sai ★彡

"Yeah, got too many unpaid bills," he muttered. He grimaced slightly, and you could feel the discomfort radiating off him.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, gathering yourself, before turning your head toward him. "You can still participate in the bet," you spoke softly, your voice carrying a gentle warmth.

Frank looked back at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

But this time, you remained looking down, your gaze fixed somewhere on the floor between you. And he ,foolishly, used that moment to really look at you.

Your hair had gotten longer.

It was pulled back in a ponytail, the way you always wore it during shifts so it wouldn't get in the way. But the length of it now, the way it swept back from your face, the few shorter pieces that had escaped to frame your temples, he noticed all of it. And then he turned his head away immediately, before you could catch him staring.

"We could make a bet together," you said softly, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. "And the reward wouldn't be money."

Frank looked down at you properly now, his blue eyes piercing as they searched your face. His gaze held yours, unwavering, as the silence stretched between you.

"What would be the reward then?" he asked after a long moment.

"A kiss."

Frank's eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared beneath the strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead. His lips parted slightly, then closed, then parted again as he processed the word.

"A kiss," he repeated.

"Yup." You held his stare, refusing to back down even as your heart hammered in your chest. "If you win, you'll get a kiss from me." You tilted your head slightly, the picture of casual confidence even though your pulse was racing. "You can just tell me what you think made Westbridge shut down, and if you're right, you'll get a kiss."

You said it so simply, like it was nothing, like you weren't offering him something you'd both been wanting for nearly a year now.

Frank's eyes moved rapidly across your face, searching, trying to gauge if you were messing with him. He knew you, knew your sense of humor, knew how you liked to tease. But this felt different.

"So?" you asked, and you managed to look assured and unbothered. But your fingers, hidden from his view, were tapping rapidly against the top of the desk, giving away every ounce of nerves you pretended not to have.

Frank stared at you for another long moment. Then slowly, a grin spread across his face. The first real grin you'd seen from him since he came back. "Okay," he said. "You got a deal."

And you smiled, relieved. "Yeah?"

He smiled further at your smile, like he couldn't help it, like seeing you happy made him happy whether he wanted it to or not. "Yeah."

You nodded, smiling to yourself, feeling warmth spread through your chest. You were about to push off from the desk, about to go find a case to work on and give yourself a moment to process what just happened, when Frank's voice stopped you.

"You—" He cleared his throat, and when you glanced back at him, you saw color rising on his cheeks. He closed his eyes briefly, like he was embarrassed by what he was about to ask but couldn't stop himself. "You are talking about a—" He swallowed hard. "A kiss on the lips?"

The question hung in the air between you, and you could practically hear him cursing himself internally for how awkward it sounded.

You couldn't help your giggle.

"Yeah, Frank." You grinned, tilting your head as you watched him narrow his eyes, realization dawning that you were enjoying his embarrassment just a little too much. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. "I'm talking about a kiss on the lips."

His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shook his head slightly, a huff of embarrassed laughter escaping him. You grinned wider, delighted by his flustered reaction, by the way the confident doctor who used to charm everyone had been reduced to blushing over the word kiss.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and you caught the small smile he was trying to hide. "You're enjoying this way too much," he muttered.

"Maybe," you admitted, still smiling. "But you agreed. No takesies backsies."

Frank laughed and for a moment, he looked like the man you'd wanted to go on that date with ten months ago. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said softly, his eyes meeting yours again.

"Any more questions?" you asked, your grin turning playful. "I can send you a tutorial on how to kiss if you want, too."

Frank stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. The old Frank would have fired back with something smooth that would have made you blush instead. But this Frank just shook his head with a soft laugh.

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny," he mumbled, but the smile didn't leave his face.

You grinned, warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him actually smiling. Before you could overthink it, you reached out and squeezed his bicep.

"Just write your theories for the shutdown on some paper and slip it into my locker, yeah?" you asked, still smiling up at him.

Frank glanced down at your hand on his arm, his gaze lingering there for a moment. Then he looked back up at you and nodded slowly. "Yeah."

You smiled once more, squeezing his bicep again and then you turned and walked back, disappearing into one of the patient rooms without looking back.

Frank stared after you. For a long moment, he just stood there, leaning against the desk, his eyes fixed on the empty space where you'd been. His mind was struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

You wanted to kiss him.

That was still on the table. After everything, after ten months of silence, after he'd practically bailed on you, after you'd found out he was an addict and a thief, you still wanted to kiss him. He pressed his palm flat against the desk.

You wanted to kiss him.

The thought replayed itself over and over, each time feeling more impossible than the last. He'd ghosted you. Not intentionally, but effectively all the same.

He shook his head slowly.

He remembered that morning he asked you out so clearly. It had been early, barely 8am, and he'd stopped by your locker with a coffee. Your usual order, because of course he knew your usual order, he'd been paying attention for months by then. You'd turned around when he said your name, and the sight of you had hit him like it always did. Your hair was slightly messy from your commute and you'd looked so pretty it had just burst out of him.

"Dinner?" he'd said. Just like that. No smooth lead up, no charming preamble.

You'd held the coffee he handed you and stared at him for what felt like fifteen full seconds. "What?" was all you'd said.

And he'd stared back, mouth opening and closing like a fish, suddenly terrified by his own impulsiveness. But then he'd swallowed and asked again, properly this time. "Do you want to get dinner with me?"

"Dinner with you?" you'd repeated. He'd been ready to bolt at that point. But then your hand had shot out and grabbed his arm. "Hey, are you serious?" you'd asked. "You're not messing with me, right?"

He'd shaken his head immediately. "No."

And then you'd smiled. "I'd love to."

He'd grinned so hard his face hurt. "Yeah?"

You'd nodded again, practically bouncing on your toes, your excitement bleeding through even though you tried to play it cool. "Yes, yeah."

"I'll pick you up at 7pm, okay?" he'd asked, already planning it in his head, already thinking about where to take you, what to wear, how not to screw this up.

And you'd nodded so enthusiastically. "Yes, yeah. Okay. Seven."

He'd walked away from that locker on cloud nine.

He sighed to himself, shaking his head again in disbelief. He couldn't believe you wanted to kiss him.Something he'd dreamed about doing the entire time the day he asked you out. He remembered thinking about it for long stretches, letting his mind wander when he should have been focused on patients.

If he'd do it as he dropped you off after dinner. If he should go for it directly after the meal, while you were still sitting across from him, candlelight and all that. If he should stick with one kiss or let it turn into more. If you'd prefer soft and slow or something bolder. If he should grab your waist. If he should start with touching your waist and work his way up to your face.

It was like he was a teenage boy all over again.

He'd thought he had his game figured out by now. Thought he'd matured past the nervous pacing and overthinking. He'd asked girls out plenty of times before, thought he knew how this whole thing worked.

Nope. You played him down to a boy. Every time.

And now here he was, standing in the middle of the ER with a chart in his hands, realizing he was going to have to deal with this all over again.

God help him get through the rest of his shift, because he was sure he was going to stare at your lips all day. Every time you walked past, every time you spoke, every time you smiled, he'd be watching, waiting, thinking about that kiss he'd somehow managed to wrangle back into existence.

He pressed his lips together and forced his eyes back down to the chart in his hands. Focus. He needed to focus.

But before he could even finish the first sentence, a piece of paper appeared at his elbow.

He looked up to find Princess standing there, arms crossed, expression entirely too knowing. "Write your theories," she said flatly. "Now. Or you'll miss out on that kiss."

Frank stared at her, mouth opening slightly in confusion. And then he turned his head slightly and met Perlah's stare from across the nurses' station. She was leaning against the counter, a massive grin spread across her face. She'd clearly caught the entire conversation as well.

Frank just shook his head. "Can you guys like not listen in on other people's conversations for once in your life?" he mumbled, reaching for the paper.

"No," Princess said suddenly from right behind him.

He jumped slightly, when had she moved?, and shot her a look over his shoulder. She just raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered, and walked away. He sighed, turning back to the paper in his hands.

"Get it right!" Perlah shouted after him, her voice carrying across the ER with zero subtlety. He heard her immediately start gossiping with Princess again. He sighed again and ran his free hand through his hair as he walked back toward his computer.

Get it right. As if he needed the pressure.

Throughout the day, Frank was a man on a mission.

He ran from person to person, cornering anyone who looked like they might have even a scrap of knowledge about Westbridge. Nurses. Techs. A bewildered janitor who just wanted to mop the hallway in peace. He even asked Garcia.

She'd stared at him for a long moment, her expression caught between confusion and delight, before a slow grin spread across her face. "Oh my God," she'd said, voice dripping with amusement. "You're actually trying to win that kiss, aren't you?"

Frank had opened his mouth to deny it, but she'd already started laughing. A laugh that made everyone around them turn and look.

"You're pathetic," she'd informed him cheerfully. "I love it. No, I don't know anything about Westbridge, but please keep running around. This is the best entertainment I've had all shift."

He'd sighed, shaken his head, and walked away to the sound of her still laughing behind him.

Now he found himself back at the nurses' station, leaning against the counter with his elbows, feeling slightly defeated. He'd talked to a dozen people and had exactly nothing to show for it.

"Dana," he called, and she raised her head from the paperwork she'd been buried in.

"Yeah?" she said, her tone distracted but not unkind.

"You got any idea what happened to Westbridge?"

Dana considered him for a moment, then shook her head. "No, kid. Otherwise I'd be winning that bet myself." She tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Why you asking?"

Frank straightened up, pushing himself off the counter. "No reason," he said quickly, too quickly, judging by the way her eyebrow shot up.

He looked around the ER, scanning faces, looking for you. It was habit by now, this constant awareness of where you were in the room. He always knew where you were. Always made sure to see you at least once an hour, even if it was just a glance across the department.

But he hadn't seen you in at least two.

His chest tightened slightly as he scanned again. Nothing. No sign of you anywhere.

"Think she's in the stairwell," Dana said quietly, and Frank turned back to her. She nodded toward the door leading to the stairs, her expression softening. "Had a rough patient."

Frank's heart dropped.

You rarely went to the stairwell. Like, truly rarely. It was your spot, he knew, the place you went when things got really bad, when you needed to be alone. But usually, you came to him first. Usually, you found him in the middle of whatever he was doing and just stood there until he noticed, until he pulled you aside and let you decompress.

But that dynamic had been broken now, hadn't it? Ten months of silence had probably erased that right along with everything else. He hesitated, his feet rooted to the floor.

Dana watched him, reading the conflict on his face. "She'll want you there," she said softly. "Go."

Frank hesitated one more second, then turned on his heels and walked toward the stairwell door.

The stairwell was quiet, the way it always was. He stepped inside and immediately looked down. And there you were.

Sitting on the lowest staircase, your back against the wall, your knees pulled up slightly. You weren't crying, which was something, but you looked tired. Frank hesitated at the top, his hand on the railing. Then he stepped down softly, one stair at a time, until he was just behind you.

You turned your head and met his eyes."Hi," you said softly, and you smiled.

You scooted slightly, making room, and he didn't hesitate this time. He stepped down and sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

"Hey," he finally spoke, his voice quiet. "You okay?"

"Rough patient," was all you said softly. You didn't go into details, and he didn't need you to. He knew that sometimes you just needed to sit with someone, not talk about it.

You scooted closer and put your head on his shoulder. He put his arm around your back, his hand resting gently on your far shoulder, and started brushing softly up and down.

You sighed. It was barely audible, but Frank heard it clearly. And when he noticed it was a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't believe that he was still capable of making you feel this way.

You pressed closer, your weight shifting slightly against him, and he welcomed it.

"I missed you," you suddenly spoke, your voice muffled slightly by his shoulder. You kept your head there, hidden, finally having the peace of not worrying about seeing his facial expressions or getting nervous from his pretty face.

Frank's hand, which had been brushing softly against your back, traveled higher. Until his fingers reached the back of your head and started threading gently through your hair. "Missed you too," he mumbled. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

"I'm sorry."

The words were quiet you almost missed them. You stayed still, barely breathing, to hear him better.

"For what I did," he continued, his voice even softer now. "With the date." He swallowed hard, and you felt the movement against your cheek. "I—" He stopped. Started again. "And for lying about the pills. And for stealing."

And as he said it, you both knew what he meant. You'd worked countless shifts together. Treated countless patients. Every pill you'd ever handed out, every medication you'd administered, some of those had been stolen first by him.

You'd thought about that over the weeks since everything came out. Thought about it a lot, actually. But mostly, mostly, you'd thought about it with sadness, that you hadn't noticed, that he'd been suffering right next to you and you'd been completely blind to it.

You lifted your head off his shoulder now, needing to see him. His blue eyes met yours, and what you found there made your heart break. It was pure fear. Fear of your reaction, fear that this would be the moment you finally turned away.

"You don't need to apologize to me."

But Frank shook his head immediately. "Yeah, I do." His voice cracked slightly. "I betrayed your trust. I used our—" He hesitated, the word catching in his throat. "Our relationship to steal from patients."

