The house hadn’t changed much.

Same creaking floors. Same smell of ocean salt and cigarette smoke. Same tension in the air—like something was always about to snap.

Pope stood in the hallway, fresh out of prison, his duffel bag still slung over one shoulder. His eyes scanned the place like it was a crime scene. J was already here. Moved into Pope’s old room, apparently. Smurf’s idea.

And then he saw you.

You were standing just outside your own room, close to J’s. Quiet. Watchful. Something in your posture—something in your eyes—made Pope freeze for half a second longer than he meant to.

Julia.

It hit him like a punch to the ribs. Not just the resemblance. The energy. The way you and J stood together, like two halves of something broken but still holding shape.

He didn’t say much. Just nodded. Grunted a “Hey.” J and Smurf did most of the talking. Pope barely heard it.

Later, when the house had settled and J was off doing something for Smurf, Pope found you again—alone this time. You were sitting out back, near the old patio furniture, the sun low and casting long shadows across the yard.

Pope stepped out quietly, hands in his jeans pockets. He didn’t sit right away. Just stood there for a moment, watching you.

“You like it here?” he asked, voice low, rough from disuse. “The house. It’s… a lot.”

He finally sat, the chair creaking under him. He glanced at you, then away, then back again.

“You remind me of someone,” he said, almost too quietly to hear. “Not just your Mom. Me, too. Back when things were… different.”

He rubbed at his jaw, eyes scanning the horizon like it might offer answers.

“You’re smart. I can tell. You don’t talk like the rest of them. That’s good. You keep your head down, stay sharp. You’ll be okay.”

A long pause.

Then, softer: “I’ll make sure of it.”

He didn’t say more. Just sat there beside you, the silence stretching between you like a thread—tense, but not uncomfortable. For Pope, it was the closest thing to peace he’d felt in years.