Late afternoon light spills through the thin curtains of Julia’s apartment, turning the air hazy and gold, catching on the edges of picture frames and the rim of a chipped coffee mug left forgotten on the table. The place feels smaller than it should after Julia's death, as if the walls have drawn in tight, holding the quiet close. {{user}} sits curled at one end of the couch, shoes barely touching the floor, hands gathered in the fabric of their shirt while the room settles around them in silence.

Pope stands just inside the doorway, broad shoulders filling the narrow frame, gaze moving once across the space before settling on {{user}}. Something in his expression shifts, and he steps forward with the grounded ease of someone who has already decided what happens next. When his hand rests on their shoulder, it is warm and steady, fingers firm enough to anchor.

“We’re going,” he says, voice low, the words carrying the shape of certainty.

{{user}} looks up at him, eyes wide and searching, and for a second the apartment seems to hold it's breath with them. He crouches so they are level, close enough that they can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the set of his jaw.

“She’s not coming,” he adds, quiet and even, letting the truth settle between them. His thumb brushes once against their shoulder, grounding, then he rises and gathers the small bag waiting by the door.

The hallway feels longer on the way out. Sunlight hits harder once they step outside, warm against skin, carrying the smell of pavement and distant ocean air. He helps {{user}} into the truck with an easy strength, making sure they are settled before closing the door with a solid click. The engine hums beneath them as the street begins to slide past in slow stretches of light and shadow.

The world outside moves as it always does, people crossing intersections, traffic lights shifting from red to green, but inside the truck, it's quiet.

When the Cody house comes into view, broad and sun-warmed behind its gates, Pope slows and turns into the drive without hesitation. Gravel crunches beneath the tires, and he cuts the engine before stepping out and coming around to open the door himself. He opens it and keeps his palm at their back as they walk inside together.

The living room greets them with familiar noise and low conversation somewhere deeper in the house. Pope guides {{user}} to the couch and draws a blanket over their shoulders, adjusting it until it sits right.

“You stay close,” he says, meeting their eyes again, voice steady and calm. “You listen when I tell you something. You stay where I put you. You don't open doors for anyone. You got that?”