He didn't say friendship. You noticed that immediately. He said relationship, like he knew it had always been more than that, like he understood that what was between you couldn't be reduced to something so simple.

You stared at him for a long moment, taking in the way his eyes searched yours. And you realized that maybe he needed this. "Okay," you said softly. "Thank you for apologizing, Frank."

His shoulders sagged slightly, almost imperceptibly, relief so profound you could feel it radiating off him. You watched him for a while longer. Then you looked back down at the steps below you, breaking the intensity of the moment just slightly.

"So," you said, a hint of playfulness creeping into your voice. "How's your bet going?"

And Frank let out the biggest sigh in the entire world. It was dramatic and exaggerated. "That bad?" you laughed.

He just shook his head slowly, mournfully, his expression so defeated. "That bad," he confirmed with another heavy sigh.

You smiled softly as he kept talking, apparently needing to unload. "I've asked everyone," he said, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. "Literally everyone. Nurses, techs, that janitor who definitely thought I was crazy. I even asked Garcia."

You raised an eyebrow. "Garcia?"

"Who gave me a bunch of crap," he confirmed, pushing a hand through his hair to fix it, a nervous habit you recognized.

You started giggling and Frank smiled. He watched you as you calmed down, your giggles fading, your shoulders still shaking slightly with the last remnants of amusement. And then you finally turned your head, met his eyes and froze.

Because he was staring at you with that soft smile still playing on his lips, the one that said he'd been watching you this whole time and enjoying every second of it.

You got shy immediately. He saw the way your eyes widened slightly, the way you broke eye contact and looked away like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Frank's smile widened. Turned cocky, even.

Because yeah. Yeah, he was still capable of this. Still capable of turning you shy, of making you look away first, of having some small effect on you after everything. After ten months and a destroyed reputation and more shame than he knew what to do with, he could still do this.

You kept your gaze fixed on the stairs, pretending to be very interested in the concrete, and Frank let himself enjoy the moment.

"Your hair's longer," he spoke finally.

His hand came up to your ponytail, tentative at first. When you didn't pull away, he gently wrapped a strand around his finger, twirling it slowly, watching the way the light caught the ends.

You smiled. "Yeah. Thought I'd grow it out a bit." You tilted your head slightly, watching him watch your hair. "You like it?"

He kept twirling, seemingly mesmerized. "Love it," he mumbled.

You smiled wider, then let your eyes drift to his hair, perfectly styled and gelled back. You raised an eyebrow.

"Yours is fully gelled back," you observed. "What happened to letting your hair breathe?" You were teasing, and he knew it. And in response he lightly tugged on your ponytail, just enough to make you sway slightly, and you giggled.

He let go of your hair and reached up to touch his own, fingers running lightly over the styled strands. "You don't like it?" he asked, and his voice was quieter now.

Your smile softened immediately. "I like it," you assured him gently. "Makes you look really serious." You tilted your head, letting your grin turn playful again. "Which I know you're not."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Hey, I'm serious. I can be serious."

You just looked at him, letting the silence stretch. "Frank." He held your stare, chin lifted slightly, like he was daring you to disagree. You grinned. "Sure. If that makes you feel better."

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head as if deeply wounded by your disbelief. But there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, betraying him completely.

"I'm just joking," you said, your voice gentler now. "You look as handsome as ever."

You raised your hands slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to. He didn't. Your palms cupped his face, warm against his skin, and you felt him exhale softly at the contact. One hand stayed there, resting against his cheek, while the other moved up toward his hairline.

His eyes stayed locked on yours as you carefully picked two strands near his forehead and pulled them down gently, freeing them from the gel. You rubbed the strands between your fingers, working the product out until they were loose. Then you curled them lightly around your finger, watching them fall into place, softer now. You let your hand drop back down, but the other remained on his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his skin.

"Hm," you murmured, surveying your work with a small satisfied smile. "That's better."

Frank stayed silent. His eyes hadn't left your face. He was staring at you with an intensity that made the stairwell feel suddenly very small.

You shifted slightly under the weight of his gaze. "What?" you asked, suddenly self conscious.

"Nothing," he said, but his voice was rough.

You knew that tone, knew it meant the exact opposite of nothing. "Frank." You sighed. "Spill it."

He held your stare, those blue eyes boring into yours. For a long moment, he just looked at you, at your face, your eyes, your lips, back to your eyes. "You're making it really hard to wait to kiss you."

You froze. You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Then your hand dropped from his face into your lap, and you just sat there, staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

Frank started chuckling. Partly at your reaction, which was, admittedly, pretty adorable, but partly because the tension had grown so thick between you that he needed some kind of release, before he did something impulsive, like kiss you right here, right now, bet be damned.

"You can't say stuff like that," you finally managed, rubbing a hand over your face, trying to compose yourself.

He raised his eyebrows, outrage coloring his features. "I can't say things like that?" He gestured between the two of you, voice pitching higher with disbelief. "You're the one who started this whole thing!"

You started giggling. "This whole thing? What's that supposed to mean?"

"The kissing thing!" Frank said, and immediately wanted to die.

Because yeah. Yeah, he'd just said that. Out loud. Like some kind of flustered teenager who'd never done this before. He could feel heat creeping up his neck, could see the way your giggles intensified at his expense.

"You know," you managed as you kept giggling, "we don't have to do it if you don't want to."

Frank turned his head toward you fully, slightly more serious. "I want to," he said sincerely. "Definitely want to."

He smiled, and you smiled right back.

Then you stood up, brushing off the back of your scrubs casually, like you hadn't just turned his entire world upside down in the span of ten minutes.

"Good," you said, looking down at him with that playful glint back in your eyes. "Well, I hope you bet right, then." You smiled, and then you stretched your hands out toward him.

Frank stared at them blankly for a moment, confused. What were you—oh.

You were trying to help him up.

His back. He hadn't even thought about it when he sat down next to you, hadn't considered the consequences of perching on concrete steps for who knows how long. But you had.

And suddenly he could feel the insecurity biting at him. The disgust curling in his stomach at himself, at all the ways he was damaged and not worthy of someone who remembered things like this.

But, you just leaned forward, grabbed his hands yourself and waited. He pushed up, using your grip for balance, and felt the familiar twinge in his lower back as he straightened. You let go of his hands immediately, as soon as he was up, pretending not to see the slight pained grimace he couldn't quite hide.

You just turned toward the door, casual as anything. "Want to work on a case together?" you asked, already walking back toward the ER.

Frank fell into step beside you, matching your pace. "Yeah." He glanced at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It's my turn this time, though."

You'd always had this thing. When one of you got tired of working solo, you'd grab a case together. And you alternated, each time, whoever hadn't picked last time got to choose the next one.

"I remember," you said, smiling at him.

The two of you worked for a couple more hours, pulling you in opposite directions more often than not. A trauma here, a consult there, a patient crashing in between. You barely got to talk about anything else, just quick glances across the department, brief touches when you passed each other in the hallway.

At some point, Frank had gathered enough intel to form a theory.

He'd pieced together fragments from a dozen different conversations and convinced himself he'd cracked it. He'd written it down on that blank piece of paper, folded it carefully, and slipped it into your locker.

Then he'd spent the rest of his shift praying it was right.

The two of you, in your busy days, completely missed the gathering that happened near the end of the shift. A cluster of nurses and residents huddled around someone's phone. The real reason for the Westbridge shutdown had been exposed. A cyberattack.

Frank caught the tail end of the conversation as he walked past, and the color drained from his face so fast he felt dizzy.

Damn it. He had it completely wrong.

From that moment on, it was better to avoid him.

Most people could sense it. He was pissed. Terribly, deeply pissed. At himself, at the situation, at the cruel twist of fate that had dangled a kiss in front of him and then snatched it away.

At the end of the day, Frank walked toward your locker in the slowest steps possible. Each one felt heavier than the last, dragging against the floor like they didn't want to get there. He sighed to himself, running a hand through his hair, the strands you'd freed from the gel now falling naturally across his forehead.

And there you were.

Standing by your locker, holding his paper. The one with his wrong theory written on it. You hadn't opened it yet. "Walk me home?" you asked, smiling.

Frank summoned every ounce of acting ability he possessed and put on an arrogant smile. "Yeah, sure," he said smoothly, like he hadn't just lost the thing he wanted most. Like he was totally fine with waiting a little longer for that kiss.

You smiled at his reaction, turning to grab your jacket from the locker. Frank watched you for a moment, then stepped forward.

He helped you into your jacket, his hands settling on your shoulders briefly before sliding down to the buttons. He started fastening them slowly, starting from the bottom and working his way up. You watched his face, trying to gauge whether he'd gotten it right. When he reached the top button, he shot you a confident smile. He wouldn't have to keep the mask up for long, anyway. He just had to make it through the walk and to your front door.

The two of you headed out into the cool night air. You chitchatted about dinner plans, what you might make, whether you'd order in, if there was anything good in your fridge.

Soon enough, you were at your front door.

You reached into your bag and pulled out the paper. The paper that would determine whether tonight ended with a kiss or not.

"So." You smiled up at him, trying to keep your voice light. "Did you guess it right?"

Frank stood on the step below you, but he was still at your height. He grinned at you. Weakly, maybe, but a grin nonetheless. While nodding his head, he said, "Guess you'll have to see for yourself."

You hesitated when you saw the way his eyelashes flickered when he moved his head. You knew that tell. Every time he spoke with a grin and nodded his head like that, it was a lie. You'd learned that about him months ago, back when you were just coworkers who noticed things about each other.

"Power supply unit failure," you read aloud.

Frank nodded, shuffling his feet against the ground below. His eyes didn't quite meet yours.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting the silence stretch.

"Guess I got that wrong," he grimaced finally, a self deprecating smile tugging at his mouth. "Good thing I didn't bet any money."

You raised an eyebrow. "Was the loss here not just as big?"

You were teasing him. Obviously. Poking fun at his deflection, at the way he was trying to make this about money when you both knew what was really on the line.

But he didn't realize you were teasing. Or maybe he did, and he was worried that you were jokingly hiding your real feelings. He held your eye contact, his blue eyes steady and serious. "No, it's bigger."

You tilted your head, trying to gauge if he was lying. Trying to read him the way you always could. But his gaze didn't waver. He meant it. Losing the chance to kiss you was bigger than any amount of money.

You looked back down at the paper in your hands. Squeezed it slightly. Your fist balled up tightly around the edges, crinkling the corner, as you made a decision for yourself. Quickly, before you could overthink it, you stuffed the paper back into your bag.

You looked up at him. He'd followed your hand movements with his eyes, watching you shove the evidence away, but he still wasn't looking at you directly, like he couldn't bear to see disappointment on your face.

And then you leaned in.

It was a bit awkward, you were too shy to touch him to close the distance properly. But you were confident enough to press your lips against his. A kiss that lasted barely five seconds before you pulled away.

Mostly because Frank didn't react. He just stood there, frozen, staring at you like he was trying to catch up with what had just happened.

You fell back onto your feet. "Thought you deserved a reward for trying," you said, smiling weakly. Trying to hide the fact that he hadn't kissed you back.

Frank stared at you for another long moment, his eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. And then he finally spoke. "That's it?"

Your head snapped up, meeting his eyes. "What?" you asked, breathless, still reeling from what you'd done.

"That's all I get?" He tilted his head slightl.

"I—what?" you asked again, still unable to quite catch up.

He smiled at your shy reaction, the way you were suddenly flustered, suddenly uncertain, after being so bold just moments ago. And then his hands came up and framed your face and his lips were back on yours.

This time, you were the one who took a second to realize what was happening.

He was actually kissing you. Really kissing you.

You leaned in immediately, closing the small distance until you were chest to chest, your hands flying up to his biceps and gripping them tightly. His lips moved against yours and they felt just as nice as you'd always imagined they would. Better, even.

Frank couldn't help the smile that crept up his face when he noticed the taste of your lips. Vanilla. Your chapstick. You'd planned and hoped for this.

The thought made him smile so wide he had to break the kiss, his lips curving against yours until they couldn't stay connected anymore. You were grinning as well, couldn't stop if you tried. Frank kept his eyes closed for a moment, just making sure this was real. Then he opened them, needing to know if you were okay with what just happened.

You were more than okay. "Do you feel better about your reward now?" you spoke, grinning up at him.

Frank joined you in smiling, his thumbs brushing softly against your cheekbones. "Almost," he mumbled.

And then he leaned in and kissed you again.

This one was longer and slower. Your heart beat frantically against your ribs, pure happiness flooding through every part of you. You would've felt embarrassed about how hard it was pounding, if you hadn't been able to feel Frank's heartbeat against yours at the same time, just as fast, just as overwhelmed.

When he finally pulled back, your noses were still touching, neither of you willing to create any more distance than absolutely necessary.

"Still not enough," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, "but it'll do for now."

You smiled even wider, if that was possible. Your hands were still gripping his biceps, your body still pressed against his, and you had never felt more alive.

He watched you for a second, his blue eyes soft for you, before a grin spread across his face. "You knew I wasn't going to get it right," he said, his tone teasing. "You just wanted an excuse to kiss me."

