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Pope has your whole heart and always will. He just doesn’t know it, and that’s the part that keeps you up at night.
You were maybe seven the first time you met him at the public pool, when a boy thought it’d be funny to put his hand on the back of your head and push. The water was going up your nose when Pope appeared, grabbed the kid by his wrist, and said something to him too quiet for you to hear. Whatever it was worked. You’d barely spoken before that afternoon, but after, you were always together.
You watched him carry a torch for Cath your entire life. Watched him disappear into his bedroom with women whose names he didn’t remember by morning, women he left cash for on the nightstand.
You were the one who broke the news to him about Julia, and when he went to prison, you were there every visiting day, sitting across from him under the fluorescent light for as long as they would let you, reminding him he wasn’t forgotten, even when his family found reasons not to visit.
***
You’re slouched on the sofa, remote in hand, idly flipping through cooking shows and late-night reruns on your new flat-screen - Pope’s birthday gift to you - when your phone vibrates against the cushion. Only one name makes you answer.
“Hey, Pope. What’s - “ You stop when you hear ragged sobs and heavy sniffs cracking through the line. “Andrew?” you whisper. “What happened?”
“Need you at Baz’s. Now.”
“Is Lena - “
“Lena’s fine. Just…please. Come.”
You fling yourself up without changing out of your oversized t-shirt and pyjama shorts. You tug on your scuffed Converse, lace them tight, and run the two blocks beneath the pale streetlights.
Baz’s front door is half-open. Inside, the living room is quiet. Pope sits on the sofa, shoulders hunched, head in his hands. You drop beside him, gripping his arms until he moves his trembling fingers from his face. Tear tracks glisten on his cheeks.
“Andrew,” you say softly.
He presses his lips together. “I had to…to protect them. I - I had to.”
“Protect who? What did you do?” you press, but he won’t meet your eyes.
You rise and walk down the hall. In Lena’s room, a dim nightlight casts a gentle glow on her sleeping form as relief flares in your chest. At the next door, you pause and push it open. Inside, Cath lies motionless, tangled in rumpled sheets, a pillow pressed over her face. Your heart thuds so loudly you almost turn back.
Instead, you step forward, sliding the pillow away and brush Cath’s dark hair from her forehead. Her skin is cool to the touch. Without thinking, you wrap her slender frame in the duvet, shielding her from sight.
“What are you doing?” Pope’s voice is think from the doorway.
“I’m not letting you end up back in a cell,” you say, voice low as you tuck corners of the duvet under her body. “We have to move her.”
“No - stop,” he stammers, hand grazing the bed. “I didn’t mean to - “
“I can’t move her alone.” You meet his eyes. “Help me get her into your truck, then go stay with Lena. I’ll handle the rest.”
He hesitates, gaze flicking to the ceiling, as though searching for a way out.
“Who else knows?”
His jaw tightens. “No one.”
“Smurf?” you whisper, naming the only person who might have forced his hand. Pope stiffens but stays silent.
Gently, you press your palm to his cheek, turning his face so your foreheads touch. His breath is hot against your skin. “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll be okay,” you murmur. “Right now, just help me move her.”
***
Hours later, dawn filters through slats of the living room blinds. You step in, blinking at the soft yellow light. In the adjoining kitchen, Lena sits on a high stool, syrup bottle tipped over a stack of pancakes. Steam curls from each fluffy layer, pooling around a melting pat of butter.
Pope stands beside her, muscles rippling under a gray t-shirt as he takes the bottle from her and screws the lid back on. Even after everything, the sight of his forearms - corded veins shifting beneath skin - makes your chest tighten.
You clear your throat. “Morning.”
He nods, his voice quiet. “Morning.”
Lena swallows and wipes syrup from her chin. “Hi,” she says. “Are you here to see Uncle Pope?”
You smile, masking the secret behind your eyes. “Yeah. We’ve got a few errands to run once your dad gets home.”
She beams, satisfied with the answer, as you settle onto the edge of the couch, heart pounding with relief and dread all at once as you brush away dirt from your jeans, the only clue to what you did to her mother.
***
For the first forty‐eight hours, Baz never asks a single question. Instead, he burns through every second of daylight hunting for Cath. You watch him drive, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the steering wheel, as he crosses Oceanside. He checks every rundown motel she ever mentioned, calls friends she hasn’t spoken to in years, chases lead after lead that peters out, his black SUV rolling on long after dusk blurs into night.
You almost feel guilty - almost. But you remember Baz’s girl in Mexico - the secret trips, the rumor of a whole other life he’s kept tucked across the border. You remember Pope’s voice on the phone, rough and cracking, the tears tracking down cheekbones. You’d walk through fire for him, so you decide you’d make the same choice if you had to do it all over again.
A week later, morning light turns the kitchen counters of Smurf’s kitchen a pale gold. You’re leaning against the sink, half‐listening to Craig’s banter and Deran’s low laughter, when the front door slams like a gun shot. The room falls silent. Smurf doesn’t stir from her seat at the table; she lifts her coffee mug only as far as her eyes. Craig looks up from his phone, eyebrows raised. Deran mutters something under his breath. Pope freezes beside the counter, hands splayed where he stands.
Baz doesn’t even glance around the room, eyes locked immediately on Pope. His voice rips through the quiet. “Cops found Cath’s car.”
Pope doesn’t flinch. “And?”
Baz takes a step closer; the floorboards creak beneath him. “And,” he repeats, voice low and hard, “they’re saying she didn’t leave voluntarily.”
You watch Pope’s fingers tighten around his coffee mug, knuckles paling. His jaw shifts to one side, breathing shallow and measured - too measured. He’s trying too hard to seem calm.
Baz leans in, nostrils flaring. “You know something.”
Pope’s face smooths into his usual impassive mask. “I don’t.”
Baz laughs, but there’s no humor. “You do. You’ve been off since she disappeared.”
Pope’s eyes harden. “I’m always off.”
Craig snorts; Smurf’s lips twitch. But Baz doesn’t smile. He stares at Pope until the silence thickens.
“Is this a joke to you?” Baz’s words hang in the air.
