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did you miss me?,

summary: Some moments divide your life into two parts: the person you were before, and the person you have to become after. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: ANGST!!!, heartbreak, hurt/no comfort sry, arguing, reader is a motha!!, broken promises, death threats, SMURF!!!, stalking (not pope ;), torment word count: 7.4k amalia’s love note: unfortunately but fortunately there’s a little bit of a time jump. there would be too much area to cover so i’ve condensed it into this chapter as i’d like to get into the juicier parts since I don’t want to stay on this topic for too long. I also know nothing about family court so I apologize if any of it is inaccurate. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART

four months ago

Pope's truck skidded to a stop in the prison parking lot, gravel crunching under the tires. He killed the engine but didn't move, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. His phone had been blowing up for the past hour, J, Craig, Deran all trying to reach him. He'd ignored every call.

Baz was dead.

And you had killed him.

The thought should have devastated him. Baz had been family, had been there since they were kids. But all Pope felt was a cold, seething rage that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the woman waiting inside those concrete walls.

He knew. He fucking knew what Smurf had done.

Pope slammed out of the truck and stalked toward the entrance, the institutional gray building looming ahead like a monument to everything wrong in his life. The security process was degrading, empty his pockets, walk through the metal detector, get patted down by a guard who looked at him like he was already guilty of something. Sign in. Wait. Get buzzed through one locked door, then another, then another. Each one clanging shut behind him with a finality that made his chest tight.

The visiting room was exactly what he expected: fluorescent lights humming overhead, plastic chairs bolted to the floor, metal tables screwed down so nobody could flip them in a rage. Guards stationed at each corner, watching everything. The smell of industrial cleaner and desperation hung in the air. Other inmates sat with their visitors, husbands, kids, lawyers, all of them speaking in hushed tones under the watchful eyes of the COs.

And then there was Smurf.

She sat at a table in the corner, blue jumpsuit somehow looking like a power suit on her. Her hair was pulled back, no makeup, no jewelry, stripped of everything that had made her Smurf Cody on the outside. But it didn't matter. She looked more dangerous here than she ever had in her own kitchen. The prison hadn't diminished her, it had distilled her down to pure, concentrated control.

She watched him approach with those calculating eyes, a slight smile playing at her lips. Like she'd been expecting him. Like this was all going exactly according to plan.

Pope dropped into the chair across from her, the metal cold even through his jeans. He wanted to explode, wanted to scream at her, but the guards were watching and Smurf knew it. She'd orchestrated this perfectly, even the setting was designed to keep him in check.

“Pope.” Her voice was smooth, measured, like they were having coffee instead of sitting in a prison visiting room. “I was wondering when you'd show up.”

“You sent him.” Pope kept his voice low, dangerous, every muscle in his body coiled tight. His hands flexed on the table between them. “You sent Baz to kill her.”

Smurf leaned back in her chair, as much as the bolted-down furniture would allow, and regarded him with that infuriating calm. “Baz made his own choices.”

“Bullshit!” Pope's voice rose slightly, and a guard shifted his weight. Pope forced himself to lower it again, leaning forward. “You sent him to my apartment while she was sleeping. You thought she'd be an easy target. You thought-“

“I thought,” Smurf interrupted, her voice cutting through his rage like a blade, “that we had a problem that needed solving.” She met his eyes, unflinching. “I was right, wasn't I? Look at you. Look at what she's done to you.”

“What you've done!” Pope was shaking now, fury and something else, something that felt too much like fear, warring inside him. “She’s got a body now, Smurf. She killed him in self-defense, and now she's got a fucking body because of you!”

Smurf glanced around the visiting room, at the other inmates and their families, then back to Pope. When she spoke, her voice was even quieter, forcing him to lean in to hear her. “She killed Baz. Your family. And you're here defending her?”

“She killed him because he broke into our apartment to murder her!” Pope's voice cracked. “What the fuck was she supposed to do?”

“She was supposed to die.” Smurf said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that for a moment Pope couldn't breathe. “That was the plan, baby. Clean, simple. She disappears, you grieve, you move on. But she couldn't even do that right.”

Pope stared at his mother across the metal table, really seeing her for the first time in a long time. The cold calculation in her eyes. The complete absence of remorse. The blue jumpsuit that should have made her look powerless but somehow made her look more terrifying, because she'd orchestrated a murder from inside a fucking prison cell. “You're insane.”

“I'm practical.” Smurf's hands were folded on the table, perfectly still. “That girl has been poison since the day she ran up my driveway. She's shown you boys things, a life, possibilities, that you were never meant to want. She's made you soft, baby. Made you question this family.”

“She made me happy.” The words came out raw, honest. “For the first time in my life, I was-“

“Weak.” Smurf's voice was gentle, almost tender, which made it worse. “She made you weak, baby. And weakness gets people killed in our world. You know that.”