He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing softly across your cheek, lingering there like he couldn't stop touching you. His confidence was creeping back, that familiar cockiness you'd missed so much.

"So?" you said, smiling up at him, squeezing his biceps for emphasis. "Are you complaining?"

The loneliness was penance for what he’d done, and he’d serve his sentence willingly. He didn’t deserve forgiveness. Steve Rogers might have been a good man, once, but he believed that good man had died when she had. There just hadn’t been a body. Only a lonely ghost, destined to haunt a tiny cabin in a far-off spot in a forest people didn’t venture into all too often. But it was better that way.

Steve felt that the forest responded to him in a way it might not if he had been a regular man. But there was nothing regular about him, not anymore. The leaves seemed to sigh when he walked under them, the moss seemed to curl tighter to logs and trunks. The tiniest animals didn’t skitter through the underbrush quite so much as they did when he wasn’t hunting as a creature. The forest had folded him into its great, green embrace, and welcomed him.

He was lucky that people didn’t tend to travel so deeply that they came upon him. It happened sometimes—some hikers just believed that they had a natural compass as an extra sense—and he'd reluctantly help them back to a path that would take them far away again. Three years in the woods had worn away at his social skills, yes, but Steve had been more than ready to adopt a more standoffish persona. He couldn’t take care to be too friendly lest people thought it an invitation to wind their way back to his home, to poke their noses in where they didn’t belong.

He remained blunt, to the point. He’d turn away, broad shoulders brushing tree branches, without so much as a goodbye. His rifle would bump against his back as he walked. His general appearance, rugged in every sense of the word from the flannel shirts to the dirty boots, the hair he’d grown out to match the beard, along with his hulking height and stature, was another helpful deterrent.

Despite his coldness to humans, he wasn’t an outright savage. He’d take the time to free animals from the gruesome traps some hunters would set up, saving them from the rusty snap of metal jaws. And Steve was also a very, very good shot. If an animal was beyond saving, he wouldn’t miss, and he’d make their suffering end as cleanly as he could. Inhumane traps like that would be taken apart and disposed of. They had no place in what he’d come to know as his forest.

The smaller creatures, mice and birds, might not have feared him, but the larger ones certainly did. Whether he liked it or not, Steve was king of the forest, a mantle that weighed on his shoulders like cement blocks. So, he’d spend his time in his cabin whittling figurines or reading one of the same four paperbacks that had survived the journey, so yellowed and worn that they looked decades old. He’d hunt and fish and lay in the dark, swim in the lake in the summer months. But always, he was alone, with nothing but his own cruel memory as company.

You very much loved your job. Being a freelance photographer had always been your dream, your work just good enough to pay your bills. You were still coming into your own. Engagements and gender reveals were your biggest money makers, but you thought you liked street photography the best. You even had a decent following on social media, with people inquiring about booking your services enough that you got to travel over to the neighbouring states pretty frequently.

But your portfolio was starting to look a little bare, a little boring, of late. Street photography was more difficult when you kept venturing into small towns without so much as a city square. Big cities just weren’t in your budget right now, especially not when you’d just signed a six month lease on an apartment that really shouldn’t have cost as much as it did, but the string of business you had on the docket was all in the same area, and you’d figured—why not?

You hadn’t been in town very long, but you’d already surmised that people much preferred outdoor activities here rather than cheese and wine tastings, upscale clubs, and hot yoga. No, it was much more down-to-earth here. There were three separate tackle and bait shops, multiple sporting goods stores, and grills and lawn mowers lined the outside of the hardware store like trophies.

It wasn’t necessarily your vibe—you’d never been the type of girl to enjoy hiking, let alone running—but it was interesting, that was for sure. On your first day there, you’d seen four separate men wearing the same exact plaid shirt. Your online following was a larger total than the town’s census. But in a town this small, it wasn’t too long before you heard something that piqued your interest, just a little bit.

You’d been in the town’s most popular coffee shop, snuggled into the blue and orange booth in the corner. The amenities might have been basic, but they still knew how to foam up a latte, so you weren’t complaining. Editing photos was a more tedious task, but it was something you enjoyed the rhythm of. Usually you had headphones with you, but you’d forgotten to charge them, so you listened to the idle chatter around you, instead.

“Jacoby swore it was the size of a brown bear. Said it looked him right in the eye, too. But it took him back to the path like it knew he was lost.”

“Huh, surprised it didn’t take a chunk out of him first.”

“I don’t know, I’ve heard about this wolf before. Seems sort of friendly, even though it’s always alone. Not the first time I’ve heard of a hiker being brought back to the trail like that.”

You dialled into the conversation when you heard about this wolf. Your finger slowed on your trackpad as you listened to the men at the table across from yours.

“Leave it to Jacoby to get himself lost like that. Ain’t his dad a hunter? He should know directions by now.”

You grimaced at your screen. You’d much rather hear of this benevolent creature than how much of an idiot this Jacoby guy was. One of the men laughed. “Yeah, well, you could hand Jacoby a map and a compass and he still wouldn’t know how to find his own ass.”

It looked like that was the end of the story. You sipped the dregs of your latte, the stoneware mug still warm in your hand. This set of photos needed to be complete to send to the client by tomorrow, and you weren’t going to get any of it done by listening to small town gossip. But then…

“Anyway, I thought there were no wolves around here. Foxes and coyotes, yeah, but not wolves.”

“Well, like I said, every time I’ve heard about it, hikers have said it’s by itself. Must not have a pack or something.” A pause, and then a chuckle. “Hey, maybe it’s just the big, bad, wolf.”

Suddenly the perfect shot seared itself in your mind with a clarity you couldn’t even hope to capture with the perfect focus on your lens. A beautiful wolf, maybe pure black or white, staring directly into the camera. Maybe it would be standing on a big boulder, looking regal. Sunlight would dapple its fur, and moss and ivy would be crawling up the trees around it…

You’d certainly never taken a photo like that before. But wouldn’t it be stunning in your portfolio? You didn’t even think about it that long, your mind already made up. That would be the photograph of a lifetime, and you were going to be the artist.

You almost shut your laptop in your excitement, wanting to get up at that exact moment and go venturing out into the woods. But your equipment was at home, and you really did need to finish editing.

You’d mostly tuned the men out, an exhilarating hum in your bones as you kept working on your edits. You weren’t really listening when they continued on to say, “D’you think that guy who lives out there’s ever encountered it?”

“Nah, probably not. He would’ve shot it by now, don't you think?”

“Eh, I guess. My uncle met him once. Scary son of a bitch. Maybe the wolf hasn’t crossed him ‘cause it knows it would get stuffed and put on display. That dude’s probably into taxidermy and all that shit.”

All you really paid attention to was that there was a man living in the woods, and he’d probably be the perfect person to ask about this wolf. It sounded like a brilliant plan. And if he did turn out to be some sort of creep, you had pepper spray somewhere in an old purse. You’d be just fine. Besides, all artists had to take risks at least once in their careers, right?

A more practical person might have stopped at one of the many sporting goods stores and gotten some things to prepare, like appropriate shoes, perhaps a backpack and compass, a sturdy water bottle, and pants with enough pockets to keep essential items like a flashlight or satellite phone on hand.

Yes, a more practical person just might do that.

You, however, were much more of a ‘fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants’ type of girl. You didn’t know where this man in the woods was located, nor the wolf, but you figured that you’d just go with whoever you found first. Surely it wouldn’t be that hard to find the man, at least. Couldn’t you just look to the sky and find smoke curling from a chimney or something? It was a bit muggy out for late spring, so you selected your favourite white dress from the closet. You braided your hair to keep it out of your face. Then you gathered up your car keys, your camera bag, and your hopes and dreams, and headed out.

Your cellphone dictated the directions to you. It was a decent drive outside town limits, halfway up a hill, but eventually your tires crunched over the gravel of a very small parking area. A sign that really needed to be repainted was tacked to one of the trees. ‘Silverlake Woods Hiking Trail A’ was inscribed on the board in faded white paint. You supposed there must be hiking trails B and C somewhere too, but A sounded like a good first step.

The sun was still high in the sky as your shoes scuffed stray gravel onto the path. You were absolutely sure, as you navigated the dips and curves of the trail, listening to the cheerful birdsong, that you’d find some sort of success. At the very least, you’d be able to practice taking nature shots.

Steve was very used to the familiar sounds of the forest. He might not have known what day of the week it was, but he could tell the time of day based on the sounds. There was a rabbit snuffling around the undergrowth a little ways away. He could hear its body moving, slow hops as it searched for something to eat. He could tell without seeing it. As it was, Steve was laying on his back in the minuscule kitchenette trying to fix the sink. Water had been smacking him in the forehead in a slow drip for the last ten minutes. Living in seclusion like this, he’d gotten pretty good at fixing problems when they came up. He only ventured into town for things once or twice a year, under strict emergency.

The wrench clicked every time he twisted it, the sound blending in with all the others he could hear—the birds, the rabbit, the leaves brushing together in the breeze. The snap of a twig…

He smelled you at the same moment he heard the twig. Floral, but manufactured, not natural. Perfume. Under it, something clean and powdery. Deodorant, maybe. His whole body went stiff. The water was dripping more sluggishly now, and he didn’t even flinch at the next bead of it that landed and slid sideways down his temple and into his hair.

The scent of you underneath the products you used was softer, sweeter, but not too much. Not in an overwhelming way. More like the flavour of strawberry cream. He could taste it in the back of his throat.

As alarming as it was to Steve that someone was getting close to his territory, he was more concerned that you seemed to be alone. He couldn’t smell anyone else. Sure, there were plenty of women in town that were seasoned hikers. But usually he’d smell bug spray, along with rations carried along in a backpack. He’d hear the buzz of a walkie talkie or the murmur of a partner. Surely you weren’t just ambling along without the proper preparations. You were still on one of the paths, Steve thought, since his cabin was a decent way off from any of them. Realistically, you should pass right by him. But still, he was tense as he listened to your distant footsteps, and the occasional click of something he couldn’t quite name.

You were finding yourself to be quite delighted by the forest. Maybe sandals hadn’t been the right footwear—there were a surprising number of fallen logs and broken branches about—but the paths were pretty easy to navigate in broad daylight. Well, maybe that was a bit of a stretch, because the sun wasn’t as strong as it could have been. The trees were all thick with leaves, blocking out the sun for the most part unless you happened upon a clearing. The lack of light made the forest cooler than you’d imagined as well, the trees acting as a never-ending awning.

Your camera bumped against your sternum as you moved. You’d gotten some nice shots already, wild berry bushes and pretty birds that you’d passed by on your walk. Still no sign of the wolf or the man, but you weren’t worried. You hummed a little tune as you continued on. A flash of brown and white in your periphery had you turning your head to the side, squinting through a thicket of bushes.

A deer nibbled daintily on a leaf, its ears twitching as it kept a constant scan for danger. Quietly, you adjusted the lens of your camera and zoomed in as much as you could without sacrificing clarity. The click of the shutter made the deer glance your way, but it didn’t deem you as a threat. You looked at the photo and frowned. It was a little too far to be a great shot.

Carefully, you stepped off the path and onto the wild grass. It tickled your ankles as you navigated around the bushes. You just wanted to get a bit closer. The deer kept eating its lunch, unperturbed. You kept stopping every few feet to take more photos. You wondered if you could get close enough to let it sniff you. Maybe you could get a shot of its glossy eyes, its soft snout. Maybe it would even let you feed it.

It felt like a scene from a fairytale. The deer would go still every time your steps were too loud, but it hadn’t decided to run from your approaching figure, not yet. You hunched your shoulders inwards, trying to appear smaller, less scary. You were close enough now to extend a hand.

But this wasn’t a fairytale. Fairytales wouldn’t have your foot catching on a tree root as you took another step, wrenching your ankle and sending you down to the forest floor, hard.

The shriek of pain was distinctively human, not animal. “Fuck,” Steve muttered under his breath. He laid under the sink for a second longer. He hadn’t even seen you yet, but he’d already decided you’d be possibly the stupidest hiker he’d ever have the displeasure of meeting.

He could still hear you rustling about in the underbrush, but he let your scent guide him as he ambled out of the cabin’s safety. You were far enough that you wouldn’t have seen the cabin, but he knew you’d stepped off the trail.

He saw the white of your dress first and almost choked on his breath. He hadn’t seen a woman in a sundress in… Well, it had been a long time. But he couldn’t appreciate the sight of you, because what idiot thought that was appropriate to wear out in the wilderness?

You were sitting with your knees close to your chest, your hands fluttering around one of your ankles. Steve did a double take at your choice of footwear. Sandals with so many straps, they might as well have been made solely of string. Something glinted in the grass beside you. Your scent was a little more cloying now—well, the perfume was—but he was close enough to pick up other things, too. The faintest hint of coffee, something more chemically like air freshener. You were quite a pitiful thing.

He crossed his arms over his chest, stopping a few feet from you. Alright, it was time to get your sorry ass up and out of here before night fell. The walk back would take you at least an hour. “Are you okay?” He asked, voice gruff after days of silence.

