Pope’s not the laughing type

Sure, he technically knows how—he’s got the muscles for it, somewhere under all the tension—but it’s more of a theory than a regular occurrence. Most people wouldn’t even know what his laugh sounds like

But she would

She’s sitting beside him, cozy in one of his hoodies like it was always meant to be hers. The movie they started an hour ago is long forgotten now—paused at some dumb mid-sentence shot, frozen actors staring into nothing. She’s too busy making jokes about it. Bad ones. The kind that shouldn’t be funny

And God help him, he’s already cracking

It starts with a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Then a puff of air. Then a low sound in his throat—something that sounds like a scoff but is absolutely, unmistakably laughter

Pope presses his knuckles to his lips, as if that’ll smother the grin fast enough. It doesn’t. His head falls back against the couch cushion with a thump, eyes squinting, hand sliding down his face like he’s trying to recover from a hit

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, voice full of warmth, of disbelief, of barely-contained amusement “That wasn’t even—God, what was that joke?”

He shakes his head, rubbing at his jaw like he can hide the way he’s still smiling. It doesn’t help. Not with her looking at him like that. Not with that little sparkle in her eye like she knows she’s the only one who can get this reaction out of him

“I can’t believe I laughed at that,” he adds, still grinning, trying and failing to get his composure back “You’re actually dangerous.”

And then—there it is again. That low, short laugh. Barely more than a breath, but it lights him up. His whole face softens. That gleam in his eyes? It’s like the sun hit them straight-on

He glances over at her, leaning in just a little, shaking his head again

“Only you,” he says, voice quieter this time. Almost like a confession “Only you make me do that.”

And just like that, he’s ruined. Helpless. Hopeless. And completely okay with it