Pope's jaw clenched. “So you tried to kill her instead. From in here. You're locked up and you still-“

“I tried to protect this family.” Smurf's voice hardened. “I tried to protect you. But now we've got a bigger problem, don't we? Baz is dead. Bambi killed him. And you're sitting here, torn between your blood and some girl who's going to destroy everything we've built.”

“She's not-“

“She already has!” For just a moment, Smurf's composure cracked, her voice rising enough that a guard took a step forward. She caught herself, smoothed it over, lowered her voice again. But Pope had seen it, the rage beneath the control. “Look at you. You're here, in a prison visiting room, confronting your mother, defending the woman who killed your family. She's already turned you against us, Pope. Can't you see that?”

Pope's hands were fists on the table. “You turned me against you when you sent someone to murder my girlfriend.”

Smurf was quiet for a long moment, studying him. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the room, a child started crying. When she spoke again, her voice had returned to that dangerous calm. “You love her.”

It wasn't a question, but Pope answered anyway. “Yes.”

“More than you love this family?”

“That's not-it's not the same thing.”

“Isn't it?” Smurf leaned forward, and Pope found himself unable to look away. “You have to choose, baby. Her or me. Because I promise you, as long as she's in your life, she's a threat to everything we are.”

“You're the threat.” But even as Pope said it, he could feel something shifting inside him. Old patterns, old loyalties, the weight of a lifetime under Smurf's thumb. The visiting room felt smaller suddenly, the walls closing in.

She sat back, and her expression was almost sad. Almost. “I'm your mother. I've kept you safe, kept you fed, kept you alive in a world that would have chewed you up and spit you out. Everything I've done, I've done for you boys.” She gestured around the visiting room, at the prison beyond. “Even this. You think I'm still in here by accident? I'm in here protecting you. Taking the fall so you stay free.”

“You tried to have her killed.”

“And I'll try again.” Smurf said it so casually, so quietly that only Pope could hear. “If you stay with her, I'll keep trying. Because that's what mothers do, Andrew. We protect our children, even from themselves. Even from in here.”

The words hit Pope like a physical blow. “You're threatening her.”

“I'm stating facts.” Smurf's eyes were cold, calculating. “You want to be with this girl? Fine. But understand what that means. It means I can't stop. It means every day she's in your life, she's in danger. From me, from the family, from the consequences of what she's done.” She paused, letting that sink in. “She killed Baz. You think that doesn't have repercussions? You think the people Baz was connected to are just going to let that slide?”

Pope's stomach dropped. He hadn't thought about that. Hadn't thought past his rage and his fear for you.

Smurf saw the realization on his face and pressed her advantage. “But if you walk away... if you end it clean, make it clear she's not part of this family... then maybe I can make this go away. Maybe I can protect her from what's coming.”

“By leaving her.” Pope's voice was hollow.

“By saving her life.” Smurf leaned forward again, her voice barely above a whisper. “You love her? Then let her go. Let her have a chance at the normal life she showed you. Because baby, you and I both know, you're not built for normal. You're built for this. For violence. For us. For the family.”

Pope's hands were shaking. He thought about you, The way you believed in him, believed he could be something more than what Smurf had made him.

But he also thought about Baz's body, about the blood on your hands, about the target Smurf had painted on your back. About the fact that his mother had orchestrated a murder from inside a prison cell-if she could do that, what else could she do? What couldn't she reach?

“If I leave her,” Pope said slowly, “you'll leave her alone?”

“If you leave her, I'll make sure she's safe.” Smurf's voice was soft, maternal, monstrous. “I'll make the Baz thing disappear. I'll make sure no one comes after her for it. She can go back to her normal life, and you can come home where you belong.”

“And if I don't?”

Smurf's smile was cold. “Then I'll keep trying to kill her until I succeed. And baby, eventually, I will succeed. You know I will.” She gestured around the visiting room again. “These walls don't stop me. Nothing stops me when it comes to protecting my boys.”

Pope closed his eyes. He did know. Smurf always got what she wanted, one way or another. And if she could orchestrate a hit from inside a prison, there was nowhere you could hide. If he stayed with you, if he chose you over the family, Smurf would make sure you paid the price.

“You're a monster,” he whispered.

“I'm your mother.” Smurf's voice was gentle, final. “And I'm giving you a choice. Save her by leaving her, or watch her die because you were too selfish to let her go.”

Pope stood there, trapped between the woman who'd raised him and the woman who'd tried to save him, knowing that either choice would destroy him. The visiting room felt like a cage. The guards watched. The fluorescent lights hummed. And Smurf sat there in her blue jumpsuit, more powerful than she'd ever been.