Pope’s heart pounds so loud you think you can hear it. Baz closes the gap, so close you can count the dark stubble on his chin. “You know where she is.”
“No, I don’t.” Pope’s voice is flat but not unsteady.
Baz’s next question comes out in a furious whisper. “You kill her?” Craig straightens, Deran’s eyes flick between them. Smurf sets her coffee down with a soft clink. Pope’s face blanks entirely. It’s the same look he wore when you wrapped Cath in those sheets in Baz’s bedroom.
“I didn’t kill Cath,” Pope says. The lie slides off his tongue smooth as silk.
Baz studies him, nostrils flaring, then shifts his stare to you. You realize you’ve stepped forward, unconsciously positioning yourself beside Pope.
“You his bodyguard now or something?” Baz spits at you, contempt dripping from each word.
You fold your arms over your chest. “I haven’t said a word.”
“My wife is missing.” He jabs a finger at Pope; it trembles.
“I know.”
“My kid’s asking where her mom is.”
“I know.”
“He’s the last person who saw her,” Baz growls, jabbing the air at his brother. “And you’re awfully quick to defend him.”
You shrug, annoyed by the implication. “Because I know him.”
Baz laughs - a hollow, echoing sound. “You think you do. But you don’t. Not really.”
You uncross your arms and slide your back against the marble counter, watching his chest rise and fall in jagged breaths.
“You think he tells you everything?” Baz leans so far forward his forehead nearly touches yours.
“No,” you say quietly. “But I know he wouldn’t hurt Cath.” The words tumble free before you can second‐guess them.
Pope turns his head, eyes asking a question you won’t need to hear aloud. Baz’s glare snaps from Pope back to you, suspicion etched in every line of his face.
“You sure about that?” he says.
“I stand by it.”
Baz’s stare drills into you, then abruptly shifts. “Where were you the night she disappeared?”
The question hits you cold, like someone dumping a bucket of ice water over your head. You force your shoulders to stay squared. “Home. Alone.”
He leans back a fraction. “What time did you go to bed?”
“How the fuck should I know?” You shrug. “It was over a week ago, Baz.”
His gaze narrows. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Pope lately.”
You roll your eyes. “Lately? We’ve been friends since we were kids.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is,” he says, stepping forward again until you can feel the warmth of his anger like a low roar, “I’ve never seen two people this loyal to each other unless they’ve got a shared secret.”
The air thickens. Pope moves on muscle memory, sliding between you and his brother without thought. “Back off.”
Baz locks eyes with his brother. “There it is.”
Andrew’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “I said - back. Off.”
Baz snorts. “What are you gonna do? Kill me, too?”
Smurf’s voice slices through the tension. “Enough. Unless you’ve got proof, stop accusing your family.”
“She’s not family,” Baz shoots at you.
“Close enough,” Smurf says, offering you a gentle, reassuring smile.
Baz shakes his head. “You’re all unbelievable.” With that he storms out, the front door banging against the wall as he leaves. Even after his car roars down the driveway, the silence in the kitchen hangs heavier than before.
“I should go,” you mutter to nobody in particular.
“Don’t let him get to you, Baby,” Smurf says, her tone soft as she rises to head out to the pool with Craig and Deran.
Pope’s shoulders slump, the tight wire of his stance slackening. “‘M sorry,” he says, voice low.
“For what?” you ask, frowning.
“For dragging you into this.”
“You needed help,” you remind him with a small, sad smile.
“You could go to prison.”
You shrug. “I know.”
He looks down at his coffee mug, steam swirling. “You didn’t even ask me why.”
“I didn’t need to.”
His head snaps up, eyes searching yours for a reason. You answer the question he didn’t ask without hesitation. “Because it was you.”
Pope freezes, the world shrinking until it’s just the two of you in that still kitchen, your words hanging in the warm morning light. Because it was him - no “if,” no “maybe,” just pure unguarded trust. Not innocence, not proof, just faith.
You reach out and smooth the collar of his shirt, more from habit than anything else. His breath catches when your fingers brush against his neck, then he nods, wordless. You step back, heart thudding, and whisper, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Andrew.”
***
He stands in the hallway long after you’ve closed the front door, staring at the empty threshold. In the quiet that follows, he thinks about the way you never hesitated - how you looked Baz in the eye and defended him, even after seeing the worst thing he’d ever done. The way you’d carried Cath’s weight and buried her body. You helped him cross every line - but instead of feeling worried or anxious, his chest tightens at the memory of your touch. It’s something other than lust or possession.
Trust. And for the first time, Andrew wonders if what’s blooming inside him might be more dangerous than any obsession he’s known.
***
The next morning, you wake just before the third firm knock rattles your door. You curl one leg beneath you, listening. You already know who it is. Rolling out of bed, you shrug a soft gray sweatshirt over your tank top and shuffle down the narrow hallway, the wood floors creaking under your feet.
You open the door to find Pope on the battered welcome mat, two paper coffee cups in his hands.
“I got yours with vanilla,” he says, voice low.
You blink at him, surprised. “You remembered?”
He cracks a small smile. “You always get vanilla.” He lifts his brow like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Still,” you whisper, and he just shrugs. It’s a casual gesture, but to you it feels huge.
Inside, you settle at your tiny kitchen table with the newspaper, as Pope pulls a screwdriver from your junk drawer and begins to methodically dismantle the toaster that broke last week.
“You know,” you say after a while, folding a page, “I can just buy a new one.”
He doesn’t look up. His fingers twist a screw with care. “It still works.”
“I saw flames last time I used it.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, fine - there weren’t actual flames. But there were sparks.”
He tightens a screw and finally glances at you, concentration etched in the line of his jaw. You’ve always admired the way the rest of the world seems to vanish when he fixes something. It can be dangerous - his focus is total - but in moments like this it just makes him look…peaceful.
“What?” he asks, leaning back.
“There’s grease on your face.” He reaches up to brush a dark smudge from his cheek. He wipes at it, hands shaking off the grime, but the second wipe misses.
“Nope,” you say with a teasing lilt.