When you turned your head to look up at him, only just noticing that he’d arrived, Steve felt a jolt down his spine. You might have been the dumbest person around, but God…

You were beautiful.

It had been years since he’d been around people socially, but even still, he didn’t think he’d ever seen a girl as pretty as you. Except… Well, he didn’t want to dwell on her right now. He should focus on getting you out of here, not the shape of your eyes or the way loose strands of your hair fell in wisps around your face.

“I don’t know…” You said, looking down and extending your foot a little, wincing as you did. “I fell and twisted my ankle pretty bad.”

If you were afraid, you didn’t show it. He couldn’t detect any traces of fear from you, not the acrid tang of it at the back of his throat, nor the sound of an elevated heartbeat. “Can you stand?” He made no move to help you.

Your fingers tangled in the grass before you pushed yourself upwards, wobbling when you did. You took one limping step forward, towards him—not what he wanted—before you let out a hiss of pain. “I don’t think I can walk on it. It hurts too much.”

Already, Steve could see that it was beginning to swell. He bit his tongue. Even if he helped you back to the main road, supporting your weight, you probably wouldn’t be able to drive. And it was going to get dark soon, at least here in the forest. The trees blocked out so much light that it would seem like nighttime before long. He had a decision to make, and he wasn’t pleased about it, not one bit.

It was time to see how stupid you actually were.

“I can wrap it for you, if you let me help you back to my cabin.” Even though he was offering help, his tone was short, more of a bark than a sincere offer.

But you only smiled at him, expression sunny enough to make up for the fading light. “Oh, would you? That would be great, thanks. Oh, could you just grab my camera for me? I dropped it when I fell, but I think it’s okay.” You pointed at the grass. That must have been the glinting object he’d seen.

He stepped closer to you to pick up the camera, and you took it from him gratefully, slipping the strap over your neck. You really weren’t afraid at all. It was like you had no sense for danger. He could be a murderer for all you knew, bringing you back to a cabin fitted with a dungeon to keep you in. But here you were, optimistic as anything. You made him think of a dumb bunny, one who would be so focused on a delicious patch of foliage that it wouldn’t notice the predator standing right behind it with its teeth bared. But there was nothing Steve could do about it now, as he slipped an arm around your waist to help you walk. He did his best to ignore how thin and flimsy the fabric of your dress was as you limped alongside him. It would have been easier to just hoist you up in his arms—you were tiny, compared to him—but that was a line he refused to cross.

There might have been no path to Steve’s cabin, but he knew the way so well, he could remember exactly when to sidestep hidden holes dug by animals or tricky thickets that could have caught on your dress. “So, you must be the guy that lives here, right? What’s your name?” You asked, staring up at him quizzically.

He avoided your gaze. He didn’t want to be friendly with you. He wanted to send you on your way, as soon as possible. He didn’t answer, hoping you’d drop it. But you poked at his side with nimble fingers, as if he was a good friend. “I’ll tell you mine first,” you added, taking his silence as him playing coy.

He was about to refute it, to tell you that he didn’t care what your name was, because he’d never see you again once he sent you packing, but you said it anyway, and it stuck to his brain like wet paper. Like your name was important. It didn’t matter, he thought, trying to dismiss it. But still, it echoed like a sweet song in his ears. “So, yours?” That time he did make the mistake of looking down at you, catching you batting your lashes and flashing him a toothy grin.

“It’s Steve,” he said, teeth gritted.

“Steve,” you repeated. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He held back a snort of disbelief. You might have told him your name, but you were still very much a dumb bunny to him. You let out a soft gasp then, looking forward. The cabin was in view.

It was nothing special, Steve thought. It was made from trees he’d cut himself, which he thought was evident. The roof was uneven, the shingles varying shades of brown. The door had a gap at the bottom, which let in bugs in the summer, and bits of snow in the winter. The water tank was tucked away at the back. The chimney jutted out like an unseemly splinter. But it was home, as dishevelled as it was.

The wind whistled, blowing your hair across your face and rattling the trees. Steve could taste it then, the impending storm. And when it stormed, the paths in and around the forest tended to flood. His arm around you tightened in frustration. You were now probably going to be stuck here for the next twenty-four hours.

“Wait, stop…” You halted as you said it, letting go of Steve and grabbing at your camera. “The lighting’s not great, but… I can fix it in post. I need to capture this.”

You held your camera up, adjusting the settings, before snapping a few photos. He watched you with a slight grimace. He didn’t particularly like that you were capturing his private space on camera, but he doubted you’d share them around. You’d probably look at them later and decide that it was an ugly little house not worth remembering. When you were satisfied, you let the camera hang against your chest again and snaked your arm back around Steve, allowing him to lead you to the door.

It swung open with ease, and you were already in the matchbox living room. The ceilings were a little low. Steve maybe had six inches between him and the light fixture, a yellow tinted shade that did nothing to brighten up the room and everything to sallow it. The couch was really a futon of checkered red and cream. The side table was little more than a slant of wood fitted over an empty barrel. There was no television, just a hand crank radio. Puzzles that had never been completed were in their boxes, shoved onto the first two shelves of the scratched bookcase. The rug was an old throw blanket. Steve didn’t even have a table and chairs, the space was so small.

He deposited you on the futon and took the three steps down the tiniest hallway in the world, to the bathroom that resembled the size of one you’d find in an airplane. The first aid kit was a battered green tin that he’d hung on the door, which he grabbed now in one big hand. Its contents clattered together as he walked back to you. You’d scooted yourself to one corner of the futon and swung both of your legs up onto the other end.

“Those shoes look like deathtraps.” He muttered, flicking open the tin’s clasps and settling it on the side table.

“But they’re cute.” You said, admiring your impractical footwear.

“The wildlife doesn’t really give a crap about ‘cute’. Take it off.”

You did as ordered, reaching to start undoing what seemed to be a very complicated series of twists and loops. Once the sorry excuse for a shoe was gone from your foot, Steve’s hands hovered over your ankle. “May I?”

You nodded. “Go ahead.”

He was gentle as he assessed the damage. It was probably a sprain. Definitely swollen, but it wasn’t the worst injury he’d seen. Still, it would probably do you well to keep the pressure off. It wasn’t long before he was wrapping your ankle, his movements methodical and practiced. He was no stranger to injury. It had taken him quite awhile to adjust to living out here, and he still suffered the forest’s bite on occasion. When he finished with you, he closed the tin. “Feel alright?”

You wiggled your toes in answer. “Better, I think. Thanks.”

Upon standing, Steve chanced a glance outside. It was already much darker, but the storm clouds over head had certainly hastened the day’s end. He was sure he’d hear rain falling in the next hour. “Look, uh,” he turned to face you, scratching at the back of his neck, “you’re probably going to be stuck here overnight. Storms like this tend to wash out the paths.”

And then, because he couldn’t resist: “Do you not check the weather before journeying out into the wild? Well, no, I guess not… Not if you’d also wear such ridiculous clothes to come out here.”

It was mean, but he’d been meaner to other hikers. And it didn’t seem to have any effect on you, anyway. “It was sunny when I left,” you said brightly. You seemed to be totally at peace with staying in a stranger’s home overnight. He wondered if you’d also hit your head when you’d fallen.

“I’m going to make something to eat,” he said begrudgingly. It was a bit early, but he needed to be away from you for a minute. Even if ‘being away’ meant standing ten feet to the left, in the kitchen. “It’s not gonna be anything fancy though.” He warned, eyeing you.

You only smiled. “That’s okay. I’ve had my fair share of gas station hot dogs. Can’t be worse than that!” And then you became wildly interested in your camera, going through the photos you’d taken.

Steve could only shake his head at your delusional nature and duck through the archway and into the kitchen.

It really was nothing fancy. Chicken soup, the kind that came from a can. Steve had stocked up the last time he’d been anywhere close to a store. Heating it on the stove had taken less time than he’d hoped for, and then he was sitting beside you on the futon. It was almost comical, really. You, a tiny bird of a girl, sitting primly next to him, a bear of a man. His bowl looked more like a cup in his hands.

You’d both sat in silence for the first few minutes, but it wasn’t long before you started babbling away. He had a feeling that you were something of a talker. “You must know these woods like that back of your hand, right?”

He glanced at you sidelong. “Yes.”

You wriggled in your seat like you were an excited puppy. If you weren’t careful, you were going to be wearing your dinner on your dress. “Okay, so tell me this: I keep hearing about this lone wolf that lives around here. Have you ever seen it? Is it true?”

Steve’s spoon tapped against the side of the bowl when his hand jerked in surprise. He felt his shoulders go stiff as soon as you’d said wolf. “I’ve never seen it,” he said carefully. It was technically true.

“Hmm,” you hummed, food forgotten. “You’ve never seen it, but you’ve heard of it?”

He was irritated that you seemed so enthralled. “Not really. Don’t interact with people much.”

“Oh, really?” Your eyes were wide, dumbfounded. “Well, I’ve heard that its sort of become like a symbol of safety for the hikers in town. Apparently whenever someone gets lost here, the wolf finds them and leads them back to the trails. Isn’t that cool?”

The wolf wasn’t a hero. It was a killer. He was a killer. “You know that wolves are dangerous wild animals, not cute puppies, right?”

You shrugged, an easy smile on your face. “I know. But this wolf can’t be all bad. Otherwise, it would have taken a few chunks out of the hikers, don’t you think? I wonder why it doesn’t have a pack. It’s sort of sad.” You tapped your spoon against your mouth in thought. “Anyway, that’s why I came out here. I wanted to find it and take its photo. I’ve never done wildlife photography before.”

At this, Steve couldn’t help the incredulous look he gave you. “So, you just decided to come out here with no preparations, no knowledge of the forest, and full intentions to come face to face with an animal that could and would kill you if given the chance? Did you even tell anyone you were doing this?”

You shook your head with a frown. “Well, no. I’m new to town. Who would I tell?”

“Are you stupid? If that wasn’t bad enough, you’re sitting next to a total stranger. I could murder you, you know, and you’re acting like you don’t even care. Do you have a death wish?”

“…I have pepper spray.” You patted around at your hip and pulled a spray can shorter than your spoon out of your pocket.

Oh my God, Steve thought. I’ve officially seen it all. He put his empty bowl on the side table and grabbed yours from you in one swift movement. Then he grabbed both of your wrists together in one big hand. He shook you, anger sparking in his eyes. “Your self-preservation skills are shit. Look how easy it would be for me to hurt you.” He plucked the spray can from your grasp and let it roll across the rug. He was waiting for fear to enter the equation, but you continued to look at him openly.

“If you were going to do that, you would have by now.” You sounded disgustingly earnest. He let go of your wrists like he’d been burned, and you gestured to your bandaged ankle. “I mean, look. I’m in a vulnerable state and I don’t know my way around, but you brought me here, wrapped my foot, and made me dinner. Why would I be scared?”

“Unbelievable.” Steve stood from the couch, rubbing a hand over his beard.

You blinked at him owlishly. “Can I have my bowl back, please? I wasn’t finished.”

It took everything he had not to fling it at you before he stalked off to his bedroom, the door rattling on his hinges after he shut it behind him.

You quite liked the cabin. It was tiny, but it was charming. You especially liked the little wooden figurines dotted around the place, no bigger than your hand. You’d already spotted a bear, a fox, and a deer. You assumed Steve had made them himself. No internet was definitely a choice that you yourself would never make, but you supposed it was probably quite freeing not to fall victim to doom scrolling or silly online dramas. You settled back on the futon once you’d finished eating, looking through your photos again. Some were a little too blurry and out of focus for your taste, but others had great potential. Three birds on a branch, mid-song. Some of the faraway shots of the deer were pretty stunning. Different flowers and berries you’d seen, things you didn’t know the name of. You would bet that Steve did. Maybe you could ask him about them in the morning. Maybe you could convince him to tell you the best trails to take to put yourself in the wolf's path.

You tugged the afghan blanket from the back of the couch over your legs, tucking its ends under your thighs as you got more comfortable. your ankle didn’t hurt too badly when you were sitting still. You were sure you'd be fine to drive tomorrow. the softest patter of rain started to ping off the roof. The window behind the couch only showed pitch black and your reflection. Your braids had become loose and dishevelled, so you removed the elastics keeping them together and shook out your hair, settling deeper into the checkered cushion.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you must have, because when you opened your eyes, pale gray light filtered through the window. But it wasn’t the window you’d been looking through the night before. This was a different one, because you weren’t in the living room anymore. Instead, you were sitting up, your fingers finding a coverlet in dark green over a bed that looked like it had been hand made. The wood was polished and clean, but you’d never seen a headboard with such beautiful carvings. You traced your fingertip over the swirling design. You were in Steve’s room. a heavy jacket hung on the back of the door. The closet was just a pole suspended onto one of the walls, the clothing sparse. Other than that, the room was empty, which was probably for the better, because you were pretty sure that if you leaned to the right a little more, you’d be able to touch the wall. The cabin really was tiny, just big enough to maneuver around but not enough to have more than one person living in it. Steve was taking the bachelor life up to the next level, you thought. He must have carried you in here sometime last night.

