blog of a lonely girl ᯓᡣ𐭩

Clark who insists everyday on walking you to your apartment after work. Clark and you walk as the scorching figure of the sun leaves, draining the last colour, the darkness engulfing the sky. Both of you marched in comforting silence, the only light source were the street lamps towering over you. Clark swore that he could’ve kissed you right then if he wasn’t such a coward.

Clark who lets you persuade him to go out with the others after a rough day at work. You all land in a bar tucked in next to The Daily Planet, because, unsurprisingly, all of you live in different areas in Metropolis. Even though it’s miniature and extremely pricey, you have a great time…except for  Clark who breaks the bottle of beer in his hand accidentally when he sees you dancing with Jimmy too hard. Lois raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment.

Clark who despite his refusal lets you drag him on the stage to sing. Your voices together were immiscible and it sounded extremely unpleasant to anyone with ears, despite that, both of you were laughing and having fun.

Clark who stands outside the ladies bathroom, because you said you felt dizzy and needed to throw up, so like any best friend he stands supportively behind the bathroom door with a, “you okay in there, sweetheart?” as he squirms under the judgy gaze of the woman who stands behind him wishing to use the bathroom. 

Clark who, when everyone decides to part ways, decides to carry you on his shoulders because you complained about how bad your feet hurt from wearing your heels for too long, despite the ache in his back from the last fight he had as Superman. He walks with you through the shadowy night, laughing and telling jokes.

Clark who helps you enter your flat and helps you gently sit on your bed. Slowly, he kneels on the wooden floor, his hands, malleable against your legs, help you remove your heels as he places them next to your bed. Giggling, you say, “like a knight in shining armour.” Under the soft dim light of the lamp, his face turns red, his curls falling on his forehead.

Clark who stands up and asks if you need anything before he goes. When he receives no reply, he takes it as a cue to leave, but before he turns, you suddenly stand up, gripping his white, crispy chemise like a lifeline with a murmur, “don’t go, Kent, not yet.”

Clark who quietly nods and tenderly looks into your eyes. His own hands moving on their own accords to rest on your waist. Clark’s breath hitches, his eyes dancing between you and your lips, hoping some kind of pressure would force your lips together.

Clark who swears he could feel fireworks exploding in his mind when you stood on your toes and pressed your lips sweetly to his like there was no tomorrow. His eyes shut close as you push him harshly towards the wall; your hands move to the buttons of his chemise, desperate for more. Parting slightly, both of you take a rapid breath before pressing your lips together once more. His hands move from your waist to your lower back, raising you so you could wrap your legs around his waist as your fingers tangle through his curls. 

Clark who sleeps in your bed the same night and when he awakes, he stares at you devotedly for a while before deciding to wake you up from sleep so both of you wouldn’t be late for work. While you dress, he rummages through your kitchen to make you breakfast. Unfortunately, things don’t go as planned. The smell of burning penetrates your nose and you find Clark smiling sheepishly in your kitchen asking, “breakfast on me?”

Beep beep beep be-

You shut the blaring noise of the alarm noise next to you. Note to self: throw it out and buy a new one. Groaning, you dug the palm of your hands into your eyes, trying to remove the sun forcefully shining through the window curtains from your eyes. Everyday is as useless as the other, nothing’s new.

Your routine is simple, take a quick shower, get dressed, and go down for breakfast where you ultimately meet your biggest doom: your sister. Her annoying, high-pitch voice bounces off your eardrum. Scratch that! It makes your eardrums explode.

“Good morning. How did you sleep?” She asks honestly, sitting at the kitchen table with a plate in front of her and a cup of orange juice.

Good morning? Did my own sister just tell me…good morning! Oh, she must be drunk or hungover.

Or worse…possessed.

“Stop whining. What’s got you all mushy in the morning?” You slip into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. You steal your sister’s sandwich, pushing it through into your mouth. To your surprise, she doesn’t fight you back for it. That’s weird. Something’s definitely going on. You’d feel worried if you didn’t care about her emotions. Maybe sometimes you do. You’re not that cold-blooded and in the end, she’s still your baby sister.

Raising your eyebrows, you stand up, hoping to find orange juice in the fridge. You don’t unfortunately. When you turn, you find your sister eerily standing behind you, you almost jump. This is getting extremely creepy.

“Here’s my orange juice cup, best sister in the world!” She exclaims with a toothy grin, her lipstick, that was probably yours, smudged at the corners of her mouth. You accept it with furrowed eyebrows. Did she just offer you her orange juice? Everyone in this family knew not to take her cup of juice due to…past experiences. Long story, you don’t want to hear it.

“Okay, spit it out. What do you want, but I’m not giving you the keys to the car though. That’s never happening again, okay?” You point at her accusingly, downing the orange juice in your throat. She follows you like a lost puppy to the door as you bend over to lace your shoes.

“I need a favour.” She blurts out, words spilling quickly from her mouth that she makes it almost inaudible. Your sister’s favours are not realistic and you know where this is going. “Steve Rogers asked me out, but there’s a problem…”

There’s always a problem in your sister’s life that isn’t even considered a problem.

“Dad won’t let me unless you start to date too! You just need to kiss any guy or something. I don’t know, just please help me out.” She mutters the last part under her breath.

“No.” You reply without missing a beat.

“No?” She repeats, flabbergasted with raised eyebrows.

“No, and don’t ask again.” You tell her, throwing the door open, but your sister follows you anyway, “why do you have to be such an asshole? Just take any guy!” You ignore her, unlocking your car and throwing your bag inside. You’re not having this conversation this early in the morning.

“Please! Please. I’ll do anything. This is a one in a million chance! I really like Steve.” She begs, placing herself between the door and you to prevent you from entering.

“Are you going to join me or would you like to walk? Because I know that shirt would look really disgusting covered in sweat.” You raise an eyebrow, your face is asking her to test you, because she knows you’re not bluffing.

With a loud groan that was just a coverup for the cursewords she was going to throw at you, she sits in the passenger seat with crossed arms.

But she’s got a plan. It’s not pretty, but it will work.

Before the classes started, your sister cornered one of the jocks, someone called Micheal, her pointless lab partner.. She couldn’t care less, but that jock had money to spend, and he always liked to spend it in useless ways, so what’s the harm in wasting some money that he's already going to waste.

She has her victim in mind: Bucky Barnes.

“Hey,” she says in the most flirty tone she could. She had the beauty to bring any man to his knees in a matter of seconds; everyone wanted to get her in pants, not because she was sharp or empathetic, but because they carry it like a trophy.

“Have you heard?” She asks, curling some of her hair around her finger, “Bucky has a stupid crush on my sister, and apparently she doesn’t like him back. I bet you twenty dollars he won’t get her to kiss him. Up for a game?”

Micheal raises his eyebrows, grinning, “you know, princess, that you’re going to lose.” 

Yuck. note to self: never let anyone call you princess.

Something about Micheal is that he never loses, meaning he’ll probably bribe Bucky into kissing you, no matter the cost. 

Later, Micheal pulled Bucky in a corner, offered him money and Bucky didn’t need to think twice. Easy money. Then Micheal’s friends bet too and so did your sister’s. It became the school’s biggest bet.

While he was walking, he was pulled into a corner again, what the hell was going on. Your sister was talking fastly, giving him band names, album names, what food you like, but the most important thing was to quit smoking. You hated smoking.

When you arrived early at school, your sister removed herself from your side almost immediately, like she didn’t want to be seen with you at school which was totally acceptable, not like you wanted to be seen with her too. At school, both of you acted like you didn’t know each other.

The hours passed on sluggishly and at midday you got detention which wasn’t surprising at all. This specific teacher had been throwing the word detention at you like he was gambling. So, here you are, sitting in detention while the teacher at the desk snores loudly. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to sleep on the job.

You weren’t alone in the room though. There was a jock, two girls, and Bucky Barnes. While you don’t personally know Bucky, you’ve heard the rumors about him. People say he does drugs; they also say he went to prison for dealing with drugs. You snort when you remember the rumors, returning you back to reality where you’re sitting bored in detention.

You know what? Screw it. The teacher is sleeping anyway.

Standing up, you pull the bag over your shoulder. Surprisingly, you hear the pad of footsteps behind you. You don’t hear the voice until you’re in the hallways that are covered with posters and don’t bully pictures.

“You know that’s not right, sweetheart.” You smell smoke before you hear him. Barnes. You don’t hate him. You barely know him, but anyone in this school gets on your nerves.

“What happened to you? You smell like a forest fire.” You comment, walking faster, hoping he’d get the memo and stop following you around. He, however, has the social intelligence of a goldfish.

“Pretty sure Mr Johnson would have a field trip when he knows what you just did.” He grins, but you roll your eyes in response.

“I got an idea, I'll take you out on a date. Me and you, yeah? And I won’t tell Mr Johnson what you just did.” He asks.

“Listen,” you stop in your tracks, “I don’t know if stupidity is something natural to you or if you’re doing it on purpose, but would you leave me alone? Unless you want to follow me to the bathroom and see the lingerie I wore just for you, oh, just for you, Mr. Barnes.” You reply with a sarcastic tone, flashing him a fake smile. That makes him stop and pause, but it doesn’t wipe the grin off his face. Oh, he’s going to have fun.

“So? How’d it go? She fall for you immediately.?” Steve asks hopefully during after school football. “She’s a mean feminist. Her sister says she hasn’t dated anyone since ninth…I wonder what happened.” He continues.

“No, but she will. I’m sure she will.” Is his reply, arrogance lacing his words. He’s never one to back down from a challenge.

“You need to take her out to and date her so I can date her sister…you understand buck-” Steve’s sweating like a pig. He likes your sister a lot, and it’d mean a lot if he got to take her to prom too.

“I know. Calm down. I’ve got a plan.”

The next time you meet Bucky is in your local bookstore that you visit frequently alone. His mouth explodes into a full-blown grin when he sees you browsing for books. “What a surprise! Didn’t think you were part of the literate community.” 

