As promised, but with my own special touches :) tysm @chaithetics for warning me abt the repeat offender ask 👀😔
The Cody house always smelled like salt water, cheap sunblock, and old grease, but in the early mornings, before the sun completely burned through the marine layer, it just smelled like damp concrete and stale beer.
Andrew stood at the kitchen counter with his back to the rest of the house. He moved quietly—he had spent thirty-nine years learning how to occupy as little space as possible in a room—his broad, square shoulders hunched slightly to hide what he was doing.
He was cutting the crusts off a slice of white bread.
He did it with a heavy chef’s knife, his large, calloused fingers pressed lightly against the soft center so he wouldn't crush it. His hands were scarred across the knuckles, the skin rough from hard labor, jailhouse floor sweeps, and fists met with bone, but right now, they were trembling just a fraction. He was trying so hard to be delicate.
With his niece Lena, the noise in his head quieted down. It didn't disappear, but it dialed back to a low hum he could ignore.
It was seven in the morning. The rest of the house was still asleep, sleeping off whatever line they’d snorted or bottle they’d finished the night before. Pope stood in the kitchen, his tall, lean frame hunched slightly over the island. He was cutting a slice of cheap white bread into four neat, perfect triangles. He’d already trimmed the crusts off because the crusts were too hard for her teeth, and he’d spread the jelly in an even layer, edge to edge, so there weren't any dry spots.
He heard her tiny, bare feet slapping against the cool tile before he saw her.
"Uncle Pope?" her voice was thin, raspy from sleep.
He turned slowly, lowering himself down on one knee so he wasn't towering over her. He was always careful about that. He knew his face looked hard—knew his eyes sat too deep in his skull and that he scared people without trying.
"Hey, kiddo," he rasped, his voice rough from disuse. "Slept okay?"
Lena rubbed her eyes with the back of a small, bruised-looking fist—just a scrape from playing on the gravel driveway yesterday—and nodded. Her dark hair was a tangled mess at the back. Without a word, Pope reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wide-toothed plastic comb he carried specifically for her.
"I don't want the peanut butter," she mumbled around her thumb. "Just the jelly."
"I know," Pope said gently. "Just jelly. No peanut butter. I remembered."
He didn't rush. He held the base of her hair in his large, scarred palm to absorb the tension so he wouldn't pull her scalp, gently working the comb through the ends first, working his way up. His hands—hands that had snapped bones, hands that smelled like gun oil and brake cleaner—moved with a tentative, almost painful gentleness. He barely breathed while he did it, terrified that one wrong move would make her wince.
"You want milk or water?" he asked softly, laying the comb on the counter.
"Milk, please."
He poured it into her plastic cup with the cracked lid, making sure it was only half-full so she wouldn't spill it if her hands shook. He pulled out a chair, lifted her up by her waist—she felt as light as a handful of dry leaves—and set her down in front of her plate. He sat in the chair next to her, resting his elbows on his knees, just watching her take tiny, slow bites.
"Eat your toast," he whispered. "Then I'll tie your shoes."
"Look at the fucking nanny," a voice drawled from the doorway.
A sudden creak on the stairs broke the quiet.
Baz came down first, barefoot, wearing gray sweatpants, his chest bare. He looked rough around the edges, his dark eyes bloodshot, but he carried that effortless, arrogant grace he always had. He stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning his shoulder against the frame, watching Pope adjust the cup closer to Lena's plate.
Pope's hand instantly pulled back from Lena's hair, dropping to his side like he’d been burned.
Baz was leaning against the doorframe, wearing yesterday's jeans and no shirt, his chest covered in a thin sheen of morning sweat. He had a bottle of water in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette tucked behind his ear. He looked at Pope, then at Lena, and the corner of his mouth twisted up into that familiar, condescending smirk—the one that made Pope feel like he was six years old and trapped in a closet again.
"What are you doing, Andrew?" Baz asked, shuffling over to the fridge. He didn't even look at his daughter. He didn't say good morning to her. He just reached over her head, grabbed a cold brew, and popped the top with a sharp snap. "She's three. She can eat the crusts. You're spoiling her."
"She doesn't like the crusts," Pope said to the floor. His hands slid into the front pockets of his jeans. His thumbs hitched over the denim.
"She doesn't like them because you keep cutting 'em off," Baz snapped, taking a long pull from his bottle. He leaned back against the counter, right where Pope had been standing moments before, and looked his older brother up and down. His eyes were cold, assessing, full of that casually cruel superiority he always carried around Pope.
"Look at you," Baz chuckled, a bitter, dry sound. "Playing daddy. You like that, don't you? Dressing her up, making her little snacks. It’s pathetic, Pope."
Pope’s jaw worked. A muscle in his cheek twitched once, twice, but he kept his eyes locked firmly on the grain of the wooden table. "She was hungry."
"Yeah, well, enjoy playing house while it lasts," Baz said, his tone flattening into something meaner, sharper. "Get it out of your system now, Andrew. 'Cause let's be real—this is the closest you're ever gonna get to having a kid."
The words settled like heavy, suffocating smog.
Pope didn't look up. His fingers twitched against his thighs, but he kept his eyes on the kitchen island. "She was hungry."
"She's fine, Andrew. She's got a mother. Catherine," Baz sneered, stepping into the kitchen and opening the fridge, grabbing a carton of juice and drinking straight from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Pope over the rim. "It's funny, man. You sitting there playing house. Pretending you're her dad."
Pope’s chest tightened, a familiar, cold lump settling in the back of his throat. He said nothing.
Smurf came down the stairs a moment later, wrapped in her silk robe, her short blonde hair barely out of place. She possessed an uncanny ability to enter a room and instantly suck all the air out of it. She walked over to the coffee pot, pouring herself a cup, her blue eyes scanning the kitchen until they landed on Pope, sitting hunched next to her granddaughter.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. It never did when she looked at Pope like this. It was the look she gave a stray dog that kept coming back to the porch despite being kicked.
"Now, Baz, don't be nasty," Smurf murmured, though her voice carried zero reprimand. She stepped around to face Pope, reaching up to touch the side of his jaw. Her thumb pressed into his cheekbone, dragging down to his chin. Her eyes were bright, dark, and completely devoid of warmth. "Andrew’s just helping. Aren't you, baby? He's got a good heart. A soft heart."
"He's just enjoying it while he can. Aren't you, sweetie?"
Pope’s shoulders pulled up toward his ears. He stayed frozen beneath her touch.
"Baz is right about one thing, though, sweetie," Smurf whispered, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly soft, maternal coo she used when she was delivering a death sentence. "You have to be realistic about who you are. Women... normal women... they look at a man like you, Andrew, and they see what's missing. They see the dark parts. Nobody’s ever going to want to carry your baby. Nobody’s going to trust you with a child of your own. You know that, don't you?"
Pope didn't pull away from her hand. He couldn't. He just swallowed hard, his throat feeling like dry sand, and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
"Good boy," Smurf patted his cheek—two sharp, stinging taps—and stepped over to the coffee pot. "Now go clear out the garage. J needs the space for the bikes."
Baz let out a short, harsh laugh from the sink. "Yeah. Can you imagine some poor girl bringing a kid home to this? Jesus. She'd take one look at those crazy eyes and run for the hills."
"Nobody’s ever going to let you father a child, Andrew," Smurf whispered, her voice intimately warm, like she was telling him a sweet secret only the two of them shared. "Women can smell it on a man like you. They know when a man’s blood is...tainted. You're meant to take care of us. You're meant to stay right here with your mama. That's your job."
She patted his cheek one last time, turned, and carried her mug toward the patio. Baz followed her out, leaving the glass sliding door open just enough for the salt breeze to carry their soft chuckles into the kitchen.
Pope stayed frozen.
Lena reached out with a stick , jelly-covered finger and touched his knuckles. "Uncle Pope?"
He looked down at her. His chest felt hollow, like someone had reached inside with a dull knife and scraped out everything that made a man human, leaving only the dried shell behind.
Tainted blood. Broken.
He knew they were right. He felt it every second of every day. He was a weapon Smurf kept in the garage, pulled out when something needed to be broken or bled, and wiped down afterward. He wasn't meant for good, soft things. He wasn't meant for a life that had sunshine and rainbows in it. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and gently wiped a drop of jelly from the corner of Lena's mouth with his thumb.
"Eat your toast, kiddo," he murmured, his voice flat, dead, devoid of anything at all.
Two weeks later, a new job came up.
It was a simple thing—a smart-house reset in a quiet, high-end neighborhood three miles off the strip. The target was a mid-level guy who dealt in offshore accounts and kept a safe behind a fake vent in his home office. Craig and Deran were handling the transport, Baz was doing the wire work, and Pope was on baseline reconnaissance.
That meant sitting. Watching. Learning the pattern of the block until the street felt like a map drawn on the back of his eyelids.
Pope sat in the driver's seat of an old, faded blue Ford sedan parked under the sprawling shade of an ficus tree down the block. The engine was off. The windows were cracked just half an inch to keep the air moving, carrying the thick, heavy heat of late afternoon into the cabin.
He had a black spiral notebook open on his lap, a stubby pencil held between his thick fingers. He wrote down license plates. He wrote down the exact minute the mail truck pulled up to the curb. He wrote down the neighbor’s golden retriever barking at the sprinkler system.
It was brainless work, the kind that usually let the static in his head get too loud. He picked at the skin around his thumb until it bled, staring through the dusty windshield, feeling the old, heavy weight of his family pulling him down into the dirt.
Then, at 5:14 PM, a light blue hatchback pulled into the driveway of the house directly across from the target.
Pope didn't move. His eyes narrowed habitually, his hand reaching for the pencil to mark down the arrival.
The driver's side door swung open.
You stepped out into the humid afternoon air. You were wearing a simple, worn-out t-shirt and jeans, your hair pulled back loosely, a few stray strands sticking to the back of your neck in the heat. You reached back into the rear seat, struggling for a second with a heavy paper grocery bag that had a loaf of French bread sticking awkwardly out of the top.
As you pulled the bag out, the paper seam split near the bottom.
Pope watched through the dirty glass as two oranges rolled out, bouncing down the asphalt driveway and coming to a stop in the dry grass near the curb.
But there was no outburst. You didn't slam the car door or throw your hands up in frustration the way Smurf did when things didn't go her way, or the way Baz did when he was annoyed.
Instead, you just stopped. You stood there on the driveway, leaned your head back for a fraction of a second, and let out a soft, quiet laugh that Pope couldn't hear, but could see in the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders. You carefully set the broken bag on the hood of your car, walked over to the grass, knelt down, and picked up the oranges.
You wiped the grass off one against your jeans, held it up to the sun for a second, and smiled. It was a real, unbothered, carefree smile.
Pope forgot to write down the license plate.
He sat frozen in the sweltering dark of the Ford, his fingers locked around the stub of his pencil, his breath catching somewhere deep in his chest. He watched you pick up the rest of your things, hip the car door shut, and walk up the porch steps, tossing an orange up in the air and catching it with one hand before disappearing inside.
The front door clicked shut. The street went quiet again.
Pope glanced down at his notebook. The white page was blank beneath the time stamp 5:14 PM.
Andrew spent two weeks watching you. At first, it was just the schedule. You left your apartment at 7:40 AM with a faded canvas bag slung over your shoulder. You walked three blocks to the bus stop, always checking your watch twice. You came home at 5:15 PM, usually carrying a paper bag from the corner market, your keys already out and jangling in your hand before you even reached the bottom of the porch steps.
But after three days, the schedule stopped mattering.
Pope began setting his alarm an hour early just to sit in the suffocating heat of his truck, waiting for the split-second your front door opened. He watched the way you squished your eyes shut against the morning sun, the way you brushed a stray lock of hair out of your mouth, the quiet, small smile you gave to the old guy who walked his golden retriever past your lawn every morning. You walked around like someone who didn't expect to be hurt. You didn't look over your shoulder. You didn't glance at the dark, tinted windows of the gray Ford sitting under the shade of the eucalyptus tree.
You were soft, and clean, and completely untouchable.
When the job fell through, he couldn't stop. It was like an itch beneath his ribs that he couldn't scratch. He began parking two streets over, walking past your local laundromat, stepping into the small, cramped diner where you bought coffee on Saturday mornings.
The first time you actually spoke to him, he almost choked on his saliva.
He was standing by the sugar dispenser at the counter, his massive frame hunched over, trying to make himself small. You bumped into his shoulder and your coffee cup sloshed over the rim, spilling warm, tan liquid onto your fingers.
"Oh, shoot! I am so sorry," you said, immediately stepping back, laughing at your own clumsiness.
Pope froze. His blood ran cold, his hands instinctively dropping to his sides like he had been caught stealing. He stared down at you, his dark eyes wide and fixed, his chest heaving once. "It's... it's fine," he grunted out, his voice a dry, rusty scraping sound.
You simply pulled a napkin from the dispenser, wiped your fingers, and looked up at him with a pair of clear, unbothered eyes.
"I'm out of my mind today," you murmured, offering him a small, wry grin. "I'm usually way better at not bumping into people. I'm..." You glanced at his hands, then at his face. "I haven't seen you around here before. I'm y/n."
He swallowed hard. His name felt heavy in his mouth, a dirty word. "Andrew," he managed.
"Nice to meet you, Andrew," you said softly. And then you walked away to your table, leaving him standing there in the smell of fried hashbrowns and cheap coffee, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
It was a Tuesday at five in the afternoon at the little hardware store three miles off the avenue. You were standing in the plumbing aisle, staring up at a wall of copper fittings with a crumpled piece of paper in your hand, looking utterly lost.
Pope had been two aisles over, pretending to look at box nails, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hands were sweating. He took three agonizing steps around the corner, his heavy boots squeaking on the linoleum, and stopped just behind you.
"That's... that's the wrong thread," he said. His voice rasped, rough from disuse, cutting through the quiet aisle like a rusty blade.
You turned around, startled, dropping the small brass valve you were holding. It clattered against the concrete floor.
Pope instantly dropped to his knees to grab it for you. His giant, scarred hand hovered near your shoe, his broad shoulders tensing as if he expected you to recoil from him. But when he looked up, extending his palm with the brass piece sitting in the middle of it, you weren't terrified. You were just smiling—a tired, grateful little turn of your mouth.
"Thanks. Andrew right?," you asking, taking it from him. Your fingers brushed his palm. His whole body went rigid at the contact. "I have no idea what I'm looking for. My bathroom sink is dripping and the guy at the front desk told me to just 'get a washer,' but there are fifty of them."
Pope stood up slowly, towering over you, his eyes darting to the floor, then to your face, then back to the shelf. "It's... it's a three-eighths flat," he mumbled, his thumb pointing toward a red bin on the bottom rack. "For a standard delta faucet. You need the rubber ones. Not the plastic."
You looked from the red bin back up to his face, your eyes soft and curious, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the tight, defensive set of his jaw, the sheer size of him. "You know a lot about sinks?"
"I know how to fix things," he said quietly, his voice dropping into his chest. "When they're broken."
It was a slow, agonizing erosion of the walls he’d built his whole life.
You bumped into him again three days later at the market. Then at the laundromat. You began to expect him. You offered him half of a pastry you bought; he accepted it with trembling hands, sitting on the curb beside you in silence while you talked about your job, your annoying landlord, the rain forecast for the weekend. He mostly just listened, nodding occasionally, mesmerized by the simple cadence of your life.
When you invited him up to your apartment the first time, he stood in your doorway for three full minutes, refusing to step onto your rug until he took his heavy boots off, terrified he’d track dirt onto your floor.
That night was supposed to be a mistake. A quiet, breathless collision between two people who were lonely in entirely different ways.
You had reached out and touched his face while he was sitting on the edge of your sofa, his knuckles white against his knees. Your hand was warm, soft, smelling faintly of lavender soap. When your thumb slid over his cheekbone, Pope’s eyes snapped shut, a low, desperate sound tearing from his throat. He touched you like he was handling glass—afraid that if he pressed too hard, if he used his real strength, you would shatter, or realize what he was and run screaming into the night.
That night was slow, desperate, and quiet. Every time his big hands moved over your skin, he checked your face, searching for any sign of disgust, waiting for the moment you realized what he was and pulled away. But you didn't pull away. You pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the back of his neck, burying your face in the crook of his collarbone.
When it was over, he lay awake on his back for four hours, staring at the water stains on your bedroom ceiling, listening to the soft, steady rise and fall of your chest against his side. He felt like a thief who had broken into a church and stolen something holy.
In the beginning, you both called it what it was: simple. Friends. An arrangement. Something quiet that happened behind closed doors when the rest of the world was asleep.
Pope liked that word—arrangement. It was safe. It meant there were no expectations. It meant you weren't asking him to be normal, or sweet, or the kind of man who brought flowers and took a girl home to meet her parents. It meant he could give you his body, his labor, his fierce, silent protection, without risking the terrible reality of him ruining you.
But Andrew Cody didn't know how to do anything halfway. He didn't know how to keep a boundary when it came to light.
Slowly, the arrangement began to rot from the inside, replaced by something deep, heavy, and dangerous.
"You can stay, you know," you told him one Tuesday morning.
He was sitting on the edge of your bed, pulling his socks on, his back a map of old scars and pale skin. He paused, his head turning slowly to look over his shoulder at you. You were tangled in the white sheets, watching him with soft, unblinking eyes.
"I got... stuff to do," he mumbled, his default shield against the world.
"It's six in the morning, Andrew," you said gently, reaching out to lay your hand flat over his spine. "You don't have to run every time the sun comes up. I’ll make coffee. Stay for ten minutes."
Ten minutes turned into an hour. An hour turned into staying for breakfast.
Slowly, things began shifting.
The first time he fixed something in your apartment, it was your kitchen faucet. It had been leaking again. Pope brought a small metal toolbox he'd stolen from the Cody garage years ago. He spent forty-five minutes on his back under your sink, his shoulder pressed against the cabinet door, his hands working with silent, methodical precision while you sat on the floor nearby, talking to him about your job, your day, the beach.
You poured him a glass of water.
Pope had stared at that glass of water like it was made of pure gold.
In his world, you only got things if you earned them through blood or obedience. In your world, you gave him things just because he was sitting in your kitchen.
You sat next to him on the edge of your couch. And when you leaned over and pressed your mouth softly against his jaw, Pope stopped breathing entirely.
"You don't have to," he croaked out, his hands hovering in the air near your waist, terrified to touch you, terrified his rough, filthy hands would leave a stain on your clothes. "I'm... I'm not... you don't even know me well."
"I know enough," you whispered.
By the second month, his things started migrating.
First, it was a spare black t-shirt, folded neatly and left on the back of your wooden chair. Then a pair of work boots by the front door. Then a toothbrush sitting in a plastic cup next to yours on the sink. He had brought it over wrapped in a paper towel, hiding it in his back pocket, blushing fiercely when he set it on your sink.
By the fourth month, half his wardrobe was hanging in your small closet. His heavy flannels sat squeezed between your floral dresses and light sweaters. His work boots stood neatly by your front door. Your apartment began to smell like him—leather, motor oil, and the crisp, cedar soap he bought because he knew you liked it.
One evening, after a long, brutal afternoon where Smurf had spent two hours screaming at Craig in the backyard while Baz sat by the pool laughing, Pope walked into your home, closed the door behind him, and leaned his forehead directly against the wood. His shoulders were trembling. He looked exhausted, drained down to his very bones, his eyes sunken and dark.
You walked over, unbuttoned his heavy flannel shirt, pulled it off his shoulders, and took his hand.
You led him to the bed. He sat on the edge, his face buried in his hands, his long fingers pressing into his temples so hard his skin turned white.
"I can't... I can't be over there anymore," he choked out, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing grief. "It's too loud. It's all... it's all rotten."
You sat down behind him on the mattress, wrapping your arms around his broad chest, pressing your cheek against his heavy shoulder blade. "Then don't be," you whispered against his skin. "Stay here."
Pope turned around slowly, looking at you like you had spoken in a foreign language. "Here?"
"Here," you repeated. "With me."
He looked around the room—at the soft blue rug on the floor, the small stacks of books on your nightstand, the quiet afternoon sun filtering through the linen curtains. It was a life that had nothing to do with Smurf, nothing to do with armed robberies or guns or blood on the concrete. It was yours. And somehow, impossibly, you were offering him a piece of it.
That night, Pope slept for nine hours straight without waking up once—a feat he hadn't accomplished since he was a couple months old.
"Where’s Andrew?" Smurf asked one night at dinner, her eyes darting over the empty chair at the long wooden table.
Baz shuffled his cards, not looking up. "At his girl's house. He's been living there three, four nights a week now."
Smurf’s eyes narrowed, a tiny, dangerous flicker of annoyance crossing her features before she smoothed it over with a laugh. "He'll be back. He always comes home when he gets hungry. He doesn't know how to be out there on his own."
But Smurf was wrong.
Andrew wasn't hungry for her food anymore. He was starving for the safety of your small bedroom.
At the Cody house, he slept with one eye open, his heart constantly hammering in his throat, waiting for the front door to burst open, waiting for Smurf to demand something terrible of him, waiting for Baz to make another soul-crushing comment about his mind.
At your place, the world was quiet.
He loved you with a terrifying intensity that frightened even him. He loved you so much it felt like an ache in his chest, a heavy, throbbing weight that never went away.
But even then, in the darkest, quietest hours of the night, when you were fast asleep with your head resting on his chest, Pope would lie awake and stare at the wall, Smurf's voice echoing endlessly in his mind:
Nobody’s ever going to want to carry your baby, sweetie. You know that, don't you?
He would look down at you, at the soft curve of your waist, at the peacefulness in your face, and he would swallow down the bitter, jagged pill of his own truth. He would give you everything he had—his body, his protection, his quiet, desperate heart. But he would never ask for more. He would never push for a real family, a real future, a real home. He was broken goods, and he was just grateful to be allowed inside the warm room for as long as you'd let him stay.
He loved the mundane, sacred rituals of your life. He loved standing behind you while you chopped vegetables, resting his chin on the top of your head, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist. He loved listening to the low hum of the television while you sat on the couch with your feet tucked under his thighs.
He didn't sleep stiffly on his back anymore. He slept buried in your neck, his large arm draped heavily over your waist, his breath slow and deep against your collarbone.
One evening, after you’d been together for nearly a year, you came home from work to find him sitting on the floor of your living room. He had taken apart your squeaky bed frame, re-aligned the wooden slats, and re-bolted the frame so it wouldn't make a sound when you moved.
He looked up at you from the floor, a wrench in his hand, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "It was noisy," he said softly, almost apologetically. "It shouldn't squeak when you try to sleep."
You walked over, dropped your bag on the floor, and knelt down in front of him. You took the wrench from his hand, set it aside, and took his large, calloused hands in yours. You pressed a kiss to each of his knuckles, one by one.
"Andrew," you whispered, looking directly into his dark, haunted eyes. "You don't have to keep fixing things to earn your keep here."
He swallowed hard, his throat working violently. "I want to," he rasped, his voice breaking slightly. "I wanna make it nice for you."
"You do make it nice," you said, reaching up to frame his jaw with your hands. "Having you here makes it home. You know that, right?"
A tear squeezed out of his left eye, tracking slowly down his cheek. He just leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands coming up to wrap around your wrists, holding onto you like you were the only solid thing in a world made of smoke.
---
Prison was cold concrete, bleached tile, and the perpetual, sour stench of industrial floor wax mixed with old sweat. For a man who lived perpetually inside his own head, the noise of the block was a relentless torture—shouted slurs across the tiers, metal spoons scraping against plastic trays, the sharp snap of officers’ boots against the catwalks.
In the first two months, Pope retreated into total, stony silence. He sat on the edge of his narrow bunk in his gray scrub pants, his long arms resting on his knees, staring at the small, high window barred against the pale sky. The guys on the yard knew better than to fuck with him; he had a look in his eyes that was flat, dead, and unpredictable—a dangerous combination that kept even the toughest cliques at arm’s length. For now, at least.
Smurf visited twice in the first six months. She sat behind the acrylic partition, looking trim and immaculate in her tailored blouses, her voice smooth as silk through the tiny perforated metal speaker. She talked about business, about Craig’s latest fuck-ups, about how hard it was managing the house without him, squeezing her eyes shut in dramatic, performative sorrow. Baz came once, standing in the back of the waiting room with his arms crossed, checking his watch three times before leaving early.
None of them looked at Andrew like he was a human being who was rotting behind bars. To them, he was just a tool sent to the shed until they needed him to cut something again.
Except for you.
You came every single visiting day allowed by the facility. Rain or shine, three hours in traffic on the freeway, sitting in the cold plastic chairs of the waiting room for hours just to get sixty minutes across a chipped laminate table.
The first time he walked into the visiting room and saw you sitting there, wearing a simple cardigan he recognized from your bedroom closet, Pope’s knees almost buckled. He dragged his heavy steel-toed prison boots across the floor, sliding onto the metal bench opposite you, his hands clamped tightly in his lap so the guards wouldn't see them shake.
"You shouldn't be here," he had croaked out, his voice raw from days of non-use. "It's not... this isn't a place for you."
"Shut the fuck up, Andrew," you had said, your voice breaking, but your hands reaching straight across the yellow divider line to grab his wrists.
The guards yelled at you to keep your hands on your own side of the line, but you didn't care. You held onto his large, scarred fingers until he slowly, hesitantly curled them around yours.
For two straight years, you were the air in his lungs. You wrote him letters twice a week—not long, grand manifestos, but domestic updates. You wrote about the leak under the sink holding up, about the neighbor’s dog that wouldn't stop barking, about how you walked down to the beach on Friday nights and thought about his hand in yours. He kept every single piece of paper under his thin mattress, stacked neatly, their edges worn soft and thin from how many times his thumbs had traced your handwriting in the dark.
When the days were bad, when the noise inside the block threatened to shatter his mind completely, he would close his eyes, press his knuckles into his mouth, and picture the faint smell of your laundry detergent, the cool blue rug in your bedroom, the sound of your voice telling him to come chop the onions.
You kept him alive. You kept him human.
On the morning of his release, the sun broke through the coastal fog, casting long, stark shadows across the asphalt parking lot outside the gates.
When the heavy steel door clicked open and Andrew stepped out into the open air, he didn't look at the sky or the road. He looked at the white sedan parked near the fence. You were leaning against the driver’s side door, your hair blowing across your face, holding a paper cup of black coffee in your hand.
Pope stopped dead in his tracks. For ten agonizing seconds, he just stared, his chest heaving under a plain gray t-shirt that hung loose on his thinned frame.
You set the cup on the roof of the car and walked—then ran—straight into him.
When you slammed into his chest, Pope couldn't catch you with his hands at first; he was too afraid he was dreaming, too afraid the guards were going to tackle him back onto the pavement. But then your face pressed hard into the crook of his neck, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, and your warm, familiar scent filled his nose.
A ragged, choking gasp escaped his throat. His big arms came around your waist like iron bands, lifting you an inch off the ground, burying his nose into your hair. He shook against you, trembling with a violent, desperate relief that shook his entire body.
"I'm here," you whispered over and over, your thumbs smoothing down the back of his neck, feeling the coarse hair at the base of his skull. "I'm right here, Andrew. You're out. You're home."
"You stayed," he rasped, his eyes squeezed tight against the glare of the morning sun. "You stayed."
But going back to the Cody house felt like stepping back into a shoe that no longer fit, its leather cracked and stiff.
Smurf "welcomed" him back with open arms, a spread of fried chicken, and a cold beer, act-playing the loving matriarch. Baz gave him a tight, perfunctory nod from the couch, already back on his phone, planning whatever small-time score he was running. Nobody asked how he slept. Nobody asked about the cold steel bunks or the grey walls. The mind games and torture. The terrible fights with the other prisoners. The predatory wardens.
The only thing that felt real besides you was Lena.
She was older now, her legs longer, her speech clearer, but she was still terrified of the loud shouting that broke out in the house at night. Baz treated her like an inconvenience, an extra mouth to feed that he dumped on Smurf or left sitting in front of the television for hours with a box of dry cereal.
Without a word, Pope stepped back into the role.
He didn't care if Baz called him a nanny behind his back. He didn't care if Craig laughed at him when he carried a small pink princess backpack through the front door. Every morning, Andrew was the one who made sure Lena had fresh milk. He was the one who brushed out the tangles in her long hair when she cried, his large, rough hands moving with breathtaking patience. He sat on the edge of her bed in the dark, his back pressed against the wall, listening to her light, rhythmic breathing until he was sure she was fast asleep.
He was protecting her the only way he knew how—by being the wall between her and the rot of the family.
And of course, this continued for years.
The air inside Baz’s bungalow was always sour, choked with the smell of stale takeout, cheap beer, and the ghost of Catherine’s absent presence.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and the house was still. Baz had been gone since early morning, leaving Lena with the two of you without so much as a thank-you or a dollar for lunch. But inside the cramped, messy living room, you and Pope had built a small pocket of peace.
You were sitting on the worn carpet, leaning against the front of the sofa, helping seven-year-old Lena stack wooden building blocks into a towering, unstable castle. Pope stood a few feet away near the arched doorway leading into the kitchen, holding a glass of tap water. He hadn't taken a sip. He was just standing there, his tired muscles leaning lightly against the frame, watching the two of you.
His face was soft in a way that almost didn't belong to him—the harsh lines around his eyes smoothed out, his mouth slightly parted in a quiet, unconscious awe. Every time Lena giggled as a tower fell, his shoulders dropped another fraction of an inch.
Then the front door rattled on its hinges and swung open with a sharp, heavy bang.
Baz walked in. He smelled like exhaust, sweat, and cheap cologne. He kicked off one of his shoes by the rug, tossing his keys onto the counter with a loud clatter. He barely glanced at Lena, walking straight past her and into the kitchen to grab a cold drink.
On his way past, Baz caught Pope standing there. He saw the way Pope’s dark eyes were pinned to you, saw the quiet, tender warmth resting on his older brother's broad face. Something ugly and sharp flashed behind Baz’s eyes—that deep-seated, casual cruelty that the Cody boys threw at each other like knives.
"Look at you," Baz muttered, his voice cutting through the soft room like broken glass as he popped the tab on a soda can. He stepped right up to Pope, leaning in just enough so his words were low, deliberate, and poisonous. "Still staring, huh? Don't get comfortable, Pope. You're just a glorified babysitter. Don't even know why you still stick around, really, after Catherine chose me. Nobody in their right mind is ever gonna want to have... this...with you. You’d just ruin it, same as everything else. Julia. Catherine."
The words tore through the small room like a shockwave.
Across the rug, your hands froze over a blue wooden block. A sudden, blinding heat flared up in your chest—a rage so violent, so white-hot, it made the air in your lungs turn to ash.
Pope’s entire body went rigid. His chest caved inward, his gaze dropping instantly to the dirty floorboards. The old, familiar shame rushed back in to fill the hollow space in his chest. Baz is right, he thought, his stomach twisting into a sickening knot. It's true. It's always been true.
You forced your hands to stop shaking, turning to Lena with a calm, impossibly soft smile.
"Hey, sweet girl," you whispered, your voice completely smooth despite the fire burning in your throat. "Why don't we take the block set into your bedroom and build the big castle on your rug?"
Lena nodded obliviously, scooping up the wooden blocks in her apron and scrambling off down the hallway.
Pope saw you stand up. He watched you gently guide Lena out of the room, and his heart completely shattered. In his mind, your quiet departure was the final nail in the coffin. She heard him, he thought, his throat closing up, his dark eyes brimming with a silent, devastating despair. She heard, and she knows he's right. She's walking away.
Squeezing his eyes shut to block out the light, Pope stood frozen by the counter, bracing himself for the quiet awkwardness of you packing your things and leaving him forever. He took a slow, heavy breath, waiting for the front door to open and close.
He didn't hear the soft click of Lena’s bedroom door latching shut down the hall.
He didn't hear your fast, furious strides across the worn carpet.
CRACK.
The sound reverberated through the small house like a gunshot.
Baz’s head snapped violently to the side, his hand flying up to his left cheek as he stumbled back against the kitchen counter, his eyes wide in absolute, unadulterated shock.
Pope’s eyes flew open. He blinked, paralyzed, staring at the scene unfolding in front of him.
You were standing chest-to-chest with Baz, your right palm bright red and throbbing, your entire body trembling with a fury so visceral it made the floorboards feel like they were shaking. Baz stared at you, his jaw slacked, a bright crimson handprint rising on his cheekbone. He didn't even know what had hit him until the sting settled into his skin and he heard the harsh, ragged sound of your breathing.
"How dare you?!" your voice sliced through the room, ringing off the walls with raw, trembling venom. "How fucking dare you even think of uttering those words?! To your own brother, no less!"
Baz opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped deeper into his space, pointing a shaking finger directly between his eyes, backing him up against the cabinets.
"The one man in this pathetic family who actually gives a damn!" you spat, tears of pure anger burning at the corners of your eyes. "The one who raised you! The one who cared for you and fed you when your own fucking mother refused to look at you! The man who's more of a father to your own daughter more than you ever have been!"
