to claim it too. He simply looked at you as though us had been the obvious answer.

Your smile softened. You stepped in front of him and slid your arms around his waist, catching him by surprise. Pope hurriedly gathered the handles into one hand and lifted the bags away from your body before they could knock against you.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, looking down at your face.

“Hugging my boyfriend because he spent ten minutes choosing the softest towels in the store.”

“They had to be soft, sweetheart.” His newly freed hand hovered beside you for a moment before settling against your back.

You leaned away just enough to see him properly, leaving your arms around his waist. “That so?”

His brow furrowed slightly, as if he did not understand why you needed an explanation.

“You use all those oils and creams every night to keep your skin soft,” he said. “Wasn’t gonna buy towels that’d scratch you up.”

Your arms tightened around him. “You thought about that?”

“Yeah.” His hand moved once along your back. “Course I did.”

“You’re soooo sweet.”

“They’re just towels, baby.” Pope glanced past you, discomfort creeping into his face now that you were looking at him as though he had done something extraordinary.

“No.” You rose onto your toes, your arms slipping higher around him. “They’re our towels.”

Pope bent to meet you. His hand pressed more securely against your lower back as his mouth softened beneath yours, holding you close while the bags swayed forgotten beside his leg.

“Yeah,” he said when you pulled away. His eyes remained on yours, his thumb moving slowly over your back. “They are.”

The mall had grown busier while you were inside, pop music spilled from the open stores and people kept cutting across your path without looking. Pope’s shoulders tensed, his hand settling more firmly against you to keep you close. When you slowed in front of another window, however, he stopped beside you and followed your gaze, content to wait while you looked.

“We need to stop at Sephora,” you said, slipping your hand into his and steering him toward the entrance. “I’m out of my lip mask, I need a new blush, and there’s a lip balm I saw on TikTok that I want to try.”

Pope followed without resistance. “The little pink jar?”

“The berry one, yes.” You glanced up at him. “I’ve been scraping the sides for three nights.”

“Get two, then.” He said it immediately.

Your pace slowed. Pope took another step before the pull of your joined hands made him stop and look back at you.

“You like it.”

His eyes moved briefly to your mouth. “Tastes good.”

“Is that why you always kiss me right after I put it on?” You stepped closer, running your thumb across the back of his hand.

“I kiss you every night, baby.” Pope turned toward the store again, but you caught the slight tightening at the corner of his mouth before he could hide it.

You let him guide you forward for another few steps before leaning into his arm. “But you always kiss me twice when I’m wearing that.”

Pope did not answer, but you squeezed his hand as though you already had one.

He had never told you what happened after those goodnight kisses, on the nights when sleep refused to come no matter how tired he was. He would lie beside you for hours with his body held rigid beneath the sheets, listening to the house settle around him while his mind returned to places he had spent the day trying to avoid.

Every car slowing outside made him look toward the window. Every change in your breathing had him checking that you were still asleep, still safe, still there.

Some of the lip mask always transferred to his mouth when he kissed you, and hours later, when the rest of the sweetness should have disappeared, Pope could sometimes find a trace of it by running his tongue over his lower lip.

He did not understand how something made for chapped lips could feel like a balm pressed over whatever bruised part of him people meant when they spoke about the soul. It gave him something gentle to concentrate on when his memories would not leave him alone.

Like as long as he could still taste you, some small part of you seemed to remain awake with him, and the darkness became a little easier to endure.

“I’ll be quick,” you promised.

“You don’t have to be.” Pope adjusted the bags before brushing his thumb across your hand. “Take your time. Look at whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your previous boyfriend had never allowed you that freedom. He claimed you only wore makeup to attract other men, forcing you to order everything online and hide the packages because even entering a store like this could start an argument. The excuse had never made sense to Pope. He could not understand seeing you happy and wanting to take it away. He loved watching you get ready and slowly became more comfortable in your own skin. Makeup did not make you more beautiful to him. He simply liked the way you smiled when you felt beautiful.

Your smile softened. You lifted his hand to kiss his knuckles before leading him inside. “Then you can help me find everything.”

Pope followed you inside. “That’s why I’m here, baby.”

Inside, you headed for the Laneige display while Pope stopped beside a Benefit stand. Several testers had been abandoned along the shelf, some without their caps and others returned to the wrong slots. By the time you came back, he had already matched two lip tints to their labels and was turning each tube so the name faced forward.

“Found them.” You held up the two jars of Laneige Berry Lip Sleeping Mask before placing them in the basket. “One for the bathroom and one for my nightstand.”

Pope glanced down to make sure they were both there. “Good.”

His attention had already returned to the Benefit stand beside him. Several testers were lying on their sides, some missing their caps and others pushed into the wrong slots. Pope had matched three of them to their labels while you were gone and was turning each tube until its name faced forward.