“Is that supposed to be your pick up line?” You turn your head to the side, smiling when his grin falters. You push past him, moving to other aisles, he doesn’t follow you and you mutter what a relief under your breath. 

When it’s your turn at the cashier, the clerk shakes his head and says, “the man outside already paid for your stuff, ma’am.” he nods towards Bucky who was leaning on your car. Bucky salutes you when you turn your head to look at him.

But you can’t help the small smile that grows.

Walking outside, you raise your eyebrows playfully, “that doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Doesn’t have to.”

At home, you try your best not to think about Bucky, but it gets harder. You spend the whole night staring at your bedroom ceilings. But you know not to read on that line. Not after what happened last time. He probably doesn’t like you. He just thinks you’d look good on his arm.

The third time you meet Bucky, he’s accidentally at the vinyl shop. It’s a lovely, miniature shop owned by two grandparents that own a cat. You’ve grown acquainted with the grandmother. She almost reminds you of yours, and you remind her of her dead daughter.

What’s wrong with Barnes? Can’t he take the hint?

“So I’m supposed to believe you’re just searching for vinyls? Do you even like music?” You accuse, walking to the other shelf, and unsurprisingly he follows you. “I bet you’re a poser.”

“A poser? Oh, sweetheart, you wound me! Oh, thee hath wounded me badlyth!” He places his hand on his heart, imitating someone who was shot by an arrow in his heart.

“You’re just making up words now, and horrible acting by the way.” You pick up one of the cranberries’ vinyl albums, looking it over to make up your mind on whether to buy it or not.

“Everbody else is doing it, so why can’t we.” He says confidently.

“What?” You acknowledge in confusion.  Does Barnes actually listen to the cranberries? (PLEASE don’t bully me. I know they’re not niche, this is just for the plot)

“You heard me.” He replies, “the cranberries. My sister, Rebecca, forces me to listen to it.”

“She has good taste then.” You smile softly. You’d like to bet money that none of what Barnes just said was true. You put the album in its place before holding another one to Barnes. He raises his eyebrows in response.

“What’s this one? If you guess right, I’ll…let you take me on a date.” You reply. You know he’s never going to get that one correct. All he probably listens to is his own voice-

“Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk.” he replies, surprising himself even. When he met with your sister, she told him a few things about you so he’d be able to charm you. One of the things about you is that you adore music. She mentioned some albums and artists he should know. Bucky said that out of pure luck.

“You like…Jeff Buckley?" You question,  eyes widened in shock as your lips part. “How’d you know that?” (I know jeff buckley is not niche, but BEAR with me pls. This is for the plot)

“I love that album.” Bucky lies through his teeth. He doesn’t lie often, but right now, it’s the only thing he can do.

You burst out laughing, cackling like an evil wizard, “that’s not even Jeff Buckley! Try harder next time, sweetheart!” you pat his shoulder while walking away. You still giggle as you walk to your car.

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

The fourth time, you find Bucky in detention. An idea pops in your mind, knocking on the door, you enter the room. Bucky’s head raises when he sees you. 

Walking to where the teacher is  leaning against the wooden desk filled with paper, you smile at the teacher. Mr Johnson's head tilts slightly when he sees you. 

“You don’t have detention today. Why are you here?” He asks accusingly, with a finger pointed at you. He must have some secret grudge against you, because why the hell are you the only being treated that way.

“Mr Johnson, may I speak to you about…something important please? It can’t wait at all. Because you know, good ideas evaporate or-” He cuts you off before you can continue, “spit it out.”

Glancing at Bucky for a second, you nod nonchalantly at the window, hand moving to scratch your neck awkwardly to play it cool. It takes a few seconds for him to understand, but he clutches his bag immediately when he does.

“So you know the posters on the wall…I was thinking we could…” Your words fade into the background as Bucky stealthily moves behind the teacher’s back, trying to make it to the window before retreating behind a large foam figure that was positioned near the window.

You grab Mr Johnson’s arms, forcing him to look at you, but he keeps looking back like he knew something was wrong, like he had eyes in the back of his head.

“How would we do that?” He raises his thick, black eyebrows.

Mr Johnson’s head slightly turns to look at the window, but you place your hands roughly on his cheeks, forcing him to look at you.

“Like this!” You exclaim, pulling your shirt over your head for a few seconds, making sure Bucky jumps out of the window to escape before escaping the room yourself, letting the hooting and hollering fade in the background as you giggle.

When you find Bucky, you grab his hand and he lets you, without asking, drag him to a nearby park where you love to visit. Fetching a five dollar from the pocket of your pants, you hand it to the guy who sells pigeon food.

“We’re going to feed the pigeons. Here.” Placing seeds in his hand, you start to throw the pigeon's food. They quickly start to appear in front of you, hungry and picking the seeds into their mouth. While you’re busy, Bucky stares at you, smiling with just one thought in his mind: what a girl.

“So you’re in a band?” You question as one of the birds fly onto your hand, feeding directly from it.

“Kind of. It’s not a band.” He replies, watching the birds.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s more a group of people who come together every weekend to do covers of songs. It’s not original.” He shrugs.

“I’d love to be in a band. My grandmother used to play the piano, so my mother made me play the piano when I was six. I took private lessons. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was fun while it lasted. I quit three summers ago.” You say, sitting down on the green bench that was offered shade from the towering tree above it.

“I play the guitar. We usually go to Tony’s house to play there.”

Both of you sit in silence, the birds’ chirping above is the only sound. It’s not awkward silence, more like comforting silence. This was just the beginning of something new.

Reading peacefully your favourite book on your bed, the door suddenly opens and hits the wall with a loud slam. In a span of a second, a body falls on top of yours. You let out a oof as your sister moves her body off of yours.

“Go to the party with me, please…” She whines, already pulling out her best puppy eyes to make you agree. Your sister had a knack of pulling puppy eyes at your parents whenever she needed anything, but it never worked on you.

“Don’t whine. I’m going.” You roll your eyes  at her, standing up and beckoning for her to follow you to your closet, “and you’re gonna help me pick out a dress.” She looks at you like you just offered her heaven, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Your sister squeals and hugs you, “thank you! Thank you! Best sister ever!”

The next hour, you try on multiple dresses. Feeling generous, you let your sister borrow a dress, “but don’t expect it from me everytime.” She nods eagerly before running off to her own room.

When both of you are ready, the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it!” You yell to your father that was sitting in the living room. Standing in front of you was Bucky, you sigh and roll your eyes, slamming the door in his face. However, you hear knocking on the door again. It’s persistent and doesn’t stop until you open it again.

“What?” You tilt your head to the side, motioning at Bucky to talk.

“One chance, sweetheart, come on. Let me take you to the party. Doesn’t have to mean anything, okay?” He says in an earnest way that makes you believe him for a second, but you furrow your eyebrows in response.

“What’s in it for you?”

“Being graced by your presence. Come on, sweetheart, don’t make me leave empty-handed.” You sigh and pinch your nose.

“Fine, Barnes.”

He grins, showing his white teeth. Both of you moved towards a motorcycle that was parked in front of your lawn that was full of wildflowers. Your eyes widened when you spotted the motorcycle.

“No way I’m getting on that.” You shake your head stubbornly, walking away from him, but he tugs on your arm, pulling you back. The space between you was non-exsistent; you could feel the heat radiating from him.

“Why, scared?” He challenges, raising his eyebrows, his eyes glinting with mischief.  This wasn’t going to end well. There’s no way you were going to ride that, yet you can’t admit to Bucky that you’re scared of it. You would never live it down.

“Give me the helmet.” You put your hand out stubbornly. Beaming, he hands you the helmet. Trying, but failing, you put the helmet on your head but unable to fasten the straps. Chuckling, his smooth hands fasten the buckle, his touch tender against your chin. You shut your eyes for half a second. Damn Bucky and his smooth hands. 

For the whole ride, you have your eyes closed, your shaking hands wrapped around his waist as your head lays on his back.

“Didn’t know the princess was afraid of riding motorcycles.” He teases, stopping at a red light and looking back at you.

“I’m not scared and don’t ever call me that.”

You hear the party before you can even see the house. The lights are glistening through the windows, and you wonder how the neighbours aren’t protesting by now.

At the party, you start to regret your decision. Sneering, you look at the sweaty teenagers covered in beer. The air in the house smelled disgusting and you were extremely close to throwing up, but you already came, so what’s the harm in having a little fun?

You pull one of the cans from the stack, bucky following your motions. Taking a large sip, someone bumps into you which makes you spill some of the drink all over your shirt. That was a brand new shirt! “What the hell?” You yell at her, she just turns her head and shrugs. 

After an hour, you and Bucky separate. Not that you wanted, but you couldn’t find him in any of the rooms. Drunk as hell, you find yourself in a crowded room. You need fresh air, everything’s dizzy and you can’t see properly. The music is blaring in your ears to the point where  you can’t even hear your own thoughts. 

Trying to squeeze yourself between the people dancing, one of the guys grabs you forcefully and pushes your lips into his, your voice is muffled; you try to push him off you. No one notices anything. They think both of you are just making out.

His lips push deeper, his tongue circling around yours. You try to weakly push him off again, but it’s no use.

Suddenly, you gasp, able to take your breath. When you look down, you find the same guy who was kissing you on the floor, holding his bleeding nose. Everyone’s stopped moving. They stopped dancing and finally looked at you. Turning your head, you find Bucky next to you, breathing harshly as his eyes narrowed at the guy. His fists were clenched at his side.

Before he could register someone moving at him, someone punches him; he lets out a groan in agony. The rage inside of him bubbles, and the fight has started.

Hyperventilating, you watch as the people around you start kicking and punching each other. You can definitely hear bones being crushed. Tugging him out of the fight, you pull Bucky out of the center of the fight with all the strength you have left. He lets you pull him to the bathroom upstairs.

That's how you find yourself for the first time in your life cleaning a guy’s bruised face in a bathroom while he sits on the counter.