Baz was frozen, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, completely cowed by the sheer magnitude of your rage. Behind him, Pope stood rooted to the spot, his mouth slightly parted, his wide dark eyes darting between you and Baz, his brain entirely unable to process what he was witnessing.
"Fuck you. You don't deserve him," you gasped out, your chest heaving as you took a ragged breath. "None of you do. Don't you ever—ever—fucking talk to him like that again."
Before Baz could even form a sentence, you turned on your heel, reached out, and grabbed Pope tightly by the forearm.
"We're leaving," you said, your voice breaking on the last word.
Pope stumbled after you like a man pulled by a current, his boots dragging on the floor as you dragged him out the front door, down the porch steps, and into his truck.
The ride back to your apartment was thick with a heavy, suffocating silence.
The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, orange shadows across the dashboard. You sat in the passenger seat, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, staring fixedly out the side window at the passing palm trees and power lines, your jaw set so hard it ached.
Pope’s hands were glued to the steering wheel at ten and two, his knuckles white. His thumbs tapped nervously against the worn leather. Every few seconds, his dark eyes would flick sideways, taking in your rigid profile, before darting back to the road. He was terrified to speak. He was terrified that if he said a word, the anger that had just leveled Baz would turn on him. He felt exposed, raw, his deepest shame laid out in the open.
Dinner was eaten in the same routine. You made a quick meal, but neither of you touched much of it. Pope pushed his food around his plate with a fork, his mind spiraling down into the familiar dark belief that he had brought this on you, that he was too broken to ever bring anyone peace.
After the dishes were cleared, you walked into the living room and grabbed your light jacket. You looked at him, your expression softening, the fire in your eyes replaced by a quiet, steady resolve.
"Come on," you said softly. "Take a walk with me down to the beach."
The night air was cool and crisp, carrying the salty tang of the tide and the slow, rhythmic crash of the Pacific waves crashing against the shore.
As your feet hit the cool, damp sand, you reached down and entangled your fingers with his. Pope’s hand was massive, rough, and warm, but he held onto you tightly, like a man clinging to a ledge. Instinctively, his broad thumb began to stroke over your knuckles, a slow, soothing back-and-forth motion he didn't even realize he was doing.
You walked until the distant streetlights faded away, stopping at a quiet, secluded stretch of sand. You pulled him down to sit beside you. Pope settled heavily onto the sand, pulling his knees up slightly, staring out into the dark ocean horizon.
He swallowed hard, his throat raspy and dry. "Thank you," he managed out, his voice barely louder than the tide. "For... back there. You didn't have to—"
"Stop," you interrupted gently, turning your body to face him fully.
Pope went quiet, his dark eyes searching yours with a heartbreaking mix of hope and sheer terror.
"Don't you ever thank me for that," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "And don't you ever, ever believe a single word Baz said today. Or Smurf. Or anyone else in that fucking house."
You shifted closer, leaning your weight against his broad shoulder. Gently, you took the hand you had been holding and brought it down. You pressed his palm flat against your lower stomach, right beneath the soft fabric of your sweater.
Pope went completely rigid. His breath caught sharply in his throat.
"I'm pregnant, Andrew," you whispered, a hot tear finally escaping your eye and slipping down your cheek. "It's your baby. And I'm keeping it."
The world seemed to stop spinning.
Pope froze entirely. For three agonizing seconds, he didn't breathe, didn't blink, didn't move a single muscle. His mind refused to process the words, suspended in absolute disbelief, waiting for the catch, waiting for the nightmare to resume.
Then, the reality of what you had just said crashed into his chest like an iron weight.
A choked, ragged sound burst from his throat. Before you could even brace yourself, Pope lunged forward, wrapping his thick arms around your waist and rolling you gently back into the soft sand. He caught your weight, pulling your body fiercely against his, burying his face into your neck as if he were trying to pull you straight into his soul.
And then, a sound escaped him that you had never heard in all the years you'd known him.
It was a bright, breathless, joyous laugh—a rare, beautiful sound that shook his entire frame, shattering decades of dark, suffocating silence.
"You're... you're serious?" he rasped out, his voice cracking, his dark eyes wide and shining with an overwhelming, desperate happiness as he pulled back to look at you. "Our baby?"
"Our baby," you sobbed, laughing through your tears. "I'm keeping our baby, Andrew."
Pope leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you with a fierce, tender hunger that took your breath away. He stayed there for minutes, breathing heavily, his hands framing your face, kissing your lips, your cheeks, your forehead, his chest heaving against yours.
When he finally pulled back, he shifted his massive frame, moving down until his face was parallel with your lower stomach.
Slowly, reverently, Pope brought both of his large, calloused hands to your womb. His thumbs ran over your skin with extraordinary, trembling gentleness, tracing tiny, protective circles over the fabric of your shirt. He leaned down and pressed his lips flat against your stomach, holding his lips there for a long, quiet minute in a silent vow, a prayer, a promise to the life growing inside you.
Then, he laid his cheek flat against your womb, wrapping his heavy arms securely around your hips, anchoring himself to you.
You reached down, your fingers weaving into his thick dark curls, holding him tight against you. Beneath your hand, you felt his broad shoulders begin to shake. Warm, silent trails of tears spilled from his eyes, soaking through your sweater and wetting your skin beneath, as Andrew Cody finally let go of the pain he had carried his entire life.
Based on some comments from @icyshadewhisperwhisper. P.S I know you initially mentioned this being for Kento, but I decided to switch it up a bit, since I didn't want to take the idea entirely from the tiktok you saw.
Synopsis: Some verdicts are final, no matter how much you're willing to pay.
CW: heavy angst. past relationship, exes to strangers. self-sacrifice, miscommunication.
Four years ago, Hiromi Higuruma didn't look like a man who belonged to anyone.
He belonged to the state, to lit-up courtroom halls that smelled of industrial bleach, to defendants who lied to his face, and to a legal system that ground decent men into fine gray dust. When he came home to your two-room apartment at midnight, his eyes were always bloodshot, his collar unbuttoned, his fingers stained with cheap blue fountain-pen ink.
And you belonged to the debt.
You belonged to your mother’s failing kidneys, your younger brother’s unpaid high school tuition, and the three separate collection agencies whose numbers you knew by heart. You lived on six hours of broken sleep, taking double shifts at a logistics firm, eating stale bread over the sink so you wouldn't dirty a plate.
In that freezing room, where the radiator hissed like a dying animal, you two were the only real things in the world. When the weight became too heavy, Hiromi would sit on the edge of the narrow mattress, pull off his scuffed leather shoes, and rest his forehead against your chest. He didn't speak. He just listened to your heartbeat to remind himself that something in the city was still pure.
And you loved him so intensely it terrified you.
It terrified you because every time he reached into his worn leather wallet to hand you a folded five-thousand-yen bill for your family’s groceries, you saw the tiny, microscopic flinch in his jaw. He was drowning in his own idealism; you were a lead weight strapped to his waist. You convinced yourself that as long as you were poor, as long as you were desperate, you were draining the blood out of him.
You decided, in your infinite, self-martyring wisdom, that you were keeping him from a dignified life.
For months, you had been sawing away at the living vines that bound your world to his—fraying thread after thread with your panic and self-inflicted shame. And that night, in the freezing stillness of that room, you brought down the blade for the final, merciless strike.
And you hit bone.
The night you told him to leave, you didn't cry. You made sure your voice sounded as dry as cardboard.
You spent those final minutes clawing through your own mind for excuses, reaching for every cruel edge you could find to turn him away, inventing grievances out of thin air just to convince yourself—and him—that this was necessary.
"I can't do this anymore, Hiromi," you had said, staring at a stain on the wall behind his head, willing yourself not to cry, your voice hollow as you grasped for reason after reason to build a wall between you. "I need security. I need someone who isn't broke and exhausted every single day. My family needs real help, not your pocket change. You're holding me back, and I'm holding you back."
You waited for him to jump up. You waited for the brilliant, relentless defense attorney to tear your logic to shreds. You wanted him to grab your shoulders, to slam his hand on the table, to cite every quiet night you had shared as evidence that you were lying through your teeth. You wanted him to fight for you with the same terrifying, righteous fury he used to defend condemned men in court.
Instead, Hiromi just looked at you.
The silence stretched so long you could hear the rain tapping against the loose windowpane. He didn't blink. A slow, terrible stillness settled over his face—the look of a man watching a verdict read out in a courtroom where the judge has already been bought.
"All right," he said quietly.
He stood up, packed his second suit into a canvas bag, left his spare key on the scratched wooden table, and walked out. He didn't even slam the door. He closed it with a soft, careful click that felt like a nail being driven through your sternum.
You spent the next four years in a state of quiet, violent frenzy.
You burned every bridge that didn't bring money home. You slept under your office desk. You took credit for projects, negotiated ruthlessly, worked until your teeth ached from clenching them, and climbed the corporate ladder with blood under your fingernails.
You paid off the hospital bills. You paid off the back-rent. You bought your mother a sunlit house with a small yard. You filled your wardrobe with quality wool coats, silk blouses, and jewelry.
You built a fortress out of money. And every single brick was laid with one singular, burning thought:
Once I am secure... once I am no longer a charity case... once I can stand in front of him without shame... I will go back. I will prove to him that I wasn't a burden. I will show him I reached his standards.
You turned your love into a measuring stick. You turned yourself into a product. You promised the empty air of your high-rise apartment every night: Just a little more. Just until I am worthy of him.
The day you finally went to find him, the autumn air was cold enough to bite through your cashmere.
He had left public defense two years prior—a former colleague at the courthouse told you he had simply burned out, handed in his badge, and vanished into a low-level legal consultancy job in a sleepy suburb an hour south.
You drove there in a luxury sedan that smelled of brand-new leather. Your knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
When you pulled up to the address, your chest tightened so hard you couldn't draw breath.
It was a small, white house with a low wooden fence and an overgrown garden of purple hydrangeas.
Hiromi was standing near the porch. He was wearing a soft, faded gray cardigan—a sweater you had never seen before. His hair was slightly longer, touching his neck, and the dark, bruised hollows under his eyes were completely gone.
A woman came out of the house carrying a small wooden tray with two mugs. She wasn't dressed in designer clothes; she wore a comfortable, worn linen apron over a simple dress. As she handed him a mug, Hiromi leaned down and kissed her temple—a casual, habitual gesture of affection that looked as natural to him as breathing.
A second later, a little girl—no older than two, with Hiromi’s dark, serious eyes—tottered out onto the porch, clutching a stuffed rabbit. Hiromi set his mug down, crouched on the grass, and caught the child as she tumbled into his arms, letting out a low, deep laugh that echoed across the quiet street.
It was a sound you had never heard him make in all the years you lay in bed beside him.
Your hand froze on the car door handle. A physical wave of nausea washed over you, hot and bitter, pooling at the back of your throat.
You didn't want to get out of the car. But your body simply carried you across the pavement, your heels clicking like precise, metallic strikes against the asphalt.
Hiromi heard the sound and looked up.
He gently stood up, patted his daughter’s head, and murmured something to his wife. The woman gave a soft nod, picked up the toddler, and walked back inside, closing the door behind them to give him privacy.
Hiromi walked slowly to the low wooden gate. He stopped a foot away from you.
He looked at your tailored coat. He looked at your immaculate hair, your expensive leather bag, the polished car idling quietly behind you.
"Hi," he said. His voice was calm. Smooth. Devoid of any edge.
"Hiromi," you choked out. The word tasted like copper. "I... I was looking for you."
"I see," he said softly. He rested his forearm lightly on the top rail of the gate. "How have you been?"
How had you been? You had spent four years starving yourself of joy, tearing your youth to shreds so you could stand here.
"I made it," you whispered, your voice trembling violently as tears finally flooded your eyes, blurring the sight of his peaceful face. "I paid it all off, Hiromi. The debts, the medical bills, everything. I'm a director now. I have my own firm. My family is safe. I'm... I'm safe."
You waited for his eyes to light up. You waited for him to see the triumph, to realize what you had endured for the sake of your future together.
Hiromi just looked at you with a profound, terrifying pity.
"I'm glad to hear that," he said evenly. "You worked very hard for that. You always did."
"Is that all you have to say?" The words ripped out of you, raw and jagged. "I spent four years killing myself so I wouldn't be a burden to you! So I could come back when I was enough!"
Hiromi didn't flinch. He slowly shook his head.
"When you left," you sobbed, stepping closer, gripping the wooden fence until the splinters bit into your leather gloves, "you didn't say anything. You didn't argue. You just packed your bag and walked out into the rain! You were a defense lawyer, Hiromi! You spent twelve hours a day fighting for murder suspects, for thieves, for people who didn't give a damn about you! Why didn't you fight for me?! Why didn't you object? Why did you just let me go?!"
The silence that followed was louder than a gunshot.
Hiromi didn't look angry. He looked down at his shoes, then looked back up into your eyes—his dark pupils steady, cold, and entirely clear.
"Why didn't you fight?" he asked softly.
The question hit you like a physical blow to the stomach. Your breath caught in your throat.
"What?" you gasped.
"Why didn't you fight for us?" Hiromi’s voice was low, but every word cut with surgical precision. "You stand here asking why I didn't object. But you were the one who brought the verdict into that room. You looked me in the eye, told me I was holding you back, and declared our life together dead. Why did you push me away when you knew—when we both knew—that I needed you more than anything in that hellish city?"
"I was trying to save you!" you cried out, fresh tears spilling down your cold cheeks. "I was a drag on your life! I was reaching for your standards—"
"My standards?" Hiromi interrupted gently.
He leaned slightly over the fence, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, sharp intensity that made your chest ache.
"Who gave you the right to decide what my standards were?" he asked. "Who were you to dictate what I was allowed to carry? Did I ever tell you that you were a burden? Did I ever once complain about buying groceries for your family? Did I ever ask you for a woman in a silk coat driving a luxury car?"
"No, but—"
"You decided my standards for me," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that tore through you like ice. "You sat in that freezing room, looked at my sacrifice, and decided it wasn't enough. You decided I was too weak to bear your life alongside mine. You reduced everything we were—our love, our endurance, our trust—to a financial ledger. You decided that unless you were rich, you were unlovable."
A sob wracked your body, so violent your knees nearly buckled.
"We were drowning, yes," Hiromi continued, looking past you toward the quiet suburban street. "I was losing my mind in those courtrooms. Every day I saw the worst of humanity, and every night I came home to you because you were the only thing that reminded me I was still human. I didn't need you to be successful. I didn't need you to solve your life before you could be loved. I just needed you to hold my hand while we bled."
He looked back at you, his expression settled, quiet, and completely inaccessible.
"But you threw me out of the boat because you assumed I was waiting for a ship made of gold. You built an entire empire out of your own pride, and you called it a sacrifice."
"Hiromi, please..." you begged, your polished, expensive world crumbling into ash around your feet. "I did it for you. I loved you."
"No," Hiromi said, turning to look back toward the house, where the warm yellow light of the living room was spilling onto the porch. "You loved your own idea of what I deserved. You never actually asked me."
He unlatched the gate, walked out onto the pavement, and stepped past you. For a second, his shoulder brushed yours—warm, real, and entirely out of reach.
He didn't touch your hand. He didn't look back at your car.
"I was dying in that city," he said, his back turned to you as he walked toward his small, quiet front steps. "When you told me to leave, I realized you had already given up on us. I didn't fight because you can't cross-examine someone who has already decided you're guilty of being a burden. I just took the exit you gave me, and I bled out until I met someone who let me rest."
He paused on the top step, his hand on the brass doorknob.
"Take your success home," he said softly. "You earned it. But don't come back here."
The door opened. The soft sound of a toddler giggling drifted out into the autumn air, followed by the quiet murmur of his wife’s voice welcoming him back inside.
Then the door shut.
You stood alone on the curb in your six-thousand-dollar coat, holding your designer bag, rich beyond anything your younger self could have ever imagined.
And as the cold wind swept through the hydrangeas, a hollow, physical agony bloomed beneath your ribs—a sharp, throbbing ache that scraped away the final layer of a truth you had spent four years running from:
You had already been rich. You had been wealthy in the freezing quiet of that small, dim room, rich with a fierce, unconditional devotion that no sum of money could ever replicate. And you had sacrificed the only man who ever truly loved you, only to realize that your inability to believe you were worthy of him—your refusal to accept love without paying for it first—had caused you to destroy the only chance at happiness you would ever have.
Synopsis: The strongest sorcerer alive can defeat special-grade curses without breaking a sweat, but a late-night scroll on Facebook Marketplace might just be his ultimate test.
Based on a tiktok I saw a couple weeks ago and couldn't stop thinking about.
The soft, ambient glow of phone screens was the only light illuminating the bedroom. It was one of those rare evenings where Satoru didn't have a late-night curse to exorcise, and he was content simply sprawling across the mattress, one heavy arm lazily thrown over your waist while he mindlessly scrolled through his feed.
You, on the other hand, were on a mission.
"Satoru, look," you whispered, breaking the cozy silence. You turned your screen toward his face, tapping the display eagerly. "Isn't this vintage vanity so pretty? Do you think it fits my aesthetic?"
Satoru barely shifted his gaze from his own phone, giving the screen a cursory glance. All he saw was a swirl of antique wood and ornate glass before he leaned in, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Mhm. Totally, babe. Looks just like you," he hummed affectionately, his voice deep and relaxed.
"Good," you chirped, sliding your phone back into your hands, "because I already bought it."
"That's nice, honey..." he murmured, humming in absentminded acknowledgment as his thumb kept scrolling. The words didn't even register.
The next morning was a completely different story.
Satoru leaned against the kitchen counter, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, only to find you practically bouncing off the walls. You were humming a lively tune, twirling past him in a blur of pastel fabric and undeniable excitement.
He leaned back, watching you with a amused smirk. "Alright, what's got you bouncing around like a little pinball so early?"
"I'm bringing the vanity I showed you yesterday home today!" you beamed, clapping your hands together.
Satoru froze, a half-empty mug halfway to his lips. He lowered it slowly, reaching up with his free hand to scratch the back of his neck in utter bewilderment. "Wait... today? But how are you getting it here? Did you hire movers?"
You stopped in your tracks, turning to him with a slow, sly smirk playing on your lips. "Let's just say... the suspect is closer than they think."
Before he could process the ominous hint, you stepped on your tiptoes, planted a quick, sugary kiss on his cheek, and giggled as you scurried down the hallway.
Satoru stood there, completely motionless. The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds as the rusty gears in his sleepy brain finally clicked into place.
The suspect... wait.
His eyes widened beneath his fringe. HE was the suspect. He was supposed to go pick up and carry a massive, solid-wood vintage vanity across town! Principal Yaga was literally going to have his head if he didn't show up for his scheduled briefings today, and here he was, drafted into off-duty furniture hauling.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Satoru groaned out loud. He ran a hand through his messy white hair, letting out a long, dramatic sigh that echoed down the hall.
When he looked up, he caught sight of you peeking sheepishly from around the living room wall, only your big, innocent eyes and hands visible as you clutched the corner of the wood.
Satoru sighed again, though the exasperation melted into fond adoration the moment he saw your guilty little face. He pushed off the counter and stalked over to you, shaking his head.
"Well," he purred, stopping right in front of you and leaning down until he was eye-level, "what are strong, handsome, loving boyfriends for, I guess?"
Two hours later, the "strong, handsome, loving boyfriend" was reconsidering every life choice that had brought him to this exact doorway.
Satoru was currently wedged in the front entrance, grunting as he maneuvered a massive, hundred-pound antique mahogany vanity through a door frame that seemed to have shrunk three inches just to spite him.
He could have used Infinity to manipulate the weight, but the damn thing had so many delicate, hand-carved flourishes and fragile antique mirrors that one wrong burst of cursed energy would turn your prized possession into firewood. He was forced to move it the old-fashioned, manual way.
"Just... twist it... left..." Satoru muttered under his breath, his jaw set in pure, unyielding stubbornness. The corner of the vanity caught on the trim with a loud thump. He froze, holding his breath, praying he hadn't chipped the wood. "Okay, pivot..."
While the strongest sorcerer alive was engaged in a life-or-death battle against a 1920s dressing table, you were living in absolute bliss just a few feet away in the open-concept living area.
You flounced merrily between the kitchen counter and the couch, completely unbothered by his grunts of exertion. A dusting of flour sat on the tip of your nose as you pulled a tray of freshly baked cinnamon rolls out of the oven, humming your favorite song entirely out of key.
After sliding the tray onto a cooling rack, you flopped gracefully onto the sofa, grabbing a ball of yarn and your favorite crochet hook. Satoru chanced a glance over the top of a giant mirror frame—his white hair sticking up in crazy directions, a tiny bead of sweat running down his temple—only to see you with your head tilted, your tiny pink tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth in deep concentration as you stitched a miniature frog hat.
"You doing alright over there, honey?" you asked sweetly without looking up, your hook moving in a swift, practiced rhythm.
Satoru took a deep, agonizing breath, muscles flexing as he heaved the heavy mahogany another inch into the hallway, determined to never, ever admit defeat.
"Just fine, babe!" he called back, his voice straining just a little bit through a clenched-teeth smile. "Piece of cake!"
HIII I really like this ask I have and I don’t want it to sound like disgusting or anything SO it’s a smutty ask obviously for the beautiful Pope Cody. So yk how Smurf is like not her son’s actual mum? (I think anyway I’ve just started watching it) so what if she takes in reader (us) off the like streets or smth and pope takes a liking to her but also deran does and cause hes like a weirdo he tries getting it on with reader while she’s like new in the house and pope like protects her? Like and makes her his at the same time like because she trusts him she goes to him for everything now and like she’s a virgin and hasn’t ever done anything before so when she’s walking through the house in the morning in a cropped top and panties and sees pope cause she finds him hot she gets a little wet and like thinks nothing of it but later on in the day it gets worse so she goes to pope all crying because it hurts down there and he helps.
TYSMMM IK THIS SOUNDS WEIRD BUT I FIND IT SO HOT TYSMMM
OMG HIII loveyyyy! Okay first of all, do NOT apologize!!! This is absolute gold and such a yummy ask! 😩🔥
You def got the Smurf taking in strays off the street thing right bcs that is literally her signature move, so bringing the reader into the Cody household like that fits so naturally.
Untouchable
Pope Cody x reader
CW: dark romance, explicit smut. 18+ ONLY (minors do NOT interact). andrew "pope" cody x traumatized!female reader. animal kingdom. past domestic abuse & homelessness (referenced). attempted sexual harassment. violent physical fights. intense hurt/comfort. naive/inexperienced reader. explicit sexual content.
You learned very early that kindness always came with a receipt.
If someone gave you a warm meal, they expected obedience. If someone offered you a place to sleep, they expected you to pay for the floor space with your silence, your pride, or your body.
Your mother had taught you that lesson before you were ten, leaving you in dark living rooms while her boyfriends yelled through the plaster walls, reminding you that as long as you were eating their food, you didn't get to have a voice. Later, when you tried to build a life with a man who promised he was different, the lesson was reinforced with bruised ribs and locked doors. He made sure you knew that without his apartment, without his money, you were nothing. You were an unwanted bill waiting to be settled.
So you ran. You ran until your sneakers wore through the soles, until your phone battery died for the last time, and until the only thing left of your former life was the heavy, sickening instinct to shrink whenever a man cleared his throat.
You became an expert at taking up no space at all.
You learned which alleyways behind the high-end boardwalk restaurants kept their dumpsters unlocked after midnight. You learned that if you waited until the kitchen staff tossed the dinner prep scraps, you could usually find half a loaf of sourdough or a container of cold, untouched roasted vegetables sitting right at the top of the liner. You ate standing up, backed into dark brick corners, swallowing quickly without chewing, your eyes darting toward every shadow.
Independence didn't feel like freedom. It felt like cold rain soaking through your canvas jacket while you huddled under the wooden steps of the beach promenade, pressing your knees to your chest so hard your joints popped.
That was where Janine Cody found you.
She didn't stumble upon you by accident. Smurf knew the coast like a hawk knows its hunting ground. She knew which kids on the beach were just partying and which ones were truly abandoned, cut off, and invisible to the law.
When the dark SUV pulled up to the curb by the pier, the headlights cutting through the thick Pacific fog, you backed deeper into the recess of the alley, your heart slamming against your ribs. But Smurf didn't rush you. She stepped out into the damp air, draped in a soft silk blouse, holding a light between her fingers, her short bleach-blonde hair perfectly styled.
She looked at you the way a shark looks at blood in the water—with anger, but with absolute, terrifying purpose.
"You're freezing, baby," Smurf said, her voice smooth, low, and full of false maternal warmth that made your stomach drop into a dark, hollow pit. She stepped closer, smelling of expensive perfume and menthol cigarettes. She looked at your hollow cheeks, your posture, the terror in your wide eyes.
She saw someone who had nowhere to go. Someone who would never call the cops, never talk to a social worker, and never ask questions as long as there was a roof over her head. To Smurf, you weren't a girl in need. No—you were free labor, an extra pair of hands to run packages, clean up blood, or sit in the passenger seat of a stolen car so it looked less suspicious.
"I... I don't have any money," you rasped, your voice cracking from days of silence.
"I didn't ask for money, sweetface," Smurf purred, leaning down to tuck a tangle of hair behind your ear. Her fingers were warm, but her eyes were cold as glass. "I have a big house. Clean sheets. Real food. I take care of people who don't have anyone else."
Your instincts screamed at you. You knew, deep in your gut, that stepping into that car was signing away whatever small piece of yourself you had left. But your legs were shaking from low blood sugar, and the wind off the ocean was cutting straight to your bones.
You got in.
The Cody house in Oceanside smelled like salt water, gun oil, bleach, and stale beer. The moment Smurf led you through the back patio door, the heavy air hit you like a physical wall.
"Boys," Smurf called out softly, her tone changing instantly from tender mother to sharp commander. "We have a guest staying with us for a while. Be nice."
From the kitchen island, one of the men looked up first. His eyes slid over your oversized, threadbare sweater and your thin, trembling legs, a slow, mocking smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He didn't say a word, but the predatory weight of his stare made your skin crawl, triggering every survival instinct you’d developed in the house you ran from.
You stepped back, your heel catching on the doorframe—and bumped directly into a solid wall of muscle standing right behind you.
You gasped, flinching, your shoulders hitching up to your ears as you spun around.
Another brooding man stood in the shadow of the hallway. He was tall, cut from diamond, and intimidating, his dark hair cropped short and his pale blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that felt heavy enough to bruise. He didn't smirk like the man at the island. He didn't look at you like a piece of meat, nor did he look at you with Smurf’s sharp, calculating greed.
He just looked at you—quiet, unreadable, and utterly motionless. Blank.
"These are my boys, and this is Pope," Smurf said from behind you, her hand resting heavily on your shoulder, claiming you in front of them both. "Popey, take her bag upstairs to the spare room."
Pope didn't answer his mother right away. His gaze lingered on the way your hands were shaking, on the faint, fading purple finger marks on the side of your neck, and the raw, desperate fear radiating off your small frame.
Slowly, without a word, he reached out. You flinched, bracing yourself for the blow or the grab that always came next.
Instead, his large, calloused hand simply gently took the strap of your frayed backpack from your shoulder, taking the weight off you. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low, rough rasp that sounded like it hadn't been used in years.
"Room's at the end of the hall," Pope said, stepping between you and the creepy one', his broad back completely blocking his brother from your sight. "Nobody goes in there but you."
You stood frozen in the warm light of the hallway, watching his tall form disappear up the stairs. You had entered this house expecting another cage, another debt you could never pay, and another receipt waiting to be collected.
---
The morning after you arrived, Smurf called you into the kitchen.
She sat at the heavy wooden dining table, wearing a silk robe, sipping coffee from a painted ceramic mug. The sun was barely over the ocean, casting long, pale shadows through the sliding glass doors.
"Sit down, sweetface," she said, gesturing to the chair beside her.
You sat on the very edge of the wood, your knees pressed tightly together, hands folded in your lap.
Smurf reached out and gently laid her hand over yours. Her skin was soft, but her fingernails felt like manicured talons. "I like having a clean house," she began smoothly, her voice a low, soothing purr. "And with four grown men running around here, things get messy quickly. I’m getting too old to be scrubbing grease off the stove and folding endless piles of denim."
She smiled, her thumb stroking the back of your hand. "So, here’s how we’re going to work this out. You stay here, you eat my food, you sleep in a warm bed. In return, you keep this place immaculate. Dishes done, floors swept, laundry folded and put away. You run to the market when I give you a list. And most importantly..." She paused, her pale blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the breath catch in your throat. "...you keep quiet. Not a peep. You don't pry. You don't go into rooms with shut doors. You just do your work and enjoy having a roof over your head."
She doesn't mention her sons. She doesn't warn you about them, doesn't lay down rules about interacting with them. To Smurf, the house was her domain, and you were simply an appliance she had brought in to make her life easier.
"Can you do that for me, baby?" she asked softly.
"Yes, ma'am," you whispered, eyes continuing to take great interest in the ground.
For the first few weeks, it felt like a dream. After months of surviving on concrete, shrinking from fists, and digging through garbage, physical labor was nothing. Cleaning was easy. Sweeping the tiles gave you something to focus on; scrubbing the kitchen counters gave your hands a purpose. The chores were a small price to pay for three meals a day and a door that locked from the inside. You were naturally meek, trained by years of past abuse to keep your eyes down and your voice low, so fitting into the background of the Cody house came almost effortlessly.
But the house wasn't normal. And slowly, the illusion of safety began to bleed out at the edges.
It started with small things. A dark, copper-smelling stain on a bath towel in the laundry hamper that wouldn't wash out with bleach. Heavy duffel bags tossed onto the living room couch at three in the morning, followed by the muffled, tense voices of men arguing over numbers. One afternoon, you walked into the kitchen to wipe down the table and found Smurf sitting alone, casually wrapping thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills with rubber bands, completely unbothered by your presence.
You kept your mouth shut and carried on.
You also came to know the name if the creepy son. It was Deran. nd you should've known it'd get worse.
At first, it was just the way he looked at you. When you were on your hands and knees wiping the baseboards in the hallway, you’d feel a heavy weight on your back and turn to find him standing in his doorway, a beer in hand, his eyes slowly tracing the line of your waist and thighs. When you cooked dinner, he’d stand uncomfortably close at the stove, pretending to reach for a fork just so his shoulder could drag across yours.
Then, the touches became bolder.
One hot Tuesday afternoon, Smurf was out running errands, and Craig was asleep in his room upstairs. You were in the narrow laundry room behind the kitchen, leaning over the dryer to pull out a warm stack of towels.
A shadow fell across the doorway. Before you could turn around, Deran stepped into the small room, blocking the only exit.
"Need a hand?" he asked, his voice low, sliding out smooth and casual.
"No, thank you," you said quickly, your heart instantly hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You grabbed the plastic laundry basket and tried to step past him, but he didn't move. He leaned his hip against the doorframe, smirking down at you.
"You're always so jumpy," Deran murmured. He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your neck. His skin was warm, but the contact made a cold spike of pure, unadulterated terror shoot straight down your spine. "You know, you don't have to be so scared of me. I don't bite unless you ask me to."
Your body went entirely rigid. The old, familiar paralysis hit you instantly—the same suffocating feeling you used to get when your ex would corner you in the hallway back home. Your mouth dried up. You couldn't push him away; you couldn't scream. You just shrank back against the warm metal of the dryer, clutching the laundry basket like a shield, your eyes wide and fixed on the floor.
Deran took a step closer, crowding your space, his hand sliding down from your collarbone to rest heavily on your waist, his thumb hooking under the waistband of your shorts. "Relax," he whispered, bending down, pressing his chest right against yours until you had nowhere left to lean. "Mommy's not here. Nobody's gonna—"
"Deran."
The voice came from the dark hallway behind him. Low, flat, and raspy as sandpaper.
Deran stopped, but he didn't pull back. Instead, he let out a dry scoff, keeping his hand planted firmly on your waist, squeezing slightly as if to prove a point. He turned his head sideways to glance over his shoulder, a stubborn, defiant smirk playing on his lips.
"What, Pope? I'm busy," Deran said, ignoring the obvious panic in your eyes, stepping even closer so your back slammed flat against the control panel of the dryer. "Go fix your bike or something."
He turned his focus back to you, leaning his head down toward your neck, completely intent on ignoring his older brother. "Ignore him. Where were we?"
In the doorway, Pope didn't shout. He didn't blink. But something dangerous shifted in the air, a silent drop in air pressure that made the skin on the back of your neck prickle.
Before Deran could press any further, Pope moved. Fast, silent.
Pope caught Deran by the back of his shirt collar and the heavy denim of his jacket, his grip like a vise grip. With one brutal, unyielding surge of strength, Pope yanked Deran backward out of the narrow doorway, throwing him off balance so hard that Deran’s shoulder slammed hard into the hallway drywall.
"Hey! What the fuck, man!" Deran yelled, stumbling back, his fists coming up defensively as he glared at his older brother.
Pope stepped directly into the space Deran had just occupied, putting his broad, unyielding frame straight between you and his brother. He didn't look back at you. He just stared down Deran, his pale blue eyes wide, dark, and utterly unblinking. His hands hung loosely at his sides, knuckles dusted with engine grease, but his shoulders were locked tight.