He rolls his eyes, half-annoyed, half-amused - the same look he gave you when you were kids and he beat you at every game. You step closer, wrapping his jaw in the corner of a dish towel and tracing it gently across his skin. Your fingers linger, and the morning light catches in his hazel eyes, making the gold flecks shimmer. Time stills for a heartbeat. You’re nearer than you realized, and the warmth in his gaze thumps through your chest.
“There,” you say softly, stepping back. He murmurs a quick, “Thanks,” and dives right back into the toaster with the ease of someone who’s always known exactly what he’s doing - except, you realize, with you.
By afternoon you’re both perched on your couch with grilled cheese sandwiches when a heavy pounding on the front door makes Andrew leap to his feet, muscles coiling like a spring.
“It’ll get - ” you begin, but he cuts you off with a sharp, “No. I’ll answer it.”
When he opens the door, Baz stands framed in the doorway, expression hard. He glances past Pope and his gaze settles on you.
“We need to talk,” Baz says.
Pope squares his shoulders. “You can talk here,” he replies, voice steady.
Baz’s eyes flick to him. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He doesn’t back down.
You slip between them, heart hammering. “It’s fine,” you say, though Pope’s jaw stays tense.
Baz steps inside and folds his arms. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been working,” you answer, trying to keep your tone light.
“You don’t have a job.” His voice is a challenge.
“What do you want, Baz?”
He steps closer. “I want to know why Pope called you the night Cath disappeared.”
All movement in the room halts. You feel Pope tense behind you.
“Lena said she woke up and he was on the phone, calling your name over and over.”
Andrew’s fists clench. You force yourself to meet Baz’s eyes. “He calls me all the time.”
“At two in the morning?”
“When he’s having a hard time.” Your voice softens. “He trusts me.”
Baz studies your face as though it’s a puzzle he can’t quite solve. “Why you?”
“Because I’m his friend,” you reply, and even you can feel the firmness in your words.
Baz laughs, low. “You know, when we were teenagers, I used to think he was in love with Cath.” He shakes his head. “But now I’m starting to wonder if I’d been looking at the wrong person. He follows you around, watches you, listens when you tell him to calm down.”
Andrew’s gaze flickers between you and Baz - something raw and uncertain in his eyes. He steps forward, voice tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah,” Baz says, walking back to the front door. “I don’t think you do either.” Before leaving, he turns back to you. “If I find out you’re lying to me…” He doesn’t finish the threat before he brushes past Pope, shoulder bumping into his, and slams the door behind him.
You breathe out. “Well.”
Pope turns to you, eyes wide. “What did he mean - when he said that look?”
You force a laugh. “Baz was just trying to get under your skin.”
Pope’s gaze drops to the floor, and for the first time you hear the unsteady catch in his voice. “I do watch you,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard. “I know when you’re tired. I know when you’re pretending you’re okay. I know you hate driving after dark. I know you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re worried. You always tuck your feet underneath you on the couch…” His voice trails off as though he’s surprised to realize how many little details he’s stored away.
Your heart hammers so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. Before you can reply, he steps away. “I should go.” His hand hits the doorknob, and then the door clicks shut behind him.
You stand alone, the echo of Baz’s words and Pope’s confession swirling around you like dust motes in sunlight.
Across the street, Andrew sits in his truck, hands resting on the steering wheel, staring at your window. The afternoon hum of traffic goes on without him. He closes his eyes and lets himself wonder - when did he stop thinking of you as just his best friend?
***
Pope doesn’t come by the next day, or the day after that. You tell yourself he’s busy, that Smurf always has him running errands. But by the third morning, you’re pacing your living room whenever a truck rumbles past. When none of them is his, you decide to stop waiting.
Smurf’s house is alive with noise when you push open the door. Craig and Deran are shouting at each other over the couch cushions, Smurf’s voice crackles through a phone in the kitchen, and Lena’s tiny frame is curled on the floor with crayons and paper. When she sees you, her face lights up.
“You’re here!” she exclaims, holding up a drawing of a dolphin that looks more like a slug with fins, but she beams with pride.
“It’s beautiful,” you tell her, ruffling her hair. You lean in. “Where’s Uncle Pope?”
Her smile wavers. “He got hurt,” she says, voice small. “Grandma Smurf made him rest.”
Your pulse quickens as you slip down the hall, the air growing cooler as you approach his bedroom. The door is cracked open so narrowly that you pause to knock. No answer. You push it open.
He’s perched on the edge of the bed, shirt halfway off, shoulders hunched against the bruise that blooms across his ribs in violent shades of purple and blue. A raw scrape mars his chest, the edges still pink. His breath jerks when you step in.
“What happened?”
He starts, as if he thought no one would notice. “Nothin’.”
You cross your arms. “Liar. That bruise is the size of California.”
His lips twitch in spite of himself. “California?”
“Well, it’s big.”
You disappear into the bathroom and reappear with a washcloth damp with antiseptic, gauze, and a battered first-aid kit.
He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to stop you. “You don’t have to - “
You cut him off and kneel in front of him anyway. “Take your shirt off.”
He hesitates, vulnerable in a way he never allows anyone but you to see. Finally he slides the fabric over his head, and you take in the full view of the cut and bruise.
“This is gonna sting,” you warn.
He closes his eyes and tenses, throat bobbing. You press the cloth to his scrape, and he inhales sharply, clenching his jaw.
“You can say ‘ow,’ you know.”
He exhales, voice rough. “It’s fine.”
You dab antiseptic along the scrape, then slip a sterile strip of gauze over it. Next, you lay the cool cloth on the worst of the bruising, fingertips barely grazing his skin. He flinches, drawing in a breath, and you drop your hand. “Sorry.”
“S’okay,” he whispers.
You wrap a soft bandage around his ribs as tenderly as if you’re cradling glass. “There.”
He surveys your handiwork in the mirror behind you. “Looks stupid.”
“You’re welcome,” you grin, knowing he doesn’t mean it. “Stay off your feet for a day or two.”
He shakes his head, voice muffled. “I can’t.”
