bitters-n-sweets

[bitters-n-sweets]

UNWELL

Pedro Pascal photographed by Sølve Sundsbø for Vanity Fair

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Same

🤭

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I need help

BTS of Pedro’s Vanity Fair cover shoot

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Robby being so attracted to you that he has to book his lil book down and stare up at you with those big brown puppy dog eyes 🥺🤭

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green-eyed — michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader Robby thinks the newest transfer, Dr. Chase, is flirting with you. Things get a bit complicated.

warnings: jealous and insecure trope, robby says something mean, hurt/comfort, dr. chase from house md cameo, not too angsty, happy end—yes, I'm a sucker for it. a/n: I think we can acknowledge that robby is slightly toxic. I mean, he’s emotionally constipated and still hasn’t gone to therapy, I would assume his behavior at work is similar to how he is with relationships—which is probably why he and Collins broke up—so even though this fic could be resolved so easily with good communication, said good communication is sadly something our dear robby and reader don’t have mastered yet. enjoy! masterlist

Robby thinks it’s been a while since he’s seen you laugh like that. Throwing your head back, tears in your eyes, covering your mouth because that’s a thing you do. And he’s gutted that he’s not the one in front of you being the reason for your laughs. He used to make you laugh like that all the time.

It’s Chase, the new hot-shot transfer doctor. Who has an Australian accent. Who could blame you? He’s young, blonde, blue-eyed, toned—a real life Ken. He’s a damn good doctor, too. The nurses call him Dr. Hemsworth behind his back. Wonderful. Robby hates how easily people gravitate to him. And now it’s your turn.

Robby stands across the ER, jaw tight, eyes flicking between Chase—leaning in to show you something on his phone—and the rest of the room, like maybe he can find something else to focus on. Out of habit, his hand drifts to the back of his neck. Your shoulders are practically touching. A few nurses glance over and giggle. One of them mutters something he doesn’t catch—but whatever it is, it makes his stomach twist.

Robby’s hands curl into fists inside his pockets. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He trusts you, but some ugly part of him starts whispering things he can’t silence.

She should be with someone her age.

Someone who doesn’t feel like a goddamn relic when she’s in a room full of twenty or thirty-somethings.

His lips press into a thin line hidden under his beard as he storms your way. He doesn’t even realize his legs are moving until he’s about half-way.

“Quit flirting at work. Both of you,” he snaps.

You look up, startled.

Chase lifts his eyebrows, all amused charm. “Just showing her a video, mate.”

Robby doesn’t even look at him. “Go do your job, then.” It comes out sharper than intended, but he doesn’t take it back.

The room goes still for a beat. Chase gives you an apologetic shrug and steps away, but you’re already turning toward Robby, brow furrowed.

“Was that necessary?” You chase after him, keeping up with his big steps.

He doesn’t answer.

“Hey. Robby. What’s going on?” You manage to stop him by the stairwell.

“Nothing.”

“Come on,” you press, softer now. “Talk to me. Please.”

He halts, jaw tight, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Something funny happen during rounds?”

“What?”

“Just… looked like you were having a real good time.” He doesn’t say it mean, exactly.

You blink. “With Chase?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like your laughter a few minutes ago didn’t go straight to his chest and start twisting. “You tell me.”

You step in front of him, blocking his path. “Robby… are you jealous?”

“I’m just saying,” he mutters, crossing his arms, “I’m not young, or charming, or built like a damn Marvel character. Sorry if I don’t love watching people act like you two were—”

You stare at him, stunned. “You think I was flirting with him?”

“I think everyone sure thought you were.”

There it is. Not quite an accusation. Not quite a confession. Not quite fair, either. But honest in a way Robby can’t seem to help right now.

“It looked like you actually wanted to be there,” Robby says. “With someone who suits you better.”

That breaks something open inside you. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means this”—he gestures vaguely, bitterly, between you—“was a mistake.”

And that stings, even if you know he’s only saying that because he wants it to hurt you. “Really, Robby? You can tell that we’re a mistake because Chase was talking to me?”

“It’s not about him,” Robby snaps. “It’s about you eventually realizing I’m too old, too tired, too fucking cynical for you. And when that happens, I’ll be the one left picking up the pieces, wondering why I ever thought I could be enough.”

And then you realize. This is not jealousy. This is insecurity. Now you see the desperation in his eyes, but his shoulders are still so high and tense it masks it. You see the way he shuffles around, can’t seem to quiet down his own thoughts.

“You’re wrong.” You say.

“You can’t know that.”

“I do. Because I’ve already chosen you.”

Robby looks at you, and for a second, something flickers behind his eyes—hope, maybe—but he kills it quickly, walls going back up.

“I need to get back to work.”

You reach for his hand. “Robby—”

He pulls away. “Don’t.”

That single word makes you stop. And then he’s gone, out the stairwell door and back into the ER, leaving you in silence.

Robby knows he messed up. He knows you didn’t deserve that. But his heart’s pounding like he just ran a mile, and he can’t stop the thought looping over and over: that you’ll realize he’s right sooner or later. And then eventually, you’ll just leave like everyone else does.

So Robby does what Robby does best. He runs. He buries it deep, distracts himself just enough to keep from falling apart. Lets it all pile up behind a steady face, hoping it won’t spill over. And if it does? That’s a mess for later.

You decide to give Robby some space—after multiple attempts to approach him and him avoiding you, and finally find him at the end of your shift, standing at the exit, hands in his pockets. You know he’s waiting for you, and he always will, even when he’s doubting himself, even when his world is crashing down. Because that’s who Robby is. He shows up for people even when he’s hurting. It’s what makes you love him so much, and it’s killing you that he’d do this to himself.

You stand next to him. “You ready to talk?”

His head lifts to look at you slowly. He sighs, rubs his hands down his face. “No, not really. But I have a feeling we’re doing this anyway.”

“You don’t get to say all of that and just walk away, Robby.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did.” You cut in, soft but firm. “That was preemptive damage control. You meant to hurt me before I could hurt you.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn't say anything, just looks down because he knows you're right.

You sigh softly, reaching for his hand. This time, he doesn’t pull away.

“You think you’re too old for me? That I’d leave you for someone else? God, Robby—” You squeeze, cupping his jaw so he’ll look at you, and his own doubt in himself kills you. “I love you. I want you. You, who listens to me when I don’t even know what I need. Who calms me down with one look. Who knows me better than myself.”

He’s staring at you now, eyes locked on yours, holding his breath because he’s afraid to hope.

“I don’t care if people think we don’t ‘match.’ I don’t care if you have lines on your face or if your knees make that weird sound when you stand up. I love you. Even when you push me away because you don’t believe you’re enough—but you are, Robby. You’re more than enough.”

“I never once looked at you and wished for someone else. I look at you, and I thank God it’s you.”

His eyes are red, doubt and exhaustion evident, and he keeps staring down at your intertwined fingers—like if he lets go, he’ll lose something he can’t live without.

“Okay?” you whisper, nudging him gently.

Robby doesn't say anything at first. His eyes are glassy, the corners red, and he swallows hard like the lump in his throat might choke him if he tries to speak. He's looking at you like he doesn't know what he ever did to deserve you.

His lips part. Nothing comes out.

He tries again, and still—nothing. Not because he doesn't have anything to say, but because there's too much he wants to say. Because you just shattered every wall he’s built with so much certainty and care, and now all that’s left of him is the raw truth of how deeply and desperately he loves you.

So he just nods, a little breathless, and pulls you into his arms. He hugs you tight in front of the ER, deciding that he doesn’t care—no, fuck it, he wants everyone to see. To see that he has you now. That he has someone he cares about. Someone he loves.

“Okay,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You finally let out a breath of relief, sinking into him, your arms tightening around his waist. “Still think this was a mistake?”

He exhales slowly, resting his chin on your head. “No. But I think I’m going to need a lot of reminding.”

You hum, lips brushing the nearest patch of skin you can reach. “I’ve got time.”

[bitters-n-sweets]

found this on Instagram

Full credit to the owner (not me)

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Imagine taking your boyfriend to the ER only to meet his exact copy. Dr. Abbot stood frozen in the doorway of the examination room, watching the couple. The auburn-haired man's head was resting on the girl's chest. The only thing that bothered him was that this man could very well be his younger brother.

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I did not realize i repeated a paragraph here 😀 damn (fixed)

anyway, thank u for 1,000 likes, I am ecstatic!

gym crush — jack abbot x fem!reader GYM CRUSH JACK ABBOT. because have you seen his ARMS? im DEAD

warnings: none? it's just cute and fluffy masterlist

There's always this guy whose gym schedule lines up with yours. He's older, maybe in his 40s, with salt-n-pepper hair, and forearms you've been dying to touch but settled with staring. For now.

He usually shows up around 2 or 3 PM on weekdays—prime quiet hours—which makes you wonder what kind of job lets him sneak away like that. He's too young to retire, but maybe he's an entrepreneur, or he's in a good position in his job that allows him to leave work whenever he wants.

You're staring again.

You have to physically pry your eyes off his arms when he does curls. You try to focus on your set, but it’s hard—his breathy exhales do something to you, and not in a helpful way.

You shouldn't be thinking this way. He might be married—though you don't see a wedding ring, or dating, or whatever, you shouldn't—

"Hey."

Oh shit.

You lift your head to see him standing near you. He doesn't have the friendliest face, that was the first thing you noticed, and now you're worried if maybe you've done something wrong, or he's there to tell you he caught you staring.

"You need some help with your set?"

Oh.

"I noticed you're not really in it today. Maybe a spot?"

Oh??

Does that mean he's noticed you before?

"S-sure!" You get into position, and he stands behind you, hands loose at his sides, eyes scanning your form. It's oddly intimate, maybe just because he's your gym crush.

He has calloused hands. You make a note. Especially when he taps your elbow, coaxing out one more rep with that low, steady voice. God, you imagine how this all would in the right context.

"That's it, atta girl." He gives you a high-five. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, just—" You glance at him. "Work has been stressful."

"I get that." He nods. "I'm Jack."

You say your name. Hopefully correctly. And then he smiles, and heads back to his weights.

Jack has noticed you staring. Stealing glances. The way your eyes flick to him even when he’s on the far side of the gym, out of your line of sight. As if your brain has a compass, and he’s north.

He finds it flattering, really. And he can't hide it (well, maybe better than you), but he watches you too. He finds it adorable that you come in with a different gym set for every session, and your water bottle somehow always matches your outfit. Who owns that many water bottles? It baffles him. And entertains him. And somehow makes him like you more.

He likes your hair too. Sometimes it’s braided, sometimes it’s in a ponytail. Beyond that, he has no clue what the styles are called—he just knows they all suit you. Ridiculously well.

And today?

You’re wearing his favorite set.

Yes, sure, kind of creepy for a man who’s never spoken to you to have a favorite gym set. But that shade—God, that shade—brings out your eyes like nothing else. And on days like this, with that color hugging your body? How is he supposed to look away?

The day after he offers to spot you, Jack finds himself hoping you’ll show up again. What started as stolen glances has turned into quick smiles as you pass each other, protein shake cheers between sets, and casually trading spots like it's second nature.

You still don’t talk much—nothing too deep, anyway—but his presence makes the gym feel different. Like something to look forward to. Something that gets you out the door on even the laziest days.

Then a week passes.

No Jack.

You tell yourself maybe your rest days just aren’t lining up. But another day goes by. Then two. And now it’s been a full week, and the dread creeps in: maybe Jack’s found a new gym.

It sucks—but it happens.

You try to focus on your workout, but you’re hopelessly distracted. Every time someone walks in, your head turns, heart kicking up… only to sink again when it’s not him.

You sigh and settle under the barbell.

Creak.

The gym doors open.

You whip your head around—"Shit—"

Your form wobbles, balance gone. The bar slips, and the weight traps you beneath it.

"Um, a little help?!" you gasp, struggling under the bar.

A gym employee rushes over with another regular, both of them working quickly to lift the bar off you. The pain in your shoulder flares immediately, sharp and hot, and you try to breathe through it.

"I don't think you need an ambulance, but we're gonna get you to the ER just in case."

You nod mindlessly.

Greg—the gym employee, and Harry—the regular, are kind enough to help drive you to the ER. They left once it's your turn, and you're now sitting in an exam bay, waiting for a doctor.

The ER is freezing. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline fading. You're still in your workout gear, couldn't even grab your hoodie, and your arm in a temporary sling. The pain's dulled to a throb, but the embarrassment is still fresh.

"The doctor will see you soon."

You're not really listening, until you hear a familiar voice.

"Okay, so what do we have—oh."

You look up. "Jack?"

He freezes when he sees you, clipboard halfway raised. His salt-and-pepper hair’s a little messy, dark scrubs clinging to him like he’s been running all over the place. There’s a stethoscope slung around his neck.

A smile starts tugging at his mouth. "Hey."