“Thanks…” You mutter under your breath, putting cold water over the tissues you found, dabbing it at his face. He curses under breath. “You didn’t have to do that.” You complete, throwing away the tissues in the trash.

“And miss out on having you clean me up? Never. I would do it over and over again.” He smiles, a hand slowly moving to cup your jaw.

“Cheesy, but wouldn’t work on me.” You reply, not breaking eye contact with him.

“Then what would?” He asks.

“You figure it out, genius.” Your breath hitches when his eyes flicker to your lips.

“Would this?” He says before smashing his lips onto yours. It’s messy and romantic, but it makes you feel nervous, butterflies in your stomach as both of his hands cup his jaw. You're squashed between his thighs, making you feel hot and sweaty. Your eyes shut softly, his lips gentle against your chapped ones. His hands start to roam your body, and your own moves to his thighs before running to wrap around his neck.

Both of you pull away, taking a deep breath before your lips touch once more like miners who have just struck gold. You swear, in that moment, you felt infinite and alive, adrenaline pumping through your veins. While his hands rest on your waist, yours cup his cheeks.

Bucky pulls away, “did that work?”

“Maybe.” You shrug casually, but the smile you wear on your face begs to differ.

The next few days, Bucky and you meet in dark, unlit janitor rooms in school, or skip useless classes together with your hands metaphorically glued together. Both of you visit parks to feed the pigeons, something that has become Bucky’s favourite thing in the world to do. He swears, if someone would’ve asked him, that he’d do this over and over again even without the bet. You’ve become the best thing that has happened to him.

Pride blooms in chest when he sees Steve and your sister holding hands and sitting besides each other on the bleachers in front of the football court. He watches as Steve looks like a nervous wreck beside her.

For prom, Bucky asks you out, not in a grand way, but with a cheesy pick up line and a quote from your favourite book. Giggling, you nod your head, and he wraps his arms around you, lifting you and spinning you right in front of your lawn as your sister watches in content from her bedroom window.

Your sister walks into your bedroom later that day with a knowing smile. Rolling your eyes, you ask, “what?”

“Please, please, please, can you do my hair for prom. Pretty please?” When you say yes, she wraps her arms around you and says, “best sister ever.” In response, you pat her back softly.

You spend the rest of the time arguing, getting ready, and arguing again to the point your mother had to yell at you both to stop, so you spent the next fifteen minutes not talking to each other only to talk again to each other.

Downstairs, the bell rang twice, before it could be rang thrice, you opened the door only to find Steve Rogers in a suit in front of you. He clears his throat and begins talking like he had it memorized from a script.

“Hi, ma’am, I’m here to take-”

You raise your hand, “stop talking. She’ll be down in a minute. Save your breath, dude.” You joke, patting his shoulder, “and get going before you get the talk from dad.”

When your sister appears in front of him, his breath hitches, “you look beautiful.” 

The tip of her ears go hot, “you too.” 

He asks for her hand with a quick motion, taking it in his hand before walking her to his car where in front of it was Bucky’s motorcycle who was beaming at the sight of you.

At the party, you and Bucky share multiple dances, but he excuses himself to go talk with Steve for a few minutes. You dance so hard your knees wobble when you try to walk in a straight line towards the small bar in the ballroom. It’s a magnificent sight, mirrorballs hanging alone with glitter thrown on the walls. Balloons laid in the corners quietly.

Sighing, you wedge yourself between the people dancing, trying to get to the bar. You were extremely thirsty.

You always had sensitive ears, thanks to the years of playing the piano, so you can’t help but eavesdrop on the nearby conversations. Without noticing, you hear Steve’s voice mixed in the loud noises.

“I don’t know how to thank you, pal, for having to date Name just so I could date her sister. This bet was the biggest one yet at school. Can’t believe how you put up with her. She seems so mean.” He whispers.

Bucky shrugs, fucking shrugs, and has the audacity to say, “she’s not that mean.”

What the hell? A bet.

No wonder. 

This was your fault for being so trusting and feeling that someone could love you with anything in return.

You stomp your heels towards him, glaring daggers at his face, “a bet, huh? How much did you get? A hundred? Two hundred? Should’ve known you were an asshole. My bad.” You turn around sharply, walking away from him.

Bucky’s eyes widen, and so do Steve’s. They both panic. 

Bucky follows you, pushing people harshly to catch up with you. Even when you push the doors open and step outside, he’s still following after you, adamant and stubborn as ever.

“Wait, please, sweetheart!” He grabs your wrist, his slender fingers wrapping around it gently to not hurt you. “Please, hear me out.”

“Hear you out? I thought you were different, Bucky. Do you even understand what you did? You broke my trust, even when you knew you were one of the few people I trust. Did you even like me, Barnes?” You furrow your brows, hurt spilling from your eyes instead of tears. No way in hell were you going to cry in front of him.

“The bet didn’t matter to me, I swear.” He pleads, looking in your eyes, trying to search for any leftover trust, but he finds none.

You scoff, “Oh save me the explanation. I was clearly a fool.” You break the grip he had on your wrist.

“I promise, baby, that even when I was quiet, I loved you. Ever since I kissed you in that bathroom.” He says sincerely which makes you doubt yourself for a second. The fire in your eyes calms down, your eyes widening a fraction. But you can’t trust him, not after what he just did, so the only reasonable thing you can do is turn around and walk away.

This time, he doesn’t follow.

Grief has hollowed you, carved your heart out and took place inside instead of the vital organ. You barely eat or drink; nothing makes you move out of bed anymore. The worst part is the fact that you don’t cry, scream or demand why she left. Everything feels numb, like you knew this was bound to happen. You can still hear their condolences in your ears. 

We’re so sorry, but she didn’t make it. 

How? She was fine a moment ago, talking to you on the phone about your nephew’s, Jason, football match. She was laughing and so were you. Maybe this is all your fault; if you hadn’t let her hang up on you, maybe she would’ve been alive. Maybe, maybe, maybe. How many times have you said this word over and over in your head? Are you losing your mind already?

 Maybe she would’ve been alive, not laying on the ground with two bullets inside her. The worst part is the fact that she didn’t die slowly. No, he wasn’t that kind. The bullet to the thigh made her scream. The pain was so intense she couldn’t stop yelling and screaming, until her vocal cords ripped. That shut her up. He waited for her to stop screaming so he could put the other bullet to her head, killing her almost immediately. That’s what the forensic analysis said.

What they said is that she was running after a suspect, who, unknown to her, was carrying a gun. She underestimated him, tried to approach without reaching for her gun. And he, without guilt or shame, shot her twice. 

Bang!

You wake up, sweat glistening on your forehead, pupil dilating in your widened eyes. You wish this nightmare could go away. She’s dead, why do I still dream of her?

It’s not like I don’t want to dream of her, but I can’t keep seeing her dead, vacant eyes in my memory. 

All of the team noticed your new behaviour courtesy of all of them being profilers, yet they didn’t comment about anything. They noticed how instead of bringing croissants and donuts in the morning for a case or even just the extremely sweet coffee, you brought a black coffee for yourself only. How you seem on edge lately. Prentiss raised her eyebrows when you snapped at Reid for talking too much, and when she passed you later in the hallways, she shaked her head. 

Then came a case in Georgia. There was havoc on the streets; people hesitated to go to work every morning in fear the streets were full of people attacking normal citizens. The streets weren’t safe even when there were crowds of people. These unsubs were extremely intelligent and you had to catch them as soon as possible.

A group of three individuals, the team deduced, were using .22 caliber pistols, as Reid explained, to shoot people in broad daylight. The use of this type of pistol allowed the unsubs to shoot the people, because of the low sound it emitted. They were smart and planned each one of their shootings, knowing their exits.

You thought it’d be simple, something that would end in three days maximum, something that you wouldn’t even remember in the future.

Boy, were you wrong. 

You were all surrounded around the round table, talking about the possibilities where the unsubs would strike. You argued that you should put teams on 14th, 42nd, and 59th street, because they are near subway express stops, which helps the unsubs blend in after killing the victim.

However, the Chief of Department denied your argument and sent reinforcements on 34th, 6th, and 43rd street.

He’s been acting weirdly towards you, like he can’t stand to look at your face. You can smell a misogynist from a mile away; he definitely can’t handle a woman being smarter than him.

Much to your dismay, you found yourself on 43rd street with a cop that leaks arrogance from his nose. You didn’t like him, but there was nothing you could say, so while he talked, you didn’t reply to him, not even nodding.

The cop, Noah, kept talking about his achievements in his rookie days and how the FBI was ‘dying to take him’ when he was younger. He talked about how he saved a family of five from a fire, and how it was in the news for days. 

Sighing, you walk around with the non-stop buzz of chatting in your ears. You just wish this day would end already; you just want to go visit Jason and play baseball with him.

Suddenly, Garcia’s urgent voice fills your ears telling you that the unsubs struck exactly in the places you told the officer he would strike. Her voice is filled with fear and she’s trying hard not to break down as she watches one of the unsubs shoot someone.

Stupid officer. That’s what I said!

You and Noah run to the 42nd because it was the street nearest to you. The pursuit is hard, the man you were running after was extremely rapid, knocking the air out of your lungs easily, but both of you didn’t stop. You can’t stop. He’s right in front of you, but many people are unaware. The people around you walk slowly, only gasping when you push them harshly to try not to lose sight of the Unsub.

Noah managed to surpass you, which wasn’t surprising. He took a rough turn,almost tripping. He was only a metre behind the Unsub. Before he could grab his loaded gun, the man shoots him and you only arrive when you hear the crowd screaming. A woman next to you cries loudly.

There in the alleyway lay two men, the unsub, who was dead, and Noah who was on the line between life and death.

With widened eyes, you kneel next to Noah, frantically checking for a pulse while trying to stop the bleeding. You tear off your jacket, placing it on the bleeding wound of his. 

“Don’t move. Just keep your eyes open! Garcia, I need the medics now!” You yell into your comms. Garcia responds, “Coming right now!”

Blood is everywhere, on your shirt, on yours and gushing all over the ground under you. 