You stretched your arms over your head and yawned before carefully rotating your ankle, assessing the pain. It still hurt, but it didn’t feel nearly as bad as it had when you’d first fallen. Your dress was rumpled when you stood. Your walk was less of a hop this morning as you gingerly put your weight on your foot. Your steps were quiet enough that you were able to make it to the living room without disturbing Steve.

He looked uncomfortable there on the futon, curled up. He was far too big to sleep there, and you thought the angle at which he’d stuffed himself onto it would probably give him a sore neck at the very least. Even in sleep, he wore a perpetual frown, his brows drawn close, but it was more lax than you’d seen during his waking hours. After he’d stomped off to his room, you hadn’t seen him for the rest of the night. But now, you looked at his unruly mop of hair, his scruffy beard. His shoulders stretched the dark gray cotton of his t-shirt. He might have looked a little more like a beast than a man, but you thought he was handsome anyway. His lashes were long, longer than yours. His eyes were closed now, but their stormy blue shade when he’d been glaring at you yesterday reminded you of a tumultuous sea.

A floorboard creaked under your next step, and those stormy eyes fluttered open, his frown deepening. He focused on you immediately, heaving himself to sitting. “How’s the ankle?” His voice was rough with sleep as he rubbed at his neck.

“’S’okay,” you held it up for emphasis, balancing on your good foot. “I think I’ll be fine.” You looked around the small space. “Did you really sleep out here?”

He stared at the floor. “…Yeah.”

“I could have stayed out here. I’m smaller than you. Probably would have been more comfortable in your own bed.”

He shrugged, discomfort passing across his face. “Not right to take the bed when a woman’s got nowhere else to sleep.”

You were surprised by his old-fashioned chivalry. Contrary to what he’d said, you weren’t stupid. You knew you were a stray interloper in his home, and that he’d already done much more than he needed to. It was one thing to patch you up, but to feed you and let you sleep in his bed, too?

“Well, thanks. That was sweet of you.”

He grunted noncommittally before standing. You swore you heard his joints pop when he stretched. “It stopped raining a little after one in the morning. If you’re lucky, the bigger paths shouldn't be too bad.” He picked up your sandals by their long laces and held them out to you.

You were a little taken aback by his haste to get going, but you laced up your shoes anyway. “You don’t happen to have a dirt bike stashed away or something, do you?” It would certainly make the trek back faster, at least.

“No.” he said, voice dry.

Steve turned for the door and pulled it open without a second glance, and you scooped your camera up from the side table before following. You emerged into the weak sunlight, the grass wet on your toes as you trailed behind him. “Watch for branches and roots,” he tossed the warning over his shoulder. “And holes in the ground.”

You did your best to put your feet where he did. His boots left impressions on the grass. You couldn’t move all that fast lest you upset your ankle, but eventually, you made it back onto the path. It was a bit muddy from the rain, but you guessed the narrower ones were worse. “I’ll walk you about halfway, but then you’re on your own. Just because I know some of the forks in the path could be blocked off by fallen trees.”

It had taken everything in Steve to not just pick you up and carry you to your car. His strides were twice as long as yours, and you kept getting distracted, wanting to take pictures of fat dew drops on the leaves, or moss that looked “much greener than it did yesterday”. It was infuriating.

But finally, he got you to where he felt confident you could make it back. He’d been assessing your movements the entire time, and while you were still limping a little bit, it had turned out to be a less severe strain than he’d thought. When he’d stopped, letting you walk ahead, it had taken you a minute to notice he wasn’t following along anymore. You’d stopped short and turned back to look at him curiously. “Oh, are we halfway?”

“Yes,” he’d said gruffly. “don’t get distracted. Go back to your car and drive home. Got it?” He didn’t care if he was being bossy—he still thought you’d been out of your mind to come out here dressed like that in the first place.

You’d given him a half-smile and a thumbs up. “Okay.”

He stayed right there on the path and watched you until you were almost out of sight, but then…

“Hey!” Steve barked your name. You froze where you’d crouched down to snap a quick photo of something, caught. “Go back to your damned car!”

Another, more sheepish smile was directed his way before you stood and walked on. The white of your dress disappeared into the trees and Steve shook his head. Silly little bunny of a girl. At least he wasn’t likely to see you again.

He saw you again.

Steve was actually astounded that you’d remembered how to get to his cabin. When he’d smelled you that time, he’d just stepped out of the shower. His bathroom window had been open to let out the steam, a dark towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets spilling from his hair. He thought he’d imagined your scent. He stopped in front of his fogged up mirror and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to confirm that he was wrong, that all he could smell was the forest.

But no, it was your sweet scent wafting through the air.

He all but forgot about the state he was in when he stalked through the cabin to the front door, wrenching it open. And there you were in shorts and a flowy tank top, your camera looped around your neck like the last time. You waved as you picked your way though the grass, and he caught sight of what looked to be platform sneakers on your feet. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you, I’m looking for that wolf. But I thought I’d come and say hello first.”

You didn’t bat an eye as you raked your gaze up and down his form and Steve was suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing. “Go home.” He bit out.

“No way! I was just stopping by for a quick visit. Then I’ll go check out one of the other trails and see what I can find. I know there’s supposed to be a waterfall and an outlook somewhere around here. If I can’t find the wolf, I’ll settle for those today. Can I come in? I’m a little thirsty.” You had the audacity to give him a hopeful look.

“I don’t want you here.” He couldn’t keep tiptoeing around his rule. It wasn’t safe for humans to be around him, and certainly not one that lacked self-preservation skills in a way he’d never seen before.

“Please? I forgot my water bottle in the car.” You folded you hands together like you were praying.

Didn’t you get it? He didn’t mean he wasn't feeling social today. He meant he didn’t want to see you ever. “No. Get lost.”

“But I—”

“Listen, because I’m only gonna say it once: I’m not looking for and I don’t need a friend. So, stop coming by here, don’t ask me to come in or for a tour or to look for this damned wolf. Am I clear?”

“Well, someone clearly got up on the wrong side of the bed today. Fine, I’ll leave you alone. I was gonna show you some of the shots I took, but I guess it can wait.”

I guess it can wait. Steve was incensed. There would be no waiting. He had just told you never to come back. “You dumb bunny. I’m a great show with my crossbow. I don’t think you want to find yourself in my crosshairs. Do you get it now? Stay off my damned property and go back to your car and drive your ass back to town.”

You put your hands up in a defensive gesture, though your expression didn’t seem to beget any true understanding of his threat. “Okay, I hear you.”

But did you, though?

You finally turned and walked a few steps. He knew you were going to do exactly what you said and go trekking around a forest that you didn’t know and obviously weren’t capable of navigating well, but Steve didn’t want to put himself in your proximity anymore than he had to. He needed you to take the hint and go. But… “Hold on.”

You stopped, looking over your shoulder with what could only be described as a devious smile. He disappeared into the cabin for a second before returning to the door. “Take this. I don’t want to see you here again.”

He tossed a bottle of water in your direction, and you caught it, just barely. “Thank you, Steve. Have a good day! Oh, and your towel is slipping.”

You’d already turned away started walking back into the forest when he clutched at his towel, feeling his face heat with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. He supposed he should feel lucky that he’d been able to scent you, because he had a feeling that you would have just invited yourself in, otherwise. He probably shouldn’t have helped you, that first time.

Like an unwelcome stray, you kept coming back. Any hope Steve had had that you would grow bored of your quest and go back to town, keep doing whatever sort of photography you tended to specialize in, dwindled upon his third encounter with you. Your attire was still as ridiculous as always: plaid shorts and a thin tank top, but at least you’d had the common sense to bring your own water this time. And he could smell sunscreen on your skin, for once. But you’d ambled up to the cabin yet again, this time while he’d been clearing some creepers from around the door.

When he’d paused, shears squeaking in protest, and looked at you over his shoulder, you’d grinned and said, “So, no wolf yet, but I think I’m getting the hang of the paths now! I only fell in a blackberry bush once this time.” That explained the purplish smudges on your shirt and your legs.

“As opposed to…?”

Your smile turned sheepish. “I may or may not have become quite familiar with the types of berries that grow around here last time. Anyway, do you want to see the photos I took this time around? I got the cutest shots of a mother fox and her babies.”

Steve straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and pushing his hair back from his damp temples. “Think I told you before, bunny, that I’m not interested in what you’re here for and I don’t care to look.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Oh, I’ll win you over soon enough, Steve. I don’t know how you haven’t gone crazy out here all by yourself yet.”

He shifted on his feet. “The silence can be nice.”

“Well yes, it can be, sometimes. But all the time? I think I would have given all the trees names and personalities by now, if I was you.”

And from then on, he kept seeing you against his will, a couple of times a week. You always had a cheery disposition, even if you were scratched to hell and dusty from crawling through bushes. Even if you had twigs in your hair and cuts on your palms. Even if you’d upset a hornet’s nest and ran like hell, banging frantically on the cabin’s door to be let in.

Steve had continued to try and get you to leave him alone, trying for mean, threatening, and even downright douchey, but every single attempt had been futile. Eventually, as he’d disinfected one of the stings on your arm, he’d just muttered, “If you’re gonna keep coming around here, can you at least dress for it? No more of whatever this is,” he gestured to your skirt, which seemed to be entirely made of lace and frills, and your boots which were definitely more fashion than fortitude.

You made a face. “But all the hiking gear is so ugly.”

“So you’d rather be fashionable and dead than safe and alive?”

You let out an exaggerated sigh. “Ugh, fine. I’ll go to the store and get the same things that literally everyone in town has.”

And you did. That was really the surprising part—that for once, you’d listened. Anything else Steve had to say had fallen on deaf ears. Sure, a lot of what you showed up in was pink, as if the colour would make it less ugly somehow, and you’d replaced the laces of your new boots with literal lace, but at least you were wearing pants that covered your bare legs and you’d picked up a bag, albeit small, and put some honest to god equipment in it.

It was a strange thing, to realize that he was getting used to you. Though Steve still never greeted you in a way that screamed ‘friendly’, he had come to expect your scent in the air, the first sign that you were coming, and then your steps, still clumsy, through the underbrush. You had still been unsuccessful in your quest, and Steve planned to keep it that way. As far as he was concerned, you’d never get a photo of the wolf. But you hadn’t let it deter you. He was beginning to realize that despite your ditzy, lackadaisical nature, you were also quite resilient. He had absolutely no idea how he’d be able to convince you to stop trampling through the forest during the colder months. He had no desire to fish you out of the frozen lake or pull you from a snowdrift.

But despite you pushing your way into his life, interrupting his solitary confinement, Steve did begin to enjoy your visits. He’d never make it known lest you try to bridge the perilous gap of friendship even more ferociously, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world when you announced yourself. Especially when you brought food.

The thing was, Steve was very used to his diet by now. He’d stock up on canned food once or twice a year from the general store furthest from town, but the rest of his food stores consisted of things he’d hunted and prepped himself. Like he’d told you, he was very good with his crossbow. And it helped to know what plants were edible around here. You likely hadn’t noticed the very meager garden around back—you’d never been able to explore around his cabin too much, because he knew you were there. You hadn’t seen the tiny cross with his late wife’s name staked into the ground, either.

But there you were one of those times, standing in a patch of sunlight and holding a pale purple box in your hands. He could smell its contents even before you opened it. “There’s this bakery that just opened up in town called Furiously Good Eats and their specialty item today was cherry pie.” You looked Steve up and down. “Probably been a while since you’ve had one of those, huh?”

“If you think food is gonna get me to like you…” but he stepped aside anyway, and you flounced right in, beelining for the kitchen and its single butcher’s block counter, where you placed the box with flourish.

You scoffed as you popped open the lid. “Please, you already like me. I’m very loveable, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” He pulled out two plates.

“It’s true. Voted ‘Most Loveable’ in my senior year of high school.” The knife you chose to use was really for cutting meat, but Steve found himself lacking any sorts of dainty pastry utensils.

Cherry filling oozed out onto the plate when you handed it to him, and you sucked your finger into your mouth thoughtfully. “Don’t suppose you have any ice cream, do you?”

At his blank look, you turned back to the pie and cut off your own slice. You both stayed standing in the kitchen, balancing your plates in one hand and forks in the other. The first bite flooded Steve’s tastebuds like nothing he’d experienced in recent years.

It was, in no uncertain terms, the perfect pie. The crust was flaky and light, the filling tart and sweet at the same time. But you were right—vanilla ice cream probably would have been a great pairing. Still, Steve wolfed down the rest of his piece in three bites and then looked hungrily at yours as you took more dainty, slow ones. Wordlessly, you slid the box closer to him. “The rest is yours,” you said, covering your mouth with a hand as you chewed. “I’m just sampling the goods.”

He was already cutting a second slice before you’d finished speaking.