But only one choice would keep you alive.

“Okay,” he finally said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “Okay. I'll end it.”

Smurf's smile was triumphant. “That's my good boy.”

A guard announced that visiting hours were ending in five minutes. Pope stood, the chair scraping against the floor. Smurf remained seated, watching him with those calculating eyes.

Pope turned and walked toward the exit, each step feeling like a betrayal. Behind him, he heard the guards telling Smurf to stand, preparing to escort her back to her cell. But he didn't look back.

He'd saved your life.

He'd just had to break both your hearts to do it.

present

The courtroom was disappointingly ordinary. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that institutional pallor that made even hope look sickly. Polished wood benches. A flag in the corner. The seal of California mounted behind the judge's bench like it meant something.

Lena sat beside you in an oversized chair, legs swinging beneath her, not quite reaching the floor. She'd insisted on the yellow dress, the one you'd bought her two weeks ago at Target after she'd stood in front of it for ten minutes, touching the fabric like it was made of something precious.

“It makes me look brave,” she'd whispered this morning while you'd helped her with the buttons.

You'd kissed the top of her head, throat tight. She had no idea how brave she'd already been.

Four months. Four months of having your life dissected by strangers with clipboards and kind smiles that never quite reached their eyes. Home studies. Interviews. Background checks so thorough they'd probably known what you ate for breakfast in third grade. Financial records. Psychological evaluations. Letters from professors who'd written about your “exceptional sense of responsibility” and “remarkable maturity.” Letters from neighbors. Letters from Lena's teachers describing how she'd blossomed, how she smiled now, how she'd stopped flinching when adults raised their voices.

The social worker had visited your apartment so many times you'd started keeping her favorite tea stocked. She'd watched you help Lena with homework at the kitchen table. Watched you cook dinner while Lena set the table without being asked. Watched Pope braid Lena's hair after he'd insisted on learning because “she likes the two French braids better, and I should know how to do them.”

She'd seen a family. Even if it hadn't started the conventional way. The judge adjusted his glasses, shuffling through the final stack of paperwork. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Lena's small hand found yours, squeezed tight.

“Miss-“ He said your name, and the sound of it in this room, in this moment, made it feel like someone else's. “You understand the responsibilities that accompany legal guardianship?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

“They are significant.” He looked at you over the rim of his glasses. “You will be responsible for her education. Medical decisions. Her financial wellbeing. Her emotional development. These are not temporary obligations.”

“I understand.”

“You are currently enrolled in medical school.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And employed.”

“I work at my boyfriend's brother's bar while I'm in school.” The words felt strange. Clinical. Like they could somehow capture the reality of your life-studying pharmacology at 2 AM while Lena slept in the next room, working shifts at the bar, making sure there was always food in the fridge and clean clothes in the drawers.

The judge nodded once, made a note. “The court has reviewed your academic records. The letters submitted by your professors describe you as exceptionally responsible. Dedicated.” He paused. “The Department of Children and Family Services has also noted the remarkable bond that has developed between you and Lena over the past four months.”

Lena's fingers tightened around yours. You squeezed back, not trusting yourself to look at her.

“The court has also considered Mr. Cody.”

Your heart stopped. Pope sat one row behind you, silent as a ghost. You could feel him there, the weight of his presence, his hands folded together, his eyes fixed on Lena like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“Mr. Cody has demonstrated genuine love and commitment toward his niece,” the judge continued. “The evidence presented shows a man who has made significant efforts to provide stability and care.” The room held its breath. “However.” The word fell like a gavel. “His criminal history prevents this court from awarding him legal custody at this time.”

You felt it, the way Pope's gaze dropped to the floor. Not surprised. He'd known this was coming. You'd both known. But knowing didn't make it hurt less.

“Fortunately,” the judge said, and something in his tone shifted, “this court is not making its decision based solely on love. It is making its decision based upon the child's best interests.”

Your throat closed. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The fluorescent lights were too bright. The room was too small. Lena's hand was too small in yours.

“The evidence presented over the past seven months consistently demonstrates that you have provided Lena with a stable, loving, and secure home. You have shown remarkable commitment to her wellbeing. You have proven yourself capable of meeting her needs, emotional, physical, educational, and otherwise.”

Your vision blurred.

“The court therefore grants your petition for legal custody.”

For a second, nothing happened. The words hung in the air, too big to be real. You heard them, but they didn't land. Didn't connect. The fluorescent lights kept humming. Someone coughed. A chair creaked.

Then Lena looked up at you.

“Does that mean...?” Her voice was so small, so fragile, barely carrying across the space between you.

You looked down at her. Tried to speak. Couldn't. Your throat had closed completely, tears burning hot behind your eyes.