“Smurf will survive one afternoon without you.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but when you hold out your hand, he slips his into yours. Together you rise, and he lets you guide him down the hallway. As you lower him into a kitchen chair for water and painkillers, you realize that caring for him feels as natural as breathing. And somewhere, deep in both of you, something has shifted for good.
***
You coax Pope onto your sofa with the only promise you can muster, “Sit here and I promise I’ll stop fussing over you.”
He arches an eyebrow, voice low and clipped. “You’ve said that three times.”
You stick out your tongue, voice lighter than you feel. “Well, I mean it this time.”
He sinks onto the cushion beside you, shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world sits there. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The muted drone of the television murmurs through the air, but your eyes remain fixed on the way sunlight pools around his boots, drapes across his forearms, and settles in the dark circles beneath his eyes.
“You tired?” you ask softly.
“No.” The word tumbles out too sharp, too quick. You can already feel the tremor at the edge of his voice.
“You look exhausted,” you say gently. “ When was the last time you slept more than a couple of hours?”
He says nothing, and the silence answers for him.
On impulse, you pat your thigh. “Come here.”
Andrew’s hazel eyes narrow in confusion. “What?”
“Lay down.”
He hesitates, head tilting to one side. “… Why?”
“Because you look like you’re gonna fall asleep sitting up.”
With a slow nod, he eases himself across the length of the couch, and you slip your hand under the back of his neck, guiding his head into the cradle of your lap, your fingers itching to do what they’ve done so many times before.
You begin to comb your fingertips through his hair, tracing the gentle curve of his skull just like you did the night he staggered in after the prison gates closed behind him, just like you did when he first learned Cath and Baz were together. You feel the tension unfurl from his shoulders, imagine it pooling on the floor between you, leaving him a little lighter. His breathing slows, each exhale deeper than the last.
“You know,” you murmur, your voice low as a breeze through dry leaves, “you don’t always have to be the strong one.”
The silence stretches, warm and fragile, until he finally whispers, “I don’t know how not to.” The words are so soft you almost miss them.
Your fingers keep drawing slow, small circles at his scalp. You feel the soft rise and fall of his chest against your thigh, the tranquil rhythm of someone beginning to unburden their soul. Lines that usually crease his brow smooth out, and one of his arms drifts across your waist, his fingers curling lightly into the cotton of your shirt.
You let yourself smile down at him, content to stay exactly where you are. Your legs have gone numb, pins and needles prickling through them, but you don’t shift. For the first time in years, Andrew looks genuinely peaceful.
***
He wakes a few hours later to the weight of your fingers still nestled in his hair. He lifts his head an inch and sees you asleep, head tipped to the side, elbow propped on the armrest. A stray lock of hair curls across your forehead, catching the last glow of sun.
He doesn’t move. He knows you must be uncomfortable - your leg must be numb, your neck stiff - but you haven’t stirred. You stayed right here so you wouldn’t wake him.
He watches your breathing, slow and even, the faint rise of your chest beneath your shirt. His thumb hovers, uncertain, then he reaches behind you for the soft throw blanket draped over the couch back. He drapes it across your shoulders with reverence, the fabric settling around you with care.
You sigh softly in your sleep, and his chest tightens with something he can’t name. Looking at you like this doesn’t make him feel restless or desperate. It makes him want to protect you, to shield you from every worry that aches inside you. To earn the kindness you’ve given him.
He isn’t sure he can ever be worthy.
Still, he carefully shifts back onto your lap, his head finding its familiar nook. He closes his eyes again without waking you, and in that quiet moment, he realizes something with startling clarity - he doesn’t come to you just because you’re the only one who understands him. He comes to you because, somewhere along the way, you became the place that feels most like home.
***
Andrew shifts against you on the couch, the rough weave of your sweatshirt rubbing against his bruised ribs as he tilts his face toward your stomach. His breath is shallow when his lids flutter open and he pushes himself up slowly, every movement stained with pain. His hand hovers at his side before he presses it to his ribcage, teeth clenched against the dull ache there.
“Easy,” you murmur, fingertips grazing the curve of his scalp. You pull back at the first wince.
“I should go,” he says, voice rough as gravel.
“Okay. Try not to get into any fights tonight,” you answer, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead.
“I won’t.” He rubs at his temple.
“But if you do…”
“I’ll call,” he finishes.
You give him a small, tired smile. “Good.”
He pauses, hand on the doorknob, reluctant. He lifts his gaze to yours. “…Thank you…for today.”
“You don’t ever have to thank me for taking care of you,” you say honestly. “That’s what friends do.” The word lingers between you, unfamiliar on your tongue, carrying an odd weight.
He nods once, stiffly. “Yeah.”
By the time he arrives back at Smurf’s, she’s there, standing at the kitchen sink, a wine glass in one hand and a white cloth in the other. She twists the glass stem in patient, practiced motions. The low light glints off her gold bracelet.
“Where’ve you been?” Her voice is cool and measured, trying not to reveal her annoyed state.
“Out.”
“With her.” She doesn’t bother to ask, her tone making it clear she already knows.
Pope shrugs, eyes downcast. “She has a name.”
Smurf steps forward, trailing the cloth across the rim of the glass so that it squeaks in protest. “You spend more time with her now.”
“So?” he says, but his voice is flat.
She lifts a hand and smooths the front of his shirt. “You’ve started looking at her differently. When she walks into a room, your eyes follow her.” Her voice softens. “And when you got hurt this afternoon…who took care of you?”
He stands silent, shoulders squared, as though braced against something stronger than pain.
Smurf allows herself a small, triumphant smile. “I thought so.”
He squares his shoulders and crosses the room to the hallway. She calls after him, voice low and final. “Andrew, remember…people become weaknesses.”
He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens, then he disappears into the gloom of the bedroom, leaving only the click of the door behind him.
***
Pope lies on his back in the darkness, every twist of his body sending pulses of fire through his ribs, but he barely notices. Instead, memory rises in harsh, vivid shapes - the softness of your palm resting on his temple, your fingers tugging at the knot of hair above his collar, the way you frowned when he drew in breath too sharply.