You kissed his cheek, smiling when he barely paused in what he was doing. “How much of this have you reorganized?”

“A couple of them… They have numbers, see?” Pope showed you the small label on the tester in his hand, then pointed to the empty space bearing the same one. His brow drew together as though the system should have been impossible to misunderstand. “People just don’t put them back right.”

You picked up a lip tint that had been abandoned on its side and held it over the first empty slot you saw. “Does this one go here?”

“No.” Pope’s eyes moved along the row. “Two over.”

You shifted it one space. “Here?”

He reached across you and moved the tube one place farther to the right. “There.”

You watched him turn it until the label matched the others. Pope did things like this almost without realizing: straightening bottles while he waited in line, returning something to the exact place he had found it, wiping down a counter even when the mess was not his. You knew the impulse did not always feel gentle to him. You had seen how something left crooked could hold his attention until he corrected it, how disorder seemed to settle beneath his skin and make it impossible for him to relax.

That was not the part you loved, you loved what Pope did with it.

Even here, in a store full of strangers who would never know he had helped, he replaced caps and returned testers to their proper slots because somebody had arranged the display and somebody would have to fix it after closing. Pope noticed that labor. He respected clean spaces, organized shelves and the people responsible for maintaining them. He would never make another person’s job harder simply because he could walk away before they saw him do it.

People often mistook his silence for indifference but you had learned that Pope cared about far more than he knew how to say.

You rested your head briefly against his shoulder while he fastened the cap on another tester. “What would this store do without you?”

“Throw everything wherever they want, apparently.” He returned the tube to its numbered space and reached for the next one lying out of place.

He fastened one last cap before taking the basket from you. When you moved toward the next aisle, Pope gathered the shopping bags and followed with his free hand resting against your back.

You stopped in front of the Summer Fridays display.

“These are the balms everyone keeps talking about on TikTok.” You picked up one of the tubes and turned it around to show Pope the label.

He studied the display before looking at the tester in your hand. “What’s different about them?”

“Mostly the scents, apparently.” You returned the tube to its slot and reached for another. “They’re not supposed to be quite as good as my olehenriksen ones.”

Pope’s brow furrowed. He glanced from the rows of Summer Fridays balms to your face, already imagining you opening one at home only to discover that it did not live up to all the videos you had watched.

“If they’re not as good, you sure you wanna risk getting one?”

The concern in his voice made you smile.

Pope hated watching you look forward to something only to be disappointed by it. It did not matter whether it was a plan being cancelled or a bakery running out of the cake you wanted. He would remember the change in your expression long after you had forgotten about it, quietly resenting whatever had caused it as if it had let him down too.

“I think I’ll survive the risk,” you assured him, smoothing one hand over his chest when his frown remained. “Everyone says these smell much better. And considering how often you kiss me, I thought you might appreciate that.”

Pope’s attention followed your fingers before settling on your mouth. “The other ones make your lips shiny.”

“Juicy,” you corrected.

His eyes remained on your lower lip. “Same thing.”

“It is absolutely not the same thing.” You stepped closer, smiling when his gaze followed the movement of your mouth. “But you agree they make my lips look juicy?”

“Yeah.” Pope shifted the basket to his other hand, his voice lower than it had been a moment ago.

“How juicy?”

His eyes moved slowly across your lips before lifting to yours. “You know.”

“I’d still like to hear you say it, baby.” Your finger caught briefly on one of the buttons of his shirt, waiting.

Pope held your gaze for another second, then reached past you for one of the testers. He turned it over in his hand with more concentration than the label required, ending the conversation before the heat rising into his face became any more obvious.

“Which one are you getting?”

“I thought we could choose one each.” You leaned your hip against the display and watched his fingers work the cap loose. “I’ll choose the one I like, and you can choose one you want me to wear only when I’m with you.”

His fingers went still around the tester. When he looked at you again, the caution had disappeared from his face.

“Only with me?”

“Yes.” You stepped closer and lowered your voice, although nobody nearby was paying attention. “One balm for whenever I feel like wearing it and another that belongs to you. Something I put on because I know you’ll be the one tasting it.”

Pope’s eyes returned immediately to the balms. This time he studied them with real interest, taking in every shade and label as though the display had changed while he was looking away.

“So I get to pick whichever one I want?”

“Whichever one you want.”

He looked back at you, making sure. “And you’ll only wear it with me?”

“That’s the idea.”

Pope set the basket down beside the shopping bags, freeing both hands for the decision.

“What if I choose one you wouldn’t pick for yourself?”

“I’ll like knowing you chose it.” Nudging him toward the beginning of the display. “Besides, you know me. You’ll pick the right one.”

Pope glanced along the entire row again. The corner of his mouth lifted before he could suppress it.

