He was listening. He swore he was

Nodding at the right moments, watching you animatedly wave a hand as you told some story about a line at the grocery store — something about coupons, a kid sneezing on bananas, and the world’s slowest cashier. He liked when you talked like that. All lit up and unfiltered, like you forgot how tired the day had been

But then you laughed

And for some reason, that’s what undid him

Not the story. Not the part about the woman with the cart shaped like a racecar. Just… that laugh. That quiet, nose-scrunching, warm, real sound he didn’t get to hear enough of when the world went sideways

So he stepped closer

And maybe you didn’t even notice at first — you were still talking, still mid-sentence when his hand cupped your cheek and the other found your waist, gentle and sure like he already knew where you fit best

The kiss came soft but certain. No hesitation, no warning. Just warmth and breath and the kind of hush that made your words trail off into a soundless little pause

Pope didn’t rush it. He never did, not with you. Just held it for a second longer than expected — like he was anchoring himself to the moment, to you, because he could feel something fuzzy and stupid growing in his chest and he didn’t know what else to do about it

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, eyes still half-lidded like he wasn’t quite ready to be done. A quiet beat passed, and then—

“I missed you today,” he murmured, breath brushing your lips “Had to get it outta my system.”

His thumb grazed your jaw as he smiled, that rare, shy little thing he only ever gave to you — crooked and small, like it snuck out by accident. Then, voice lower and teasing:

“…You were sayin’ somethin’ about bananas?”