anti-hero apologist

He comes out from a shower, greying blonde hair stuck to his forehead before he pushes it out of his face. The dishwasher has just started, and you’re washed in a domestic comfortability now that night has fallen and the hazelnut scented candle is filling the room with such a gourmand fragrance and your boyfriend chose right now to come out in just boxers briefs.

(Like!)

But his brows are furrowed, deepening the line between them and his scar has tilted towards his right eye at the corner because his lip has upturned into a grimace.

He doesn’t meet your eyes and that’s how you know that he knows you’re already locked in on the stiffness of his shoulders and the clenching of his heavy fists.

You uncross your arms from your chest and stomp over to him, and he could laugh at how frustrated you look if he wasn’t so sore from last nights masked endeavors and the pain radiating throughout his spine.

“Go lay on the couch, and don’t argue with me please. I want to take care of you.”

You state is plainly and firmly, but your bottom lip is pouting and every fiber of his being suddenly aches to please you, to be good, to quell the worry creased in the corners of your mouth.

Wanting to take care of him?

He can’t say no to that.

“When have I ever argued with you? Just doesn’t sound like me, sweetheart.” He likes the way your face lights up when he says it, like him giving you attitude amuses you.

But then you reach out and the tips of your fingers splay against the broadness of his chest, palm centered right against his sternum and the warmth instantly makes him forget about, well anything.

You just look at him through your lashes, refusing to give in to his brattiness.

So he grits his teeth, stares at you stubbornly for only a second before his features soften into something tender and wanting. So he just nods, shuffles to the couch and you make your way to the bathroom to find your body oil in the cabinet.

His head lounges on the arm rest, hands on his taut stomach. Body too straight to be lying on a couch that he’s familiar with, in your home, which he is also familiar with. He looks so amusingly out of place that it makes you laugh.

“What?” He quips, and you set the oil on the coffee table before leaning over him, cupping his heavy jaw.

He’s lost now, forgets what he was even thinking before cause your hair is haloing your face and your lips are on his mouth and it’s so gentle despite how teasing your tone is.

“Lay on your stomach, silly. I’m gonna massage your back.”

He just grunts, like he was gonna do that the whole time and you watch him with your tongue in your cheek as he sits himself up and flips over. Shuffles a bit to get comfortable, places his hands underneath his cheek. You’re glad he can’t see the way you’re staring at every tendril of muscle moving underneath his freckled skin.

You only waste a little bit of time staring. Mapping the massive expanse of him, the raised pink strip of flesh that starts just below the nape of his neck and ends in an even skew just above his tailbone.

You climb onto the back of his thighs, testing your weight against him. He’s unflinching, but still you ask.

“Can I sit on your lower back? Tell me if it hurts please.”

You can feel the smirk as if it’s an entity of its own, the vibration in his chest.

“Sit wherever you want. I can take it.”

And you’re not lost on the fact that he’s secretly loving this, and the suggestiveness in his tone is laced with the palpable ache. That the intimacy of your giggle and punching at his sides isn’t eating away at his heart and making a permanent home in the gaps.

You roll your eyes, grabbing the oil. You warm it in your palms before settling yourself in a comfortable straddle.

He flinches at the first touch.

Makes this sound like he didn’t mean for it to come out, like it caught him by surprise too. So you’re slow, gentle with your movements. Palms fully pressed against his lower back, thumbs out to rub in slow circles as you push them forward and into the rigid surface of his skin and muscle.

You’re not sure if he’s breathing, so you lean forward and kiss his shoulder where it’s bulging. His ears are pink, lips parted.

“You okay? Too much pressure?”

Your voice is melodic and soft and your breath is warm against the side of his neck. He shakes his head.

“No it’s good. Can be rougher, won’t break me I promise.”

You nip his earlobe before sitting back up and pressing the heels of your palms into his back with a bit more force, digging your thumbs in deeper. He’s taking big, deep breaths now and you can see that his eyes have fluttered shut.

He’s enjoying it.

His skin is reddening and hot with the shape of your fingertips, but everything feels a bit less tightly coiled now. The knots have faded to small points of tension, soothed by your knuckles and then traced with your nails.

Ten minutes pass, and when your doting hands cease their movements he groans at you, cranes his neck back to see why you’ve suddenly stopped.

“Feels better? You look sleepy.” You rub absentminded patterns over the dips and valleys of him, ring finger catching the pink strip of raised flesh and he hopes you somehow haven’t noticed each time you’ve touched the scar his skin erupts with goosebumps.

You have.

You lean over when he doesn’t respond, kiss his cheek. He twists with the urge to feel your lips and you oblige him easily, effortlessly. It’s slow cause of the awkward angle but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re on his back and your mouth is warm and comforting and forgiving.

Your hands are even better, in his hair and on his face.

“If you let me do that more often it might help, if you’d like that?”

You’ve got him in a vulnerable position, admittedly. But who is he to deny you? You’re asking so gut wrenchingly soft, and truthfully it has helped. Can it take away years of chronic pain? No, but it soothes him in other human ways that he’s needed his entire life.

“I’d like that, a lot.” He says.

He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count. 

Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?

The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be. 

So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.

That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.

His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it. 

He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.

The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter. 

The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway. 

The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh. 

2.5 million dollars.

Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?

His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow. 

Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives. 

Secondary objective: termination upon completion.

Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.

And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.

Target Activity Log (Condensed): Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses. Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration. Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high. Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified. Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion. Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated. 

Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.

This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.

He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.

He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods. 

The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.

Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway. 

He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.

You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.

Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.

People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.

Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.

His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.

Recent Activity: Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses. DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected. New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.

Right. 

The target was still active. 

“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.

That was what tipped it for him.

Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good.  The file didn’t show that.

It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was. 

And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.

His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.

Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.

Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.

And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.

His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.

And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.

—

Dex expected you to be harder to find.

Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.

But you hadn’t done that.

You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly. 

It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.

But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month. 

He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.

The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.

Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.

There wasn’t anything.

It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.

He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.

Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.

It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.

After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order. 

Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job. 

By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong. 

The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity. 

But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.

—

The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.

He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?

He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.

He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.

He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental. 

This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.

You didn’t. You just kept running.

He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?

“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”

Up close, everything went a little sideways.

He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—

“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.

Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel. 

Simple, right? 

Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.

Right. Say something. Anything.

“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”

There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.

That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.

Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?

But you were still just looking at him.

And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.

That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it. 

Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.

This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.

You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.

“Coffee?” you repeated. 

“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”

“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”

“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”

I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?

Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”

Oh?

Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.

“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.

He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.

And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.

And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.

—

The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.

On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.

When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.

You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.

Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.

You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.

“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”

Dex choked.

It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.

His eyes snapped back to you.

“…You knew?” he asked.

You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”

There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.

Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?

You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.

“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.

Great. Perfect. Real smooth.

He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.

She’s a target. This is a job.

“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”

You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.

Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.

“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.

The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.

“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”

Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”

You nodded once, resetting playfully. 

“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”

You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.

Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.

You waited.

“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”

Your lips twitched. “I got that.”

“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”

The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.

“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”

That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.

“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”

That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.

“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?” 

He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”

“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”

Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”

You grinned. “Thought so.”

“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.

“Iced latte. Always.”

He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.

“Consistent,” you corrected.

“Same thing.”

“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.

The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm. 

You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was. 

For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes. 

“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”

“Same,” he said.

“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”

“Same.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”

There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it. 

You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”

Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”

Dex tilted his head. “…What?”

You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to… 

Then he took the phone.

“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”

He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.

“See you around, Dex Not Tony.” 

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”

You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.

Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.

Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right

—

That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.

The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all. 

He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.

He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary: 

Likes iced lattes

—

Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.

He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.

His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.

There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:

THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY

Below it, you had texted: 

is this you?

Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.

Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.

Dex: no. Why would you think that?

He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away. 

He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.

You: just thought I’d ask

Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough? 

Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?

There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.

You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so

Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.

Right. You weren’t letting that go. Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.

He only had to wait a few seconds 

You: sure

He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.

You sent another message before he could respond.

You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway

Dex managed a smile.

Dex: Probably.

You texted back just as quickly

You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂 You: congrats

He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.

You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.

Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again. 

Dex: Why’d you actually text me?

The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.

You: because I wanted to You: ??? You: do I need a better reason than that

Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could  categorize, 

Dex: People usually have reasons.

This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.

You: okay, fine You: I was bored You: and you’re interesting You: better?

Dex froze.

Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?

Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.

He could almost picture you rolling your eyes 

You: wow. you are a fan

He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place. 

You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so… 

Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date

He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used. 

The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds. 

You: is that what that was the first time? a date??

Dex blinked.

“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.

No. It was—

He stopped. What was it?

Dex: maybe?

That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.

You: right You: with a guy who “sees me around”  You: very normal

Dex pressed his lips together.

Dex: Do you want to go or not?

During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies. 

You: yeah sure 

His grip on the phone loosened slightly.

You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?

Dex huffed.

Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about? 

Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?

You: okay. Friday?

The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so… 

Dex: Friday works.

He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.

You: cool You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe

Dex stared at that one for a second.

Dex: No promises.

There was no reply after that.

That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:

Initiates contact.

—

The second date felt different before it even started.

You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.” 

You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.

Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”

It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have. 

The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.

“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.

Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.

You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.

“It’s fine,” he said.

You snorted. “Liar.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are.”

He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.

“There it is.”

The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.

You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.

Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said. 

You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.

You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—

Dex raised his hand before he could stop it.  “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.

You paused. “what…”

His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.

His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”

“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.

He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.

There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.

And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.

You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence. 

“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”

“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled. 

“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”

“No.”

“Scrapbooking?”

“No.”

“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”

He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”

You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.

“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”

Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.

You shrugged. “Standard Red Room stuff.”

Dex’s posture shifted slightly, attention narrowing. 

Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way. 

These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”

You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”

“What?”

“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”

Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”

Dex blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”

He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…

“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.

“Okay,” you echoed.

And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late… 

This doesn’t feel like a job.

—

Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.

Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.

So yeah, you had given him your real address.

For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.

The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.

“You’re expected,” he said simply.

Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.

By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap? 

He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.

“Hi,” you said.

Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.

Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.

You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”

He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.

Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…

The place was… expensive.

Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.

“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it. 

You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”

And just like that, you disappeared.

Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything. 

You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.

“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.

Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.

His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.

Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.

He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.

Inside was a compact hidden compartment.

The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.

Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.

It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?

He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.

He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active. 

You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.

This was the kind of access people killed for.

His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.

This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.

Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.

Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.

Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.

“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”

Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.

“You’re fine,” he said evenly.

You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand. 

You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”

—

It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought. 

Turns out, it was. 

Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him. 

His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.

He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities. 

It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t…  Well.

He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.

Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine. 

The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.

It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.

Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?

You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.

But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.

Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.

At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.

“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”

Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.

“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”

Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”

Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.

That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.

You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work? 

That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.

Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—

“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”

He blinked, pulled back into the moment.

“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”

Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.

He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him. 

And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?

Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little. 

And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything. 

The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not. 

You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking. 

At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth. 

Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.

“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”

Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself. 

“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.

Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”

You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”

He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.

You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”

Dex managed to roll his eyes. 

“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”

Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”

“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again. 

The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.

The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.

You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.

Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.

And you looked… Pretty.

That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.  

But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless. 

Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.

Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.

The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer. 

Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.

You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.

Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.

Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.

You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have. 

“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.

“I’m not,” he said automatically.

You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”

He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.

It made something in his brain go pop.

You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.

Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.

It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.

He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really. 

It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit. 

For a while, you didn’t move away. 

Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.

Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too. 

Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—

That would be it. The line would be crossed.

You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.

Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.

You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.

Too close. This was way too close.

Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.

Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.

“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.

“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”

Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.

You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.

“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”

Oh.

He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment. 

Oh, well. What else can he do?

“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”

Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.

And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.  

You have enough. Kill her. 

Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted. 

What are you waiting for? Kill her. 

It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now. 

He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun. 

Kill her.

And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.

Kill her.

But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was… 

I want another date.

No. He shouldn’t want that, right?

Kill her.

He didn’t want that either. 

But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?

Right? 

Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier? 

Kill her. 

No, he told himself, Not yet.

I want just one more date. 

And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet. 

—

Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.

The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.

He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.

He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.

He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.

He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.

Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.

His handwriting stayed tight. 

2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales. 

Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.

Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—

His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.

The pen froze again.

That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important. 

But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.

Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—

His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.

… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.

Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.

What the fuck.

He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.

Red wine is her favourite.

His grip on the pen tightened slightly.

He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.

He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.

Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft? 

Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…

She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”

He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.

—

The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.

It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.

You need to kill her today.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.

When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.

“Hi,” you said with a smile

Kiss her.

He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”

“I haven’t.”

“You definitely have.”

“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.

You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”

She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.

Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”

“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”

He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”

“I’m not.” He immediately said. 

You blinked. “Then why…”

“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.

You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”

“Yes.”

“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.

He didn’t do either.

“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.

“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”

Liar. Kill her.

Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass. 

The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.” 

You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.

After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”

You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”

“I’m observing.”

“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”

“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.

You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”

Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?

How did you even survive? 

She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.

“…Yeah,” he said anyway.

Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”

We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.

“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It has too much…. whatever that is.”

“That is eel,” you squinted.

“Exactly,” he shrugged.

“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”

He paused. “That’s not the point.”

You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”

Kill her. Kiss her.

“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.

You beamed. 

By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.

“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.

Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.

Kiss her. Kill her.

He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.

“It’s good,” he admitted.

“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.

He shook his head slightly.

She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.

You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”

Dex’s attention shifted immediately.

There it is. Focus.

“Targets?” he repeated.

You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”

He didn’t respond.

You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”

You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.

She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.

“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”

“Either.”

You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”

That…. He understood.

Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”

His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”

“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”

“No.”

You grinned. “Then you get it.”

He did. He really, really did.

You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.

Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.

Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.

He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.

You wouldn’t even—

You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.

“Earth to Dex?”

He blinked, refocusing on the world around him. 

You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.

“What?” he said.

“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”

Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.

“No,” he said, coughing a little

You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”

He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.

Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.

He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared. 

He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.

Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.

—

When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard. 

His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns  lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.” 

That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood. 

Kill her.

He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.

His thoughts only sped up after that. 

Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.

He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission. 