You had already chosen Pink Guava before entering the store. It was the shade that had appeared in the TikTok saved on your phone, and the sheer pink stain it left across the back of your hand only confirmed that it would be coming home with you.

“This one’s mine.” You dropped an unopened tube into the basket and held out your hand for Pope to inspect. “What do you think?”

“Looks good.” He looked at the color, then at your mouth as though trying to imagine it there. “You already knew which one you wanted.”

“I did.” You stepped aside and gestured toward the rest of the display. “Now you get to choose yours.”

He read every shade name before opening its tester, taking the responsibility far more seriously than you had expected. Vanilla barely held his attention. Pink Sugar made his nose wrinkle, and he returned Iced Coffee after one careful breath.

Then he opened Cherry.

The scent was sweeter and stronger than the others. When you held out your hand, Pope drew the tester across your skin, leaving a sheer red stain beside the Pink Guava swatch. His thumb remained beneath your wrist after he finished.

He stared at the color, his mind went to your mouth first.

Pope pictured the Cherry balm leaving a faint red print on his cheek, another beneath his ear and several more down his chest as you worked your way lower. You would take your time because you knew what tenderness did to him—how quiet he became when you touched him as though there were nowhere else you would rather be.

Then you would kneel between his spread thighs.

Your glossy lips would press to the head of his cock, leaving a soft red mark against the flushed skin. You would look up before kissing him again, lower this time, your tongue following the slow drag of your mouth while one hand wrapped around the base.

Pope could already feel the restraint it would take not to push into you. He would let you set the pace, watching the neat prints blur as you worked your way back to the tip and took him between your lips.

His fingers would slip into your hair. He never knew how to let you touch him without reaching for you in return. He would cradle the back of your head, thumb moving beside your ear as your cheeks hollowed around him. When he reached deeper, a small sound would catch in your throat and your eyes would begin to water, but they would remain fixed on his.

Even in the filthiest version of the fantasy, having his cock in your mouth would be another way of loving him. There would be no disgust in your expression and no hesitation when saliva gathered at the corners of your lips. Only your warm hand stroking what you could not take, your tongue beneath the head and those soft eyes watching every piece of control leave him.

He would come with your name caught somewhere behind his teeth, his hand tightening in your hair as his cum spilled across your tongue. You would keep him in your mouth until the final pulse passed, then draw back and look up at him.

Pope would forget how to breathe when you opened your mouth.

You would show him the mess he had left there, white against your tongue and the fading Cherry tint around your swollen lips. Then, without looking away, you would close your mouth and swallow. His eyes would follow the movement of your throat, transfixed by the knowledge that something of him had disappeared inside you because you had wanted it there.

By the time you smiled, the color would have faded from your mouth.

Pope would pull you up before you could wipe your chin. He would hold your face between both hands and kiss you deeply, tasting Cherry and himself on your tongue. You would make that quiet, pleased sound he loved and settle into his lap with your arms around his shoulders, understanding that he needed the closeness as much as the release.

The thought made him hard inside his jeans.

He had spent most of his life believing there was dirt beneath his skin. He could wash the blood from his hands, burn the clothes he wore during jobs and stand beneath the shower until the water ran cold, but the feeling remained. Smurf had used his body to frighten and hurt people for so long that Pope sometimes struggled to remember it could be good for anything else.

Then you touched him and somehow, Pope had never felt cleaner.

You kissed every scar without asking where it came from. You held his face while he moved inside you and looked at him as though the pleasure he gave you mattered.Your hands made his body feel like it belonged to him again. It could give you pleasure. It could hold you without hurting you. It could make you reach for him instead of recoil.

Pope sometimes wondered whether this was the relief people felt after confession.

They entered carrying everything ugly they had done, spoke it aloud and left feeling lighter because someone had heard the truth without turning them away. Sex with you felt like that. You saw how desperate he could become, how badly he needed you and how little control he sometimes had left by the end. Then you pulled him against your chest and kissed him as if he had confessed nothing shameful at all.

“You really like that one, baby.”

Your voice dragged Pope back into the middle of Sephora. He realized he was still holding the Cherry tester, his fingers clenched around the tube.

“It’s good,” he said, but his voice came out rougher than he intended.

You studied him. The color had spread beyond his ears now, warming his cheeks and continuing down the side of his neck. When you stepped closer, Pope avoided your eyes and pretended to examine the red mark on your hand.

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s warm in here.”

You moved behind him and slipped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Were you thinking about where Cherry might leave marks?”

Pope swallowed. “Maybe.”

“On your cheek?” You pressed a kiss there. “Your neck?”

Your lips brushed the skin beneath his ear. Pope’s grip tightened around the tester.

“Or somewhere lower?”

One of your hands moved down his stomach. When your palm reached the front of his jeans, you found him already hard. Pope caught your wrist, but he did not pull you away. His fingers closed around you while your hand remained pressed over him.