The judge smiled, actually smiled, something warm and human breaking through the judicial facade. “It means you get to come home.”

Lena burst into tears.

She threw both arms around your neck with enough force to nearly knock you backward, the chair scraping against the floor. “We get to stay?” Her voice broke on the words, muffled against your shoulder. “We get to stay together?”

You laughed, and it came out as a sob. “Yeah, bug.” Your voice cracked, broke completely. “We get to stay.”

“I don't have to leave?” She was crying so hard she could barely get the words out. “I don't have to go?”

“No.” You kissed the top of her head, her hair, her temple. “No, sweetheart. You're not going anywhere.”

She sobbed harder, her small body shaking against yours. Four months of fear, of uncertainty, of not knowing if this fragile thing you'd built together would be allowed to survive, it all came pouring out of her in great, heaving gasps.

Across the room, someone sniffed. Craig. You'd almost forgotten they were there, the whole family crammed into the back row. Deran looked suspiciously emotional, his jaw tight. Even J had turned toward the window, his shoulders tense.

Pope hadn't moved. He was still sitting exactly where he'd been, hands clasped together, head bowed. When you turned to look at him, you saw his eyes were wet. He wasn't crying, not really. Not the way Lena was crying. But his eyes were wet, and he was looking at the two of you like he couldn't quite believe the universe had allowed something good to happen. Like he was afraid to blink in case it all disappeared.

Lena suddenly twisted in your arms. “Uncle Pope!”

He looked up, and something in his expression cracked.

“You get to come home too!” She reached one hand toward him, her face streaked with tears and joy and relief.

The entire courtroom softened. Even the bailiff looked away.

Pope smiled. It was small, disbelieving, like he'd forgotten how. “I do.”

Lena reached for him with both hands now, demanding. Without thinking, Pope stood and crossed the room. He knelt beside your chair, and Lena immediately wrapped one arm around your neck, the other around his, pulling you both together with all the fierce determination only a child could possess.

“There.” She smiled through her tears, proud and certain. “Our family.”

Pope looked at you. You looked back. Neither of you spoke. You didn't have to. His eyes said everything, gratitude and grief and something that looked like hope, all tangled together in a way that made your chest ache.

After everything that had happened, every loss, every fight, every moment you'd thought this would fall apart, this wasn't just a court order. It was proof that somehow, against every odd imaginable, the three of you had found your way home.

The phone call came at 6:47 AM.

Pope was already awake, had been for hours, actually, lying beside you in the dark while you slept. Watching the ceiling. Counting his breaths. Trying not to think about the fact that this was the fifth call this week.

He slipped out of bed before the second ring, grabbing his phone off the nightstand and moving into the hallway. Closed the bedroom door softly behind him. Lena's door was still shut, she'd sleep for another hour at least.

He answered without saying anything.

“Andrew.” Smurf's voice was calm. Pleasant, even. Like she was calling to check in on the weather. “Good morning, baby.”

Pope's jaw tightened. He moved into the kitchen, keeping his voice low. “What do you want?”

“That's no way to talk to your mother.” A pause. “Have you done it yet?”

His stomach twisted. “I'm working on it.”

“Working on it.” She repeated the words slowly, like she was tasting them. “That's what you said four months ago. And again on Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday.”

“It's not that simple-“

“It's very simple, Pope.” Her voice hardened. “You leave her, or I make sure she doesn't make it to the end of the month.”

Pope closed his eyes. Pressed his palm flat against the counter. “She hasn't done anything to you.”

“She took my son from me.” Smurf's tone was matter-of-fact. “Despite everything that's enough.”

“I'm still here-“

“No, you're not.” The words were sharp. Final. “You're in her bed. In her apartment. Playing house with a little girl who isn't even yours. You think I don't see what's happening? You think I'm going to sit in here and watch you build a life that doesn't include me?”

“You're in prison because of your own choices-“

“And you'll be at her funeral because of yours.” Smurf let the silence stretch. “End of the week, Andrew. That's your deadline. You walk away, or I send someone who won't fail like Baz did.”

The line went dead.

Pope stood there for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear. His hand was shaking. He set the phone down on the counter, gripped the edge with both hands, and tried to breathe.

End of the week.

Three days.

Behind him, he heard the bedroom door open. Your footsteps, soft on the hardwood. You appeared in the doorway wearing one of his old shirts, hair messy from sleep, eyes still half-closed.

“You okay?” Your voice was rough. Concerned.

Pope turned, forced his expression into something neutral. “Yeah. Couldn't sleep.”

You moved closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. “You've been weird all week.”

“I'm fine.”

“Liar.” You kissed his shoulder blade through his shirt. “Come back to bed.”

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. Wanted to crawl back under the covers and pretend the last five phone calls hadn't happened. Pretend Smurf was just a bad dream. Pretend he had more than three days left before he had to destroy the only good thing he'd ever built.

