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"You've caught me at a bad time," you say with a watery laugh. That's all it takes for Pope to take another step. His other foot passes the threshold. He approaches you like you're a wounded animal. Slowly, cautiously, and careful not to startle. The mattress dips as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed next to you.
He doesn't utter a word—doesn't ask if you're okay or what happened or any of the niceties people are supposed to say when they stumble upon someone crying. He relegates himself to a mere presence at your side. A warmth that permeates into the sliver of space between you. An absence of judgment. Somehow, he knows it's exactly what you need, or he's just wholly unequipped to handle his brother's crying wife. The latter, probably, but you appreciate it anyway.