He was fifteen, sitting on the porch steps after Smurf’s latest furious tirade. He’d sat alone, knees drawn up, cold night air nipping at his ankles. You emerged wordless and pressed the bigger half of your peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich into his hand.
He was seventeen, standing in an alley behind a warehouse, his knuckles split open, blood dripping on the concrete. Instead of going home, he’d gone to you. You saw him through the window, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, shirt soaked through with sweat and blood. Without a question you’d guided him inside, settled him on the bathtub edge, and fished out the first-aid kit.
He was twenty-five, a job had gone sideways, red and blue lights chasing him down the street. He’d pounded on your door at two in the morning, sweat and adrenaline heavy on his skin. You cracked the door in an old hoodie of his, the fabric smelling faintly of your laundry detergent. “Get in,” you’d said, locking the deadbolt behind him before he could protest. You pulled the curtains closed and passed him a fork before warming him up some leftover spaghetti. No questions. Only the hum of the microwave and the steady thump of his heart in his ears.
Then last week, in Baz’s bedroom. He’d called you, sure you’d recoil at the body on the bed. After all, you’d known Cath most of your life too. Instead, you’d been methodical and unshaken. You wrapped her body with the same efficiency you would use to swaddle an infant. Not once did you flinch or call him a monster.
All these memories fade together, and Andrew sees for the first time that it isn’t only that you’ve been there for him - it’s how you’ve been there. Each time he bled or broke or feared for his life, you opened your door, shut out the night, and pulled him in. Not because you celebrated the Cody family’s bloody business, but because you refused to let him face it alone.
***
You and Pope slump onto your sagging couch, heat from the takeout containers warming your thighs. Steam curls as you lift the cardboard and inhale the tang of soy sauce and dumplings. You set your containers on your lap, plastic forks balanced precariously.
“Okay,” you say, leaning back into the cushions, “you’re doing that thing.”
Pope glances up from his sweet and sour chicken, dark eyes narrowed. “What thing?”
“You’ve looked at me six times in the last five minutes. What’s going on?”
He frowns, the plastic fork clattering against the takeout box rim. “Just… thinking.”
“About…?” you prompt
He flips the fork over in his hand, rhythmical, as if weighing his words. “Do you ever… regret it?”
Your smile falters. A knot tightens in your chest. “Regret what?”
“Knowing me.” He meets your eyes at last - earnest, vulnerable.
Your throat goes dry. You reach out, scoop his box off your knees, and set it aside. “Look at me.” You pat the cushion beside you. “You’re my best friend.”
He pulls in a breath, as though bracing himself. “You don’t know the things I’ve done.”
You tilt your head. “Come on, Andrew, I’ve literally buried - ”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
You sigh, exhaling relief and frustration at once. “My point is, I know who you are. I’ve seen every side of you, and I’m still here.”
He looks stunned. He’s spent a lifetime believing affection has to be earned, that someone as broken as him could never be loved unconditionally. His jaw tightens.
***
A few days later, you push open your front door and step into a kitchen lit by the soft hum of a flickering bulb above the sink. Pope stands on a wooden chair, hands steady as he unscrews the faulty bulb.
“You know,” you say, setting grocery bags on the counter, the plastic crinkling under your weight, “most people wait until the homeowner gets back before doing repairs for them.”
He glances over his shoulder. “You said it kept flickering.”
“I said I’d get around to changing it.”
“Three weeks ago.”
He steps down, gathering the bags with easy familiarity. Without a word, he lines up your fresh vegetables, the smell of basil mingling with the sharp tang of onion. He unpacks pasta and jars of marinara. You lean against the counter, the granite cool under your palms.
“Leave the pasta out,” you decide. “I’ll make us dinner.”
After dinner, you stand at the sink, warm soapy water lapping at your wrists as you scrub the last plates. Pope drapes a towel over his arm and dries each dish methodically.
He sets the final plate inside and pauses. “Listen, about what I asked the other day… about regretting knowing me…”
You pass him a bowl without looking - soap suds glimmering in the overhead light. “Yeah?”
He takes a breath, voice low. “I wanted to thank you. For saying what you said. And for… always being there.”
The kitchen quiets around you. The refrigerator hums, the faucet drip echoes. You lift your gaze and meet his eyes. “Someone should.”
He stares at you, as if seeing you in a new light. “You’re the only person who ever has.”
Your chest tightens. You lay a hand gently on his forearm—just a brush of skin. Heat flares across his cheeks. “Andrew,” you whisper, “you deserved it.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. He swallows. “So did you.”
You blink, startled. “What?”
He steps closer, the warm scent of him wrapping around you. “When your dad left...”
Shock ripples through you. You haven’t thought about your father in years.
“I remember you pretending it didn’t bother you.” His voice is soft, remorseful. “Making jokes so nobody would know you’d been crying.”
Your eyes burn. You barely whisper, “I didn’t think anyone noticed. You never said anything.”
His shoulders slump. “I didn’t know how. I wanted to. I should have.”
“It’s okay,” you murmur. “You were sixteen.”
He shakes his head, regret in every tremor. “Still.”
The walls seem to close in as you realize he’d been paying attention all along, collecting pieces of you like faded photographs.
“I hated that he left you,” Andrew confesses, voice hushed.
You force a laugh that tastes bitter. “Yeah, me too.”
He inhales sharply. “I wanted to go after him.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “You did?”
He nods once, decisively. “I asked Baz to help me find him.”
A surprised laugh bubbles out. “And then what? What were you going to do?”
He shrugs, genuine uncertainty clouding his eyes. “Dunno. At sixteen, I just knew someone had hurt you. My instinct was to stop it.”
Silence settles like dusk. You trace his jawline with your gaze. “You don’t always have to protect me.”
“I want to.”
Your breath catches. He’s so close, his honest gaze burning into yours.
“I don’t really know what’s happening,” he admits, voice small.
You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”
He searches for the right words, fingertips brushing the cabinet door. “I keep thinking about you. I mean, I always thought about you. I… I’m not good at explaining things.”
You step nearer, the scent of leftover garlic bread still clinging to the air. “It’s okay. Take your time.”