"You're a doctor?"

"That topic never came up?"

You chuckle. "Not really, no."

Jack steps closer, eyes flicking to your sling as he gently helps you adjust it. "Wanna tell me how this happened?"

"I didn't have my usual spotter."

He half-smirks. "Sounds like an unreliable prick. But seriously, walk me through the accident, I skimmed your chart, but I need to hear it from you."

You look at your feet. "It's dumb."

"Try me."

You fiddle with the edge of the paper sheet under you. "I was going for a new PR on squats. And… I got distracted. Lost focus, lost balance, and the bar pinned me."

Jack studies you for a moment. "Distracted by what?"

You glance at him, then away again. "Does it really matter?"

"It does to me."

Your voice is quieter when you finally admit, "I thought it was you coming into the gym. I heard the door. And I looked up."

Jack’s brow softens, and then so does his smile. "You were looking for me?"

"Ugh, you were gone for a week, okay, and I miss—I got worried." You groan lightly, more embarrassed than hurt now. "Don't make a thing out of it."

He laughs, smoothing a stray hair behind your ear. "I absolutely will make a thing out of it."

Jack proceeds to examine your nasty bruise, and making sure you didn't hit your head too hard by telling you to touch his finger where he points it, but intentionally making you miss.

"Jack, I swear—"

"Just messing with you, sweetheart." He laughs again, and you think you might die. "You're good to go home, just take some aspirin if the headache is too much."

You get down from the bed accidentally bump into his chest. You can practically feel his breath on you.

"S—"

"For the record," he leans down, voice brushing your ear, "I missed you too."

Your breath hitches, eyes wide. He pulls back with a low chuckle, then presses a kiss to your cheek. "Get home safe, I'll text you later. Okay?" He murmurs.

"O-Okay." You try your best to speak.

"Oh, and no gym for at least a week!" He calls out as he walks away.

You’re still reeling as you head home, Jack’s jacket slung around your shoulders and your mind spinning from everything that just happened. That smile. That voice. That kiss. It all feels like a fever dream—until a sudden realization hits you.

Jack doesn’t have your number.

And you don’t have his.

You groan. Of course. You’re benched from the gym for a week and just when things were finally happening—

Ding.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unknown number.

Hey, it’s Jack. Got your number from your chart. Want to grab dinner tonight? :) Don't forget to take aspirin for your headache

You stare at the screen, grinning like a fool.

Okay. Maybe today wasn’t so bad after all.

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My bestie said jack abbot is who owen hunt thinks he is and I CANNOT agree more

sorry not sorry owen, i don’t really like you

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🏛️ THE GREEK PITT-THEON 🏛️

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Shawn Hatosy is on the news!!

Thankfully dressed by his wife!!

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the night after — jack abbot x fem!reader After celebrating someone’s birthday and getting absolutely wasted, you wake up naked next to your attending, Jack Abbot

warnings: Grey’s Anatomy Mer-der’s first meeting but in reverse—kind of—i guess not really, suggestive, mdni, 18+ only, sexual tension wc: 1.7k+ masterlist

You wake up with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. Your tongue feels like sandpaper, your head is foggy, and something doesn’t feel right. Your bed’s on the other side of the room, the AC is blasting colder than it normally does, and—fuck. You realize you’re not in your room. And there’s an arm draped over your waist.

Slowly, carefully, you turn your head. The sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, catching on the salt-and-pepper stubble of the man beside you. His mouth is slightly open, and his dark lashes flutter as he shifts in his sleep.

Your eyes widen and you put a hand over your mouth to stop the gasp from escaping.

Jack. Fucking. Abbot.

And you’re naked. Very naked. And so is he.

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your memory to rewind, praying this is just a dream. But the ache between your legs, the faint bruises on your hips, the marks on your shoulders, and the condom wrapper on the nightstand all point to the same conclusion.

You slept with Jack Abbot. Your attending.

The man who’s called you ‘kid’ and made your heart flutter over a hundred times since you started working with him.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, barely breathing.

Jack groans beside you and stretches a little, his voice still sleep-rough. “Morning.”

You go rigid.

He peeks one eye open, confused at first, then amused as the recognition hits him. “Well,” he says, voice annoyingly calm. “This is unexpected.”

You grab the sheet and pull it up to your chest like it’s armor, even though he’s seen everything last night. “We didn’t—did we…?”

He raises a brow, glancing down at your very much shared nudity. “I’d say the evidence is compelling.”

“Oh God.”

“Yeah, that’s what you kept screaming last night.” Jack props himself up on an elbow, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Along with my name.”

You gasp and hit him with a pillow.

He laughs, but his smile falters a little. “…Do you regret it?”

You stare at him.

You don’t know. Your brain is still catching up, replaying hazy flashes of last night, someone singing off-key, tequila shots, his hand on your lower back, the way he laughed when you leaned too far into him, his lips on your neck…

You start getting dressed, refusing to meet his eyes. “Our shift starts in 3 hours.”

Jack watches you, a quiet sigh escapes him. “Guess I’ll see you at work, then.”

You pause at the door. “Don’t tell anyone.”

He nods. “You got it.”

But the look he gives you—half smug, half something else you can’t place—follows you all the way home.

It follows you all the way to work, actually.

You’re doing hand-offs with Langdon but you keep feeling a pair of eyes on you. Every time you glance Jack’s way, he’s unapologetically staring—and every damn time, you’re the one who looks away first. Because damn him and his godly hazel eyes.

You sigh quietly and follow Langdon, but he catches it. “Something wrong?”

You raise your brow, “No, nothing. Just tired.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I heard it was quite the party last night.”

Your eyes widen, and your head snaps toward him—but he doesn’t look suspicious. Just amused. You hadn’t considered the possibility of people seeing you and Jack leave together. Did anyone see? Did you two make out in front of everyone? Oh God.

“What—what did you hear exactly?”

He shrugs. “Oh you know, Whitaker dancing on the table, Javadi puking on the side…” And then he lowers to whisper in your ear, “You going back with someone…”

You gasp and take a step back, your face instantly going red. Langdon bursts into laughter, clapping you on the shoulder like he just scored a touchdown. As he walks away, you bury your face in your hands.

When you look up, Jack’s already watching you again. Brows furrowed because why does it look like you’re blushing from something Langdon said?

He starts heading your way.

And you panic.

If he talks to you right now, you might combust. So you pivot sharply and walk quickly toward triage, pretending you suddenly care a lot about minor injuries.

You manage to avoid him most of the time. It helps that the ER’s chaos has no mercy and no time for personal crises—though every time your fingers brush the back of your neck or shift your weight just so, flashes of the night before hit you like a freight train.

The press of his mouth against your collarbone.

His hands caressing, gripping your thighs as you convulse.

His voice, low and hoarse: “You feel so fucking good…”

You snap out of it. You have a job to do.

But Jack is everywhere. You see him checking vitals in Trauma 2, walking past with a chart, barking out orders near the nurse’s station—and every damn time, your traitorous brain replays some sinful image of last night’s events.

And he’s not doing much better.

He freezes in the middle of writing something when you laugh at a joke someone tells. He knocks over a coffee cup when you pass behind him in a tight hallway. And he has to physically turn away when you bend over to pick up a dropped chart, running a hand through his hair and muttering “fuck” under his breath.

The tension between you could power the entire hospital.

Later, you spot him teaching a group of interns about… something you couldn’t care less about. But you linger, half-listening to his explanation, until your eyes drift downward.

His fingers.

You should look away. You know you should. But your gaze lingers—strong, steady hands guiding with careful precision, calloused from years in trauma, confident in ways that make your stomach twist.

Your breath catches.

You remember those same fingers grabbing a fistful of your hair, then circling around your neck and putting just enough pressure to make you see stars. And how you licked his fingers clean after he made you come with them, the way you came apart under his hands, his voice in your ear, rough and reverent—“Such a good girl for me…”

You feel heat crawl up your neck and jump slightly when Jack calls your name, grabbing your attention.

Jack is looking straight at you, brow raised. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah!” You smile too quickly. “Just, uh, dehydrated. Gonna grab some water.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. He knows you’re lying. And as you walk past, you swear his lips twitch upward like he knows exactly what you were thinking.

Your shift has finally come to an end. Thankfully there were no serious cases—because you’ve been completely distracted all night. You’re at your locker, jacket in hand, moving quickly, until you spot a familiar pair of shoes and pants standing just beyond the locker door.

You debate whether to close it or keep it open forever.

“You know we’re gonna have to talk about it sooner or later, right?” He asks, leaning against the lockers.

You bite your lip before slowly closing the door, revealing Jack, arms crossed, bag slung over one shoulder, looking irritatingly good for someone who’s probably just as wrecked as you are.

“Outside?” You offer and he nods, suggesting you lead the way.

As you pass through the automatic doors, you spot Langdon just beginning his shift. He smirks, nodding like he knowssomething, and you try your best to ignore it. Flipping him off for good measure.

You’re now face to face with Jack outside of the ER under the dim lights, tapping your shoes against the pavement, looking everywhere but at him.

Jack rubs the back of his neck. “So… are you avoiding me because it was bad, or because it was really good?”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “We were drunk, Jack.”

“Yes, we were.” He agrees, way too easily. “Not what I asked.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “We made a mistake—”

“Did it feel like a mistake?” Jack tilts his head, watching you closely.

You hesitate.

Because you know what a mistake feels like. A mistake feels like guilt sinking sharp in your stomach, like regret pounding in your head. But waking up tangled in Jack’s sheets, his fingers still resting on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let you go? It didn’t feel like a mistake. It was like relief, joy, release. Like something you’ve secretly been waiting for.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” He takes a step closer to you, “Even drunk out of my mind, I didn’t regret it. And I’d do it again.”

Your eyes widen and you stop breathing for a second. He’d do it again?

“As long as it’s with you.” He adds, clearing his throat and looking away.

For once, he doesn’t look like the Jack everyone else knows. He’s not all confidence or sharp comebacks. He’s vulnerable, a little nervous, maybe even a little scared. And somehow, that makes your heart beat even faster.

“…I didn’t regret it either.” You finally say, and his eyes dart back to look at you, hopeful.

“To be honest,” You continue, huffing because you’re about to admit your deepest secret. “I’ve had… feelings for you for as long as I can remember.”

Jack’s brows raise, an amused smile forming on his lips.

“I mean, you’re—you’re annoyingly handsome, and confident, and…” You swallow. “And I like how you always look out for me. Not just me—everyone, really.”

A small laugh escapes his lips. “Just you, sweetheart. I couldn’t care less about everyone else.”

You blush. “Flattering. But well…yeah. I was just really surprised we… we did it—”

“Sex?” Jack teases. “You can say it.”

You groan, clearly he’s having fun teasing you because you’re beet red now. “Jack—”

“Sorry, sorry,” He smiles, “You’re just so damn cute like this.”

You think there must be steam coming out of your ears now from how hot you feel.

You glance away, hoping to regain composure. “So… what now?”

Jack daringly takes another step towards you, trapping you between him and the wall. “Well,” He says, “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Actually…” You bite your lip. “I think I was so drunk that I… can’t really remember… many details of last night.”

He puts a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “Ouch. That bad?”

“No! I’m sure it was great—I just—”

He cuts you off gently. “It’s fine, really.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” He then whispers near your ear, “It means I get to show you again. Fully sober this time.”

You gasp, tilting your head to face him and seeing that smirk on his face.

“So,” he adds, eyes sparkling, “your place or mine?”

----

i loved writing this one ngl

[bitters-n-sweets]

AAAAA thank you! ☺️

clementine — andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader You’re looking for a bodyguard and Pope is the perfect person for it

warnings: ANGST, bodyguard!pope, descriptions of violence, mentions of blood, mentions of su1c1d4l tendencies, reader’s parents are not good people—her dad is trying to kill her, probably ooc towards the end sorry, mdni, not proofread wc: 3.9k+ masterlist

“$200,000.”

Pope’s eyebrow raises, clearly skeptical. “I’m being paid $200,000 to be security?”

“A personal bodyguard,” Deran clarifies, “But yeah.”

Pope scoffs. “Is this a joke? Who the hell am I protecting, King Charles?”

Deran chuckles. “You’ll see.”

—

Pope doesn’t know why he said yes—well, the biggest incentive is the money, two hundred grand could fix a lot of things. But a job to protect someone? That’s not what he does. He breaks things. Hurts people. Wrecks whatever needs wrecking. Protection feels like the opposite of what he was made for. What makes Deran think he could do this job?

He’s instructed to go to this person’s beach house for further screening. It’s far from his place, about a two hour drive, and he gets there on time as requested; 9AM sharp.

He knocks on the door.

A voice cracks through the intercom: “Full name.”

“Andrew Cody.”

The door opens.