“Baby,” he breathed.

You rubbed your palm over the shape of his cock once, feeling it harden further beneath the denim. “Were you imagining my red lips around you?”

Pope’s face turned completely red. His eyes moved toward the nearest aisle, checking whether anyone had noticed, before returning to your reflection in the display mirror.

“You know I was.”

The admission removed the last of the teasing from your expression. You kissed the back of his shoulder and left your hand beneath his.

“Then maybe Cherry should be yours.”

Pope looked down at the tube, seriously considering it, before glancing at the remaining testers.

“I still have three left.”

Your smile returned. You moved your hand back to his stomach and gave him enough room to continue. “All right. Keep going.”

Pope carefully returned Cherry to its proper slot before reaching for the next one.

Toasted Marshmallow had almost no color, only a few fine gold flecks suspended in the balm. Pope expected another scent sweet enough to make him return it immediately. Instead, he went still as soon as he opened it.

The warmth of it brought him back to the beach house after dark. He imagined opening the front door and finding the oven cooling, the scent of whatever you had baked still clinging to the kitchen. There would be something covered on the counter for him and a note beside the plate telling him which container to put in the refrigerator.

Sometimes you would be waiting on the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, looking up from your book as soon as you heard his key in the lock. On later nights, Pope would find you asleep beneath a blanket and the television playing quietly in an empty room. You always left a lamp on for him.

Pope smelled the tester again.

Cherry had left him hard, still too aware of the front of his jeans and the hand you had pressed there. Toasted Marshmallow made him want the rest of the night. He wanted the bath you had planned, the new towels waiting in their bags and your body leaning against his chest while the water cooled around you. He wanted to put the balm on your mouth himself and taste something that reminded him of coming home.

Pope closed the tester carefully. He picked up an unopened Toasted Marshmallow and placed it beside Pink Guava in the basket, although his fingers remained curled around the tube.

“This one.”

You moved around him to see what he had chosen. “Toasted Marshmallow?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to Cherry?” The question was gentle, accompanied by a knowing smile.

Pope’s face warmed again. He kept his attention on the tube and rubbed his thumb over the printed name. “I like this one more.”

You opened the tester and smelled it yourself. The scent was warm and familiar, closer to something that belonged in your kitchen than a makeup display.

“Because it smells like cake?”

“Sometimes.” Pope shifted his weight. “Or pie.”

You looked from the balm to him, understanding beginning to soften your expression. “It smells like the house when I’ve been baking.”

Pope nodded.

“You mean that smells like home, baby?”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah.”

You moved closer and laid your hand over his. “Then Toasted Marshmallow is yours.”

Pope looked down at your joined hands. “You meant what you said?”

“About what?”

“Only wearing it with me.”

There was something almost uncomfortable in the way he asked, as if he needed the reassurance but disliked how plainly his voice revealed it.

“Yes, baby. I meant it.”

Pope nodded, his gaze dropped to your mouth before moving back to the balm.

“You’ll wear it when we’re at the house?”

“Whenever you want me to.”

His brow furrowed. “No, I mean—” He stopped and shifted his weight again, the shopping bags rustling beside his leg. “Tonight.”

You waited, giving him time to finish.

“When we take a bath.” Pope rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. The color had spread from his ears into his cheeks again, although nothing he was asking for should have embarrassed him this much. “Could you wear it then?”

“For you?”

“Yeah.” His eyes returned to your lips. “For me.”

The quiet need in his voice made your chest tighten. Pope could walk into a room full of armed men and make them listen but asking you for something tender was different. He looked as though wanting it this badly had left him exposed.

You slipped your arms around his waist. “Yes. I’ll wear it for you in the bath.”

Pope’s hand settled against your back, but the uncertainty remained in his face.

“And…” He glanced toward the other shoppers before lowering his voice. “Can I put it on you?”

Your smile softened. “You want to?”

He nodded.

“Then you can.”

“With my finger?”

The question came out so earnest that you had to press your lips together to keep from smiling too widely. Pope noticed anyway, and his brow tightened.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You stroked your hand over his chest. “You can put it on with your finger. Then you can kiss as much of it off as you want.”

Pope swallowed. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, lingering there.

“You promise?”

“I promise, my love.”

“Okay,” he murmured, some of the tension finally left his shoulders.

You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Are you happy with your choice?”

Pope drew you closer.

“Yeah.” He glanced once more at the balm in the basket. “I’m happy, sweetheart.”

The Rhode display stood near the front of the store. You crouched to check behind the remaining Pocket Blushes before pulling out your phone.

“The website still says they have Sleepy Girl.”

Pope looked over your shoulder. “Ask somebody, baby.”