"I need you to help me count the bands in the basement, man," Pope gritted out, his voice dropping into a register so low and murderous it made the floorboards feel like they were vibrating.
Deran jaw flexed. He looked at Pope’s face, searching for a sign that he was joking, but there was nothing there except unhinged, violent certainty. Deran swallowed hard, his posture deflating just a fraction as the real danger of pushing Pope settled into his chest.
"Jesus, Pope," Deran muttered, holding his hands up, taking two slow steps back down the hall. "She's just living here. It ain't that serious."
"Basement," Pope said smoothly. Not a request. A command.
Deran cursed under his breath, threw a dark glare past Pope's shoulder toward where you were trembling against the dryer, and turned around, his heavy boots thudding down the hallway until the screen door slammed shut behind him.
The heavy quiet returned to the house, thick and suffocating.
You stayed pinned against the dryer, clutching the laundry basket against your chest, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs you thought it might crack them. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, not just from what Deran had tried to do, but from the raw, terrifying force Pope had used to stop it.
Pope stayed in the doorway, giving you space. He turned around slowly, his chest heaving with heavy, controlled breaths. His gaze slid down to your hands, still shaking against the plastic, and then up to your tear-stained face.
The terrifying violence in his eyes evaporated, replaced instantly by a quiet, searching concern.
"He's gone," Pope murmured, his voice soft, almost fragile. "He won't touch you again."
You swallowed down the lump in your throat, nodding frantically, letting out a trembling breath of pure, overwhelming relief. "Thank you... thank you, Pope."
Pope didn't answer. He just stood guard at the entrance of the laundry room, his tall shadow casting a shield over you while you gathered yourself, silently making sure the world outside that door stayed far, far away.
---
Unfortunately, Deran didn't stop.
If anything, Pope throwing him against the wall in the laundry room only turned your presence into a point he had to prove. Whenever Pope stepped out of sight for even a minute, Deran was right there—brushing past you in the narrow hallway a little too hard, letting his eyes drag slowly down your body while you washed dishes, or dropping low, taunting comments under his breath whenever you crossed the living room. He pushed every boundary he could reach, testing how far he could go before the shadow of his older brother fell back over the room.
And Pope was always right behind him.
It became a silent, suffocating war of attrition. A heavy step on the tile, a dark figure looming in the kitchen doorway, a broad shoulder physically shoving between you and Deran before his fingers could graze your waist. Pope was hyper-vigilant, his pale eyes tracking Deran’s every move like a hawk watching a predator circle a nest.
From her spot at the kitchen island, Smurf watched it all unfold over the rim of her coffee cup.
She noticed the standoff between her boys, but she never said a word. To Smurf, you were just a useful stray, and her sons were just dogs fighting over a new bone. She assumed they were using you, that Deran was looking for an easy thrill and Pope was just asserting his role as the dominant older brother. She figured it'd been a while since Pope'd gotten laid, which would explain his sudden change in demeanor toward Deran. As long as the arrangement kept them distracted from tearing each other apart, as long as the house was kept spotless and the family business remained undisturbed, Smurf had no issue with it.
Just don't get attached, she thought to herself, taking a slow sip of her coffee, completely blind to the real danger brewing right under her roof. Because while Smurf thought Pope was just marking territory, he was really falling into an abyss he didn't even have a name for.
For you, Pope became your whole world.
Every time Deran entered a room, your body went rigid, your survival instincts screaming at you to run. And every single time, your eyes immediately searched for Pope. He was a terrifying, unhinged force to the rest of the world, but to you, his silence was the only safe harbor you had ever known. You began staying near him naturally. When he sat on the back patio cleaning his guns, you swept the concrete nearby. When he worked on his dirt bike in the garage, you sat on an upside-down bucket in the corner, feeling the protective aura of his presence wrapping around you like armor.
But one late, humid Thursday night, Smurf was out late, and Deran had finally tottered off to the local bar after Pope interrupted him from standing over you in the kitchen for the third time that day. The house was quiet, filled only with the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant, rhythmic crash of the Pacific against the shore.
You were sitting on the cold kitchen floor, struggling with a heavy wooden cabinet door under the sink that Craig had half-ripped off its hinges earlier that morning. Your hair was falling into your face, your small hands exhausted, a soft sigh of pure frustration slipping from your lips.
A pair of heavy work boots stopped beside you.
Pope crouched down without a word, his large, warm frame settling right beside yours. He took the rusty screwdriver gently from your trembling hand, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin.
"Craig," Pope gritted out, inspecting the splintered wood at the corner in that flat, raspy voice of his. "He thinks if a hinge sticks, you just pull harder."
He grunted softly as he worked, expertly realigning the stripped screws. "Ripped the pantry door clean off twice last summer. Tried to fix it with duct tape and a staple gun."
The image of massive, reckless Craig standing in the kitchen trying to staple a heavy wooden door back onto a frame, combined with Pope's deadpan, completely serious delivery, cracked straight through the wall of tension in your chest.
A sound escaped your throat—a soft, sudden, breathtaking laugh.
It wasn't a nervous chuckle or a timid smile. It was a genuine, melodic laugh, clear and bright, ringing out in the quiet kitchen.
Pope stopped dead.
The hand holding the screwdriver froze mid-turn. The air in the room seemed to lock in place. Slowly, almost painfully, he turned his head to look at you.
He had never heard you make a sound like that. In all the weeks you’d lived in this house, you had been silent, tearful, or terrified. But right now, your eyes were bright, a faint flush of real life on your cheeks, your mouth curved into a beautiful, unguarded smile.
Something violent and heavy pulled deep in the pit of Pope’s gut.
It hit him straight in the center of his chest, a sudden, suffocating ache that expanded until his heart felt dangerously, terrifyingly full. The sound of your laugh vibrated down his spine like a shockwave. It was the purest, cleanest thing that had ever entered the walls of the Cody house. A dark, fiercely possessive realization slammed into his mind, sharp and absolute: I want to hear that again. I want to keep her right here with me, safe from Deran, safe from Smurf, safe from everything, just to hear that sound for the rest of my life.
The weight of the feeling terrified him. It was too soft, too raw, too dangerous for a man like him to carry.
Pope blinked hard, his face instantly going rigid as his defense mechanisms slammed back down into place. He looked away from your face, fixing his eyes back on the broken cabinet hinge, his knuckles turning white around the handle of his tool.
"It's not funny," he muttered gruffly, his voice dry, flat, and entirely devoid of emotion as he tightened the screw with unnecessary force. "Cost forty bucks for new hardware."
You quieted down, but the warm smile stayed on your lips as you watched him work. You didn't notice the way his hand was slightly shaking as he put the tool away, or the way his chest heaved as he fought to breathe past the sudden, overwhelming heat that had taken root deep inside his soul.
---
The bass from the subwoofers down near the pool vibrated straight up through the floorboards, rattling the picture frames on the walls. One of Smurf’s parties was in full swing—a chaotic, loud swarm of bikers, surfers, local dealers, and random girls spilling out from the patio into the backyard.
You had tried to stay out of the way, keeping your head down, clearing empty red cups and wiping sticky beer spills off the counters. But as the night wore on and the alcohol flowed, the house became a maze of drunk bodies and blurred boundaries.
You were heading toward the dark back hallway near the pantry to drop off a garbage bag when a heavy hand grabbed your wrist, yanking you into the shadowed recess under the stairs.
Before you could scream, Deran slammed his body against yours, pinning you flat against the drywall.
He was wasted, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused, smelling strongly of tequila and stale sweat, and he was probably high off of drugs. "Found you," he slurred, a mean, lopsided grin stretched across his face.
"Deran, let me go," you pleaded, your voice choking in your throat as your heart leaped into your chest. You shoved at his shoulders, but he barely budged.
"Shut up," he grunted, leaning his full weight into you. He grabbed your waist, his large hand digging painfully into your hip, pulling your lower body against his while his other hand pinned your arm above your head. "You're always running around here pretending you're too good for anybody. You're living in my house, eating my food..."
He bent his head down, pressing his mouth wetly against the sensitive skin of your neck, his fingers hooking forcefully into the hem of your shirt.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. The old, familiar paralysis tried to take over, but the sheer violation of his mouth on your skin broke the lock in your brain. When Deran shifted his feet, leaning in closer to bite at your collarbone, his center of gravity slipped.
It was a split second of carelessness.
You shoved both of your hands against his collarbones with every single ounce of strength left in your body, throwing your full weight forward.
Deran, caught off guard and heavy with liquor, stumbled backward, his heel catching on an empty cooler on the floor. He went down hard against the opposite wall, cursing loudly as he lost his grip on you.
You bolted.
You didn't run for the front door, where the party was blocking the exit. Your feet carried you straight up the stairs, your lungs burning, adrenaline pounding in your ears like a war drum.
You didn't just knock; you threw yourself against the heavy wood, your fists slamming against the paneling as though the reaper himself had come for you, the door reverberating down the quiet corridor.
The lock clicked. The door cracked open, and Pope stood there.
His face was his usual flat, unimpressed mask, his pale eyes blinking down at the sudden noise.
You didn't care about the rules. You didn't care that nobody was allowed in his space. You pushed right past him, practically tumbling into the center of his bedroom, your body shaking so hard you could barely stand.
"Whoa," Pope grunted, turning around, his hand still on the doorknob.
You turned to face him, backed against his dresser, clutches of hair stuck to your wet cheeks. Tears flooded your eyes, spilling over in thick hot streams, choking the air out of your throat.
"Deran—" you gasped out, your chest heaving violently, hands trembling so hard you couldn't keep them still. "He—he tried to—I couldn't—Pope, he—"
Your teary, frantic gasps cut through the quiet room like a blade.
Pope froze. The flat, distant look in his eyes vanished, wiped away in a single second. The air pressure in the room plummeted. You saw the exact moment the anger unfurled inside him—a dark, monstrous tide rising behind his pale blue eyes, unleashing something primal and terrifying. His jaw clamped shut so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
He didn't let you finish. He didn't ask questions.
Pope took one long step toward you, his hands coming out to catch your shaking arms just long enough to anchor you to the floor.
"Stay in here," he gritted out, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp, murderous growl that made your blood run cold. "Lock the fucking door."
He turned on his heel and stormed out into the hallway, leaving the door wide open behind him.
You scrambled forward, your trembling fingers catching the edge of the heavy door, shoving it shut and twisting the lock until it clicked into place. Desperate to see, you crossed the room and pulled the edge of the heavy blackout curtain back just an inch, peering out the window down into the backyard patio below.
The party was still roaring, but then you saw him.
Pope stalked out of the back sliding glass doors. He moved like an animal tracking prey, cutting straight through the crowd of dancing, drinking people. Nobody noticed him until he reached the edge of the patio where Deran was standing, wiping sweat off his neck and muttering to Craig.
Pope didn't say a word. He didn't give a warning.
He stepped right up to Deran and drove his fist point-blank into the side of Deran’s jaw.
The sound was a sickening crack that you could almost hear through the glass. Deran’s head snapped sideways, his entire body crashing through a glass patio table, sending bottles and ice flying everywhere. Screams erupted from the crowd. People scrambled backward. Deran surged back to his feet, bleeding from his mouth, throwing a wild swing back, and a massive, chaotic brawl exploded across the lawn as Craig tried to throw himself between them.
You gasped, letting go of the curtain. It fell back into place, shutting out the violent chaos outside.
Standing in the center of the dark room, your breath coming in ragged, shallow hyperventilations, you slowly began to get a bearing of your surroundings.
You were never allowed in the boys' rooms. Smurf had made that explicit on day one. But standing in Pope's space, the stark reality of him hit you all at once.
His room was entirely barren. There were no posters, no clutter, no personal items scattered on the tables. But everything inside was arranged with unnerving, obsessive precision. His clothes in the closet were hung in flawless, color-coded order—black, gray, white. On the dresser, his watch, wallet, and pocket knife were laid out in perfectly straight, parallel lines. The bed was made with military crispness, not a single wrinkle in the heavy navy comforter.
As the quiet of his room enveloped and calmed you, the fierce adrenaline that had been keeping you upright suddenly flushed out of your system.
A crushing wave of bone-deep, suffocating tiredness washed over your body. Your knees felt like lead. Your head throbbed. You needed to hide, needed to disappear into something safe.
Against all logic, against every better judgment telling you not to touch his things, you walked over to the side of his bed. You peeled back the edge of Andrew's sheets, smelling the sharp, clean scent of detergent, soap, and gun oil clinging to the fabric. You curled up on the very edge of the mattress, pulling the dark blanket up to your chin, and let your exhaustion pull you under into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When the lock clicked again an hour later, you didn't wake up immediately.
Pope stepped into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. He was panting heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp, jagged intervals. The snarl was still etched into his features—his knuckles raw, split, and dripping dark blood onto the floor, a deep cut swelling along his cheekbone where Deran had caught him.
He turned to lock his door, his body still humming with violent, residual rage—and stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes widened slightly.
You were curled up on the edge of his bed, small and fragile against his dark sheets, fast asleep.
The lingering violent snarl on his face slowly melted away, replaced by a stunned, completely unguarded surprise. For a long moment, Pope just stood there in the quiet dark, listening to the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing.
Slowly, carefully, he walked across the room, taking up almost no sound with his boots. He sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress beside you.
His hands were still trembling—partly from the fight, partly from the overwhelming surge of protective possessiveness still roaring through his veins. He looked down at your face, peaceful against his pillow, free of the terror that had consumed you an hour ago.
Pope raised his rough, blood-stained hand, hesitating in the air for a fraction of a second.
With painful gentleness, his thick fingers reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair away from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear. He closed his eyes, a soft, involuntary breath escaping his nose as he allowed his calloused thumb to drag lightly across the high curve of your cheekbone.
The sheer, unadulterated softness of your skin under his ruined hands felt like a pleasant, overwhelming assault on his senses—a quiet, beautiful warmth settling into the darkest corners of his soul.
The mattress shifted under his weight, the subtle movement dipping the springs and rolling your sleeping frame an inch closer to his side.
Your eyelashes fluttered. The heavy fog of exhaustion fought to keep you under, but the sudden, grounding sensation of warmth on your skin pulled you awake. You blinked slowly against the dark, the faint outline of the ceiling coming into focus before your eyes shifted sideways.
Pope was sitting right beside you on the edge of the bed.
For a second, the instinctual terror from earlier flared in your throat, a gasp catching behind your teeth. But the shadows resolved into the familiar, broad-shouldered line of his silhouette, and the panic evaporated as fast as it had come. It was Pope.
Then your eyes adjusted, catching the dark, wet sheen on his face and the heavy crimson smeared across his split knuckles.
"Pope..." your voice was barely a breath, raspy and small in the quiet room.
He froze. His thumb was still hovering an inch from your face, his pale blue eyes wide in the gloom. He pulled his hand back quickly, curling his bloody fingers into a tight fist as if trying to hide the mess of himself from you.
"Go back to sleep," he gritted out softly. His voice sounded like gravel grinding together, raw and strained from the adrenaline still pumping through his blood. "You're fine here. Nobody's coming in."
You sat up slowly, the navy sheets slipping down to your waist. The party downstairs had quieted down into a low, muffled hum—the bass finally dead, replaced by the occasional slam of a car door outside as people cleared out. You looked past the dark shadows of his room and stared directly at his face. His cheekbone was swollen, purple and raw, and blood was slowly trickling down the side of his neck from a cut near his ear.
"You're bleeding," you whispered, reaching out without thinking.
Your fingers brushed the back of his hand—the clean, unbruised skin near his wrist. Pope flinched, not away from you, but as if the gentle touch was a shock to his system. Nobody in this house touched him like that. Smurf touched him to control him; his brothers touched him when they were swinging fists or pulling him out of a fight. Nobody ever reached for him just to check if he was hurting.
"It ain't my blood," Pope grunted, his gaze dropping to the floor between his boots, his shoulders locked tight as a drum. "Most of it ain't."
You slid your legs off the edge of the mattress, your bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. You didn't ask permission. You stood up and walked over to the small adjoining bathroom, turning on the tap and wetting a small, clean white hand towel.
When you stepped back into the dark bedroom, Pope hadn't moved. He sat there on the edge of his bed like a statue carved out of granite, staring fixedly at the wall, his chest rising and falling in heavy, deliberate breaths.
You stopped right between his knees.
"Look at me," you said gently.
Slowly, almost painfully, Pope lifted his head. The light from the bathroom door caught the dark, unhinged intensity in his eyes, but as he looked up at you holding the wet towel, the fierce wall he kept up against the rest of the world cracked just a fraction.
You leaned in, pressing the cool, damp cloth against the cut on his cheek.
Pope let out a harsh, silent intake of air through his nose. His hands hovered over your hips, his fingers twitching, desperate to grab hold of you and pull you into his lap, but he kept them pinned to his own thighs instead, fighting the urge with everything he had. He didn't want to scare you. He didn't want to be another man crowding your space.
"He won't come near you again," Pope murmured, his eyes searching your face as you carefully dabbed the blood away from his jaw. His voice was low, heavy with a dark, absolute promise. "I made sure of it. If he looks at you wrong, I'll put him in the hospital."
A shiver ran down your spine—not from fear of Pope, but from the terrifying realization of how far he was willing to go for you. You moved the towel down to his hand, gently taking his heavy, calloused wrist in yours to wipe the drying blood off his split knuckles.
"Thank you," you whispered, your thumb brushing over his clean skin. "I was... I was so scared, Pope."
Pope closed his eyes. Hearing you say his name like that—like he was the only thing standing between you and the dark—sent a sharp, agonizing wave of heat straight to his heart. The urge to protect you, to keep you locked inside this room where Smurf couldn't use you and Deran couldn't touch you, felt so big it made his ribs ache.
"You don't have to be scared in here," he said, opening his eyes, his gaze locking onto yours with total, terrifying devotion. "Never in here."
He took the towel gently from your small hands and set it on the nightstand. Then, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, Pope wrapped his broad arm around your waist and pulled you back onto the mattress beside him. He didn't push you down. He just laid on top of the covers on his side, his large frame acting as an unbreakable shield between you and the bedroom door, his heavy hand resting lightly over yours on the pillow.
You let your head rest against his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart beating against your ear.
And beside you, in the dark, Pope stayed awake all night, staring at the locked door, keeping watch over the only good thing he had ever owned.
---
Deran couldn't even look at you without his jaw tightening in sullen, quiet rage, but he kept his distance. He gave you a wide, cautious perimeter, terrified of bringing Pope’s wrath down on his head a second time. Smurf watched the lingering tension with cold, amused eyes, still convinced you were just a phase Pope was fixated on.
To you, Pope the light at the end of the tunnel.
Your reliance on him shifted from a survival instinct into complete, unshakeable trust. You went to him for everything. If you needed groceries from the corner store, you waited until Pope could walk with you. If the house got too loud or Craig brought rowdy friends over, you sat in Pope's room or stayed right beside him in the garage. You had never known safety in your life, and now that you had found it in him, you clung to him with an open, innocent devotion that drove Pope almost out of his mind.
He never pushed you. He kept his touch minimal, careful, and gentle, guarding your space like a sentinel.
What he didn't realize—and what you didn't even understand yourself—was how deeply your feelings for him were growing. Having spent your whole life survival-focused and completely untouched, you were entirely clueless about your own body. You had never been in love, never had anyone touch you softly, and never felt a single flicker of sexual desire.
That changed on a stifling Saturday morning. There had been a heatwaave recently.
The ocean breeze was dead, and the summer heat was already heavy in the house by nine in the morning. You padded out of your bedroom wearing nothing but a faded, cropped grey t-shirt and a pair of small white cotton panties, desperate for a glass of ice water from the kitchen.
As you crossed toward the sink, you caught sight of Pope through the back glass patio doors.
He was bare-chested in the sun, sweat glistening on the thick muscle of his back as he leaned over a dirt bike engine. Grease smeared his skin, his jaw set in that familiar, hard line as his veins stood out along his forearms while he cranked a wrench.
You stopped, staring at him through the glass. Your pulse gave a strange, violent flutter.
Suddenly, a hot, sharp rush pulsed straight down between your thighs. A sudden, wet slickness flared against the cotton of your panties, making your breath catch in your throat. Your cheeks flushed red hot. Confused and embarrassed by the strange, unbidden sensation, you pressed your legs together tightly, wiping your hands on your shirt. You figured it was just the heat, or sweat, or some bizarre trick of your nerves, and quickly retreated back into the air-conditioned hallway with your water.
You tried to ignore it. But as the afternoon stretched on, the feeling didn't fade, it multiplied.
The mild slickness turned into a heavy, throbbing fullness deep in your core. A strange, tight ache settled between your hips, building with every hour that passed. Every time you moved, every time the fabric of your panties brushed against your hypersensitive skin, a spike of sharp, unbearable frustration rippled through your belly. It felt heavy. It felt hot. It felt like a deep, agonizing pressure that you didn't know how to relieve.
By five in the afternoon, overwhelmed, exhausted, and naively terrified that something was horribly wrong with your body, tears began spilling down your cheeks.
In your mind, pain meant sickness or injury. And when you were terrified, there was only one person in the world you went to.
You walked down the dim, quiet hallway to Pope’s room at the end of the house. You didn't even knock this time—you pushed the cracked door open, sniffling, thick tears leaving wet tracks down your flushed cheeks.
Pope was sitting on the edge of his bed, wiping down a hand tool with an oily rag. The second he saw your tear-stained face and heard your ragged breaths, his entire posture shifted. The rag dropped to the floor. He was on his feet in a single second, his large frame towering over you, his pale blue eyes searching yours with dark, sudden panic.
"What happened?" his voice gritted out, immediate, protective, and dangerous. "Did Deran say something to you? Did someone touch you?"
"No," you sobbed softly, clutching the hem of your shirt, your small frame shaking. "No, Pope... it's not them... I think... I think I'm sick or something."
Pope’s dark brows furrowed, his broad hands coming down to rest gently on the sides of your waist, grounding you. "What do you mean? What hurts?"
"Down there," you whimpered, your face burning with raw humiliation, though the sheer distress in your voice was entirely real. "It started this morning... it feels so hot and heavy, and it's throbbing, and it won't stop. It hurts down there, Pope... I don't know what's wrong with me..."
Pope froze.
He looked down at your flushed, teary cheeks, your trembling lips, and the sheer, innocent panic shining in your wide eyes. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second to the way your legs were pressed tightly together, to the subtle scent of warm skin and sweet, natural slickness rising in the small space between you.
Slowly, the realization hit him.
The frantic panic in Pope’s chest vanished, replaced instantly by a thick, suffocating wave of heat. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, his grip tightening on your waist, pulling you an inch closer until your stomach brushed his belt buckle. A dark, possessive hunger—one he had been suppressing for months—roared to life in his chest.
"You're not sick," Pope whispered, his voice dropping an octave, thick, raspy, and heavy with intent.
"It hurts," you repeated, looking up at him with total, unadulterated trust, tears brimming in your lashes. "Please, Pope... make it stop."
Pope closed his eyes for a brief, agonizing second, fighting the surge of sheer possessiveness threatening to break his control. You were so untouched, so completely pure, coming to him with something so raw and intimate without even realizing what your own body was begging for.
"Okay," Pope murmured. He brought his thumb up, gently wiping a stray tear from your cheek, his touch surprisingly soft against your hot skin. "I've got you. I'll fix it."
He reached behind you, shutting the heavy bedroom door and clicking the lock into place. The sound echoed with absolute finality in the quiet room. He led you over to the edge of his bed, sitting you down gently before sinking onto his knees on the floor right between your parted knees.
"Look at me," Pope commanded softly, his rough, calloused hands sliding up the bare skin of your thighs.
Your breath hitched, a violent, shockwave of intense pleasure shooting straight to your core at his touch. You gasped, your fingers digging into the dark sheets behind you.
"You trust me?" he asked, his pale eyes holding yours hostage.
"Yes," you whispered desperately, shivering under his hands.
"Good. Because you're not sick, baby... you're just turned on," he murmured, his gaze darkening as his large fingers hooked into the thin elastic waistband of your panties. "And I'm gonna take care of it for you."
When he pulled the damp fabric down and his broad, warm hands mapped the sensitive skin of your hips, the unbearable ache finally found its release. Pope was slow, deliberate, and intensely careful with you, guiding your innocent body through sensations you had never dreamed existed, soothing the heavy ache until your cries of distress turned into breathless, trembling whimpers of pure bliss.
And as he held you close in the dark quiet of his room afterward, kissing the sweat from your forehead, there was no turning back. You were no longer just a stray under Smurf's roof. You were completely, entirely Pope's.
The soothing heat he brought to your body washed away the initial panic, but as the intense waves settled into a deep, warm pulse, Pope stopped. His hands rested heavily on the insides of your knees, his broad knuckles white against your skin, his chest heaving with thick, labored breaths.
He looked up, his pale blue eyes searching your face with a dark, terrifying intensity. He saw the heavy flush on your cheeks, your lips parted, the absolute, unreserved trust radiating from you in the quiet room.
"You know what happens if I don't stop, don't you?" he rasped, his voice rough as gravel, trembling with the effort of holding himself back. "If we do this... there's no going back. You're mine. Not Smurf's. Not anyone else's."
"I want to be yours," you whispered, reaching down to cup the side of his bruised jaw, feeling the rigid tension locked tight in his neck. "I've only ever wanted to be yours, Andrew."
He let out a heavy, ragged exhale—a sound raw with months of unexpressed hunger and protective fury.
He didn't hesitate again. He moved up onto the mattress, shifting his large frame over yours with agonizing care, keeping his weight supported on his forearms so he wouldn't press too hard against you. The feeling of his bare skin against yours was overwhelming—hot, solid, and an absolute shield against the house outside that locked door. His calloused hands mapped every inch of your waist and hips, gripping you with a fierce, reverent possessiveness.
When he finally, slowly eased into you, the sudden, tight fullness made a sharp gasp break from your throat. Your hands clutched instinctively at his broad shoulders, your body locking up for a brief second under the unfamiliar stretch.
Pope froze instantly.
Every single muscle in his back corded like steel cable as he held himself completely motionless above you. His jaw was clenched so tight a vein throbbed at his temple, his breath catching in his throat while he waited for your body to adjust to him.
"Did I hurt you?" he gritted out, his eyes wide and dark with frantic, protective panic, searching your face for any sign of pain.
"No," you breathed, blinking away the slight sting, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck to pull his chest down flat against yours. "I'm okay. Please... don't pull away."
Hearing that request pulled a low, guttural sound from deep within his chest, a vibration that echoed straight into your ribs. He began to move, a slow, heavy, deliberate cadence that drowned out the rest of the universe. Outside his bedroom window, the distant Pacific tide crashed rhythmically against the shore, but inside the dark room, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
There were no hands cornering you in dark hallways, no threats of being thrown back onto the street, and no fear of the dark.
There was only the unyielding weight of him holding you, the clean scent of soap and iron clinging to his skin, and the overwhelming, quiet certainty that you were no longer a ghost slipping through the cracks of a cruel world. You weren't a stray anymore. You were guarded, you were chosen, and wrapped in Andrew's arms, you were finally home.
The quiet that fell over the room afterward was heavy and pristine, thicker than the ocean fog rolling in over the coast.
Your breathing slowly smoothed out, the frantic, terrifying heat that had tortured your body all afternoon dissolving into a soft, languid warmth that curled lazily in the small of your back. You lay tucked against the curve of Pope’s chest, your head resting right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart, one of his massive hands resting over your waist, anchoring you to the mattress.
Pope didn't move. He barely seemed to breathe, terrified that the slightest shift would shatter the fragile, miraculous peace resting in his bed.
His rough, calloused thumb dragged in slow, soothing circles against the skin of your hip, his chin resting against the crown of your head. In the dark, his pale blue eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, mapping the shape of this incredible, terrifying new reality. All his life, Andrew Cody had known only debt, duty, and the suffocating leash Smurf kept wrapped around his throat. He was a creature built for violence, raised in noise and suspicion, taught that everything sweet eventually turned rotten or got stolen.
But holding you—feeling the soft, rhythmic puff of your breath against his bare collarbone, hearing the complete absence of fear in your sighs, something inside him settled into place with the quiet click of a heavy iron vault locking shut.
"You okay?" his raspy voice broke the silence, so low it was almost a rumble in his chest.
You shifted slightly, burying your face deeper into the crook of his neck, your small hand coming up to rest over his broad collarbone. "I'm better," you whispered softly, a quiet, sleepy warmth lacing your words. "I... I thought I was dying, Pope."
A faint, rough huff of a laugh escaped his throat, a sound so rare and genuine it made your heart swell.
"You weren't dying, baby," he murmured, his grip on your waist tightening just enough to pull you flush against him. He turned his head, pressing his lips gently into your hairline, breathing in the scent of citrus soap and clean skin that had completely replaced the stale smoke of his room. "Just means you're human. Means your body knows what it wants."
"It wanted you," you said simply, without a trace of hesitation or shame.
The blunt, innocent honesty of it hit Pope like a physical blow. His chest heaved, a sharp intake of air catching in his throat. He closed his eyes, his large hand sliding up your spine, his long fingers tangling into the soft hair at the nape of your neck, holding you close, holding you like something precious he had sworn to protect with his life.
"Yeah," Pope gritted out, his voice thick with an emotion so intense it bordered on pain. "And it's got me. For as long as you want me, you've got me."
When the sun broke over the horizon the next morning, painting the room in pale streaks of gold, the world outside Pope's bedroom door had irrevocably changed.
When you stepped into the kitchen, the air instantly grew taut.
Smurf sat at the head of the dining table, her morning coffee steaming in front of her.
She watched the entire silent exchange with razor-sharp, calculating eyes. She looked at the way Pope stepped between you and the hallway, the subtle, instinctive way his hand hovered near the small of your back, and the total, unshakeable trust shining in your eyes whenever you looked up at him.
For the first time since she had hauled you out of the alley behind the bistro, Smurf’s cool, manipulative composure faltered. She realized, with a sudden spike of quiet coldness in her gut, that she had miscalculated.
In trying to bring a helpless piece onto her chessboard, she had inadvertently given Andrew something he had never possessed in his entire life: a reason to choose someone else over her.
Smurf took a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee, her pale blue eyes narrowing slightly over the rim of the cup, but she kept her mouth shut. She knew better than to step between a starving hound and the only piece of real warmth it had ever found.
You walked over to the stove, picking up the kettle to fill it with water for tea. You didn't notice the silent power struggle shifting the foundation of the house around you. You only felt the solid, warm weight of Pope's presence as he moved up behind you, standing close enough that his chest brushed your back, his large hand coming to rest lightly over yours on the handle of the tap.
"I'll get it," he murmured softly near your ear.
You leaned back against his firm chest for a brief, blissful second, letting out a quiet, contented sigh.
You had spent your whole life running, hiding, and taking up as little space as possible just to survive. You had stepped into the Cody house expecting another cage, another debt you could never pay, and another predator waiting in the dark.
Instead, in the darkest, most dangerous house in Oceanside, you had found a man who fought the entire world just to keep you safe, who held you when you were broken, and who looked at you not like a stray, but like his entire world.
You were loved, you were protected, and for the first time in your entire life, you were finally home.
I saw you asking for request and decided to deliver! Maybe some Sammy Bryant x alt reader head cannons? Or maybe a story where she gets robbed and he happens to be near by and he falls for her right away despite everyone’s teasing cause she’s so different from Tammy and all their normal seeming wives? Ty Ty!!! 💚
Oh my gosh, thank you so much for sending this in!
First of all, this storyline is super cute! We looooove an old-school romance trope around here! And honestly, Sammy falling head-over-heels for an alt reader and completely brushing off the guys teasing him because she’s so refreshingly different from Tammy and all their typical, conventional trad wives is absolute perfection. Chef’s kiss. 🤌
I am definitely adding this to the queue. Stay tuned!🫡
I LOVE YOUR WORK SMMM if you’re taking requests I was wondering how reader would react to Pope Cody almost breaking his parole because he beat up a guy because said guy hit readers ass and she ended up going to pope and crying in his chest telling him what that creepy guy had done. Thank youuuuu!
Aww, thank you so much! 🥹 I absolutely loved this ask because like Pope's protective streak and his terror of losing his freedom is always such an intense dynamic to write.
Here is a short 'n sweet fic for it! Hope you love it!
The Life Ahead of Us
Pope Cody x Reader
Men were pigs.
Disgusting, vile, creatures who had no purpose on the face of this godforsaken planet.
You didn't even lock the door behind you. You just leaned back against the wood, closed your eyes, and let your head hit it with a soft thud. Your hands wouldn't stop shaking. With rage or fear, you couldn't yet tell.
In the kitchen, Pope was sitting at the table under the bare bulb, working on a dirt bike carburetor. The room smelled like brake cleaner and old coffee. He had a tiny brass jet held between his thumb and index finger, but the second the latch clicked and he heard how uneven your breathing was, his hands went still.
He didn't say anything at first. He just set the part down on a piece of cardboard, wiped his hands on an old rag, and stood up.