The place is sleek, modern. Ocean view. Infinity pool catching the sun like glass. And there—coming out of the water—is the only person in the house. You walk barefoot across the deck, barely covering your bikini with a robe, wet hair leaving trails across your shoulders.

Pope watches you, sizing you up automatically. At first, he thinks you must be someone’s girlfriend. But when your eyes meet his, level and assessing, he knows he’s wrong.

“So, you’re Deran’s brother.”

He nods. “You’re Clementine?”

You smile, a little wry. “Yeah, Deran calls me that. He tattooed the orange on my hip.” You show him the citrus tattoo poking out of your bikini and offer him to call your real name instead.

“And you?” you ask. “Do you prefer Andrew or Pope?”

“Either is fine.” He shrugs.

“Andrew it is.”

“Deran wasn’t lying when he said you’re intimidating.” You add, “And handsome.”

Andrew looks around your house, only sparing you a glance at your comment. It’s almost too perfect. Marble floors. Strategic decor. Cameras tucked into every corner, wide coverage, no blind spots. You’re expecting enemies, he thinks. Not company.

You hand him a glass of orange juice.

“So, Andrew. You clear on the directive, or do you have questions?”

He ignores the orange juice, putting it down on the counter. “How do you know Deran?”

“Surfing. Beers. Getting drunk.”

He looks at you. That’s not the full truth. You know it, and you know he knows it. But you just sip your juice and let the silence stretch.

“What do you need a bodyguard for?”

You smile politely, curtly. “I’m not telling you until you sign a contract with me. Sorry. Security reasons.”

Fair. Andrew thinks.

“All I can say is,” You add, “People want me dead. And I need someone to watch my six while I get rid of them.”

His eyes narrow. “Why me?”

“My last security team got compromised. I’m handpicking this one myself. Deran’s one of the few people I trust—and he said you’re the best.” You tilt your head, watching him closely. “So are you?”

Andrew takes a breath. “I only know how to hurt people.”

“Good.” You smirk. “I need you to hurt the people who try to hurt me.”

He stares at you — not quite sure what to make of you yet. Andrew is intrigued by your electric personality, your quips, your wit. But he’s also a little wary. He doesn’t know you yet. Doesn’t entirely know what you’re capable of. Heck, he’s not even sure what exactly is it you do, but the fact that you’re throwing around two-hundred grand for one bodyguard? It’s enough to make him stay.

You pull open a drawer, take out a contract and a pen, and slide them across the table.

“Read the terms and sign when you’re ready,” you say. “Payment comes after the job’s done.”

Andrew picks it up, flips through. Buried in the fine print is a clause: if he dies on the job, he waives liability. His lips tighten. Of course.

He looks up at you, a smirk on your face, watching him like you’ve already figured out what choice he’ll make.

He signs the papers and passes them back to you.

“Good to be working with you, Andrew.” You scan the contract, making sure he signed correctly. “You’ll be staying here with me throughout the contract, so you can go back and grab whatever you need. I expect to see you back here tonight.”

Andrew puts down the pen on your coffee table. And just before turning around to leave, he asks, “What makes you think you can trust me?”

You eye him from your kitchen counter, drinking the orange juice he didn’t dare touch while keeping eye contact.

“Maybe I can’t. But I know where Deran lives.”

Andrew isn’t sure if that’s a threat.

Before he has to go back to your place, Andrew tries to learn everything he can about you, but nothing turns up. No criminal record. No gossip. No digital breadcrumbs. Even Deran shrugs when he asks. Andrew doesn’t like working blind, but it’s too late to back out now.

When he pulls into your driveway that night, he’s surprised to see he doesn’t need to knock. The house scans his face and unlocks automatically.

Inside, he hears your voice before he sees you—you're on the phone in the living room.

“I’m trying to make a life for myself. You know this.” You say to the person on the other line.

Andrew spots a few empty beer bottles on the table.

Your voice rises — sharper, angrier. “Why are you still defending him?! Our whole lives, he—” You stop mid-sentence. You’ve caught sight of him in the reflection on the glass wall.

“You can tell him he can saw my head off my body himself.” You hang up and glance back at Andrew, a duffel bag in hand.

“Good, you’re back.” You say. “Ready for briefing?” Your tone is cool, like nothing happened.

Andrew says nothing at first. Just drops his duffel bag by the couch.

You toss him a beer, which he catches one-handed. He cracks it open but doesn’t drink yet.

Then you start talking. Handing him files about people he should look out for. It’s a lot more complicated than he thought.

You tell him everything. Not everything-everything — he knows you’re not reckless — but more than he expected.

Andrew learns a lot about your life then. You emancipated yourself at 15. Built a business from the ground up. Acquired, merged, dismantled. And now? You own multiple companies that directly compete with your father's and suddenly he wants you dead.

Suddenly Andrew feels a lot closer to you. He can understand where your rage is coming from. That kind of fury? That kind of betrayal? It changes people.

“So he’s put a bounty on your head.” Andrew raises a brow. “What if I just kill you now and take the bounty for myself?”

You don’t flinch. You just smirk, lips wrapping around the edge of your beer bottle. “I’d like to see you try.”

Andrew’s lip twitches, he almost smiled. “How much is the bounty anyway?”

“$200,000.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. He wants to say you’re crazy. You both take a drink and leave the night to the silence. Maybe now you understand each other a little better.

You let Andrew get used to his role of being your bodyguard for the first few days, watching how he moves, how he scans a room, how naturally he seems to step in front of you without thinking. You know he can fight, he’s got a very sharp eye, and he intimidates people, but what you need to know is whether he can actually keep you safe when shit hits the fan. So you take him out to bars, shadowy alleys that are just too suspicious—try to engage him in fights he’s not ready for.

So far? He’s passing with flying colors.

He’s just finished taking care of a few guys that jumped you from an alley. No wasted moves. Controlled rage. Efficient. By the time he’s finished, the bodies are barely breathing, slumped in a pile behind the dumpster. He’s panting when he walks back to you, knuckles bloodied, shirt rumpled.

“How’d I do this time?” He asks, catching his breath.

You smile at him. “Amazing as usual.”

You walk with him to the car, and just as he’s catching his breath, you toss in, “Though… I didn’t set these guys up.”

Andrew looks at you, eyes a little wide. “…Your dad really doesn’t play around.”

You laugh at his comment. Because you’ve been playing this game for a long time. “Oh, just wait till you meet him.”

He sighs, getting into the car. “Not looking forward to it.”

You’ve been staring at him the entire way back to your house. And Andrew knows—of course he does, you’re not trying to hide it, he just doesn’t know what to make of it. Not when you’re staring at him like that.

“Quit looking at me like—”

“Like what?” You ask, daring him to finish his sentence.

He swallows, glancing at you. “…You know like what.”

You grin, tearing your gaze away to the road instead and crossing your legs.

Back at the house, you grab the first aid kit before he can even kick off his boots.

“This-This is really not necessary.” Andrew stammers, watching you yank out the alcohol and band-aids.

“Andrew, please.”

Your voice is soft, patient as you start cleaning the scrapes on his knuckles.

He winces as the alcohol hits, and you immediately mumble, “Sorry.”

“Besides, it’s in our contract,” you add.

His eyes narrow, watching as you’re now cleaning his cut lip. “Is it?”

You suppress a smile and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to just leave you if you get hurt, Andrew.” You clarify. “I hired you to protect me, yes, but I have a responsibility to you, too.”

He feels his heart rate pick up. Now he’s staring at you. Not with suspicion. Not with wariness. Just a little surprised because he doesn’t expect to feel anything, and you’re so close.

You’re leaning in, carefully dabbing at the cut on his lip. He keeps flinching back slightly, and the closer you get, the more flustered he becomes.

You bite back a smile. He’s trying so hard to keep it together.

And then, because you can’t help yourself—you kiss his nose.

Andrew freezes.

That pause is all you need to stick the bandage on his forehead before he can shy away again.

“There,” you murmur, pleased with yourself.

Andrew doesn’t breathe until you get up to put the first aid kit where it belongs.

And even then, his eyes stay on you, like maybe he’s starting to realize this job isn’t going to go the way he thought.

You can see him turning slightly pink, and you think that’s enough torture for today. Poor guy’s been beat up twice—once by those guys in the alley, and again by your relentless teasing. Not like you could hold it any longer anyway. If it were up to you, you’d be smooching booties in every room of this house.

“You should get some sleep,” you say, this time more serious. “I know you don’t sleep much, but try anyway.”

You hesitate, then add, “In two days, things are going to get a little crazy.”

You pause. “A lot crazy.”

Andrew stands up slowly. He stops just before bumping into you. He looks down and holds your gaze.

“I can handle crazy.”

You spend the next day preparing for the event. The charity gala hosted by some privileged, overpowered organization is only a charity in name. It’s not about goodwill or giving back. It’s about control. Image. Legacy. And that’s exactly why it’s the perfect place to make your move.

Your father has no idea what’s coming.

You’ve planned every detail. The data, the footage, the timing—down to the moment the room will go quiet. All you need to do now is make sure everyone’s watching. And that you survive long enough to finish the job.

Because you know your father. He always has something up his sleeve.

That night, you can’t sleep. You’ve gone over everything with Andrew. Twice. Maybe three times. He knows the plan. He’s ready. But your mind won’t settle. Your body’s tired but your thoughts won’t let you rest. You finally get out of bed and head outside, needing air.

You sit by the pool, the water just up to your knees and the light reflecting on your face.

You remember the day you left your family like yesterday. A bunch of screams and tears from your mother, while your father basically dared you to run, chasing you with his gun. Your jaw tightens at the memory.

“Can’t sleep?” Andrew’s voice breaks the silence.

You glance over. He sits beside you, feet in the water. He’s not wearing a shirt — just a pair of loose black sweats, skin still damp from a shower.

You blink. “Jesus Christ. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Andrew looks down at himself, then at you, deadpan. “Is it working?”

That earns a soft laugh. The corner of your mouth twitches. “Maybe.”

But your smile quickly falters and he knows you probably have a lot on your mind. “Your plan’s good. Solid. You’ve covered everything.”

“I know.” You sigh. “I just... can’t shake the feeling something’s going to go wrong. That maybe it has to. I don’t know, my entire life is just fucked up.”

He nods. “Here’s to having a not-so-normal family.”

You almost forget he’s a Cody. “At least you all still live together.”

Andrew leans back on his arms. “That’s not necessarily something good. I… I needed a break from them. From Smurf. Deran and Craig noticed. I started to have these… thoughts. Tendencies.”

You let him go on.

“So… thank you. For this job.”

You smile, a little half-hearted, reminded that Andrew’s just doing another job. And soon enough you’ll be on your own. Again.

Day of the gala.

You arrive fashionably—deliberately late. It’s part of the plan. Every piece of tonight is curated to pull the rug from under your father’s feet, and nothing makes a man like him unravel faster than losing control of a room he thinks he owns.

Andrew stands beside you, his hand on your lower back, reassuring you that he’s got you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the main doors open. Your heels click against the marble as you step into the ballroom, head held high. You’re dressed in a statement of war; blood-red silk, backless, a slit cut dangerously high. You look like the kind of woman headlines get written about. The kind people remember. And it’s exactly what you need.

Your father is already speaking on stage when you walk in. It’s some grand monologue—about legacy, loyalty, impact, all those shiny, hollow words he thinks will cover up the blood and money dripping off his empire.

He sees you just as he’s launching into his favorite anecdote. And to his credit, he only stumbles for half a second. But that half-second is everything. The hush that moves through the room as people turn to look at you, and then at him, and then back at you again.

“Don’t stop now,” you call to him. Your voice is smooth, almost bored. “You were doing such a great job bullshitting. Father.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd like a breeze through dry grass.

Your father lets out a tight, practiced laugh into the mic, trying to salvage the moment. “Darling, I thought we agreed this wasn’t your scene anymore.”

“Oh father, please, it’s not my intention to take the light away from you.” You say sarcastically, “In fact, I have a gift.”

Across the ballroom, the projector screen glitches, and your first video begins to play. Grainy security footage. The audio is low but clear.

“Kill him now.”

“But boss, he’s the son of—”

“I don’t care. He took my money. He’s gonna pay for it with his life.”

And then a gunshot. Someone gasps. A few people shift uncomfortably. The video cuts out abruptly.

Then the second clip begins.

Your father again, younger but unmistakable. He pulls a gun and shoots a man point-blank in the head. The body drops like a sack of bricks. He steps over it without flinching.

“Clean it up,” he tells a trembling assistant off-screen. “Burn it all.”

You watch your father from the corner of your eye. He hasn’t moved. Not yet. But his jaw is tense, and you know what that means. He’s calculating. Waiting to see what else you have. You smile. Because you’ve saved the best for last.

The third video starts.

Bedroom footage. Intimate. A little too intimate. Your father again. Naked, whiskey in hand, with a woman who’s not your mother. The woman’s face is obscured, but her unique diamond necklace says more than enough.

