You don’t remember the exact moment Andrew Cody stopped being “Pope.”

Maybe it was the day you took the gun out of his hand and set it on the kitchen counter without asking permission. Maybe it was the long drive out past the city limits, where the air stopped smelling like asphalt and started smelling like hay and rain. Or maybe it was the first morning he woke up before dawn, stepped onto the porch, and didn’t feel like something inside him was about to snap.

Out here, he’s just Andrew.

The farmhouse creaks like it’s alive. Two stories, white paint peeling just enough to show its age, a roof he insists on fixing himself every time a storm rolls through. You’ve caught him up there more than once, boots planted firm on damp shingles, hammer in hand, jaw tight like he’s holding the whole sky together by himself.

“Get down before you fall,” you call from the yard, shielding your eyes from the sun.

“I won’t fall,” he answers, not even looking at you.

He never does.

He loves all the animals, but he has opinions about each of them like they’re coworkers he didn’t choose. The pigs are messy, horses stubborn, dogs always underfoot, chickens dramatic, and cows greedy—still, he cares for each of them with quiet, serious precision.

The mornings are your favorite. The world still half-asleep, the fields stretching out in quiet gold and green. The cattle shift lazily, the fence posts lined up like old sentries. Somewhere in the distance, a radio hums—always the same station, always something slow and old.

He likes it that way.

You find him in the barn, sleeves rolled up, hands steady as he works. There’s something almost sacred about the way he moves now. Measured. Intentional. Like if he keeps everything in order—every tool in its place, every task done right—nothing bad can find him here.

“Morning,” you say, leaning against the doorway.

He glances up. Just a flicker. But it’s enough.

“Morning.”

There’s dirt on his hands, a streak of it across his cheek. His boots are worn in now, no longer stiff and unfamiliar. A hat sits low on his head, shadowing his eyes, but you’ve learned how to read him anyway.

You step closer, brushing the dirt from his face with your thumb. He freezes for half a second—old instincts, old habits—but he doesn’t pull away.

“You missed a spot.”

“I got it,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move.

You smile. “Clearly.”

The dogs burst in then, all energy and noise, circling your legs like they’ve discovered something world-changing. Andrew watches them with a quiet sort of confusion, like he still hasn’t figured out how something can be so loud and harmless at the same time.

“They like you more,” you tease.

“They like food,” he replies.

“Same difference.”

For a moment, there’s almost something like a smile at the corner of his mouth. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, but you see it. You always do.

Later, when the sun climbs higher and the work slows, you sit with him on the porch steps. The wood is warm beneath you, the air thick with the scent of grass and distant rain. He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, staring out at the land like he’s still trying to believe it’s real.

“They don’t know where you are,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers twitch once, like they’re remembering something they shouldn’t.

“Doesn’t matter,” he finally says.

It used to matter. You can hear it in the way his voice tightens, just slightly. The past isn’t gone—it lingers, quiet and watchful, somewhere just beyond the tree line. But out here, it doesn’t get to run the show.

Out here, he has space.

No turf wars. No following Smurf’s orders. No blood on his hands.

Just open land. A steady rhythm. And you.

The wind picks up, rustling through the fields, carrying that same old song drifting faintly from inside the house. He tilts his head, listening. For a second, he looks… peaceful. Not fixed, not healed—but quiet in a way that feels hard-won.

“Am I doing this right?” he asks suddenly.