He walked over and stood right in your bubble of space. He didn't touch you—Pope was never good at the casual, comforting stuff—he just hovered there, his heavy frame blocking the hallway light, his eyes dark and flat as he scanned your face.
"What's wrong?" he asked. His voice was low, rough around the edges.
"Nothing," you said, your voice cracking immediately. You tried to wipe your cheeks, but the tears kept coming. "Just some guy at the market."
Pope didn't move an inch. "What guy?"
"At the 7-eleven down on Coast Highway," you muttered, looking down at his oil-stained boots. "He was standing behind me in line. Being weird. And then when I walked out to the car, he..." You swallowed hard, the humiliation washing over you again. "He grabbed my ass. Really hard. And he laughed when I tried to shove him off."
Pope’s jaw twitched once. That was the only sign. He didn't swear or throw a fit— no, he just turned on his heel, grabbed his truck keys off the counter, and walked out the back door.
"Andrew, don't—"
The screen door slammed. A second later, his engine roared to life, tires spitting gravel as he backed out of the driveway.
Panic cut right through the shock. You took off after him on foot, your lungs burning in the sticky summer air as you sprinted the four blocks down to the corner store.
By the time you rounded the building, it was already ugly.
Pope had the guy pinned against the metal side of the ice machine out front. It was dirty and brutal. Pope held him by the throat with one hand, pinning him flat, while his other fist drove straight into the guy’s face. Smack .Crack. The man was groaning, nose broken, hands feebly trying to push Pope off, but Pope moved like a machine. Dead eyes, heavy breathing, no expression at all.
Inside the store, the clerk was screaming into a phone. A woman in a minivan was leaning on her horn, terrified.
"Pope!" You scrambled over the curb, grabbing his arm. His bicep was locked up like iron. "Pope, stop! Stop it! Andrew!"
He didn't even hear you. He pulled his fist back again, his knuckles already split and wet with red.
"Andrew! The cops!" you yelled right in his ear, digging your nails into his wrist. "The cops are coming! Your PO, Andrew! Your papers!"
That was the word. Papers.
Pope’s fist stopped six inches from the guy's face. He stood there, chest heaving, his dark eyes wide and fixed on the bloody mess under his grip. Slowly, like he was pulling himself up from underwater, he turned his head and looked at you.
"Look at me," you begged, putting your hands on both sides of his face, ignoring the smear of grease and blood on his jaw. "Look at me. We have to go right now. Please."
He blinked once, his pupils huge. He looked at the cashier inside staring through the glass, then down at his hands, then back to you. The crazy edge in his eyes flattened out into raw paranoia.
He let go. The guy slid down the side of the ice machine and crumpled onto the asphalt, wheezing.
"Come on," you whispered, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the back alley just as the first distant wail of a siren started echoing down the highway.
You didn't turn on the main lights when you got back to the house. You dragged him straight into the bathroom, flicking on the noisy exhaust fan, and shoved a plastic stool under him.
Your hands were shaking so bad, this time from fear, you dropped the roll of paper towels twice. Pope just sat there, knees spread, staring down at the bathmat. His knuckles were ruined, blood dripping onto his jeans.
"You're an idiot," you choked out, soaking a wad of paper towels under the cold tap and pressing it against his hand. "You're such an idiot."
He flinched at the water, but he didn't pull away.
"You have six months left on parole, Andrew," you said, your voice shaking as you scrubbed at his skin. "Two more minutes and the cops would’ve had you in handcuffs. You’d be going back to Chino. For years."
"He put his hands on you," Pope said flatly. His voice was raspy, dry.
"I don't care!"
"I do," he snapped, his head jerking up. His eyes were red-rimmed, furious, but deep down, completely terrified. "I'm supposed to just sit here? Let some dirtbag do that to you?"
"Yes!" tears spilled over your lashes, hot and angry. "Yes, if it keeps you out of a cell! Do you think I want to sit in this house alone, again, while you're locked up? Do you think that helps me? Do you think those kinds of men will stop if you're gone? "
Pope went completely still.
All the aggression bled out of him at once, leaving him looking exhausted and hollowed out under the harsh bathroom light. He stared down at his bloody hands, his fingers twitching slightly against his thighs.
"I can't go back," he muttered. It was barely loud enough to hear over the hum of the fan. "I can't... I can't do the time again. I can't."
"Then stop almost doing it," you whispered.
You dropped the bloody paper towels into the sink and knelt down on the floor right between his knees. You reached out, taking his uninjured wrist in both of your hands.
"I didn't run down there because I was scared of that guy," you said softly, forcing him to look at you. "I ran down there because I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. Not this time. Not again, Andrew. Not when I just got you back."
Pope looked down at your hands holding his wrist. He didn't say anything for a long time. Then, with a heavy, ragged sigh, he leaned forward and dropped his head onto your shoulder.
His forehead pressed hard into the crook of your neck, his weight heavy and solid against you. He didn't really know how to cry, but his whole body went tense, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you tight against his chest, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded and sane.
"Okay," he muttered into your shirt, his breath hot against your skin. "Okay. I won't go."
You wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder, and listened to his harsh breathing slowly level out in the quiet dark of the house.
I just wanted to come on here and say that I've been getting some requests recently, and I LOVE IT!!!! I was honeslty on the verge of another writer's block and it's genuinely been so long since I've gotten requests, so this is super fun, and keep 'em comingggggg. Literally anything for anyone. Like I'm so fucking serious right now, plsss just tell meee and I'll let you know if I can do it or nottttt.
Synopsis: You were just as wild as he was. But even a hunter like Titus isn't ready for what comes next.
CW: dark romance, feral smut. horror elements. 18+ ONLY (minors do NOT interact) titus danforth x deranged!female reader. established marriage. sex in the woods. bloodplay (biting neck to draw blood, blood drinking/licking). heightened senses. pregnancy. blood drinking rituals. possessive/overprotective husband. labor and childbirth. placentophagy (eating the placenta post-birth).
The darkness of the Danforth timberland was thick, damp, and ancient. It smelled of rotting leaves, wet pine bark, and bruised moss. Tonight, as it had been on so many nights since you took the Danforth name, the forest wasn't just a backdrop, it was an arena.
You had run through the brush until your lungs burned, the hem of your velvet dress torn to ribbons by brambles, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Behind you, breaking twigs and heavy, rhythmic footsteps tracked your every move. Titus was stalking you. He didn't chase you like a lover playing a game; he hunted you like quarry, his heightened senses catching the heat radiating off your skin, the scent of your sweat, the frantic cadence of your pulse echoing through the quiet woods.
When he finally caught you at the base of an ancient, gnarled oak, it was a collision of bone and muscle. He tackled you into the loam, the impact knocking the breath from your chest in a ragged gasp.
Before you could recover, Titus was over you, his muscular frame heavy and burning with heat. His silvery hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his jaw tight and twitching with that feral, electric intensity that made everyone on the estate flinch in his presence. He growled, a low, guttural vibration in his throat, his hands tangling into your hair to pull your head back, exposing the long, delicate line of your throat.
"Found you," he rasped, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His fingers dug into your hips, anchoring you to the damp earth as his body crowded yours, burning through the thin, ruined layers of your clothing.
You slammed your palms against his chest, feeling the frantic, hammering thud of his heart beneath his ribs, pulling him closer, dragging your nails down his back until you felt him shudder against you. You were just as starved for the violent, dirty thrill of it as he was.
Titus shoved your skirts up to your waist, his rough, calloused hands sliding up your bare thighs, leaving streaks of black mud against your skin. He moved with a desperate, frantic cadence—jerky, fast, and entirely unyielding. When he drove himself into you, it was a sharp, searing intrusion that tore a loud, shameless moan from your throat, echoing out into the empty timber.
The loam pressed cold against your bare back while Titus brought the heat, grinding you into the soil with relentless, heavy thrusts. Above you, his face was a mask of dark, obsessive ecstasy. His eyes were unblinking and wide, locked onto yours, reading every twitch of pleasure on your features. You arched your spine to meet every frantic strike, your fingers clawing into his shoulders, sinking into the leather of his jacket, pulling his mouth down to yours in a bruised, messy kiss that tasted of pine resin and sweat.
He hooked one of your legs over his hip, driving deeper, his chest heaving as his pace grew wilder, almost animalistic. The rustle of pine needles beneath you merged with the wet, harsh rhythm of your bodies clashing together in the dirt.
"Look at me," Titus demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, commanding purr as his hand shot up to pin both your wrists above your head into the damp soil. He leaned down, his sculpted chest crushing yours, his hips slamming into you with relentless, brutal rhythm. "Look at me, my love. Tell me you’re mine."
"Yours," you gasped out, your voice breaking as a wave of intense, dark pleasure washed over you, making your inner muscles clench tightly around him. "Always yours, Titus—"
That drove him over the edge. With a guttural snarl, his control snapped entirely. He buried his face into the junction where your shoulder met your neck, opened his mouth, and sank his teeth deep into your flesh.
Sharp teeth cut straight through skin and tendon. You screamed into the night air—a sound split between pain and filthy euphoria—as your body trembled violently around his. Warm, thick blood welled up instantly, spilling over your collarbone and slicking his lips and chin.
Titus groaned into the wound, sucking greedily, lapping at the copper warmth pouring from your vein, drinking you in while his hips drove hard and fast to complete his release. He shuddered violently over you, his whole body locking tight as he emptied himself inside you, his lips still pressed tight against your bleeding neck.
He stayed there for a long moment, breathing heavily, his nose buried in your skin as he licked the fresh wound clean. He breathed in deeply, his acute sense of smell taking in the scent of your sweat, the mud, the raw metallic tang of your blood on his tongue—
Suddenly, his body went rigid as stone. The frantic heave of his chest hitched.
Titus pulled back slowly, his mouth smeared crimson, his dark eyes wide and vacant with a sudden, twitching panic. His mouth opened, his jaw working as his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, tasting the red smear on his lips again.
The metallic tang of your blood—a flavor he had tasted a hundred times, a signature he knew better than his own name—had altered. The iron was heavy, thick, underscored by a strange, velvety sweetness that smelled of turned earth, milk, and blossoming heat.
"What is this?" he rasped. The raspy pitch of his voice dropped into a dangerous, erratic register. He touched his stained bottom lip with trembling fingers, staring down at you like he was looking at a ghost. "Your blood... it tastes wrong. It’s changed."
He scrambled off you in a sudden, panicked flurry, hauling you up from the dirt by your upper arms with reckless speed. His eyes darted around the dark forest, his pupils dilated so far the brown had vanished entirely.
"Who has been in the pantries? Physician!" Titus roared into the black tree line, his voice echoing off the massive trunks like a gunshot. His jaw ticked wildly. "I will skin the old bastard alive! Someone has poisoned you! Someone brought something into the house—"
"Titus, stop," you breathed, reaching out and wrapping your fingers firmly around his twitching jaw, forcing him to look down at you.
"Do not tell me to stop!" he snarled, a vein bulging on his neck, his silver hair plastered across his sweat-slick forehead. "Your blood is tainted, and if anyone on this cursed land has dared put something in your cup—"
"Titus," you cut him off softly, taking his hand—the heavy, calloused one that was shaking with murderous intent—and dragging it down from your neck, pressing his broad palm flat against the small, barely noticeable, firm swell of your lower belly.
You looked up into his manic, dark eyes, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your lips. "I was waiting to tell you tonight. There is no poison."
Titus froze. His thumb twitched against your skin through the mud-stained fabric of your dress.
"I'm carrying your child," you whispered.
The frantic, twitching terror in his face shattered. His features worked for a second, catching up to the words, before melting into an expression of unadulterated, triumphant euphoria. A jagged, breathless laugh tore straight out of his throat. He didn't just smile; his whole face lit up with a terrifyingly bright, psychotic joy.
He seized you around the waist, lifting you completely off the forest floor and spinning you in the moonlight, burying his bloody mouth into the crook of your shoulder while laughing like a madman into the quiet night, his laughter echoing wild and free through the ancient trees.
By sunrise, the atmosphere inside the Danforth Residence was brittle enough to snap.
The servants moved through the wood-paneled corridors like terrified shadows, flinching every time a floorboard creaked beneath their own feet. Lord Titus was whistling down the grand gallery. He was humming to the dusty oil portraits of his ancestors. To the staff who maintained the estate, a furious Titus was a known danger—a man who might lash out with a crop or a blade; but a giddy, smiling Titus was a harbinger of total ruin. They kept their mouths firmly shut, their eyes glued to the hardwood floor, knowing the absolute law of the estate: whatever blood, madness, or miracles occurred within the Danforth grounds stayed buried in the dirt, lest they end up fertilizing the estate's grounds themselves.
Titus immediately plunged into an obsessive, smothering regime.
He dragged ancient, dusty leather tomes from the family vaults, obsessing over archaic Danforth pregnancy rites recorded centuries ago. By your second month, he personally presented you with a heavy crystal goblet every single morning, filled to the brim with warm, rich blood drawn from a newborn goat—a dark tradition meant to grant the babe unmatched vitality.
"Drink it all, my love," he would murmur, standing over your armchair, his thumb gently brushing your lower lip as he watched you swallow every drop. You savored the heavy, iron tang, leaning into his touch, loving the twisted, reverent worship burning in his eyes.
By the seventh month, however, his devotion had become a gilded cage.
He forbade you from riding. He wouldn't let you wander the forest alone. He barely wanted you walking down the grand marble staircase without his hand anchored firmly to your waist, treating you as if you were made of spun glass, despite knowing the violent nature that lived inside you.
"If you keep me cooped up in this mausoleum for one more day, Titus, I will tear your throat out while you sleep," you snapped one evening, picking up a heavy pewter platter from the sideboard and shattering it against the stone hearth. It hit with a deafening CRACK, denting the metal and scattering hot embers across the rug.
Titus didn't even flinch. He just leaned back against the dark mahogany desk, a slow, wolfish smirk spreading across his face—that signature, dangerous lopsided grin. His dark eyes sparkled with filthy delight.
"You look breathtaking when you threaten my life, my sweet beast," he said, his voice a low, raspy purr. He sauntered across the room in three quick, deliberate strides, crowding your space until you were backed up against the mantle, his oppressive heat washing over you. He grabbed both your wrists, holding them tight against your sides, leaning down so his mouth was an inch from yours. "You are carrying the future of this family. You stay where I can guard you."
"I am not a glass trinket!" you hissed, sinking your nails deep into his leather-clad forearms until you felt him tense. "I need to kill something, Titus! I am suffocating in here!"
He chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound in his chest, and leaned down, kissing you hard enough to press your lip against your teeth. "Fine," he murmured against your mouth. "Tomorrow, we go into the woods. You keep a silver blade in your belt, and the minute your legs tire, I carry you. Deal?"
The labor came on a night when a winter storm tore through the valley, howling against the heavy window shutters.
It was a gory, grueling affair in the master suite. Titus refused to leave the room for a single second. When the terrified local midwife tried to push him back, he shoved her aside so hard she nearly fell, taking his place on his knees beside the bed. He held your hand in a crushing grip, soaking in every scream, every drop of sweat, loving you deeper for the sheer, bloody violence it took to bring his child into the world.
When the final scream tore from your throat, a sharp, piercing wail cut through the heavy, blood-scented air of the room.
The midwife, her hands trembling violently, wrapped the infant in a strip of black velvet and held her out with bowed head. "A... a daughter, My Lord..."
Titus took the bundle. He looked down at the tiny, writhing creature covered in slick red, squalling with an absolute, vicious fury.
The man who had carved a swath of terror across the countryside—the man who had murdered his twin sister Ursula’s in cold blood—stood completely frozen.
Ursula had been born three minutes before Titus. Yet, because of the decrepit, patriarchal Danforth rule, she had been denied the title of head of the family purely for being female, fueling a bitter, bloody war between the twins that had only ended when Titus killed her.
As Titus looked down at his newborn daughter, a single, thick tear tracked through the dried sweat and grime on his cheek.
He sank slowly to his knees beside your bed, laying the baby gently against your bare, exhausted chest. His hand shook—a rare, incredible thing—as he brushed his thumb over the infant's wet brow.
"She is the firstborn," Titus whispered, his voice thick, rough, and trembling with an unholy resolve. He glared up at the high ceiling beams as if challenging every ancestor buried beneath the floorboards. "She will never fight for what is hers. She will never be passed over, nor forced to tear her way to the top through a sibling's flesh. The Danforth bloodline bends to her."
You reached out weakly, your fingers tangling in his dark, unkempt hair, pulling him down until his forehead rested against yours. "Our little monster," you murmured.
Later that night, after the midwife had been given a heavy purse of gold and escorted off the property with a silent, deadly glare, the storm outside settled into a quiet snowfall. The hearth crackled warmly in the master bedroom.
The baby slept soundly in an iron-forged cradle carved with ancient family runes beside the bed.
At the small mahogany table set near the fire, Titus pulled out your chair with quiet, formal grace. Resting on two polished silver platters—prepared precisely according to the oldest, most sacred Danforth tradition—was the roasted placenta, expertly seasoned with bitter herbs over oak coals.
Titus poured two heavy goblets of dark, blood-red wine. He sat across from you, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that burned hotter than the hearthfire beside you.
He raised his goblet, his voice quiet, raspy, and overflowing with devotion.
"To our daughter," Titus said softly. "And to the beast who bore her."
You held his gaze, raising your glass until the silver chimed softly in the quiet room. "To the Danforth legacy."
Guys I'm so sorry this took so long to get back to :( I've literally been busy off my ass and so tired. Lord knows how many drafts I have rn. Have mercy and let me know what your thoughts are!
Moving didn't take long. There wasn't much to pack anyway, but Kento made the process look almost trivial.
He showed up on Saturday at two on the dot—sleeves rolled past his forearms, a small toolbox tucked under his arm. By four, your whole apartment was packed into four cardboard boxes and two duffel bags, sitting neatly in the trunk of his car. No back-and-forth, no wasted energy.
His apartment was on the upper floor of a quiet building off the main street, high enough that the traffic sounded like soft background noise. Inside, it was quiet and clean—polished wood, neutral tones, everything in its place.
“This will be your room,” he said, opening the door down the hall.
You walked in ahead of him, pausing near the threshold. It didn't look like a spare room someone had shoved extra furniture into. The bed was made with fresh gray linens, a low lamp glowed on the nightstand, and the closet stood open with a neat row of wooden hangers.
“I cleared space in the coat closet near the door,” he said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms loosely crossed. “And the middle cabinet in the bathroom is yours. If you need more room, just let me know.”
You held onto the box of books in your arms and looked over at him. “Kento… you didn’t have to do all this. I could have moved things around myself.”
“It isn't a problem,” he replied evenly. “It's practical. If you’re going to live here, you should be comfortable. Being disorganized is unnecessary.”
A slight smile pulled at your mouth. “You make basic hospitality sound like an office policy.”
He didn't disagree, though the faint tension around his eyes softened slightly. “It gets things done.”
The first couple of weeks settled into a quiet, functional rhythm.
Your hospital shifts were erratic and his hours were rigid, so most days you moved past each other like shifts passing in the dark. But the space slowly accommodated both of you anyway.
You got used to his routine without trying: he woke up at six-fifteen, drank black coffee at the counter while reading the news, and left his shoes lined up neatly by the front door. He picked up on yours, too. He noticed you drank green tea when you came home exhausted, and that you left your mug by the sink when you barely had the energy to keep your eyes open.
Eventually, a small whiteboard appeared on the fridge. It was split down the middle with a black line. On one side, you wrote your shift schedule; on the other, he wrote his working hours.
It was practical. A simple arrangement.
Still, the lines between business and real life started to blur around the edges.
On a rain-slicked Thursday night, you came home past one in the morning. Your body ached from a sixteen-hour rotation, and the chill from the rain outside had soaked straight into your clothes.
The apartment was dark except for the dim amber light over the kitchen stove.
You slipped off your damp shoes and took a step inside, then stopped. Kento was sitting at the island in a slate-gray Henley, reading glasses resting low on his nose, looking over a stack of papers.
He looked up when the door shut, his eyes settling on you.
“You’re late,” he said softly. “Your shift ended at eleven.”
“Emergency intake,” you breathed, leaning your head back against the wall for a second. “Everything broke down at once.”
He didn't offer empty sympathy or ask probing questions. He just took off his glasses, set them on the counter, and stood up.
“Sit down.”
“Kento, I’m fine, I just need to shower—”
“Sit down,” he said again, his voice quiet but firm.
You gave in and sat on one of the barstools. Resting your chin in your hand, you watched him move around the kitchen with steady, practiced grace. He set a small kettle on the stove and pulled a container from the fridge—tofu, rice, and vegetables simmered in broth that he’d clearly made earlier. He put it on to heat without saying a word.
“You didn’t have to stay up,” you said into the quiet room.
“I had paperwork to finish,” he replied, keeping his back to you while he checked the stove.
“Right. Paperwork at one in the morning.”
He paused for a second before turning around, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.
“My father called today,” he said, changing the subject.
You sat up a bit, rubbing your eyes. “How is he?”
“He was eating pork cutlets when he called,” Kento said, completely straight-faced. “He claimed his doctor recommended it for his health.”
A quiet laugh caught in your throat, breaking through the weight of your fatigue. “He really doesn't care, does he?”
“Not in the slightest.” A small shift touched the corner of his mouth—so quick you almost missed it. “He asked about the filing at the city office next week. Wanted to know if he should buy a suit.”
“What did you tell him?”
Kento turned off the stove, placing the warm food on a wooden tray alongside a cup of barley tea. He brought it over and set it in front of you.
“I told him to stay home,” he said, sitting down on the stool next to yours. “And that it’s just a formality. Paperwork and witnesses.”
You picked up your chopsticks, the steam rising from the bowl between you. “Simple, right?”
“It’s a contract,” Kento said, his tone measured. “A temporary arrangement to give my father peace of mind. Nothing more.”
He said it plainly, like he was repeating the terms so neither of you forgot them. But when you looked up at him, the quiet between you felt heavier than it had a minute ago.
He was looking right at you—not in a rush, just taking in the tired look in your eyes and the stray hair falling across your face.
You set the chopsticks down and leaned in slightly toward the counter. “And you’re completely fine with keeping it that way?”
Kento’s expression didn't change, but his gaze held yours.
“I gave you my word,” he said softly. “I don't break agreements. We follow through, keep my father reassured, and when the time comes, we end it cleanly.”
“Cleanly,” you repeated.
“Yes.” He reached out, his fingers touching the wooden edge of your tray to adjust it slightly—a precise, unnecessary movement that brought his hand just inches from yours. “No complications.”
You looked down at his hand, then back up at him. There was something unsaid sitting right between you, a subtle pull neither of you was ready to acknowledge.
“Good,” you murmured. “I like clear boundaries.”
Kento watched you for a moment longer. He swallowed slowly, his jaw setting, before he pulled his hand back and rested it on the counter.
“Eat your food,” he said quietly. “Then get some rest. You have another shift tomorrow.”
“Okay,” you said.
He stayed sitting beside you in the dim light of the kitchen, keeping you company while you ate.
The thing is, poverty leaves a ghost in the room. Even when the bank account changes, the hardwiring in your brain doesn’t. It’s a exhausting way to live, always moving through the world on tiptoe, minimizing your own footprint to ensure everyone else has enough room.
No matter how stable things get with Kento, you still look at a fourteen-dollar ceramic mixing bowl at the shop and feel that familiar, cold knot in your stomach. You put it back, aligning it perfectly on the shelf so it looks untouched, telling yourself the old plastic one at home—the one with the hairline crack along the rim—works just fine. If it works, replacing it is an indulgence. You don't need it.
But it’s never just about a mixing bowl. It’s everything.
It’s the way you stand in the drugstore aisle looking at a new shade of lipstick—just something small, something you might like to treat yourself to on a Friday afternoon—and you read the price tag, shake your head, and put it back. You have lip balm at home. You don't need to spend the ten dollars. It’s the way you use a bobby pin to squeeze the absolute last millimeter of product out of your moisturizer tube, scraping the plastic until it’s hollowed out, because buying a replacement before the absolute final drop feels wasteful.
You think back to your childhood, to the heavy, suffocating silence of a kitchen where the pantry only held boxes of generic mac and cheese and a bag of rice. You remember the deep, burning humiliation of watching your mother carefully count out pennies at the grocery register, her face flushed as she told the cashier to put back the branded cereal you’d reached for, replacing it with the stale store brand. You learned early that wanting things only brought guilt. Desires were dangerous; they made the people who loved you feel inadequate, and they made the world feel incredibly small.
You carried that ghost right into adulthood, and right into your early relationship with Kento.
God, those early years had been a different kind of brutal. When Kento first left jujutsu to become a salaryman, he was clocking grueling, eighty-hour weeks at the brokerage firm. He was exhausted, his spirit ground down by the unfeeling machinery of corporate capitalism, all for a paycheck that barely covered his half of the utilities. You both scraped by on the absolute margins. You used to tell him you weren’t hungry when you went out to dinner after his long shifts, claiming you’d eaten a massive, heavy lunch at work, just so he could order a full meal without worrying about the split bill. He’d caught on to that lie by your third month together, noticing how your fingers lightly pressed against your stomach when you thought he was looking away, trying to quiet the rumble with three glasses of tap water.
Whenever you actually did have an extra dollar back then, it never went to you. You’d spend it on a high-quality bento for his lunch, or you’d buy a pack of the specific pens he liked for his desk, while you wore your socks until the heels were worn completely through, hiding the holes inside your shoes.
Things are entirely different now. His career has stabilized, the promotions have come, and the financial anxiety should be gone. But you still downplay your needs, treating your own comfort as entirely optional.
Kento notices. All of it.
Paying attention is an occupational hazard for him. Years of strict, demanding discipline—first in the hyper-vigilant world of jujutsu, then in corporate finance—drilled a specific kind of observation into him. He calculates ratios, notices structural flaws, and reads body language before a person even realizes they’ve reacted.
But with you, it’s just how he loves you. It’s become the bedrock of your marriage.
When you go to get ready in the morning, you’ll find a brand-new bottle of your exact skincare serum already sitting on the bathroom vanity, placed neatly right next to the one you’ve been aggressively flattening and shaking for a week.
When the cuffs of your favorite knit sweater begin to fray, you don't buy a new one; you just roll the sleeves up an extra turn to hide the threads. But a few days later, you’ll open your closet to find a beautiful, incredibly soft cashmere knit hanging precisely in the center. When your winter boots start letting a tiny bit of dampness in through a worn sole on rainy days, you just double up on socks and try to step around the puddles. You come home from work to find an identical, sturdy pair sitting by the door, already sprayed with weather-protectant. He just wraps his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you look at them, and murmurs, "The weather report looks heavy for the weekend. These have better traction, love."
And then there are the things you just want—the little fragments of joy you deny yourself. The specialized tea blend you lingered over at the market, the soft blanket you touched in a window display, the fourteen-dollar ceramic bowl.
You cut the tape on a heavy cardboard box left on the dining table, and there it is. The bowl, wrapped securely in thick brown packing paper, folded with the perfect, square corners Kento always insists on.
"The old plastic one was inefficient," Kento’s voice comes from the kitchen doorway. He’s standing there, his suit jacket already put away, his tie loosened just enough to breathe, looking at you with that intense gaze that always makes you feel entirely exposed—but entirely safe. "The cracks harbor bacteria. It was time to discard it."
You let out a small, breathless laugh, your fingers tracing the smooth ceramic rim. He always wraps his care in the guise of logic, but you know the math he’s actually doing.
"Kento, it’s fourteen dollars," you say softly, a familiar wave of mild embarrassment hitting your chest as you look up at your husband. "And the boots, and the makeup last week... you don't have to keep doing this. I can look after myself. I don't want to be a burden on our budget. I'm used to making things last."
He walks over, his footsteps heavy and deliberate on the floorboards, stopping just close enough for his warmth to radiate against your side. He reaches out, his large, warm, heavily calloused hand sliding up the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in your hair to tilt your face up to his. It’s an incredibly intimate, grounding weight that holds you still.
"Love, you're never a burden...and you did the thing with your jaw," he says softly, his low baritone dropping an octave, full of a deep, unshakeable tenderness as he looks down at you through his glasses. "The little clench you do when you look at something you like, right before you check the price and force yourself to walk away. I’ve memorized the expression. You do it in the clothing stores, you do it in the grocery aisles, you do it when you're looking at things that are purely for your own enjoyment."
You look up at him, your throat tightening, the old defenses rising up as your eyes prickle with tears. "It’s just a habit. I don't need much to be happy, Kento. I have you."
"I know," Kento corrects gently, his thumb moving to trace the line of your jaw, smoothing over the tension there. His eyes hold no judgment, no pity—just an immense, immovable devotion that makes your heart ache in the best possible way. "It is a survival mechanism. I know why you do it. I remember the apartment we shared when I worked at the firm, and I know how you grew up. But those days are over. If you like something, and we have the means, you are allowed to have it. You do not have to cross-examine every single piece of comfort you desire. You are my wife. You are allowed to just exist beautifully."
He leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, deep kiss that tastes like safety and years of promises kept. It's the reality of a partner who truly sees you.
"Thank you," you murmur against his lips, leaning your head against his broad shoulder, letting the tension finally drain out of your spine.
Kento shifts, wrapping his arms fully around you, pulling you against his chest where his heartbeat is slow, steady, and entirely safe. He kisses the top of your head, a lingering pressure, holding the perimeter so you don’t have to keep rationing your own existence. "Always."
CW: fluff to smut, emotional comfort. no use of y/n. 18+ (minors do not interact). doctor!jack x forensics-pathology!reader. established relationship (3 years). reader struggles with a lingering insecurity/feeling like a burden. praise. semi-public teasing (whispering). unprotected slow-paced vaginal sex. lots of em-dashes and semicolons.
The museum always had that specific brand of quiet—just the low hum of random conversations, the occasional echo of someone's keys jingling, and the rhythmic scuff of sneakers on polished stone floors. For Jack, after a string of brutal night shifts in the ER that left him feeling like he was running on battery acid and sheer willpower, the stillness was like taking a dunk in ice-cold water. No sirens, no overhead pages, no chaotic rushing. Just a slow, aimless afternoon. Refreshing.
...And your hand in his, pulling him along.
You were moving from display to display with a hyper-focused energy, your nose practically pressed to the glass as you read through the descriptions. Jack didn’t mind the slow pace at all; this was your kid-in-a-candy-store moment. At the hospital, he was always the guy carrying the weight, making the big calls, and pushing everyone to move faster because seconds actually mattered. Everything was literally life and death. Here, he was completely fine letting you play tour guide. Honestly, he was just relieved to have absolutely nowhere he urgently needed to be.
Jack already had his phone out. It had become automatic for him over the three years you'd been together. Whenever you lingered a little too long, or the lighting caught the side of your face just right, he’d slide the phone from his pocket. He’d step back a couple of paces, adjust for the glare, and snap a handful of candids of you completely lost in thought.
"Hey," he muttered, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own. "Turn around real quick. Just lean against the rail right there."
You blinked, snapped out of whatever you were reading, and looked at him a little sheepishly before doing what he said. He'd adjust his angle, getting the exact framing he’d learned you liked for your Instagram, snapping a few more before slipping the phone back into his jacket pocket. You knew he loved you, of course, but you were still entirely oblivious to just how hyper-fixated he was on you the second he clocked out. You never quite realized that he wasn't just tolerating your hobbies—he was completely captivated by them because they belonged to you. He tracked your moods, your angles, and your comfort with the same high-alert focus he used on a critical patient, but entirely driven by a consuming affection.
When you heard the camera click again, you glanced over your shoulder, your face flushing a little but your eyes bright as you pointed at a piece of ancient pottery. "Look at the pattern on the rim here, Jack. This style means they were trading with the western regions a lot earlier than the textbooks usually say. Like, by at least two centuries."
"Is that right?" Jack asked, his voice low and raspy from a lack of decent sleep and years of barking orders. He didn't know the first thing about antiquity, but he liked the tone of your voice when you were explaining something you genuinely cared about. "What's the giveaway on the style?"
You smiled, launching into a brief, easy breakdown of the etching and the type of clay they used. Jack just listened, nodding along, asking a casual question here and there just to keep you talking. He didn’t need to understand the history to enjoy the way you talked about it; he just liked the animated way your hands moved when you got into the details.
But as you moved toward the back half of the wing, near a display of an ancient Byzantine coin, the familiar, sharp ache in his left leg started to act up. The prosthetic handled his long shifts well enough when he was constantly moving and the adrenaline was pumping, but the stop-and-start, slow pacing on hard museum marble was tough on his residual limb. The skin was starting to pinch against the socket, and a dull heat was building in the joint. He tried to smooth out his stride, adjusting his weight to his good leg, but the localized pressure was getting hard to ignore.
He gave your hand a gentle tug, pulling you slightly out of the flow of the other visitors shuffling past. Before he spoke, he brought your interwoven fingers up to his mouth, his lips brushing softly over the back of your knuckles as he leaned down.
"Hey," he muttered softly against your skin, his rough voice vibrating against your hand. "I'm going to go grab a seat on that bench we passed by earlier. My leg’s starting to get pretty sore."