An employee was unpacking boxes from a cart nearby. Her name badge read ALLISON. She rubbed her temple before reaching for another package.

“Excuse me,” you said. “Could you check whether you have any more of the Rhode Pocket Blush in Sleepy Girl? The website says there are a few left.”

Allison glanced at the empty slot and shifted the box she was carrying against her hip. “If it isn’t out, we don’t have it.”

“It still shows as in stock. Could there be some in the back?”

“Our inventory is wrong all the time.”

“I understand. It’s just that sometimes new products haven’t been put out yet—”

“We don’t have it,” she cut in, looking toward the clock above the register. “Choose another shade.”

Your fingers tightened around the basket. “But the others turn orange on my skin.”

“They’re all blush. It won’t make that much difference once they’re blended.”

The bags touched the floor behind you.

Pope came to stand at your side. “She asked you to check.”

Allison turned toward him. “I heard her.”

“Then check.”

Allison shifted the box higher against her hip and released a tired breath through her nose. “I’ve already explained that if it isn’t on the shelf, we don’t have it.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“I work here. I know what we have.” She reached for another product on the cart, attempting to return to her task.

Pope placed his hand over the box before she could pick it up. Allison’s gaze dropped to his fingers and then travelled slowly back to his face.

“The website says you have it,” he said.

“Our inventory is probably wrong. I still have all of this to put away.”

“Then it shouldn’t take long.” Pope removed his hand from the box, but instead of stepping back, he moved closer. “We’ll wait.”

Allison’s shoulders pulled tight. “Sir, there won’t be any.”

Pope held her gaze. “Go look. Then come back and tell her that.”

Allison opened her mouth again. Pope moved half a step closer, leaving little room between her and the cart. He kept his hands at his sides, but his voice dropped enough to make her grip tighten around the box.

“Go check.”

Allison’s eyes flicked over his face before she set the box down. “Fine.”

She disappeared through the stockroom door.

Only after it closed did you put the basket aside and take Pope’s hand. His fingers remained stiff around yours.

“Andrew, come here.”

You drew him away from the cart and back toward the Rhode display. Pope followed, glancing once over his shoulder at the stockroom.

“I love when you stand up for me,” you said, running your thumb over his knuckles. “You know I do.”

“She was talking to you like you were stupid, baby.”

“I know. She was rude.” You moved closer and rested your other hand against his chest. “But I think she was already having a terrible day before we walked over.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“It doesn’t.” You explained. “I just don’t think it was about me. Her coffee’s gone cold, she keeps looking at the clock and she has half the store left to unpack. I think I asked the wrong person at the wrong moment.”

Pope’s jaw remained tight. “She still shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

“No, she shouldn’t have.” You kissed the underside of his chin. “And you didn’t have to let her.”

His hand settled against your back, though his attention stayed on the stockroom door.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Of course not, baby.” You stroked your palm slowly over his chest. “I’m glad you came over. I only think you scared her more than you meant to.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“I know that.” You kissed him softly. “But she doesn’t know you.”

Pope looked down at your face, some of the tension finally leaving his fingers.

“When she comes back, maybe apologize for the way you spoke to her,” you murmured. “That’s all.”

He rubbed his thumb against your waist. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll apologize.”

You smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

Allison returned carrying three Sleepy Girl blushes. She avoided Pope’s eyes as she placed them in the empty slot.

“They were still in one of the shipment boxes,” she said. “They hadn’t been stocked yet.”

“Thank you for checking.” You picked up one of the small boxes.

Pope looked at Allison. His jaw shifted once before he spoke.

“I’m sorry about before.”

She glanced at him, visibly surprised. “It’s fine.”

“No.” Pope looked briefly toward you, then back at her. “It wasn’t.”

Allison rubbed her palm against her trousers. “I’m sorry too. It’s been a long day, and I took it out on you.”

You gave her a small smile. “It’s okay.”

Pope nodded toward the blushes. “Thanks for looking.”

Allison returned the nod, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

You held up the box for Pope. “This is the one.”

He placed it beside Pink Guava and Toasted Marshmallow in the basket. “You want another?”

“One is enough.”

Pope checked your face before gathering the bags again.

“Anything else?” Allison asked.

“No, thank you.”

At the register, Pope arranged the two Laneige masks, Pink Guava, Toasted Marshmallow and the Sleepy Girl blush on the counter. When you opened your purse, he caught your wrist and guided your hand away from it.

“I can pay for my makeup, baby.”

“I’ve got it.” He kept hold of you while passing his card to the cashier.

“You already bought everything for the house.”

“These are for the house too.”

You picked up Pink Guava. “This is going in my purse.”

Pope took the tube from you, returned it to the counter and tucked you against his side. “Your purse comes home.”

The cashier lowered her head to hide a smile. You stared at Pope while he entered his PIN.

