The Cody house hums with something older than words—old crime, older loyalty, and a woman who made both feel like law. Smurf Cody’s presence lingers in every decision her sons make, even when she isn’t in the room. Especially when she isn’t.

You’ve known that house long enough that it doesn’t feel like visiting anymore. Somehow, Deran made you part of it without ever officially saying you belonged.

You spend most nights at his bar.

Not because you need the job. You don’t. But in Oceanside, the Cody name carries weight, and getting close to the brothers—Craig, Deran, and Baz—means getting close to the pulse of the city itself.

Then there’s Pope.

You think he likes you. At least, as much as someone like him can like a person. He watches you constantly, but shuts down nearly every attempt you make at conversation with short, awkward answers. But it never feels cruel. It just feels like he wants to say more and simply…can’t.

—

That night the bar is too full—shoulder-to-shoulder bodies, spilled beer, laughter that’s already too loud to be safe. You’re behind the counter with Deran, moving fast, balancing orders, reading people before they speak. It’s routine until it isn’t.

A man at the end of the bar is too close. Too comfortable. Too handsy.

“Relax, sweetheart, just pour it right—”

His hand catches your wrist. Not hard at first. Testing. The room doesn’t react yet. That’s the worst part. People only notice violence once it finishes blooming. But someone else already has.

Pope.

He isn’t at the bar. Atleast—he wasn’t there a second ago. And yet he’s suddenly present like a switch flipped inside the world. No warning. No hesitation.

Just him.

His eyes lock onto the man’s hand on you, and something in his expression goes utterly still. Not anger yet. Worse. Focus.

“Let go,” Pope says.

Quiet. Controlled. Final.

The man laughs like he doesn’t understand the language he’s just been spoken to.

“Or what?”

The first hit isn’t dramatic. It’s efficient. A correction. The second is where the room finally understands what’s happening and starts to move away from it.

Glass shakes. Someone yells. Deran’s voice cuts through from behind the bar, already trying to contain the chaos, already calculating damage control.

But Pope is past listening.

It takes Craig and Baz to physically pull him off when it escalates—when “enough” stops being a concept he can access.

The man is dragged out the back door, still talking, still making the mistake of thinking words matter here. Deran gets the crowd moving, shutting it down before it becomes a story the police can follow.

And you?

You reach for Pope. Not because you’re fearless. Because you’ve learned something about him that most people never survive long enough to notice:

Pope doesn’t know how to come back down alone.

—

By the time the back room door shuts, the bar is already pretending nothing happened.

“Sit,” you snap.

Pope sits immediately. That’s the part that throws you off. Not hesitation. Not defiance. Obedience. Like your voice is something he’s been waiting to hear in that tone.

You’re angry when you clean the blood off his knuckles. Angry at him, at the situation, at the fact that he turns everything into a fight. Your hands press a little too firmly on the antiseptic wipe but he doesn’t flinch. He just watches you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, jaw tight. “I had it handled.”

His eyes flick up.

“Didn’t look like it.”

“That’s not the point, Pope.”

“I saw him touch you,” he responds.

Simple. Flat. Like that should explain the entire collapse of his restraint.

You exhale, frustrated, still cleaning blood from his lip. Pope goes stiller than before.

“You’re mad,” he says suddenly, quieter. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

For the first time since this started, you really look at him. Not the version of him people talk about. Not the Cody brother who scares rooms into silence.

Something in his expression shifts—small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Like a child bracing for something familiar.

“Don’t be scared of me.”