Across the room, a woman yanks her necklace off. You roll your eyes when she glares at you.

“I’ve always hated your husband,” your father says in the video, voice slurred. “He’s my best friend, but I’ll kill him if I have to.”

The video cuts out.

You step closer to him, voice lower, almost gentle now. “You always said power was about what you could hide. Guess your grip’s slipping.”

With his entire face now fully colored with rage, your father lunges at you.

You barely register the movement before you hear Andrew’s voice cut through the crowd. “Gun!”

Then everything happens fast. Andrew grabs you hard, pulling you off your feet just as the podium explodes beside your head from a fired shot. Splinters scatter. Screams echo through the ballroom. Somewhere, a chandelier sways violently overhead.

Andrew throws you behind the cover of a table and covers your body with his own. You can feel his heart pounding against your back but his movements are precise, instinctive. You know better than to get in his way now.

Your father’s men are already storming the stage, closing in fast.

“Stay here.” He instructs.

Andrew moves like a storm. He tackles the first guy mid-charge, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut, slamming him into the staircase rail with a crack. Another comes at him with a knife—Andrew ducks the swing, grabs his wrist, twists, and slams his elbow down until the blade clatters to the floor. Then he drives his boot into the guy’s ribs.

You peek from behind the table just in time to see Andrew disarm a man with a gun and pistol-whip him unconscious. Blood spatters across the marble.

Your father steps out from behind the podium, aiming again—and this time, Andrew is faster. He raises his gun, and your father freezes.

Andrew walks toward him, slow and steady. Blood drips from a cut above his eye. His chest rises and falls with each breath, but his hands are steady as ever.

Your father looks up from the barrel pointed at his face and spits on the ground between them. “This is how you’re gonna kill me? You don’t even have the guts to do it yourself?” He’s talking to you.

You emerge from behind the table. “I’m not like you.”

That’s when you hear sirens from outside and the police come rushing in.

“Drop your weapon!” someone yells.

Andrew pauses. Slowly lowers the gun. Lets it fall to the floor.

They arrest your father on the spot, reading out charges you practically wrote yourself—embezzlement, conspiracy, murder. The list goes on and on.

You walk over to Andrew, checking for any serious injuries and finally rest your head on his shoulder. It’s finally over.

“Thank you.” You say to him and he just holds you close.

You step outside after giving a statement to the police, Andrew following closely behind. There’s a few police cars around, red, blue, and white flashing everywhere. And you see an ambulance nearby, and your mother sitting down. She looks small. Fragile. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Her eyes are glassy, locked on some fixed point in the distance that you can’t see.

You approach her.

“Mom.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “It’s over. You’re free. We both are.”

She doesn’t look at you.

“We can still go,” you try again. “We can start over. Just you and me.”

She rises slowly to her feet, her mouth trembling. You think she’s going to cry. Maybe fall into your arms. You think—hope—she’ll say your name like she used to when you were little. When you skinned your knees or had nightmares or couldn’t sleep without her hand in yours.

But instead, she raises a hand and slaps you across the face. It doesn’t hurt, but it leaves something ringing deep in your chest.

“How could you do this?” She whispers. “You’re… you’re not my child.”

You don’t even flinch. Your gaze falls to the ground as she walks away from you. Something breaks in you. And for the first time, you don’t know how to fix it.

Andrew is beside you before you even realize. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence is enough to snap you back to reality. Because you can’t be seen crying right now.

You look at him, tears threatening to fall. “Let’s go, Andrew.”

And without another word, you walk to the car together. A silent ride home.

It doesn’t feel like victory.

In your head, getting back from the gala after executing your entire plan meant celebrations—champagne, dancing, a bottle smashed for fun on the marble floor. Something loud. Something indulgent. But this… this feels more like losing.

Maybe there was never an outcome where you won. Maybe you were too blinded by your own ambition to see that from the start.

The front door clicks shut behind you.

The house is dark, save for the soft glow from the kitchen under-cabinet lights. You don’t bother flipping on anything else. Andrew follows you inside but says nothing. The silence is thick, almost suffocating, but neither of you breaks it.

You disappear into your room and return with the duffel bag, putting it on the table. The zipper’s slightly open, and a few stacks of cash peek out. The blood money. The price of surviving tonight.

You pour yourself a glass of whiskey, downing it one go.

You don’t look at him when you say it. “…You can go now.”

It comes out flatter than you mean for it to. Not cold, just… empty. Tired. Like there’s nothing left to give.

Andrew doesn’t move. He watches you quietly. Watches the way your shoulders have lost their proud angle. The way your hands stay curled into fists. The way your eyes shine, too bright, too wet, but the tears haven’t fallen yet.

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’ve done your job,” you murmur. “You protected me. You survived. You got paid.”

“I didn’t stay for the money.”

You finally lift your eyes, catching his reflection in the window. You’re not sure what you’re looking for. Maybe doubt. Maybe a lie you can call out. But it’s not there.

Andrew steps closer, slow, careful.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Your throat tightens. “I hired you to protect me. You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know.” His voice softens. “But I want to.”

His hands find your waist, turning you so you can hide in his chest and cry.

“So let me,” he whispers. “Okay?”

Your lips tremble and you finally cry into his chest, tears ruining his shirt, your hands clutching him. You let him hold you while your whole world sinks to the floor. Let yourself cry until your body’s shaking and you feel like passing out from sadness, and he holds you nevertheless.

[bitters-n-sweets]

I like to call this one- Sassy Shawn ft. Pope and Abbot

Because these are absolutely the same attitude:

GIFs sets courtesy of:

Pope @jackabbot

Jack @ho-ii

Because I’m on mobile and it sucks but they feed me Shawn stuff

[bitters-n-sweets]

Your words mean a lot to me, thank you so much! 😭

clementine — andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader You’re looking for a bodyguard and Pope is the perfect person for it

warnings: ANGST, bodyguard!pope, descriptions of violence, mentions of blood, mentions of su1c1d4l tendencies, reader’s parents are not good people—her dad is trying to kill her, probably ooc towards the end sorry, mdni, not proofread wc: 3.9k+ masterlist

“$200,000.”

Pope’s eyebrow raises, clearly skeptical. “I’m being paid $200,000 to be security?”

“A personal bodyguard,” Deran clarifies, “But yeah.”

Pope scoffs. “Is this a joke? Who the hell am I protecting, King Charles?”

Deran chuckles. “You’ll see.”

—

Pope doesn’t know why he said yes—well, the biggest incentive is the money, two hundred grand could fix a lot of things. But a job to protect someone? That’s not what he does. He breaks things. Hurts people. Wrecks whatever needs wrecking. Protection feels like the opposite of what he was made for. What makes Deran think he could do this job?

He’s instructed to go to this person’s beach house for further screening. It’s far from his place, about a two hour drive, and he gets there on time as requested; 9AM sharp.

He knocks on the door.

A voice cracks through the intercom: “Full name.”

“Andrew Cody.”

The door opens.

The place is sleek, modern. Ocean view. Infinity pool catching the sun like glass. And there—coming out of the water—is the only person in the house. You walk barefoot across the deck, barely covering your bikini with a robe, wet hair leaving trails across your shoulders.

Pope watches you, sizing you up automatically. At first, he thinks you must be someone’s girlfriend. But when your eyes meet his, level and assessing, he knows he’s wrong.

“So, you’re Deran’s brother.”

He nods. “You’re Clementine?”

You smile, a little wry. “Yeah, Deran calls me that. He tattooed the orange on my hip.” You show him the citrus tattoo poking out of your bikini and offer him to call your real name instead.

“And you?” you ask. “Do you prefer Andrew or Pope?”

“Either is fine.” He shrugs.

“Andrew it is.”

“Deran wasn’t lying when he said you’re intimidating.” You add, “And handsome.”

Andrew looks around your house, only sparing you a glance at your comment. It’s almost too perfect. Marble floors. Strategic decor. Cameras tucked into every corner, wide coverage, no blind spots. You’re expecting enemies, he thinks. Not company.

You hand him a glass of orange juice.

“So, Andrew. You clear on the directive, or do you have questions?”

He ignores the orange juice, putting it down on the counter. “How do you know Deran?”

“Surfing. Beers. Getting drunk.”

He looks at you. That’s not the full truth. You know it, and you know he knows it. But you just sip your juice and let the silence stretch.

“What do you need a bodyguard for?”

You smile politely, curtly. “I’m not telling you until you sign a contract with me. Sorry. Security reasons.”

Fair. Andrew thinks.

“All I can say is,” You add, “People want me dead. And I need someone to watch my six while I get rid of them.”

His eyes narrow. “Why me?”

“My last security team got compromised. I’m handpicking this one myself. Deran’s one of the few people I trust—and he said you’re the best.” You tilt your head, watching him closely. “So are you?”

Andrew takes a breath. “I only know how to hurt people.”

“Good.” You smirk. “I need you to hurt the people who try to hurt me.”

He stares at you — not quite sure what to make of you yet. Andrew is intrigued by your electric personality, your quips, your wit. But he’s also a little wary. He doesn’t know you yet. Doesn’t entirely know what you’re capable of. Heck, he’s not even sure what exactly is it you do, but the fact that you’re throwing around two-hundred grand for one bodyguard? It’s enough to make him stay.

You pull open a drawer, take out a contract and a pen, and slide them across the table.

“Read the terms and sign when you’re ready,” you say. “Payment comes after the job’s done.”

Andrew picks it up, flips through. Buried in the fine print is a clause: if he dies on the job, he waives liability. His lips tighten. Of course.

He looks up at you, a smirk on your face, watching him like you’ve already figured out what choice he’ll make.

He signs the papers and passes them back to you.

“Good to be working with you, Andrew.” You scan the contract, making sure he signed correctly. “You’ll be staying here with me throughout the contract, so you can go back and grab whatever you need. I expect to see you back here tonight.”

Andrew puts down the pen on your coffee table. And just before turning around to leave, he asks, “What makes you think you can trust me?”

You eye him from your kitchen counter, drinking the orange juice he didn’t dare touch while keeping eye contact.

“Maybe I can’t. But I know where Deran lives.”

Andrew isn’t sure if that’s a threat.

Before he has to go back to your place, Andrew tries to learn everything he can about you, but nothing turns up. No criminal record. No gossip. No digital breadcrumbs. Even Deran shrugs when he asks. Andrew doesn’t like working blind, but it’s too late to back out now.

When he pulls into your driveway that night, he’s surprised to see he doesn’t need to knock. The house scans his face and unlocks automatically.

Inside, he hears your voice before he sees you—you're on the phone in the living room.

“I’m trying to make a life for myself. You know this.” You say to the person on the other line.

Andrew spots a few empty beer bottles on the table.

Your voice rises — sharper, angrier. “Why are you still defending him?! Our whole lives, he—” You stop mid-sentence. You’ve caught sight of him in the reflection on the glass wall.

“You can tell him he can saw my head off my body himself.” You hang up and glance back at Andrew, a duffel bag in hand.

“Good, you’re back.” You say. “Ready for briefing?” Your tone is cool, like nothing happened.

Andrew says nothing at first. Just drops his duffel bag by the couch.

You toss him a beer, which he catches one-handed. He cracks it open but doesn’t drink yet.

Then you start talking. Handing him files about people he should look out for. It’s a lot more complicated than he thought.

You tell him everything. Not everything-everything — he knows you’re not reckless — but more than he expected.

Andrew learns a lot about your life then. You emancipated yourself at 15. Built a business from the ground up. Acquired, merged, dismantled. And now? You own multiple companies that directly compete with your father's and suddenly he wants you dead.

Suddenly Andrew feels a lot closer to you. He can understand where your rage is coming from. That kind of fury? That kind of betrayal? It changes people.

“So he’s put a bounty on your head.” Andrew raises a brow. “What if I just kill you now and take the bounty for myself?”

You don’t flinch. You just smirk, lips wrapping around the edge of your beer bottle. “I’d like to see you try.”

Andrew’s lip twitches, he almost smiled. “How much is the bounty anyway?”

“$200,000.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. He wants to say you’re crazy. You both take a drink and leave the night to the silence. Maybe now you understand each other a little better.

You let Andrew get used to his role of being your bodyguard for the first few days, watching how he moves, how he scans a room, how naturally he seems to step in front of you without thinking. You know he can fight, he’s got a very sharp eye, and he intimidates people, but what you need to know is whether he can actually keep you safe when shit hits the fan. So you take him out to bars, shadowy alleys that are just too suspicious—try to engage him in fights he’s not ready for.

So far? He’s passing with flying colors.

He’s just finished taking care of a few guys that jumped you from an alley. No wasted moves. Controlled rage. Efficient. By the time he’s finished, the bodies are barely breathing, slumped in a pile behind the dumpster. He’s panting when he walks back to you, knuckles bloodied, shirt rumpled.