“That isn’t how house purchases work.”

“You need all of it, sweetheart.”

“And apparently that means you need to pay for it.”

Pope returned his wallet to his pocket and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Yeah.”

There was no point arguing once he had decided. You slipped your arm through his and rested your head against his shoulder while the cashier packed everything.

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Pope asked, looking down at the products before the cashier placed them inside the bag.

You laughed softly. “Yes, baby.”

You slipped beneath Pope’s arm as you left Sephora, talking about unpacking the last kitchen boxes and washing the new sheets before putting them on the bed.

“Kitchen first,” you said. “Otherwise we’ll leave everything in bags for a week.”

“Bed first.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to sleep in it tonight.”

You looked up at him, smiling. “We could do both.”

Pope drew you closer and kept walking. He had spent the entire afternoon waiting for something to go wrong. Every vibration of his phone made him expect Smurf’s name on the screen, followed by questions about where he was and why he had been gone so long. Only Deran knew about the two of you and the house by the beach, and Pope had told him because someone needed to know where to find you if he failed to come home after a job. Deran had promised to keep his mouth shut, but the secret still made Pope feel exposed because nothing in his life had ever remained his once Smurf discovered it.

His arm tightened around you without warning.

Your sentence trailed off. You turned within his hold and laid your palm flat against his stomach, feeling the tension beneath his shirt.

“Baby, are you okay?” You searched his face when he did not answer immediately. “Is it getting too loud? We can leave if you need to.”

Pope noticed the worry gathering between your brows and loosened his arm.

“No. Sorry.” He covered your hand with his, keeping it against him. “Keep talking, sweetheart.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” His thumb moved over your knuckles. “I don’t want to leave. Tell me what you were saying.”

You studied him for another moment before kissing his chest through his shirt. Pope pressed his mouth to the top of your head, and only then did you settle against his side again.

“I bought bath salts,” you continued, slipping your arm around his waist. “So we can unpack the kitchen, make the bed and then have a bath like you wanted.”

Pope’s hand began moving slowly over your back as he listened.

“But you’re not allowed to pour in the entire bottle of bubble bath this time.”

“It wasn’t the entire bottle.”

You tilted your face up to him. “Baby, it was nearly full when I gave it to you.”

“There was some left.”

“Enough for one very small bath, honey.” You held your thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart.

Pope watched the gesture, the corner of his mouth beginning to lift. “Still wasn’t the whole bottle.”

Then a small shop beside the exit caught his attention. A rotating stand of Jellycat bag charms stood near the door, little animals, fruit and flowers hanging from metal clips while their thin cord legs swung beneath them.

Pope stopped.

You felt his hand tighten around yours. “What is it?”

He nodded toward the display. “We need keychains for the new keys.”

Your face lit up. “We absolutely do.”

Pope let you lead him inside and set the shopping bags beside his feet while you crouched in front of the stand. You had barely turned it once before a green shamrock caught your attention.

“Wait.” You lifted it from its hook and touched one of its dangling feet. “They all have legs.”

Pope glanced at the other charms. “Yeah.”

“How have I never noticed that?”

You turned the stand again, laughing when a sun, a ladybug in tiny black shoes and several pieces of fruit swung into view. Then you found a lemon and picked it up, making its little legs walk across your palm.

“Look at him. He has somewhere important to be.” You held it beside your cheek and smiled at Pope. “Should this one be mine?”

Pope watched you, completely mesmerized.

For years, he had believed that was the life he deserved.

Smurf might have been the one who decided who had to die, but Pope had been the one to kill them. Being useful to her did not make him innocent.

Eventually, he had begun to think there was nothing inside him worth saving: no soul, no heart...

Because a man with either would have stopped long before Pope ever did and he had put too much ugliness into the world to complain when none of the good parts reached him.

Baz had made that clear years ago.

They had been in Smurf’s garage after a job, Baz drinking and still carrying the confidence that made everyone else gather around him. Pope no longer remembered what started the argument. He remembered Baz laughing over the mouth of his beer bottle and asking what Pope thought was going to happen to him.

You think some woman’s gonna marry you? Have a kid with you? You?

Baz laughed again when Pope said nothing.

Nobody wants to wake up next to you, Pope.

Pope had hit him. Baz had hit back, and Smurf had blamed Pope for the broken cabinet without asking about the blood running into his mouth. None of it stayed with him as clearly as the certainty in Baz’s voice. Perhaps Pope had hit him because he already believed him.

Nobody would choose him.

Nobody would build a life with him.

His future had seemed like one long, cold day beneath a sky that never cleared, every morning leading back to another night inside Smurf’s house. Pope had stopped expecting anything else because hope only gave people something else to take from him.

Now you were kneeling in front of a display of ridiculous plush keychains, laughing because a lemon had legs. Pope looked at you and, for one brief moment, the store disappeared.