“In a minute,” he said.

You squeezed him once, then let go. “Coffee?”

“Yeah.”

You moved to the coffee maker, and Pope watched you, the easy way you moved through the space, the way you knew where everything was, the way this place had become home. For both of you.

Three days.

He was going to lose his mind.

~~~

Lena saw the mail carrier through the window first. “Mail's here!”

You were at the kitchen table, laptop open, reviewing notes for your pharmacology exam. Pope was on the couch, pretending to read but really just staring at the same page he'd been staring at for twenty minutes.

Lena bolted to the door before you could even stand up. “Lena, wait for me-“

But she was already yanking the door open, grabbing the small stack of envelopes from the carrier with a breathless “Thank you!” before slamming the door shut again.

She brought the mail to you like a retriever, proud of herself. “Here!”

You took the stack, flipping through it absently. Bills. Junk mail. A flyer for a pizza place. And then-

You stopped.

The envelope was thick. Cream-colored. Expensive-looking. The return address made your heart stop.

Children's Hospital of Philadelphia Department of Pediatrics Residency Program

Your hands started shaking.

“What is it?” Lena leaned over your shoulder, trying to see.

You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. You just stared at the envelope like it might disappear if you blinked.

Pope looked up from the couch. “Sweetheart?”

You met his eyes. “It's from Philadelphia children’s.”

The room went still.

Lena's eyes went wide. “The doctor program?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“Open it!” Lena was bouncing now, practically vibrating with excitement. “Open it open it open it-“

Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely get the envelope open. You tore at the seal, pulled out the folded letter inside, and-“

Dear Doctor, We are pleased to offer you a position in our Pediatric Residency Program...

You stopped reading. The words blurred. You couldn't breathe.

“What does it say?” Lena grabbed your arm. “What does it say?!”

You looked at her. Then at Pope. Your voice came out as a whisper. “I got in.”

For a second, nobody moved.

Then Lena screamed.

She launched herself at you, nearly knocking you out of the chair, wrapping both arms around your neck and shrieking with joy. “You got in! You got in you got in you got in-“

You laughed, tears streaming down your face, holding her tight. “I got in.”

“You're gonna be a doctor!” Lena pulled back, her face glowing. “A real doctor!”

“I'm gonna be a doctor.” You were crying now, full-on sobbing, and you didn't even care. Four years of pre-med. Four years of medical school. Endless nights studying. Endless shifts at the bar. Endless moments of doubt, of exhaustion, of wondering if you were insane for even trying-

And you'd done it.

You'd actually done it.

Lena was still bouncing. “Can I come? To Philadelphia? Can I come with you?”

You cupped her face in both hands. “Of course you're coming. We're a package deal, remember?”

“We're going to Philadelphia!” Lena spun in a circle, arms out. “We're moving to Philadelphia!”

You looked at Pope.

He was still sitting on the couch. Still holding the book. But he wasn't reading anymore. He was looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read, something caught between pride and pain.

“Andy.” Your voice was soft. “Did you hear?”

He blinked. Stood. Crossed the room in three strides and pulled you into his arms. “I heard.”

You buried your face in his chest. “I can't believe it.”

“I can.” His voice was rough. “You worked your ass off for this.”

“We're going to Philadelphia.” You pulled back to look at him, grinning through your tears. “All three of us. Fresh start. New city. You, me, and Lena.”

Something flickered across his face. Too fast to catch.

“Yeah,” he said. “Fresh start.”

You kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Grateful. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The words came out strained.

Lena grabbed both your hands. “We have to tell Uncle Deran! And Uncle Craig! And J!”

You laughed. “Okay, okay. Let me call them-“

“No!” Lena was already running for the door. “We have to go tell them in person! This is big news!”

You looked at Pope. He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

“Yeah.” He kissed your forehead. “I'm proud of you.”

“We're really doing this.” You squeezed his hand. “We're really getting out.”

Pope's smile cracked at the edges.

“Yeah,” he said. “We're getting out.”

~~~

The celebration at Deran's bar lasted three hours.

Craig bought a round for the entire place. Deran kept hugging you and saying “Holy shit” over and over like he couldn't believe it. Even J cracked a smile, clapping you on the shoulder and muttering something about “making it out.”

Lena was in heaven. She sat at the bar, on a stool, like a grown-up, she kept saying, drinking Shirley Temples and telling anyone who would listen that you were going to be a doctor and she was moving to Philadelphia.

Pope stood at the edge of it all. Watching.

Smiling when someone looked at him. Nodding when Craig made a toast. Laughing when Lena dragged him onto the makeshift dance floor and insisted he spin her around.