It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.  

He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.

Focus.

His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do. 

He needed to do it. Now. Outside. 

He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket. 

But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.

Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.

He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.

He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.

The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you. 

He needed that first. Just once. 

“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.

Kiss her. Then kill her.

—

The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions. 

Good. No witnesses.

Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.

Kill her.

“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.

He gulped. “Hey.”

His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.

“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”

Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.

His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.

Kiss her like you mean it.  

When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.

You tasted… fuck! Sweet.

His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex. 

Kiss her like you fucking mean it. 

He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.

Kill her.

The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.

Do it now.

He could, theoretically.  You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.

One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him. 

“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.

Dex froze.

You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just…  hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.

Kill her.

His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…

No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.

It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…

She didn’t deserve that.

That was it. That was his excuse this time.

You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang! 

His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.

“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”

You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.

Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—

Kiss her.

He almost did.

Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:

She tastes like strawberries and cream. 

—

The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.

Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.

It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.

He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.

It ends today. Kill her.

Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.

You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.

Kill her.

He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.

You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”

His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.

It was insufficient. He knew it.

You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.

He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.

You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief. 

Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”

You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”

He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…

Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.

You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.

For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.

Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.

But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…

Shoot her in the head.

“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”

That caught Dex off guard. “What?”

You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”

You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”

Dex stared at you.

Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—

“You deserved better,” he said.

You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”

Make it quick, coward.

He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night. 

You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.

Kiss her.

He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.

Kiss her. Indulge.

He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.

You didn’t.

Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.

You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with. 

His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.

You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.

He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.

You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”

Kill her. Do it right.

He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.

Fucking coward. What are you waiting for?  She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you. 

Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”

He nodded once.

If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever. 

“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”

That part wasn’t a lie.

You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.

And just like that, you followed him home.

—

The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking. 

But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.

Kill her.

It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.

Kill her. Do it before she does it first.

The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

But then, another voice cut through.

Kiss her.

It didn’t argue. It pulled.

Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.

His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.

Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.

It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.

One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—

Then, he felt your hand slip into his.

And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet. 

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.

Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.

The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.

Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.

His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him. 

And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.

By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.

He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.

Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.

Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.

He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.

And it was a primal, wild want. 

He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.

Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.

His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”

—

His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you. 

You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.

Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint. 

His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.

You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once. 

He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.

His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking. 

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”

“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”

But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.

How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?

“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.

You said his name again, gentler this time. 

And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.

“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently. 

You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”

But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.

“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”

Oh.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get. 

Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.

Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.

His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—

click.

It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off. 

Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.

He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.

It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.

Of course.

Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.

And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.

“…Oh,” he said softly.

The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.

You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.

How could he be this fucking stupid?

He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.

Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—

No. You were working. Just like him.

Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.

And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.

His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.

Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.

Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.

“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”

He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.

Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core. 

You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.

The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.

He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.

And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too. 

And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.

Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.

Fuck.

His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.

You looked vulnerable.

And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.

Your brows pulled together slightly.

Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”

Your breath caught audibly.

“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”

“Dex…” you breathed shakily.

But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”

You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.

God, I’m so sick.

“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”

Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.

“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”

Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.

The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you. 

“Do it, then,” you whispered.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.

“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”

Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?

Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.

His hands slid down your thighs reverently.  “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.

“So are you.”

That almost made him smile.

The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.

That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.

He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.

Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him. 

His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.

Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.

The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.

Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.

Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.

And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.

Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.

Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.

He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers. 

Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast. 

Too much. It was too much.

Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.

Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.

Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.

“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”

You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.

His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.

“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”

The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.

You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore. 

You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except… 

You had fallen utterly in love with him.

Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end. 

And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.

It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.

Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.

He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.

“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.

A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”

You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”

“So were you.”

You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.

Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you. 

“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.

Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.

He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”

“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”

When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.

Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough. 

But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.

You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.

The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally. 

Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.

Dex thought he was dead.

For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”

You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”

Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.

“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”

Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.

And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.

Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.

“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.

Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.

When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.

Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.

His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.

But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.

Dex didn’t really need much. That was one of the first things you had learned about him, and one of the saddest. 

He owned what he could carry, what he could hide, what he could use: clothes, weapons, toothbrush, a plain black jacket that had seen through more death than most people. He hadn’t moved into your life so much as folded himself carefully into the empty spaces of it, as if he was still waiting to be told he had taken up too much room.

You had filled the rest. Your desk sat in the corner under the window, always drowning in highlighters, case studies, printed articles, and half-dead pens. Your forensic psychology textbooks were stacked wherever they would fit. There was a mug full of rulers and pencils beside your laptop, a corkboard with notes and deadlines and a photobooth strip of the two of you in Coney Island that Dex pretended not to care about but always noticed when it tilted crooked.

Of course he cared. It was your first date. 

And though he didn’t tell you, he had made a copy of it and put it under his suit when he went out, right over his heart. It was a reminder that you wanted him home. 

But this space was enough. It was more than enough, somehow.

There was still room to dance in the kitchen if you were careful. Last Saturday, barefoot and half-asleep, with the radio turned on, you had twirled yourself into his arms to Tina’s Proud Mary. Dex had just stood there like he had no idea what to do until you took his hands and put them on your waist. There was still room for him to lift you onto the counter when you kissed him too sweetly for too long. There was still room for dinner eaten on a small table with two folding chairs, there was still room for your laundry tangled together in one basket, for his shoes beside yours by the door. 

There was still room, somehow, for Dex to crowd you back against the wall, hands firm on your hips, mouth hot against your throat while you laughed under your breath and told him the neighbors were going get tired of hearing how well he fucked you.

Room for him to murmur filthy and wrecked things, that he should “throw your pills away,” that he was going to “knock you up, huh? Want me to put a baby in you?”

You’d pull back with a wicked smile, nails hooked in his shirt, and you’d whisper, “That is not the threat you think it is, baby.”

You chalked it up to your boyfriend being a kinky little shit. You should have paid more attention to the way his eyes went black, the way his grip tightened on your skin. When he kissed you again, it was with the devoted certainty of a man who had just realized his most unhinged fantasy was not his alone.

Still, even in this small fantasy, there was still room to pretend, on the good nights, that you were normal.

Tonight was not one of the good nights.

Dex had come home after a day across the Supreme Court building with blood dried dark along his cheekbone, though you suspected none of it was his. 

Even if it was, you knew he wasn’t hurt at all, because Dex didn’t stagger or slump. He didn’t come through the door gasping or cursing or asking for help. He entered the apartment with rigid control in his body, like every step had been measured in advance. He came in like arriving home had been a decision, not an escape. Like whatever had happened in this room, with you, was sacred compared to the rest of the world.

He came home like he had not been part of the makeshift siege at court.

Like he had not shot the Mayor’s aide.

Like the whole city had not been tearing itself apart on the news for hours while you sat on the bed with your phone in your hand, refreshing headlines you didn’t want to read and listening for footsteps in the hallway.

When he looked at you, his pupils tracked your face. Before he let you touch him, before he let you ask questions, before he decided whether his own body was allowed to matter, his eyes went over you like a security sweep to make sure you were safe.

Then they landed on your arm and saw a bruise.

It was nothing, really. You had caught yourself badly against the fire escape earlier when you’d climbed out for air because the apartment had felt too small with sirens in the distance and Dex not answering his phone. It was a mean little scar, blue and purple, but shallow enough not to hurt you permanently. It was annoying, more than anything. You had almost forgotten about it.

But Dex looked at it like it was evidence.

So now you were sitting beside him on the bed with a towel, a bottle of peroxide, cotton pads, and the sad frozen bag of peas you had pulled from the freezer because neither of you owned a real ice pack. You were trying to clean blood from his face. He was trying to ice your bruise.

It would have been funny if it did not make you want to cry.

“Give me your arm,” he said.

“There’s literally blood on you,” you sighed.

“Not mine,” he said dismissively, confirming your suspicions, “give me your arm.”

“Benjamin.”

His hazel eyes flicked up, mostly because you only called him that when you were annoyed at him. 

You stared at each other for one stubborn second, but he didn’t seem like he was going to let up. 

Then you sighed and gave him your arm.

He took it carefully, his fingers gentle around your wrist despite the split skin across his knuckles. He pressed the frozen peas to the bruise like he was handling precious and breakable gemstones, his mouth set in a hard line, his focus absolute.

That was the thing about loving Dex: it wasn’t sensible. It had never been sensible.

You’d always had a practical head on your shoulders. You were getting your third degree in forensic psychology because you liked patterns, motive, broken systems, and the strange little hinges inside people that made them choose one door instead of another. You were both a student and a research assistant at the university, which sounded better on paper than it felt in your bank account. You were technically employed, technically building experience, technically lucky to have the position at all. In reality, you were paid in a way that felt insulting once, tuition costs, books, and subway fare had finished carving you hollow.

Still, you were smart. Academically, you understood obsession. You had annotated articles on attachment trauma, violent conditioning, hypervigilance, and maladaptive devotion. You had spent whole nights highlighting phrases that described people like Dex in clinical and sterile language. 

You knew the warning signs and studied the red flags. You knew the vocabulary you were supposed to use. You knew what you were supposed to do when someone like Bullseye looked at you like you were the last fixed point in the universe: run.

But when Dex saved your life during an Anti-Vigilante Task Force raid on the lab you were visiting, all that practical knowledge had become extremely inconvenient.

It had been chaos: glass breaking, alarm screaming. Your supervisor shouted for everyone to get down. The AVTF had come in hard, looking for records, samples, names, anything connected to vigilante research and enhanced activity. You had hidden beneath a workstation with one hand clamped over your mouth and your heartbeat so loud you thought it might give you away.

Then Dex had arrived.

He had been hunting that day. You later found out because he told you. 

He had moved through your lab with a purpose, turning the room itself into a weapon. A glass beaker found its way into a man’s throat. He had thrown a ruler with such perfect force, it split skin and cartilage. A metal clipboard managed to dislocate a man’s jaw, even through the helmet. Pens, scalpels, broken glass, a heavy ceramic mug from your professor’s desk were all used. Ordinary things became fatal in his hands, as if the universe had been waiting for him to point at something and decide what it was for.

He killed twelve men with office supplies and lab equipment, and then he crouched in front of you, breathing hard, blood on his cheek, and asked you if you were okay. 

You should have been horrified. You were horrified.

Part of you had been shaking with terror. Another part, the part you did like to examine too closely, had understood with awful clarity that some monsters were safer when they were loved than when they were not.

You should have run from him.

Instead, you had fallen in love.

Worse, he had fallen, too.

The love that grew between the two of you wasn't sweet, nor safe. Not in the way people with normal jobs and normal apartments and normal dinner plans fell in love. Dex loved wholly. He loved like if he took his eyes off you, the world would immediately try to take you from him. He loved like affection and violence had gotten tangled in him so early that he no longer knew how to separate protection from possession.

And you, for whatever reason, loved him right back.

You loved him in the studio apartment with the too-small kitchen and the desk in the corner. You loved him when he stood behind you while you brushed your teeth, chin resting against your shoulder, silent and half-asleep and watchful even then. You loved him when he checked the locks twice before bed. You loved him when he pretended not to care about your old Greek and Roman mythology books and then remembered every story you had ever told him. You loved him when he came home with blood under his nails, but looked at your scraped arm like the city owed him an explanation.

“Hold still,” he said, pressing the frozen peas more carefully against your skin.

You stared at him, at the slight bruise under his jaw and the split knuckles he was ignoring because your shallow scrape had somehow hurt him more.

“I should get a job,” you said, almost offhandedly.

His hand stopped.

You hadn’t meant for it to come out like that: flat and sudden. Not while he was sitting on your shared bed after a long day. But there it was anyway sitting between you and the ruined silence of the apartment.

Dex looked up slowly. “You have a job.”

“I have half a job.” You laughed without much humor. “I have a professor who thinks payment is optional because experience is apparently a currency. Because PhD students clearly don’t need to eat, right?”

He huffed. A few months ago, he did offer to dispose of your professor and you just waved him off, saying the person who would take his job would be worse. He offered to dispose of him, too, but stopped offering half-measured solutions when you kissed his forehead and said the department would probably just shut down because they can’t afford two murders. “But you’re in school,” he said.

“So?” You shrugged, “Lots of people are in school and have extra jobs.”

“You babysit Mrs. Smithers’ cat,” he frowned.

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “She pays us in lasagnas.”

“She makes good lasagna,” he insisted.

“That is not an income stream, Dex.”

“No,” he shook his head, knowing how hard you actually worked for your spot in the institution. “But you’re always busy anyway. I can take care of you”

“You’re wanted, baby,” you reminded him. 

That hurt. 

Dex’s eyes barely changed, but you knew him too well now. You saw the tiny shift in his eyes. His fingers adjusted around your wrist. He looked down at your arm again, focusing too intently on the ice pack, as if his obsession to keep you safe could be used to cover a wound in the conversation.

“I can provide,” he said.

You sighed immediately, because of course he would say it like that. Like a vow, like a reflex, like a wound of his own.

“I know.”

“I pay rent,” he reminded you, though he said it like it was a responsibility. He didn’t use it against you; it was just a fact. 

“I know.”

“I pay groceries,” he said.

“Yes, Dex,” you huffed, “I know.”

His teeth clenched, more disappointed in himself than at you. “Then what?”

You looked around the apartment because it was easier than looking at him.

Yes, Dex paid rent. Dex bought groceries. Dex came home with cash sometimes, folded tight and tucked away in envelopes. He made sure there was good coffee in the cabinet because you hated your mornings without it. He bought the brand of cereal you liked and pretended it was because it had been on sale. He fixed the loose leg on your desk chair. He remembered bills before you did.

He provided, but it was not stable.

Dex didn’t clock into shifts. Dex didn’t have a payroll department, a predictable deposit, a pension, or a neat little tax form with an employer’s name printed at the top. His work came in fragments and dangerous calls from powerful people who knew what he could do. 

Odd jobs, if you wanted to be generous. Assassination, if you wanted to be honest. 

He did it because he was good at it.

But mostly, lately, he did it because of you.

Because rent was due. Because the fridge needed filling. Because your textbooks cost you too much. Because he liked watching you eat takeout on the bed with your legs folded beneath you, he liked seeing you safe and warm and full in his room. Because every dollar he brought home became proof that he could keep you satisfied, that he could build a life, that he could be more than the worst thing he knew how to do.