Is this how your sister died too?

You’re so close to throwing up, even though you didn’t eat this morning. 

“Tell my family…that I-I love them.” He mutters his final wish under his breath.

Did your sister say that too?

Noah, unfortunately, stops breathing right after those words.

Your heart falls into your stomach. With a sudden rush of panic that runs throughout your whole body, you realise there’s nothing for you to do. He’s dead. Hands trembling, you hear a roaring ringing in your ears. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, she stopped breathing before the medics could even reach her.”

The wind twirls around you as you lie next to her headstone, Jason, her son, in your lap. He’s too young to understand. A boy with a crooked smile and a heart too big. Both of you sit on the grass as he asks, “are you going to stay over, auntie?”

You don’t want to break his heart by telling him no, so you keep it as vague as possible, “you can always visit, J.”

You could probably bet that you look almost crazycrazy right now with blood all over your shirt and arms while hyperventiliating at the same time. You feel arms around you, pulling you away and on your feet as someone pushes you towards an ambulance. The shaking doesn’t stop though. 

While the medic checks up on you, Hotch’s figure appears in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks and you just nod. You fear that if you were to open your mouth you’d throw up.

When the medic finishes checking up on you, you push past him and Hotch. Hotch’s eyebrow furrowes, but he stops himself from reacting further.

Stomping towards the Chief of Department, you point your finger at him accusingly, “if you had listened to me, this officer wouldn’t have died!”

He scoffs, “we did what we could.”

“A man, a father, died today because you can’t handle a woman giving you orders!”

“Hey, hey, calm down.” Derek plants himself between you, pushing you softly away from the man. He gives you a knowing look, but you ignore him. Your colleagues and other offices gather around you. 

What has happened to you?

At the police station, you rush to the bathroom. In the mirror, you look unrecognizable. Blood scattered all over your body with hair in every direction. There peeks a golden glint of a necklace, reminding that your sister will always be everywhere, no matter where you are.

Is that a good thing or bad thing? You can’t tell.

On the flight back home, you decided to sit in the back of the plane, avoiding everyone with a blanket thrown around you. Your face screams do not approach, but Hotch places a cup of tea in front of you silently, before retreating to his own seat. You swallow the lump in your throat, looking out the window, hoping no one else would come up to you.

Hotch stares at you from the other side of the plane. No matter how much he wants to deny it, he likes you. Not as friends, but as something more. He can’t watch you be like this, but he doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries.

And after the Georgia incident where you yelled at the cop, he walked up to you where you were sitting on your desk, finishing the mountains of files piled up next to the miniature lamp as Derek and Reid talked about the geographical profile of one of the victims in a new case. God, is your sister going to be like one of the victims you see everyday? 

“I would like to see you in my office, agent.” He ordered which was obvious from the stoic tone of his voice, not accepting any arguments or bargaining. Reid and Morgan went quiet, trying to not stare between you and Hotch, but it was getting hard not to by the way you were avoiding looking at him.

“I’ll finish this quickly and come as soon as I can, sir.” Your reply is as smooth as ever, just like you revised in your bathroom mirror where shards of glass lay in the corner from punching it out of sheer rage; you had it replaced in two days, not able to look yourself in the mirror, partly because you feel guilty for your sister’s death.

People dressed in black passed by you. Did it matter what colour they wore? Black didn’t mean respect, as well as wearing any other colour didn’t mean disrespect. Did it? The lines start to blur when your mind is stuck in a haze. They murmured apologies like that could fix everything. Could it fix the child that will grow without his mother? 

“I said now, agent.” Hotch repeated, his eyes only looking at you, ignoring the looks from Reid and Morgan. He knew something was up, call it a mother’s intuition.

“Fine.” You answer following him into his office, trying, but unsurprisingly failing, to not look like a nervous wreck. The arguments already start to form in your head. You could say: tired, not enough sleep, got a dog, job is draining the life out of me, but Hotch is one hell of a profiler. He probably could smell your lies before you utter anything, speaking of which, he creeps you out sometimes with the fact that you’ve stared at him a couple of times and found him not blinking. Is that something that comes with a job, or?

“Is something wrong?” You blink, opting to not look at him, instead you look at the photo of his son propped on his desk. Hotch notices, courtesy of him being an excellent profiler. He notices your quiet fidgeting. It’s not noticeable, but Hotch has been on this job for years. He can tell when someone’s hiding something.

“I hope you don’t interrupt me, agent, but your behaviour is unacceptable. You will have to figure it out.” He asserts. If you didn’t know Hotch, you’d think his voice was detached, but you’ve been with this team for years, you know it’s just worry laced under. You hope it is worry under, unless you’re actually pissing Hotch off.

Your hands start to shake, sweat starts to form on your forehead, your eyes widen. The worst happens. The worst keeps happening.

“Is mom going to visit soon?” Jason asks innocently in the morning while you’re cleaning some dishes.

“Soon, baby.” Is your reply, because how are you going to tell this angel that his mom will never come back?

Breathe.

“Yes, sir, it’s just-” Before you can continue or even make up any excuses, he raises his hand, cutting you off. 

“I don’t need an excuse. You’ll take a week off to figure it out. This cannot affect our current cases.” Hotch orders, sitting down at his wooden desk, not bothering to look at you.

“Please, don’t do that. Hotch, please, I need this. It’s nothing. I just need a good coffee. That’s all. I promise. Please.” You beg, eyes glinting with plead under the harsh light of the soaring lamp above you. 

“Are you suspending me?” You repeat, anger mixing in your tone. 

“Gun and badge, agent.”

“You can’t do this, Hotch. Please. You don’t know what’s going on.”

“Exactly and until you find a solution to whatever problem is bothering you, you’re suspended for a week. You’ve been a liability on and off the field. Gun and badge. Don’t make me repeat it.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.” You snap, eyes locking on his. 

He closes the distance between you, the space almost non-existent, “Gun and badge, agent.”

“Stop calling me agent, dammnit! You know it’s not right, Hotch.” Your voice is loud, too loud as Hotch clenches his jaw.

“Do not tell me what’s right or wrong, what’s white or black, when your mind is clearly not in the right place. Do not make me repeat myself or I will be extending your suspension.”

Slam!

Your gun and badge land on Hotch’s desk. You stare at him for a moment, like you hope he’d take back what he said, but he doesn’t. He stands his ground. The tears start to form in your eyes, but you move out of his before he’d catch them. 

He still noticed though.

Unbeknown to both of you, the rest of the team was gathered in the Bullpen trying to figure out what was going on in the office.

“Come on, Reid, give us something. What's she saying?” Derek asks, standing beside Reid as he tries to read your lips.

“I can’t tell due to the fact her face isn’t properly facing me, but given the look of her face with the way she’s standing, it almost looks like she’s begging Hotch. There’s a small possibility that he could be…suspending her.” Reid concludes, failing to hide the shock on his face. 

“Suspending her? I mean she’s been off for a while, but is he really going to do that?” Emily, who was sitting on Reid’s messy desk, asks in worry. She knows something’s been off, she just couldn’t put her finger on it. Suddenly, JJ grabs Emily by her while Morgan and Reid are distracted and pulls her into the small kitchenette of the Bullpen.

“Do you think she’s pregnant?” JJ questions, concern in her voice, “do you think she’s pregnant, but scared to tell us? Because I’ve known her for a long time. She’s the sweetest girl ever, don’t you think something big, life-changing, has to happen for someone to switch up on their personality like that?”

“You’re right, but pregnancy is a big stretch. Maybe it’s grief? I don’t think it’s fear. Fear would cause her to be nervous, always moving, but this? This is most definitely grief. Her movements are sluggish and tired.” Emily replies with a distressed look on her face.

Before JJ could give her opinion, the door to Hotch’s office slammed shut with a loud, echoing slam, startling all of the agents in the Bullpen. You walk down the hall with clenched fists, a quivering lip and a line of tears glistening. You walk with no direction, just wanting, and hoping, to get out of this place. You hope that you can get out of this place before anyone catches the tears that were going to start gushing out of your eyes.

You make it to your car, but unfortunately for you, the universe is never in favor of you. The tears start flowing before you even open the door to your car. Sitting down in your car, you place your forehead on your steering wheel, you sob loudly, not even caring to hide it anymore.

You can’t carry the world on your shoulders.

“Hey, name?” Your sister calls out for you while both of you unpack her things. She and her husband recently moved to a new house. Everything was in its right place, all that was left were a few paintings and some decor that was to be hung around the house.

“Yeah?” You reply, hammering one of the paintings on the wall. This one was ‘too modern’ you once commented. It was just a splash of some colours, too bland for a house this colourful, but your sister denied, said you’d only get it if you truly understand. You brushed her off as crazy.

“You’ll take care of Jason if something happens right? He loves you damn much and so do I.” She comments, eyes deeply looking into yours.

“No, because you’ll be here to take care of both of us. Can’t be painting my walls without your ugly taste in decor.” You reply without missing a beat.

Did she foresee her fate?

You’re tired, tired of this god damn job with this god damn grief that clings to your clothes. You hate that you let her death affect you this much. It should, but you shouldn’t be standing in front of your boss  begging him not to give you a week off. He doesn’t know that you can’t look at yourself in the mirror. He doesn’t know that if you spend another day, scratch that, another hour with your thoughts, you may never make it out.

Inside his office, Hotch sighs, hands rubbing his forehead as he tries to focus on the file in front of you. What the hell was wrong with you? He knew something was up, but you were never one who made scenes in public. Something must be deeply affecting you. Why the hell were you not talking about it? He was sure as hell this team was extremely close like a family, so why weren’t you opening your god damn mouth?

He made a mental note to check up on you after work, if he gets these files done.

It takes a while for you to calm down. Your heart breathing returns to what is almost considered normal, and you start to take the familiar route you’ve taken for years now to your house. It’s a miniature house located near the FBI campus by approximately 15 minutes. It’s an advantage, because you don’t have to wake up early, and the roads are always full of light traffic.