But inside, he was falling apart. Every time you smiled, it felt like a knife. Every time Lena talked about Philadelphia, the blade twisted deeper.

Every time someone said “fresh start,” he wanted to scream.

Because he knew. He knew what was coming.

Deran appeared beside him, beer in hand. “You good, man?”

Pope nodded. “Yeah.”

“You don't look good.”

“I'm fine.”

Deran studied him for a long moment. “She's really doing it. Getting out.”

“Yeah.”

“You're going with her, right?”

Pope didn't answer.

Deran's expression shifted. “Pope. You're going with her.”

“I don't know.”

“What the fuck do you mean you don't know?” Deran's voice dropped.

“Plans change.”

“Not this one.” Deran grabbed his arm. “Don't do this to her.”

Pope pulled away. “Do what?”

“Whatever the fuck you're thinking right now.” Deran's jaw was tight. “I know that look. That's your ‘I'm about to do something stupid to protect someone’ look. Don't.”

“You don't know what you're talking about-“

“Smurf got to you.” It wasn't a question.

Pope's silence was answer enough.

Deran swore under his breath. “What did she say?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“It matters if you're about to blow up her life because of it.” Deran stepped closer. “Pope. Listen to me. Smurf is in prison. She can't touch you. She can't touch Bambi. She's just trying to fuck with your head-“

“She said she'd kill her.” Pope's voice was flat. “If I don't leave her by the end of the week, she'll send someone. Someone who won't fail.”

Deran stared at him. “You believe her.”

“You think she won't try again?”

“So what's your plan? Walk away? Break her heart? Pretend you don't love her?” Deran shook his head. “That's not protecting her, man. That's just letting Smurf win.”

“If it keeps her alive, I don't care who wins.”

Across the bar, you laughed at something Craig said. Lena was on your hip, arms around your neck, face pressed against your shoulder. You looked so happy. So free.

Pope's chest ached.

“She'll be better off without me,” he said quietly.

“That's bullshit and you know it.”

“She's going to Philadelphia. Starting over. She doesn't need me dragging her down-“

“She loves you.” Deran's voice was hard. “And you love her. And that little girl over there? She thinks you hung the fucking moon. You walk away now, you destroy all three of you.”

Pope looked at him. “Better destroyed than dead.”

Deran opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked like he wanted to hit something.

“You're making a mistake,” he said finally.

“Probably,” Pope took a long drink. “But it's mine to make.”

Later that night, back at the apartment, Lena fell asleep on the couch halfway through a movie. You carried her to bed, tucking her in and kissing her forehead. When you came back to the living room, Pope was standing at the window, staring out at the street below.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “Hey.”

He didn't turn around. “Hey.”

“You've been quiet tonight.”

“Just thinking.”

“About Philadelphia?”

“Yeah.”

You rested your cheek against his back. “I know it's a big change. But it's going to be good. For all of us. New city. Better opportunities. Lena will love it there, they have amazing schools. And the residency program is one of the best in the country.” You squeezed him. “We're really doing this. We're really getting out.”

Pope closed his eyes.

Three days.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “You're getting out.”

You didn't catch the distinction.

You just held him tighter, already dreaming of Philadelphia.

And Pope stood there, memorizing the feeling of your arms around him.

Because he knew.

In three days, this would be gone.

In three days, he'd have to look you in the eye and destroy everything.

In three days, he'd have to walk away from the only family he'd ever wanted.

But you'd be alive.

You'd be in Philadelphia with Lena, starting your residency, building the life you deserved.

And he'd be here. Alone.

Keeping you safe the only way he knew how.

Even if it killed him.

You were in the kitchen making lunch, grilled cheese for Lena, who was at the table coloring a picture of what she imagined Philadelphia would look like. Lots of tall buildings. A park. Three stick figures holding hands.

The knock on the door made you look up.

“I'll get it!” Lena was already scrambling off her chair.

“Wait-“ But she was faster, yanking the door open before you could stop her. She has got to stop doing that.

A delivery guy stood there holding an enormous bouquet. White lilies. Dozens of them. Elegant. Expensive. The kind of arrangement that cost more than your weekly grocery budget.

“Delivery for...” He checked the card. “Bambi?”

Your stomach dropped.

“That's her!” Lena pointed at you, delighted. “Someone sent you flowers!”

You crossed the room slowly, dread pooling in your chest. “Who are they from?”

The delivery guy shrugged. “No idea. Just says to deliver them here.” He handed you the bouquet. “Have a nice day.”

He was gone before you could ask anything else. You stood there holding the flowers, staring at the small white envelope tucked between the lilies. Your hands were shaking.

“Open it!” Lena bounced beside you. “Who sent them?”

You pulled the card out with numb fingers.

The handwriting was elegant. Feminine. Precise.