He exhales, as if letting down a barrier. “I miss you.”
You lift the corner of your mouth. “You see me all the time.”
His eyes soften, and for a moment the world beyond your kitchen fades. “I know, but when I leave,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “I want to come back.”
Slowly and carefully, you slide your hand from his forearm down until your fingers find his hand. You don’t lace your fingers together, you simply let your hand rest against his, giving him every chance to pull away.
Instead, after a hesitant moment, his fingers curl gently around yours. He looks down at where you’re touching, almost in disbelief. “I’ve never really done this before.”
You smile softly. “Held someone’s hand?”
A faint, self-conscious smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at your teasing. “I’m serious. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You step closer until only a breath separates you. “We’re two people who’ve known each other most of our lives. You won’t hurt me.”
“You can’t know that.” Guilt flashes across his face, but you reach up to cup his cheek. His eyes immediately close, leaning into your palm as though he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Andrew.”
He opens his eyes again.
“You’ve spent your whole life believing the worst things you’ve done are the only things people will ever see. But I see the scared little boy who jumped into a swimming pool because someone was hurting me.”
A tear gathers in the corner of his eye, his breathing grows uneven.
“The man who would do anything to protect Lena, who is more of a father to her than her own.”
A tear slips free from his eye.
“And the man who’s standing here looking terrified because he’s afraid of hurting me. I see all of you.”
“...Why?”
The question breaks your heart. You shake your head. “Because I’ve loved all of you.” The words hang in the heavy silence between you. Pope doesn’t move, just stares, his gaze fixed on your face with an intensity that borders on physical weight. The usual sharp. predatory confidence that defines him is stripped away, leaving him raw and exposed. You can see the rapid pulse beating in the hollow of his throat.
“I wasn’t planning on saying it like that,” you admit. You take a small step forward, closing the distance until you can smell him - remnants of dish soap and musky cologne that feels intoxicating. “But,” you reach up, your fingers trembling slightly as they brush against his jaw. You catch a single tear that has escaped the corner of his eye, wiping it away with the pad of your thumb. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. I watched you fall in love with Cath.”
His face crumples at her name, the muscles around his mouth tightening as if he’s been hit. You see the guilt flash in his eyes, dark and swirling.
“I watched you choose anyone but me,” you continue. You remember the parties, the dates, the endless parade of women while you sat on the sidelines, aching with a jealousy that ate you alive.
His lips part, the lower one glistening slightly in the dim light. He tries to speak, but no words come out. He looks wrecked, his composure shattered by the sheer weight of your confession.
“But I never stopped loving you anyway,” you say, the finality of it settling over the room. You don’t look away. You force him to see the reality of it, the years of longing hidden in plain sight.
Pope looks completely overwhelmed. He blinks rapidly, his chest rising and falling with the effort to draw breath. He swallows hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. “You loved me?”
You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. “For years.”
“I didn’t know,” he breathes out, the words sounding like a prayer and a curse all at once. He shakes his head slowly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of deceit. He looks like a man who has just realized he’s been living in a dream while the world burned down around him.
“I know,” you say softly. You never let him see.
“I would’ve…” He stops himself, the sentence trailing off into nothing. Because he doesn’t know what he would’ve done. The past is a fixed point, immutable and painful. But he knows one thing with absolute certainty now, a realization that hits him with the force of a physical blow - he can’t imagine his life without you. The thought of you walking away, of leaving him here alone with his regrets, is more terrifying than anything he’s ever faced.
“I love you,” he says. His eyes widen slightly, the dark pupils dilating as he stares at you, surprised to hear himself say it. It’s as if the confession has unlocked something inside him, a dam breaking under the pressure of years of unspoken tension.
“I didn’t know that’s what this feeling was,” he admits quietly, his voice rough with emotion. He takes a shuddering breath. “I just…” He trails off, stepping closer to you. The heat radiating from his body is intoxicating, a magnetic pull that you are powerless to resist. He drops his forehead to rest against yours, the contact intimate and grounding. You can feel the dampness of his skin, the slight tremor in his frame.
“I want to be wherever you are,” he whispers, the words ghosting over your lips. It’s a surrender. A total surrender of the control he usually clings to so tightly.
Your eyes close, shutting out the world so there’s only him. He lifts a hand to your face, his fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back. He brushes his thumb across your cheekbone, the touch light, reverent, as if he’s asking for permission to cross a line he never thought he’d reach.
You don’t answer with words. Words are insufficient now. Instead, you close that inch between you. The kiss is soft, tentative, and gentle. It’s not the aggressive, dominating possession you’ve fantasized about at night - it’s a question.
Pope barely moves at first, his lips molding to yours with a hesitancy that makes your heart ache. He kisses you as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses any harder, as if you’re made of spun glass and he’s a bull in a china shop. You can feel the restraint in every muscle of his body, the way he holds himself back.
You smile against his lips, a small curve of your mouth that conveys everything you can’t say - I’m not going anywhere. The movement seems to break the spell. His shoulders slowly relax, the tension draining out of them as he realizes you aren’t pulling away. He exhales a shaky breath into your mouth.
His free hand comes to rest carefully at your waist, his fingers splaying wide against your side. Even through the fabric of your shirt, you can feel the heat of his palm, the strength of his grip. It’s possessive, even in its gentleness.
You lean into him, your body softening against the hard planes of his chest. You can feel the heavy thud of his heart, the steady rhythm that matches your own. You part your lips slightly in invitation, and deepen the kiss just enough for him to understand that this isn’t a mistake. This isn’t a moment of weakness. This is everything.
Andrew doesn’t pull away abruptly, dragging his mouth from yours with a wet, heavy sound, his lips sliding over your shin, grazing the corner of your mouth as if he’s trying to memorize you. He leans back just enough to create a sliver of space, his chest heaving against yours.
When his eyes snap open to meet yours, the vulnerability that washed over him moments ago has been swallowed by something else - something darker, hungrier. The gold of his irises nearly covered by the dilation of his pupils, his gaze dropping to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat before fixing on the fabric covering your chest.