You’ve never been more content to reach your house, opting to drown in your bed and sulk all day. If someone were to call you, like Prentiss or JJ, you’d ignore it, and probably respond the day after, because you know what? You’re not in shape to talk. Maybe Hotch had a point. They’re better off with you, aren’t they? Maybe all you’re doing is getting in their line of work. Not like you help at all.

With a sorrowful sigh, you park your car in your driveway and cut the ignition. The neighbourhood is extremely amiable and homely. Children are always playing in the front yards, yelling and screaming as they run after the ball. Parents always host parties, and you…are just there.

Pain floods through your side as you feel the kick of a ball. Just what you needed! You were about to turn to curse at the children on the other side of the road, but one of them moves towards you to take the ball back, already starting to yell apologies. 

Your heart falls to the pit of your stomach as you hear the horn of a car beeping. The child, unaware and carefree, ignores the sound. The child’s mom lets out a shrill scream of terror. You swear that scream will be planted in your ears forever. 

Dropping your bag, you run towards the child, pushing him away.

Then, the world stops.

You don’t really notice what’s going on. People swarm around you. You hear yelling and someone ordering you not to move. Can you even feel your legs? Someone cries. The only thing you can really notice is the taste of metal on your lips. It’s almost funny how confused you look. God, I just want to sleep! Does the universe hate me taking naps or something?

The child…the child!

You try to sit up because laying on the concrete road is extremely uncomfortable and you need to see if the child is okay, but someone forces you to lay straight again. Trying to argue, it comes out as a shaky breath. Something touches your wrist, then multiple hands on your back pushing you on something solid. You’re moving?

Yeah, and the universe said enough of your shit, and the pain just started to kick in. The paramedic around you shines something in your eye; you let out a loud whimper, moving around in pain. Everywhere hurts.

Could this day get worse?

Thoughts conquer your mind, wondering what happened or what will happen, but underneath all these thoughts is a thought you wish to deny.

You’re going to be joining your sister.

Hotch doesn’t really do relationships. After the whole Haley incident and almost losing his son, he just doesn’t do that kind of thing. Can you blame the guy? However, he can’t deny that sense of protectiveness when it comes to you. He doesn’t like you though. It’s just a sense of admiration towards your personality.

Oh, who is he fooling! It’s definitely a crush. A crush? It seems so childish to admit it. Hotch denies it every time that thought pops in his mind. But he just can’t do it. Him, your boss, and his subordinate? Strauss is going to fire both of you! Maybe he was too harsh on you.

Yeah, no matter how many files he has, he’s going to check up on you later. The silence in the room gets interrupted with a roaring ringtone coming from the phone next to him. He picks it up, his voice calm and collected, “Hotchner.”

The voice that talks on the other side of the phone is unfamiliar, his voice talking with urgency. The words that come out next are worse. 

“You are Agent Name’s emergency contact. Unfortunately, sir, she was injured in a car accident. She’s currently at St. David’s hospital.” Hotch’s heart falls to his stomach before be replies, “I’ll be right there.” How could this happen? You were fine, you were just angrily yelling at him a few hours ago.

Strauss was the one who recommened to have Hotch as your emergency contact, since you didn’t have anyone to put as your contact. Yes, you could’ve put your sister, but you didn’t want to bother her. You land in the hospital quite frequently. Hotch didn’t mind, even though you refused multiple times, not wanting to disturb him, especially that he had a son. He was already busy, but Hotch still wrote his number down stubbornly.

When he walks out of his office, JJ stops in front of him, “we have a case right now, do I call name or is she…” she asks, hoping JJ isn’t right and you’re not actually suspended.

“Start the briefing. I’ll be briefed on the plane..” JJ nods to his response, files in hand and walking to the center of the Bullpen to gather the rest of the team.

What he opts to do is send an agent to stay with you until this case ends. With an order, he sends the young agent, the one freshly new to the BAU.

Hotch thinks that maybe suspending you was a mistake. If he hadn’t made that mistake, he wouldn’t have to get that call, but he needs to focus right now.

As everyone gets on the plane, Derek places his hand on Hotch’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks, “i hope you know what you’re doing.” He says.

And Hotch for once doesn’t know if he’s made the right decision or not.

On the plane, the team shares their theories due to the fact that he wasn’t present during the briefing. 

“Millie Barnes was abducted last night in San Francisco, California. She was inside her house while the parents were on a date. The parents came home to find blood on her doorway.”

“Blood?” Rossi questions with a confused look, “is it hers?”

“Yes, Forensic Analysis confirmed that it was Millie's blood.” JJ confirms.

“That means she fought back.” Hotch theorizes and Derek nods, agreeing.

“They have a dog, right? How come the neighbours didn’t hear?” Emily asks, looking over the files as Millie’s photos scatter on the table.

“That means the unsub is familiar to Millie. Actually 75% to 90% of abduction cases globally are done by a relative or even a friend. It helps make the kidnapping easier and smoother.”

When everyone returns to silence, Prentiss clears her throat, “ Is name going to be joining us?” 

Hotch clenches his jaw, “no, unfortunately, agent name was hit by a speeding car while driving back home.”

“And you didn’t even care to tell us?” Derek’s voice raises. Everyone’s eyebrows raise. How could Hotch hide something like that? This is serious. One of their close friends was injured, possibly in critical condition, and Hotch just decides not to tell them?

“We need to focus on the case.” Hotch argues.

“What we need to focus on is her. Right now, she’s at the hospital, most probably needing us, while you say a case is more important than her. You can’t do stuff like that!” Derek’s eyes snap to Hotch’s angrily. You and Derek are close, and him not being there for you is breaking him and everyone can see that.

Rossi cuts in, “Hotch is right. We need to focus. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get to her.” Rossi knows that Hotch is wrong. That he should’ve stopped the team. That they should be there next to you, but they’re already halfway there. He knows you’re going to be fine, he hopes.

In the corner, JJ and Prentiss share a look.

When you awake, the tip of your ears and nose are ice cold. You swear you almost feel them freezing. Your eyes don’t open until a few seconds later. Bright light shines into your eyes, blinding you for a good moment before you partially register. It feels like you were strapped down in a mental asylum.

White, white, white. That’s all you see around you. A soft, but frustrating, buzz sound fills your ears. Trying to sit up, pain fills your side. Looking down, you find bandages almost everywhere on your body.

Trying to move your knuckles, the agent spots your movement.

“Agent L/N, you’re awake! My name is  Agent Jeremy. Agent Hotchner appointed me to look after you while they’re on a case in california.” Jeremy exclaims. You can’t fully register his face. It looks more like a floating blob than a real, human face.

You don’t respond, your throat feeling too dry to try to talk. 

The next few days, the nurses don’t let you out of their sight, tendering to you like a mother caring for a sick child.

One morning after a sleepless night due to the pain, colors blur in your eyes. Yeah, you know that person. “Oh my God, sugar!” Garcia cries as she sits down besides you on the chair. “I was so worried, name. I thought you- i thought you…” she sobs, not even trying to stop her tears anymore.

“I’m okay, Garcia. I was just hit by a car. It’s fine.” You sit up despite the pain and she wraps her arms around you. “Ow, the wounds are still fresh, P.” You wince, but she still has her arms around you.

Penelope is a lovely girl. She’s sunshine and colours and her outfits always amaze you. She’s sweet like sugar, and extremely smart, despite that you know she’s a tad bit innocent for her kind, almost getting killed once by a guy who claimed to have computer problems.

You’re just glad to see anyone except for Jeremy. You like him, but he talks a lot. You like to chat, but not when you’re barely alive.

When you awake again, the whimsy atmosphere leaves the room, leaving you to stare at the bland, white walls of the hospital room. Sighing, your eyes land on someone in the chair. It’s not Penelope, but a man in a crisp, white chemise, and jacket draped over his lap.

Hotch.

You feel something on your hand. Looking down, you find his hand tenderly wrapped around yours. You pull your hand from his.

You avoid looking at him, moving your head to the side, partly because you feel embarrassed of your little outburst, but you’re sure he understands.

He understands what it’s like to lose someone.

You’ve known Hotch for long, tiresome years. He’s always been there for you and vice versa. He’s not just your boss. He’s also the man that cares for you deeply, but you’re sure he’s like that towards anyone else.

Disclaimer: he’s not.

Hotch is fearless as well as extremely courageful; that’s what makes him an exceptional boss. Hotch isn’t just a boss though. He’s the man that watched you break down in tears after a tough case one day. He’s the man that brings your sweet coffee when he finds you staring at a wall too hard with furrowed eyebrows. He’s the man that brings you blueberry muffins when you’re working cases on the weekends, even though he says he brings it for the whole team no one likes blueberry muffins on the team except for you. He’s the one who bailed you out when a police officer arrested you for punching a man during an outing with JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia. You gave him a look with an excuse, “he wouldn’t stop bothering Penelope. Someone had to teach him a lesson.”

Despite the situation, you know for sure that Hotch still cares.

You hope so. You don’t know what you’d do if he was mad at you, call it perhaps daddy issues?

Clearing his throat, Hotch opens his mouth to speak but shuts it almost immediately.  

“Listen, name…” he utters your name, not ‘agent’, but your actual name. You swear it could make a woman melt on the floor. 

“I overreacted. I know.” You cut him off, eyes firm. He looks at you, really looks at you.

“No, you didn’t. I let my feelings get in the way of the job.” He shakes his head.

What the hell does he mean? Feelings?

“Name. You are an extraordinary agent, a gift. I’ve known that since I accepted your transfer from Counter Terrorism. I tried not to let…my feelings for you change what’s between us, but I can’t deny it anymore.”

“Hotch, what the hell do you mean? This is absurd…” you reply, speechless. You’ve always had a reply for everything, but right now, you are looking at Hotch like he grew two heads.  

“Please, just listen. These last few days during the case, I couldn’t sleep. Not because of the abduction, but I felt fully responsible for what happened to you. I want to apologise.  You aren’t a liability. You are one of the most important agents on this team. And… watching you be so self-destructive made me feel defeated, so I thought suspending you would be the answer, but I was wrong and I take full responsibility. And almost losing you felt like losing balance.”