Your eyes dropped to his leg instantly, checking his posture, then snapped back up to his face. The excitement immediately dialed down, replaced by that familiar, cautious look you got whenever you worried you were putting him out. "Oh. Do you want to leave? We can go, it's totally fine."
"No, don't be ridiculous," he said, finally dropping your hand from his lips but keeping his fingers locked with yours as he gave your lower back a reassuring, steady nudge. "Stay here and finish browsing. You're only halfway through the exhibit and you haven't even read about the coins yet. Go on, I’ll be right over there."
You looked at the bench, then back at him, evaluating how much pain he was actually in. After a second, you shook your head, your grip tightening on his fingers. "I'm coming with you."
Jack didn't argue. He didn't have the energy to fight you on it when his leg felt like this. He walked with a noticeable limp over to the wooden bench against the wall, letting out a rough grunt as he finally sat down. He immediately reached down, unzipping his jacket to give himself some breathing room, and used his large hand to firmly massage his thigh and knee area, trying to work out the tension where the socket was pinching the skin.
You plopped down right next to him, your fingers still laced with his, sliding in close, wrapping your arm around his bicep like a vine and leaning your head against his shoulder. It was a familiar habit that had formed between you two over the years you'd been together, a way of grounding each other without making a big deal out of it.
Jack leaned down, rubbing his jaw against the top of your head, smelling the faint scent of your shampoo, before pressing a quick, casual kiss to your temple.
You let out a long, slow sigh against his shoulder, your body relaxing against his heavy frame. Between his erratic hours in the ER and your own brutal schedule running pathology panels and handling postmortem lab work down in the forensics department, actual quality time like this was rare. You were both used to exhausting environments, which made these quiet afternoons feel incredibly fragile.
"You okay?" he asked, keeping his voice down so it didn't carry across the room.
You nodded against his jacket, the rough fabric scratching slightly against your cheek. Your thumb traced a lazy, repetitive circle over the back of his hand, feeling the calluses and the blunt shape of his knuckles. You both just sat there for a minute, watching a couple argue in hushed tones over a map display across the room.
"Thank you," you said quietly.
Jack let out a dry, amused huff, his chest rising and falling beneath your head. "For what?"
"For coming here. For taking the pictures. Just... for doing this with me. I know I can be a lot to drag around when you're already exhausted."
"You don't have to thank me for spending a Sunday afternoon with you," Jack said, his tone leveling out into something steady and practical. "I like seeing you have a good time. It’s a nice change of pace from the usual routine."
You looked down at your interwoven fingers, shifting a little uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench, your thumb stopping its movement. The old anxiety of being a burden, of taking up too much space or demanding too much attention, started to creep into your voice. "I just know it's probably pretty boring for you. You're used to the ER, and everything there is high-stakes. I'm basically making you stand in front of glass boxes reading paragraphs. I feel like I'm wasting your only day off on something stupid."
Jack paused his hand on his leg, turning his head to look down at the side of your face. His expression didn't change drastically, but his eyes were entirely serious, the casual demeanor dropping away. "Who told you that you were boring to be around?"
You shrugged, looking out at the polished gallery floor, watching the reflection of the overhead lights. "Just... growing up. And even some people now. I just feel like sometimes it's nice when you can just slow down and actually look at things. But my friends always thought it was a chore. If they came, they’d just rush through to get their own pictures taken for their feeds, and then complain until we left. I always felt like I was ruining their day just by wanting to look at stuff, so I just stopped asking people to come with me. ...But it's not as fun when you don't have anyone to share that joy with—you know?"
A brief, sharp flicker of irritation crossed Jack's mind as he hummed in agreement—he had a very low tolerance for anyone who had ever made you feel like a chore or an inconvenience—but he kept his voice completely level. He didn't want to make a big deal out of an old, lingering insecurity, nor did he want to make you feel defensive about people you used to care about.
"Well, then they sound like idiots," Jack said plainly, squeezing your hand hard enough to make you look up. "If someone watches you get genuinely excited about something and their only reaction is that they're bored, that’s a reflection on their own lack of substance, not you."
He shifted his arm, pulling you slightly firmer against his side so that your shoulder nested perfectly under his.
"I'm happy to be here," he mumbled into your hair, his voice rough but softer than usual. "I'm happy to be anywhere with you where nobody is bleeding, dying, or screaming at me to fix them. My job is loud and chaotic, and your lab isn't exactly a walk in the park either. I spend half my life wishing the clock would move slower. I like the quiet. I like watching you read your paragraphs. It’s peace, if you want the honest truth. You're never a waste of my time."
The slight tension in your posture finally faded, your shoulders dropping as you let out a breath, leaning your full weight against him. The old doubts always took a minute to clear out, but hearing him say it in that blunt, unvarnished way of his always did the trick. You still didn't quite realize that he would gladly sit on a hard bench for hours just to watch you smile, but you believed him anyway.
"You mean that?" you whispered, eyes glimmering as you looked up at him.
"I don't say things I don't mean. Too tired for it," Jack said, his voice warm as he looked back out at the exhibit, his large hand still holding yours securely on his knee. "Take your time. Once my leg stops throbbing, you can drag me into the next room and I'll take twenty more photos of you. Deal?"
You laughed softly against his shoulder.
Jack looked down at you for a beat, watching the way your expression softened into something relaxed and entirely trusting. A sudden shift went through him—the kind that usually hit him when he realized just how much he had you all to himself for the rest of the day.
He leaned in close, his chest pressing against your shoulder as he tilted his head down. His lips brushed right against the sensitive curve of your ear, his breath warm and deliberate.
"You know," he murmured, his low, gravy whisper sending an immediate shiver down your spine, "if you like things slow, I can show you exactly how much I love taking my time when we get back to the apartment."
You let out a soft, sharp gasp, a hot wave of color instantly creeping up your neck and flooding your cheeks. You pushed against his chest with the heel of your hand—a totally useless, light nudge of mock anger that didn't move his broad frame an inch. Under the fabric of your jeans, your thighs clenched subtly, a purely involuntary reaction to the low vibration of his voice, but Jack didn’t miss a single thing. He felt the sudden shift in your weight, saw the way your breathing hitched, and the smugness in his chest only deepened. He loved that after three years, he could still completely throw you off balance with a single sentence.
"Shut up," you whispered, looking around quickly to make sure nobody was close enough to hear, your face still burning. "We're in public."
"Just making an observation," Jack murmured, finally pulling back just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark with a very different kind of focus now. He let out a small, huff of a laugh, his large hand giving your hip a firm, reassuring squeeze before he let go. "Come on. Leg feels better. Let's go look at the next room."
You got up from the bench a little flustered, your hand instantly slipping back into his. The rest of the museum trip went by in a bit of a blur. You still read the paragraphs, and Jack still dutifully took the photos, stopping you in front of a massive courtyard window to capture the late afternoon light hitting your hair. But the atmosphere between you two had shifted. The air felt thick, charged with a mutual impatience that neither of you was acknowledging out loud. Every time his shoulder brushed yours, or his thumb stroked the back of your hand, the tension pulled a little tighter.
By the time you finally walked through the heavy glass exit doors and out into the humid late-afternoon air, neither of you was really thinking about history anymore.
The drive back to the apartment was mostly silent, the radio playing low in the background, but Jack kept his right hand resting flat on your thigh the entire way, his thumb occasionally tracing slow, heavy circles through the fabric of your pants. Every time you stopped at a red light, your eyes would meet, and the look in his was steady, unblinking, and entirely intent on you. It was the same undivided attention that usually made you feel a little overwhelmed if you thought about it too hard, but right now, it just made your pulse thud thick in your throat.
You barely had time to drop your bag onto the entryway table before Jack’s hands were on you, his large palms gripping your waist and pulling you back against his chest. You turned in his hold, your hands instantly finding the lapels of his jacket, and when his mouth came down on yours it was deep, heavy, and desperate with the kind of hunger that only built up after days of passing each other like ghosts in the hallway.
You backed up blindly, your heels hitting the wall of the narrow hallway, and Jack followed you without breaking the kiss, crowding you into the drywall. His good leg braced between yours, his weight solid and grounding, while his hands slid down to cup the back of your thighs, lifting you just enough to break your balance. His tongue slid against yours, deep and familiar, his hands mapping the curve of your hips through your clothes, pressing you firmly against him.
"Jack," you breathed against his lips, your fingers tangling in the short curls at his nape. "The bedroom."
"Working on it," he rasped, his mouth moving down to press a hard, biting kiss to the junction where your neck met your shoulder, making you arch into him with a sigh.
When you finally reached the edge of the mattress, Jack slowed down completely, just like he promised. He sat down first, a familiar grunt escaping him as he unbuckled the strap of his prosthetic, letting it slide free so he could fully relax into the bed. You didn't wait. You crawled up onto the mattress beside him, your hands immediately finding the hem of his shirt, helping him pull it over his head before discarding your own clothes.
The sunlight was fading, casting long, lazy shadows across the sheets as he pinned your wrists above your head, his large fingers lacing through yours just like they had in the museum galleries. But this time, there was no crowd, no glass cases, and no old insecurities about taking up his time.
"Told you," Jack whispered, his voice a rough, low growl in the dimming room as he settled his weight between your hips, his eyes locked onto yours with that terrifyingly beautiful, undivided focus. "We're going slow."
And he kept his word. His large, calloused hands traced every inch of your skin with a reverence that made your throat tight. There was no rush. He kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the corners of your mouth, before sinking back into your lips with a deliberate rhythm that felt like healing. Every touch was heavy and intentional. When he finally slid inside you, a soft, broken sound escaped your lips, your fingers locking behind his back from the sheer, aching friction of it.
"Look at me," he whispered, his thumb catching a stray tear of pure overwhelm at the corner of your eye.
You opened your eyes, looking into his, your fingers tightening convulsively in his hair as he began to move. His pace was steady, deep, and relentless. He watched your face in the twilight—the way your brow furrowed, the way your lips parted, and the way your skin flushed under his touch. There was no rushing here, no ticking clock, no emergency pages waiting to tear him away. There was only the heat of your skin, the rhythmic, heavy sound of his own breathing, and the absolute certainty that for the next few hours, the rest of the world didn't exist. Every movement was unhurried, a deep, heavy friction that made everything else completely fall away. He held you tight against his chest, his heart hammering against your ribs, his rough voice murmuring quiet, breathless praises against your skin every time you moved together. You relished every single sensation—the heat of his skin, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, the blunt, honest rhythm of his love.
A little later, you lay with your head buried securely in the crook of his neck, one of your legs tangled with his good one, the sheets pulled loosely over both of you. Jack’s large arm was wrapped around your waist, his fingers idly tracing small, random shapes against your lower back. His breath was steady now, warm against your hair.
You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone, your eyes heavy with sleep.
"Definitely better than the museum," you murmured into his skin, your voice small and content.
Jack let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated right through your chest. He tightened his grip around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, and pressed a long, lingering kiss into your hair.
"Told you so," he whispered. "Now close your eyes. We've got nowhere to be."
Hey guys. So um, I know that some stuff isn't canonically accurate, like the schedules, medical processes, and ESPECIALLY, the characters working the shifts. PLEASE don't come at me—I swear I know the actual canon plots and day shift/night shift characters. Thanks, and hope you guys enjoy!
The fluorescent lights of the Pittsburgh University Medical Center ED hum with a relentless, buzzing energy that vibrates right through your skull. You’ve been sitting in the waiting area for three hours. Your hand is cramped, stiff and trembling from pressing a wad of increasingly sodden paper towels against the jagged laceration in your side. The robbery had been fast—a flash of a blade in a dark alley, a frantic grab for your purse, and then the hot, stinging bite of steel. It wasn’t deep enough to kill you, but the slow, steady trickle of blood has drained the warmth from your limbs, leaving you in a state of weary, hovering detachment.
When a harried nurse finally called your name, you weren't taken to a bed. Instead, you were ushered into a small, windowless exam room and told to wait again.
"The doctor will be in as soon as he can," she said, her eyes glued to her tablet, already turning her back on you. "Keep that pressure firm."
The door clicks shut, sealing you in a suffocating silence. Time stretches, elastic and cruel. The adrenaline that kept you upright in the lobby has curdled into a dull, thumping ache. Your head feels heavy, your mouth like sandpaper, and a cold sweat breaks out across your forehead. You need sugar; you need fluids just to keep from blacking out right there on the linoleum. Swaying slightly, you tuck your blood-stained jacket tighter around your waist to hide the mess, grounding yourself against the wall as you slip back out into the hall.
You find a vending machine near the ambulance bay. After fumbling with a few crumpled, blood-smudged bills, you manage to retrieve a bottle of orange juice. You crack the cap and drink half of it in one frantic go, the cold liquid sparking a fleeting, desperate moment of clarity.
On your way back, the atmosphere in the ED shifts from frantic to chaotic. A gurney crashes through the double doors, a team of residents and nurses sprinting alongside it in a blur of blue scrubs and panic. You stop, leaning your shoulder against the cool tile of the wall as they wheel the patient into Trauma 2. Through the glass, you see a Doctor. Her posture is stiff, radiating the defensive arrogance of someone who is profoundly out of her depth but refuses to show it.
"The patient is coding! Wide complex tachycardia, looks like a massive MI," she barks, her voice thin, sharp, and strained under the pressure. "Charge to 200, get me amiodarone!"
You watch, your medical instincts—honed through years of grueling, under-resourced shifts in a vastly different, unforgiving landscape—screaming at you to look closer. Your eyes catalog the symptoms instantly. You see the distended neck veins, the muffled heart sounds even through the chaos of the room, the specific, terrifying way the trachea is shifting away from the affected side.
It’s not a heart attack, the realization hits you with a sickening jolt, cutting through your own exhaustion. It’s a tension pneumothorax. If she shocks him, the intrathoracic pressure will completely kill his cardiac output. She’s going to kill him.
"Clear!" the doctor yells, her hands hovering over the paddles, her face set in stone.
"Stop!"
The word tears from your throat before you can think, raw and desperate. You’re moving before you can even register the tearing pain in your own flank. You burst into the trauma bay, a ghost interrupting a execution.
"You're misdiagnosing him!" you shout over the relentless screaming of the monitor. "He has a tension pneumo. Look at the neck veins, look at the deviation! If you shock him, you’re wasting the only seconds he has left!"
"Who the hell are you?" the doctor, whose name you read is "Ellis" snaps, her face flushing a deep, indignant red as her authority is challenged. "Security! Get this woman out of here right now!"
A nurse lunges to grab your arm, but you duck under her reach, driven by a fierce, protective instinct that overrides your fading strength. Your hands find a pair of sterile gloves on a side cart, snapping them on with a practiced, rhythmic grace that momentarily paralyzes the room. You grab a large-bore needle from an open tray.
"Stay back! She's crazy!" a resident yells, stepping into your path.
You shoulder him aside with a strength born of pure desperation, your focus narrowing until the only thing left in the universe is the dying man's chest. You locate the second intercostal space, midclavicular line. You don't hesitate. You plunge the needle in.
A sharp, audible hiss of escaping air fills the room. The monitor’s frantic, erratic screaming immediately slows, the rhythm stabilizing as the crushing pressure on the heart is relieved. The patient’s gasping, blue-tinged face begins to soften into a more natural hue as air finally rushes back into his lungs.
You step back, your breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. You peel the gloves off, your fingers shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly, the adrenaline evaporates. The room begins to tilt violently on its axis. The indignant shouting of Dr. Ellis and the confused murmurs of the nurses sound like they’re underwater, drifting further and further away.
"I... I stabilized him," you whisper to no one, but the floor is no longer where it’s supposed to be.
The world turns to grey static. You feel yourself falling into the dark, but instead of the hard floor, you hit something solid and warm. Strong, steady arms wrap securely around your shoulders, catching you before you crash, hauling you upward against a broad chest.
"Stay with me, open your eyes," a deep, authoritative voice commands, laced with an undercurrent of sharp alarm.
You look up through blurred, heavy vision and see a man with sharp, intelligent eyes, his brow furrowed in utter confusion and a sudden, fierce protectiveness. Dr. Jack Abbot. He looks from the needle still protruding from the stabilized patient, to the chaos of his staff, and finally down to the dark, spreading stain of fresh blood soaking through your jacket.
"What the hell is going on here?" Jack demands, his voice cutting through the room like a scalpel, bringing an immediate, heavy silence. "Who is this?"
The nurse who brought you in earlier runs into the bay, her face pale as she realizes what happened. "Dr. Abbot... She’s a patient from Room 4. She was brought in hours ago for a stab wound—I left her to wait for a consult because we were backed up!"
Jack’s grip on you tightens instinctively, a flicker of pure, unadulterated fury crossing his features before it hardens into grim, professional intensity. "A patient? You let a stabbing victim bleed out in the waiting room?" He doesn't wait for her excuse. He sweeps you up into his arms, lifting you effortlessly as your head lolls against his shoulder. "Get a gurney! Now! She's hypotensive!"
When you finally drift back to consciousness, the sharp, metallic scent of the ED is still there, but the blinding pain in your side has been dulled to a low, heavy throb. You’re in a real bed now, an IV line cooling your vein, a neat row of sutures holding your skin together.
Dr. Ellis is standing at the foot of your bed, her arms crossed tightly, looking trapped between an existential crisis and professional humiliation. Jack Abbot is beside her, his face unreadable as he reviews your chart, though his eyes remain fixed on you the moment you stir.
"You're awake," Ellis says, her voice tight, trying to maintain her clinical distance but failing to hide the tremor of a shaken ego. "How did you know? My patient... the one you assaulted... how did you know it wasn't an MI?"
You look at her, a profound, heavy exhaustion dragging at your words. "The clinical signs were right there," you say softly, your voice cracking. "You were looking at the monitor; I was looking at the human being. I couldn't sit there and watch you kill him because you were too rushed to check for breath sounds. I couldn't just watch him die."
Ellis bristles, her mouth opening to deliver a defensive lecture on hospital protocol and reckless endangerment, but Jack holds up a single, firm hand, silencing her instantly without ever breaking eye contact with you.
"Enough, Ellis," Jack says calmly, his voice low and carrying a weight that makes her step back. "She’s the only reason that man is going to see his family tomorrow. You missed the deviation. She didn't. Go check on the ICU transfer."
Ellis hesitates, then turns and leaves, the curtain clicking shut behind her.
Jack steps closer to your bedside, leaning against the railing. The hard, administrative exterior he usually wears seems to soften, replaced by a quiet, searching respect. "Are you a doctor?"
A faraway, deeply sorrowful look enters your eyes. You thought of the crowded, sweltering wards in India. The relentless heat, the sheer volume of patients that taught you to diagnose with your eyes, ears, and fingertips before a machine could even be wheeled into the room. You think of how much you gave to that life. You shrug, a small, tired movement that pulls at your stitches.
You shrugged, a small, profoundly tired movement. "I was."
Jack leaned against the railing of your bed, his brow furrowed. "Which hospital did you practice in? Pitt? Mercy?"
"None," you replied softly.
He frowned, his pragmatic mind trying to solve the puzzle. "Then where did you train?"
"India. I finished my residency and practiced for three years in a high-volume surgical unit there."
Jack’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks down at your chart—at the name that doesn't have 'MD' attached to it on the hospital forms—then back at you. "But you don't practice here? With that kind of talent, with those instincts... why the hell were you sitting in my waiting room for three hours with a hole in your side?"
You shake your head, a bitter, heartbreaking smile touching your lips. "Because according to the medical boards here, my training is 'insufficient.' My experiences are invisible to them. They want me to start over. Med school, the USMLEs, another grueling residency... all of it. They don't accept my credentials."
Dr. Abbot looks genuinely stunned, the administrative reality of the broken system hitting him right in the face. "They'd have you go back to the beginning? After what I just saw you do? That’s a bureaucratic tragedy."
"I loved medicine," you say, your voice cracking as the dam finally breaks, revealing the raw, aching wound you've carried since arriving in this country. "I poured my soul into it. But I wasn't willing to throw my entire life away, to beg for a chance from a system that doesn't believe in my capabilities unless they have a US stamp on them. I have nothing left to prove to people who look at my home country and see an inferior education instead of a doctor."
Jack stares at you for a long, quiet moment. "I'm sorry," he says softly, and for the first time all night, the words actually sound like they mean something. "I am so damn sorry."
---
For the next two weeks, the memory of you hung over Jack like the oppressive, humid air before a Pittsburgh thunderstorm. He was an ED physician; he was trained to compartmentalize. Patients were puzzles to be solved, stabilized, and moved out to make room for the next crisis. But every time he stepped into a trauma bay, every time he watched a green resident hesitate over a procedure, his mind flashed back to your hands. He remembered the raw, unblinking focus in your eyes—the absolute certainty with which you had delivered that needle thoracostomy while his own staff was drowning in panic.
It wasn't just impressive; it frustrated him. It irritated him in the specific way that systemic bullshit always did.
Late one night, long after the chaotic rush of the shift had slowed to a muted hum, Jack found himself in the breakroom, staring down into a cup of lukewarm, bitter coffee. Robby was leaning against the counter across from him, rubbing the back of his neck with a weariness that matched Jack’s own.
"You’re quiet tonight," Robby noted, tossing a crumpled sugar packet toward the trash can. "Usually, when we have a shift this clean, you’re already halfway out the door."
Jack stared at his coffee, his brow furrowing into deep lines. "Do you remember the stabbing victim from a couple of weeks ago? The one who stepped into Ellis’s trauma and dropped a needle into a tension pneumo?"
Robby let out a low whistle, a grim smirk playing on his lips. "Hard to forget. Ellis is still recovering from the bruising on her ego. Why? Something wrong with her recovery?"
"No. Physically, she’s fine," Jack said, his voice dropping into a lower, heavier register. "She was a surgeon in India, Robby. Three years of high-volume practice, and probably some more. She diagnosed that pneumo by sight while Ellis was staring at a monitor trying to shock a dying heart."
Robby’s smirk faded, his expression turning serious, grounded in the reality of the institution. "Let me guess. The boards here won't clear her credentials."
"They want her to start over," Jack said, a sudden edge of sharp, biting anger cutting through his exhaustion. "The whole damn thing. MCATs, med school, matching, residency. They look at three years of saving lives in Calcutta and Mumbai and think none of that experience matters. She gave up. And honestly? I don’t blame her. It’s an insult to the work."
Robby looked at him quietly, recognizing the dangerous, stubborn spark in Jack’s eyes. "It’s a tragedy, Jack. But it’s the law. The state board isn't known for making exceptions, especially not for foreign medical graduates who walked away from the system. You can't fix the whole world."
"I’m not trying to fix the world. I'm trying to fix my department," Jack snapped, setting his coffee cup down with a sharp click. "We are drowning in this ED, Robby. We're understaffed, overworked, and losing people because we don't have enough sharp eyes on the floor. I saw her hands. She belongs in a white coat, not sitting on the sidelines, thinking about everything she could've done to help."
The next morning, Jack bypassed protocol. He pulled up the electronic medical records from two weeks prior and found your patient file. He stared at your contact information for a long time, his finger hovering over the keyboard. For a man who usually was so sure of the consequences to his actions, this felt like an uncharacteristic leap into the dark.
When your phone rang on that rainy Tuesday afternoon, you didn't expect to hear his voice.
"Is this the doctor from Room 4?"
The deep, authoritative, yet strangely warm cadence was instantly recognizable. Your breath caught in your throat, a sudden wave of defensive anxiety washing over you. "Dr. Abbot?"
"Yeah. Jack Abbot," he said. There was a brief pause, the sound of papers rustling on his end. "I've been looking over the case from two weeks ago. The man you saved walked out of the hospital today because of you. He's alive."
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the phone as you braced yourself. "I'm glad to hear that. Look, Dr. Abbot, if this is about a legal issue or hospital protocol—"
"It’s not," Jack interrupted, his voice steady and fiercely determined. "I brought your case up to my trusted colleague Robby, and I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours pulling strings with the Chief of Medicine and the credentialing committee at Pitt UMC. I’m trying to get the hospital to sponsor an institutional license for you. An exception. An accelerated residency pathway that recognizes your prior surgical training. If the board approves it, you won't be starting over."
Silence stretched over the line. You sat down on the edge of your bed, your heart hammering against your ribs, your mind struggling to process the information. It felt logical yet entirely surreal. A complete stranger—a man who had only seen you for five minutes while you were covered in your own blood—was offering to go to war with the American medical establishment for you.
"Why?" your voice was small, stripped of its usual defenses. "Why would you do that for me? You don't even know me."
"I know what a real doctor looks like," Jack said softly, his tone losing its sharp edge, replaced by a profound, unshakeable sincerity. "And I know that medicine in this country is poorer without you in it. I need people on my team who look at the patient, not the machine. But I can't file the petition without your permission. I need to know if you're willing to fight this with me."
A complex knot of emotions tightened in your chest—a mix of old, buried grief for the career you had lost, and a sudden, terrifying spark of hope. For years, you had forced yourself to accept that the part of you that loved healing was dead. And here he was, offering to breathe life back into it.
"Yes," you said, your voice steadying as the weight of the decision settled in. "Yes, Dr. Abbot. You have my permission."
"Good," Jack replied, and you could hear the ghost of a smile in his voice. "Get some rest. The board meetings are about to be brutal."
What followed was a grueling, agonizing six months of trial and tribulation.
The medical board was exactly the bureaucratic nightmare you had feared. There were endless hearings, stacks of notarized curriculum translations from your time and education in India, and hours of hostile questioning from administrators who looked at you like an insurgent trying to bypass the rules—a mere fly on the wall. They dug into your past, questioned your judgment during the trauma incident, and tried to paint your life-saving action as an act of dangerous malpractice.
Through every single evaluation, every cold, daunting boardroom meeting, Jack was there. He sat beside you in his sharp suit, his presence a solid, unyielding anchor. When a board member sharply asked why they should risk the hospital’s liability on an unverified foreign entity, Jack stood up, his voice echoing through the room with absolute authority.
"Because that 'unverified entity' performed a flawless clinical diagnosis under extreme duress while my own staff failed," Jack argued, his eyes flashing with fury. "If you reject her, you aren't protecting the public. You're depriving this city of a brilliant mind out of sheer, unadulterated arrogance."
During those six months, the professional boundaries between the two of you began to soften, blurring into something much kneadable, molding bit-by-bit into late nights at a small diner down the street from the hospital, buried under mountains of legal paperwork and old surgical textbooks Jack had brought to help you prepare for the board's practical examinations.
You learned more about him—the heavy burden he carried as a leader, the quiet griefs he kept locked behind his stern exterior, the phantom pains he got from his amputated limb, his brotherly relationship with Robby and the constant worry that he would abandon ship. And he learned about yours. He watched the way your eyes lit up when you discussed complex pathology, the way you could make complex diagnoses just by reading a patient's body language with your extensive training in homeopathy and semiology, the way your hands moved with grace even when you were just demonstrating a suture technique on a piece of fruit across a diner table.
One evening, after a particularly brutal four-hour hearing that had left you trembling with frustration, Jack drove you back to your apartment. The car was quiet, the rhythmic click of the windshield wipers the only sound against the heavy Pittsburgh rain.
"They're never going to approve it," you muttered, leaning your head against the cold glass of the window, utterly defeated. "I'm wasting your time, Jack. You should be in the ED, not playing lawyer for a stanger like me. I don't think I cn even pay all these legal and tuition fees."
Jack pulled the car to the curb and killed the engine. He turned in his seat, reaching across the console to take your hand. His fingers were warm, his grip firm and grounding, stopping the downward spiral of your thoughts instantly.
"Hey," he said, his voice low, commanding your attention. "Look at me."
You turned your head, meeting his sharp, intense gaze.
"I don't waste my time," Jack said, his thumb brushing gently across the back of your hand—a gesture that felt entirely un-clinical, entirely intimate. "And you are not a stranger—not anymore. You are the most essential thing we need in that hospital, do you understand me? We are going to win this. Not just because the ED needs you, but because..." He paused, his eyes softening as he looked at you, a rare vulnerability breaking through his armor. "Because I can't imagine walking into that department every day knowing I let them lock you out."
"And the fees and stuff? I'll pay for it."
The air in the car suddenly grew thick, like golden honey, charged with an unspoken, emotion that had been building between you for months. In your eyes, you didn't just see a mentor or an advocate; and in his own eyes, he truly saw you, cherished the core of who you were.
Two weeks later, the final envelope arrived from the state board.
You met Jack in his office, your hands shaking so violently you couldn't even tear the paper. Smiling softly, he took the letter from you, his own fingers steady as he sliced the envelope open. He scanned the legal jargon, his eyes moving rapidly down the page until they suddenly stopped.
Jack looked up at you. The tight, stressed lines around his eyes completely disappeared, replaced by a brilliant, triumphant smile that made your heart skip a beat.
"You're in," he whispered, stepping around his desk. "The institutional waiver is approved. You start your clinical orientation next month."
A gasp left your throat, your hands flying to your mouth as the sheer, overwhelming reality of it crashed over you. The years of rejection, the heartbreak, the bleeding wound in the waiting room—it all evaporated, replaced by a dazzling, blinding light.
Before you could think, you lunged forward, throwing your arms around Jack’s neck. He caught you instantly, his strong arms wrapping tightly around your waist, lifting you slightly off the floor just as he had six months ago in the trauma bay. But this time, you weren't falling into the dark.
---
The transition back into sterile scrubs and the familiar, rhythmic thrum of a hospital floor felt less like a new beginning and more like a long-overdue breath of fresh air. The institutional clinical orientation pathway was designed to test you, to poke and prod at your medical knowledge until the board was satisfied that your foreign training translated perfectly to American protocols.
To an outside observer, it might have looked like a grueling gauntlet of repetitive rounds, endless charting modules, and simulated trauma assessments. But to you, it was pure revitalization.
The first time you snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves to assist with a central line placement on your very first day, your hands didn’t shake. The muscle memory was entirely intact. You knew the exact angle of approach, the precise feel of a needle entering a vein, the steady patience required when a patient’s anatomy didn't match the textbook. You already knew how to get things done, navigating the chaos of the floor with an instinct that left the younger residents watching you in quiet, slightly intimidated awe.
Yet, you didn't treat the orientation as a mere formality. A little extra practice and a solid refresher never hurt, and more than that, you were absolutely consumed by a hunger to learn. The medical landscape had evolved, and the sheer volume of new resources at your fingertips was intoxicating. You weren't just surviving the rounds; you were thriving in them, a genuine spark of joy returning to your eyes that had been missing for far too long.
Every new piece of technology became a puzzle you couldn't wait to solve. You spent extra hours learning the nuances of the hospital’s advanced electronic charting system, mastering the diagnostic capabilities of the new point-of-care ultrasound machines, and studying the latest targeted therapeutic protocols for sepsis that had only been published months prior. There was a childlike, revitalized hunger in the way you approached every morning. You weren't proud or defensive about what you already knew; instead, you absorbed the new workflows and legal frameworks of the American system like a sponge, a genuine smile replacing the exhaustion that had lived on your face for so long.
Jack observed from a deliberate distance, giving you the space to prove yourself to the rest of the hospital without his shadow looming over you. But he was always watching. He’d catch sight of you in the hallway, passionately discussing a complex neurological case with a resident, or carefully explaining a procedure to an anxious patient with a warmth that couldn't be taught in a classroom. Every evaluation that crossed his desk from other attending physicians said the same thing: Exemplary clinical judgment. Exceptional technical skill. Unmatched work ethic.
The early-morning diner sessions didn't stop, either. They just shifted from frantic legal strategy to deep, passionate debates over clinical cases.
"You're overthinking the lab values on that sepsis patient from yesterday," Jack remarked one evening, leaning across the laminated booth as he pushed a plate of fries toward you. "In this department, speed trumps a perfect academic workup. You have to trust your gut more."
"My gut is what got me in trouble in the first place, remember?" you replied, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. "Besides, using the new rapid-multiplex PCR panel gives us the exact pathogen in an hour. Why guess when the technology is sitting right there?"
Jack let out a low, rough laugh, shaking his head. "Look at you. Two months ago you were cursing the system, and now you're an evangelist for our lab tech." His expression softened, the sharp, defensive lines of his face relaxing into something deeply personal, something intensely warm. "It suits you. Being back where you belong."
The sudden weight in his gaze made your breath hitch. The gratitude you felt for him had long since deepened into a profound, connection—one that surpassed the boundaries of a professional admiration.
By the time the orientation period drew to a close, your evaluation file was a pristine tower of glowing reviews. You had passed every practical assessment, mastered every system, and demonstrated a level of clinical excellence that made the credentialing committee's initial hesitation look entirely foolish.
On the final morning of your orientation, you were called into the main administrative office for your exit interview. The Chief of Medicine sat behind a massive oak desk, reviewing the final sign-off sheets with a look of immense satisfaction. Jack stood near the window, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, his posture deceptively casual but his attention entirely locked on you.
"Well, Doctor," the Chief began, closing your file with a decisive snap and looking up at you over his glasses with newfound respect. "The board has officially ratified your institutional waiver. Your performance reviews are, frankly, among the highest we've seen for an accelerated pathway. Under the terms of the institutional waiver, you are cleared to transition into an independent practice track. Because your training spans both general surgery and emergency medicine, we have openings in two of our affiliate networks, as well as our main campus. You've proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that your credentials belong here. Where do you want to go?"