Did you miss me?

That was it.

No signature.

No name.

Just four words that made your blood run cold.

“Who's it from?” Lena tried to peek at the card.

You closed your fist around it. “Nobody. Just... a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Lena frowned. “But they're so pretty-“

“Go finish your picture, bug.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended. “I'll bring your lunch in a minute.”

Lena's face fell, but she went back to the table without arguing.

You carried the flowers to the kitchen counter, set them down, and stared at the card again.

Did you miss me?

Smurf.

It had to be Smurf.

But she was in prison. How the hell-

Your phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

Check your mailbox.

Your heart stopped.

You looked at Lena. She was focused on her coloring, humming softly to herself.

“I'll be right back,” you said.

“Where are you going?”

“Just checking the mail. Two minutes.”

You grabbed your keys and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind you. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely get the mailbox key into the lock.

Inside was a single manila envelope. No return address. No postage. Hand-delivered.

You tore it open right there in the hallway. Photographs spilled out. Your knees nearly gave out.

The first photo: you and Lena walking to the park. Three days ago. You remembered that day, Lena had insisted on wearing her new sneakers.

The second photo: you leaving the apartment building. Yesterday morning. Coffee in hand. Backpack over your shoulder.

The third: Lena getting off the school bus. Alone. Smiling. Unaware someone was watching her.

The fourth: you and Pope in the parking lot outside Deran's bar. Last week. His arm around your waist. Your head on his shoulder.

There were more.

So many more.

Someone had been following you. For weeks. Maybe longer. Someone had been watching Lena.

Your vision blurred. Your chest tightened. You couldn't breathe.

The hallway tilted.

You grabbed the wall to steady yourself, photographs clutched in your shaking hands.

Smurf.

Smurf had sent someone to watch you. To follow you. To prove that even from prison, she could reach you. She could reach Lena.

The message was clear: I can get to you anytime I want.

You shoved the photos back into the envelope and stumbled back to the apartment. Locked the door behind you. Checked the deadbolt twice. Then checked it again.

“You okay?” Lena looked up from her drawing.

“Yeah.” Your voice cracked. “I'm fine.”

You weren't fine. You were the furthest thing from fine.

You pulled out your phone and called Pope.

He answered on the first ring. “Hey-“

“Where are you?”

Something in your voice made him pause. “At the house. Why? What's wrong?”

“Come home. Now.”

“Sweetheart-“

“Now, Andrew.”

You hung up.

Lena was staring at you. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, sweetheart.” You forced a smile. “Uncle Pope's coming home early.”

“Is he in trouble?”

“No. Nobody's in trouble.”

