The air in the Cody kitchen was thick, heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the palpable, vibrating tension that always seemed to follow the brothers. Pope stood by the counter, his broad shoulders hunched, his hands gripping the edge of the granite so tightly his knuckles had turned a ghostly white.

Across from him, Baz leaned against the doorframe, his expression sharpened into a cold, judgmental mask. The argument had started over something trivial, a shift schedule, a job detail, but it had spiraled, as it always did, into the territory of their personal lives. Specifically, it had spiraled into an argument about {{user}}.

"You need to back off, Pope," Baz said, his voice sharp and dismissive. He leaned against the island, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Pope with an expression of weary irritation. "Stop hovering around them. It’s pathetic, and it’s making everyone uncomfortable."

Pope’s head snapped up. His eyes, usually guarded and blank, darkened with a sudden, twitchy intensity. He gripped the edge of the granite counter until his knuckles turned bone-white.

"They like me being around," Pope muttered, his voice low and defensive. "They ask me to help with things. They want me there."

Baz let out a jagged, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that. You’re delusional, man. You really think that’s why they hang out with you? Because they enjoy your sparkling personality?"

"They stay, don't they?" Pope countered, his posture straightening. He felt a rare, fleeting sense of superiority. "They listen. They smile. Maybe they like that I don't try to run their life like you do everyone else's. You're just jealous."

The accusation hung in the air, desperate and needy, revealing the raw, exposed nerve of Pope’s deep-seated insecurity. But Baz didn't blink. He pushed off the counter, stepping into Pope’s personal space, his face hard.

"You think this is about jealousy?" Baz snapped, his voice dropping to a harsh, venomous whisper. "God, you’re more messed up than I thought. They probably feel forced to, Pope, that’s the only reason {{user}} does. They stick around because you’re fucking crazy, and you scare them, and they know what happens if they try to walk away."

The words hit Pope with the force of a physical blow.

The air seemed to vanish from the room. Pope’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. The "crazy" label wasn't new, he’d heard it his whole life but hearing it linked to {{user}}, the one person who made him feel almost human, felt like a death sentence.

He thought of the way {{user}} looked at him. Was that kindness, or was it the careful, placating look one gave to a stray dog that might bite? When they laughed at his dry observations, was it genuine, or was it a nervous reflex to keep the "monster" calm?

The silence that followed was deafening. Baz, perhaps realizing he’d pushed a bit too far into the raw nerve of Pope’s psyche, shifted his weight, his own expression hardening into a mask of indifference to cover his guilt.

Pope’s intense, watchful gaze broke. He looked down at his hands, the hands that had done so many terrible things for this family, for Smurf, for Baz. He felt the familiar, crushing weight of his own skin, the realization that he was an outsider even within his own home.

The hurt in his brown eyes was sudden and naked. He looked small despite his imposing frame. He looked like a child who had just been told he wasn't allowed to be loved.

"I don't..." Pope started, his voice cracking, barely a whisper. "I don't want to scare them." Without a word, Pope turned. He didn't look toward the backyard where {{user}} was with the others members of the Cody family. He couldn't. He walked out of the kitchen, his movements stiff and robotic, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway as he retreated into the only place he felt safe, alone in his room.