For once, you’re…speechless. The whole confession from Hotch hits hard. You’ve been treating the whole team badly. 

Watching Hotch get this vulnerable makes you almost cringe. He hasn’t had this look on his face since his ex-wife died.

You don’t know what to say. Nothing will come out.

“I,” Hotch swallows, “would like to get to know you better, maybe take you out on a date…if you’d like. After the doctor says you’re okay to go obviously.”

Silence fills the room, the tension so sharp it could be cut with a knife.

“I’m so sorry for being an asshole, Hotch. It’s just that my sister died, and then I just felt worthless. I do like you too, Hotch, but I’m just not ready. I- it’s too fast…too soon. I would like for things to go slow if you’re okay with that. But, yes, I’d like that” You stutter, hoping he wouldn’t get mad.

“Yes, that’s fine with me. The others would like to see you now.” he replies, a gentle smile on his face before standing up and letting the others in. Then, the room is filled with joy and love, and for once you feel okay. You haven't felt that in weeks.

Yes, maybe grief doesn’t go, it just stays and reminds you of the person in everything you see.  You still remember your sister’s laugh when you hear Prentiss chuckle. You still see your sister’s intelligence. in Reid whenever he makes a witted comeback when Morgan jokingly insults him.

The most important thing is that you had a reason to live. You had a family, and most importantly you were going to understand Hotch better. You like him. He’s everything you ever wanted in a good man. He’s honest, and most importantly you can see in his eyes that he likes you, not like the other men you dated.

Strauss is going to have a fun day, depending on her definition of fun, if she finds out that you and Hotch are going to start to date, but maybe she doesn’t have to know.

A few weeks later after your discharge, you and Hotch go on a date. Then another, then another, then another, until he invites you over one time and Jack adores you. Then you stay over one time, then another, then it becomes a habit. Then you start leaving stuff over at his house. Then Jack keeps begging you to stay. Then you wake up early, not for a case, but to make Jack pancakes. He won’t eat it if Hotch does it for him though, claiming that yours is better even though they are the same.

One night, Hotch holds you in his bed. You’re staying over like usual, it’s like you’ve become a resident in his house. Your head is using his chest as a pillow, your thigh draped over his arms are looped around your back. You’re staring holes into the walls. Both of you lay silently.

“You’ve been staying over, gonna start charging you for rent.” He comments, a smile playing on his lips as he looks down at your angelic face. One hand moves to cup your face, finger caressing your cheek.

“Packing my stuff today.” you reply lazily. After a tough case, all you want is to sleep, but sleep won’t come to you, “I don’t know if this is right, but I’m glad I got hit by a car, seeing you almost beg was funny to be honest.” You grin, sitting up.

“I’m starting to regret it now.” He groans, throwing his hands on his face, “will you let that go? For Jack’s sake!”

Most importantly, you were gonna be fine.

Dex swears he’s a good person. He’s finally got his mind back and the first thing he wants to do is be one of the good guys. That's what he thinks is best.

That’s what he says as he settles on the rooftop in one of the towering buildings of Hell’s Kitchen, eyes patrolling the murky alleyway beneath his feet that’s overcrowded with a large amount of trash.

Dex swears when he stalked that man for a good couple of hours and found out things about him that family wouldn't even know, it was just to help him catch him just so he could have a little chat with the guy, not like he was going to do anything to the guy. He just used up half a notebook to memorise and write down the man’s schedule. All this just for justice. That’s what good guys do, right? 

Dex’s mind explodes in happiness, a sense of overwhelming euphoria erupts in his mind as he spots a familiar, shadowy figure moving in the alleyway, whistling and unaware that a few metres up, lay the man who’d end his fate with a precise knife to the heart. Ha, got you!

Dex won’t let the man go that easy.

After escaping prison, Dex chose a worn-out apartment to reside in tucked in the corner of the city. It was nice, livable, which was the most important aspect of the flat really. Dex didn’t really make friends with any of his neighbors except the lady next to him with the cat. Everyday, Dex has the same routine, sleep, eat, work out, take a walk, and then repeat.

One morning, while he pets the old lady’s cat, she mentions a new tenant in the apartment on his left which had been tenantless for months. In response, he just hums, flashes the lady a charming smile and strides away down the stairs. He doesn’t meet the new tenant, you, until much later.

He learns that you live downstairs and come from Louisiana, possibly escaping family or something that young people do nowadays he jolts down in his notebook. Not that he made a notebook especially for you. He does that for anyone. You’re not special. Okay, maybe you intrigue him a bit, only because you don’t speak a lot like the weird lady next to him.

He observes you, observes the way you walk, the way you make small talk with the former veteran downstairs, and how you carry the groceries for the neighbor on crutches. To Dex, you are a mystery and he’s already obsessed. 

One time, fate brings you together. You’re carrying hefty groceries up the stretching stairs, at the same time, Dex is going down for…a walk. When he goes down the stairs, he finds you having trouble carrying huge bags, so like a good guy he helps you.

You spot your neighbour moving towards you, before you can ask for help, he scoops some of the bags on his arms. God, his biceps! Makes you feel like a Victorian man seeing ankles for the first time. “You don’t have to do that.” You say as both of you take the stairs. “I want to.” He replies with a charming smile. 

“Good thing my taxes are becoming of use!” You joke, but Dex doesn’t fully comprehend the joke, not reacting with a laugh or a smile like you expected. You both stand in uneasy silence staring at each other before you break and say:

“Sorry, that was a joke.” You awkwardly laugh, giving him your name with a soft smile. 

“Uh, no problem. I’m Dex. Nice to meet you.” 

A couple of stairs later, you find yourself in front of your wooden door. Dex drops the bag on the doorway as you look for your key through the pockets of your jeans. While you’re unaware, Dex’s gaze admires your face as it tries to catch the small details.

Dex’s eyes stare aimlessly at you, almost seemingly in a trance. The only thought in his mind was the fact that you were undoubtedly the most beautiful girl he ever saw in his life.

“Aha! There it is. Thanks, Dex. See you around.” You give him a small smile, waving at him before opening the door and pulling the heavy weight of bags with you inside. The door shuts softly, giving him the cue that you left obviously, but Dex’s feet are planted on the floor, unable, no, not willing to move. He finds himself staring at your door even after you left. 

Dex makes it his mission to know you.

So, like any good person would do, he times your schedule with his. He knows exactly when you go for a run at the park and when you go to your favourite cafe for a coffee. He knows everything, not in a creepy way, but in more of an observable way.

He’s looking out for a friend, isn’t he? That’s what friends do.

You barely know the girl.

One fateful morning when the scorching sun was shining and the birds were chirping in content, he ran into you accidentally at the coffee. He spots you standing at the cashier ordering your usual, not that he memorised your order too, that’d be ridiculous! Okay, maybe only how you take your coffee. And how you like to order cookies with that. Only that, though!

To anyone outside, you seem like the typical shy, open girl that could apologise to a snail if she stepped on it by accident, but to Dex, it looks like an act…a coverup for something deeper no one has realised.

The way you positioned yourself the first time you met Dex was defensive, like you were waiting for something bad to happen and even the way your eyes kept flicking back to him while you were looking for the keys, like he was a ticking bomb that was going to explode in seconds if you didn’t find the keys.

He watches you take your order and perch yourself on the table next to the enormous window that gives a beautiful view of the towering, eerie  buildings. 

With all the act he could muster, he walks towards you and makes a surprised face. 

“Oh, you’re the new tenant, right? Didn’t know you came to this cafe.” Liar.

Good guys don't lie.

“Yeah, it’s my favourite. Do you want to sit down?” You ask with an enchanting smile, your eyes glinting under the light of the cafe. 

“Yes, sure.” He replies as you gesture to the chair in front of you. Sitting down, he looks at you, really looks at you, noticing the minor purple bruise on your neck that was barely covered by your turtle neck shirt. Dex furrows his eyebrows, maybe she’s clumsy, but he knows better than that. Why does he care anyway? It’s not like you’re friends. Heck, you barely know each other; this is your second meeting.

Unaware of his criticising gaze, you enquire, “so, you come here often?”

That seems to break Dex out of his haze, “yes, actually.” He retorts. Liar.

Why do you keep on lying, Dex?

“That’s good, guess we’ll see each other.” You flash him a grin, hands wrapped around the mug of coffee. He inspects your hand, and, unsurprisingly, finds you fidgeting badly, especially on the ring finger of your left hand, like it was a habit. Like there was something there that is now gone.

For the first time when he even heard your name from the neighbor next to him, he felt this inevitable pull between you and him, like he was destined to protect you. Like a good guy would do. From there, both of you chat about multiple things, such as how long you’ve been in Hell’s Kitchen and what you do on the weekends. You tell him about your life in Louisiana and how you are the eldest of your siblings. He doesn’t tell you much, which just makes you assume that he’s a private guy.

After that meeting, Dex keeps hoping to see you, but hope kills, so he just goes to the places you go. For example, one morning when the sun was still rising, he hears the sound of your keys, he deduces that you’re going for your morning walk; therefore, he waits for exactly three minutes before executing his mission.

Bumping into you in Central Park. 

Dex fakes it flawlessly: bumping into you, then dropping his not-so-full coffee. He knows you’ll feel bad, then offer him another cup of coffee, and Dex will agree.

It works perfectly. Since when does Dex fail? Everything he does is precise.

At the coffee shop, the buzzing of the music playing softly above you accompanied by the chatter and laughter of the people around you is enough to calm you down. You like Dex, really. He’s one of the few friends you have except for Matt, Foggy, and Karen. They’re all very amiable people, but you feel like they have their own circle and by joining that circle, you’re just imposing on something personal.

Dex makes you feel comfortable, like you have nothing to worry about. And here you are sitting in front of him again at the cafe, staring at him in awkward silence.