The bakery deliveries, as delicious as they were, were something of a bittersweet phenomenon to Steve. All the things you’d brought so far happened to be exactly the types of desserts he liked, and he had no idea how you’d figured him out so easily without him having to say anything. But they also all reminded him of his wife. He could picture her in their first apartment together, though the memory seemed to have a fuzzy vignette over it now. He remembered her nimble fingers rolling out dough, or dusting cake with powdered sugar. He remembered how she’d laugh and slap his hand away when he tried to sneak a cookie from a cooling batch. It was hard not to associate all the things you’d bring him with her. He just couldn’t override those memories with ones of you. Not even when you’d brought eclairs and eaten yours so messily that you’d smeared cream on your nose and a little bit in your hair. As much as it was a nice gesture, it made Steve want to shut you out again. He hadn’t yet, and he couldn’t figure out why. There was no future here, not for you. You’d get tired of the woods eventually. You’d make friends in town at some point. There really wouldn’t be a reason to keep visiting him—he certainly hadn’t gone out of his way to be hospitable to you. He’d tried to drive you out.

But the fact of the matter was, he had come out here, uprooted his life and moved into the wilderness, because he didn’t think he deserved companionship. Not anymore, not after what happened, what he did. And he would probably do it again. He didn’t trust himself to get close to anybody, lest he put them directly in harm’s way. In his way. But he’d been allowing himself this small, selfish act, to let you into his cabin and into his life like you were one single flower, blooming in the sun amidst dead, blackened weeds. And now he wasn’t sure if he could pluck you from your bed of grass and tear your petals away without hurting himself in the process. Maybe that was part of his penance, to take a good thing and sully it. To not get to enjoy things for too long. Why should he enjoy something when his wife couldn’t luxuriate in anything? No sun on her skin, no taste of cherry pie.

And though all those thoughts kept churning through his head like a choppy river, every time you skipped through the grass to the cabin, you’d smile at him and chatter away, and he’d let you stay a little longer, and he’d begrudgingly ask you questions that would keep you talking endlessly. And for a single second, he’d almost forget.

The wolf was very elusive, you thought. You wondered if it was more nocturnal than you’d originally imagined. You’d believed that it must come out during the day, must have built a home somewhere near one of the paths, because how else would it lead so many hikers back when they’d lost their way? But now you’d exhausted every single one. It had been weeks of searching in between your regular photography sessions with clients, and you’d still seen no sign of it.

You didn’t mind that much, not one to let frustrations get the better of you. And really, you thought it would have been worse to see it right away and come back with a crappy shot. Instead, you’d used the time to practice your wildlife photography, figure out the best way to edit and enhance each one to bring out the best parts of the picture. And you’d taken plenty of photos of other animals, in the meantime.

But your favourite animal to photograph was Steve. He didn’t know, you were sure. He never wanted to look at your photos anyway. But your camera was now full of candid shots of him, as well. The ones you’d take before announcing yourself were good. You had one of him in profile, looking up at the sky. Another of him chopping wood. Another where the leaves had made different shadows across his brow, but the sun had still picked out the precise blue of his eyes. You had one of him standing in his kitchen with his back to you, and you’d traced the shape of his shoulders with your finger afterward, when you’d uploaded it to your computer. Yes, you had many, many photos of him that you’d taken somewhat in secret. You’d taken pictures of his wooden figurines too, random things in his cabin, to disguise the obvious sounds of your camera’s shutter going off, and he’d become so used to the sound and your idle photography that he’d stopped looking at you sharply every time he heard it. It was what made it so easy to sneakily take pictures of him.

You remembered what you’d thought the first day. Steve really was handsome. You assumed that he had to know that fact, but you’d shied away from saying it, in case he took it badly. You were usually free with compliments, something you’d learned to get comfortable with after having many clients that were insecure in front of the camera. It would take nothing at all for you to tell him, but you knew that you’d already pushed his boundaries a lot since coming to know him. So instead, you’d just admire his broad frame, his strong hands, and a mouth that seemed allergic to smiling.

You still neglected to check the weather. That was something you only did when you had an outdoor shoot planned with paying clients. You had to ensure that conditions were good for those meetings, but otherwise, you tended to just look out the window upon waking up and then see where the rest of the day took you. You didn’t mind a little rain every now and then. The only person consistently annoyed by your lack of planning ahead was Steve. You’d had to stay twice more in his cabin overnight since the first time. The summer storms were ramping up, but they never seemed to come when all the weather warnings predicted, in your defence. You thought it was fun, actually. You’d mentioned as much to Steve, had told him it felt like camping. You’d asked him if he could build a fire outside for the full experience, but he’d declined with a look of annoyance. It was no bother, because the next time, you bugged him until he set up his fireplace, and then pulled a bag of marshmallows and some skewers out of your bag and had a delightful time playacting what you believed a real camping experience to be.

You still enjoyed the comforts of your apartment, of course. You couldn’t imagine roughing it every single day like Steve did, nor did you want to try it. You liked waking up and making coffee with your fancy coffee maker. You liked flopping back into the white, puffy comforter on your bed and turning on a movie, the projector on your ceiling painting the wall with rom-coms. You liked standing in front of your stove and poking at an omelette with your spatula, music playing from your phone. You wondered if Steve had ever liked those sorts of things too, or if the great outdoors had always held the appeal over how most of the modern world liked to live. You could sort of picture it, if you tried. Him standing in your kitchen, which was small, but looked huge compared to his. He’d be able to sleep on your leather couch with much more space than his own futon. You thought about how a picture would look if he stood in front of the windows in your living room, the floor to ceiling view of the town below. One of your espresso cups would look absolutely ridiculous in his big hands.

You didn’t think he’d agree if you invited him back with you. You’d thought about it a few times, considered asking him in a teasing, lighthearted way to come back to town with you and help you pick out more practical hiking things like he’d wanted you to get. You would sweeten the deal with cannolis from the bakery. But you had a feeling he’d say no. You were friends, despite his protests, but you didn’t want to push in a way that made him shut down. It had already been a bit of a journey to get to the point you were at now. You didn’t want to do anything to ruin it. You knew that your positive attitude could only get you so far. But maybe one day, you’d be able to offer, and you’d feel confident that he would say yes, and lock up his cabin, and fold himself into your little car. And then you’d get that picture of him at your window. Yes, you thought. One day, you would.

So far, your visits, by the grace of some higher force, hadn’t coincided with Steve’s transformations. They’d been close, a couple of days before at most, and Steve knew he was acting much moodier and more combative on those days than usual, but you still took it in stride, visited for a little while, and then left.

The moon’s cycle acted like an hourglass. Steve could see the grains of sand slipping through like blinking stars every single night. He felt the most like his old self on a new moon, the beguiling white eye in the sky hidden from view. But as that eye began to slowly open from a crescent to a half circle, closer to a full, round ball of light, Steve would feel the need to change wanting to burst through his skin. He had a little bit of control over it, just barely, but it was easier to throw himself to the moon’s mercy and get it over with when she demanded it, rather than try to plan ahead.

The primal need to hunt, to rip and tear and shred, to run until he couldn’t anymore, was what he tried to bury the most. Especially when you were around. He knew what it could look like if someone got too close. He knew it disturbingly well. And he’d woken up countless nights since meeting you, his skin dripping with sweat, his lungs feeling like they’d burst, the image of you torn to pieces dissolving in his head like sugar in water, but they’d be there all the same. Peggy had morphed into you some time ago. Instead of a horrible memory, it was a potential future, one he’d been trying to prevent. It was the reason he had been so adamant at keeping you away, at first. He didn’t believe he was able to be rehabilitated. And he didn’t want to risk your life trying to figure it out. But he’d been convincing himself that it was fine to let you get close when the moon was at rest. He’d already thought of an easy lie to tell if you came by when his transformation was near—he’d tell you he was going to go hunting deeper in the forest for a few days, that he wouldn’t be home. He would convince you that you would not enjoy tagging along. But he hadn’t had to spin that lie yet, and he’d let you drift closer and closer as the summer drew to a close.

He was not expecting to see you when the moon next cast its weary gaze on him. Your visits were usually every three or four days, spaced apart between your work and appointments. You’d never visited back-to-back before. Steve had let his guard down, awaiting the change with a patience that felt alien, the relief that you wouldn’t be returning until well after in the back of his mind.

The panic that kickstarted his pulse when he scented you could have sent him into cardiac arrest. He’d only seen you two days ago—he should have been safe for another two, he’d predicted. The comedown wasn’t as bad as it used to be, especially when he offered himself to the moon right when it was full, rather than trying to put it off. He knew without a doubt that his transformation would be that night. He’d been scenting the air all day, tasting rain. He knew the forest would go silent with the first clap of thunder that night, and he’d be free to weave through the trees with no obstacles.

But there was your scent, as clear as if it was a visible thing in the air. And he could smell chocolate, too. With frustration, he felt his body quiver. Of course, being ravenous for the hunt was not the only thing he felt hungry for, most times. And a beautiful human woman being in his proximity would serve no purpose other than to make him hungrier.

His backpack was half-assembled by the door, leaning against the panelling. He usually packed light and stowed the bag somewhere safe for him to circle back to near the transformation’s end. He tried to rein in his panic as you got closer. He had no idea what his face was doing when he opened the door and stared at you from the threshold. He was trying for his usual irritation, but he didn’t think he was quite achieving it. “What are you doing here? I saw you the day before last.”

You smiled, holding up what he’d come to know as one of the bakery’s trademark lilac pastry boxes. “I know, but I passed by their window on the way home from an appointment today and I just couldn’t resist. Chocolate and strawberry filled croissants.”

You were wearing jeans and a t-shirt and surprisingly sensible shoes today. He was silently thankful, because he wasn’t sure if he could have handled you in one of your strappy sundresses today of all days. The forest had already gone quiet with the promise of an impending storm. You were close enough now that your scent was almost overpowering. It made him want to sink his teeth into your skin. What was worse was that he didn’t know if he wanted to inflict pleasure or pain. “Its going to storm.” He said.

It was both a reprimand to you, and a bleak reminder to him. A storm, like all others, meant the paths would flood. And that meant you were staying. Tonight of all nights, that was more or less a death sentence. But you, none the wiser, stopped in front of him and pried the box open, holding the lid up so that he could take a croissant. “That’s okay. The futon and I are becoming pretty good friends.”

With another stab of panic, Steve wished he could send you away. But like mother nature herself could feel his rising anguish, the sky opened up and the downpour hit in the blink of an eye, and you snapped the box closed and scurried past him into the cabin like a mouse going back to its hole in the wall.

“You should be proud of me—I started packing pajamas in my bag for moments like this.” You said, letting your backpack slide to the floor next to his. “Oh, are you going somewhere?”

Through gritted teeth, he bit out, “I was planning to go hunting. And you wouldn’t need to pack pajamas if you would just check the damn weather report.”

But like always, you only shrugged and sat down on the futon, before patting the space beside you. “Do you want a croissant or not, because I didn’t eat lunch and I have no qualms about having yours too.”

Sitting next to you would be too much temptation right now, so instead he just leaned over the back of the couch and snatched his from the box, his forearm brushing the sleeve of your shirt. He shuddered at the contact, as small as it was, and retreated to the kitchen. He ate over the sink, crumbs falling into the basin, staring stormily out the window at the pelting rain.

If you were going to be here tonight, he needed to go out as soon as possible without you catching on.

There was no way around it: Steve was on edge. There was no telling if tonight would be the night that he’d lose what little control he had and add another life to his ledger. He just had to hold on long enough to get far away from you. His plan was to turn in early, to convince you to do the same, and then sneak out when you were asleep. Ridiculous to have to sneak out of his own home, but it was all he could think to do.

He’d been fighting the urge to pace between the kitchen and living space, too aware of your presence, too aware that you might ask questions about why he was more tense than usual. But so far, you’d just been playing around with your camera. “Oh, I brought my laptop with me this time, too. I know you don’t have wi-fi but at least I can edit some of my stuff tonight.” You reached over the back of the couch and dug around in your bag for a moment before pulling out a slim silver laptop, most of its surface covered in stickers. You looked over at him as it booted up. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?” he sounded brisk, distracted.

“The internet. And cable. That sort of stuff.”

“I have my radio.”

You made a face, one he saw out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, but I’ve heard the one station you tend to pick up around here, and I think I’d rather sit in total silence than listen to that.” You paused then, and he heard the stroke of your fingers on your keyboard as you typed in your password. “Or have you been an outdoorsy type since you were a little kid?”

“I used to be a movie critic, actually,” Steve said absently, frowning at the weather outside. He wanted it to get dark already.

“What, really?”

The surprise in your voice was what made him realize what he’d just revealed about himself. Shit. He’d been pretty good at redirecting conversation to have you focused on mostly talking about yourself. He hadn’t given you that many details on his adult life. Almost all of his memories had been tied to her. “Yes.” He didn’t say anything else, hoping you’d drop the subject.

“What was your favourite?”

“My favourite what?”

“Your favourite movie, silly. I assume that you had to start somewhere, right?”