“How’d I do this time?” He asks, catching his breath.

You smile at him. “Amazing as usual.”

You walk with him to the car, and just as he’s catching his breath, you toss in, “Though… I didn’t set these guys up.”

Andrew looks at you, eyes a little wide. “…Your dad really doesn’t play around.”

You laugh at his comment. Because you’ve been playing this game for a long time. “Oh, just wait till you meet him.”

He sighs, getting into the car. “Not looking forward to it.”

You’ve been staring at him the entire way back to your house. And Andrew knows—of course he does, you’re not trying to hide it, he just doesn’t know what to make of it. Not when you’re staring at him like that.

“Quit looking at me like—”

“Like what?” You ask, daring him to finish his sentence.

He swallows, glancing at you. “…You know like what.”

You grin, tearing your gaze away to the road instead and crossing your legs.

Back at the house, you grab the first aid kit before he can even kick off his boots.

“This-This is really not necessary.” Andrew stammers, watching you yank out the alcohol and band-aids.

“Andrew, please.”

Your voice is soft, patient as you start cleaning the scrapes on his knuckles.

He winces as the alcohol hits, and you immediately mumble, “Sorry.”

“Besides, it’s in our contract,” you add.

His eyes narrow, watching as you’re now cleaning his cut lip. “Is it?”

You suppress a smile and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to just leave you if you get hurt, Andrew.” You clarify. “I hired you to protect me, yes, but I have a responsibility to you, too.”

He feels his heart rate pick up. Now he’s staring at you. Not with suspicion. Not with wariness. Just a little surprised because he doesn’t expect to feel anything, and you’re so close.

You’re leaning in, carefully dabbing at the cut on his lip. He keeps flinching back slightly, and the closer you get, the more flustered he becomes.

You bite back a smile. He’s trying so hard to keep it together.

And then, because you can’t help yourself—you kiss his nose.

Andrew freezes.

That pause is all you need to stick the bandage on his forehead before he can shy away again.

“There,” you murmur, pleased with yourself.

Andrew doesn’t breathe until you get up to put the first aid kit where it belongs.

And even then, his eyes stay on you, like maybe he’s starting to realize this job isn’t going to go the way he thought.

You can see him turning slightly pink, and you think that’s enough torture for today. Poor guy’s been beat up twice—once by those guys in the alley, and again by your relentless teasing. Not like you could hold it any longer anyway. If it were up to you, you’d be smooching booties in every room of this house.

“You should get some sleep,” you say, this time more serious. “I know you don’t sleep much, but try anyway.”

You hesitate, then add, “In two days, things are going to get a little crazy.”

You pause. “A lot crazy.”

Andrew stands up slowly. He stops just before bumping into you. He looks down and holds your gaze.

“I can handle crazy.”

You spend the next day preparing for the event. The charity gala hosted by some privileged, overpowered organization is only a charity in name. It’s not about goodwill or giving back. It’s about control. Image. Legacy. And that’s exactly why it’s the perfect place to make your move.

Your father has no idea what’s coming.

You’ve planned every detail. The data, the footage, the timing—down to the moment the room will go quiet. All you need to do now is make sure everyone’s watching. And that you survive long enough to finish the job.

Because you know your father. He always has something up his sleeve.

That night, you can’t sleep. You’ve gone over everything with Andrew. Twice. Maybe three times. He knows the plan. He’s ready. But your mind won’t settle. Your body’s tired but your thoughts won’t let you rest. You finally get out of bed and head outside, needing air.

You sit by the pool, the water just up to your knees and the light reflecting on your face.

You remember the day you left your family like yesterday. A bunch of screams and tears from your mother, while your father basically dared you to run, chasing you with his gun. Your jaw tightens at the memory.

“Can’t sleep?” Andrew’s voice breaks the silence.

You glance over. He sits beside you, feet in the water. He’s not wearing a shirt — just a pair of loose black sweats, skin still damp from a shower.

You blink. “Jesus Christ. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Andrew looks down at himself, then at you, deadpan. “Is it working?”

That earns a soft laugh. The corner of your mouth twitches. “Maybe.”

But your smile quickly falters and he knows you probably have a lot on your mind. “Your plan’s good. Solid. You’ve covered everything.”

“I know.” You sigh. “I just... can’t shake the feeling something’s going to go wrong. That maybe it has to. I don’t know, my entire life is just fucked up.”

He nods. “Here’s to having a not-so-normal family.”

You almost forget he’s a Cody. “At least you all still live together.”

Andrew leans back on his arms. “That’s not necessarily something good. I… I needed a break from them. From Smurf. Deran and Craig noticed. I started to have these… thoughts. Tendencies.”

You let him go on.

“So… thank you. For this job.”

You smile, a little half-hearted, reminded that Andrew’s just doing another job. And soon enough you’ll be on your own. Again.

Day of the gala.

You arrive fashionably—deliberately late. It’s part of the plan. Every piece of tonight is curated to pull the rug from under your father’s feet, and nothing makes a man like him unravel faster than losing control of a room he thinks he owns.

Andrew stands beside you, his hand on your lower back, reassuring you that he’s got you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the main doors open. Your heels click against the marble as you step into the ballroom, head held high. You’re dressed in a statement of war; blood-red silk, backless, a slit cut dangerously high. You look like the kind of woman headlines get written about. The kind people remember. And it’s exactly what you need.

Your father is already speaking on stage when you walk in. It’s some grand monologue—about legacy, loyalty, impact, all those shiny, hollow words he thinks will cover up the blood and money dripping off his empire.

He sees you just as he’s launching into his favorite anecdote. And to his credit, he only stumbles for half a second. But that half-second is everything. The hush that moves through the room as people turn to look at you, and then at him, and then back at you again.

“Don’t stop now,” you call to him. Your voice is smooth, almost bored. “You were doing such a great job bullshitting. Father.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd like a breeze through dry grass.

Your father lets out a tight, practiced laugh into the mic, trying to salvage the moment. “Darling, I thought we agreed this wasn’t your scene anymore.”

“Oh father, please, it’s not my intention to take the light away from you.” You say sarcastically, “In fact, I have a gift.”

Across the ballroom, the projector screen glitches, and your first video begins to play. Grainy security footage. The audio is low but clear.

“Kill him now.”

“But boss, he’s the son of—”

“I don’t care. He took my money. He’s gonna pay for it with his life.”

And then a gunshot. Someone gasps. A few people shift uncomfortably. The video cuts out abruptly.

Then the second clip begins.

Your father again, younger but unmistakable. He pulls a gun and shoots a man point-blank in the head. The body drops like a sack of bricks. He steps over it without flinching.

“Clean it up,” he tells a trembling assistant off-screen. “Burn it all.”

You watch your father from the corner of your eye. He hasn’t moved. Not yet. But his jaw is tense, and you know what that means. He’s calculating. Waiting to see what else you have. You smile. Because you’ve saved the best for last.

The third video starts.

Bedroom footage. Intimate. A little too intimate. Your father again. Naked, whiskey in hand, with a woman who’s not your mother. The woman’s face is obscured, but her unique diamond necklace says more than enough.

Across the room, a woman yanks her necklace off. You roll your eyes when she glares at you.

“I’ve always hated your husband,” your father says in the video, voice slurred. “He’s my best friend, but I’ll kill him if I have to.”

The video cuts out.

You step closer to him, voice lower, almost gentle now. “You always said power was about what you could hide. Guess your grip’s slipping.”

With his entire face now fully colored with rage, your father lunges at you.

You barely register the movement before you hear Andrew’s voice cut through the crowd. “Gun!”

Then everything happens fast. Andrew grabs you hard, pulling you off your feet just as the podium explodes beside your head from a fired shot. Splinters scatter. Screams echo through the ballroom. Somewhere, a chandelier sways violently overhead.

Andrew throws you behind the cover of a table and covers your body with his own. You can feel his heart pounding against your back but his movements are precise, instinctive. You know better than to get in his way now.

Your father’s men are already storming the stage, closing in fast.

“Stay here.” He instructs.

Andrew moves like a storm. He tackles the first guy mid-charge, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut, slamming him into the staircase rail with a crack. Another comes at him with a knife—Andrew ducks the swing, grabs his wrist, twists, and slams his elbow down until the blade clatters to the floor. Then he drives his boot into the guy’s ribs.

You peek from behind the table just in time to see Andrew disarm a man with a gun and pistol-whip him unconscious. Blood spatters across the marble.

Your father steps out from behind the podium, aiming again—and this time, Andrew is faster. He raises his gun, and your father freezes.

Andrew walks toward him, slow and steady. Blood drips from a cut above his eye. His chest rises and falls with each breath, but his hands are steady as ever.

Your father looks up from the barrel pointed at his face and spits on the ground between them. “This is how you’re gonna kill me? You don’t even have the guts to do it yourself?” He’s talking to you.

You emerge from behind the table. “I’m not like you.”

That’s when you hear sirens from outside and the police come rushing in.

“Drop your weapon!” someone yells.

Andrew pauses. Slowly lowers the gun. Lets it fall to the floor.

They arrest your father on the spot, reading out charges you practically wrote yourself—embezzlement, conspiracy, murder. The list goes on and on.

You walk over to Andrew, checking for any serious injuries and finally rest your head on his shoulder. It’s finally over.

“Thank you.” You say to him and he just holds you close.

You step outside after giving a statement to the police, Andrew following closely behind. There’s a few police cars around, red, blue, and white flashing everywhere. And you see an ambulance nearby, and your mother sitting down. She looks small. Fragile. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Her eyes are glassy, locked on some fixed point in the distance that you can’t see.

You approach her.

“Mom.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “It’s over. You’re free. We both are.”

She doesn’t look at you.

“We can still go,” you try again. “We can start over. Just you and me.”

She rises slowly to her feet, her mouth trembling. You think she’s going to cry. Maybe fall into your arms. You think—hope—she’ll say your name like she used to when you were little. When you skinned your knees or had nightmares or couldn’t sleep without her hand in yours.

But instead, she raises a hand and slaps you across the face. It doesn’t hurt, but it leaves something ringing deep in your chest.

“How could you do this?” She whispers. “You’re… you’re not my child.”

You don’t even flinch. Your gaze falls to the ground as she walks away from you. Something breaks in you. And for the first time, you don’t know how to fix it.

Andrew is beside you before you even realize. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence is enough to snap you back to reality. Because you can’t be seen crying right now.

You look at him, tears threatening to fall. “Let’s go, Andrew.”

And without another word, you walk to the car together. A silent ride home.

It doesn’t feel like victory.

In your head, getting back from the gala after executing your entire plan meant celebrations—champagne, dancing, a bottle smashed for fun on the marble floor. Something loud. Something indulgent. But this… this feels more like losing.

Maybe there was never an outcome where you won. Maybe you were too blinded by your own ambition to see that from the start.

The front door clicks shut behind you.

The house is dark, save for the soft glow from the kitchen under-cabinet lights. You don’t bother flipping on anything else. Andrew follows you inside but says nothing. The silence is thick, almost suffocating, but neither of you breaks it.

You disappear into your room and return with the duffel bag, putting it on the table. The zipper’s slightly open, and a few stacks of cash peek out. The blood money. The price of surviving tonight.

You pour yourself a glass of whiskey, downing it one go.

You don’t look at him when you say it. “…You can go now.”

It comes out flatter than you mean for it to. Not cold, just… empty. Tired. Like there’s nothing left to give.

Andrew doesn’t move. He watches you quietly. Watches the way your shoulders have lost their proud angle. The way your hands stay curled into fists. The way your eyes shine, too bright, too wet, but the tears haven’t fallen yet.

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’ve done your job,” you murmur. “You protected me. You survived. You got paid.”

“I didn’t stay for the money.”

You finally lift your eyes, catching his reflection in the window. You’re not sure what you’re looking for. Maybe doubt. Maybe a lie you can call out. But it’s not there.

Andrew steps closer, slow, careful.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Your throat tightens. “I hired you to protect me. You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know.” His voice softens. “But I want to.”

His hands find your waist, turning you so you can hide in his chest and cry.

“So let me,” he whispers. “Okay?”

Your lips tremble and you finally cry into his chest, tears ruining his shirt, your hands clutching him. You let him hold you while your whole world sinks to the floor. Let yourself cry until your body’s shaking and you feel like passing out from sadness, and he holds you nevertheless.

[bitters-n-sweets]

HAHAHA I was not planning to write a part 2 actually!

Let me think about it 😭

clementine — andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader You’re looking for a bodyguard and Pope is the perfect person for it

warnings: ANGST, bodyguard!pope, descriptions of violence, mentions of blood, mentions of su1c1d4l tendencies, reader’s parents are not good people—her dad is trying to kill her, probably ooc towards the end sorry, mdni, not proofread wc: 3.9k+ masterlist

“$200,000.”

Pope’s eyebrow raises, clearly skeptical. “I’m being paid $200,000 to be security?”

