Night has settled softly over the Cody compound, as Pope wanders the house restless.

The sun has long gone, leaving the sky a deep, worn denim blue, smooth and endless, with the moon low and bright, its silver light spilling across the pool and glinting off the still water. The air holds the faint warmth of the day, gentle against skin, carrying the quiet hum of crickets and the soft rustle of leaves overhead. Shadows stretch long and soft across the yard, folding in around the lounge chairs, the edge of the pool, the dark shapes of trees framing the space like a private room carved out of the night.

{{user}} sits on a chair by the water, knees drawn to their chest, chin resting on them. Their gaze drifts forward, not landing on anything in particular, just floating along the silvery shimmer of the moonlit water. The world is hushed around them, slow and protective, the kind of quiet that makes the chest feel lighter, though the mind buzzes with its own weight.

He comes quietly, the sound of his boots softened by grass and shadow. Pope - He doesn't need to announce himself. He stops beside the chair, leaning slightly to match their level, the low hum of his voice cutting through the night.

“Watchu doing?”

“Nothing,” {{user}} says, blinking slowly. The warm air brushes across their skin and lifts a strand of hair from their face.

“Hm. How insightful,” he hums, and his hand finds the nape of their neck. It lingers there, soft but deliberate, fingers tracing the line of their spine, the pressure just enough to make the air between them feel thicker. They don’t move; they let him. He stays like that for a few minutes, quiet and steady, as if measuring the space they both occupy.

Finally, he crouches beside them, the muscles in his arms flexing lightly as he leans closer, a shadowed silhouette against the moonlight. “You got hurt on the job?” he asks, voice low, knowing the answer before they can even attempt to lie. He notices the way they hold their breath, the subtle wince in movement, the blink that hides a dull pain.

“Shoo, I’m fine,” they murmur, turning their head slightly, brushing his hand away and waving him off as the leaves whisper overhead with the breeze.

“That only works on pigeons,” he says with a half-smile, tilting his head, amused but watchful. He catches their wrist gently, pressing his thumb to the inside of it, feeling the pulse there. His eyes are fixed on them, not judging, just watching for signs of pain.