But you were lying. You were all in so much trouble.

~~~

Pope arrived fourteen minutes later. You heard his truck pull up outside. Heard his footsteps on the stairs. Heard his key in the lock.

The second he stepped through the door, you shoved the envelope into his hands.

“Look.”

He frowned. “What-“

“Just look.”

He opened the envelope. Pulled out the photos. His entire body went rigid.

“When did you get these?”

“Twenty minutes ago. Someone left them in my mailbox.” You crossed your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “And before that, someone delivered flowers. With a card.”

You handed him the card.

Pope read it. His jaw tightened. “Smurf.”

“She's been having us followed.” Your voice shook. “For weeks, Andy. Someone's been watching us. Watching Lena.”

Pope flipped through the photos again, his expression darkening with each one. When he got to the picture of Lena getting off the school bus, his hands started shaking.

“She's in prison,” you said. “How is she doing this?”

Pope didn't answer. He just stared at the photo of Lena, his face pale.

“Andy.” You grabbed his arm. “How is she doing this?”

“She has people.” His voice was flat. “She's always had people.”

“Then we go to the police-“

“And tell them what?” He looked at you. “That my mother sent flowers and took some pictures? They're not going to do anything.”

“She's threatening us-“

“She's not threatening you.” Pope's voice was hollow. “She's threatening me.”

You stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

He didn't answer.

“Andy.” Your voice hardened. “What are you talking about?”

He set the photos down on the counter. Ran both hands through his hair. Turned away from you.

“She's been calling me,” he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“Every day for months. From prison. Telling me to leave you.”

The room tilted.

“You-“ You couldn't form words. “You've been talking to her?”

“She said if I didn't end it, she'd send someone after you.” Pope's voice cracked. “Someone who wouldn't fail like Baz did.”

Everything stopped.

“How long?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “How long have you known?”

“Four months.”

“Four months.” You repeated the word like it was foreign. “You've for four months that she was threatening to kill me, and you didn't tell me?”

“I was trying to protect you-“

“By lying to me?” Your voice rose. “By keeping this from me?”

“I didn't want you to be scared-“

“I'm fucking terrified, Andrew!” You were shaking now. “Someone's been following me. Following Lena. Taking pictures of us like we're-like we're targets-“

“You are targets.” Pope's voice was raw. “As long as you're with me, you're targets.”

The words hung in the air.

You stared at him. “What are you saying?”

Pope looked at you. His eyes were red. Devastated.

“I'm saying I have to leave.”

“No.” The word came out sharp. Final. “No, you don't.”

“She's not going to stop-“

“Then we'll figure it out-“

“There's nothing to figure out!” Pope's voice rose for the first time. “She's in prison and she still got to you! She still found a way! What do you think happens when you're in Philadelphia? When you're alone with Lena and I'm not there to-“

He stopped.

Closed his eyes.

“You think leaving is going to keep us safe?” Your voice shook. “You think walking away is going to make her stop?”

“I think it's the only chance you have.”

“That's bullshit-“

“She wants me to choose!” Pope's voice cracked. “She wants me to choose between her and you, and if I choose you, she'll kill you just to prove she can!”

“So you're choosing her?”

“I'm choosing to keep you alive!”

“By abandoning us?”

“Yes!” The word came out like a roar.

The apartment went silent.

From the living room, you heard a small, frightened sound.

You both turned.

Lena was standing in the doorway. Her coloring book was on the floor. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide and wet.

“Uncle Pope?” Her voice was tiny. Scared.

Pope's expression shattered.

“Lena-“ He took a step toward her.

She took a step back.

“Why are you yelling?”

“I'm not-“ Pope stopped. Lowered his voice. “I'm sorry, bug. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“Are you leaving?” Lena's chin trembled. “Are you leaving us?”

Pope looked at you.

Then back at Lena.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I am.”

Lena's face crumpled. “Why?”

“Because I have to.”

“But you said-“ Her voice broke. “You said we were a family. You said we were staying together.”

“I know.” Pope crouched down to her level. “I know what I said.”

“Then why are you leaving?” Tears streamed down her face. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” Pope's voice cracked. “No, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong.”

“Then stay.” Lena grabbed his hand with both of hers. “Please stay.”

Pope closed his eyes. “I can't.”

“Yes, you can!” Lena was sobbing now. “You can stay! You can stay with us!”

“Lena-“

“Please don't go!” She threw her arms around his neck. “Please, Uncle Pope. Please don't leave.”

Pope held her. His shoulders shook. He pressed his face against her hair and just held her while she cried.

You stood there watching, your heart breaking into pieces.

After a long moment, Pope gently pulled Lena's arms from around his neck. He kissed her forehead. Stood up.

“I love you,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Lena nodded, still crying.

“I'm always going to love you.” Pope's voice was barely holding together. “But I have to go.”

He turned to you.

You were crying too now. Silent tears streaming down your face.

“Don't do this,” you whispered.

“I have to.”

“No, you don't.” You crossed the room, grabbed his arm. “We can fight this. Together. We can-“

“She'll kill you.” Pope's voice broke. “She'll kill you and I'll have to live with that. I can't-“ He stopped. Swallowed hard. “I can't lose you like that.”

“So you're losing me like this instead?”

Pope didn't answer.

He just looked at you. Memorizing your face. Like he was trying to hold onto something that was already gone.

Then he pulled away.

He walked to the bedroom. You heard drawers opening. Closing. The sound of a duffel bag being zipped.

When he came back out, he had the bag over his shoulder.

He stopped in front of Lena. Crouched down one more time.

“You're going to be okay,” he said softly. “You're going to go to Philadelphia and you're going to have the best life. And she-“ He nodded toward you. “She's going to take care of you. Better than I ever could.”

“I don't want just her to take care of me.” Lena's voice was small. Broken. “I want you.”

Pope's face crumpled. He kissed her forehead one last time. “I love you, bug.”

Then he stood.

He looked at you.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

You didn't respond.

You just stood there, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the man you loved walk toward the door.

He stopped with his hand on the knob.

“This is my apartment,” he said quietly. “Lease is in my name. You and Lena stay here as long as you need. I'll keep paying rent until you leave for Philadelphia.”

“I don't want your money.”

“I know.” Pope opened the door. “But you're getting it anyway.”

He stepped into the hallway.

“Pope.” Your voice stopped him.

He turned.

“If you walk out that door,” you said, “don't come back.”

Something flickered across his face. Pain. Regret. Resignation.

“I won't,” he said.

And then he was gone.

The door closed. The lock clicked. And you stood there in the apartment that wasn't yours, holding a little girl who was sobbing into your shoulder, staring at the space where Pope had been.

He was gone. He'd actually left.

Behind you, the white lilies sat on the counter. Beautiful. Elegant. Poisonous.

A reminder that Smurf had won.