“A personal bodyguard,” Deran clarifies, “But yeah.”

Pope scoffs. “Is this a joke? Who the hell am I protecting, King Charles?”

Deran chuckles. “You’ll see.”

—

Pope doesn’t know why he said yes—well, the biggest incentive is the money, two hundred grand could fix a lot of things. But a job to protect someone? That’s not what he does. He breaks things. Hurts people. Wrecks whatever needs wrecking. Protection feels like the opposite of what he was made for. What makes Deran think he could do this job?

He’s instructed to go to this person’s beach house for further screening. It’s far from his place, about a two hour drive, and he gets there on time as requested; 9AM sharp.

He knocks on the door.

A voice cracks through the intercom: “Full name.”

“Andrew Cody.”

The door opens.

The place is sleek, modern. Ocean view. Infinity pool catching the sun like glass. And there—coming out of the water—is the only person in the house. You walk barefoot across the deck, barely covering your bikini with a robe, wet hair leaving trails across your shoulders.

Pope watches you, sizing you up automatically. At first, he thinks you must be someone’s girlfriend. But when your eyes meet his, level and assessing, he knows he’s wrong.

“So, you’re Deran’s brother.”

He nods. “You’re Clementine?”

You smile, a little wry. “Yeah, Deran calls me that. He tattooed the orange on my hip.” You show him the citrus tattoo poking out of your bikini and offer him to call your real name instead.

“And you?” you ask. “Do you prefer Andrew or Pope?”

“Either is fine.” He shrugs.

“Andrew it is.”

“Deran wasn’t lying when he said you’re intimidating.” You add, “And handsome.”

Andrew looks around your house, only sparing you a glance at your comment. It’s almost too perfect. Marble floors. Strategic decor. Cameras tucked into every corner, wide coverage, no blind spots. You’re expecting enemies, he thinks. Not company.

You hand him a glass of orange juice.

“So, Andrew. You clear on the directive, or do you have questions?”

He ignores the orange juice, putting it down on the counter. “How do you know Deran?”

“Surfing. Beers. Getting drunk.”

He looks at you. That’s not the full truth. You know it, and you know he knows it. But you just sip your juice and let the silence stretch.

“What do you need a bodyguard for?”

You smile politely, curtly. “I’m not telling you until you sign a contract with me. Sorry. Security reasons.”

Fair. Andrew thinks.

“All I can say is,” You add, “People want me dead. And I need someone to watch my six while I get rid of them.”

His eyes narrow. “Why me?”

“My last security team got compromised. I’m handpicking this one myself. Deran’s one of the few people I trust—and he said you’re the best.” You tilt your head, watching him closely. “So are you?”

Andrew takes a breath. “I only know how to hurt people.”

“Good.” You smirk. “I need you to hurt the people who try to hurt me.”

He stares at you — not quite sure what to make of you yet. Andrew is intrigued by your electric personality, your quips, your wit. But he’s also a little wary. He doesn’t know you yet. Doesn’t entirely know what you’re capable of. Heck, he’s not even sure what exactly is it you do, but the fact that you’re throwing around two-hundred grand for one bodyguard? It’s enough to make him stay.

You pull open a drawer, take out a contract and a pen, and slide them across the table.

“Read the terms and sign when you’re ready,” you say. “Payment comes after the job’s done.”

Andrew picks it up, flips through. Buried in the fine print is a clause: if he dies on the job, he waives liability. His lips tighten. Of course.

He looks up at you, a smirk on your face, watching him like you’ve already figured out what choice he’ll make.

He signs the papers and passes them back to you.

“Good to be working with you, Andrew.” You scan the contract, making sure he signed correctly. “You’ll be staying here with me throughout the contract, so you can go back and grab whatever you need. I expect to see you back here tonight.”

Andrew puts down the pen on your coffee table. And just before turning around to leave, he asks, “What makes you think you can trust me?”

You eye him from your kitchen counter, drinking the orange juice he didn’t dare touch while keeping eye contact.

“Maybe I can’t. But I know where Deran lives.”

Andrew isn’t sure if that’s a threat.

Before he has to go back to your place, Andrew tries to learn everything he can about you, but nothing turns up. No criminal record. No gossip. No digital breadcrumbs. Even Deran shrugs when he asks. Andrew doesn’t like working blind, but it’s too late to back out now.

When he pulls into your driveway that night, he’s surprised to see he doesn’t need to knock. The house scans his face and unlocks automatically.

Inside, he hears your voice before he sees you—you're on the phone in the living room.

“I’m trying to make a life for myself. You know this.” You say to the person on the other line.

Andrew spots a few empty beer bottles on the table.

Your voice rises — sharper, angrier. “Why are you still defending him?! Our whole lives, he—” You stop mid-sentence. You’ve caught sight of him in the reflection on the glass wall.

“You can tell him he can saw my head off my body himself.” You hang up and glance back at Andrew, a duffel bag in hand.

“Good, you’re back.” You say. “Ready for briefing?” Your tone is cool, like nothing happened.

Andrew says nothing at first. Just drops his duffel bag by the couch.

You toss him a beer, which he catches one-handed. He cracks it open but doesn’t drink yet.

Then you start talking. Handing him files about people he should look out for. It’s a lot more complicated than he thought.

You tell him everything. Not everything-everything — he knows you’re not reckless — but more than he expected.

Andrew learns a lot about your life then. You emancipated yourself at 15. Built a business from the ground up. Acquired, merged, dismantled. And now? You own multiple companies that directly compete with your father's and suddenly he wants you dead.

Suddenly Andrew feels a lot closer to you. He can understand where your rage is coming from. That kind of fury? That kind of betrayal? It changes people.

“So he’s put a bounty on your head.” Andrew raises a brow. “What if I just kill you now and take the bounty for myself?”

You don’t flinch. You just smirk, lips wrapping around the edge of your beer bottle. “I’d like to see you try.”

Andrew’s lip twitches, he almost smiled. “How much is the bounty anyway?”

“$200,000.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. He wants to say you’re crazy. You both take a drink and leave the night to the silence. Maybe now you understand each other a little better.

You let Andrew get used to his role of being your bodyguard for the first few days, watching how he moves, how he scans a room, how naturally he seems to step in front of you without thinking. You know he can fight, he’s got a very sharp eye, and he intimidates people, but what you need to know is whether he can actually keep you safe when shit hits the fan. So you take him out to bars, shadowy alleys that are just too suspicious—try to engage him in fights he’s not ready for.

So far? He’s passing with flying colors.

He’s just finished taking care of a few guys that jumped you from an alley. No wasted moves. Controlled rage. Efficient. By the time he’s finished, the bodies are barely breathing, slumped in a pile behind the dumpster. He’s panting when he walks back to you, knuckles bloodied, shirt rumpled.

“How’d I do this time?” He asks, catching his breath.

You smile at him. “Amazing as usual.”

You walk with him to the car, and just as he’s catching his breath, you toss in, “Though… I didn’t set these guys up.”

Andrew looks at you, eyes a little wide. “…Your dad really doesn’t play around.”

You laugh at his comment. Because you’ve been playing this game for a long time. “Oh, just wait till you meet him.”

He sighs, getting into the car. “Not looking forward to it.”

You’ve been staring at him the entire way back to your house. And Andrew knows—of course he does, you’re not trying to hide it, he just doesn’t know what to make of it. Not when you’re staring at him like that.

“Quit looking at me like—”

“Like what?” You ask, daring him to finish his sentence.

He swallows, glancing at you. “…You know like what.”

You grin, tearing your gaze away to the road instead and crossing your legs.

Back at the house, you grab the first aid kit before he can even kick off his boots.

“This-This is really not necessary.” Andrew stammers, watching you yank out the alcohol and band-aids.

“Andrew, please.”

Your voice is soft, patient as you start cleaning the scrapes on his knuckles.

He winces as the alcohol hits, and you immediately mumble, “Sorry.”

“Besides, it’s in our contract,” you add.

His eyes narrow, watching as you’re now cleaning his cut lip. “Is it?”

You suppress a smile and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to just leave you if you get hurt, Andrew.” You clarify. “I hired you to protect me, yes, but I have a responsibility to you, too.”

He feels his heart rate pick up. Now he’s staring at you. Not with suspicion. Not with wariness. Just a little surprised because he doesn’t expect to feel anything, and you’re so close.

You’re leaning in, carefully dabbing at the cut on his lip. He keeps flinching back slightly, and the closer you get, the more flustered he becomes.

You bite back a smile. He’s trying so hard to keep it together.

And then, because you can’t help yourself—you kiss his nose.

Andrew freezes.

That pause is all you need to stick the bandage on his forehead before he can shy away again.

“There,” you murmur, pleased with yourself.

Andrew doesn’t breathe until you get up to put the first aid kit where it belongs.

And even then, his eyes stay on you, like maybe he’s starting to realize this job isn’t going to go the way he thought.

You can see him turning slightly pink, and you think that’s enough torture for today. Poor guy’s been beat up twice—once by those guys in the alley, and again by your relentless teasing. Not like you could hold it any longer anyway. If it were up to you, you’d be smooching booties in every room of this house.

“You should get some sleep,” you say, this time more serious. “I know you don’t sleep much, but try anyway.”

You hesitate, then add, “In two days, things are going to get a little crazy.”

You pause. “A lot crazy.”

Andrew stands up slowly. He stops just before bumping into you. He looks down and holds your gaze.

“I can handle crazy.”

You spend the next day preparing for the event. The charity gala hosted by some privileged, overpowered organization is only a charity in name. It’s not about goodwill or giving back. It’s about control. Image. Legacy. And that’s exactly why it’s the perfect place to make your move.

Your father has no idea what’s coming.

You’ve planned every detail. The data, the footage, the timing—down to the moment the room will go quiet. All you need to do now is make sure everyone’s watching. And that you survive long enough to finish the job.

Because you know your father. He always has something up his sleeve.

That night, you can’t sleep. You’ve gone over everything with Andrew. Twice. Maybe three times. He knows the plan. He’s ready. But your mind won’t settle. Your body’s tired but your thoughts won’t let you rest. You finally get out of bed and head outside, needing air.

You sit by the pool, the water just up to your knees and the light reflecting on your face.

You remember the day you left your family like yesterday. A bunch of screams and tears from your mother, while your father basically dared you to run, chasing you with his gun. Your jaw tightens at the memory.

“Can’t sleep?” Andrew’s voice breaks the silence.

You glance over. He sits beside you, feet in the water. He’s not wearing a shirt — just a pair of loose black sweats, skin still damp from a shower.

You blink. “Jesus Christ. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Andrew looks down at himself, then at you, deadpan. “Is it working?”

That earns a soft laugh. The corner of your mouth twitches. “Maybe.”

But your smile quickly falters and he knows you probably have a lot on your mind. “Your plan’s good. Solid. You’ve covered everything.”

“I know.” You sigh. “I just... can’t shake the feeling something’s going to go wrong. That maybe it has to. I don’t know, my entire life is just fucked up.”

He nods. “Here’s to having a not-so-normal family.”

You almost forget he’s a Cody. “At least you all still live together.”

Andrew leans back on his arms. “That’s not necessarily something good. I… I needed a break from them. From Smurf. Deran and Craig noticed. I started to have these… thoughts. Tendencies.”

You let him go on.

“So… thank you. For this job.”

You smile, a little half-hearted, reminded that Andrew’s just doing another job. And soon enough you’ll be on your own. Again.

Day of the gala.

You arrive fashionably—deliberately late. It’s part of the plan. Every piece of tonight is curated to pull the rug from under your father’s feet, and nothing makes a man like him unravel faster than losing control of a room he thinks he owns.

Andrew stands beside you, his hand on your lower back, reassuring you that he’s got you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the main doors open. Your heels click against the marble as you step into the ballroom, head held high. You’re dressed in a statement of war; blood-red silk, backless, a slit cut dangerously high. You look like the kind of woman headlines get written about. The kind people remember. And it’s exactly what you need.

Your father is already speaking on stage when you walk in. It’s some grand monologue—about legacy, loyalty, impact, all those shiny, hollow words he thinks will cover up the blood and money dripping off his empire.

He sees you just as he’s launching into his favorite anecdote. And to his credit, he only stumbles for half a second. But that half-second is everything. The hush that moves through the room as people turn to look at you, and then at him, and then back at you again.

“Don’t stop now,” you call to him. Your voice is smooth, almost bored. “You were doing such a great job bullshitting. Father.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd like a breeze through dry grass.

Your father lets out a tight, practiced laugh into the mic, trying to salvage the moment. “Darling, I thought we agreed this wasn’t your scene anymore.”

“Oh father, please, it’s not my intention to take the light away from you.” You say sarcastically, “In fact, I have a gift.”

Across the ballroom, the projector screen glitches, and your first video begins to play. Grainy security footage. The audio is low but clear.