He paused for a long moment, debating on if he should make you drop it or not. He was already agitated as it was. But he decided on a scrubbed down version of the truth. “Star Wars.”

He saw a look of excitement and disbelief pass over your face. It might have been the wrong thing to say. “A New Hope, specifically. None of the current crap.”

“It’s not crap!” you said, indignant, but he had the sinking feeling that you were more thrilled than upset. “The Force Awakens was awesome.” Then you were babbling on in defence of it.

It was almost enough to settle Steve’s nerves. Almost. But then you waved an arm and it wafted your scent into his orbit again, and he had to hold his breath and close his eyes until the need to overwhelm your space had passed. He tuned back in to you saying, “Next time I’ll download some of them and we can watch together. Bet it’s been a long time since you’ve seen any of them.”

It had been a long time. Not since before he’d become what he now was. He’d seen them enough times growing up that he could recall the story backwards and forwards. He could remember every little detail, could play it on the backs of his eyelids at night when he couldn’t sleep. Could remember the exact cadences of some line deliveries. But they’d always been movies he’d watched alone, never with anyone else, never with Peggy either. As he was feeling right now, it spelled a recipe for disaster. He’d just want to bury his head against your neck and leave marks there instead of pay attention to a plot that had kept his attention for years, upon every rewatch.

He looked outside again. The barest edges of the sky that he could see above the treeline were just beginning to darken. All he had to do was try and wait it out. He really hoped that he could. He didn’t want to know the exact shade of your blood.

If Steve had waited just a little bit longer, he might have managed it. As soon as it had been reasonable, he’d feigned sleepiness and gone straight to his bedroom, even though the urge to transform felt like an itch under his skin. He’d also lied about a headache to keep you from asking him too many questions. Even with the door closed, your scent burned his lungs like you were laying right beside him. He wanted to rip into you so very badly that he’d torn at his comforter with how tightly he’d been gripping it.

Steve had laid there in agony while he’d waited for you to fall asleep. He’d heard you power down your laptop, tiptoe into the bathroom to change, and then softly step back to the futon. He’d heard the rustle of your clothes and the afghan and the creak of the wooden frame as you’d gotten comfortable. He had listened for your breathing, heard it deepen eventually, each puff of air getting slower and more even.

He should have waited longer, made sure. But instead, he’d crossed through the cabin and grabbed the strap of his backpack. He had made sure to be as quiet as he could, but something must have been just loud enough to rouse you.

It would be something he’d wonder about later. But he heard a mumbled, sleep-thickened, “Steve? Where are you going?”

His shoulders went tight under his t-shirt. The room was dark, but he could still see you sitting up, your hair already a mess from snuggling down into the cushion, as you looked at him from over the back of the couch. “Just… out.”

“Out where?” Oh, no. You were waking up too quickly, too aware of him. “Did it stop raining?”

It had, a while ago. So much for this big storm he’d expected. He definitely could have turned you away earlier. But it was too late for that now. He felt the change coming in a ripple under his skin, like a rising tide.

He bit down hard on his lip before saying, “I forgot to check a trap earlier. I’m going now.”

It was another lie, but it was all he could think of.

Usually, you went with whatever he said, but something had alerted to you, made you realize it was different this time. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure? Maybe I should come with you.”

At that, he stood straight up, almost crushing the doorknob in his hand. “No. you don’t need to do that. And you don’t know your way around. You’d only hinder me.”

But you were pushing yourself to stand. He caught the long outline of your bare legs, the afghan huddled around your shoulders. He needed to go, now. “Okay, maybe I don’t know the way perfectly yet, but I don’t know, I just… I don’t think you should go out in the dark, alone. What if you get hurt or something? Shouldn’t I come with you so I can get help if that happens?”

“It’s fine, bunny. I’ve been alone long before you and I’ll be alone again.”

You rounded the side of the futon and stopped in front of him. “But you don’t have to be alone. I’m right here.”

“Drop it.”

You tilted your head, chin up, defiant. He’d never seen you wear that expression before. It was a terrible time for you to trot it out. “No.”

He was just going to have to leave you here, then. He could outrun you. It wouldn’t be hard. It was just a matter of how far he could get before it happened.

Steve turned away from you, swinging his bag onto his shoulders, and wrenched open the door. Your fingers were gentle on his arm when you touched him, but you may as well have stabbed at him with a hot poker, with the way he whirled on you, teeth bared, and roared in your face, “Leave it!”

He could feel it in his spine first—he always did. Opening the door had let in a spill of moonlight, and he was standing right in it. He was bounding off in a dead sprint immediately. He just had to go. He had to go, he had to go, he had to go.

You knew that Steve was in great shape, but you were still caught off guard by how swift he was.

He’d been acting erratic ever since you’d shown up today. He’d always been a little cold towards you, even on the best days, but it was something you liked about him. Despite his coldness, you always felt warm when you were with him. It was why you kept coming back. And when you’d passed by the bakery, you’d thought of him. It was hard not to. He’d never told you if he enjoyed any of the things you brought for him to try, but you knew that he did. The speed at which he scarfed food down was always impressive. And if Steve really didn’t like your company, you were sure he could have made good on his threat and met you at the door with his crossbow, but he never had. Despite what he might think, you and he were friends, and if he thought that screaming in your face would change it, he was wrong. Instead, you’d had the steadily rising feeling that something was wrong. You just didn’t know what. When he’d gone to bed early, talking about a headache, you’d thought that maybe that was all it had been. You’d had a migraine or two before, and it had always sucked immensely, especially without any over the counter medicine, of which he had none. But deep down, you’d had a feeling that it was something more. He hadn’t gotten near you the entire time you’d been there. And sure, Steve was the kind of guy who kept a healthy distance between you, but not so much that he wouldn’t even sit on the same couch as you.

The way he’d just torn out of the cabin confirmed that yes, something was definitely wrong. As much as you annoyed him sometimes, Steve had never gotten in your face like that. There’d been some sort of animalistic fear in his eyes, something you’d never seen from him before, and then he’d twisted from your light touch like he’d been burned.

He was already a blur in the moonlight by the time you’d started to follow. It wasn’t even something you’d consciously decided on, but before you knew it, the slick grass was tickling your bare feet. The air was clean and cold in your lungs as you raced after him. It was pure luck that you didn’t trip over any stray tree roots, though wet leaves caressed you as you blew past. You were lucky that he came to a stop fairly quickly, or you would have lost him. You’d only been chasing after him for a couple of minutes before he flung his backpack against a tree with a solid thwack! and fell to his hands and knees.

With the way his body was heaving, you thought he was going to throw up. You stayed about ten feet away, wanting to comfort him but keeping your distance, just in case. If you’d had the presence of mind to grab your own bag, you would have been able to use your satellite phone to call for help.

What happened next was something you didn’t think you’d ever be able to believe if you hadn’t seen it yourself.

With a great shudder, right under the moon’s spotlight, the back of Steve’s shirt ripped in a jagged line down the back. His muscles rippled with effort. And then right before your very eyes, he stopped being Steve.

He became a wolf, instead.

Dark fur sprouted so quickly, it seemed to happen in a blink. A strangled cry from his throat became a guttural, tortured howl. The sound of it seemed to echo through the entire forest. A flock of birds erupted into the sky in fear. When you looked away from them and back to the forest floor, your eyes met that of a snarling beast’s.

He bared his teeth at you, canines glinting. He was a study in shades of black, as dark as it was. The moon might have provided some light, but he was awash in night. So, this was why you’d never been able to stumble upon the wolf. You’d been sharing pastries with him the whole time, instead.

A growl started low in his throat. You saw his tail—he had a tail!—swish once, agitated. He hadn’t come any closer yet. You got the feeling he was trying to scare you off. He was going to be disappointed.

You sank to the ground, ignoring the wet seeping through your pajamas. You held both hands out. “It’s okay. I’m not afraid. It’s okay.”

He tossed his head, snapped at the air. You stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it. You had a feeling he was displeased. But still, you stared each other down. Slowly, you noticed the fur that had been standing on end around his shoulders had started to go flat. He dug the claws of his front paws into the earth with a whine, tossing his head again, and then he prowled forward. He kept his head bowed, ears flattened against his skull. He stopped in front of you a little ways away, but close enough that you could just about feel his breath, warm compared to the chill in the air.

You weren’t running away. Stupid bunny, stupid girl. He wanted you to be afraid, to finally realize what he’d been telling you all along: that he was dangerous, a wild animal. That he had the capacity to hurt, to maim, to kill. But the insatiable urge to tear you limb from limb, confusingly, wasn’t there. He thought that getting closer to you might make you come to your senses. But when he stopped in front of you, tail tucked, a whimper escaping his jaws, you only lifted a steady hand and touched his fur, right at the side of his neck.

Tonight was the first time someone had touched him in years.

You’d done it before, when you’d tried to stop him from leaving. And you were doing it again now, ignoring the fact that he was no longer a human, only an animal.

He’d touched you, the first time he’d met you. When he’d wrapped your ankle, carried you to bed. But he’d refrained after that. And it had all been above board, had been born out of necessity, not want. But now, you stared at him, unblinking, and softly stroked at his fur like it was the most natural thing in the world. It made him want to weep.

He leaned into the touch, another quiet whine escaping his throat as your fingers moved. But you couldn’t stay out here all night. And he needed to run, to hunt, to satisfy the bloodthirsty urge that had usually surfaced by now. He stood, shaking your hand off, and walked past you, flicking you with his tail, before looking over his shoulder to see if you were coming. But you stayed put. Another flick didn’t do anything to spur you forward. Were you really not getting the memo? He padded back to you and nosed at your ribs, but it only served to make you giggle.

With an exasperated huff, he walked to the edge of the small clearing you were in and looked back again, letting out another whine.

You’d brought your knees up to your chest, your arms encircling them. “I’m not going back to the cabin without you. And I have a feeling you’ll leave me there as soon as I get to the door. I’m staying.”

Of course you’d say that. He shouldn’t have been that surprised, since you hadn’t run screaming bloody murder upon seeing his transformation. He had half a mind to grab your shirt between his teeth and pull, forcing you to move unless you wanted it to rip, but he had a feeling that you’d just let it happen. It seemed you were at an impasse. He could already imagine the headache he’d have tomorrow when he was human again, the number of questions you’d lob his way. He also had a feeling that he’d never get rid of you, now. You were too curious to learn this about him and simply move on.

He could have left you there and gone about his usual routine, but he couldn’t bear the thought of you stumbling through the dark on your own back to the cabin. Worse, you might try to follow him. So instead, he came back to you and sat by your side, and you stroked his fur again, in the shared silence of the woods.

It didn’t take very long for your eyelids to grow heavy. The grass was still damp, but you curled up on it anyway. You fell asleep right there on the forest floor. He curled around you, unable to stand the idea of you shivering and cold, pressing his body against your back.

He hadn’t smelled any fear on you before, not when he’d yelled in your face, not when he’d ran away, and not when he’d become a wolf right in front of you. He couldn’t smell it now. You just settled more, and he let himself breathe in your scent. It hadn’t triggered him to tear you apart, not like he’d been so sure it would. Not like his first night as a wolf. It was a strange thing. He didn’t want to think about it, to imagine that his fears had all been in his head. They couldn’t be, or he would still have a wife. He wouldn’t be here with you. But all he felt at that precise moment was the need to protect you, to keep you in his sight. To keep you warm and safe under the open night sky.

It was only you, him, and the clear white moon. It was foreign to have no anxieties on a night like this, and they hadn’t left him, not completely. But he rested his head on his paws, keeping his eyes open and his ears alert, and let himself believe, just for a little while, that things might work out.

When you woke up, it was to sunlight streaming across your face, and birdsong. Eyes still closed, you frowned, your nose wrinkling. You shifted your arm and felt grass coming away with it. Lifting your head a little, you opened your eyes and took in the hundreds of shades of green surrounding you. You’d slept outside.

You’d slept outside, because…

You remembered at the same time that you became aware of warmth at your back and over your waist. You glanced down your body and saw the corded muscle of Steve’s arm, loose over your hip, his palm spanning your stomach. The warmth you felt was him, pressed to your spine. He stirred when you shifted.

He was human again, already? You looked up at the sky. Well, the moon was gone, so you supposed it made sense. But what did you know about wolves? Or werewolves, for that matter? You started to turn to face him but stopped short at the first glimpse of his legs, never mind his torso. Right. He was completely naked.

He seemed to realize it at the same time as you, his arm disappearing from you. “There’s extra clothes in my backpack, if you go get them,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.

You crawled away on your hands and knees to the bag, still where it had landed when he’d thrown it, and pulled out pants and a shirt before closing your eyes and blindly shoving them in his direction. You listened to the rustle of fabrics and the zip of his fly before he said, “I’m decent.”

Peeling your eyes open, you gave him a once over. He was still the same Steve that you’d gotten used to. Still tall and broad, hair dishevelled and long—though yours probably didn’t look much better—a familiar worried frown on his face. He held out a hand to you, which you took, and he pulled you up. “I think it’s time we had a conversation.” He stooped to pick up his bag before turning and striding away, not waiting for you.