“It’s weird we keep bumping into each other, right?” You manage a joke, but you’ve never been a person of great humor unlike your husband, no, your ex. He was always loved by your friends because of his superb humour, only if they knew what kind of person he was on the inside.

Thank God you escaped that hell.

“Yeah, like fate knows something we don’t.” Looking at his cup, he replies as nonchalant as ever. Your breath hitches, not expecting that answer, oblivious to the fact that this was not fate. This was a mission, all of it, with steps and many plans. Avoiding eye contact, you look at your paper cup.

“Listen, I-” Dex starts, almost desperate to get the words out of his mouth. However, the words die on the tip of his tongue as the roaring sound of a ringtone fills his ear. Embarrassment floods your face, the tip of your ears going hot.

“I’m so sorry, I have to take this. It’s my boss.” You apologise, pulling the phone to your ear. Your voice is muffled and under your breath as you answer, Dex catches something of ‘I’ll be right there, and sorry’.

“I’m sorry, it’s my boss he needs me,” standing up, you excuse yourself while grabbing your cup of coffee.

“It’s fine,” he stands up too, watching you walk out of the cafe, the door jingles. Without rethinking his idea, he catches up to you in quick strides, hoping to catch you before you leave. 

“Wait!” He yells, stopping you in your tracks. “Dinner? Italian place next to the library? I’ll pay. 7? It’s a…date.” He acknowledges. Sweat falls on his forehead, his hands shaking next to his side. Don’t mess this up, Dex.

Nodding, you reply with a smile, “I’d love that.” 

When you arrive at work, you’re out of breath, you’re barely there early. You’re sure Matt wouldn’t say anything about you being a couple of minutes late, but you need this job, you can’t, by any means, give them a bad impression about you or even give them the thought of firing you.

As usual, the office is packed with people. Before greeting anyone, you make sure to place the cup of coffee on the miniature, black desk covered in paper and in immense mountains of files. By the time you’re about to sit down, Karen appears at your desk like a menacing shadow.

“You’re late.” She implies, crossing her arms with a look and handing you a new file on your desk.

“I know, traffic.” You excuse yourself, groaning when you catch sight of the file, “already?”

“Yes, and have you finished the Jack Finnily file? We need it for court after tomorrow.”

“After tomorrow? Matt said court wasn’t until next Monday, today’s Tuesday!"

“The prosecutor demanded it to be changed. Just don’t forget, okay? And today we’re going to Josie's, are you coming?” She inquires with a hopeful glint in her eyes. Karen likes you. She thinks you’re smart and extremely clever all while being helpful and kind; a friendship like that is worth millions of dollars.

“Can’t, sorry! I, uh, got plans…?” When you reply, it comes out as a question instead. Grimacing, you correct yourself, “I have a date, just don’t tell anyone, please?” You beg Karen, hoping to keep it a secret.

Karen smiles with a knowing look in her eyes, “so Matt doesn’t know? Don’t act like I don’t see you staring at him all the time.”

With a face getting warmer, you defend yourself, “I do NOT like Matt! And, by the way, that’s extremely unprofessional.”

 She scoffs jokingly, “whatever you say, sweetheart.” 

Jokes aside, you don’t like Matt. Yes, he is handsome and bright, but he’s just not your type. You still have the dream everyday of finding your prince charming.

He’s just not Dex.

Cut it out! You do not like Dex. He’s just hot, with a cool scar on his face. You bet he’d make a great boyfriend though.

Okay, that’s enough thinking for one day.

The time passes sluggishly, the constant tick of the analogue clock beside you on the wall keeping you on edge.  The day is mundane, nothing happens except the fight that starts between two clients. Foggy steps in to stop it though. 

However, there was a  cute, British guy with silver, gray eyes and sand coloured curls that fell on his forehead, with a jaw so sharp, it could be used as a cutter. His words were smooth and controlled with a deep, gravely voice that sounded so mellifluous that it was almost illegal. He kept on flirting with you nonstop to the point where Matt had to stop him twice as all of you sat together to discuss his case.

When work finished, you didn’t hesitate in breaking into a full sprint towards your apartment to get ready. You spent an hour doing an everything shower that includes shaving and applying cream, because a girl can only dream. 

Also, you spent an hour choosing the perfect dress that would flatter you, curving at the right places and making you feel confident in your own skin. For makeup, you were a specialist, especially after what happened with your husband. You learnt to cover bruises, what specific foundation and concealer  colour shades you should get to cover them up, which brands were water-proof just in case, what to do if you forgot to cover them just in case, because just in case was your life now. You were living on ifs just to survive, because he vowed to kill you if anyone found out.

But he’s not here anymore. You’re alone. It’s going to be okay. You’re safe!

In fifteen minutes, you reach the Italian place Dex chose. During the whole ride, you spent wondering, staring at the seat in front of you, because what if it was a mistake? What if I don’t move on?  What if Dex doesn’t like me? What if, what if. You didn’t even realise the taxi came to a halt until the man pointed it out, “we’re here, ma’am. Have a nice day.” 

With a deep breath, but a leaping heart, you exit the taxi, heels clicking against the concrete pavement. When you enter through the restaurant, you find Dex already resting on a table next to the window; his mouth explodes into a grin when he spots you.

“Hi,” you mutter softly, sitting in front of him as the waiter pours your drink in the glasses standing on top of the table. “Italian? Are you a spy for them or something?” You giggle. God, someone needs to tape your mouth because the jokes are getting worse everyday. How more awkward can you get?

In response, Dex gives an authentic laugh, something that warms your chest. Your gaze falls on him, before he motions for you to sit down. “I was going to sit down, wasn’t gonna stand the whole time, haha!” No seriously, someone needs to eliminate the gene or chromosome or whatever responsible for this.

The place is serene, softly dimmed light above you with non-scented candles on the table. It’s not enormous, but it’s quiet and lovely. The tables are covered with a white, lacy drape that creates a romantic theme in the restaurant.

You spend the rest of the date laughing and talking about your life back in Louisiana, but you keep one significant part out; he doesn’t need to know about it though, it won’t matter. Turns out, you and Dex have multiple things in common more than you predicted. It seems almost comical. 

At the end of the night, well, obviously, both of you walk home together, because both of you live next to each other, but it’s comforting anyway. For once in a long time, you feel serene. You’re brain isn’t in flight or fight mode like you used to be.

While walking out of the place, you almost trip on the sidewalk.Almost immediately, he grabs your arm, but you flinch, hot white pain flooding your pain from Dex’s grip. Even though his touch was tender, bruises still lingered there.

He gives you a look, but you don’t look at him. Clearing your throat, you say, “that shocked me.” You force a laugh, but it comes out as a shaky breath instead.

His eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t comment. He just stares at you.

You hope he doesn’t see the shame on your face.

Stop it! What if you get too close and he finds out? What will be your excuse when he knows you’re a divorced woman?

The embarrassment!

This was a mistake 

Both of you don’t talk the whole, opting to stay in silence. You don’t want him to question you or interrogate you like a suspect.  No matter how much you deny it, you’re scared…of him? Of what he’ll say? 

You’re scared you’ll scare him away.

In no time, the sight of the enormous house appears in your view. You almost trip again while taking the flight of stairs, which could almost be comical if you weren’t sweating beads on your forehead.

“Uh, yeah, this is me!” You joke as you and Dex stand in front of your door. “I guess I’ll see you around.” You just hope the ground would swallow you already.

“Night.” Dex replies gruffly which makes you worry that this is the last time you will be seeing Dex. 

Both of you retreat to your apartments. Before you go to bed, you take a hot, steaming shower. You sit in your shower as the water gushes down your back in smooth rhythms. You don’t know when you start crying and you don’t know how long you sit there just staring at the wall. It has become a very bad habit.

When you awake, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. You look worse than you did in the marriage. Black under your eyes, bruises that somehow still linger no matter what. They stay like a silent reminder that you belong to him.

Dex, on the other hand, achieved no sleep last night. Not that he tried to, but he sat in the kitchen playing with the knife between his hands. He had only one thought in mind.

This man had to go.

The man who was laying his hands on you should be six feet under and Dex will make sure of that. 

Dex has never felt this protective over someone. He just met you a few days ago, but his heart does jump every time he sees you. He hates the way you looked at him last night, like you were scared of him, like you thought Dex would ever dare raise his hand on you.

In the haze of fifteen minutes, you try to make yourself somewhat presentable for work. You arrive early for once, shocking Matt who was already there. Matt has a knack of arriving early to work, mostly arriving with foggy by his side, but today he was early.

“Are you working on a Guinness Record?” You laugh, placing your bag on your desk. Your attempt at a joke is successful as Matt’s mellifluous laugh fills your ear. Your voice, however, is gruff from crying all night which catches Matt’s attention.

“You sound horrible.” Matt comments. Damn his sensitive ears. Is this normal? You don’t think so. It’s like he has superhearing!

“Bad sleep last night. Bed bugs did bite unfortunately.” Oh my God, you need to stop with the jokes! They probably laugh out of pity. Your father is rolling in his grave from the amount of bad, unfunny jokes you’re telling.

“Make sure they don’t bite today too. We’ve got court tomorrow.”

“Ay ay captain.” You smile, “oh and brought you coffee by the way. Can’t believe I forgot to give it to you. The barista said it was…couples day, so they were handing out free pairs of coffee?” You say, handing him the paper cup.

This time, the day passes on rapidly, making it a very arduous and booked day. You don’t think you had time to breathe and take a moment for yourself. Your ankles are sore and red from the amount of pacing you did in the office.

At the end of the day, you’re still buried in your files when Foggy and Karen leave and even Matt does which is surprising considering he likes to stay late at work.

You don’t leave until past nine, walking through the lowly dim streets with nothing but pepper spray in your bag.

You feel watched. You feel someone watching you as you walk.

Alarmed, you clutch your bag tightly as if it could save you. 