And that terrified you almost as much as it touched you, because there was no stability in that kind of work.

Sometimes, Dex wished he had known you when he was still with the FBI.

Before prison. Before Fisk. Before his face was plastered on the news. Before every job application in the world became a joke. He imagined it sometimes in a way that felt masochistic. 

He imagined coming home to you in a suit and taking you to dinner with a paycheck that had his name on it. He imagined you flowers, buying you pretty things and whatever else you asked for. 

He could have been a man for you. As outdated as he knew that sounded, he still wished he could be that man again. 

“It’s not about whether you do,” you said carefully. “It’s just that… it’s not steady.”

His teeth tightened further.

“I’m not insulting you,” you reassured.

“You think I can’t take care of you.”

“No.” You leaned closer, your voice softening the impact. “I think you take care of me so much that you forget I should be allowed to take care of you, too.”

He didn’t answer.

Outside, a siren wailed below, then faded into traffic and distance. The studio felt very small around you, too warm and intimate.

Dex looked down at your arm again and pressed the melting bag of peas more gently against your skin.

“I’ll find something steady,” he said.

Your heart clenched. “Dex.”

“I will,” he promised. 

“Where?”

His eyes lifted to yours. You tried to smile, but it came out tired and fond and sad all the same. “You shot Buck Cashman in front of half the city. I’m not saying that like I’m mad. I’m saying maybe LinkedIn is not going to work out this month.”

“I’ll find something,” he said.

It came out too quickly, too flatly, like he was sealing a wound before you could see how deep it went.

You looked at him where he sat on the edge of the bed, one knee pressed against yours, the frozen bag of peas melting slowly in his hand. You saw the bruise smudged high beneath his cheekbone, the split in his lower lip that he kept worrying with his tongue like he had forgotten it was there. He looked awful. Beautiful, too. The world had tried, again and again, to make him unlovable, and your stupid heart had taken one look at him and said, mine.

“What, a desk job?” you asked.

Dex gave you a look.

He wasn’t offended exactly. More like you had asked him to picture himself, in his Bullseye suit that you loved so much, sitting under fluorescent lights, wearing a lanyard, filling out forms, and smiling politely at coworkers named Brad from HR.

The idea was so absurd that, despite everything, your mouth twitched upward.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, leaning in a little. “Did I insult your very promising administrative career?”

He frowned unwillingly, and for a second you hated yourself for accidentally being a little too mean. 

Still, you couldn’t help yourself. You leaned closer and kissed the scar near his cheekbone so gently it was barely anything at all. Dex closed his eyes for half a second. When you pulled back, he still kept his eyes closed for one breath longer.

“Baby,” you whispered, voice gentler now, nearly breaking with fondness, “you cannot put ‘excellent with projectiles’ on a résumé.”

His eyes opened and found you immediately. “I could.”

You shook your head, “You really, really shouldn’t.”

“I have skills.” He pouted. It was cute.

“You have criminal charges.”

“Transferable skills,” he said, with such dry seriousness that you chuckled before you could stop yourself.

His posture changed, like he always did when you laughed. Not dramatically, though. He didn’t transform all at once. He softened by millimeters, as if your happiness had reached into some fortified part of him and loosened one bolt at a time. The hard line of his shoulders eased. His teeth unclenched. His thumb, which had been pressing the peas too carefully to your bruise, shifted a little.

For a moment, he looked less like a weapon that was left loaded in your apartment and more like a man who had come home to you because there was nowhere else in the world he could bear to be, because he was yours. Because he wanted so badly to be good for you that it almost broke your heart.

He adjusted the ice pack again. “You shouldn’t have to worry about money.”

“We live in New York, Dex.” You tried to sound light but it just came out tired. “Worrying about money is basically a civic duty.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said again.

He didn’t say it like a boyfriend trying to be useful. He said it like a soldier stating a mission objective. Like he had identified the enemy— rent, groceries, tuition, your professor underpaying you, the whole grinding machine of the city— and had decided that he would kill it if he could. “Not you,” he added, quieter.

And Dex didn’t feel this way for you because he had learned to be a sympathetic person. He wasn’t.

He didn’t suddenly feel tender toward the whole world because he learned how to love. He didn’t look at strangers and imagine their mothers. He didn’t hesitate before hurting people who had put themselves on the wrong side of his line. He could kill a room full of people and sleep like a baby afterward. He didn’t ask himself if the Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents had families who were waiting for them. Their blood did not weigh on his conscience in any meaningful way.

He hasn’t learned to be secretly good and noble under all the damage in some easy, redeemable way. He was only tender with you, and even that was not because you were an exception to his nature.

It was because somewhere along the way, Dex had thought of you and him as the same person.

You weren’t some separate innocent woman he loved from afar. You were not a moral compass he worshipped because you made him better. You were his life. His home. 

Your body was his body outside his body. Your exhaustion was his exhaustion. Your money was his money, and his money was yours, not because he felt entitled to it, but because the two of you had stopped existing as separate organisms somewhere around the first month he slept in your bed and woke up with your hand on his chest. You were one system now. One thing. One fused unit pretending to be two people for legal convenience.

So watching you work long hours in a lecture hall that barely paid felt like self-harm. That was the clearest way his mind could understand it. Like the two of you shared one nervous system, and every hour you worked yourself past exhaustion was pain traveling down the same wire until it reached him, too.

“Come on, Dex,” you frowned. “You think I want you running yourself into the ground because you decided you have to pay every bill?”

His eyes lifted to yours, and all you saw was terrible sincerity. It was desperate enough to frighten you because it didn’t know how to ask for love without offering blood in return.

“I should take care of you,” he said.

Not I want to. Not I’d like to. Not even let me.

I should.

You swallowed. “Dex…”

“I should.” His voice roughened, and it was absolute, like he had said this to himself before. Like maybe he had been saying it for months, in his head, every time he bought groceries, every time he counted cash, every time he watched you fall asleep over your notes with your cheek pressed to an open textbook. “You shouldn’t have to think about it. Rent, food, school, any of it. You should just—” He stopped, eyes darting away. “You should just sit there and be pretty.”

That ruined you a little.

There were things you could have said: Things about partnership, equality, how love was not supposed to turn into duty, how his need to provide came from some wounded place in him that still believed usefulness was the same as worth. You knew those things. You believed them, mostly.

But then he looked at you like taking care of you wasn’t a burden but a privilege. Like the idea of failing at it scared him more than the city hunting him. Like every terrible thing he had ever been made into could be balanced, somehow, if he could use it to keep you warm, fed, safe, untouched by the worst parts of the world.

He sat there, bruised and exhausted, dried blood at his temple, your scraped arm cradled in one hand as if it mattered more than every wound on his own body.

So you kissed him.

You didn’t mean to make it deep. You meant it to be reassurance, just a little press of your mouth to his, a way of telling him you were not leaving, not angry, not disappointed in how his love manifested even when it frightened you.

But Dex never received you halfway.

He leaned in, immediate and helpless, his free hamd coming to your waist with that familiar, possessive spread of his fingers. It was not rough, because he was never rough with you unless you asked him to be. But it was intense, as if the second your lips touched his, his body decided the only thing that made sense was pulling you closer.

You kissed him until the frozen peas slipped slightly against your arm and neither of you cared. Until his muscles relaxed under yours. Until he made a small sound in the back of his throat that made you hum, pleased with yourself.

When you pulled away, his eyes stayed on your lips, looking at your mouth like it had betrayed him by leaving.

You brushed your thumb over his chin. “You cannot just decide to provide by sheer force of will.”

Dex blinked, still dazed enough from the kiss that it took him half a second to find the conversation again.

Then his eyes sharpened in that almost boyish, almost hopeful way. “What if I got work?”

You exhaled through your nose. “Again. Where?”

His thumb moved once against your waist in small strokes that were barely there. 

“I heard that the CIA director is looking for someone to take over a contract,” he said.

You blinked.

It sounded clean on the surface and filthy underneath.

He said them carefully, like he was testing whether they could pass as normal if he used the right tone. 

“You mean black ops,” you said blankly.

“I mean work.”

“Benjamin,” you tilted your head.

“It’s steady enough.” His eyes did not leave yours. 

“That is not the same as safe.”

His eyes looked like guilt passing quickly through the devotion. “I can handle that.”

“I know you can.” You touched his cheek again, achingly gentle. “That’s what scares me.”

He looked at your face, taking inventory of every emotion there. His hand tightened at your waist.

“I’d come home,” he said.

Your heart ached. “You can’t promise that.”

“I’d make it true.”

“That’s not how promises work.”

“It is for me.”

And there he was. Your Dex. Your impossible, obsessive man, sitting in your too-small studio with blood on his face, telling you with complete sincerity that he could bend fate into obedience if the reward was coming home to you.

You wanted to argue, but he cut you off before you could even finish forming thoughts. 

“If I got a job,” he said carefully, “I could buy you a ring.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

For a second, you forgot how to breathe.

He had said it so quietly, so carefully, like the word itself was fragile. Like  if he had manifested it into the room too hard, it might shatter before you could touch it. 

A ring.

Dex watched you like he was waiting to see if he had ruined everything.

He didn’t look casual. He was never casual about you. He didn’t toss out precious things like the future just to see if they landed. He offered them like they had been a piece of his flesh cut out of him.

And you realized, in that second, that this had not been a stray thought.

Dex hadn’t just imagined it. Dex had been living with it.

You could see it now, in the way he held himself in the way his fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, in the way his eyes kept flicking down to your mouth like he wanted to kiss the answer out of you and was forcing himself not to. 

He had carried this around. Maybe for weeks. Maybe for months. 

Maybe he had been thinking about marrying you while listening to your rant about your professor. He had been thinking about it while fixing the wobbly leg on your desk chair. He had been thinking about it while watching you laugh at Mrs. Smithers’ cat through the cracked door.

Maybe he had been thinking about it while buying groceries. Maybe he even stood in the pasta aisle with blood still under his sleeves, picking the brand you liked better because you once said the cheaper one tasted “dusty.” 

“Mm,” you managed.

It was barely a sound. Your throat had gone tight. You were trying very hard not to break apart, trying not to let the whole sweetness of it take you down completely, but your hand was already lifting to his face. Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, careful of the split in his lip.

“You sure you wanna marry me?” you asked.

Dex looked genuinely offended. “Yes.”

It came so fast you almost laughed. You did, a little, but it cracked around the edges. “Really?”

His brow furrowed, as if the question itself made no sense. “Yes.”

“You’ve thought about it?”

Dex stared at you, and the answer was so obvious then. 

He had probably thought about it too much. Dex didn’t daydream. He planned. He mapped. He calculated. Even his fantasies came with exit routes and contingency plans.

“Okay,” you whispered. “What would that life even look like?”

You saw this glint in his eyes, the way they widened by a fraction. You had asked the one question he had been dying to answer.

His hand stayed at your waist. His thumb moved once, almost unconsciously, a small stroking motion through the fabric of your shirt.

“I’d get us a house,” he said.

Your heart gave a helpless little kick.

His gaze drifted past you, not away in dismissal, but as if the apartment disappeared from his eyes. 

“Not in the city,” he said. “Close enough if you still wanted it, for work or whatever you wanted, not right in it. Not sirens under the window all night, not this building where you can hear every footstep in the hall and know which ones don’t belong.”

His thumb moved once against your waist, like even with his head in the clouds he needed one hand on you to make sure the dream had a center.

“We’d look at the suburbs,” he continued. “I’d want roads I could learn. I want neighbors so you can bake them pie, but I don’t want them too close. We need a neighborhood with space between houses. We need streetlights that work. A sidewalk, maybe, where you could walk in the morning if you wanted and I wouldn’t spend the whole time looking over your shoulder.”

You stayed quiet.

You didn’t want to interrupt him. There was something too precious about the way he was speaking, like he had cracked open a safe inside himself and all these impossibly domestic things were spilling out. 

“It would have a yard,” he said, smaller now. “Not huge. We don’t need huge, but we need enough. We would need a fence. A good one. Tall, but not ugly. I’d make sure it looked nice. You’d care about that.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’d make sure I have good sightlines in there,” he continued, “no blind spots.”

There he is. 

“And I’d plant flowers,” he added.

You blinked. Dex glanced at you, then looked down again as if the admission embarrassed him more than the blood on his face.

“You like flowers. The wild-looking ones. The ones outside delis in buckets, or growing through fences. You slow down when you see them.” His mouth twitched faintly, affectionate. “You pretend you don’t, but you do.”

He… noticed?

“I’d plant those,” he said. “I don’t know anything about gardening, but I could learn.”

He kept going before you could answer 

“There’d be a porch, or a back deck. I’d put a chair there for you.” A little warmth moved through his eyes, as if imagining it. “You’d probably bring a blanket out even if it wasn’t cold.”

You smiled, and it seemed to give him more courage.

“And you’d have an office,” he said. “A real one, not a desk shoved into a corner with your papers stacked on the floor.”

Your eyes stung.

“Built-in shelves if we could, for your research books,” he continued. “Your fiction books, all of them. You wouldn’t have to pile them on the windowsill or keep the heavy ones under the desk. Your desk would face a window, but no one should be able to see into it from the street.”

You let out the smallest laugh, but he kept drifting deeper now.

“There’d be a couch in there,” he said. “So I could sit with you while you worked. I’d be quiet.”

The confession was so completely him that something inside you melted. He said it without shame, without trying to make it sound less obsessive than it was. Of course he would watch you. Of course he had already imagined sitting in a room built for your mind, staring at you while you read and wrote and thought, content just to be near the machinery of you.

“I like when you’re focused,” he murmured. “You make that face.”

You did not ask what face. You wanted him to keep talking.

“The kitchen would be big,” he said next, and there was certainty in that, like he had stood in it a thousand times. “Big enough for that island you like.”

Your mouth parted.

“We’d have one with those ugly pendant lights,” he added, with the resigned tone of a man making a grave sacrifice. 

You smiled fully now. “They’re not ugly,” was all you could manage under your breath.

