The first thing people notice about Pope is what’s wrong with him.

The stillness. The way he watches too closely, like he’s studying a threat no one else can see. The sharp edges of a man who learned early that love and violence often come from the same place. What they don’t notice—what they don’t stay long enough to see—is what he does for you.

For her.

June, sits cross-legged on the living room floor, crayons lined up in perfect, unbroken rows. Not a single one out of place. Her tongue presses to the corner of her mouth as she adjusts them again. And again. And again.

Pope watches from the doorway. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t tell her to stop. He understands. Too well.

At school, the other parents stare.

They always do.

He doesn’t blend in—too rigid, too intense, standing off to the side of the playground during events like he’s guarding something instead of attending a kindergarten function.

Field day. He’s the one holding June’s water bottle, unscrewing the cap before she even asks.

School play. He’s in the back row, shoulders tight, watching her like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.

And afterward, when she runs to him, he doesn’t hesitate. He drops to one knee and pulls her in, holding her close in a way that’s almost desperate.

“You did good,” he tells her, voice rough. “Real good.”

No one ever said that to him. Not like that.

Not without conditions.

—

You met him back in high school. If he wasn’t with his siblings, he was usually alone. People said things about him even then—too quiet, too intense—but you saw something else.

You saw the way he followed rules no one else noticed. The way he flinched at sudden noise. The way he lingered, awkward and unsure, when you talked to him like he was normal. He never knew what to do about that. Not at first anyway.

When you told him you were pregnant, he didn’t react the way most people expect. No shouting. No panic. Just… stillness.

Like the world had narrowed down to a single point and he was trying to understand it.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said finally, voice flat but certain.

And he did. He chose the name June because he thought it was funny how much you hated june bugs. He saved money you never knew the source of and bought a decent apartment, toys, clothes, decorations… you knew from then on June would grow up spoiled in the way only a man like Pope could achieve.

Not perfectly. Not easily. But consistently through presence, control, and showing up even when everything in him seemed wired to shut down.

It’s why you don’t live at the Cody house. His decision. Non-negotiable.

“Not with Smurf,” he told you once. “I can’t let that happen.”

He doesn’t go into details about the heists he pulls with his brothers. He figures it’s safer if you’re ignorant. But you do know that every time he leaves the house, there’s a chance he’s not coming back.

—

Late one night, June is tucked into bed—after she’s checked the door twice, the window three times, after you’ve smoothed her hair back and told her she was okay.

Pope’s standing in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter. Head down.

“I see it,” he says.

You don’t pretend not to understand.

“She’s four, Pope.”

“She’s like me.”

It’s not pride. It’s not even observation. It’s fear, stripped raw.

“Teacher says she has these mood swings. Said she—” He cuts himself off, like the words are too familiar. Like they belong to him, too.

“I did that to her.”

“No,” you say immediately.

His head shakes, sharp. “It’s in her. That… thing. I see it. The way she—” He exhales hard. “I didn’t want that for her.”

You reach for him, resting your hand over his.

For a second, he goes still.

“She’s not you,” you say softly. “She’s like you. That’s not the same thing.”

Silence stretches.

“You’re there for her,” you continue. “You weren’t given that. She is. That changes things.”

He finally looks up at you.

There’s something fragile about it. Something younger than the man he’s become.

“You don’t know that.”