Suddenly, you feel yourself being pushed into a gloomy alleyway, falling on your side with a loud groan. You don’t know what’s happening. Everything’s happening too quickly

All you see are obscure movements. You blink once, twice. Ignoring the pain in your side, you try to stand up, but the man, you assume, kicks you hard in your stomach. Then, a rough slap to your cheek. It stings as hell.

You let out a loud cry, hands moving to your stomach to soothe the pain, but he grabs your hands with one of his hands and forcefully pulls them away from your body.

“You bitch thought you were gonna escape me? You’re stupid just like your parents.” He laughs and it almost sounds like a roar.  You can recognise this voice from a mile away. There’s nothing in the world that can make you forget him.

You try to sit up, but he kicks your stomach again. With a loud cry, you land on your back. The tears come quickly like waves in a tsunami. They’re loud as you sob. You shouldn’t be crying. It gives him power, but what can you really do when you’re being beaten up in an alleyway by your ex-husband?

 You can smell the beer on him. One sniff of it and it takes you back to your marriage. 

You wish you hadn’t stayed late at work. You wish you could’ve accepted Murdock’s invitation to walk you home, but you didn’t. 

He’s tipsy. You see from your restricted vision in the dark that he can’t even stand on his legs. You reach around you, trying to find your bag and reach for the pepper spray.

“You’re still my fa-favourite girl, don’t worry, sweet baby.” He slurs, trying to make his voice sound soft. He squats down to look at you, but you’re too busy sobbing in pain and waving your hand around in search of your bag.  He caresses the side of your face with his free hand. Squirming, you try to move out of his grip, but it’s no use.

Fortunately, not all sad stories have a bad ending.

The silhouette of the familiar Hell’s Kitchen’s Hero appears in the sight of your ex-husband. Your ex-husband, not being a resident of NYC and not being familiar with the hero, squints his eyes  like he can’t tell if he’s been drinking too much or if this is actually real.

You don’t notice the hero though, eyes shut as you try to sit up. You only hear him though, and when you do, you let out another sob, but this one was in relief.

“Move away from the lady, and I won’t have to hurt you badly.” Are Daredevil’s words. They’re ominous. Even though the words are quiet, the words land on your ex with a loud blow. They’re supposed to blow his ego away, but, unfortunately, he has the ego of a blue whale. It means he won’t back down without a fight.

You take this as a cue to leave. You don't look back, only hearing the sound of bones crushing and breaking. Groans fill the place. Your breath becomes short gasps, as you try to sit up. Leaning against the wall while standing up, you scurry out of this alleyway in the fastest way possible despite the fact of the way you’re injured.

You barely make it up the stairs of the house, the lights above you shining harshly in your eyes. The worst part is the way the dizziness kicks in. Black and white fills your vision.

You don’t know why you knock on his door instead of yours, but you can’t be on your own right now. It’s not that you can’t deal with this, you’ve fixed up worse bruises and wounds in the past that he has given you, but something inside of you tells you to trust Dex. That you could depend on someone for once. That’d feel good for once, wouldn’t it?

Gently, you knock on his door, hoping not to wake up the neighbors. You can barely stay up on your own feet anymore. While leaning against the door, you slide against his door, falling slowly to your knees. The tears come again. What if he’s not home? Where are the people when you need them most?

Luck’s on your side this time.

The door swings open. 

Dex appears in the doorway like a guardian angel, the lighting shining from behind him. His eyes land on you. They look almost worried, but you’ve learned to read people. While other wives were giving birth to lovely children, going on dates with their husbands, travelling with their families, hosting holiday dinner, you were learning to read people like paper. You created a schedule of his drinking, you learned first aid kit, you learned how to become a good wife, because nothing could please him. You learned when to talk and when to stop talking, and most importantly you learned to never ask him for anything, he’d hit you with the glass cup immediately. 

Dex’s eyes look like he knew something would happen.

Both of you don’t break eye contact. Then, he just carries you silently into his apartment and places you on his elastic couch that feels like heaven to your back. 

You try to open your mouth to explain anything, but nothing comes out. You’ve stopped crying by now, mostly because you’re embarrassed of the way Dex’s sympathetic eyes are looking at you. He opts not to say anything, noticing how fatigue is written all over your face.

He just nods, gives you a glass of water with a painkiller, but you don’t ask what it is. You’re too exhausted to talk, you’ll tell him tomorrow about what happened.

But unknown to you, he’s pieced some of the puzzles together.

When you awake, the dim light filtering through the beige curtains catches your attention. Then, the smell of breakfast overwhelms your nose. Trying to sit up, a banging headache forms in your head. 

“Ow, gosh, where am I?” Eyes fully shut while sitting up, you acknowledge. Your eyes fly open. You take a single look around, noticing Dex’s apartment. It’s bland, but not too bland. It’s only full of the necessities. 

Turning your head to the side, you spot Dex standing in the kitchen cooking eggs in a pan. With weary bones, you carry yourself to where he’s standing. 

“You gonna tell me what happened, or should I make my own theory?” He questions. It must’ve been his try at a joke, but you didn’t laugh or even chuckle. The words that were gonna come out of your mouth right now were going to either make him a close friend or you’d lose him.

“Do you know why I moved here? Did I ever mention it?” You ask with furrowed eyebrows. You sit on his kitchen counter. Dex shakes his head, turning off the stove and placing a plate in front of you with a mug of coffee as black as dirt.

“I was escaping something, someone. I used to be married, but I divorced him, because he was…hurting me. We divorced quietly, because he was trying to run for mayor at that time in Louisiana, and apparently hitting your wife doesn’t look good on a resume. So he talked to my parents, offered them money, and they agreed to keep it quiet. Last night, I left work late and he just pulled me into an alleyway, but Daredevil was there thankfully. I’m sorry, I should have said something.” 

You feel a cold touch of a hand on your cheeks, forcing you to look in his eyes, “never, I mean ever, apologise for something like that. I don’t need you to say anything else, just give me a name.” Is his reply. You would’ve expected him to criticize you or tell you it was your fault, but he didn’t.

“Please.”

“Wh-why?” You stutter, “are you going to hurt him? Don’t- don’t do that. I’m…he won’t hurt me again.”

“I know that sweetheart. I won’t hurt him. It’s just for the future, y’know?” He tries to make up an excuse, what kind of bullshit excuse is that? Looking at you once, his rage bubbles in his throat. He’s sure that if he doesn’t take it out on something, it might make him explode like a balloon.

In a quiet voice, you give him his name. 

He really looks at you for once, taking his time to admire your face. A black eye adorned your alluring face. He took his time to look at the way you pouted while eating the food he made you. You bit on your inside cheek, like you were trying not to sob.

Sighing, Dex starts to move his legs towards his front door. He wants to murder this man are all his thoughts, before you call out his name. He stops in his tracks, looking back to find you behind him; the space between you was so little it was almost non-existent. 

“Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone, Dex.” You whisper. Your eyes were vulnerable and so clear he could see a line of tears forming. He couldn’t manage seeing you cry. What the hell was happening to him? Why did this woman that he’s only known for a week manage to make him wrapped around her little finger.

“Please, Dex.” In a surprising motion, you wrap your arms around him, an army of tears falling onto his shirt as you cry quietly.. His eyes widen, he doesn’t really know what he should be doing. In a half-effort, he wraps his arms around you awkwardly. 

Dex tries to convince himself he doesn’t care about you, but it’s no use, but here you are, standing in his apartment, crying in his arms.  You stopped crying, but your breath is uneven. You don’t remember the last time you cried this hard. 

Dex does care about you.

He wishes not to, but he can’t stop, not now and now ever.

Breaking the hug, you look into his eyes, but you can’t help yourself as you close the gap between you and Dex. Your arms wrap around his neck, his wrapping around your waist as he gently pushes your back towards the kitchen counter. You don’t stop. The kiss is deep and full of hidden admiration. It’s a very passionate kiss for people who’ve known each other for a week. His muscled arms help you sit on the counter as he stands between your legs. His lips move from your mouth to your neck, leaving a series of scattered kisses. Both of you break apart.

For the rest of the hour, you and Dex lay on his couch, with your head leaning against his shoulder. Dex’s arm is around your shoulder and once in a while he looks down at your cuddling form.

A few minutes later, you fall asleep, softly snoring. Dex leaves your body asleep on his couch, closing his curtains and opening the TV to whatever channel is on. He’ll be gone for a while, so he wrote you a note that he placed on the coffee table.

And so, that’s how Dex found himself on top of the rooftop. 

And that’s also how Dex found himself dangling the guy upside down on the rooftop while the man screams and begs for mercy, but Dex won’t let that man go easily. He has a whole plan planned out, because how dare he lay his filthy hands on you? He has fun watching the guy squirm and cry, it’s more of  a hobby really. It makes him feel on cloud nine.

Killing him slowly would take the enjoyment out of the whole thing, so give Dex a reason why he would do that. Isn't it meant to be enjoyable? He punches him, but not enough to take him into unconsciousness. He has to be awake to experience all the pain. He made his bed, so he must lie in it.

And when Dex opens the door with blood thrown on his face and bruised knuckles, your thoughts are confirmed. The worst part is that you should be afraid of him, but you aren’t. You know exactly what he did, and you don’t care. You can’t help the feeling of happiness that lodges in your heart.

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

Dex’s eyes are full of pride as he nods. He doesn’t care if you leave him if you’re scared. The most important thing to him is the fact that the guy is long gone. He won’t be able to hurt you anymore and you won’t have to leave in fear forever.

“Okay…that’s…something.” Is your reply. You try to keep your emotions discreet; you don’t know why. With a soft smile, you hug him again. You hug him maybe due to the fact that you feel safe, or the fact that Dex did all of this just for you. Your heart leaps, not in fear, but in pleasure and joy.

For once, you feel safe. You’re sure you’re safe. That’s what you tell yourself, but why are your hands still shaking?

You sit down on his rusty couch. You expect him to sit down next to you, but instead he kneels in front of you and captures both of your hands in his in a tight but gentle grip. His loving eyes stare into yours.

“Tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do anything for you. Just love me. That’s all I ask."