He imagined somewhere far from Oceanside. Another mall in a town where nobody knew the Cody name. You stood beside him, older but still laughing at everything. A little girl reached for a plush toy while Pope held her beneath the arms so she could see the top row.

She had his dark hair, gathered into two uneven pigtails he had tried to make himself. His freckles covered her nose. Everything else belonged to you: your eyes, your soft cheeks, your lips already turning into the same smile you wore whenever you knew Pope would give you whatever you asked for.

He could see himself buying the toy even after you reminded him she already had too many, he could see the little girl hugging it to her chest while Pope carried her back to the car and perhaps one day the small bedroom in the beach house would hold a crib until they found somewhere farther away.

The thought should have frightened someone like him, right?

Instead, Pope wanted it so badly that his chest hurt.

“Baby?”

You were standing now, the lemon still in your hand. Pope blinked and found you watching him.

“You went somewhere.”

“I’m here.”

You put the lemon back and came closer, rubbing your hand over his chest. “You were looking at me like you wanted to say something.”

Pope reached behind the sun and removed the sunflower hanging partly beneath it. He held one charm in each hand.

“I thought we could get these.”

Your eyes dropped to them. “The sun and the sunflower?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re perfect.” You took them from him and smoothed the sunflower’s soft yellow petals, smiling down at the two charms, making their little cord legs move against your palm before looking back at him. “Why these two, honey?”

His thumb caught beneath one of the sunflower’s petals. He had known what they meant when he took them from the display. Explaining it with you standing in front of him was different. He rubbed the soft fabric between his fingers, keeping his eyes lowered.

“Sunflowers turn toward the sun… They keep looking for it.” He shifted his weight and glanced toward the entrance, then back at the charm. “Doesn’t matter where it moves. They turn so they can still see it. They don't like the dark.”

You watched his fingers worrying at the petal. “And you want to be the sunflower?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Pope swallowed. He had already told you enough to make the answer obvious, but you waited for him to say it. Your free hand slipped into his and squeezed, giving him something to hold on to while he tried.

“Because I always know where you are,” he said. “Even when I’m not looking at you, I know.”

“And where am I, baby?”

“Here.”

His fingers tightened around yours before guiding your hand to his chest. His heart beat hard beneath your palm, each uneven thud pressing through the thin fabric of his shirt.

You had felt it countless times before. Beneath your cheek while you slept, racing against your ear when a nightmare tore him awake, gradually slowing whenever you climbed into his lap and held him until he remembered where he was. But this felt different. Pope was keeping your hand there deliberately, offering you the frantic rhythm as though it could explain whatever his mouth could not.

For one suspended moment, he felt more yours than he ever had.

He had chosen you. He had taken the parts of himself he kept hidden from everyone else, the frightened ones, the damaged ones, the ones he believed made him impossible to love, and placed them beneath your palm without knowing whether you would hold them gently.

“And if I can’t find you,” he continued, his thumb pressing into the back of your hand, “I look.”

You traced one slow stroke over his shirt. “So you’re the sunflower.”

Pope nodded. His attention dropped to the two charms, and he worried the edge of one soft yellow petal between his fingers.

“And I’m the sun?”

“Yeah.”

You waited.

His jaw shifted. He looked toward the entrance, then at the floor, visibly regretting how far he had allowed the conversation to go. Still, he did not let go of you.

“Because it was dark before you,” he said at last.

Your breathing faltered.

“In my head, I mean.” Pope frowned, frustrated with himself already. “It’s always been loud in there. Telling me this things.”

“What things?”

He rubbed his thumb against your knuckles. “That I’m bad. That I ruin everything. That none of this is gonna last because I don’t get to have good things like this.”

Your chest tightened, but you stayed quiet.

“They’re still there,” he added quickly, as though he needed to make sure you understood that you had not repaired him. “You didn’t make them go away— but they’re not always as mean anymore.”

His words were so quiet that the noise of the store nearly swallowed them.

Pope’s brow pulled tighter as he struggled to explain. “Sometimes there’s something else too. Something that says maybe I can come home. Maybe you’ll still be there when I do. That I’m…” He paused, swallowing again. “That I’m not only what they say I am.”

Your thumb stilled above his heart.

“It sounds like you sometimes,” he admitted. “Not really your voice— I know you’re not in my head.” His cheeks warmed as he rushed to clarify it, but his fingers held firmly to yours. “It just says the kind of things you say to me.”

The pressure behind your ribs became almost painful.

Pope had lived for years with Smurf’s voice buried inside him, joined by Baz’s laughter and every terrible thing he had ever come to believe about himself. You had never imagined that somewhere among them, your love had begun answering back. Not loudly enough to silence them but enough to make the darkness a little less certain of itself.