He heard it and very quickly added, “They are. But you like them, so we’d have it.”

That nearly did you in.

“There’d be storage,” he said. “Pans would be in the cabinets, not in the oven. I’d build you a spice drawer and I’ll organise them.”

You pressed your lips together, smiling harder.

“I’d make coffee before you woke up,” he continued. “Yours first. I’d make breakfast and I’d make more than eggs. Pancakes, maybe. You like pancakes when you’re sad.”

Your smile trembled.

“I’d make dinners, too,” he said. “You could sit at the counter and read to me while I cooked.” He looked almost shy at that. “Or talk. I don’t care. I just like your voice.”

The room felt too small for him then. Too small for the size of what he wanted. 

“And a dining table,” he said, his thumb stilled against you. “With more than two chairs.”

He swallowed once and kept going.

“The bathroom would have that shower,” he said. “Like the hotel you wouldn’t stop talking about.”

You almost laughed. “A rain shower?” You asked 

“Yes,” he said seriously. “With a glass door, a bench, and heated floors, because you hate cold tile.”

His eyes flicked to your face.

“I’d spoil you,” he said, like a vow. His eyesight  lowered to your hand, then back to your face.

You couldn’t speak, but he went on anyway, because now that he had started, the dream seemed to pull him forward by the heart.

“There’d be security,” he said. Of course there would be. But from Dex, even that sounded like love.

“I’ll get good locks with reinforced doors. I’d install cameras.” he said immediately, almost gently. “I’ll get motion lights and window sensors.”

He breathed out slowly.

“You wouldn’t have to check anything,” he said. “I’d do it.”

What he was saying was wouldn’t have to listen at night, or wonder, or brace, or be scared just because the world was dangerous. Dex would take the ritual of fear and make it his. He would check the doors, the windows, the shadows, so you could go upstairs and sleep.

“I’d check the locks before bed,” he said. “You could just go up and get in bed. Read or sleep with the light on if you want. I’d turn it off.”

He said it with such certainty that tears gathered before you could stop them.

He didn’t notice yet. He had gone too far into the house.

“There’d be a gun cabinet,” he continued, practical now. “Locked, of course, and separate from ammunition. I’ll get biometric locks and a backup key hidden somewhere only we knew.”

His focus sharpened slightly as he pictured it.

“And a weapons cabinet too, with knives, anything tactical, anything I wouldn’t want left out. It would be hidden or built into the wall somewhere no one would look. Not near the kitchen. Not near the bedrooms.” He said it like he had already rejected three possible locations. “Everything would be secured,” he continued. “No exceptions. Nothing lying around.”

Then, still looking into that future house, still seeing the walls and the locks and the rooms and all the dangerous love he wanted to put inside them, he added, almost absently, “at least until the kids are old enough.”

Oh.

“The kids?” you asked.

Dex blinked. For a second, he looked almost confused that you had stopped him there, like the kids had been so naturally integrated into the architecture of his fantasy that he had forgotten you were only just now seeing the floor plan. In his head, apparently, they already existed. 

“Yes,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Kids.”

He said it as if this were already settled. As if the universe had filed the paperwork. As if somewhere, in some future suburb with a fenced yard, your children were already waiting for him to come home.

“You just assumed?” you asked, your voice dazed.

Dex’s brows pulled together like he was only now realizing assumption was supposed to be a problem.

Then his eyes searched yours, suddenly cautious.

“I—” He paused, his fingers tightening slightly at your waist. “I assumed you’d want them,” he finished. “I assumed I’d give you anything you wanted. And I assumed…” His eyes dropped, then lifted again. “I assumed if there was any way the world let me have you like that, I’d take it.”

There it was.

Dex didn’t want a family because he had always dreamed of domestic happiness. He wanted it like conquest. He wanted children because they would be yours, because they would be his, because they would be the physical evidence of a future he had no right to expect. Benjamin Poindexter didn’t want in half measures. He consumed possibility whole. If he loved you, he loved the future of you and the shape of you extended forward. The house that held you. The children that might come from you. 

That was deranged. That wasn’t normal. But to you, that was also, for reasons you could not explain without sounding like you needed professional intervention, romantic.

Dex watched your mouth part. “I’d love them,” he said. “I would. I know I would. Because they’d be yours.”

There it was, not the socially acceptable version. Not I love children or I always wanted a family. Dex didn’t know how to make love sound normal when it came from him.

He would love them because they would carry your eyes, maybe, or your mouth, or your stubbornness. Because he would look at them and see you continued into another body. 

“They’d be mine too,” he added, like that part was harder for him to trust. “And maybe that part could be good because it came through you.”

Dex looked down at his hands that had done terrible things and could still hold you  like it was made of light.

So you only sat there letting him talk, letting him show you the things he had apparently been thinking around for months.

“Have you thought about names?” you asked.

Dex nodded slightly. 

Your lips parted.

“You have,” you whispered.

He looked almost offended again, but not at you this time. At the idea that he could have built this whole imaginary house, this whole impossible future, and not named the children already running through it. “Of course I have.”

“Tell me,” you said.

Dex watched you carefully. You could tell that there was still that small, frightened part of him, the part waiting for the insult, the laugh, the moment where your wonder hardened into common sense. But you just looked… patient. 

“For a boy,” he said, “Jason.”

Jason.

Dex’s voice lowered. “Because you loved Jason and the Argonauts when you were little. The way everyone went after something impossible.”

You remembered telling him that, barely. It had been one of those late-night conversations with your cheek on his chest. His fingers moved through your hair as you rambled about mythology books you used to check out of the library, about heroes who were never as perfect as people wanted them to be.

Dex had listened.

“And for a girl?” you asked, already knowing he had one.

“Callie,” he said then immediately added, “Short for Calliope. Callie at school. Calliope if she liked it. Whatever you liked.”

Your eyes stung. “Callie,” you whispered.

Dex nodded. “You said she was the muse of epic poetry. You liked that she belonged to stories.”

You pressed your fingers to your mouth. He remembered that too.

“Jason and Callie,” you said with a sigh.

You realized then, that Dex had not chosen names because he liked them. He had chosen names because he thought you would.

Because even in his most private fantasies, the children were not abstract. They were not trophies. They were not little versions of him he could shape into whatever he wanted. They were pieces of you carried forward into the world, proof that some part of you could exist outside your own body and still belong to him, too.

“You like them,” he realised.

“I love them.”

His hand tightened around yours. Then, as if the names had opened a door he could no longer close, he kept going.

“Jason would have your eyes,” he said, voice distant again, head fully in the clouds now. “He’d be quiet, I think, the kind of kid who watches first. He’d notice everything.”

Your throat tightened.

“And Callie,” he said, and a faint helplessness moved through his face. “She’d be trouble.”

You laughed a little. 

“She’d climb things,” he continued. “She’d argue. She’d look right at me while doing exactly what I told her not to do.”

You could see it.

Worse, you could see how much he loved it.

This imaginary little girl, stubborn and wild, already had him wrapped around her tiny, nonexistent finger.

“She’d have your mouth,” he said, almost to himself. “Your attitude.”

“My attitude?”

His eyes flicked to yours, and there was something wickedly fond in them. “Your attitude.”

He looked down at your joined hands again, thumb moving over your knuckles, and his voice changed.

“They’d need to be ready.”

For what?

But you knew what for. This part that should’ve made you want to retreat, but it only made you want to lean in more, because this was Dex’s love too. The same root, grown through darker soil.

“Ready?” you asked.

“For the world,” he clarified. 

Dex’s eyes were calm now, focused and devoted. There was nothing theatrical in him, nothing performative. He was not fantasizing about violence for the sake of it. He was imagining two children made from you and him, and his first instinct was to make sure nothing could ever make them helpless.

He wasn’t in the kitchen anymore. He was in the woods with Jason and Callie when they were older and taller.

“I know what I am,” he said with finality. “I know what I’m good for.”

Your heart pinched. “Dex…” 

“No,” he said, because he knew you. Because he could hear the protest forming before you even opened your mouth. “Don’t do that.”

You tilted your head. 

“I know what I’m good for,” he repeated, gentler this time, but no less certain. “And if I’m good for anything, I will make sure they have every tool in their disposal to survive.”

There was no self-pity in it. He didn’t sound like a man condemning himself. He sounded like a man who had finally found a use for the worst parts of him and decided that they would serve you.

“They won’t be helpless,” he said. “Not our kids.”

Our kids.

“Jason and Callie won’t be fragile and easy to hurt. I won’t do that to them.”

His jaw tightened, and pride flickered through his face.

“They’ll be smart. They’ll be aware. They’ll know when a room feels wrong. They’ll know what a threat looks like before it reaches them.”

You listened, heart thudding.

“And they’ll be skilled,” he said.

It mattered to him. You could hear it.

Skilled.

Not broken. Not molded. Not made into little copies of him. He wanted them skilled, accurate, and alive.

“I’d start small,” he continued. “I’ll teach them hand-to-hand, teach them how to use their reflexes. I’ll teach them how to move without panicking, how to get up when they fall, how to breathe when they’re scared. Jason would overthink it at first. He’ll want every movement perfect before he tries. Callie would rush in and get mad when I made her slow down.” His mouth curved up faintly. “She’ll hate slowing down.”

You almost smiled through the ache in your chest.

“But she’ll learn,” he said. “They both will.”

His eyes darkened around the imagination.

“When they’re older, I'll teach them how to aim.”

Aim was not violence to him, not really. It was discipline. It was proof that the body could obey the mind. 

“They better have their old man’s aim,” he murmured.

It should have sounded awful.

And it did, a little.

But it also sounded like him imagining a son and daughter with pieces of himself; His focus, his loyalty, his ability to lock onto a target and not shake.

“They’ll know how to throw,” he said. “How to hit what they mean to hit. I’ll get them knives, when they’re old enough. Take them to the range to shoot guns when they're older. No one fucking picks on my kids and lives to see another day.” He looked at you then, and the obsession in his face had turned holy. “I’ll make sure they understand that.”

You swallowed.

“If they find themselves in a bad situation, I’ll make sure they’re better than lucky. Lucky runs out. Lucky gets them killed. I want them trained. I want them calm. I want them to be able to look at danger and know they’re more dangerous.”

His hand tightened around yours.

“I want Jason to know how to get Callie out if something happens. I want Callie to know how to get Jason out. I want both of them to know how to get back to their mother.”

Your breath caught. 

Their mother.

Dex said it as if it were the center of the whole plan. 

“I’ll make sure they come home in one piece,” he said, voice rough now. “Ready for dinner. That’s the point.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll make damn sure they can leave this house and come back to it. I’ll make sure you’re not sitting at that kitchen table wondering if they’re safe.” His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. “I don’t want you afraid.”

Fuck.

The whole deranged, violent, tender fantasy had always curved back to that. Dex teaching your future children to fight, to aim, to survive, not because he wanted war in the home, but because he wanted peace for you. Because his idea of fatherhood was Jason and Callie walking through the front door with backpacks tossed on the floor, cheeks flushed, while you stood at the stove or sat at the island with your coffee and didn’t have to imagine every terrible thing that might have happened to them.

“I’d kill for them, you know this,” he said, rubbing a slow circle on your skin, “I’d burn the whole world down for them.” Dex did not look away. “But if I know they can take care of themselves, then my eyes can stay where they belong.”

His hand cupped your face fully now.

“On you.”

He said it like it was obvious. Like the whole future had a single center of gravity and he had been circling it the entire time, pretending he was talking about houses and kitchens and gun cabinets and kids, when really he had only ever been talking about you.

“Because all of this,” Dex whispered, “would happen because of you.”

His thumb moved beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall properly. He looked at you like the city and the sirens and the blood on his knuckles were temporary, like the whole world outside the window was an environment he could outlast if it meant getting you somewhere safe.

“You understand that, right?” he asked, but his voice made it sound less like a question and more like a confession he needed you to survive hearing. 

Dex leaned closer, his hand cupping your cheek now, holding you with that possession that never felt casual. 

“I’d make sure the kids knew that,” he said. “I’d make sure they knew anything good in me came from you.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“The warmth in the house, the fairytales they would hear before bed, the flowers they pick from the garden.” His thumb brushed slowly along your cheekbone. “They’d know that was you. That all of it was you.”

Your eyes burned.

“They’d love you,” Dex whispered. “because you’re perfect.”

“Dex…”

“And they’d love me because I’d earn it.” he said.

Oh, Benjamin.

Your heart broke a little at that.

He said it simply, like love was not something he had ever expected to be given for free if it was him. 

His hand slid a little lower, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, parting your lips.

“You wouldn’t have to learn how to shoot,” he reassured. “Because you’d have me.”

His voice dropped lower, intimate and possessive all the same.

“I’d take care of you,” he continued, “because that’s the only thing I was made wrong enough to do right.”

It should have sounded suffocating. Maybe from anyone else, it would have. But from Dex, it felt less like a cage and more like a shelter.

A small, broken laugh caught in your throat.

His mouth curved faintly, almost shy and almost wicked. “You can just sit there and be pretty, huh, baby?”

Your heart gave in completely.

He said it like a promise, like he would happily make a fortress of his own body if it meant you never had to lift a finger. 

Your tears started falling quicker before you could stop them.

They started coming too quickly, gathering along your lashes and breaking loose before you could blink them back. One rolled down the side of your nose. Another slipped along your cheek toward his thumb. Suddenly you were crying in front of him over a house that didn’t exist, children who hadn’t been born, a ring he hadn’t even given you yet, and the sincerity of Benjamin fuckin’ Poindexter imagining a life precious enough for you to be loved.

Dex noticed and his whole face changed. His hand, still cupping your cheek, squeezed slightly. His eyes moved over your face, searching for the wound, the mistake, the exact word that had hurt you.

“What?” he asked, his voice wound tight. “What did I say?”

You shook your head, but that only made another tear fall.

He frowned. “I upset you.”

“No.” Your voice cracked. You hated how small it sounded. “No, Dex.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

There was a panick-y edge beneath the flatness of his voice. Dex could handle blood and anger Dex could handle fear if it had a direction, if it could be aimed back at something. But your tears did something awful to him. They made him look helpless in the one way he could never tolerate: like he had caused pain he couldn’t kill.