“Kill him now.”

“But boss, he’s the son of—”

“I don’t care. He took my money. He’s gonna pay for it with his life.”

And then a gunshot. Someone gasps. A few people shift uncomfortably. The video cuts out abruptly.

Then the second clip begins.

Your father again, younger but unmistakable. He pulls a gun and shoots a man point-blank in the head. The body drops like a sack of bricks. He steps over it without flinching.

“Clean it up,” he tells a trembling assistant off-screen. “Burn it all.”

You watch your father from the corner of your eye. He hasn’t moved. Not yet. But his jaw is tense, and you know what that means. He’s calculating. Waiting to see what else you have. You smile. Because you’ve saved the best for last.

The third video starts.

Bedroom footage. Intimate. A little too intimate. Your father again. Naked, whiskey in hand, with a woman who’s not your mother. The woman’s face is obscured, but her unique diamond necklace says more than enough.

Across the room, a woman yanks her necklace off. You roll your eyes when she glares at you.

“I’ve always hated your husband,” your father says in the video, voice slurred. “He’s my best friend, but I’ll kill him if I have to.”

The video cuts out.

You step closer to him, voice lower, almost gentle now. “You always said power was about what you could hide. Guess your grip’s slipping.”

With his entire face now fully colored with rage, your father lunges at you.

You barely register the movement before you hear Andrew’s voice cut through the crowd. “Gun!”

Then everything happens fast. Andrew grabs you hard, pulling you off your feet just as the podium explodes beside your head from a fired shot. Splinters scatter. Screams echo through the ballroom. Somewhere, a chandelier sways violently overhead.

Andrew throws you behind the cover of a table and covers your body with his own. You can feel his heart pounding against your back but his movements are precise, instinctive. You know better than to get in his way now.

Your father’s men are already storming the stage, closing in fast.

“Stay here.” He instructs.

Andrew moves like a storm. He tackles the first guy mid-charge, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut, slamming him into the staircase rail with a crack. Another comes at him with a knife—Andrew ducks the swing, grabs his wrist, twists, and slams his elbow down until the blade clatters to the floor. Then he drives his boot into the guy’s ribs.

You peek from behind the table just in time to see Andrew disarm a man with a gun and pistol-whip him unconscious. Blood spatters across the marble.

Your father steps out from behind the podium, aiming again—and this time, Andrew is faster. He raises his gun, and your father freezes.

Andrew walks toward him, slow and steady. Blood drips from a cut above his eye. His chest rises and falls with each breath, but his hands are steady as ever.

Your father looks up from the barrel pointed at his face and spits on the ground between them. “This is how you’re gonna kill me? You don’t even have the guts to do it yourself?” He’s talking to you.

You emerge from behind the table. “I’m not like you.”

That’s when you hear sirens from outside and the police come rushing in.

“Drop your weapon!” someone yells.

Andrew pauses. Slowly lowers the gun. Lets it fall to the floor.

They arrest your father on the spot, reading out charges you practically wrote yourself—embezzlement, conspiracy, murder. The list goes on and on.

You walk over to Andrew, checking for any serious injuries and finally rest your head on his shoulder. It’s finally over.

“Thank you.” You say to him and he just holds you close.

You step outside after giving a statement to the police, Andrew following closely behind. There’s a few police cars around, red, blue, and white flashing everywhere. And you see an ambulance nearby, and your mother sitting down. She looks small. Fragile. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Her eyes are glassy, locked on some fixed point in the distance that you can’t see.

You approach her.

“Mom.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “It’s over. You’re free. We both are.”

She doesn’t look at you.

“We can still go,” you try again. “We can start over. Just you and me.”

She rises slowly to her feet, her mouth trembling. You think she’s going to cry. Maybe fall into your arms. You think—hope—she’ll say your name like she used to when you were little. When you skinned your knees or had nightmares or couldn’t sleep without her hand in yours.

But instead, she raises a hand and slaps you across the face. It doesn’t hurt, but it leaves something ringing deep in your chest.

“How could you do this?” She whispers. “You’re… you’re not my child.”

You don’t even flinch. Your gaze falls to the ground as she walks away from you. Something breaks in you. And for the first time, you don’t know how to fix it.

Andrew is beside you before you even realize. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence is enough to snap you back to reality. Because you can’t be seen crying right now.

You look at him, tears threatening to fall. “Let’s go, Andrew.”

And without another word, you walk to the car together. A silent ride home.

It doesn’t feel like victory.

In your head, getting back from the gala after executing your entire plan meant celebrations—champagne, dancing, a bottle smashed for fun on the marble floor. Something loud. Something indulgent. But this… this feels more like losing.

Maybe there was never an outcome where you won. Maybe you were too blinded by your own ambition to see that from the start.

The front door clicks shut behind you.

The house is dark, save for the soft glow from the kitchen under-cabinet lights. You don’t bother flipping on anything else. Andrew follows you inside but says nothing. The silence is thick, almost suffocating, but neither of you breaks it.

You disappear into your room and return with the duffel bag, putting it on the table. The zipper’s slightly open, and a few stacks of cash peek out. The blood money. The price of surviving tonight.

You pour yourself a glass of whiskey, downing it one go.

You don’t look at him when you say it. “…You can go now.”

It comes out flatter than you mean for it to. Not cold, just… empty. Tired. Like there’s nothing left to give.

Andrew doesn’t move. He watches you quietly. Watches the way your shoulders have lost their proud angle. The way your hands stay curled into fists. The way your eyes shine, too bright, too wet, but the tears haven’t fallen yet.

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’ve done your job,” you murmur. “You protected me. You survived. You got paid.”

“I didn’t stay for the money.”

You finally lift your eyes, catching his reflection in the window. You’re not sure what you’re looking for. Maybe doubt. Maybe a lie you can call out. But it’s not there.

Andrew steps closer, slow, careful.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Your throat tightens. “I hired you to protect me. You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know.” His voice softens. “But I want to.”

His hands find your waist, turning you so you can hide in his chest and cry.

“So let me,” he whispers. “Okay?”

Your lips tremble and you finally cry into his chest, tears ruining his shirt, your hands clutching him. You let him hold you while your whole world sinks to the floor. Let yourself cry until your body’s shaking and you feel like passing out from sadness, and he holds you nevertheless.

[bitters-n-sweets]

clementine — andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader You’re looking for a bodyguard and Pope is the perfect person for it

warnings: ANGST, bodyguard!pope, descriptions of violence, mentions of blood, mentions of su1c1d4l tendencies, reader’s parents are not good people—her dad is trying to kill her, probably ooc towards the end sorry, mdni, not proofread wc: 3.9k+ masterlist

“$200,000.”

Pope’s eyebrow raises, clearly skeptical. “I’m being paid $200,000 to be security?”

“A personal bodyguard,” Deran clarifies, “But yeah.”

Pope scoffs. “Is this a joke? Who the hell am I protecting, King Charles?”

Deran chuckles. “You’ll see.”

—

Pope doesn’t know why he said yes—well, the biggest incentive is the money, two hundred grand could fix a lot of things. But a job to protect someone? That’s not what he does. He breaks things. Hurts people. Wrecks whatever needs wrecking. Protection feels like the opposite of what he was made for. What makes Deran think he could do this job?

He’s instructed to go to this person’s beach house for further screening. It’s far from his place, about a two hour drive, and he gets there on time as requested; 9AM sharp.

He knocks on the door.

A voice cracks through the intercom: “Full name.”

“Andrew Cody.”

The door opens.

The place is sleek, modern. Ocean view. Infinity pool catching the sun like glass. And there—coming out of the water—is the only person in the house. You walk barefoot across the deck, barely covering your bikini with a robe, wet hair leaving trails across your shoulders.

Pope watches you, sizing you up automatically. At first, he thinks you must be someone’s girlfriend. But when your eyes meet his, level and assessing, he knows he’s wrong.

“So, you’re Deran’s brother.”

He nods. “You’re Clementine?”

You smile, a little wry. “Yeah, Deran calls me that. He tattooed the orange on my hip.” You show him the citrus tattoo poking out of your bikini and offer him to call your real name instead.

“And you?” you ask. “Do you prefer Andrew or Pope?”

“Either is fine.” He shrugs.

“Andrew it is.”

“Deran wasn’t lying when he said you’re intimidating.” You add, “And handsome.”

Andrew looks around your house, only sparing you a glance at your comment. It’s almost too perfect. Marble floors. Strategic decor. Cameras tucked into every corner, wide coverage, no blind spots. You’re expecting enemies, he thinks. Not company.

You hand him a glass of orange juice.

“So, Andrew. You clear on the directive, or do you have questions?”

He ignores the orange juice, putting it down on the counter. “How do you know Deran?”

“Surfing. Beers. Getting drunk.”

He looks at you. That’s not the full truth. You know it, and you know he knows it. But you just sip your juice and let the silence stretch.

“What do you need a bodyguard for?”

You smile politely, curtly. “I’m not telling you until you sign a contract with me. Sorry. Security reasons.”

Fair. Andrew thinks.

���All I can say is,” You add, “People want me dead. And I need someone to watch my six while I get rid of them.”

His eyes narrow. “Why me?”

“My last security team got compromised. I’m handpicking this one myself. Deran’s one of the few people I trust—and he said you’re the best.” You tilt your head, watching him closely. “So are you?”

Andrew takes a breath. “I only know how to hurt people.”

“Good.” You smirk. “I need you to hurt the people who try to hurt me.”

He stares at you — not quite sure what to make of you yet. Andrew is intrigued by your electric personality, your quips, your wit. But he’s also a little wary. He doesn’t know you yet. Doesn’t entirely know what you’re capable of. Heck, he’s not even sure what exactly is it you do, but the fact that you’re throwing around two-hundred grand for one bodyguard? It’s enough to make him stay.

You pull open a drawer, take out a contract and a pen, and slide them across the table.

“Read the terms and sign when you’re ready,” you say. “Payment comes after the job’s done.”

Andrew picks it up, flips through. Buried in the fine print is a clause: if he dies on the job, he waives liability. His lips tighten. Of course.

He looks up at you, a smirk on your face, watching him like you’ve already figured out what choice he’ll make.

He signs the papers and passes them back to you.

“Good to be working with you, Andrew.” You scan the contract, making sure he signed correctly. “You’ll be staying here with me throughout the contract, so you can go back and grab whatever you need. I expect to see you back here tonight.”

Andrew puts down the pen on your coffee table. And just before turning around to leave, he asks, “What makes you think you can trust me?”

You eye him from your kitchen counter, drinking the orange juice he didn’t dare touch while keeping eye contact.

“Maybe I can’t. But I know where Deran lives.”

Andrew isn’t sure if that’s a threat.

Before he has to go back to your place, Andrew tries to learn everything he can about you, but nothing turns up. No criminal record. No gossip. No digital breadcrumbs. Even Deran shrugs when he asks. Andrew doesn’t like working blind, but it’s too late to back out now.

When he pulls into your driveway that night, he’s surprised to see he doesn’t need to knock. The house scans his face and unlocks automatically.

Inside, he hears your voice before he sees you—you're on the phone in the living room.

“I’m trying to make a life for myself. You know this.” You say to the person on the other line.

Andrew spots a few empty beer bottles on the table.

Your voice rises — sharper, angrier. “Why are you still defending him?! Our whole lives, he—” You stop mid-sentence. You’ve caught sight of him in the reflection on the glass wall.

“You can tell him he can saw my head off my body himself.” You hang up and glance back at Andrew, a duffel bag in hand.

“Good, you’re back.” You say. “Ready for briefing?” Your tone is cool, like nothing happened.

Andrew says nothing at first. Just drops his duffel bag by the couch.

You toss him a beer, which he catches one-handed. He cracks it open but doesn’t drink yet.

Then you start talking. Handing him files about people he should look out for. It’s a lot more complicated than he thought.

You tell him everything. Not everything-everything — he knows you’re not reckless — but more than he expected.

Andrew learns a lot about your life then. You moved away from home at 15. Built a business from the ground up. Acquired, merged, dismantled. And now? You own multiple companies that directly compete with your father's and suddenly he wants you dead.

Suddenly Andrew feels a lot closer to you. He can understand where your rage is coming from. That kind of fury? That kind of betrayal? It changes people.

“So he’s put a bounty on your head.” Andrew raises a brow. “What if I just kill you now and take the bounty for myself?”

You don’t flinch. You just smirk, lips wrapping around the edge of your beer bottle. “I’d like to see you try.”

Andrew’s lip twitches, he almost smiled. “How much is the bounty anyway?”

“$200,000.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. He wants to say you’re crazy. You both take a drink and leave the night to the silence. Maybe now you understand each other a little better.