“You made everything lighter,” Pope murmured. “My life. All the stuff in here.”

He lifted your joined hands slightly against his chest.

“So I keep turning toward you.” His eyes dropped to the sunflower again. “Because you’re my sun.”

The words settled somewhere so deep inside you that you could not respond.

His pulse continued beneath your palm, hard and alive and entirely unguarded. You thought of all the years he had spent convinced that nobody would choose him, only for this man to stand before you now and confess that your love had become the kindest voice inside his head.

Your vision blurred.

Pope noticed immediately. The sunflower slipped from his fingers, swinging by its tag as both hands rose to your face.

“Hey. What happened?”

He searched your expression, alarm sharpening every feature when the first tear escaped.

“Was it what I said?” His breathing quickened when you could not answer fast enough. “It was too much— I shouldn’t have said it.”

“No, baby.”

“We can pick different ones.” He reached for the little sun in your hand. “Forget it.”

You caught his wrists before he could take it from you. “Andrew, look at me.”

“I made you cry.”

“I’m happy.”

Pope froze, his palms still cupping your cheeks. “You don’t look happy.”

“I’m overwhelmed.” You turned your face into one of his hands and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm. “Because nobody has ever given me anything as beautiful as what you just gave me.”

“I only said you were the sun.”

“You told me that loving you has made the inside of your head a little kinder.”

His mouth tightened. “Sounds stupid when you say it like that.”

“It doesn’t.” You leaned into his touch, a wet laugh catching in your throat. “It means more to me than I know how to explain.”

Some of the panic eased from his face, though uncertainty remained in the careful way he held you.

“You meant it, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then don’t take it back.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.” You kissed the base of his thumb. “But I need you to say it again.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because this time, you’ll know the tears don’t mean you hurt me.”

Pope hesitated. His thumb swept beneath your eye, catching the wetness there before it reached your cheek.

“You’re my sun.”

Your face crumpled all over again.

He was not the collection of terrible things he had survived and the worse things he still blamed himself for.

He was Andrew.

Your Andrew.

His eyes widened. “Sweetheart—”

You laughed and threw your arms around his neck before he could panic a second time.

“Still happy, baby. I promise.”

Pope held you tightly, one hand cupping the back of your head while your laughter softened against his neck. When you finally leaned away, his gaze moved between your eyes and paused on your wet cheeks.

You kissed the worried crease between his eyebrows before looking down at the sunflower dangling from his fingers. One of its petals had folded beneath his grip, so you carefully smoothed it back into place.

“My sweet, grumpy sunflower.”

Pope frowned. “No.”

“No what?”

“You’re not calling me that.”

“But it’s perfect.” You lifted the sunflower beside his face, smiling when his frown deepened. “You’re sweet, you’re grumpy, and you just admitted that you spend your life turning toward me.”

Pope reached for the little sun in your other hand, but you hid it behind your back.

He held out his hand, palm open. “Give it back.”

You closed your fingers around the little sun and tucked it safely behind your back. “You gave it to me.”

He stepped closer and slipped an arm around your waist, trying to reach past you while you twisted away with a laugh. “I’m reconsidering.”

“That isn’t how presents work.” You turned, rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’m going to call you my sweet, grumpy sunflower every day for the rest of our lives.”

Pope stopped reaching for the charm.

“The rest of our lives?” he asked.

Your teasing softened. “Yes, baby. That’s the plan.”

His hand settled at your waist and drew you a little closer. “Okay.”

Your smile widened. “You’re accepting the nickname already?”

“No.”

“Then what was the okay for?”

Pope looked at the sun hidden behind your back and then at the sunflower resting against his chest.

“For the rest of our lives.”

You caught his face between your hands and kissed him before either of you could become emotional again.

Pope went still beneath your palms. Then both arms closed around you. One hand spread across your lower back while the other cradled your neck, drawing you firmly against him.

He kissed you slowly. His mouth was warm and slightly unsteady beneath yours, softening each time your thumbs stroked his cheeks. The faint salt of your tears lingered on your lips, and Pope kissed it away before returning for another kiss, then another, as though the first had not been enough.

Your fingers slipped into the short hair at his temples. An uneven breath left him against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your back while the kiss deepened. His thumb moved slowly beneath your ear. He took his time with every gentle press of his lips, holding you closer whenever your fingers moved through his hair.

When you finally began to draw away, his hand tightened softly at your nape and brought you back for one last lingering kiss.

Pope kept his forehead against yours after your mouths parted. His eyes remained closed, his breathing uneven while your fingers continued moving through his hair.

You brushed your nose against his.

“I love you, my grumpy sunflower.”

“Love you too.” His thumb moved over your cheek as the corner of his mouth finally lifted. “But you’re not calling me that in front of Deran.”

You smiled. “No promises.”

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