You caught his wrist before he could pull his hand away from your face.

“Baby,” you whispered, “no.”

You pressed your cheek harder into his palm, making him understand that you were not resisting his grand plan. “These are not bad tears.”

Still, you could tell he didn’t believe you yet.

“They’re not,” you promised, laughing weakly even though your throat hurt. “You just… fuck, Dex. You just said all of that like it was real.”

His mouth parted slightly.

“You really want all of that?” You asked, though it sounded more squeaky than you’d like 

Dex stared at you, looking almost offended again, as if he was wounded by the possibility that you could still doubt the size of what he wanted when he had just laid it open in front of you.

“Yes,” he said.

You breathed in shakily. “The house?”

“Yes.”

“The kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“The flowers?”

His thumb moved under your eye, wiping away another tear. “Yes.”

“Jason and Callie?”

His eyebrows relaxed immediately at the mention of the names. “Yes.”

You shut your eyes.

And for one second, because he had given you permission by wanting it so badly, you let yourself imagine it.

Dex driving with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back at a red light because Calliope had dropped her stuffed animal and immediately made it everyone’s emergency. You could see it his eyes flicking from the mirror to the road to her little outstretched hand, his mouth set in that serious line like recovering a plush rabbit from the floorboard was a tactical operation. Callie would kick her feet in the car seat, impatient and bossy, already certain her father would retrieve anything she dropped because Dex had never once been normal about anyone he cared for needing something.

Dex in a school parking lot, terrifying every other father by accident. He’d stand there in a dark jacket and smart-ish trousers, trying to look approachable and while still planning thirteen ways to neutralize a PTA committee just in case someone tried to speak wrongly about his kids. Jason walking beside him with a too-big backpack and the solemn concentration of his father. Callie skipping ahead, fearless because her father was behind her and therefore the world hadn’t yet invented anything that could touch her.

Dex teaching Jason how to throw a ball in the backyard. His son would squinting with concentration, little shoulders tense, trying too hard because he had inherited that from you. Dex crouched in front of him, adjusting his grip, telling him to breathe. Then he’d step back, watching Jason throw too hard and too wide, and smiling anyway. He’d be proud anyway, because it was a start. He’d make his way to the knives eventually. 

Dex standing behind you in the kitchen, arms around your waist, chin tucked against your shoulder while your children ran through the yard beyond the window.

He’d kiss your temple and ask for another one, and you’d say, “We’ll think about it,” because you two were a unit. You were two parts of the same whole. 

You opened your eyes, and he just looked terrified of how much he wanted it.

Your hand tightened around his wrist.

“When you eventually ask me,” you said, voice shaking, “know that I’ll say yes.”

For a moment, Dex didn’t move.

He didn’t even seem to breathe.

His eyes searched yours once, twice, desperately, like he had to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. 

“You will?” he asked.

You smiled through the tears. “Of course.”

Joy did not sit easily on Dex, but you knew this was what it looked like. 

You let out a watery little laugh, because if you did not laugh you were going to sob properly.

That seemed to bring him back to himself.

Dex leaned in and kissed your neck once, then your cheeks, then the damp place beneath your eye where a tear had slipped down.

Each kiss was careful and possessive in the best way. He wasn’t trying to stop you from crying. Instead, he wanted to claim every tear. 

Dex kissed your jaw again, then tucked his face into your neck, and for a long time he just held you.

What you did not know was that the ring was already more than a fantasy to him.

What you did not know was that earlier that evening, before the Supreme Court had gone to hell, he shot Buck Cashman, before he came home, Dex had received confirmation of an advance from Mr. Charles.

He had a government contract. He had a stable job.

Dex had read the confirmation once.

Then twice.

Then, because he was Dex, he had memorized the number. The second he saw the advance, his mind had gone to you.

Rent. Groceries. Your tuition. The overdue utility bill you had tried to hide under a stack of journal articles like paper could make debt disappear. The textbooks you kept putting off buying because you said you could “probably survive with library copies,” even though he had seen the way you frowned when you said it.

And then the ring.

He’d already planned the ring.

And no, he hadn’t told you any of this yet. 

Maybe he will after the first payment cleared. Maybe after the first job was done and he knew the money was steady. Maybe after he had washed the blood off well enough to convince himself he was allowed to touch something as clean as your hand.

He’d find the right jeweler, though he already had one in mind: a shop in the Upper East Side that did custom pieces. He’d get one commissioned specifically for you. Nothing too delicate, because he wanted people to notice it. Nothing too flashy, because you would wrinkle your nose and tell him he had lost his mind.

He’d get something that looked right on your hand when you reached for your coffee in the morning. A gem that would catch the kitchen light when you turned pages in your office. Something Jason might touch curiously as a child, asking if Dad gave you that, and Dex would hear you say yes from the doorway. Something Callie would one day ask to try on, and you would laugh and tell her when she could when was older. Something that said you belonged to him.

And more importantly, that he belonged to you.

For now, he said none of that.

For now, he only held you tighter on the bed, making sure you were okay.

“You’re going to be so spoiled,” he whispered against your skin.

You smiled, eyes closing, tears still drying on your face. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“By a wanted man with frozen peas?”

That got the smallest laugh out of him. 

“By your future husband,” he said.

Your heart did a helpless little flip.

Little did you know, with this contract, the future wasn’t just a fantasy to him anymore.

He just needed to ask.

—end.

-

You live in a two-bedroom apartment tucked away in a quieter ward of Tokyo—not too far from the city’s rhythm, but just enough to give you a breather. It's modern, clean, and honestly more space than you need. You could’ve gone solo. The rent was well within your budget, a little indulgent even, but something about sharing the space felt… right. Whether it was a leftover instinct from dorm life or just the quiet knowledge that silence in too many rooms can get heavy over time—you weren’t entirely sure.

Eventually, through a casual coffee catch-up with an old college colleague, you were introduced to someone else who happened to be in the same position: apartment hunting, strapped for time, and looking for something stable. The arrangement was convenient. She seemed easygoing enough, worked long hours like you did, and respected shared space. No red flags, no awkward tension. You didn’t overthink it.

And for a while, everything just... worked. You had your routines—brushing past each other in the kitchen during rushed mornings, the occasional shared takeout dinner in front of the TV, the soft hum of separate lives running parallel. You didn’t hang out much, but you coexisted comfortably. That was enough.

What you hadn’t expected, though, was the shift that happened a few months in. The subtle kind. The kind you wouldn’t notice at first—until a stranger’s shoes started appearing by the door on the weekends, or the low murmur of laughter drifted from her bedroom late at night.

You didn’t care.

She could do whatever she wanted, and it wasn’t your business. When she first told you she was seeing someone—some guy named Kuroo, apparently—you offered nothing more than a nod. They’d been together for a few months, she said. “He might start staying over more. Was that okay?” You told her it was. You didn’t mind. Not really.

Even the nights when the walls failed to hold their secrets didn’t bother you. You’d hear it, sometimes. Soft giggles turning breathy. The rhythmic creak of her bedframe against the wall. The occasional slip of a moan that crawled down the hallway. But it was always distant. Easy enough to ignore. You’d just turn up the volume on your music or pretend your pillow muted everything. It didn’t affect you.

You rarely crossed paths with him.

Work kept you out late, and on most nights, you slipped into the apartment quietly, careful not to wake anyone even when you knew they were still awake. Sometimes you’d see him in passing—a flash of dark hair as he leaned over the sink, his hoodie thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His voice would drift from the other room, low and teasing. But he never really looked at you. Never acknowledged you. And that was fine. You had no interest in making small talk with your roommate’s boyfriend.

He must have thought she lived alone.

And maybe she wanted it that way.

Still, there was something oddly satisfying about the way he lingered in the living room sometimes, eyes drifting over the shelves that lined the far wall. The ones filled with manga spines, collector’s editions, limited-release box sets. Hand-built Lego models positioned with the care of a gallery. You’d catch the subtle pause in his voice when he spoke near them, the shift in his tone from casual to curious.

“This stuff’s cool,” he said once, running a hand along the edge of a display. “Didn’t know you were into Legos.”

You hadn’t been close enough to see her face, but you could hear the disdain wrapped around her reply.

“God, no,” she laughed, that practiced little snort she used when she wanted to sound above something. “That’s my roommate’s. She’s like, a total nerd. Obsessed with comics and kids’ toys and whatever. I let her keep it out here. It’s, like, her thing.”

You stood just out of sight in the hallway, expression unreadable, your bag still slung over your shoulder.

You didn’t say a word. Just turned toward your room, the door clicking shut behind you as her laughter faded into silence.

Let her laugh. Let her act like it was something to be embarrassed about.

Because the way his voice had caught before she answered? You didn’t miss that.

It was subtle—the kind of pause most people wouldn’t think twice about. But you weren’t most people. You caught that split-second hitch in his voice. Like he was expecting someone else to respond. Like he had a different name on his tongue before hers came out. And once you noticed that—everything else started to unravel.

After that, your roommate’s colors started bleeding through her carefully layered persona. The kind of girl you swore you left behind in high school. Pretty, mean, passive-aggressive. The type who needed to feel above someone just to breathe easy.

She liked to act casual, like it was all girl talk. Like she wasn’t trying to sink her claws into your insecurities.

“Kuroo was so good last night,” she would say, eyes glinting as she leaned against the counter, always loud enough for you to hear. “I swear, he knows my body better than I do. He had me pinned—biting, moaning, choking. I couldn’t stop shaking.”

She’d glance at you as she said it. Smirking. Cruel.

“I mean... not that you'd know what that’s like,” she added with a fake laugh, stirring her tea like she hadn’t just thrown acid at your self-worth. “He doesn’t go for girls like you.”

You smiled. Calm. Unbothered.

“You’re right,” you said sweetly. “And I’m not interested. That’s fine.”

But inside? You were laughing.

Because she had no idea.

You’d lived that wild, messy, electric kind of life she only pretended to understand. Back in college, you’d had your fair share of boyfriends—and girlfriends. Pretty ones, sweet ones, dangerous ones. The kind who got on their knees just to worship your thighs. Who sucked on your tits like they’d die without the taste. You’d been kissed against dorm walls, fucked in music rooms, devoured in the backseat of a car while your heels dug into fogged-up windows. You’d had people beg to taste you—tongue-deep until your legs shook, until your moans echoed down quiet hallways.

You’d been wild. Reckless. Insatiable. You’d even tried a threesome with a married couple once—just to see if you could make them both fall apart. You did. Twice.

But then you graduated. Got a job. Realigned your priorities. You weren’t that girl anymore—not all the time.

You hung up the stilettos and the lipstick-stained wine glasses. You traded morning-after texts for early meetings. Nights spent tangled in sheets became nights at your desk, fingers flying across a keyboard instead of someone else’s skin.

You retired from the chaos and focused on your career.

But that girl—the one she thought you couldn’t possibly be?

She still lived within you, and she was just waiting to come out and play.

You’d almost forgotten her until that morning. The one where she sat at the kitchen island with bed hair and a proud smile, sipping her coffee like it was just another Tuesday. She didn’t just talk about her night with Kuroo—she dissected it, glorified it, sprinkled it over your morning like sugar in your tea. Not that you asked, but she offered every lurid detail anyway, like you were the best friend she never had and the enemy she always needed. He was so big. He made her gag. She choked a little—laughed as if the memory alone still lingered at the back of her throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not then.

But it didn’t stop. It became a pattern. Whenever Kuroo stayed the night—his shoes by the door, his laugh echoing in the kitchen—she’d find a way to mention it. How her throat was sore. How she could still feel him. How she couldn’t walk straight. All of it tossed out with that lazy grin and self-satisfied tone. At first you told yourself it was just her way—crude, bold, a little drunk on the attention. But something in her voice changed. Something smug. Pointed.

And then came the men who weren’t Kuroo.

You saw one first by accident. You’d woken early for work and padded down the hallway, half-asleep and still rubbing your eyes, only to nearly crash into him outside the bathroom. He was tall, wearing nothing but boxers and looking for a jacket. He blinked at you like you were the one in the wrong hallway. He muttered a soft “morning,” then disappeared into her room.

You didn’t say a word.

But the worst—no, the most unforgettable—happened one humid night when sleep just wouldn’t come. You'd tossed in bed until frustration took over, deciding a warm glass of milk might help settle you down. The hallway was dark, the tiles cool beneath your feet. But the second you turned the corner toward the kitchen, your breath caught.

Her bedroom door was wide open.

You froze.

The sounds were unmistakable—flesh on flesh, low groans, the wet thud of skin colliding with skin. Heavy breathing, slurred moans, and the distinct slap of motion too fast to be just hands. The room reeked of alcohol and sweat. And you saw it all—every obscene detail lit by the dim glow of her desk lamp.

One man was behind her, rhythm sharp and relentless, his hands gripping her waist as she braced herself on shaking arms. Another lay beneath her, her knees braced on either side of him while he thrusted up into her from below, mouth latched to her breasts, tongue circling one nipple then the other like he couldn’t decide which to devour first. And a third—God—the third stood in front of her, hips pumping as she sucked him down, her mouth stretched wide around him, spit slicking her chin and dripping to her collarbone.

You watched as her whole body trembled under the force of it—three men, three directions, all taking turns. Her throat constricted as she took him deeper. Her back arched as the one underneath groaned into her chest. The man behind her pulled her hips back, harder, rougher. She whimpered. Moaned. Her nails scraped the sheets. And when the one in front finally shuddered and came, you saw the spill of it leak past her lips, trailing white down her chin as she let out a breathless laugh—uncaring, uninhibited, completely lost in pleasure.

None of them noticed you.

Not even when you stepped back and nearly knocked over the dish rack in your daze.

You almost laughed.

So much for good sex.

So much for Kuroo not going for girls like you.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, she confronted you in the hallway, freshly showered and still damp, eyes smug with victory. “You saw, didn’t you?”

You didn’t deny it. Just nodded once, softly.

And she beamed—fucking beamed. “I can take three cocks at once,” she said proudly. “Feels good, you know? Having every hole filled at the same time. It’s like—ecstasy. And they even took turns, babe. I lost count of how many times they came. My holes have been filled thrice as much.”