He leaned forward, offering a warm smile. "Because of the unique nature of your sponsorship, you have a rare luxury. You can choose your placement. We have openings in internal medicine at General, an available surgical residency track at Mercy, or several specialized outpatient clinics. So, I have to ask—where would you like to officially begin your practice?"
You didn't even think. There was no need to weigh the pros and cons or consider the lighter schedules of a specialized clinic. Your mind instantly flashed back to the buzzing fluorescent lights, the chaotic rush of the double doors, and the man who had stood by you through every single boardroom battle.
"PTMC," you said, your voice ringing out with absolute, unwavering certainty. "The Emergency Department at Pittsburgh University Medical Center."
The Chief blinked, a bit surprised. "The ED? It's the most unforgiving department we have. The hours are brutal, the burnout rate is astronomical, and you've already spent years in high-volume environments."
"That's exactly why I belong there," you replied, a fierce, unshakeable pride settling into your chest. "It’s where the instincts matter most. It’s where I can do what I love most—saving lives when every second counts."
The Chief smiled, nodding in capitulation. "Then PTMC it is," the Chief smiled faintly as he signed the final page. "I figured as much as well. Dr. Abbot has already cleared a spot on his schedule for you. Welcome to the team, Doctor."
---
Your first official shift as a credentialed physician at PTMC began at 0700 on a brisk Thursday. Walking into the locker room, you stared at the crisp, navy blue scrubs waiting for you, your new hospital ID clip resting on top. Sliding the badge into place, you felt a sudden, sharp sting behind your eyes—not of grief, but of relief.
When you stepped out into the main hub of the ED, the environment was its usual brand of controlled chaos. Monitors beeped, paramedics wheeled a patient past the desk, and phones rang in a relentless rhythm.
Jack was standing by the central tracking board, holding a tablet, charting with one hand while listening to a nurse detail the morning's incoming ambulances. He looked up as the automatic doors slid shut behind you.
His movements slowed. His sharp, calculating eyes tracked you as you walked toward the desk, taking in the navy scrubs, the badge, and the quiet confidence in your posture. The stern, administrative mask he wore for the department didn't completely drop, but the sudden, intense warmth in his gaze was undeniable.
"You're late," he said bluntly as you reached the desk, though the subtle tug at the corner of his mouth gave him away. "We've got a five-car pileup coming in from the Parkway in ten minutes, and Trauma 1 needs an airway assessment."
"I'm exactly on time, Dr. Abbot," you replied, a brilliant, easy smile breaking across your face as you picked up a clipboard from the counter.
"Good," Jack said, his voice dropping into a lower, quieter register meant only for you, his eyes locking onto yours with a deep, fierce pride that made the rest of the noisy room completely fade away. "Let's see what you can do."
---
The reality of working the night shift at PTMC meant that your relationship with Jack didn’t develop over candlelit dinners or weekend getaways; it developed in the quiet, sterile middle of the night, seasoned with cold coffee and the persistent smell of isopropyl alcohol.
Working in the Pitt, you quickly learned that human connection wasn’t about grand gestures—it was about survival. There were nights when the admissions wouldn't stop, when the waiting room was a sea of coughing patients and angry family members, and you and Jack would go six hours without speaking a single word to each other. But the communication was there anyway. It was in the way he would glance over the divider of the central workstation, meet your eyes for a split second while a patient was screaming in the background, and give a tiny, barely perceptible nod. It was a silent I see you, you're doing fine, keep going.
The residents and nurses stopped looking at you like an outsider and started treating you like a fixture. One night, Santos was struggling to place an arterial line in an incredibly edematous patient, her frustration radiating off her in tight, sharp movements. Instead of taking over or letting Al-Hashimi step in with her usual administrative bluntness, you pulled up a stool, sat down next to her, and quietly placed your hand over hers to steady the needle guide.
"Feel the bounce," you told her, your voice low and devoid of the typical attending condescension. "Don't look at the ultrasound for a second. Just feel it."
When the blood flashed in the hub, Trinity let out a breath she’d been holding for three minutes and looked up at you with a messy, tired smile that lacked any of her previous academic armor. It was an unspoken acceptance. You were part of the floor now.
The transition from colleagues to whatever you were becoming happened in the liminal spaces—the thirty minutes after the morning handoff when the sun was too bright and your eyes burned from the fluorescent glare.
The diner down the block became the place where you learned who Jack Abbot was when he wasn't carrying the weight of a failing medical system. You found out he grew up just outside Scranton, that he had a terrible habit of chewing on the plastic caps of cheap pens when he was stressed, and that he actually preferred tea over coffee but drank the hospital sludge out of sheer necessity. He learned that you missed the specific, cold and chaotic noise of the mornings in India, that you still calculated currency conversions in your head when buying groceries, and that the scar on your side from the robbery still twinged when the weather changed.
One morning in late April, you were sitting in the corner booth, both of you too tired to eat the eggs rapidly going cold on your plates. You were tracing a crack in the laminate table with your fingernail, your mind drifting back to an old patient you’d lost during residency in India—a young boy whose face had suddenly flashed in your mind during a pediatric code an hour ago. The grief of medicine is cumulative; it sits in your joints until a random Tuesday brings it all to the surface.
Jack watched you for a long time without saying anything. He didn't offer a clinical platitude or tell you to compartmentalize. He just reached across the table, took your wrist between his thumb and forefinger, and gently pulled your hand away from the crack. He turned your palm up and traced the lines there with his thumb, his skin rough and warm.
"You're doing that thing where you're hiding inside your own head," he said softly, his voice rough from hours of barking orders over monitors. We don't forget the hard ones. But you don't have to carry the weight by yourself."
You leaned against him for a brief moment, the heavy wool of his coat cold against your cheek. "How long did it take you to figure that out?"
"I'm still working on it," Jack admitted, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "It's just easier when I'm not the only one looking at the room."
"I'm just tired, Jack," you murmured, looking at his fingers against yours.
"I know the difference between tired and lonely," he replied, his eyes steady on yours. He didn't let go of your hand. Instead, he leaned back against the vinyl booth, his posture losing its rigid, military stiffness. "Come back to my place today. The radiator in the spare room stopped clanking, and I bought that weird bread you like."
His apartment was small, cluttered with stacks of unread medical journals and old jazz records he never had time to listen to. That afternoon, there was no pretense of romance or professional boundaries. You both took off your shoes at the door, washed the hospital grime off your faces, and crawled into his bed fully clothed in your t-shirts and sweatpants.
The room was dark, the heavy curtains blocking out the noon sun, but you could hear the distant, muffled sound of Pittsburgh traffic below—buses shifting gears, people living normal lives in the daylight. Jack rolled onto his side, pulling you against his chest from behind. His arm was heavy across your waist, his breath steady and warm against the back of your neck. He just held you tight enough that you could feel the rhythmic, unhurried thump of his heart against your shoulder blades.
In that darkness, you were just two people who spent their nights looking into the dark, finding a strange, quiet peace in the fact that you didn't have to look at it alone anymore.
Sharing spaces happened just as naturally, a slow blending of two lives that had been disrupted by the same profession. By June, the routine had solidified into something comfortable and domestic. Because your schedules were inverted from the rest of the world, your days became a quiet, separate routine. The first time Jack stayed at your apartment, it was purely out of bone-deep exhaustion after a massive influx of admissions. When you unlocked the door, he looked so worn out, with deep shadows under his eyes, that you simply handed him a spare blanket, pulled the blackout curtains shut, and lay down on the other side of the bed. There was no pressure, just the comfort of another person who understood the exact nature of your exhaustion. You kept a bottle of your shampoo in his shower; he kept a spare set of car keys on your kitchen counter.
You slept for hours, waking up in the late afternoon when the city outside was winding down its day and yours was just beginning. It became a regular pattern. Soon, there was a spare change of clothes in your closet, his running shoes by the door, and a specific brand of coffee in the pantry. On your days off, you’d sit on his living room floor sorting through old medical journals while he put together a simple dinner, an old jazz record playing quietly in the background. You saw him without the fierce, commanding armor of the ED director—you saw him fumble with a recipe, sigh over bills, and stretch out his lower back after a rough day.
There was a morning where he stood in your small kitchen, uncharacteristically messy in gray sweatpants, trying to figure out how to make a dish you’d mentioned missing from home, completely burning the garlic in the process. You’d laughed at him—a real, genuine laugh—and he’d just leaned against the counter, looking at you with a soft, crinkled smile that you never saw him use at PTMC.
It was an unhurried, comfortable sort of affection. He would walk past you while you were reading, rest a hand on your shoulder for a second to acknowledge you, or press a brief kiss to the top of your head before heading to the kitchen. He wasn't a man who loved loudly, but he was consistent. He showed it in the way he adjusted the thermostat because he knew you got cold easily, or the way he listened to your stories about India with a genuine, quiet curiosity.
One evening, right before the night shift started, you were standing by his kitchen window, looking at the city lights beginning to prick through the dusk. Jack came up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. He smelled like fresh soap and the cedarwood deodorant he always used before a long run.
"Robby asked me today if we were going to report this to HR," Jack muttered into your neck, his lips brushing your skin.
You laughed quietly, leaning back into him. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him HR could go fuck themselves," he said, a rare, genuine chuckle vibrating through his chest.
"I used to count down the minutes until the morning shift arrived," he murmured, looking out at the street, his chin resting gently on your shoulder. "Just waiting to get out of here, dreading coming back."
You turned around in his arms, looping your hands loosely around his neck, looking up at him. "And now?"
Jack smiled, the sharp, tired lines around his eyes softening completely. He leaned down and kissed you—a slow, and now familiar gesture that felt like an established routine, a quiet understanding between two people who had found exactly where they belonged.
"Now," he said, his arms tightening around you to hold you close, "I'm in no hurry for the sun to come up."
He turned you around in his arms, his hands moving up to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away a smudge of mascara under your eye. He looked down at you, his sharp eyes completely soft, completely yours. "Let's go to work, doctor."
---
The rain didn’t fall in drops; it descended in a heavy, silver sheet that blurred the neon OPEN sign of the diner into a bleeding pink smear against the wet asphalt. Your shift had ended an hour ago, but the sterile, metallic ache of the ED still hummed in your veins. You stood in the narrow alley beside the restaurant, your back pressed hard against the damp brick, your fingers trembling as you tried to scroll on your phone. The screen flared once against the gloom, casting sharp shadows over your face, before the you clicked it off.
Lately, inside that hospital, you were drowning. It had started with the small things—a quiet glance exchanged between Javadi and Mel when Jack mindlessly handed you his personal stethoscope at the central desk. Then came Dana’s dry, clipped remark about your schedule being "perfectly synchronized" with the attending rotation. It wasn't malice; it was worse. It was the casual, institutional consensus that you were Abbot’s project. The foreign clinical fellow who got a second chance because the department chief fought the board, and who now repaid him in the dark.
The realization had burrowed into your chest like a slow, freezing needle over the last three weeks.
The heavy metal door of the diner clanged shut. Jack stepped into the alley, pulling his wool coat tight against his throat. He looked gray with exhaustion—his eyes shadowed from a fifteen-hour run of critical trauma—but the sharp, defensive lines of his face softened the moment he saw you through the mist. He moved toward you with the easy, unthinking gravity that had defined his presence in your life for months.
"You didn't order," he said, his deep voice carrying over the steady rush of the rain. He reached out, his hand instinctively rising to brush a wet strand of hair from your cheek. "The waitress asked if we wanted the corner booth, but you walked straight through—"
"Don't touch me, Jack. Please."
The words cut through the downpour like a scalpel. Your hand snapped up, knocking his wrist away, nearly dropping your phone into a puddle between your shoes.
Jack froze. His hand remained suspended in the empty, gray air for a fraction of a second before dropping heavily to his side. His expression shifted instantly—the exhausted boyfriend vanishing, replaced by the analytical, guarded director of emergency medicine. "What's wrong? Did the handoff on the coronary case go sideways?"
"The coronary case is fine," you said, a brittle, breathless laugh tearing from your throat. You crossed your arms tightly, digging your fingers into your own elbows as if you could physically hold yourself together. "They all know, Jack. Dana, Trinity, Lena... the whole floor. They look at me across the trauma bay and they don't see a doctor who managed a fifty-bed surgical ward in a different country. They see an outsider who got a backdoor pass. They see a charity case who's sleeping with the boss."
Jack let out a slow, disciplined breath through his nose—the exact tone he used when a resident panicked during a code. "This is an ED, it’s a fishbowl. People talk. You can't let Santos’s mouth change the narrative. Your charts are flawless. Your metrics—"
"This isn't about my damn metrics!" you shouted, the raw, pent-up frustration of six months of silence finally fracturing. The rain stung your face, mixing with the hot, angry tears you had tried so desperately to swallow. "This is about the fact that I gave up my country, my pride, and my identity to stand in your department and have people whisper about why I'm really there. And the worst part? The most humiliating part? I don't even know how to defend myself because I don't know what we are."
Jack blinked, a rare, genuine flicker of vulnerability breaking through his stoic exterior. "What do you mean? We're here. We've been doing this every day."
"Doing what, Jack?" You stepped out from the shelter of the brick wall, moving directly into his space, your finger digging into the damp wool of his lapel. "We share a bed. I have a life in your apartment. We eat breakfast at 0800 and we go to war at 1900. But you have never once named it. You’ve never defined it. Am I a convenience because our shifts match? Am I just a legal victory you wanted to score against the state board? You brought me back to life, Jack, but you left me in this limbo where I’m completely dependent on your silence!"
"That's not fair," Jack said, his voice dropping into a lower, darker register as his own defensive walls slammed down. He stepped back, his chest rising and falling in heavy, agitated breaths against the cold air. "I went to the board because you belonged in a white coat. That was medicine. What happened after... that wasn't a project. You know how I feel."
"No, I don't!" you wept, the anger completely breaking into grief. "Because you don't say it. You just look at me with those tired eyes and expect me to know where I fit in your world. I spent years in a system that told me I didn't matter because of where I came from, and now I'm in a relationship where I don't matter enough to be given a label. I can't do this. I won't be your secret, and I won't be your... assistant in the dark anymore."
The silence that followed was deafening, filled only by the rhythmic, heavy slosh of a distant bus on the wet avenue. Jack stared at you, his jaw tight, his knuckles white where his hands were shoved deep into his pockets. He looked like a man who had just watched a monitor go flat without warning.
"I'm going home," you whispered, the fire draining out of you, leaving an empty, freezing hollow behind your ribs. "I'll request a transfer to the Mercy affiliate. It's better for the department. It's better for me."
You turned your back on him. Your shoes splashed through the shallow water as you took three long, agonizing steps toward the street, your head down against the downpour, your heart breaking because you knew that once you walked out of this alley, there was no coming back.
Before you could reach the curb, a firm, heavy grip caught your forearm.
In one fluid, unyielding motion, Jack hauled you back against him. He didn't let go; he spun you around and pulled your back flush against his chest, his large arms wrapping securely around your ribs like an iron vice, pinning you against his broad frame. You could feel the violent, erratic thumping of his heart straight through his heavy coat into your shoulder blades.
"Let go of me, Jack—" you choked out, struggling against his weight, but he was an immovable wall of heat and wool in the freezing rain.
"Shut up and listen to me," Jack rasped directly into your ear. His voice was broken, rough, and laced with a desperate, naked panic you had never heard from him before. He buried his face into the curve of your neck, his lips brushing your cold skin with every shaky breath.
"You think you're a convenience?" he whispered, his grip tightening until it almost hurt, anchoring you both to the wet pavement. "You think I did all of this because I wanted a project? A pity case? God, you are so incredibly brilliant with a scalpel, but you are completely blind out here."
You stopped fighting, your breath coming in ragged hitches as the sheer force of his emotion pinned you in place.
"I haven't defined it because I am terrified," Jack confessed, the words tearing out of him like something he’d kept locked behind an iron door for a decade. "When I lost my wife... I told myself that the ED was the only thing I had left. I built walls so high that no one could get close enough to make me feel that kind of ruin again. And then you walked into my trauma bay covered in blood, dropped a needle into a man's chest, and completely tore everything down without even trying."
A hot tear—you didn't even know if it was your or his at this point—slid down your neck, swallowed by the rain. Jack’s breath was uneven, warm against your ear.
"I don't look at you and see a fellow," he murmured, his chest shuddering against your back. "I don't look at you and see a charity case. I look at you and see the only reason I want to come to work every night. I look at you and see the only person who makes this city feel like a home instead of a graveyard. Everyone in that department knows about us because I can't hide the way I look at you, even when I'm trying to be the responsible attending. I don't want anyone else. I haven't looked at anyone else since the day I met you."
The anger that had fueled your tirade completely vanished, leaving you raw, exposed, and trembling. You reached down, your fingers wrapping around his thick forearms where they were locked across your midsection.
"Jack..." you whispered, your voice cracking.
"Don't go to Mercy," he said, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck—a quiet, desperate plea. "Don't leave my floor. And don't leave my house. You are whatever you want to be to mo. If you need a name for this... if you need the words... then you are my partner. In the hospital, out of it, everywhere. You're the doctor I trust with my patients, and you're the only person I trust with myself. I'm sorry I took so long to say it."
You turned slowly within his arms, his grip shifting but never releasing you, until you were facing him in the gray morning light. His hair was plastered to his forehead by the rain, his sharp eyes wet and completely open, his usual stoic defenses lying in pieces on the concrete between you.
You looked at him—this difficult, stubborn, brilliant man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders but was willing to drop all of it just to hold onto you. You reached up, your wet hands cupping his jaw, your thumb wiping away the water from his cheek.
"You're a terrible communicator, Dr. Abbot," you whispered, a small, watery smile finally breaking through your tears.
"I know," Jack said, his lips twisting into a faint, relieved line. He leaned down, closing the remaining distance between you, and kissed you.
---
The cold rain continued to hammer against the alley pavement, but the space between you and Jack had completely transformed. The heavy, suffocating silence of a moment ago was gone, replaced by a quiet, shared urgency. Jack didn't let go of your hand as he reached back to open the diner’s side door, calling out a quick request for the orders to be packed to go. When the heavy plastic bag was slid across the counter, damp with steam and smelling of butter and black coffee, Jack grabbed it, threw a crumpled bill down, and guided you out toward his parked car.
There was a hushed, frantic energy to the ride back to his apartment. Neither of you spoke, but the silence wasn't angry anymore—it was charged, thick with the lingering aftershock of the fight and the sudden, fierce relief of the reconciliation. The windshield wipers clicked in a frantic, sweeping rhythm against the downpour, mirroring the rapid, uneven pace of your breathing. Jack kept one hand firmly on the steering wheel and the other locked around yours over the center console, his grip unyielding, as if letting go for even a second might cause you to vanish back into the gray Pittsburgh mist.
By the time Jack unlocked his apartment door, you were both shivering, the damp cold of the spring rain finally penetrating your heavy layers. The apartment was quiet, smelling faintly of old paper, cedarwood, and the familiar, grounding scent of his home. Jack dropped the takeout bag onto the kitchen table with a heavy thud, his eyes instantly tracking the way you shivered as you unclipped your wet hospital ID badge.
"Shower. Now," he muttered, his voice rough but incredibly gentle. "Before we both catch a cold and end up on the wrong side of our own triage desk."
The space quickly filled with thick, rolling clouds of hot steam as Jack turned the faucet, the spray rattling against the tile. The movements were hurried, born of a mutual need to strip away the damp, blood-stained armor of the hospital shift and the raw emotional debris of the alleyway.
As you reached down to help him with his heavy trousers, your movements naturally slowed, becoming deliberate and deeply attentive. Jack leaned heavily against the sturdiness of the porcelain sink, his hands gripping the edge as you carefully helped him unstrap and remove his prosthetic leg. It was a routine you had navigated before, but today, in the wake of his raw confession about Sarah and the walls he had built, the action felt profoundly intimate. You handled the specialized sleeve and the lightweight titanium structure with a quiet, reverent familiarity, setting it aside safely against the wall where the steam wouldn't affect the components.
When you looked up, Jack was watching you, his sharp eyes dark and unblinking through the rising mist. There was no administrative mask left, no stoic pride—just a man completely exposed, letting you see the full reality of his life, his history, and his physical vulnerability.
He reached out, his large, warm hands finding your waist and lifting you gently into the tub under the cascading water. The heat hit your skin with an intense, stinging relief, washing away the chill of the morning. Jack stepped in behind you, balancing his weight with an ease born of years of adaptation, his strong arms immediately wrapping around you from behind to pull your back flush against his chest.
The shower became a slow, quiet ritual of restoration. You turned around in his embrace, taking the bar of soap from his hands. Standing under the spray, Jack closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours as the water drenched his hair. With slow, attentive movements, you worked up a rich lather, smoothing it over his broad shoulders, down the rigid lines of his back, and down to the smooth, healed tissue of his residual limb. Your touch was entirely professional in its execution but deeply tender in its intent, acknowledging the history written into his skin without a single trace of pity. Jack let out a long, shuddering breath, his forehead dropping onto your wet shoulder as your hands moved over him, his fingers digging gently into your hips as if anchoring himself in the middle of a current.
"You're too good to me," he whispered against your wet skin, the water streaming down his face, blurring whatever lines of exhaustion remained.
"I'm exactly as good to you as you deserve, Jack," you murmured, tilting your head up to meet his mouth.
The kiss tasted of clean water and warm skin, his hands sliding down to your hips to hold you steady against him. The static of the ED, the whispers of the residents, the ghost of his past—it all washed down the drain, leaving just the heat of the shower and the heavy, electric pull between you. He rinsed the soap from your body with his hands, his movements careful and reverent, before wrapping a large, rough towel around your shoulders and another around his own waist.
The walk from the steaming bathroom to his bedroom was quiet, the apartment still shaded by the heavy blackout curtains you had pulled hours before the shift ended. The cold air of the hallway made you press closer to his side, your hand resting against his bare, warm shoulder as he used a crutch to navigate the short distance to the bed.
When he slid onto the mattress, discarding the towel, the space felt entirely insulated from the rest of the world. Jack propped himself against the pillows, while you quickly dried your hair and followed him into the bed.
He didn't let a second of space remain between you. His arm reached out, thick and strong, hauling you closer until your chest met his. There was an unhurried deliberation to the way he looked down at you in the shadows. The rigid, defensive posture he carried through the corridors of the hospital was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, fierce intensity that was entirely unshielded.
When he kissed you this time, it felt like a continuation of everything he had confessed in the alleyway—deep, steady, and possessing a weight that left you breathless. His mouth was warm, parted slightly, drinking in the quiet sighs that slipped from your throat. His large hands moved over your body with an incredible, patient reverence, his palms rough against the soft curves of your waist and hips, mapping out the skin as if tracing a path he never intended to leave.
You reached up, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, pulling him down to deepen the press of his lips. Every touch between you felt electric, amplified by the months of professional restraint and the sudden, raw honesty that had broken the dam between you. There was no distance here, no hierarchy, and no rush.
He shifted his weight over you, his movements careful and balanced, his focus entirely locked onto your face. When he parted your thighs, his touch was gentle yet unyielding, a silent question answered by the way you arched into his hand. As he pushed into you, a sharp, ragged breath caught in your throat, your fingers instantly digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders to anchor yourself against the sudden, overwhelming wave of heat.
The rhythm he set was slow and deeply deliberate, a patient kind of devotion that prioritized the sheer intensity and connection over everything else. He moved with a powerful grace, his chest pressing down against yours with every downward stroke, forcing the air from your lungs in quiet, hitching gasps. You wrapped your legs tightly around him, locking him to you, meeting his pace with a fierce, instinctive matching of your own that drew a low, guttural groan from deep in his chest.
Jack looked down at you in the dim light, his sharp eyes completely unshielded, watching your face as he possessed you. He took your jaw in his hand, his thumb brushing your lower lip, his chest heaving against yours.
He held you by the hips, his large hands grounding you, his touch possessive but incredibly tender. When he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, you could feel the small, involuntary tremors in his muscles—the physical release of a man who had spent ten years holding his breath, finally letting it go.
"I've got you, Jack," you whispered into the quiet dark of the room, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. "I'm right here."
"I know," he rasped, his voice thick with an emotion he didn't try to hide anymore. He lifted his head, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering cadence that felt like a vow, his arms wrapping around your back to press you so tightly against him that you could feel the steady, unhurried thumping of his heart against your ribs.
Jack didn't look away from you. Even as the pleasure began to tighten the lines of his face, his sharp eyes stayed fixed on yours, searching your expression, reading the shifting patterns of your breath like a map. He reached up, his fingers locking tightly with yours, pinning your hands to the mattress beside your head as he drove deeper, his body completely consuming yours in the dim light.
"Look at me," he rasped, his voice rough, stripped of all its usual authority and reduced to something entirely primal. His forehead came down to rest against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "You're it for me. You hear me? Just you."
The raw vulnerability of his voice sent a sudden, beautiful ache straight through your center. You swallowed his name as he pulled you even closer, his movements becoming faster, more urgent as the friction and heat built to an unbearable tension under the heavy quilt. The rhythm broke into something desperate, a mutual clinging as the world outside narrowed down to the space between your heartbeats. When the release finally came, it was a long, shuddering wave that left you both breathless and trembling, clinging to each other in the dark as if the floor had dropped out from beneath the bed.
You were lying on your side, tucked securely into the curve of Jack’s body, your head resting in the familiar hollow of his chest. His arm was wrapped heavily around your waist, his hand idling in your hair, his long fingers gently untangling the strands in a slow, mindless pattern. His breathing had slowed to a deep, perfectly regular rhythm, his heart beating a steady, comforting thud against your cheek.
---
The deep, unhurried rhythm of Jack’s breathing against your temple eventually anchored you to the quiet room, the heavy atmosphere keeping the damp chill of the Pittsburgh spring at bay. For a long time, neither of you moved. The silence between you wasn't the awkward, cautious kind; it was the settled peace of two people who had finally cleared the wreckage of their pasts and found a shared footing. The faint scent of the diner coffee and the lingering warmth of the shower faded, leaving only the familiar, grounded reality of his skin against yours.
As the afternoon light began to shift outside, casting longer, cooler shadows through the edges of the blackout curtains, the external world slowly began to reassert itself. A phone buzzed on the nightstand—a brief, low vibration that signaled the endless, rolling machinery of Pittsburgh University Medical Center was still turning, completely indifferent to the truce you had just brokered in the alley.
Jack stirred first, his long fingers trailing down your spine in a lazy, reluctant farewell before he shifted his weight. The bed creaked as he sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, the gray lines of exhaustion returning to his features but lacking the sharp, bitter edge they had carried that morning. He reached for his prosthesis, strapping it back on with the practiced, mechanical efficiency that defined his professional life, his movements smooth and devoid of the hesitation he might have shown months ago.
"The 1900 shift is going to be brutal," he murmured, his voice rough and low from sleep as he looked back down at you. He leaned over, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Take another hour. I'll get some fresh coffee started."
The transition back into the navy scrubs and the bright, unyielding glare of the ED hub felt different this time. When you walked through the sliding glass doors at ten till seven, the chaos was exactly the same—telephones ringing in a discordant chorus, paramedic radios crackling with incoming trauma alerts, and the familiar, sharp scent of antiseptic filling the air. But the internal weight had shifted.
Dana was already at the desk, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she reviewed the nursing schedules. She looked up as you approached, her sharp eyes scanning your face, tracking the quiet, unbothered confidence in your posture. You didn't avoid her gaze, and you didn't look around for Jack. You simply reached for your stethoscope, clipped your ID badge to your pocket, and stepped up to the central tracking board.
"What do we have in the lobby, Dana?" you asked, your voice steady and clear.
Dana stared at you for a long second, the corner of her mouth twitching in a way that might have been a smile if she weren't the toughest charge nurse in the state. She slid a tablet toward you. "Three abdominal pains waiting for beds, a suspected femur fracture in Bay 4, and Santos needs a second pair of eyes on an atypical cardiac presentation in Trauma 2. Welcome back, Doctor."
There were no whispers that night. Or if there were, they no longer had the power to reach you. Over the next few hours, the department moved with the fluid, high-velocity precision that only happened when the staff was entirely locked in. You worked side by side with Trinity, guiding her through a complex differential diagnosis without an ounce of defensiveness, earning a quiet, grateful nod from the resident before she moved on to her next admission. You crossed paths with Dennis Whitaker near the radiology tech station, swapping a brief, professional assessment of a chest film before running in opposite directions.
Jack remained the attending—stern, demanding, and utterly focused on the flow of the room. He didn't afford you a single favor, and he didn't soften his critiques when a resident’s documentation fell short. But twice during the grueling six-hour rush, when the ambulance bay doors opened to reveal three simultaneous arrivals from a highway collision, his eyes found yours across the crowded, frantic hub. There was no hidden agenda in his look, no secret language meant to exclude the rest of the floor. It was simply the profound, unshakeable trust of a man who knew exactly who was holding the other end of the line.
At 0300, during the brief, liminal lull when the department finally caught its breath, you found yourself standing by the medication cart, logging a continuous infusion. The floor was quiet, the monitors humming a low, steady baseline.
"You handled that pelvic crush perfectly," a deep voice said from behind you.
You didn't start. You kept your eyes on the screen as you finished the log, a faint, private smile touching your lips before you turned around. Jack was leaning against the counter, a fresh cup of the hospital’s terrible coffee in his hand, his eyes fixed on you with that same quiet reverence from the bedroom.
"I learned from the best, Dr. Abbot," you said softly, keeping your tone professional but letting the warmth bleed through the words.
"No," Jack replied, his voice dropping into that lower, intimate register that belonged only to the dark hours. He reached out, his hand hovering near yours for a fraction of a second, close enough that you could feel the heat of his skin without breaking the rules of the floor. "You brought your own light into this place. I just helped you turn the switches back on."
You looked at him—the hard-edged, brilliant attending of the ED, and the man who had held you in the quiet dark until the rain stopped. The limbo was gone. You were a physician of Pittsburgh University Medical Center, standing on your own two feet, practicing the medicine you loved with the man who had refused to let the world lose you.
"Let's check on Bay 4," you whispered, turning back to the tracking board as the doors of the ambulance bay whistled open once more, ready for whatever the night had left to throw at you.
The humid, concrete-choked air of the neighborhood is thick with the smell of exhaust and rotting trash, but for you, it’s the smell of a cage. You stand on the cracked sidewalk, your pulse a frantic, irregular rhythm in your throat. Your tanned complexion—it’s a neon sign for the local predators. You try to keep your eyes down, to make yourself invisible, but the predator doesn't care about your compliance.
There are four of them. They move with the restless energy of teenage boys who have traded their childhoods for the perceived armor of a neighborhood gang. You don't fight back. You know the math: you are one person against four sets of calloused knuckles and the dull, threatening weight of cold steel tucked into their oversized hoodies.
When the lead boy reaches out and yanks the strap of your purse, the force of it jerks your shoulder painfully, nearly snapping your arm. You stagger, letting go—you have to. He dumps the bag, and the contents spill across the oil-stained concrete like a pathetic offering.
Then your blood turns to ice.
One of them steps into your personal space—so close you can smell the stale cigarette smoke and cheap cologne clinging to him. He doesn't just want your money. He wants to show he's in charge in this moment. He runs a hand down your back, his touch lingering, invasive, and designed to strip you of your agency. You stand frozen, a deer caught in the headlights of a predator that knows you're too terrified to scream. Your breath hitches, a jagged, broken sound in your chest, and you clench your jaw until the muscles ache.
Then, the aggressive, rhythmic siren of a patrol car cuts through the street noise.
"Hey vatos, what's going on here? Why are you making this pretty lady's day harder, huh?"
Officer Sammy Bryant’s voice is like grinding gravel—authoritative, weary, and dangerous. You don't dare look up. You're vibrating with the residual shock of that touch, your skin crawling where he grabbed you.
Then, the audacity—the kid, eyes wild with the sociopathic indifference of his crew, doesn't even look away from you. He flashes a grin at Sammy, then turns back to you, his hand darting out to slap your backside with a hard, stinging smack.
The sound is sickeningly sharp in the quiet street. You flinch, a pathetic, wounded sound escaping your throat, and you hunch your shoulders, trying to fold yourself into a ball, trying to disappear.
"Hey!"
Sammy’s roar is primal. In a blur of motion, he’s across the distance, his hand clamping onto the boy's neck with such violence it knocks the wind out of the kid. He slams him against the hood of the cruiser—a harsh, metallic thud—and the sound of the handcuffs ratcheting shut is like a gunshot.
"You're coming with me, you nasty little gangbanger. You don't get to touch a lady like that, you understand? Ever. Not on my watch."
Nate is off like a shot, chasing down the one who bolted. Sammy doesn't look at his partner; he’s focused entirely on you, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a protectiveness that feels almost alien in this city.
He turns to you, his demeanor shifting into that practiced, calm mask of the beat cop. "Ma'am, I'm sorry you had to go through that. Care to let me in on the situation?"
