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The first time Andrew Cody looks at you like that, it’s almost unsettling.
Not because it’s wrong.
Because it’s too much.
You’re standing in the kitchen, doing something small—washing a glass, maybe, or drying your hands on a towel—and when you turn, he’s just… there. Watching.
Not in the way people usually watch him.
Not calculating. Not waiting. Not taking.
Just—
Looking.
Like he’s trying to figure something out that doesn’t make sense.
“Andrew?” you say softly.
He blinks, like you’ve pulled him back from somewhere far away.
“Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t look away.
And you feel it then—that quiet weight of his attention, heavy in a way that isn’t uncomfortable, just… intense. Like you’ve become the only thing in the room he can focus on.
You step a little closer, cautious but not afraid. You’ve never been afraid of him—not really. Not in the way other people are.
That might be the thing that got him.
“You okay?” you ask.
There’s a pause.
He swallows.
You see it—how unfamiliar this is for him. Not the talking. Not the presence.
The being seen.
Because you don’t look at him like he’s a weapon. Or a problem. Or something to be managed.
You look at him like he’s—
A person.
It throws him off balance.
“I don’t…” he starts, then stops, jaw tightening slightly like he’s frustrated with himself. Like the words are there but he doesn’t know how to let them out without breaking something.
You don’t rush him.
You never do.
That’s another thing he doesn’t understand about you.
“I don’t get it,” he says finally, voice low, almost rough.
You tilt your head slightly. “Get what?”
“This,” he gestures vaguely between you, his hand hovering like he doesn’t quite know where to put it. “You.”
A small, soft smile tugs at your lips. “I’m not that complicated.”
His gaze sharpens, almost immediate. “You are.”
Not in a bad way.
In a way that sounds like he’s trying to solve you—and failing.
You take another step closer, slow enough that he can see it coming, so he knows you’re not trying to corner him, not trying to take anything he doesn’t want to give.
“I’m just… here,” you say quietly.
That shouldn’t mean anything.
But to him—
It does.
Because no one’s ever been just there for him.
There’s always been a reason. A transaction. A cost.
Even when it looked like care.
Especially then.
His hands flex at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and doesn’t understand why.
“You don’t want anything,” he says, more statement than question.
You shake your head, gentle. “I want you to be okay.”
That hits harder than anything else.
You see it in the way his shoulders tense, like he doesn’t know where to put that. Like it doesn’t fit into any pattern he’s ever learned.
“That’s not—” he cuts himself off, brow furrowing. “People don’t—”
“I do,” you interrupt softly.
And you hold his gaze when you say it.
No hesitation.
No hidden angle.
Just truth.
The silence that follows is thick.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… heavy with everything he doesn’t know how to say.
You take the final step, close enough now that you could touch him if you wanted to—but you don’t. Not yet.
You let him choose.
His breath is uneven.
His eyes flicker over your face, searching, searching, like he’s waiting for the moment the mask drops, the moment you show him what you really want.
It doesn’t come.
It never does with you.
And that’s what undoes him.
His hand lifts, slow, almost hesitant—like he’s approaching something fragile, something that might disappear if he moves too fast—and rests lightly against your arm.
You don’t flinch.
You don’t pull away.
You just stay.
And something in his chest cracks open, quiet and terrifying.
“Can I…” he starts, voice barely there.
He swallows, tries again.
“Can I keep you?”
It’s not possessive.
Not really.
It sounds like a question he doesn’t understand. Like he’s asking if something like you is allowed to stay. Like he’s waiting to be told this isn’t real, that it doesn’t work like that, that people like you don’t just… stay.
Your heart aches a little.
Because of course that’s what he asks.
Not will you stay with me.
Not do you want me.
Can I keep you?
Like he’s never had anything that didn’t leave.
You lift your hand slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants to.
He doesn’t.
Your fingers curl gently around his wrist, grounding, steady.
“I’m not something to keep,” you say softly.
You feel the way his expression shifts—just slightly, like he expected that.
Like he knew he asked the wrong thing.
But before he can pull back, before he can retreat into that familiar space where nothing good lasts—
You step closer.
Close enough that your forehead nearly brushes his.
“But,” you add, quieter now, “I can stay.”
That—
That stops him.
Completely.
His breath catches.
“You’d… stay?” he asks, like the word doesn’t quite make sense in his mouth.
You nod, gentle but certain. “Yeah.”
His hand tightens just slightly on your arm, like he needs to make sure you’re real.
“Why?”
There’s no suspicion in it.
Just confusion.
You offer him the simplest answer you have.
“Because you deserve someone who does.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then—slowly, carefully—he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours like he’s afraid anything more might break the moment.
His grip on you is still light.
Still careful.
But it’s there.
And for the first time—
It’s not about what he can give.
It’s about the quiet, fragile hope that maybe—
He doesn’t have to lose this.