You stared at her, mouth dry, heartbeat unsteady. Her words were half confession, half performance.

And then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, “I wanted you to see it.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“I left the door open on purpose. Thought it might loosen you up. But I figured you wouldn’t join anyway. Those guys probably aren’t into your type.”

You didn’t rise to it. Not yet. “How about Kuroo?”

That made her pause for a second. Just a flicker.

She shrugged. “The dick’s good. But he’s getting clingy. Talking about labels and exclusivity and all that serious shit. I don’t like that.”

Your stomach sank. “You told me it was serious.”

“It wasn’t. Until he thought it was.”

And just like that, she turned away, humming to herself as she made her coffee like she hadn’t just shattered something in the room. Something delicate. Something quiet and private and stupidly hopeful that you didn’t even realize you’d been holding on to.

You never judged her. God knows college has been a blur for you too. You’d partied, drank too much, made your own share of mistakes. But still—something about seeing her like that, twisted and shaking and laughing with a mouthful of someone else, had done something to you.

Maybe it was the betrayal. Maybe it was the performance. Maybe it was that deep, unspoken part of you that had started to care about Kuroo even if you didn’t want to admit it.

But what you never forgot—what stayed carved in your mind, looping over and over like a cruel joke—was the smirk she wore as she wiped cum off her chin and looked toward the door.

She knew.

And you’d never seen her look more pleased.

It was one of those rare, treasured off days—the kind where time stretched and slowed, unbothered by alarms or obligations. You padded out of your room with a fresh mug of coffee and a sealed box in hand: the latest Lego Architecture set you’d been dying to build. The living room was quiet, lit by soft daylight filtering through the sheer curtains, and for once, blissfully yours. Or so you thought.

You settled cross-legged on the rug, carefully opening the box and sorting the pieces into neat color-coded piles across the coffee table. The soft clink of plastic against plastic was meditative, your fingers already moving by muscle memory as you started on the foundation.

Then, the door creaked open.

You glanced up, expecting it to be your roommate stumbling in from a late-morning hangover—or another boy doing the walk of shame. But instead, it was him.

Kuroo Tetsuro.

Hair tousled in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep, and wearing nothing but a loose shirt and sweatpants slung far too low on his hips. He blinked at you like you were a hallucination.

“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath before stiffening like he’d been caught stealing.

You raised an eyebrow.

There was a beat of stunned silence before he scrubbed a hand down his face and cleared his throat. “You’re—wait, you're the roommate?” He pointed at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re her roommate?”

You looked back down at the half-built Lego set and calmly clicked a few pieces together. “Mmm. That’s what it says on the lease.”

Kuroo stared at you, then at the Lego box, then back at you. “Is that—oh my god, is that the Fallingwater set?” His voice pitched up slightly, boyish excitement suddenly blooming on his face.

You blinked, slightly surprised at the sudden shift. “Yeah. Limited edition, too.”

His eyes lit up in a way you hadn’t expected from someone who, until now, had only existed in your mind as a tangled mess of sex sounds and sneaky exits.

“I’ve wanted to build that one for months,” he said, stepping closer without even realizing it. “Frank Lloyd Wright is—God. His work is insane. That cantilever design? Pure genius.”

You stared at him for a second, momentarily caught off guard. “You’re into architecture?”

“I’m into Legos,” he corrected with a grin, dropping down to sit a few feet away from you on the floor. “Architecture’s just the gateway drug.”

The way he said it was so earnest, so casually nerdy, that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. He didn’t seem to notice he was still inching closer, eyes darting across your sorting piles with the practiced gaze of someone who had done this a hundred times before. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for a piece, to help build.

“You’re not usually home,” he added after a second. “She always says you’re working.”

“I usually am,” you replied, not bothering to hide the slight edge in your tone. “Today’s the exception.”

Kuroo paused, then gave you a sheepish look. “Well, I feel kind of dumb. I’ve been talking to your Lego collection like it was hers.”

You glanced at him, amusement tugging at your lips. “So you do talk to the Lego sets.”

“Only the ones that deserve respect,” he shot back easily, gesturing toward your build. “That one? Deserves a round of applause.”

There was a pause—just long enough to realize how quiet the apartment was with only the two of you in it. Just long enough for the tension to crackle faintly in the air, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

For the first time, you were seeing him as something more than your roommate’s cocky lay. He was still smug. Still smug and way too attractive for his own good—but there was a softness there too, the kind that clung to people who used their brains for more than ego. A surprising amount of dork nestled beneath the devil-may-care smirk. You didn’t know what to do with that just yet.

Still, you couldn’t resist the tease.

“You can help sort, if you wash your hands,” you said, tilting your head.

Kuroo gave you a mock gasp. “You think I’d touch a limited edition set with dirty hands? I’m offended.”

You laughed under your breath as he stood up and headed to the sink, and as the sound of running water filled the space, you glanced back down at the instructions in front of you.

It seemed like, for once, today might actually be interesting.

And maybe—just maybe—so was he.

Eventually, you and Kuroo became close, as he sometimes helped you with your builds if you were free and he happened to be in the apartment.

It was just an innocent hangout since you two shared an interest—nerding out over collectors' sets, comparing mini-figures, debating Marvel versus DC, and even spending quiet evenings building modular LEGO cities in comfortable silence. It was never anything more than shared company, quiet companionship, and a love for plastic bricks and fantasy worlds.

But apparently, that probably hit a nerve with your roommate.

Because a few days later, you came home from work and stepped into the middle of a storm brewing in the living room.

“You always hang out with her now,” your roommate spat, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Why?”

You froze, one foot just inside the doorway, the other still outside. You blinked at the tension in the air—at the way Kuroo stood across from her, jaw tight, like he hadn’t expected this either.

“She’s cool,” Kuroo said simply, voice calm but edged in confusion. “We like the same stuff. That’s all it is.”

“That’s all it is,” your roommate echoed mockingly, rolling her eyes. “So what, you're into nerds now? You think you're gonna build a little LEGO love story with her?”

Kuroo frowned. “It’s not like that.”

She scoffed, arms flying up in the air. “Bullshit. You’re getting soft. And since we’re airing things out—guess what, Kuroo? I’ve been fucking other people the entire time. Not just one or two.”

You watched from the hallway as she stepped closer, lips curling into a smirk. Like this wasn’t a confession—it was a flex.

“Three guys,” she said, slowly, as if daring him to react. “At the same time. And I liked it.”

She said it proudly. Like there was no shame, no remorse, no thought to how it might hit him.

And it did hit him.

You saw it in the subtle shift of his stance, the way his shoulders pulled back and his jaw clenched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t crumble. But you saw the exact moment it clicked—that he wasn’t just some convenient hookup to her, but completely disposable.

“You’re serious?” he asked, slowly.

She shrugged, unapologetic. “Dead serious. And I don’t get why you’re acting like we were exclusive. I never promised you anything.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away like he was trying to keep his temper level. “I just thought we respected each other. I thought you gave a shit. And I thought you and your roommate were friends. That’s why I even talked to her in the first place.”

The room fell uncomfortably silent after that. You felt a sting deep in your chest—for him.

You knew Kuroo wasn’t the type to get attached easily. But he had cared. He wouldn’t have lingered around your coffee table for hours helping you alphabetize your manga, or asked you what your dream Star Wars set was, if he was just killing time between fucks.

And now, he looked like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him.

You didn’t want him to see your face, the way your brows pulled together or how your heart ached with sympathy for him. So, quietly, you backed away from the hallway and slipped into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before the fight could escalate further.

You didn’t want to hear any more of it—not the insults, not the ego, not the unraveling of something he’d believed was real.

All you could do was sit on your bed, palms pressed to your thighs, and let yourself hurt in silence—for the boy who never deserved to be treated like a backup plan.

After that argument, you never saw much of Kuroo again. You hadn’t asked for his number or any of his socials, and he never asked for yours either. Maybe it was intentional—maybe it wasn’t—but either way, you chalked it up to a chapter that closed before it could fully begin. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Your roommate moved on fast. So fast that the same night you’d heard her moaning another boy’s name through the thin apartment walls while you buried yourself under a pillow and turned the volume of your anime up louder than usual. You weren’t sure if it was pity or residual anger that lingered in your chest, but either way, you avoided bringing it up.

A few months passed. Your job had picked up pace, and while your calendar was often cluttered with deadlines, you managed to put away enough money to indulge yourself a little. Which is why you didn’t even flinch at the entrance fee for the local comic and toy convention—hell, you even treated yourself to priority access, determined to beat the crowd before anyone could swipe that rare LEGO Star Wars Ultimate Collector Series set you’d been eyeing online for weeks. You weren’t sure if it would even be there, but the hope was enough. And if not, there were always manga volumes to haul home, limited prints, and maybe another blind box you didn’t need but would justify with weak logic about resale value.

The place was buzzing with life. Cosplayers brushed past you in elaborate wigs and armor; booths were stacked high with colorful displays; the air smelled like plastic wrap, buttered popcorn, and overpriced takoyaki. Your bag was already a little heavier than it should’ve been—three volumes of a manga you hadn’t even started and two keychains you didn’t need clinked together at your side—but your heart was light. It was a good day. You were in your element. You were happy to be spending money that you earned doing something you didn’t hate. That in itself felt like a win.

You were crouched in front of a display, squinting to read the fine print on the LEGO box tucked in the farthest shelf corner—your prize almost within reach—when a familiar voice slid in from behind you, smooth as ever, but touched with disbelief.

You turned. And just like that, the convention disappeared for a second.

Kuroo stood a few feet away, noticeably overdressed for the venue. His dark button-up was tucked neatly into charcoal slacks, the lanyard from the Japan Volleyball Association still clipped to his belt, a blazer slung casually over one arm. His hair was a little more tamed than the last time you saw him, like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom instead of a crowd full of anime fans and collectors. And yet, his expression—wide-eyed and visibly caught off-guard—was anything but polished.

“…Tetsu?”

He grinned then, that same crooked smile that used to flash your way over unfinished LEGO builds in your living room, the kind that warmed something unguarded in your chest.

“I thought that was you. I’d recognize that laser-focus over a brick set anywhere,” he teased, stepping closer. “You stalking LEGO aisles now?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you said, glancing pointedly at his outfit. “Did you just come from a funeral or are you here to do tax audits on people’s purchases?”

He laughed, the sound genuine. “Meeting at the JVA ran long. I was supposed to head straight home after, but I saw the convention signs on my way out and figured I’d pop in. Nostalgia, you know? Didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew… especially not you.”

Your smile faltered only slightly, the past nudging its way in. “Yeah… I didn’t think I’d see you again either.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. The noise of the convention carried on—someone shouted about free pins at booth twelve, another person squealed over a celebrity sighting—but in that moment, it was just the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a LEGO display that felt like a full circle too ironic to ignore.

“I didn’t get to say sorry,” Kuroo said quietly, his voice softer now, lower. “Back then. I should’ve reached out. But I didn’t even know how.”

“It’s okay,” you said, and maybe you meant it. Maybe part of you still felt the sting of that goodbye-that-wasn’t, but seeing him again like this, in the middle of a day you thought would be just another solo outing, made the ache feel a little more bearable. “You don’t owe me anything.”

His eyes searched yours for a long moment, as if trying to read between the lines. And then, with a small smile, he gestured toward the shelf. “So… you finally get it? That LEGO set you’ve been after?”

“Almost. Some guy just bought one before me. I’ve been debating if I should just fight him for it or cry in the corner.”

Kuroo smirked, like it was 3AM again and you were bickering over missing pieces. “I’ll help you strategize. Worst-case scenario, we distract him with a full-blown scene in the Gundam section.”

You laughed, and just like that, the heaviness began to lift. Maybe the past didn’t need to be reopened in full detail. Maybe there was something worth picking up from here instead—on neutral ground, between plastic bricks and overpriced manga—and maybe this time, neither of you would let it slip so easily.

You eventually started spending more time at Kuroo’s apartment—not because it was necessarily more convenient, but because the idea of inviting him over to yours felt layered with complications you weren’t ready to unpack. Your roommate still lived there, and after everything that had transpired—the awkward tension, the quiet spite, the ghost of her moaning someone else’s name just hours after things ended with Kuroo—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel neutral. And you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she had any space in whatever it was that you and Kuroo were slowly building now.

He never asked questions. Just unlocked the door, let you in, and cleared space on his coffee table for your snacks and whatever LEGO set he’d been tinkering with that week. It became your quiet ritual. He’d handle the bulk of the instruction booklet while you sorted pieces by color or shape, occasionally bickering about which build deserved priority. You laughed more often than you had in weeks. Kuroo, for all his smug quips and relentless teasing, had a calming presence when he was relaxed like this—lounging in sweats, hair pulled back haphazardly, glasses perched on his nose, and a cup of instant coffee steaming between you.

It was during one of these hangouts—somewhere between building a replica of the Millennium Falcon and reorganizing his manga shelf—that he really started noticing the little things about you.

You wore glasses at his place. Not the contact lenses or styled versions of yourself that the world got to see, but the comfort version—the one with oversized hoodies, your hair tied up, and those thick-rimmed frames slipping down the bridge of your nose every few minutes. You’d wrinkle your nose every time they slid too far, push them back up with a finger, then hunch further into the build like you were preparing for battle. It was absurdly endearing.

Kuroo found himself watching you more than he watched the pieces. The way your brow furrowed in focus, the way your voice softened when you talked about your favorite arcs, how your hands hovered when he got too reckless snapping bricks together.

And the more time he spent with you, the harder it was not to remember all the things your ex-roommate used to say about you.

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. She’d speak in offhand remarks—half-laughed criticisms and quiet jabs that he hadn’t really questioned. Stuff like, “She’s sweet, but kind of childish, don’t you think?” or “Her room’s full of toys and junk, I don’t know how she lives like that.” It sounded harmless then. Maybe even normal, like the kind of light annoyance roommates always had about each other.

But now, sitting across from you while you earnestly explained the rarity of a certain manga edition you were planning to hunt down next weekend, he realized how misplaced those comments really were.