You don't answer. You can't. You drop to your knees, your movements jerky and uncoordinated. You reach for your things, your fingers shaking so hard you struggle to grip the smooth plastic of your phone and the dented tube of chapstick. Everything feels tainted, like the grime of the street has permanently marked your life.
"Ma'am, you can press charges on those boys, I can testify as a witness—"
"No!" You choke out the word, your voice cracking. You look up, and the sight of your own reflection in his eyes—gaunt, terrified, hollow—is worse than the robbery itself. "I mean, no. I won't press charges."
Sammy looks like you just slapped him. "But they—"
"They're always doing this," you say, the words spilling out in a rush, desperate and irrational. "I'm practically used to it. They know where I live. They call me at 3:00 AM, just to breathe into the phone, just to tell me they're watching my window. If I put them in a cage, I’m never leaving my house again. I'm not risking my life for a pair of headphones and some loose change."
You hold his gaze, defying him to argue, your chest heaving. The silence stretches, heavy with the weight of the reality you live in—a reality where the law is a suggestion, but the threats are absolute.
Sammy’s jaw works, a vein pulsing in his temple as he digests the terror in your eyes. He knows. He’s seen this a thousand times.
"Look," he says, his voice dropping, losing that sharp, professional edge, "not reporting this is gonna make it worse. Whether or not you press charges, these boys are gonna be back on the street, and they're gonna know you talked to us. Don't you want to sleep at night knowing there’s a patrol car cruising your block, ready to help, rather than sitting in the dark waiting for them to break your door down?"
You look away, picking at the ragged, bitten skin around your cuticles until they bleed. The sting is grounding. "I know," you whisper, the lie tasting like ash. "But I... I just can't."
Sammy looks at you for a long, grueling second, his face a mask of restrained fury. He realizes he can't save you from yourself today. He pulls out his notepad, rips off a card, and presses it into your hand, his fingers lingering for a fraction of a second, his grip firm.
"Keep this. If they show up, if you hear a sound, if you even think they’re around—you call me. Don't think, just call. You understand?"
He stares at you until you nod, a weak, shallow motion. He leaves you there, kneeling on the dirty pavement with your spilled life, and you watch the cruiser pull away, feeling the terrifying, fragile silence of the street.
---
Two months later, the neon hum of the bar is a constant, headache-inducing buzz. You’re bone-tired, the kind of exhaustion that settles deep into your marrow after balancing two jobs, but you keep moving. Your hands are slick with condensation from pint glasses and the sticky residue of spilled mixers. You’ve become a master of the mask—the bright, professional smile, the effortless banter—that hides the fact that you still jump every time the back door of the restaurant swings open.
Then, a familiar face walks in.
He’s out of uniform, wearing a dark T-shirt that looks a size too small and jeans that have seen better days. Even in the dim, amber light of the bar, you recognize the set of his jaw, the heavy, weary slope of his shoulders. Officer Sammy Bryant. He looks like a man who has been hollowed out and left to weather the storm.
He slides onto a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the loud, laughing groups. You approach, keeping your expression neutral, a practiced mask of hospitality. "What can I get you tonight?"
He looks up, and the sight of him hits you like a physical blow. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with a raw, jagged exhaustion that goes far beyond a bad shift. There’s a tremor in his hands when he leans on the mahogany. You don't let a flicker of recognition cross your face; you just wait, a bartender listening to another lost soul.
"Just a bourbon. Neat," he mutters, his voice raspy, stripped of the commanding authority he held on that sidewalk long ago.
You pour it, sliding the glass over. "Long shift?"
He lets out a sound that isn't quite a laugh—it’s more of a jagged exhale. "The longest. Everything’s just... it’s all turning to ash, honestly."
You lean in slightly, wiping the counter, giving him the space he clearly needs to unravel. "I'm sorry to hear that. You want to talk about it?"
He stares into the amber liquid, and you see it—the glistening, hot shimmer of tears he’s fought to keep at bay all day. "My life's fallen apart, it’s completely gone. My wife—my ex-wife now—she told me she was pregnant. I was so happy, I thought we were fixing things. Then I found out she was cheating on me the whole time."
He takes a shaky breath, his throat working. "My partner... Nate... he was murdered. Right in front of me. I couldn't do anything. And it haunts me everytime I close my eyes. When I see his wife. When I see his kid. " His voice drops to a jagged whisper. "My ex—Tammi, kicked me out of the house. My house. I’m still paying the mortgage, but she’s the one living there, with her new photographer boyfriend, trying to keep my son from me. She named him Nate. After my partner. She knows exactly what that does to me, and she uses it."
He looks up at you, his eyes wide and pleading, stripped of all armor. "I love that kid so much. I’d do anything for him, but God, I am so alone. I feel like I'm drowning, and there’s no one to pull me up."
Your heart aches with a dull, thrumming intensity. This is the man who stood between you and the darkness, the man who gave you a business card and a sliver of hope when you thought you were doomed.
As the bar begins to empty, the silence between you grows heavy. He reaches for his wallet, his movements sluggish. "Put it on my tab, please."
You reach out, placing a firm, gentle hand over his to stop him. "No. It’s on the house."
He frowns, trying to pull his hand away, his pride warring with his exhaustion. "I can pay. I don't need charity."
"It's not charity," you say softly, your voice steady and warm. You meet his eyes, letting the mask slip just enough for him to see the truth. "You saved me once, Officer. You stood up for me when I couldn't stand for myself and you gave me hope. This is the least I can do."
His breath hitches. He stares at you,eyebrows furrowed when the recognition dawns slowly, replacing the haze of his grief. The air in the bar seems to shift, settling around the two of you.
You quickly reach for a napkin and a pen, scribbling your name and number on it. "I know this sounds forward," you say, your voice rushing slightly, "but... I know how hard it is to be a parent, especially when you're going through all this. I'd love to babysit for little Nate. Any time you need a break, or just need to know he's safe, you have my number. Please, let me help you."
He takes the napkin, his fingers brushing yours, and for the first time, a ghost of a smile touches his lips.
"I'd love to babysit for him," you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper. "Anytime you need a break, or just need to know he's safe. I'm there."
He lets out a shaky, disbelieving laugh, and for the first time, a ghost of a smile touches his lips. It’s tiny, fragile, but it’s there. He nods, looking at you like you’ve just handed him a miracle.
As he prepares to leave, he lingers at the counter. He shifts his weight, looking at the floor and then back to you, clearly battling his own nerves.
"Look," he starts, his voice low and hesitant, "I know... I'm a mess. I'm freshly divorced, I'm barely keeping my head above water, and I know this is probably the last thing you'd want to deal with, so—and I mean this—if you say no, I completely get it. No pressure, really. But... would you maybe want to get dinner with me sometime? When things aren't quite so chaotic? I just... it was really nice talking with you."
You feel your breath hitch. Seeing him so vulnerable, so afraid of rejection after everything he’s lost, makes your heart swell. You smile, and for once, it doesn't require a mask. "I'd like that, Sammy. I'd really like that."
---
The chime of your phone—a sharp, insistent trill against the quiet of your apartment—startled you from a light doze. You snatched it up, seeing Sammy’s name lighting up the screen. It was the first time he’d reached out since that night at the bar, and your heart gave a traitorous, hopeful thump.
"Hey," you answered, your voice soft.
"I—God, I am so sorry," Sammy’s voice was strained, frayed at the edges. The background noise was a chaotic blur of sirens and radio static. "I know this is a massive ask, and I know it's last minute, but I’ve been called out on a case that isn’t going to wrap up for hours. I don’t have anyone else. Can you... would you be willing to watch Nate tonight?"
"Of course," you said, without a second’s hesitation, already reaching for your keys. "Send me your address. I’m on my way."
The house was cold and sparsely decorated, feeling more like a temporary holding cell than a home. You spent the evening in a whirlwind of toddler energy. Two-year-old Nate was a bright-eyed boy who moved with the same intensity as his father, and for the first time in months, the heavy, suffocating silence of your own life was replaced by the clatter of plastic blocks and the high, sweet sound of a child’s laughter. You sat on the floor, letting him color on a giant pad of paper, feeling a strange, soothing warmth settle in your chest as he leaned against your knee, trusting you completely.
When the front door finally groaned open, you were in the kitchen, meticulously assembling turkey sandwiches while little Nate focused on a masterpiece of blue and green crayon at the counter.
Sammy looked shattered, his badge heavy on his belt, his eyes sunken with exhaustion. You met his gaze, offering a soft, sympathetic smile. "Hey. You’re home." You gently touched Nate’s shoulder. "Look, Nate, it’s Dad."
Sammy moved toward the counter, his eyes tracking his son with a desperate kind of love. You stepped back, feeling a twinge of guilt. "I’m sorry for going through your pantry," you said, gesturing to the spread. "I didn't mean to overstep, but I figured he needed a real dinner before bed."
Sammy waved a hand dismissively, his expression softening as he watched his son take a messy bite of the sandwich. "Don't apologize. Honestly, you’re welcome to anything in here. It’s... it's mostly empty anyway." His tone was dry, self-deprecating, and it hit you how hard he was struggling to hold the pieces together.
You laughed, trying to lighten the heavy air. "Well, that sounds like a problem we can fix. I wouldn't mind picking up a few things for you while I’m out."
A deep, genuine flush crept up Sammy’s neck, and he looked away, embarrassed by the vulnerability of his own poverty. "I can't ask that of you."
But a few days later, while navigating the grocery aisles for your own meager supplies, you found yourself drifting into the produce and spice sections. You bought bundles of fresh cilantro, vibrant turmeric, ginger, garlic, and bags of basmati rice. You loaded your cart with fresh vegetables and pantry staples, your heart acting on an impulse that felt more like a commitment than a favor.
The next time you came to sit for him, the house smelled different. As soon as Sammy walked through the door, the scent of blooming cumin, coriander, and caramelized onions hit him like a warm embrace. You were at the stove, stirring a bubbling pot of rich, golden curry, the steam curling around your hair.
"You didn't have to do this," Sammy said, his voice dropping as he stepped into the kitchen. He moved closer, drawn by the aroma, and stopped just behind you. He leaned in, inhaling deeply, his shoulder brushing against your arm. It was a lingering, intimate motion, the kind that made your breath catch in your throat. Your mind instantly spiraled into a dangerous, electric territory, wondering if he felt the tension in the air as acutely as you did.
You quickly forced yourself into motion, grabbing plates and a bowl of rice with trembling hands. You bustled away from him, needing the physical distance to steady your pulse.
"I just... I’m much more accustomed to cooking food from my own culture," you said, your voice a little too fast, a little too breathy. "It felt wrong to let you go hungry when I had the ingredients. It’s just simple—some spices, nothing fancy."
You bustled away from him, needing the physical distance to steady your pulse. You kept your back to him, arranging the food with unnecessary precision, desperately trying to mask the fact that your skin was still prickling where he had stood so close.
Sammy didn't move away immediately. He stood there for a beat longer than necessary, his gaze lingering on the curve of your shoulder, his own breath hitched in the back of his throat. Finally, he exhaled, a sound that seemed to release some of the tension trapped in his broad, rigid frame.
"It smells like… home," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost to the hum of the refrigerator. "I haven't had a real, hot meal, something that actually felt like it was made with care, in a long time."
He took a cautious step toward the table, pulling out a chair. Little Nate, sensing the shift in mood, scampered over to his father, tugging at his pant leg. Sammy leaned down, scooping the toddler up into his arms, but his eyes never left you. There was a raw, unvarnished hunger in his expression—not just for the food you’d prepared, but for the presence of someone who wasn't demanding anything from him, someone who just offered kindness without a hidden agenda, someone who was just there.
You set the bowl of steaming curry and a stack of warm rice in front of him, your movements fluid, trying to regain your composure. "It's a simple recipe," you said, forcing your tone to remain light, detached. "My mother used to make it when we were hungry and impatient, when we needed something that felt filling. I thought… well, I thought you could use something filling tonight."
As he took his first bite, his shoulders visibly dropped. He closed his eyes, savoring the warmth, the complex layers of spice—ginger, cumin, a subtle heat that settled deep in the chest. When he looked up at you again, the exhaustion that usually clouded his face had receded, leaving behind a look of profound, quiet gratitude.
"Thank you," he said, and the simplicity of it was more devastating than any elaborate thank-you could have been. "I don't think I've told you lately, but… thank you for coming back. For Nate, and for me."
You wiped your hands on a kitchen towel, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "It’s nothing, Sammy. Really. It’s just food."
"It's not just food," he countered, his voice gaining a firmer, more resonant quality. He shifted, setting Nate down on the chair beside him. "You’ve been stocking my pantry with things I didn’t even know I was missing. You’re teaching Nate how to draw. You’re… you’re making this place feel like something other than a prison I sleep in."
He stopped, realizing he was perhaps saying too much, too soon. He gestured to the empty chair across from him, a silent invitation. "Sit with us? Please. I’m tired of eating in the quiet."
The request hit a nerve. You thought of your own apartment, the solitude that usually greeted you at the end of a shift, and the way your life had become a series of small, careful movements to avoid attention. Here, with the steam rising from the curry and the sound of little Nate humming a toddler tune, the walls you’d built around yourself felt less like armor and more like a barrier.
You pulled the chair out and sat down. For the next hour, the conversation flowed with a surprising ease. He didn't talk about the cases, the sirens, or the internal politics of the precinct. Instead, he asked about you—not the victim from the sidewalk, not the girl who had been harassed by gangsters, but you. He asked about your life, the life you’d led before coming to Los Angeles, and the dreams you still held onto despite the grind of working two jobs.
You found yourself opening up, sharing stories of your childhood further up north, the smell of rain on the pavement in your hometown, and the sharp, bright memories that felt like they belonged to another lifetime. Sammy listened with an intensity that made you feel like the only person in the room.
Little Nate had fallen asleep against his father’s arm, his breathing rhythmic and soft. Sammy looked down at his son, his expression fierce and tender all at once.
"He likes you," Sammy whispered, brushing a stray hair away from his son’s forehead. "He’s usually wary of strangers."
"I like him too," you replied, your voice barely a breath.
Sammy looked at you then, the dim lighting casting shadows across the sharp planes of his face. The vulnerability he’d shown earlier was still there, but beneath it, there was a budding resolve. "I know I asked you to dinner at the bar, and I know I’m still a disaster in a lot of ways. But tonight… sitting here, feeling like a human being again… I don’t want to go back to being the guy who just survives the week. I want to know you, properly."
You looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the man behind the badge, the man who was just as lonely and just as tired as you were, but who was still trying to build a future out of the wreckage.
"I’d like that," you whispered, the promise hanging in the air between you, steady and true. "I really would."
---
The Italian place in West Hollywood is loud, a sharp-edged, Friday-night roar of silverware on ceramic and overlapping conversations. Sammy sits across from you, shoulders braced, his hands flat on the scarred wood of the booth.
For once, he isn't watching the room. He isn't checking the exits. He’s watching you.
You take a bite of the rigatoni, the flavor hitting you—rich, tomato-heavy, a bit of heat. Your brow arches in a small, unconscious movement, your eyes drifting shut for a fleeting second as you savor it. You don't realize you’ve done it, that your entire face has softened, or that your nose has crinkled just a fraction, a private reaction to something you enjoy. You do a little wiggle—a little happy dance, barely perceptible to the untrained eye—but Sammy has a very trained eye.
When you open your eyes, you catch him staring. He’s not looking at the food. He’s looking at you, a slow, crooked sort of smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He doesn't look away, even when you notice. He just tilts his head, his gaze dragging over your features with a quiet, observant intensity. “You’re very expressive,” he says.
The casualness of it flusters you more than a compliment would have. You instinctively reach for your water, your fingers brushing the condensation on the glass. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” he hums. His voice is lower now, rougher. “It’s... readable. Like a book.”
You feel the heat crawl up your neck. It’s an old reflex—the desire to mute yourself, to pull the expression back behind a safer, more neutral mask. You shift, trying to regain your composure, turning the napkin on the table so the edges align perfectly with the wood.
Sammy’s eyes follow the movement of your hands, then snap back to yours. He doesn't say anything, but the way his gaze lingers feels heavy. He’s been watching the way you navigate the conversation, the way your hands flutter when you explain something, the way you tilt your head when you listen—not in a way that feels like he’s cataloging you for a report, but like he’s trying to memorize you.
“It’s not a bad thing,” he adds, his tone steadying. “Most people in my life? They’ve got these layers of concrete. You say something to them, you get the same blank look back. Every single time.”
He pauses, his fingers tracing the rim of his own glass. “You... you don't do that. You react. You feel things, and you don't feel the need to hide it.”
You look down at your plate, suddenly shy. You’ve always been told that about your expressions, but usually, it was a critique. You’re too much. Calm down. You’re giving it away. Hearing it from him, stripped of any judgment, feels jarringly intimate.
You fidgeted with your glass, your fingers nervously tracing the rim. "It’s not exactly a gift. My mother always told me my face was a map of my thoughts. She said it was a liability."
Sammy let out a dry, warm laugh, shaking his head. "Well, I think she’s wrong. It’s the most refreshing thing I’ve seen in this god-forsaken city."
He says it with a quiet, absolute conviction that cuts through the noise of the restaurant. He pushes his plate aside just an inch, leaning into the space between you, his presence suddenly eclipsing the rest of the room. “It’s the most honest thing I’ve seen in this city... in a minute. Seeing how you react to a good meal, or how your nose scrunches up when you’re annoyed... it makes the world feel a hell of a lot less... gray and bland.”
You just sit there, holding his gaze, realizing that he isn't just looking at you; he’s actually seeing you.
“You’re an odd guy, Bryant,” you whispered, trying to pull back into a lighter space, but the smile that touched your lips wasn't a mask. It was real, and you knew, by the way his eyes darkened with a quiet, private satisfaction, that he saw it.
He lets out a short, dry huff of a laugh, shrugging, his eyes darkening just a fraction. “Maybe. But I’m observant. It's kind of my job, y'know? I know what I’m looking at.”
He reaches across the table, his hand settling near yours on the wood. He doesn't pull you in, doesn't force the contact, but the air between you feels suddenly thin, charged with a tension.
“Tell me something else,” he says softly, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line near your wrist.
You took a breath, the air in the room suddenly feeling thin.
"I... I’ve never been with anyone before," you murmured, the admission feeling quiet and fragile.
Sammy froze, his hand stilling against your wrist. "Like, on a date?" he asked, his brow crinkling in genuine confusion.
You shook your head, a small, knowing smile touching your lips. "I haven't even had my first kiss, Sammy. What makes you think I've been on a date?"
He pulled back slightly, looking at you like you’d just told him you were an astronaut. He was genuinely, utterly flabbergasted, his mouth parting just a fraction before he snapped it shut. "I... seriously?"
"Seriously," you said, your smile broadening, amused by the shock washing over his hardened features.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but it’s not the heavy, suffocating silence you’re used to. It’s the charged, humming stillness of a live wire. When he pulls up to your building, he just sits there for a beat, his hand lingering on the gear shift, before he climbs out and walks you to your front door.
The hallway is dim, lit by a single flickering bulb that casts long, wavering shadows. When you reach your door, the air between you is thick, pressurized. He stands just close enough that you can smell the faint, sharp scent of his cologne—cedar and something vaguely metallic, like fresh rain on pavement.
He’s reading you, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes, his chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic cadence. You’re leaning into him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
He pauses, his hand coming up to hover near your jawline, a silent, trembling question hanging in the space between you. He tilts his head, his voice a gravelly murmur. "Can I?"
You don't need to answer with words. You nod, a tiny, desperate motion, and he closes the distance.
The moment your lips meet, its slow, agonizingly tender. His lips are warm, his touch so light it feels like a secret being whispered against your skin. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt this—the world narrowing down to the pressure of his mouth and the heat of his palm resting against your cheek. It’s grounding, and dizzying, and overwhelming all at once.
When he pulls back, he’s breathless, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closed. You’re completely undone, your senses reeling, your skin feeling like it’s been set on fire.
"Goodnight," you stammer, your voice a high, frantic note. "And—and drive safe."
You practically scramble into your apartment, the door swinging shut with a hurried click before you can even see his reaction. You slump back against the wood, your hand flying up to cover your burning face, your knees feeling like they’ve turned to water.
Outside, Sammy is still standing there. He stares at the closed door with a lovesick, dazed expression on his face, his hand still hovering where your cheek had been.
---
There’s a comfort in the way Sammy’s house smells—a mix of stale coffee, the faint scent of that cedar freshener he finally committed to, and a residual, clean laundry scent that you’ve started to associate entirely with him.
You’re sitting on his floor, a mountain of colorful plastic blocks between you and Nate. The two-year-old is currently obsessed with "bridge building," which mostly involves you stacking things and him knocking them down with a delighted, high-pitched shriek.
Sammy stands in the doorway, a mug of coffee in each hand, watching. He’s out of uniform, wearing a faded grey t-shirt that stretches over his shoulders. He looks tired—there’s a permanent set to his jaw that tells you his shift was a hell of a lot more than just paperwork—but the lines around his eyes soften everytime he spots you or his son.
He doesn’t say anything. He just crosses the room, sets one mug down near your elbow, and lowers himself to the floor. His knees pop—a sound he’s particularly sensitive about—and he lets out a low, drawn-out groan.
"Getting old," he mutters, reaching out to help Nate finish a tower.
"You're not that old, Sammy," you say, taking a sip of the coffee. It’s perfect. He knows exactly how much cream you like—a habit that still makes your stomach do a weird, pleasant little flip every time he hands it to you without you having to ask.
"I feel like I am." He glances at you, his gaze lingering on the way your hair is pulled back, messy and loose. "You look like you’ve been doing this for hours."
"Four." You smile, tapping a block into place. "Nate’s a taskmaster."
Nate chooses that moment to tackle the tower, and Sammy’s hand shoots out, catching the boy before he tumbles into you. The way he holds his son—firm, secure, completely natural—is still the thing that stops your breath. He catches you looking, and his eyes darken, an intensity flickering there that has nothing to do with being a father and everything to do with the fact that you’re here, on his floor, in his space.
"You good?" he asks, his voice dropping into that lower register.
"Yeah," you breathe. "I'm good."
A few days later, you’re in the passenger seat of his sedan. The city is a blur of neon and rain-slicked asphalt outside. He’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a restless beat against his thigh. He’s quiet.
You’re watching his profile, the sharp, severe lines of his face illuminated every time you pass a streetlamp. You reach into your bag, pulling out a small tube of lip balm, and apply it.
Sammy glances over, his eyes flicking to your mouth before he looks back at the road. He reaches out, his fingers brushing your knuckles, then sliding down to lace through your hand. He doesn't say a word, just squeezes your fingers once, tight, before settling his hand on the gear shift, yours still held firmly in his.
"Rough night at the bar?" he asks eventually.
"The usual," you say. "Tuesday nights are for the ones who want to talk about their divorces and the ones who want to forget they have one."
He huffs, a quiet, sharp sound of agreement. "Sounds like my precinct."
You laugh, a soft, genuine sound. You look down at your joined hands. He’s still wearing his ring—not the wedding band, but a simple, dark metal one he wears on his right hand. You catch yourself tracing the edge of it with your thumb, a habit that’s become as involuntary as your breathing.
"What?" he asks, his voice barely a murmur.
"Nothing." You look up at him, feeling that familiar tug in your chest. "Just thinking how… this feels normal. Which is a weird thing to say."
Sammy turns his head, his eyes meeting yours for a split second before returning to the road. The streetlamp catches his expression—a faint, small smile that looks almost like he’s surprised by it himself.
"Normal’s not so bad," he says, his voice steady. "I could get used to normal."
He pulls up to your building, but doesn't cut the engine right away. He sits there for a beat, his hand still holding yours, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles against your palm.
"Tomorrow?" he asks, his voice barely audible over the hum of the idling car. "I’m off. Maybe... breakfast? No, that’s too early for you. Lunch?"
"Lunch works," you say, feeling the familiar, fluttery heat of it.
He leans over, his face close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He kisses your temple—a soft, lingering press of his lips—before he finally lets your hand go.
"Go," he says, though he makes no move to let you out. "Before I change my mind and make you stay here and listen to me complain about the city council for another three hours."
You laugh, opening the door and letting the cool night air hit you. "Get some sleep, Sammy."
"Yeah, yeah," he says, watching you through the rearview mirror as you walk to the entrance. He lingers, waiting until you’re safely through the door, just like he always does.
---
The rain in LA is aggressive, a localized tantrum that turns the streets into oil-slicked mirrors. By the time Sammy’s car pulled up to the curb, the windshield wipers were fighting a losing battle.
"Stay put," he muttered. He reached into the back, grabbed a jacket that smelled faintly of gun oil and old leather, and was around to your side before you could protest. He practically bundled you under his arm, his body a solid, warm wall against the deluge as he navigated you toward his housing complex.
Inside, the air was still, smelling of the cedar ir freshener he’d bought for you and the lingering heat of an apartment that hadn't been aired out. Sammy kicked the door shut, tossing the soaked jacket into the bucket in the hallway.
You were shivering, the thin fabric of your top clinging to your skin. You stood in the center of his living room, feeling suddenly very small in a space that was so quintessentially him—minimalist and slightly worn.
He disappeared into the bedroom and returned a second later with a oversized, charcoal-grey hoodie. "Change. I’ll make tea. Or something stronger."
You took the hoodie, the fleece soft against your chilled palms. When you came out of the bathroom, the sleeves swallowed your hands and the hem hit mid-thigh. Sammy was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He stopped mid-sip, his gaze traveling from your bare ankles up to the way your hair was beginning to curl from the humidity.
His knuckles whitened around the glass said enough.
"Better?" he asked, his voice a rough scratch.
"Much," you breathed, moving toward him. The plce was quiet—Nate was with his grandmother for the night—and the absence of the toddler’s chaotic energy made every sound feel magnified. The hum of the fridge. The rain lashing the glass. The heavy, syncopated rhythm of your own heart.
You stopped just a foot away from him. You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar near his temple, the way his eyes were no longer searching for a threat, but searching you.
"Sammy," you whispered.
He set the glass down on the counter with a controlled, deliberate clank. He he waited, his posture braced as if he were giving you every possible exit.
You didn't take them. You stepped into his space, your hands reaching out to bunch in the fabric of his shirt. You looked up at him, your breath hitching. "You're always so careful with me."
"I have to be," he murmured, his hands coming up to hover near your waist, not quite touching. "You’re... you don't have the callouses I do. I don't want to be the one who gives them to you."
"I'm not made of glass," you countered, your thumb tracing the line of his collarbone.
That was the breaking point.
His hands settled on your waist, his palms hot even through the thick fleece of the hoodie. He pulled you in, flushing you against him until there wasn't a sliver of air left between you. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his shoulders finally dropping as if he were letting go of a weight he’d been carrying for years.
"You have no idea," he rasped against your skin, "how hard I've been trying to be a gentleman."
You felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. You tilted your head back, looking at him, and the intensity in his eyes was staggering. It was a raw, unvarnished hunger of a man who had finally found the one thing he didn't want to lose.
He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. "Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a low vibration you felt in your chest. "Tell me if I'm moving too fast. I’ll stop. I’ll go sit on the other side of the room. Just say the word."
You didn't say a word. You reached up, your fingers lacing into the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He moved then, slow and deliberate, closing the distance until you were boxed in between him and the counter. He didn't rush. He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch light as a feather but feeling like a brand. You could smell the whiskey and the faint, sharp scent of his soap.
He leans down, his breath warm against your skin, his nose brushing yours. The tension between you is a physical thing, vibrating in the narrow gap between your lips.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against your skin. He’s asking, not just for the moment, but for the permission you’ve always been so cautious about giving.
"Yes," you breathe, the word almost lost.
He let out a long, ragged exhale, and then he was kissing you. This was desperate and grounding all at once. It tasted like years of being alone finally ending. It’s deeper, more deliberate, a reclamation of all the space you’d been trying to hide in. His other hand comes up to rest at your waist, his palm splayed firm against the fabric of the hoodie you're wearing, pulling you into the hard, solid line of him. The shock of it is immediate—the sheer mass of him, the way his heartbeat syncs with yours—and for a second, your brain short-circuits, your hands hovering unsurely before bunching the fabric in your fists.
He makes a low, guttural sound in his throat, a mix of frustration and surrender, and shifts, pressing you back against the edge of the kitchen counter. You gasp into his mouth, your head spinning as he deepens the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a desperate, practiced care. It’s frantic and steady all at once.
His hands roam, tracing the line of your spine, his thumbs pressing into the small of your back until you’re arching into him, wanting to close the last bit of space left between you. He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard, the silence of the apartment suddenly rushing back in.
He broke the kiss for a second, his breath coming in ragged hitches, his eyes searching yours with a dazed, lovesick wonder. His fingers are still buried in your hair, his grip tight enough to pull slightly, a gentle, possessive tug that makes your breath hitch all over again.
"Still okay?" he managed to choke out.
You smiled, your hands framing his face, your thumbs smoothing over the sharp line of his cheekbones. "More than okay, Sammy."
"Jesus," he exhales, his eyes searching yours, wide and darkened. "You have no idea, do you?"
"Idea about what?" you manage, your voice shaking.
He doesn't answer. He just leans in, capturing your mouth again, his kiss slower this time, more searching, as if he’s trying to read you through the friction of it. He’s deliberate, his movements calibrated to make you melt, and when his hand slides upward to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, you feel the last of your barriers dissolve.
He let out a breath that sounded like a prayer, and when he picked you up, your legs instinctively hooking around his waist, the world outside—the rain, the city, the noise—finally went silent.
He carried you to his room. The room was painted in bruised purple shadows. Sammy stayed braced between your knees, a heavy, immovable anchor of heat. His hands claimed your thighs, his palms large and calloused, the slight tremor in his fingers betraying the struggle for restraint happening beneath his skin.
"Tonight is just about you," he whispered, the words vibrating like a low-frequency hum against your skin. "I want to learn what you like. What you don't like. I want to hear every breath."
He moved with an agonizing, surgical slowness. His mouth found the sensitive junction where your neck met your shoulder, his lips tracing the line of your collarbone with a damp, lingering heat. He licked, his tongue flicking against the pulse point in your throat, savoring the way your heart hammered against his teeth. You felt your head loll back, your eyes fluttering shut as a ragged, broken rhythm took over your breathing.
He retreated for a moment, only to begin a grueling journey upward from your feet. He cupped your heels, his thumbs pressing into the arches with a firm, grounding pressure. He found the thin gold chain of your anklet, his nose brushing the cold metal before he pressed a slow, wet kiss to the delicate bone of your inner ankle. He watched you the whole time, his gaze dark and predatory, tracking the way your pupils swallowed your irises as his hands slid higher.
When his thumbs grazed the tender, silk-soft skin behind your knees, you let out a sharp, involuntary gasp. He hummed against your skin—a low, vibrating sound of satisfaction that rumbled in your very marrow.
He reached the hem of his borrowed hoodie, his knuckles grazing your ribs as he bunched the fabric in his palms. He lifted it with a reverence that felt almost religious, exposing you inch by agonizing inch to the cool air of the room. Your skin prickled, nipples budding into hard points that ached for his touch. Sammy’s hands cupped you, his palms rough but his touch impossibly light, his thumbs circling the peaks until you were arching off the mattress.
"You're so soft," he groaned, the sound raw and pained. He leaned down, his eyelashes brushing your skin before he took one nipple into his mouth. The heat was a shock. He laved at you, his tongue swirling with a relentless, rhythmic pressure, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud just enough to make you whine. You felt the ghost of a smile against your breast, a silent acknowledgment of the power he held over your senses.
The heat followed his trail down your stomach, his mouth burning a path toward your center. Sammy lifted himself back up, face-to-face, his eyes searching yours for that final, silent permission. When you gave it, he reached into the waistband of your panties. He watched you with a focused, heavy intensity as he slid his hand inside.
The first contact was electric. His thumb found your slick, swollen clit, and he began targeted, rhythmic circles. He wasn't rushing; he was building a foundation of sensation, his thumb dragging across you with a deliberate, agonizing friction. He pressed his middle finger to your opening, pausing to watch your mouth fall open in a silent gasp. He moved the tip against you, teasing the entrance until you were weeping for him, before he finally pulled back, hooking his fingers into the fabric and pulled it down your legs.
He returned to his place between your thighs, sliding his finger into you in one smooth motion. Your walls, tight and unused to the intrusion, clenched around him in a pulsing, velvet grip.
"How do you feel?" he asked, his lips brushing yours, his voice a mere ghost of a sound.
"Full," you managed to whimper, your hands knotting into his dark hair, pulling him closer. You felt the huff of a low, private laugh against your mouth.
"Stop laughing at me," you panted, a small, embarrassed flush creeping up your neck as you smacked his chest weakly.
"I'm not laughing, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumb resuming that devastating rhythm on your clit while his finger began to move deep inside you, curling to find the sensitive ridge that made your back arch and your toes curl into the sheets. "I'm just realizing how much I’ve wanted to be the one to do this to you."