His hand leaves your cheek, trailing down the side of your neck, his thumb dragging over your racing pulse. He lets the silence stretch while his hand continues its descent, skimming over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, until his palm flattens against your ribcage just below your breast. You can feel the heat of his skin radiating through your top, branding you.
“I need to taste you,” he rasps.
The words are low, guttural, vibrating in his chest and transferring straight to yours. It isn’t a question. Before you can process the shiver that races down your spine, Pope’s knees hit the floor. The movement is fluid and powerful. He sinks down before you, his height diminishing until his face is level with your stomach.
Looking down, the top of his head comes into view, the dark strands of his hair messy where your fingers are tangled. Your world suddenly narrows down to just him and the heat of his body.
His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the flesh there, possessive and grounding. He holds you steady as he leans in, pressing his face against your shirt. He inhales deeply, nose dragging against your stomach, and a low groan rumbles in his throat, a sound of pure need.
“Andrew,” you breathe.
He ignores your plea, or perhaps interprets it as encouragement, because his hands slide from your hips to the waistband of your pants. The button pops open with a sharp, audible click that echoes in the quiet room. The zipper follows, the teeth parting with a metallic hiss that seems deafening. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of both your pants and underwear, tugging them down in one rough, deliberate motion.
The air of the room hits your exposed skin as Pope drags the fabric down your legs, taking his time, palms grazing the sensitive skin behind your knees, calves, ankles. You step out of the pooled clothes, kicking them aside, leaving you bare from the waist down.
He leans back slightly, taking you in. The heat of his gaze is a physical weight, focusing intently on the apex of your thighs. You know what he sees - you can feel the evidence of it. You’re soaked, your lips swollen and glistening with the arousal that has been steadily building.
“So fucking wet,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice rough with approval. He shifts closer, his hands coming up to grip the backs of your thighs, just below the curve of your ass. He urges you to widen your stance, and you obey, your legs trembling slightly as you shift your weight. The position leaves you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed, but the rush of adrenaline only heightens the throbbing ache between your legs.
Pope doesn’t dive in immediately. He teases, tormenting you with his proximity. He leans forward, his face inches from you, but he doesn’t touch, just breathes.
The exhale is a gust of air that fans over you. The heat is intense, contrasting sharply with the dampness on your skin, and you gasp, your hips jerking toward him. His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you in place, preventing you from closing the distance.
“Stay still,” he orders, though his voice lacks any real discipline - it sounds wrecked.
He hovers so close, you can almost feel the phantom pressure of his lips. You feel the warmth of his breath washing over your clit, over your entrance, coating your sensitive flesh. It’s maddening, the anticipation coiling tight in your belly, your muscles clenching around nothing.
You look down, watching the top of his head, the way his neck muscles strain as he holds himself back. He’s breathing hard, you can see his shoulders rising and falling with the effort, and you realize he’s savoring this moment - the sight of you, the smell of you, the knowledge that he’s about to ruin you.
He presses his cheek against the inside of your thigh, rubbing his face against your skin. Finally, with a groan that sounds like a man breaking, he presses his mouth to your core.
The contact is electric. His tongue is hot and wet, delving deep into you with a hunger that borders on violence. He doesn’t start slow, there’s no gentle exploration, no tentative testing of the waters. He laps at you, flattening his tongue to drag it through your slit from your entrance to your clit in one long, broad stroke that collects every drop of your arousal.
You gasp, you hips bucking forward, fingers pulling desperately at his hair. “Andrew.”
The sound of his name tearing from your throat seems to spur him on. He seals his lips around you, sucking hard. “Fuck, you taste good,” he mumbles against you. He pulls back slightly, just enough to speak, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your core. “So sweet.”
Before you can catch your breath, he dives back in, this time focusing his attention on your clit, flicking his tongue fast and hard. Your thighs tremble, the muscles straining as the pleasure coils tightly, threatening to snap. You try to close your legs, instinctively trying to protect yourself from the overwhelming intensity, but Pope’s shoulders are wedged firmly between them, holding you open.
“Don’t you dare,” he commands, releasing your clit just long enough to growl the order before burying his face as deep as it can go, his nose bumping against your pubic bone.
The pressure builds to a breaking point, a white-hot wave that starts at your toes and rushes upward. Suddenly, the heat vanishes, as Pope pulls away at the exact second your orgasm was about to take over. You gasp, a broken, desperate sound as your clit throbs with need.
Pope stands without speaking. He doesn’t look at your body with the hunger of a lover anymore. HIs gaze is detached and calculating as me moves with a terrifying calmness that contrasts sharply with the frantic thrumming of your blood.
You watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he reaches for his belt, the leather creaking softly as he opens the buckle. He pulls the belt through the loops of his waistband, eyes locking onto yours, pinning you to the spot with a gaze that dares you to look away. He holds the belt in his hand for a moment, the heavy leather dangling, before dropping it carelessly onto the floor with a dull thud.
Your breath hitches in your throat. The denial is still singing your veins, making your skin hypersensitive.. You watch his hands move to the button of his jeans, popping it open before lowering his zipper inch by inch. He isn’t undressing - he’s forcing you to wait.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and boxers, staring at you, letting the silence stretch until it becomes suffocating, until the only sound in the kitchen is your ragged breathing.
“Get on your knees.” It isn’t a request.
A fresh spike of adrenaline shoots through your system, overriding the lingering frustration of the ruined orgasm. You scramble to obey, not thinking, just moving. Your legs feel clumsy and weak, but you force your body to kneel. The position instantly shifts your perspective. You’re smaller now, lower, looking up at him.
From this angle, Pope seems massive. He looms over you, his legs spread slightly, his open fly framing the heavy outline of his cock. You sit back on your heels and look up at him, silently begging him to bridge the gap.
Pope looks down at you, a dark, satisfied smirk touching the corner of his mouth. He sees the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips are parted, the hunger in your eyes that mirrors the wetness between your legs. He steps closer, invading your space until you have to tilt your head back further just to maintain eye contact.