Your roommate hadn’t been annoyed. She had been dismissive. Cruel, in subtle ways that made him feel gross now that he understood the full picture. Because if this was you—brilliant, expressive, unapologetically passionate—you weren’t someone to mock. You were someone worth watching. Worth listening to. Worth knowing.

Kuroo was starting to think he’d like to know you even better.

And he did.

The more time you spent at his place, the more the line between casual hangouts and something softer, something more intentional, began to blur. It wasn’t sudden—nothing about it was rushed or dramatic—but rather a quiet shift, the kind that unfolds slowly when two people realize they enjoy each other’s company more than they probably should.

It started with the little things.

He began walking you home instead of just waving from the doorway. He'd pick up your favorite snacks without needing to ask. Once, he texted you in the middle of the workday just to share a photo of a new LEGO architecture set he spotted in a store near the JVA office—“Made me think of you,” he’d said.

Then came the first not-quite-date, when he asked if you wanted to grab ramen after a long build session. It wasn’t phrased romantically, but when he held the door open for you with a lopsided grin and a low, “Dinner’s on me,” it lingered like a promise. 

After that, it became a quiet pattern—late-night meals, museum dates disguised as “research” for future builds, bookstore strolls where he let you drag him into the manga aisle even though he always ended up walking out with more volumes than you did.

One evening, he surprised you with a black box tied in yellow ribbon, smugly handing it over like he was presenting you with a Nobel prize.

You opened it to find a bouquet of LEGO flowers—intricate, colorful, and painstakingly detailed.

“I figured they wouldn’t die on you,” he said with a small shrug, but his ears flushed red, betraying just how much the gift actually meant.

You smiled so brightly it made his chest ache.

Later that night, you sat side by side on his floor, building each stem and petal piece by piece. Your fingers brushed occasionally, and each time it happened, he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

And when you were finally finished, the vase of plastic blooms sat proudly by his kitchen window, catching the light like real blossoms might. It stayed there—quiet, permanent, and real in its own way. Just like the two of you were starting to become.

More sets of LEGO flowers bloomed forever in the corner of Kuroo's bookshelf, perched beside a manga box set he'd later surprise you with. Then another. Then a collector's figurine. A special-edition Blu-ray. It became a habit for him—dropping by a shop after work, carrying something that made him think of you. Something you’d gush over while adjusting your glasses or scrunching your nose in delight. Kuroo loved how animated your voice became when you explained the significance of a certain volume or lore from a world he only half-understood but always listened to anyway.

He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you carefully peeled away the plastic wrap, reverent in a way that almost made him jealous of the object in your hands.

“Tetsu, I told you to stop giving me gifts randomly.” you scolded him after he just handed you a new set of Lego figures.

Kuroo shrugs his shoulders and gives you a sheepish smile, “I like giving you gifts just because, okay?”

That went on and on—nights tangled in LEGO instructions and accidental laughs, meals shared over manga discussion, and growing routines that never needed to be spoken aloud. Eventually, he started asking you on actual dates. A quick dinner after helping him with his laundry. A detour to the park after a weekend spent sorting model kits. You never had to ask if it was a date—he made it clear every time he paid, every time he walked you home, every time his fingers lingered at the small of your back.

Then one night, he took you somewhere just a little fancier.

A cozy, tucked-away place with dim lighting and soft music humming underneath clinking silverware. You wore something nice—not over the top, but enough to make Kuroo smile the moment he saw you. He was dressed in a dark button-down shirt, sleeves casually rolled, a silver watch peeking from his wrist. Formal enough to make your heart thump a little harder when he pulled out your chair for you.

You talked—about work, a new LEGO release, some anime remake coming out soon, and halfway through dessert, it slipped out.

“So…what are we?” he asked, fingers absently running along the rim of his wine glass.

You paused, lips parting—but he beat you to it.

“I mean, I already know what I want us to be,” he added, voice quieter, more certain. “I’d just like to know if you feel the same.”

Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer with words—not right away. Instead, your hand slid over his on the table, your thumb brushing his wrist like it had always belonged there. Kuroo’s smile widened, soft and crooked.

That night, after he drove you home, it was meant to end the same way it usually did—warm, unspoken affection lingering in the air, a kiss on the cheek, a casual “see you soon” exchanged in the quiet of the night. Kuroo leaned in like always, one hand still gripping the steering wheel out of habit, his lips brushing against your cheek.

But this time, you didn’t let it end there.

"Stay," you said—softly but with no room for refusal—as your hand curled around the lapel of his coat and tugged him through the door. The click of the lock behind you echoed in the quiet, both of you breathing just a little heavier now.

His brow lifted, slightly amused, but when you reached for him—when you pressed your lips to his without hesitation—Kuroo dropped all pretense. He kissed you back just as fiercely, meeting the pull of your mouth with a hunger that had simmered under the surface for far too long.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as if anchoring yourself there, while his large hands settled on your waist, grounding you. The soft press of your bodies swaying closer felt like gravity had chosen this moment to pull tighter.

His mouth moved down—along the curve of your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his lips found your neck, hot and deliberate, you tilted your head back and let out a breathy moan that made something flicker in his chest and spark in his eyes.

"God, you have no idea what you do to me," he murmured into your skin, voice low and gravel-thick with restraint. His hands were already wandering—sweeping over the curve of your waist, tracing the line of your ribs, bunching the fabric of your top like he couldn't decide whether to peel it off slowly or just tear through it and devour you whole.

Then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carried you through the apartment like he already knew every step of the way. He nudged open the door to your bedroom with his foot and kicked it closed behind him with a soft thud.

“Are you sure about this, darling?” he asked, lips ghosting over your throat, warm breath teasing your skin. His voice was careful, velvet-wrapped concern undercut by the tension thrumming just beneath it.

“Yes,” you whispered without a second thought—breathy, aching, already burning. “Kuroo, yes.”

That was all he needed.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, fingers already working the hem of your top. He tugged it over your head, eyes darkening as more of your skin was revealed to him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, like seeing you undone just for him knocked the wind from his lungs. “You’re unreal.”

You helped him out of his shirt next, palms gliding across his toned chest as if you needed to commit every line, every scar, every warm plane of skin to memory. His pants were next, discarded somewhere along with yours, clothes tossed carelessly onto the floor as your mouths met again in a kiss that was less polite now—more heat than hesitation, more teeth, more tongue, more everything.

When he finally laid you down on the mattress and hovered above you, bare and wanting, the look in his eyes wasn't just lust. It was reverence.

“You're so fucking beautiful,” he said, almost like he was scolding himself for taking this long. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this—about you.”

And then he kissed you again, slower this time, as his hand drifted between your legs—testing the waters, coaxing more of those breathy moans he was already addicted to.

“Gonna take my time with you,” he growled, “because after tonight, I’m not going anywhere.”

His voice was thick—low and rough with promise—as his mouth descended onto your chest. Kuroo's lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue swirling slow, lazy circles before he sucked hard enough to make your back arch. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your folds before his thumb found your clit with practiced ease, rubbing gentle, teasing circles that made your hips twitch.

“Tetsu,” you whimpered, threading your fingers through his dark, unruly hair, tugging just enough to draw a low moan from him.

Kuroo glanced up, eyes half-lidded but gleaming. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. “Keep saying my name like that.”

You gasped as his fingers pressed in deeper, sliding along your slick heat, fingertips curling just right—just enough to make your thighs tremble and your breath catch.

He sucked on your other breast, taking his time, leaving red blooms along your skin like a trail he’d follow again later. The slow, wet sounds of his mouth on your tits mixed with the obscene slick of his fingers fucking you open, setting your nerves alight.

“Tetsu—fuck, I can’t—” you choked out, hips stuttering beneath his touch.

“Yes, you can,” Kuroo whispered, lips ghosting over your nipple before he kissed the swell of your breast. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He pulled back just slightly, lifting his head to watch you unravel for him—your body flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving with every broken breath.

“Taste yourself, baby,” he said, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. You parted them instantly, moaning as he pushed them past your tongue. His groan was almost feral. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

When he kissed you again, it was rougher—needier. He cradled your head in his hand, the other already stroking his cock as he lined himself up at your entrance.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you, Tetsu,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “All of you. I’m yours.”

Kuroo didn’t hesitate. With a low groan, he pushed inside—slow and deep, stretching you open inch by inch until he bottomed out.

“Fuck,” he cursed, jaw clenching. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”

And when he started to move—thrusting slow, deliberate, grinding deep—you knew you’d never want anyone else. Not when Kuroo made you feel like this.

Each stroke was intentional, like he was mapping your body with every inch of his. One hand anchored beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft underside, while the other stayed between your bodies, lazily circling your clit in time with the slow grind of his hips. The sounds he drew from you were loud, raw, almost embarrassing if they weren’t so fucking honest. You didn’t care. Not when Kuroo was whispering filth in your ear, kissing along your neck like he was claiming you with every mark.

“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “That’s me. That’s all me, baby.”

When your back arched and your nails raked down his spine, Kuroo groaned—low and guttural, like the sight of you unraveling under him was too much to handle.

To say the least, Kuroo was obsessed with you in bed. He didn't expect someone so quiet, so soft-spoken and unbothered with drama, to be this wild and insatiable behind closed doors. Sometimes his stamina was off the charts—athlete-built and fueled by ego—but even he could admit: fuck, he couldn’t always keep up with you.

It drove him crazy in the best way.

You were demanding in all the right places. Greedy with your kisses, shameless when you rode him like you needed him deeper than physically possible, and vocal when you came, screaming his name like a prayer and a curse. Every time he thought he had you figured out, you flipped the script.

Kuroo used to think he was the one with the upper hand. He wasn't.

Your roommate—back when she and Kuroo were still trying whatever you’d call that—once mentioned you in passing. They were cuddling on your couch, legs tangled up in each other, when she scoffed and said, “She’s probably a virgin. You’ve seen her room, right? It’s full of Legos and manga. All that nerd shit? She’s definitely never been touched.”

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, just hummed and nodded, though something about the certainty in her tone stuck with him.

Months later, when things with your roommate fizzled and Kuroo found himself in your bed, tangled in your sheets and catching his breath after your second round, he brought it up.

“She said you were probably a virgin,” he told you, laughing, head resting on your stomach.

You had chuckled, brushing your fingers through his messy hair.

“Yeah?” you replied, eyes gleaming. “Tell that to the guys I had in college. I practically broke one of them.”

You weren’t lying.

You proved it to him that same night. Straddling his face with that lazy smile and those goddamn glasses sliding down your nose. You rode him like you’d been waiting to prove a point and holy hell, Kuroo swore he saw the light. You had him pinned, hips grinding, thighs squeezing around his head like a vice, and he welcomed it. Happily. Drowning in your slick, drunk on your moans, Kuroo didn’t even care if he suffocated in your thighs that night.

He’d die a happy man.

You were so hot like that—uninhibited, filthy, hungry for him. And god, you looked so damn good when you sucked him off still wearing your glasses. Hair all messy from his fingers, mouth slick and eyes daring him to look away. He couldn’t. Not when your tongue ran along his shaft like you were savoring every inch. Not when you moaned around him like he was your favorite flavor.

“Fuck, baby,” Kuroo had groaned, head tilted back. “You’re gonna kill me.”

And you? You just smirked.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” He didn’t doubt it.

Kuroo had been ruined for anyone else after that.

The moment you rode him in his home office, shirt half-unbuttoned, your hands gripping the back of his chair, hair falling into your eyes and mouth hanging open when you moaned his name—Tetsurou—like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

He never wanted to let you go anymore.

If he could marry you right then and there—naked, sweaty, your panties dangling from his desk lamp—he would’ve gotten down on one knee without a ring. Just a promise. Just you and him.

But you deserved something better. Probably something by the ocean. A quiet, golden beach proposal with the sound of waves behind you and a little velvet box tucked behind one of his science joke t-shirts. Yeah. That’d be perfect. He’d plan that out eventually.

Still, your little dates didn’t slow down.

Lego-building marathons in his living room, your legs tangled across his lap as you bickered about which minifig was better. Cuddles during movie nights where you wore his college volleyball hoodie and snuck popcorn from his bowl. Quiet mornings when you stayed over, sipping coffee and flipping through manga in nothing but your panties and his button-down shirt.

You called it simple. He called it everything.

Kuroo kept giving you things. His love language wasn’t subtle.

Whenever you were at your apartment, a box would show up. Your favorite snacks. A collector’s edition manga you mentioned only once. That limited-edition Ninjago set you joked about. Sometimes he even had them delivered while you were out—just so he could text,

"Check your doorstep, sweetheart."

And when you opened the door, it was there. Sometimes with a post-it that read, "Build this with me tonight?"

And you always did. The second you stepped inside his apartment—his real home, now that you’d practically claimed it with your spare toothbrush and the fluffy slippers he bought for you—there’d be a new set waiting on the table. Or a volume laid neatly beside your favorite spot on the couch.

You would groan playfully, “Tetsu, this is too much…”

But your eyes always sparkled. And that was all he ever needed to see.

Kuroo wasn’t a man of restraint when it came to spoiling you. He liked seeing your expression when you tore the wrapping off. He liiked hearing your happy little gasps. And he especially liked the way you thanked him—sweet kisses at first, and then crawling into his lap and grinding down until his hands gripped your thighs, his voice rasping near your ear.

"Fuck, sweetheart. Is this how you're gonna thank me every time I buy you something?"

You always gave him cuddles… or him fucking you in return.

Neither of you would have it any other way.

Most of your dates happened right there in his apartment. It was your little world. The walls full of bookshelves, scattered Lego creations proudly displayed beside framed photos of his team. Your favorite blanket always draped over his couch, because he swore it smelled like you. You’d both start watching something—some superhero rewatch, some obscure Netflix docuseries—and end up tangled on the couch, kisses turning sloppy, laughter breaking into gasps as he dragged you under him.

It was always his apartment. His couch. His bed. His office. You bent over his desk, your nails scratching at the surface as he fucked you from behind. Or on his kitchen counter, panties pushed aside as he held your thighs apart and groaned against your neck.

"You’re fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart," he’d whisper against your skin. "Can’t believe you’re mine."

And you—smirking, breathless, always ready to drive him wild—would moan out, “I’m all yours, darling.”