He shifted lower, his head disappearing between your thighs. The contrast was a sensory overload: the scratch of his five-o'clock shadow against your sensitive inner thighs and the wet, velvet heat of his tongue as he finally tasted you. He was relentless. He used his mouth to worship you, his tongue tracing intricate patterns over your oversensitized clit, lapping at the sweet, heavy nectar of your arousal. He knew exactly how to build the tension, pulling back just as the first sparks of a climax hit your vision, only to drive you back over the edge with a renewed, hungry intensity.
His tongue flicked with a rapid, staccato pace, mimicking the frantic beat of your heart. You were a map of nerves and he was learning every single one, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you steady as the first waves of a deep, ache began to wash over you, Your thighs closing in on his head as you trembled around him.
When you finally came, it was a total collapse of the senses. You called his name into the quiet of the room, your fingers tangling in his hair as your body buckled and shook under the weight of the pleasure. He stayed with you through every shudder, his mouth never leaving you, drinking in your release until the last lingering spark faded.
Long after the heat had settled into a soft, glowing warmth, he pulled himself back up to lie beside you. His shirt had come off god knows when, his own needs set aside for the quiet, the erection pressing insistently against you. He pulled the heavy duvet over both of you, drawing you into the hollow of his shoulder until your head was tucked securely against his chest. He kissed the top of your head, his hand tracing lazy, protective circles on your hip, while you continued to regain your senses.
Sammy’s heart was a steady, thumping metronome under your ear, his chest rising and falling in deep, grounding lunges.
"You okay?" he asked eventually. His voice was a low rumble in his chest, vibrating through your cheek. It was softer than you’d ever heard it—stripped of the grit.
"Yeah," you whispered, the word coming out small and wrecked. You shifted, tucking your face deeper into the crook of his neck. "I’m... I think I’m still processing."
He let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, the sound warm against your hair. "Join the club. I’ve been a cop for a long time, and I’m pretty sure my heart rate hasn't hit those numbers since my first foot pursuit."
You felt a flush creep back up your neck. You reached out, your fingers trailing aimlessly over the planes of his chest. "I didn't realize it would be... like that."
"Like what?"
"So loud," you admitted, your voice muffled. "In my head. I thought I’d be more... I don't know. Self-conscious?"
Sammy shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. His dark hair was a mess, falling over his forehead, and his eyes were still hazy with a lingering, protective heat. He reached out, his calloused fingers gently tucking a stray hair behind your ear.
"You don't have to be anything with me," he said, his gaze searching yours with a raw, unvarnished honesty. "Not careful, not quiet, and definitely not self-conscious."
He paused, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, which was still a little swollen. "I meant what I said. I didn't want to... I didn't want to rush you into anything you weren't ready for. Especially with it being your first time... doing any of this."
"I know," you said, meeting his eyes. "Thank you for that. For being... you."
He offered a small, crooked smile—the one that made the lines around his eyes crinkle. "Don't thank me yet. I'm still a grumpy detective who spends too much time at the precinct and probably drinks too much coffee."
"I think I can handle that," you teased, your voice gaining a bit of its usual strength.
He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead before settling back down for a moment as he sighed. "Good. Because I have a feeling I’m going to be thinking about the way you looked tonight for the rest of my life. The way you sounded when you—"
"Sammy," you groaned, hiding your face back in his neck, "Don't. I'm already embarrassed enough."
He settled further into the pillows, pulling the duvet up over your shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere. Close your eyes. Unless you want me to, in which case I’ll just go be grumpy in the living room."
"Stay," you said, the word coming out before you could think to filter it.
Sammy didn't answer with words. He just tightened his arm around you, pulling you closer until there wasn't a breath of space left between you, his chin resting on top of your head. "Try and stop me," he murmured. "I'm the one with the badge, remember? I'm authorized to be right here."
---
Life settles into a cadence of shared silences and small, loud domesticities. It’s the way Sammy leaves his heavy tactical boots by your door—a permanent fixture now—and how he’s learned to navigate your kitchen without asking where the spices are. He doesn't just eat your food anymore; he stands over your shoulder, watching the way you bloom the spices in oil, his hand resting casually on the small of your back—learning.
Then there are the nights at his place. Nate is asleep, the baby monitor a low, static hum on the nightstand. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed.
Sammy is sitting on the chair at his desk across from the bed, pulling off his socks, his back to you. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s intentionally keeping his distance, still operating under the silent vow he made to let you set the pace. He thinks he’s being patient. He thinks he’s being a gentleman.
But tonight, you’re tired of the distance.
You stand up, the floorboards creaking under your bare feet. Sammy pauses, his hands stilled on his knees, but he doesn't turn around. You walk over to him, your shadow falling over his broad back, and you do something you’ve never done before: you initiate the contact.
You slide your hands over his shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard, knotted muscles there. He lets out a sharp, ragged exhale, his head falling forward.
"You're very tense, Detective," you whisper, your voice lacking its usual tremor.
"Occupational hazard," he rasps, but he’s leaning into your touch, his skin hot beneath your palms.
You lean down, pressing your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—soap, leather, and something uniquely Sammy. You let your lips graze the shell of his ear, and you feel a shudder go through him that has nothing to do with the cold.
"Sammy," you murmur. "Look at me."
He turns in the chair, his face level with your waist. His eyes are dark, clouded with a hunger he’s trying—and failing—to suppress. He looks up at you, his jaw set, his hands hovering near your hips but not quite touching.
"I don't want to rush you," he says, his voice a low, warning growl. "I told you we take this at your speed."
"I know," you say, reaching down to cup his face. You tilt his head back, forcing him to see the certainty in your eyes. "And this is my speed."
You lean down and kiss him—something hungry and demanding. You slide your tongue against his, tasting the coffee and the heat, and you feel his restraint snap like a dry twig.
He groans, his hands finally tugging your hips, pulling you flush against him. He buries his face in your stomach for a second, a desperate, grounding gesture, before he stands up, lifting you off your feet in one smooth, powerful motion.
He carries you the two steps to the bed, but this time, he doesn't stay between your knees. He follows you down, his body a heavy, welcome weight that presses you into the mattress.
The lamp on the nightstand cast a long, amber glow across the bed, carving out the deep hollows of Sammy’s shoulders as he braced himself above you.
"Are you sure?" he gasps, pausing for one final, agonizing second, his forehead pressed hard against yours. He’s braced on his forearms, the muscles in his neck corded like iron. "Because once I start, I don't think I can stop, sweetheart."
"Don't stop," you breathe, your hands already working the leather of his belt. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves. "I'm sure. I've never been more sure of anything."
He doesn’t ask again.
Your fingers tremble as they find the button of his jeans, then the zipper. The rasp of metal is sharp in the quiet room. You push the denim aside, your palms flattening against the worn cotton of his boxers, feeling the solid, thrumming heat of him beneath. You look up, meeting his stare—it’s dark, blown out, and entirely focused on you.
“Now you,” he says, a low command that’s softened by the way his thumb traces your jaw.
He’s frantic now, his hands fumbling with the hem of your shirt, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. He lifts the fabric inch by inch, exposing your stomach, then your ribs, finally pulling it over your head and letting it vanish into the shadows on the floor. His eyes travel over you—the curve of your waist, the rise of your breasts—with a reverence that feels more intimate than a touch. When he finally does reach out, it’s just a single, calloused fingertip tracing the line of your collarbone. It’s so light, so focused, that you shudder under the weight of it.
A groan escapes him, a raw sound of satisfaction. He leans in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that is slower and deeper than before, a languid exploration that tastes of shared breath and the sudden, sharp edge of a mounting need. His hands find the waistband of your pants, pushing them down your hips; you help, kicking them off until the cool air of the apartment hits your legs. But the chill doesn't last—his body is a furnace, his gaze overwhelming.
His hands settle on your thighs, palms warm and rough. They slide upward, over your skin, until his thumbs brush the edge of your underwear. He doesn’t remove them yet. He just looks, his eyes tracing the shape they conceal as if he’s trying to memorize the sight.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, the words leaving him like a prayer.
Then the patience snaps. He moves with a renewed, desperate intensity, his mouth finding yours as he finally, fully claims the space between you. It’s raw. It’s the friction of skin on skin, the sound of labored breathing, and the feeling of his hands mapping every inch of you with a possessive, territorial heat.
“Thank you,” he whispers against your lips, his voice cracking with a sudden, startling gravity. “For letting me be the first.”
The powerful, corded lines of his body, the stark evidence of his hunger for you. It was intimidating, yes, but it was exhilarating to know you were the one who had brought him to this point. The thrill of it eclipses the fear.
When he finally, slowly, sinks into you, the air leaves your lungs in a long, shaky whine. He freezes instantly, his eyes wide and searching yours for any sign of pain. His muscles are corded with the effort of staying still, his knuckles white where they grip the headboard, waiting for you to adjust to the weight and the depth of him.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice barely a shadow, thick with a jagged sort of care.
"Yeah," you gasped, the initial sting fading into a deep, stretching ache that felt like it was opening up a part of you that had been closed for a lifetime. Your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, you hooked your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper. "Yeah, Sammy. Please."
He lets out a sound that is half-sob, half-growl—a total surrender—and begins to move. It’s a rhythmic, heavy thrum that echoes the heartbeat of the city outside, but in here, the world has narrowed down to just this. There was only the feeling of him filling the spaces you hadn't even known were empty, the salt-sting of his skin against yours, and the way his name tasted like a confession in your mouth.
Sammy’s movements were heavy and certain, but his eyes never left yours. He seemed obsessed with the way the moonlight from the window hit your skin, catching the gold of your jewelry and the natural, iridescent glow of your shoulders. To him, you didn't just look beautiful; you looked celestial, a goddess come to life in his messy, lived-in bedroom.
He moved his hands, pinning your wrists gently above your head, his chest heaving against yours. Every time you gasped his name, every time your back arched and your throat tightened with a silent plea, he looked at you with a reverence that was almost painful. He watched the way your expression fractured—the way your brow furrowed and your lips parted in the throes of it—and he felt a surge of protectiveness so sharp it made his vision blur.
When you came, it was a slow-motion collapse. You called out, your body tightening in a systemic, exquisite ache, and Sammy followed you over the edge with a guttural, final sound of surrender. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his skin slick against yours, holding you as if the world might try to pull you apart the moment he let go.
The silence that followed was heavy and warm. Eventually, Sammy shifted, rolling onto his side but keeping you tucked firmly into the hollow of his body. His arm was a heavy, protective bar across your waist, his fingers idly tracing the curve of your hip.
He lay there in the dark, wide awake, his chin resting on the crown of your head. He listened to the steady, slowing cadence of your breathing, feeling the heat still radiating from your skin.
He’d spent his career looking into the dark corners of the world—seeing the jagged, broken parts of people—but holding you felt like finally stepping into the sun. It was an inevitable drift, he realized. Just like the way your day always ended in his car, it had always been leading to this. To you.
Jesus, he thought, his eyes tracing the line of your shoulder in the dim light. How is she still glowing?
Even in the aftermath, with your hair a mess and the city humming outside, you looked luminous. It wasn’t the moonlight; it was a radiance that seemed to come from within. He thought about the guys at the precinct, the cynical jokes, the masks everyone wore to survive. None of that could touch this precious moment.
He tightened his grip just a fraction, pulling the duvet higher to cover your bare shoulders. He didn't say it—not yet—but the thought settled in his chest with the weight of a lead pipe: he was never going to be able to let this go. And he’d protect your glow with everything he had.
He liked when you threw something back at him. He liked when you flushed under his gaze. But mostly, he just liked that you were his.
"Sleep, baby," he whispered against your hair, his voice barely a breath. "I've got you."
PSA to fic readers, it is so hard to freak a fic writer out with your comments. we are just as crazy about the fic as you are.
tell me you love it. tell me it made you slam your laptop shut. tell me you brought it up at your college lecture about kink. key smash in all caps. quote the passage that made you think. i promise, we’ll love it.
we spend hours thinking about it, writing it, editing it. there is no such thing as over enthusiasm when you’re talking about our fics to us. we are sooooo weird about them, i assure you. you are just matching my freak. the freak bar is already set so high. feel no anxiety about enjoying something and letting the creator know.
The silence of the house was a physical weight, a velvet shroud that muffled the lingering, frantic ringing of the Emergency Department in Jack’s ears. Every time he stepped through the front door after a night shift, he felt like a diver surfacing from a pressurized depth; the air here was different—thicker with the scent of lavender-infused laundry detergent, the ghost of a candle burned hours ago, and the unmistakable, grounding essence of you.
He moved through the hallway like a shadow, his boots thumping softly on the hardwood until he reached the threshold of the bedroom. He paused there, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, letting his heavy eyelids drift half-shut as he took you in.
The room was bathed in the syrupy, pale gold beginnings of dawn. Dust motes danced in the slanted beams of light that cut across the bed, illuminating you in your sleep. You were a masterpiece, tangled in the ivory linen sheets that had twisted around your limbs like vines. Your sleep top had ridden up, caught around your ribs to reveal the soft, rising-and-falling expanse of your stomach and the delicate curve of your waist. Your cheeks were flushed a deep, healthy rose, your lips plump and slightly parted as a soft, rhythmic huff of breath escaped you—the only sound in the sanctuary of the room.
To Jack, you looked like an angel. After hours of stitching up trauma and holding the line against the city’s chaos, the sight of you—safe, warm, and entirely untouched by the world’s sharpness—made his chest ache with a sudden, fierce gratitude.
He moved to his side of the bed, the mattress sighing under his weight. He simply sat, hands resting on his thighs, his head bowed. He felt the grit of the shift clinging to him—the sterile tang of isopropyl alcohol, the faint metallic hint of blood, and the salt of his own sweat, even after the shower he'd taken after clocking-out. He needed to shed it all.
With practiced, weary movements, he reached down to the hem of his trousers. The familiar, mechanical click of his prosthetic echoed in the quiet as he unlatched it. He set it carefully against the nightstand, the metal and carbon fiber a stark contrast to the soft atmosphere of the room. He tugged off his top, the cool morning air hitting his skin and raising goosebumps along his arms, before sliding out of his bottoms until he was in nothing but his boxers.
As he shifted to get into bed, his eyes fell back on the curve of your hip, highlighted by a stray beam of sun. The need for you was no longer just a physical itch; it was a soul-deep requirement for a taste of you. A taste of home.
He leaned over, his hand—warm and slightly calloused from years of service and medicine—cradling the curvature of your jaw. His lips pressed against your heated cheek, his stubble a delicious, sand-paper friction against your velvet skin, inhaling you.
"Honey, I’m home," he rumbled. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration, thick with the exhaustion of the night and the hunger of the morning.
You let out a tiny, high-pitched hum of acknowledgement, a sound buried deep in your throat. You weren't awake, but your body knew him. You leaned into his palm, your subconscious recognizing his touch.
"I really need you right now," he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and damp against your skin. "Can you lay on your stomach for me, sweets?"
You obeyed with a sluggish, fluid grace, your body rotating slowly beneath the sheets. You hugged the pillow to your chest, your face half-buried in the fabric, returning hazily to the insistent pull of your dreams.
"Good girl," he murmured, the praise heavy and dark.
He pressed a lingering kiss to the slope of your shoulder, his nose dragging across your skin to catch the scent of your shampoo and the salt of your sleep. As he hooked his thumbs into the lace of your panties and drew them down, he let out a jagged, shaky exhale. The sight of your arousal—the shimmering strings of it catching the morning light as the fabric parted—made his heart hammer against his ribs. He loved this silent testament to your desire, the way your body recognized him even when your mind was miles away.
Jack lowered his head, his nose nudging the sensitive, silken skin of your inner thighs. He lingered there for a heartbeat, breathing in the musky, honeyed scent of you, before his tongue made contact. The sensation was a study in contrasts: the wet heat of his mouth, the sharp, rhythmic sting of his morning stubble, and the cool air of the room swirling around your exposed skin. You wriggled against the sheets, a broken, breathy whimper escaping your lips as his fingers joined the dance, sliding into your slick heat with a slow, possessive authority.
"Such a sweet girl," he groaned against your thigh, his voice vibrating through your bones. "My sweet girl."
The tension in the room was a living, breathing thing now, thick with the sound of your escalating gasps. Jack withdrew his fingers, his own husky moan of frustration joining yours as he tasted you on his knuckles. He was painfully, throbbingly hard, the ache for home manifesting as a desperate need to be inside you.
He moved quickly, shedding the last of barrier between you and him and positioning himself over you. He swiped his cock over your soaking opening, the friction of skin-on-skin sending a jolt of electricity through both of you, your pristine skin bubbling with goosebumps. He rubbed against your clit, his thumb adding pressure, until you arched your back with a low, desperate sound. Only then did he push in.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of relief as your warmth enveloped him. You were so tight, so scorching, that he had to go still for a moment, his forehead dropping to the crook of your neck as he waited for his heart to slow. You gasped into your pillow, your fingers curling into the fabric, your hips tilting back instinctively to meet his weight.
He began to move, a slow, grinding pace that created friction between your bodies. His chest, damp with a light sheen of sweat, pressed against your back, his arms bracing his weight on either side of your head. The rhythm was hypnotic, pulling you from the fog of sleep.
"Jack...?" you whispered, your voice a ragged thread of sound.
"Hi, baby. G’morning," he grunted, the words punctuated by a particularly deep, driving thrust that made your toes curl.
You let out a tired, breathy giggle that melted into a long, airy moan. "Yes, it is," you managed to gasp, reaching back to find his hand, your fingers lacing through his as he drove you both toward the edge. Feeling the steady, rhythmic thud of the headboard against the wall.
The world outside was beginning to wake now—the distant hiss of a bus, the chirp of birds—but inside the golden circle of your bed, time had stopped. When the end came, it was a total surrender. Jack reached beneath you, his fingers finding that sensitive, swollen bud once more and working it with a frantic, expert pressure that matched the frantic pace of his hips.
You clamped down on him, your internal muscles pulsing around him in a frantic rhythm that pulled the climax right out of his marrow. He bucked against you, his teeth grazing the skin of your shoulder as he grunted your name, then a whimper, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release.
He caught his breath, the room feeling heavy and quiet. Jack stayed buried within you, his breath coming in ragged, hot bursts against your neck. Finally, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire night, he rolled onto his side, taking you with him.
He spooned you tightly, his chest to your back, his arm draped possessively over your waist. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his nose in your hair.
"Thank you," he whispered, the words vibrating against your skin.
You twisted slightly in the circle of his arms, your eyes—now clear and bright with affection—meeting his heavy-lidded, blue-flecked ones. You reached up, your fingers lacing through his messy curls, scratching gently at the base of his skull until he let out a long, contented purr of a breath. You tugged him down for a kiss that tasted of salt and sleep and home.
"Always," you murmured.
You slipped away for a few minutes to clean up, when you returned, the room was silent. Jack had already drifted, his body sprawling across the bed in a state of total, unburdened exhaustion. You slid back into the heat he permeated, curling into his side.
He smelled of the cedar soap he loved, the faint, lingering sterile scent of the hospital, the musk of sex, and something uniquely, fundamentally Jack. You pressed your face to his chest, listening to the slow, steady drum of his heart as you drifted back into the land of dreams, the Saturday sun continuing its slow, golden crawl across the floor.
---
The syrupy gold of dawn had long since sharpened into the high, unrelenting clarity of midday. The bedroom was no longer a hazy sanctuary of shadows; instead, it was flooded with incandescent light that caught every stray thread on the linen and highlighted the faint, silver-spun curls of Jack’s hair against the navy pillowcase. He remained deeply, almost unnervingly, still—the kind of profound exhaustion that only a man who had spent twelve hours (and some) wrestling with the fragility of human life could truly succumb to.
You watched him for a long time, propped up on one elbow. Without the clinical mask of the ED attending, Jack looked younger, his sharp features softened by the heavy pull of sleep. You traced the line of his nose and the slight, rhythmic flare of his nostrils with your eyes, cherishing this rare, unguarded version of him—the version that didn't have to be the hero, the strategist, or the anchor for a grieving family. But as the minutes ticked by and the quiet hum of the house began to feel a little too still, a restless, playful heat began to stir in the pit of your stomach. Boredom, in the quiet of a Saturday afternoon, was a dangerous catalyst for boldness.
Your hand slid beneath the heavy weight of the duvet, seeking out the what you knew was waiting there. His skin felt like sun-warmed silk. Your fingers found him—soft but heavy—and you wrapped your palm around his cock, your thumb sweeping over the crown in a slow, inquisitive circle. You kept your gaze fixed on his face, waiting for the first crack in his unconsciousness. There was no immediate reaction, only a change in his breathing, which served to embolden you. You began a slow, rhythmic stroke, the friction and his leaking creating a subtle, wetness beneath the covers.
He began to stir. It started as a low, vibratory hum in his chest, followed by the slightest twitch of his brow. You shifted, moving with a fluid, predatory grace to straddle his hips. The weight of your body settling over him finally dragged him toward the surface. You leaned forward, your hair falling like a curtain around both your faces, and began to press light, fluttering butterfly kisses across his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, and the sandpaper texture of his cheeks.
His eyes fluttered, the silver-flecked irises clouded with the heavy fog of sleep before they finally found yours. A deep, gravelly groan tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that vibrated through your own thighs. As you felt him stiffen and surge with blood in your hand beneath the sheets, you moved your focus downward. You trailed a path of lingering, open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, moving to the sensitive cord of his neck. When your lips pressed against the frantic beat of his pulse at his Adam’s apple, his breath hitched, and he let out a jagged, breathless sound that was half-laugh, half-moan.
He was fully awake now, his hands coming up instinctively to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your skin with a possessive, grounding pressure.
"Mhh... what did I do to deserve such a wonderful wake-up call, Mrs. Abbot?" he rasped, his voice a delicious, floor-shaking rumble. He looked up at you with half-lidded eyes, the exhaustion still there but now heavily underscored by a rising, hungry heat.
You grinned, a flash of pure innocence that didn't match the way your thumb was currently rubbing firm, deliberate circles over his sensitive head. You felt him jerk lightly beneath you, his hips bucking upward in a silent plea. You hummed in faux-contemplation, tilting your head.
"Nothing much," you murmured, leaning down until your lips were a mere fraction of an inch from his. "You just happen to look delicious enough to eat, and I’m a very hungry woman."
You captured his mouth in a passionate, searing kiss, your tongues tangling with a familiarity that felt like a conversation. He tried to pull you closer, his hands sliding from your hips to your back to keep you flush against him, but you were already moving. You scrambled down his body, shedding the sheets and leaving him exposed to the bright midday sun.
Jack propped himself up on his elbows, his chest heaving as he watched you. The intensity in his gaze was staggering. You didn't look away as you leaned in, pressing the tiniest, most delicate kiss to the glistening crown of his length. When your tongue flicked out to deliver a slow, teasing kitten-lick, his head fell back, his mouth opening in a silent gasp of surprise and over-stimulation.
Holding his stare with a fierce, unwavering determination, you lowered your head and enveloped him fully. The sound he let out then was guttural, a raw, masculine note of surrender. He watched you work, his hands fisting in the bedsheets, his eyes fluttering shut only when the sensation became too overwhelming to witness. You took your time, humming low in your throat—a vibration that you knew sent tremors straight to his core—as you drank him in.
The air in the room grew heavy, charged with the scent of sex and the frantic, shallow rhythm of his breathing. You felt his muscles cord, his entire body turning into a live wire of tension, fingers tangled in your hair. When he finally tensed, his back arching off the mattress as he came, you held him through it, and once he had finally slumped back into the pillows, you sat up, making a slow, deliberate show of swallowing while looking him dead in the eye.
A dark, predatory grin spread across Jack’s face. He didn't say a word; he simply reached out, his hand smoothing down, then tangling in your hair again to pull you back up the length of his body. When your lips met this time, there was nothing gentle or sleepy about it. He tasted himself on your tongue, his mouth devouring yours in a filthy, deep kiss that claimed every inch of your breath. This wasn't the tender version of you husband in the early morning; this was the man who had been revitalized by you, his kiss hungry, demanding, and full of a raw, weekend fire that promised you wouldn't be leaving this bed for several more hours.
Unfortunately, you had to eventually.
The kitchen was filled with the rhythmic sound of a knife against a cutting board and the steady hiss of garlic hitting a hot, buttered pan. The midday sun was different here than in the bedroom—sharper, hitting the stainless steel appliances and reflecting off the granite counters in bright, clean bursts. You were still humming a low tune, your body feeling lethargic and loose from the morning, dressed only in a light skirt and a cropped tank top as you focused on the meal.
The soft, familiar thump-click of Jack’s gait on the hardwood was your only warning before two strong arms snaked around your waist. He pulled you flush against his chest, his chin hooking over your shoulder. He felt solid, a grounding weight that seemed to anchor you to the floor.
"Smells good," he murmured, his voice still holding that gravelly depth.
Before you could answer, he started a slow, relentless assault of kisses along the side of your neck. He knew exactly what he was doing; his stubble was at its most abrasive, a delicious, sandpaper itch against your sensitive skin. You let out a bright, involuntary giggle, hunching your shoulder to try and shield yourself, but he only tightened his grip, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your collarbone.
"Jack, stop! I'm going to burn the butter," you laughed, wriggling in his arms. He didn't stop; he just hummed against your skin, his lips catching the lobe of your ear as he ignored your half-hearted protests. You were a mess of giggles and squirming limbs, trying to flip the contents of the pan while he effectively pinned you to the counter.
Then, the air in the kitchen shifted.
The playfulness evaporated, replaced by a sudden, heavy gravity. Jack’s laughter died out, his breath becoming a warm, focused stream against the nape of your neck. His right hand, which had been resting casually on your hip, began a slow, deliberate migration downward. You felt the hem of your skirt lift, the cool air hitting your thighs for a split second before his palm—warm and slightly rough—made contact with your skin.
Your breath hitched. The wooden spoon stayed suspended over the pan.
"Jack..." your voice a warning that sounded more like an invitation.
He didn't say a word. He simply slid his hand beneath the elastic of your panties, his fingers finding your slick, aching clit and slipping into your pussy with a precision that made your knees buckle. The transition was so sudden, so intense, that you reached out blindly, your fingers fumbling for the dial on the stove. You clicked it off just as the garlic began to brown, the sudden silence of the kitchen magnifying the sound of your own ragged breathing.
You gripped the edge of the granite counter until your knuckles turned white, your head falling back against his shoulder. He was relentless. He knew your body better than his own, his fingers working with a steady, driving rhythm that left you no room for thought. He stayed pressed against your back, his chest a wall of heat, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw and hold your head in place so he could watch the way your expression crumbled in the reflection of the microwave door.
The climax hit you with a suddenness that stole the air from your lungs. You let out a choked, high-pitched sound, your legs shaking like Bambi's as you collapsed back into him. Jack held you up, his fingers staying inside you to catch the rhythmic pulses of your release, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your sweat-dampened temple.
"There you go," he whispered, his voice thick with a dark, satisfied pride. "That's my girl."
He didn't move for a long minute, letting you ride out the high while the kitchen counter slowly cooled the heat of your skin. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock and the distant, muffled siren of an ambulance somewhere blocks away—a reminder of the world he’d eventually have to go back to.
Finally, he withdrew his hand and stepped back, giving you space to breathe. He reached around you, picked up the wooden spoon you'd dropped, and set it on a rest.
You turned around, leaning your lower back against the counter, still a little breathless and shaky. Jack was standing there, his silver curls a mess, looking at you with a look of profound, quiet contentment. He looked tired—he would always be a little tired—but the sharp, haunted edges he’d brought home from the ED were gone, smoothed over by the recent hours of exposure to the best medicine he could ever have—you.
"Lunch is going to take longer now," you said, your voice finally returning, though it was still a little thin.
Jack reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. He leaned in, giving you one last kiss.
"I don't mind," he said, offering you a small, genuine smile. "I've already had the best meal of the day."
He turned to grab the plates from the cupboard, his movements slow and unhurried. You watched him for a beat, feeling the steady thrum of your heart settling back into its normal rhythm.
It’s these rare moments with you that he cherishes—and he’s ever so glad that the universe gave him the opportunity to find love once more.
Y'all, I have been banging these out like crazy. I mean it's midterm season and all, but that's literally my motivation (anything but study ykwim??). ANYWAYS, I have so many WIPS rn and as I mentioned earlier, my inbox is open, so hmu 😜
The salt air in Oceanside has a way of sticking to everything, a heavy, grit-filled humidity that settles into the pores. Andrew Cody leaned against the warm hood of his car, his posture rigid despite the casual lean. He needed a minute. The house was full of Smurf’s suffocating perfume and the restless, high-frequency energy of his brothers. Out here, on the street, he could just be a shadow watching the light.
He watched the pedestrians with a detached, clinical intensity—the tourists with their sunburnt shoulders and the locals with their weary stares. Most people were just noise.
Then, there was you.
You weren't just passing through; you stopped. Pope’s eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses as he watched you approach a young girl huddling against a brick wall. She couldn't have been more than seventeen, clutching an infant to her chest like something sacred. You knelt in the dirt without a second thought, your lips moving in a quiet cadence he couldn't hear over the idling engines of the PCH. You reached out, asking permission with a look before gently stroking the baby’s cheek.
Waste of time, Pope thought, his jaw tightening. The junkies will just roll her for whatever you give her by sunset. He tried to look away, but his gaze kept snapping back. He watched you disappear into a nearby convenience store and found himself counting the seconds until you emerged.
When you came back out, you were lugging a plastic bag that looked heavy enough to snap. You sat with her. You handed her a burger and a bottle of water, taking the infant into your own arms so the girl could actually eat. Pope watched the way you cooed at the baby, a genuine, soft laugh escaping you as the mother practically scarfed down the meal.
"Slow down," he saw you mouth with a small smile. The girl looked up at you, eyes shining with a sudden, guilty vulnerability.
Then came the rest of the bg's contents—socks, a blanket, diapers, formula. You had been thorough. Pope sees her wipe her eyes with the back of a dirty hand, her mouth forming a shaky "Thank you."
And then, you reached into your own purse, grabbed a handful of bills, and pushed them into her hand. You curled her fingers into a fist and pushed it against her chest, adamant on her taking the money, leaning in close to shield her from the street’s prying eyes.
"Put these in your bra," you whispered, your body blocking the view of the surrounding sidewalk. "That way the others will have less of a chance robbing you."
You knew how these streets worked.
From across the street, he could see the girl’s bottom lip trembling.
"Thank you," she mouthed. "You didn't have to, but thank you."
You gave her a sad, knowing smile. "Yes, I did."
Pope followed you as you got up and continued on your path at a distance, a silent, ghost. When you ducked into a small coffee shop, he waited a beat before following you inside. The bell chimed, and the girl behind the counter went pale. "On the house, Mr. Cody," she mumbled.
He didn't acknowledge her. But, inspired by your charitable actions, he paused a moment, cocking his head to the side, and pulled a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket, shoved them onto the counter, and dumped the rest of his change into the tip jar. He walked straight to your booth and slid into the seat across from you.
You looked up, startled by the sudden presence. He looked like a man who carried a storm inside him, his stare unblinking and raw.
"Why did you help that girl over there?" he asked. The question was a low rasp, stripped of any polite preamble.
You blinked, the directness of it catching you off guard. "Well, she had a little baby and she looked like she was probably seventeen or eighteen. Her parents probably kicked her out. No one should have to deal with that on their own." You paused, your eyes searching his weathered face. "And I know how unsafe these streets are once the sun sets. If the most I can do for her is get her some warm clothes and food, I'd like to do so."
Pope stayed silent, his mouth set in that permanent, tight-pursed expression of his. "No one really cares about the people on the streets here," he said, and it sounded less like a fact and more like something he'd experienced himself. Like a scar. "They're always the same. Drunks, druggies, gangsters. What made you think she deserved a chance?"
"Sorry sir, what’s your name?"
"Andrew Cody."
"Well, Andrew," you said softly, leaning forward just a fraction. "I think everyone deserves a chance, regardless of what hand they’ve been dealt in life, or what they choose to do with it later."
Pope chewed his lip, the words echoing in the hollow parts of him. He thought of Lena, the one piece of his world that felt clean. He thought of the mindless relationships he’d drifted through—the people who saw him as a tool or a threat, but never a man. If you thought a girl in the gutter was worth a chance, maybe you’d see him that way, too.
"What's your name?" he asked quietly.
"Y/N."
"Do you think I can take you to dinner, Y/N? I think I really like you."
The honesty was blunt, lacking any of the polished charm his brothers would have used. You looked at him—really looked at the loneliness etched into the lines around his eyes—and your expression softened. You cocked your head to the side, a slow, genuine smile spreading across your face.
"Well, Andrew," you said, reaching for a napkin and a pen. "I think I can give you a chance too, don't you think?"
You scribbled your number and stood up, leaving him with the lingering scent of coffee and the first real hope he’d felt in years. Pope grabbed the napkin, his thumb tracing the indent of the numbers. He scrunched it in his fist, shoving it deep into his pocket as if someone might try to take it from him.
As he took a sip of his black coffee, a smirk crept across his face. For once, the Cody name didn't feel like a cage. He had a chance.