You let Andrew get used to his role of being your bodyguard for the first few days, watching how he moves, how he scans a room, how naturally he seems to step in front of you without thinking. You know he can fight, he’s got a very sharp eye, and he intimidates people, but what you need to know is whether he can actually keep you safe when shit hits the fan. So you take him out to bars, shadowy alleys that are just too suspicious—try to engage him in fights he’s not ready for.

So far? He’s passing with flying colors.

He’s just finished taking care of a few guys that jumped you from an alley. No wasted moves. Controlled rage. Efficient. By the time he’s finished, the bodies are barely breathing, slumped in a pile behind the dumpster. He’s panting when he walks back to you, knuckles bloodied, shirt rumpled.

“How’d I do this time?” He asks, catching his breath.

You smile at him. “Amazing as usual.”

You walk with him to the car, and just as he’s catching his breath, you toss in, “Though… I didn’t set these guys up.”

Andrew looks at you, eyes a little wide. “…Your dad really doesn’t play around.”

You laugh at his comment. Because you’ve been playing this game for a long time. “Oh, just wait till you meet him.”

He sighs, getting into the car. “Not looking forward to it.”

You’ve been staring at him the entire way back to your house. And Andrew knows—of course he does, you’re not trying to hide it, he just doesn’t know what to make of it. Not when you’re staring at him like that.

“Quit looking at me like—”

“Like what?” You ask, daring him to finish his sentence.

He swallows, glancing at you. “…You know like what.”

You grin, tearing your gaze away to the road instead and crossing your legs.

Back at the house, you grab the first aid kit before he can even kick off his boots.

“This-This is really not necessary.” Andrew stammers, watching you yank out the alcohol and band-aids.

“Andrew, please.”

Your voice is soft, patient as you start cleaning the scrapes on his knuckles.

He winces as the alcohol hits, and you immediately mumble, “Sorry.”

“Besides, it’s in our contract,” you add.

His eyes narrow, watching as you’re now cleaning his cut lip. “Is it?”

You suppress a smile and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to just leave you if you get hurt, Andrew.” You clarify. “I hired you to protect me, yes, but I have a responsibility to you, too.”

He feels his heart rate pick up. Now he’s staring at you. Not with suspicion. Not with wariness. Just a little surprised because he doesn’t expect to feel anything, and you’re so close.

You’re leaning in, carefully dabbing at the cut on his lip. He keeps flinching back slightly, and the closer you get, the more flustered he becomes.

You bite back a smile. He’s trying so hard to keep it together.

And then, because you can’t help yourself—you kiss his nose.

Andrew freezes.

That pause is all you need to stick the bandage on his forehead before he can shy away again.

“There,” you murmur, pleased with yourself.

Andrew doesn’t breathe until you get up to put the first aid kit where it belongs.

And even then, his eyes stay on you, like maybe he’s starting to realize this job isn’t going to go the way he thought.

You can see him turning slightly pink, and you think that’s enough torture for today. Poor guy’s been beat up twice—once by those guys in the alley, and again by your relentless teasing. Not like you could hold it any longer anyway. If it were up to you, you’d be smooching booties in every room of this house.

“You should get some sleep,” you say, this time more serious. “I know you don’t sleep much, but try anyway.”

You hesitate, then add, “In two days, things are going to get a little crazy.”

You pause. “A lot crazy.”

Andrew stands up slowly. He stops just before bumping into you. He looks down and holds your gaze.

“I can handle crazy.”

You spend the next day preparing for the event. The charity gala hosted by some privileged, overpowered organization is only a charity in name. It’s not about goodwill or giving back. It’s about control. Image. Legacy. And that’s exactly why it’s the perfect place to make your move.

Your father has no idea what’s coming.

You’ve planned every detail. The data, the footage, the timing—down to the moment the room will go quiet. All you need to do now is make sure everyone’s watching. And that you survive long enough to finish the job.

Because you know your father. He always has something up his sleeve.

That night, you can’t sleep. You’ve gone over everything with Andrew. Twice. Maybe three times. He knows the plan. He’s ready. But your mind won’t settle. Your body’s tired but your thoughts won’t let you rest. You finally get out of bed and head outside, needing air.

You sit by the pool, the water just up to your knees and the light reflecting on your face.

You remember the day you left your family like yesterday. A bunch of screams and tears from your mother, while your father basically dared you to run, chasing you with his gun. Your jaw tightens at the memory.

“Can’t sleep?” Andrew’s voice breaks the silence.

You glance over. He sits beside you, feet in the water. He’s not wearing a shirt — just a pair of loose black sweats, skin still damp from a shower.

You blink. “Jesus Christ. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Andrew looks down at himself, then at you, deadpan. “Is it working?”

That earns a soft laugh. The corner of your mouth twitches. “Maybe.”

But your smile quickly falters and he knows you probably have a lot on your mind. “Your plan’s good. Solid. You’ve covered everything.”

“I know.” You sigh. “I just... can’t shake the feeling something’s going to go wrong. That maybe it has to. I don’t know, my entire life is just fucked up.”

He nods. “Here’s to having a not-so-normal family.”

You almost forget he’s a Cody. “At least you all still live together.”

Andrew leans back on his arms. “That’s not necessarily something good. I… I needed a break from them. From Smurf. Deran and Craig noticed. I started to have these… thoughts. Tendencies.”

You let him go on.

“So… thank you. For this job.”

You smile, a little half-hearted, reminded that Andrew’s just doing another job. And soon enough you’ll be on your own. Again.

Day of the gala.

You arrive fashionably—deliberately late. It’s part of the plan. Every piece of tonight is curated to pull the rug from under your father’s feet, and nothing makes a man like him unravel faster than losing control of a room he thinks he owns.

Andrew stands beside you, his hand on your lower back, reassuring you that he’s got you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the main doors open. Your heels click against the marble as you step into the ballroom, head held high. You’re dressed in a statement of war; blood-red silk, backless, a slit cut dangerously high. You look like the kind of woman headlines get written about. The kind people remember. And it’s exactly what you need.

Your father is already speaking on stage when you walk in. It’s some grand monologue—about legacy, loyalty, impact, all those shiny, hollow words he thinks will cover up the blood and money dripping off his empire.

He sees you just as he’s launching into his favorite anecdote. And to his credit, he only stumbles for half a second. But that half-second is everything. The hush that moves through the room as people turn to look at you, and then at him, and then back at you again.

“Don’t stop now,” you call to him. Your voice is smooth, almost bored. “You were doing such a great job bullshitting. Father.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd like a breeze through dry grass.

Your father lets out a tight, practiced laugh into the mic, trying to salvage the moment. “Darling, I thought we agreed this wasn’t your scene anymore.”

“Oh father, please, it’s not my intention to take the light away from you.” You say sarcastically, “In fact, I have a gift.”

Across the ballroom, the projector screen glitches, and your first video begins to play. Grainy security footage. The audio is low but clear.

“Kill him now.”

“But boss, he’s the son of—”

“I don’t care. He took my money. He’s gonna pay for it with his life.”

And then a gunshot. Someone gasps. A few people shift uncomfortably. The video cuts out abruptly.

Then the second clip begins.

Your father again, younger but unmistakable. He pulls a gun and shoots a man point-blank in the head. The body drops like a sack of bricks. He steps over it without flinching.

“Clean it up,” he tells a trembling assistant off-screen. “Burn it all.”

You watch your father from the corner of your eye. He hasn’t moved. Not yet. But his jaw is tense, and you know what that means. He’s calculating. Waiting to see what else you have. You smile. Because you’ve saved the best for last.

The third video starts.

Bedroom footage. Intimate. A little too intimate. Your father again. Naked, whiskey in hand, with a woman who’s not your mother. The woman’s face is obscured, but her unique diamond necklace says more than enough.

Across the room, a woman yanks her necklace off. You roll your eyes when she glares at you.

“I’ve always hated your husband,” your father says in the video, voice slurred. “He’s my best friend, but I’ll kill him if I have to.”

The video cuts out.

You step closer to him, voice lower, almost gentle now. “You always said power was about what you could hide. Guess your grip’s slipping.”

With his entire face now fully colored with rage, your father lunges at you.

You barely register the movement before you hear Andrew’s voice cut through the crowd. “Gun!”

Then everything happens fast. Andrew grabs you hard, pulling you off your feet just as the podium explodes beside your head from a fired shot. Splinters scatter. Screams echo through the ballroom. Somewhere, a chandelier sways violently overhead.

Andrew throws you behind the cover of a table and covers your body with his own. You can feel his heart pounding against your back but his movements are precise, instinctive. You know better than to get in his way now.

Your father’s men are already storming the stage, closing in fast.

“Stay here.” He instructs.

Andrew moves like a storm. He tackles the first guy mid-charge, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut, slamming him into the staircase rail with a crack. Another comes at him with a knife—Andrew ducks the swing, grabs his wrist, twists, and slams his elbow down until the blade clatters to the floor. Then he drives his boot into the guy’s ribs.

You peek from behind the table just in time to see Andrew disarm a man with a gun and pistol-whip him unconscious. Blood spatters across the marble.

Your father steps out from behind the podium, aiming again—and this time, Andrew is faster. He raises his gun, and your father freezes.

Andrew walks toward him, slow and steady. Blood drips from a cut above his eye. His chest rises and falls with each breath, but his hands are steady as ever.

Your father looks up from the barrel pointed at his face and spits on the ground between them. “This is how you’re gonna kill me? You don’t even have the guts to do it yourself?” He’s talking to you.

You emerge from behind the table. “I’m not like you.”

That’s when you hear sirens from outside and the police come rushing in.

“Drop your weapon!” someone yells.

Andrew pauses. Slowly lowers the gun. Lets it fall to the floor.

They arrest your father on the spot, reading out charges you practically wrote yourself—embezzlement, conspiracy, murder. The list goes on and on.

You walk over to Andrew, checking for any serious injuries and finally rest your head on his shoulder. It’s finally over.

“Thank you.” You say to him and he just holds you close.

You step outside after giving a statement to the police, Andrew following closely behind. There’s a few police cars around, red, blue, and white flashing everywhere. And you see an ambulance nearby, and your mother sitting down. She looks small. Fragile. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Her eyes are glassy, locked on some fixed point in the distance that you can’t see.

You approach her.

“Mom.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “It’s over. You’re free. We both are.”

She doesn’t look at you.

“We can still go,” you try again. “We can start over. Just you and me.”

She rises slowly to her feet, her mouth trembling. You think she’s going to cry. Maybe fall into your arms. You think—hope—she’ll say your name like she used to when you were little. When you skinned your knees or had nightmares or couldn’t sleep without her hand in yours.

But instead, she raises a hand and slaps you across the face. It doesn’t hurt, but it leaves something ringing deep in your chest.

“How could you do this?” She whispers. “You’re… you’re not my child.”

You don’t even flinch. Your gaze falls to the ground as she walks away from you. Something breaks in you. And for the first time, you don’t know how to fix it.

Andrew is beside you before you even realize. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence is enough to snap you back to reality. Because you can’t be seen crying right now.

You look at him, tears threatening to fall. “Let’s go, Andrew.”

And without another word, you walk to the car together. A silent ride home.

It doesn’t feel like victory.

In your head, getting back from the gala after executing your entire plan meant celebrations—champagne, dancing, a bottle smashed for fun on the marble floor. Something loud. Something indulgent. But this… this feels more like losing.

Maybe there was never an outcome where you won. Maybe you were too blinded by your own ambition to see that from the start.

The front door clicks shut behind you.

The house is dark, save for the soft glow from the kitchen under-cabinet lights. You don’t bother flipping on anything else. Andrew follows you inside but says nothing. The silence is thick, almost suffocating, but neither of you breaks it.

You disappear into your room and return with the duffel bag, putting it on the table. The zipper’s slightly open, and a few stacks of cash peek out. The blood money. The price of surviving tonight.

You pour yourself a glass of whiskey, downing it one go.

You don’t look at him when you say it. “…You can go now.”

It comes out flatter than you mean for it to. Not cold, just… empty. Tired. Like there’s nothing left to give.

Andrew doesn’t move. He watches you quietly. Watches the way your shoulders have lost their proud angle. The way your hands stay curled into fists. The way your eyes shine, too bright, too wet, but the tears haven’t fallen yet.

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’ve done your job,” you murmur. “You protected me. You survived. You got paid.”

“I didn’t stay for the money.”

You finally lift your eyes, catching his reflection in the window. You’re not sure what you’re looking for. Maybe doubt. Maybe a lie you can call out. But it’s not there.

Andrew steps closer, slow, careful.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Your throat tightens. “I hired you to protect me. You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know.” His voice softens. “But I want to.”

His hands find your waist, turning you so you can hide in his chest and cry.

“So let me,” he whispers. “Okay?”

Your lips tremble and you finally cry into his chest, tears ruining his shirt, your hands clutching him. You let him hold you while your whole world sinks to the floor. Let yourself cry until your body’s shaking and you feel like passing out from sadness, and he holds you nevertheless.