“Good girl,” he mutters, the praise a low rumble in his chest. He lets his hands hang loose at his sides, waiting to see how far you’ll go to reclaim the pleasure he denied you.
You stare up at him from the floor, his smirk, the arrogant curl of his lips, snaps something inside you. The submission evaporates, replaced by a need to turn the tables. You surge upward from your heels, and before he can react, you slam your palms against his chest, shoving him backward with all the strength you have.
Andrew stumbles, his eyes widening in genuine surprise as you force him to walk backward to your bedroom. You don’t stop until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. With a final push, you send him tumbling onto the bed. He bounces slightly, his breath leaving him in a rush, but you’re already moving.
You climb onto the mattress, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle him. You lower your weight, your wet center pressing directly against the rough denim of his jeans. The friction is electric, but you ignore your own pleasure to focus on his reaction.
Your hands find the collar of his shirt, and you don’t bother with the buttons. You grip the fabric and tear, the sound of ripping threads loud in the quiet room. Buttons scatter across the duvet as you expose his chest, your nails raking possessively over his skin. Then you capture his mouth, your lips crashing against his, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste copper, forcing his head back into the pillows.
“Get these fucking things off,” you command, your voice low and ragged, leaving no room for argument. You shift your weight back, giving him just enough space to lift his hips. You yank the denim down his legs, finally stripping him bare.
When his cock springs free, your breath hitches. It’s thick and throbbing, the head flushed dark and leaking. You had every intention of making him wait, of hovering just out of reach until he was begging, but the sight of him makes you abandon your patience.
You lean down, spitting a thick glob of saliva onto the head before giving it a few rough strokes with your hand, mixing the slickness with his own arousal. You rise up, position the head at your dripping entrance, and slam your hips down, taking him to the hilt in one brutal motion.
You both cry out - your voice sharp, his a low groan - at the sudden stretch of him. You immediately take control, slamming down onto his lap in a punishing rhythm. Your thighs burn, slick with sweat, as you chase the friction you need.
“Fuck,” you gasp, digging your nails into his pecs are you ride him. You tilt your hips, grinding down until his cock drags against that electric spot inside you, the one that makes your spine arch and your toes curl against the sheets. Pope’s hands clamp onto your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, his hips snapping up to meet yours in a collision of skin and heat.
You watch his face - the set of his jaw, the bead of sweat at his brow, the wild, glassy pleasure in his eyes - and you let yourself go. Your orgasm slams into you like a riptide, forcing your forward, clamping down around him in a relentless, greedy grip.
Your muscles ripple as you ride it out, the pleasure blurring into pain and back again. Pope arches up, a guttural sound wrenches from his throat as he grabs you harder, holding you in place as he drives up one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go.
You feel him throb, the heat of him spilling into you, and that last sensation - being filled, being claimed - triggers another shuddering spasm in you, an aftershock that makes you collapse against his chest.
You stay that way for a long moment, locked together, his cock still twitching inside you, your breaths mingling in the haze. You don’t want to move, don’t want to break the fragile shell of intimacy you’d built from violence and need.
Pope’s arms loosen around you, his hands trailing up your back, now soothing and gentle where they had been bruising. You realize you’re shaking, small uncontrollable shivers working through your limbs. Andrew holds you until they fade.
You raise your head to look at him, and find he’s already watching you, his expression vulnerable in the aftermath. Neither of you say anything, but a slow grin curves on Pope’s mouth, wry and a little awestruck.
You can’t help but smile in return. “Jesus,” you mutter. Pope huffs a laugh in return.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse.
***
You wake slowly, feeling a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek. Your head is resting against Andrew’s bare chest, one of his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, his hand relaxed against the small of your back.
You smile. You’ve known Andrew Cody most of your life. You’ve seen him angry, terrified, heartbroken. You’ve seen him covered in blood and shaking from panic, but you’ve never seen him look this peaceful.His face is softer in sleep. He isn’t listening for danger, he’s simply resting.
Your fingers absentmindedly trace small circles against his shoulder, and his eyelashes flutter. “You awake?”
“Think so,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, pulling you a little closer instead. Finally, he opens his eyes and the two of you simply look at each other. There’s no awkwardness, no regret. Just quiet certainty.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’ve never been better.” Your response earns you a sleepy smile, one you know is only for you. You suspect you’ll never get tired of seeing it. “You?”
“I was worried that…” He trails off.
“Andrew?”
“Was worried you’d wake up and change your mind.”
Your heart breaks a little. You reach up and brush a strand of hair away from his forehead. “Andrew, I’ve spent half my life wishing we’d end up here.”
He searches your face, looking for even the smallest hint that you’re only saying what he wants to hear. He doesn’t find one. “Nobody’s ever stayed,” he admits quietly.
You shift up onto one elbow so you’re looking directly at him. “Well I’m not nobody.”
He reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. It still feels almost unbelievable to him that he can do something so simple. That he can hold your hand without wondering if he’s asking too much. “I don’t want to hide this.”
“You mean…us?”
He nods. “Spent my whole life hiding parts of myself,” he says, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I don’t wanna hide the good part.”
Tears sting your eyes, and you lean forward and kiss him. It’s slow, somehow already familiar. When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours. “I love you, Andrew,” you whisper.
He doesn’t look surprised at your admission. “I love you too.”
***
Later that morning, you walk hand in hand toward Smurf’s house. “You nervous?” you ask.
“A little.” He squeezes your hand. “If this goes bad…”
“It won’t change my mind.”
“If Smurf tries something, or if Baz - “
“We’ll deal with it,” you reassure. You stop walking, tugging his hand until he turns toward you. “So much of your life has been about surviving everyone else. So let’s stop letting them decide what we get to have.”
He studies your face, and for the first time in as long as you’ve known him, Andrew makes a choice that isn’t driven by fear, guilt, or obligation. “We’ll decide,” he affirms, lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles.
“We will.”
You start walking again, not as two friends carrying each other’s burdens, not as two lonely people clinging to familiar ground, but as two people who had spent a lifetime choosing each other long before they ever found the courage to call it love.
And for Andrew, it feels like the beginning of a life he never believed he deserved.