That was the thing about you two. No matter where, no matter what—it was always just the two of you. A little domestic chaos, a little nerdy fun, and a whole lot of love.

Kuroo Tetsuro was ruined for anyone else.

And truthfully, he liked it that way.

He liked waking up in his apartment with your leg tangled with his. He liked how your shampoo clung to his pillows and how your glasses sat on his kitchen island beside your empty mug. He liked carrying you to bed when you fell asleep on the couch with a LEGO brick half-built in your hand. He liked that you left things behind—your books, your socks, your presence.

Kuroo Tetsuro had turned his apartment into a second home for you, and he didn’t even realize it until one afternoon when you opened a drawer in his bathroom and found your toothbrush, your hair ties, and your lip balm already waiting. It felt easy with him—domestic. Warm. Comfortable. Real.

But last night, he needed more than domestic.

He’d just come back from a grueling business trip—seven days without you. Seven days of restless sleep, ignored hotel breakfasts, and staring at unread messages while stuck in JVA meetings that ran longer than necessary.

And the second he saw your text, “Door’s open. I’m still up.”

He didn’t go home.

He went to your apartment instead. And the second he walked in and saw you in your oversized sleep shirt and those thick-rimmed glasses you forgot you were wearing—his restraint snapped.

He took you right there in your bedroom.

On the bed. Then again on the floor. And once more with your thighs trembling on the edge of your desk as his name broke from your throat in loud, obscene cries you couldn’t muffle even if you tried.

Kuroo always had a thing for your glasses. Something about the way you looked up at him while you were on your knees, eyes blown out, lips stretched around him, lenses fogging up while you sucked him deep like you missed the taste of him as much as he missed the heat of your body. And he always loved how you let him fuck you in them—wanted it even—telling him how dirty it made you feel when his cum splattered your lenses or dripped down your chin as he kissed you hungrily after.

And last night?

He made you wear them the entire time. Told you he’d missed seeing your pretty face get ruined while they were still on.

So yeah, Kuroo made good on every lost second from that trip. Filled you so many times you couldn’t remember if your name or his was the last thing you said before passing out. Your inner thighs ached. Your sheets were still crumpled with drying stains. And you still felt the wet, pulsing mess between your legs as you stood in the kitchen making breakfast the next morning, robe half-open, neck blooming with hickeys.

He had left early for another JVA morning call—but not before kissing your forehead and stuffing you full one last time in the shower.

But of course—unfortunately for you—your roommate had heard everything.

At first, she brushed it off. You weren’t exactly loud usually, and she assumed you were probably a virgin or celibate by choice. But when she heard your voice—unfiltered, breathless, begging—moaning “Tetsu!” like a prayer answered through gritted teeth and slick skin, it made her stomach churn.

And it was the final straw when his voice echoed in return.

Moaning your name.

Groaning about how tight you were. How much he missed your pussy. How pretty you looked taking every drop.

It made her snap.

So when you entered the living room that morning, holding your travel mug and your bag slung over your shoulder, she was already there—arms crossed, face sour, passive-aggressive aura bleeding into the walls.

“How long has that been going on?” she asked without looking at you.

You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just sipped your coffee.

“Define that.”

Her nostrils flared. “Don’t play dumb.”

You leaned against the counter, hair still wet from the shower, smirking slightly.

“If you mean Tetsuro—last night was just making up for lost time,” you said airily. “He missed me. So did my thighs, apparently.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Funny. That’s not what you said when you told me all about your foursome while dating him,” you replied, tilting your head. “One behind, one underneath, and one shoving it down your throat, right? You left the bedroom door open just so I’d see. Said you were trying to prove a point. What point was that again?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. Scoffed. “That doesn’t mean you get to snake away my ex.”

Your grin widened—sharp, knowing.

“Sweetheart, you cheated on him constantly. I just didn’t say anything because, frankly, it wasn’t my relationship to mourn.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s probably just using you to get back at me. You really think Kuroo Tetsuro would go for you? You said it yourself—he’s a career man. And you—well, look at you.”

You took another sip from your mug. Unbothered. Your petty meter had barely lifted.

“You told me he wouldn’t fuck someone who wore glasses. Now he asks me to keep them on. Funny how things change.”

She scoffed again, louder this time. “You’re seriously going to act like I wasn’t the best sex he ever had?”

“I don’t have to act. I know he’d disagree,” you replied, voice sugar-sweet. “Besides, we were just friends at first. You remember that, don’t you? He liked my LEGO builds. We bonded over manga. I still have the first limited edition he gifted me. First of many.”

“I knew something was up when he started hanging out with you more. You’re not even his type.”

“He said I’m exactly his type,” you said softly. “Smart. Funny. Loyal. And, apparently, really good at taking his cock.”

That was the one that hit.

Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you finally lost your virginity doesn’t mean you’re special.”

You laughed, really laughed, and set your mug down.

“Oh, sweetie. I’ve had a wild sex life in college. I just toned it down to focus on work. Tetsu just brought it back out. And then some. He fucks me in every corner of his apartment. Did he ever do that with you? Kitchen table? Floor? Balcony during rush hour?”

She didn’t answer.

“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.

“You’re lying.”

You stepped forward and whispered like it was a secret.

“He came in me three times last night,” you said casually. “Told me he missed seeing it drip out. Even helped push it back in.”

Her face twisted.

You raised your brows. “But if you want, I can play you the voice memo he sent me last month. He had his cock in his hand and couldn’t stop moaning my name. It’s really quite romantic.”

“Bitch.”

You tilted your head. “Always have been. Just quieter about it.”

She let out an angry shriek before stomping back to her room and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the coat hooks.

You took another sip from your mug and hummed under your breath.

Toned down? Maybe. But this?

This was your victory lap.

And you hadn’t even told her yet about the time Kuroo made you cum just from sucking on your tits while you rode his thigh—glasses on, mouth wet, his hand around your throat as he whispered that he wanted to keep you forever.

That story was for another day.

it's your day off. last night osamu insisted he can sleep on the couch so he wouldn't wake you in the morning, to which you only tilted your head and blinked at him with faux innocence.

"but who will fuck me stupid until i fall asleep then?"

he did.

you're still dripping from him hours later. osamu feels the slick heat of your panties stick to his bare thigh nestled between your legs. it's been hours and he still recalls your blissed out expression (eyelids dropping and a lopsided smile) when he gave your hips a little tap, signaling you to lift them so he can put your cute cotton undies back on for you—for no other reason that he loves it seeing how you soak through them.

osamu pulls your back closer against his chest and kisses your nape, deeply enamored with your bare skin and the lingering scent of you. traces of sweat and your perfume still lingering, his scent mixed in too. it sparks something primal in him. if he weren't so set on letting you sleep in, he would have murmured the filthiest things about it against your ear while he presses into you.

your panties get lazily pulled aside, just enough for him to nestle between your still wet folds. osamu feels like he's melting, his cock aching to be buried inside of your heat. he knows you want it too—with every small roll of your hips and quiet hiccup of your breath when his hand sneaks around your middle, featherlight touches tracing the shape of your breasts, dipping lower until his calloused fingers find your clit.

even in your slumber you're so responsive to him, twitching and throbbing from every small touch. osamu is tempted to just cum in your panties and put them back on properly for you, leaving you with a parting gift—but when one, then two fingers slip inside you so easily, stretching you out and fluttering around him as if you're asking for more, he can't help but line himself up against your soft hole, sinking into you with no resistance.

osamu is slow and gentle with his thrusts, making sure he doesn't wake you but sweetens your wet dreams. it's the opposite of how he had you under him last night, folded in half with your legs thrown over his shoulders, fucking his cum into you since you were begging for it. you always ruin him and put him back together.

"where do you want it?"

as if he even has to ask. your answer is the same wether you're awake or asleep.

you twitch around him, stirring a little as the lines between dream and reality blur, and osamu makes sure to give you the very last inch of his cock before he spills himself deep into you. his hips roll lazily against you from behind, making sure he gives you even the last drop before he reluctantly pulls out again. with three fingers he scoops his cum back in, making sure you don't waste a single drop in your sleep.

osamu has manners, that's why he considers putting your panties back on for you before he has to leave the bed. but osamu is also shamelessly greedy, which is why he pulls your panties off instead and pockets them in his jacket for later use. he's sure you won't mind. you never do as long as he sends you a video of it while he's at work.

his cock is still aching and leaking when he finally manages to pull away from you (not before he peppered your face and neck and shoulders with gentle kisses) and he figures he can rub a quick one out under the shower before he has to leave, even though he would rather stayed nestled inside of you for a few more hours instead.

he pours himself some coffee and looks up when he hears your feet padding towards him in the dimly lit kitchen. his cock stirs again when you yawn and press to his side like a needy and slightly disgruntled kitten. without a word he puts his mug down and lifts you up on the counter, standing between your legs. he lets you nuzzle in the crook of his neck while his hand dips between your thighs, running his knuckles through the mess he made.

"did i wake ya, sweet girl?"

you don't reply, just let out a quiet huff and inch a bit closer towards his palm. osamu laughs softly and tilts his head down to press a few more kisses to your neck.

"so wet for me, aren't ya? can never get enough of my cock, hm? kept milking me even in yer sleep… couldn't pull out for my life…"

osamu swallows your mewls and whines with the same kind of greed, one hand splayed out in your nape, the other unbuckling his belt hastily or else you're gonna make another mess all over his work clothes again.

(he doesn't mind though. if anything he loves seeing you soak through any fabric clinging to him.)

"gonna be late for the market… but can't leave my girl empty and aching, mmm? gotta fill ya up nice and good so ya won't miss me too much…"

he bites down gently on your shoulder when he bottoms out again, strong arms coming to wrap around you to brace you against he impact of him fucking with no restraint inside of your throbbing pussy. the sounds of skin slapping against skin echoes through the kitchen, his coffee going cold and a small puddle of cum and your wetness forming on the counter.

osamu sees stars by the time he has flipped you around and bent you over the kitchen counter, your feet dangling uselessly above the ground as he fills you up one more time. another kiss pressed against your nape before he pulls out slowly, a huffed out laugh when you have the audacity to complain about it.

"three hours, then i'm home again. promise. now c'mon, baby, let's get ya back to bed and when i get back ya can ride me until the bed breaks again, alright?"

She sat on the couch, waiting for him to bring her a cup of tea he promised 5 minutes ago. The fireplace made her warmer, she needed fresh air. Devious, devious, harlot-

“I didn't have mint, but I hope you like chamomile,“ he handed her a cup with his warm smile. She stared at him for a moment too long, the fire light making him look just as she had dreamed him. Heavenly, as he always was.

“So, do you want to talk about what happened?“

His lips trailed down her neck, his hands found their way everywhere they could. He stopped just as he reached her panties and looked up at her like a man starved.

“I've been having… dreams.“

“Dreams?“

She could feel his breath on her, warm, intoxicating. He awoke a need so hard, it was making her heart burst.

 “You're beautiful like this“

She closed her eyes shut, as if that would erase the feeling between her thighs.

“I dream of you… Father it is horrible, I can't sleep at night,“ she put the cup down on the table, “please help me, it is unholy, it's blasphemy“

Jud avoided her eyes for a second, but soon he couldn't look away. The silence he answered her with made the pounding in her heart louder and louder. 

“What do you dream of?“

“I just told you-“

“I can't help you unless you tell me exactly what it is I do to you in those dreams,“ he said sternly, with a look she quite never saw before. Now she was embarrassed, it was stupid of her to come here, she could never say what she wanted out loud.

“I can help you,“ he moved closer to her, “but not if you don't tell me what you want“

The ache between her thighs burned, she needed all of him. His smell alone was intoxicating, he smelled of pure sin, he smelled of want. 

I need you.

As if he could read her mind, he closed the gap between them.

Jud entangled his hands in her hair, pulling her closer, as if letting her go would be his own form of starvation. He was drinking up every last part of her, inhaling her scent and at the same time taking her breath away.

He pulled away just enough to breathe, just enough to still feel her around him. 

“Please,“ she pleaded with him, praying to him for salvation. And he gave her exactly that.

“After those dreams,“ he trailed his hands underneath her nightgown, “do you pray?“

“Yes“

“Then start praying.“

“Dear Heavenly Father…“

He left messy kisses down her neck, biting her and then kissing it after. Fixing his sin with his own form of prayer, his own form of worship.

“Keep going“

“Guard my heart from these desires“

He got on his knees in front, starting his own form of prayer, one that he would condemn himself for until the end of his life. His mouth ravaged her thighs, like a man starved, he wished he could die like this.

 Jud lifted her legs up and pulled her closer to him, until he was face to face with her cunt. It was then that he realised she wasn't wearing anything underneath her nightgown. All of this was for him, she was his personal place of worship, one that he could defile however he wanted.

“Give me strength to resist temptation“

His mouth quickly latched onto her clit, making her squirm, making him only grip her thighs harder.

“Father…“

“Did I tell you to stop praying?“

She moaned as he sucked onto her clit, every sigh and moan he got out of her only made him go faster. Heaven's choir was above him and who was he to deny her pleasure?

Jud let go of one of her thighs and his fingers found their way inside of her, making her gasp at the sudden fullness.

His mouth worked, licking up every part of her, while he pumped his fingers in and out of her.

“Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother m-most pure“

He looked up at her, a stuttering mess, all because of him. He was giving her exactly what she dreamed of, he was making her whole again. He went faster, holding onto her thigh looking for something to ground him. As if she knew, her hand entangled into his hair and pulled him closer, so desperate, so needy for his touch. He felt as if he was in heaven.

“pray for m-me and cover me with your…“

“With her what sweetheart?“ she whined at the sudden denial of her pleasure.

“…with your mantle“

“Good girl“

He went back with the same pace he had before, he knew she was close, her legs squeezed around him. Every part of her was pulling him closer, every part of her needed this more than any prayer he could offer. 

“I place my trust in Your mercy Lord-“

She moaned as a warm pleasure washed over her, she never felt this blessed. She needed this feeling of intoxication every day of her life. She needed him praying to her day, noon and night.  He let her ride out her orgasm on his face, his entire face wet with her, Jud placed a small kiss on her thigh and looked up at the beauty of Heaven before him.

“You're beautiful like this“