Who would have thought he’d be more chivalrous as a wolf?

At least you followed this time, picking your way through the grass. He kept an eye on you in case you slipped. It was a wonder that you didn’t have any cuts across the soles of your feet. For once, you were staying quiet. He wondered if you were marvelling at the sequence of events, too, or if you were just thinking up questions to bombard him with. Knowing you, it was probably the latter.

With the cabin in sight, he ushered you in ahead of him. “Why don’t you go take a shower?” he offered, closing the door behind him. “Water takes a bit to heat up, but you slept on the ground all night.”

“Okay. That sounds like a good idea.” You shuffled off after grabbing your bag and disappeared into the bathroom.

Steve let out a long sigh at your departure. He stood in the kitchen, hands resting heavily on the counter, and let his head hang down as he gathered his thoughts. What exactly could he tell you? The basics, he supposed. But then also, maybe to finally scare you straight, he’d tell you what had happened the first time. Explain to you why he lived out here in the first place. Tell you that while you might have survived last night, that didn’t mean there was any guarantee to survive future transformations. He could still rip you to shreds.

He must have been standing there awhile, lost in his own head, because it felt like it had only been a few minutes before he heard the bathroom door creak open, followed by your footsteps on the wood. The aroma you brought with you was a dizzying blend of your own and his. You had used his soap. Your scent would be all over his towel, too. You were dressed now in what you’d worn yesterday, but he just wanted to pull you close and nuzzle against the hollow of your throat, breathe you in, lick your skin. Instead, he cleared his throat and leaned against the counter. You mirrored him, pressing your back against his old fridge. It was only a little bit taller than you were.

“So… you’re the wolf I’ve been hearing so much about,” you finally said, your arms crossed. You tilted your head as you looked him up and down. “And you let me go on a wild goose chase trying to find you.”

You weren’t upset. Rather, your eyes were alight with interest.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I couldn’t exactly just tell you, could I?”

“I guess not,” you shrugged, “but maybe you could have pretended to lay some bait out or something. You didn’t have to tell me it was you.”

“Well, if I had my way, you never would have found out. I was waiting for you to get bored and give up. I didn’t think I’d ever have to tell you.”

“Why is that?”

He waited for you to answer your own question with the obvious: it was dangerous. But instead, you only gazed at him, waiting for his answer.

So, he gave it to you.

Steve didn’t want to go into too much detail, but he thought he still managed to paint a pretty vivid picture. The truth was that yes, he had always been an outdoorsy type. He’d grown up hunting and fishing and hiking. He was familiar with the forests near where he’d used to live. He’d go on weekends alone or with friends. Peggy would never come. It just wasn’t her thing. She was more of a night in type of girl, and Steve had respected that. They both had their own hobbies that they could do alone.

Only one of his solo trips had gone badly. He still didn’t know exactly what had transpired, the events still muddied in his mind. He’d set up a tent like always. Slept for a bit. Been woken up by a noise. He didn’t usually camp in spots that other campers did. He preferred going off the beaten path. That had proven to be a mistake.

An animal attack. He had thought at first it was a bear, smelling the food he’d brought along. But it hadn’t been a bear. He’d never gotten a clear look, but he’d lost a lot of blood and been disoriented as hell when he’d come to. He’d dragged himself to a ranger’s hut and been taken to the hospital. Even the doctors hadn’t been sure. He’d been tested for rabies, amongst other things, and everything had come back clean. He was out in a couple of days.

Steve hadn’t even noticed anything was particularly wrong, at first. But the following month, when he’d decided to brave the outdoors again, Peggy had insisted on coming too. She was afraid of him going alone, after last time.

And so, they’d gone together, and Steve had ignored the itch of agitation in his gut, in his bones. He’d ignored the pull of going even deeper into the forest.

The transformation had taken him by so much surprise, he’d lost sight of what happened until the next morning, when he was human again.

He’d awoken with dried blood crusted on his skin and in his hair. Blood that wasn’t his. Blood that was Peggy’s.

She hadn’t been so lucky to survive such a vicious attack. And Steve had been so in denial, so confused, that he’d held her long after her body had gone cold. It had taken him a very long time to realize that he’d been her attacker.

He didn’t even remember spinning the lie, stammering it out to the rangers, then the officers, then the coroner. That he’d left her there to go hunting, come back to her dead. It was some sort of self-preservation instinct, he thought. And he couldn’t very well say that he had turned into a wild animal and done it himself. He would have been sent to a psychiatric facility. And then what would have happened if he transformed again? And again, and again, and again?

Instead, he’d very quietly packed up his life, moved a few states over, cutting off any friends and family, and built his own prison far away from people, where he couldn’t hurt them. And it had worked.

You listened to his explanation with a hand against your throat, taking it all in. He waited for your eyes to shutter, for you to make your way past him and out the door, to tell him you were going to report him for murder.

But you didn’t seem to grasp that he was giving you a very good reason to run away. When he finished talking, you stayed quiet, like you were mulling it over. Then, slowly, you unfolded your arms from yourself and leaned across the small space between you. Your hands came to rest on his arms. “Thank you for telling me, because I know it wasn’t easy.” He’d never heard you sound so hushed, so serious before.

Here it was, he thought, you’d tell him you understood and that you would stay away. But instead of that, you said, “But you didn’t hurt me. Things might have changed, Steve. You’ve been here by yourself for three years. That’s dozens of transformations. I know your first one was traumatic, but you didn’t know what was happening to you. You do now.”

“That was a fluke,” he said stubbornly. He wished you wouldn’t look at him so empathetically. “I don’t know what happened last night. It’s the first time I haven’t gone hunting as a wolf. I just couldn’t… I couldn’t leave you there on your own.”

“You could have,” you argued, though you were still completely calm. “You could have left me there. But you stayed and you didn’t hurt me. I’ve trusted you from day one, Steve. You’re not going to hurt me. I can stay away from you if you really want me to during full moons, but I think it would be better for you to get used to being around someone when the time comes.”

“Bunny, it’s not that simple. We can’t predict that it’s all gonna be fine from now on. I’m not willing to risk it.”

You sighed, leaning closer. For a horrible moment, he thought you were going to hug him. “I get why you chose to live this way. It’s noble. But I don’t believe that you’re a danger. At least not like you were your first time. I  think you’ve had the time out here alone to learn who you are now, and how to handle it.” You were careful, considering, when you added, “How do you know without a doubt that you were the one that hurt Peggy? What if you’d been defending her? Isn’t that a possibility?”

He didn’t have an answer for you, even though you seemed very sure. It made him ache, your unwavering faith. If he hadn’t scared you off last night, hadn’t scared you off now, he didn’t think that anything would. Not until it was too late.

And even though he wanted you to be safe, he couldn’t control what you did. If you wanted to keep showing up after all he’d said, there wasn’t anything he could do to stop you. He’d just have to hope that eventually, you woke up and realized what you were risking by putting yourself in his path.

You started looking at the weather after that. But probably not in the way Steve had wanted. Rather, you were steering yourself toward him in ways that he couldn’t easily prevent. That meant showing up for every bad storm and staying the night and being there, refusing to leave when the full moon was going to be on display. You’d stuck with him for two more transformations. You’d let him leave when he’d wanted to, curling up in his bed with the curtain open to let the moonlight in, and trusted that he wouldn’t come back and tear you limb from limb. And he’d shuffle home in the morning, surprised to see you untouched under his comforter, editing your photos on your laptop. Because falling in love meant sticking by someone even when the odds were stacked against them, even if it was foolish.

Steve’s cabin really wasn’t meant for two people. Some days, it wasn’t even meant for someone of Steve’s size. But you’d started to add your own touches with each visit. Jars of wildflowers. On the nightstand, one of the windowsills, the side table. A shoddy wreath made of twigs, which you’d put on the door. It hung crookedly. The place had long since started to smell like you, as well. And as much as he hated to admit it to himself, Steve had started to miss you quite desperately when you weren’t there, despite the danger. A bit of his old self had come back, by letting you in. He wasn’t so blunt. Wasn’t irritated when you dropped in. He’d started keeping things there for you at your request, like tea blends and a change of clothes.

You’d also grown very comfortable touching him. It was the only reason, selfish as it was, that he hadn’t pushed harder to make you leave. If he didn’t greet you at the door, if he was instead sitting on the futon carving a figurine, you’d lean over the back of it, resting your chin on his shoulder to watch for a minute before moving on to deposit whatever you’d brought with you. If he was at the stove, your fingers would clutch at the back of his shirt while you peered around him to see what he was making. You’d put your feet in his lap if you sat together, push at his arm when you laughed, trail your fingers over him if you were walking past. It was intoxicating. Little by little, he’d started to rely on you, to expect you to show up. He’d started to make space for you. It had become a vastly slippery slope, and Steve no longer had any footholds to stop himself from plummeting. He had also begun to find that he didn’t want to. Maybe it was time to bask in the free fall, instead.

Fall had arrived by now, but there were still a few days in mid-September that reached high temperatures by the afternoon. One such day had you floating through the door along with a sweet, warm breeze, and a sparkle in your eye that could only mean trouble.

“Steve, how do you feel about swimming?” you asked, but in an air that was much too casual to really be casual.

He glanced at you sidelong. “I could take it or leave it. Why…?”

“Well, it’s just that it’s going to get too cold to swim soon, and that great big lake isn’t too far from here… I know how to get there from the trails now. Do you wanna come with me?” You picked at invisible lint on your dress. Your trail-inappropriate attire made sense now. The red sundress screamed summertime.

“Bunny, I don’t have anything to swim in.” Steve said honestly, spreading his hands in apology. It was true. A swimsuit had been the absolute last thing on his mind when he’d been fleeing his old life. And any times in the past that had had him braving the lake had been when there was no one around to see him in other only other one he had: that of the birthday suit.

“That’s okay. You don’t need one.”

And now the gleam in your eyes made sense. “If you’re suggesting skinny dipping…” he began with a shake of his head. There was no way on god’s green earth that he would be able to handle you naked. Even less so if he was also naked.

You laughed then. “Aw, Steve, you’re so cute. No, you can wear shorts or your underwear or something. C’mon, please? It’ll be just us. I haven’t gone swimming in so long.”

Your pout should have been illegal. He may have been a literal dog once a month, but you put any semblance of puppy eyes he might have been capable of to shame. “Okay, fine.”

You clapped your hands together, bouncing up and down. “I’ll even leave my camera here, if you’re feeling shy. Wouldn’t want to make you blush,” you said with an exaggerated wink.

It was a fifteen minute walk from the cabin to the far side of the lake. The other side was far enough away that the small set of lake houses wouldn’t be able to spot you. It didn’t really matter, anyway. No one seemed to be on the water today.

You wasted no time at all unzipping your knee-high boots and pulling your dress up over your head, revealing a red and white bikini. Maybe Steve should have said no. He’d seen a lot of you on display before, in your other outfits, but he suddenly felt like he was being lecherous when he stared at you too long. He snapped his jaw shut, glad that you hadn’t seen his open mouth. He could have caught flies, the way he’d been gaping at you. You stared at him expectantly until he kicked off his own shoes and tugged at his shirt, before turning your back to him and tiptoeing your way down to the water’s edge.

His hands paused on the waistband of his shorts while he watched you wade in, until you looked back at him cheekily. “Hurry up!”

And hurry up, he did. He tugged his shorts down as quick as he could, then all but ran into the water. He didn’t want you to see he was beginning to sport a hard-on just from looking at you.

As soon as he was waist deep, you grinned and splashed a big wave of water at him with the back of your hand. “Okay, now come and get me,” you laughed, bobbing away through the water. You weren’t quite deep enough to start swimming yet.

“You want me to chase you?”

“Mhm. You might be faster on land but are you really faster on water?” The mischievous twinkle in your eye was back, and all Steve could do was allow himself to be snared in your web.

He let you take the lead for a little while. You seemed to take great satisfaction in letting him get almost close enough, his fingers skimming your arm, before you’d kick away and cut through the water with a shriek of laughter. It was a sound he still wasn’t quite used to hearing. Even less so, his own laugh, booming across the open space.

When he grew tired of chasing though, he surged forward with a strong push. It was very, very easy to scoop you into his arms while you giggled, your hands on his shoulders as you half-heartedly squirmed away, but he held you fast. His arms locked around your waist, holding you to him. You were slippery, but not so much that he couldn’t keep a firm grasp on you. You relented by tangling your fingers together at the nape of his neck. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to get an eyeful of your chest. Not that he minded much.

“Don’t tell me you were going easy on me that whole time,” You were smiling when you complained.

“Okay. I wasn’t going easy on you the whole time.” He repeated it with a grin of his own.

It made you smile impossibly wider. He startled as you ran one of your hands over the back of his head, fingers through his hair. “Oh, I just knew that you were hiding a movie star smile. Very swoon worthy. And you’ve been keeping it a secret under all this facial hair.”

Your other hand came to his face, turning his jaw this way and that, and he let you. “You want me to shave it off?”

“No!” you said too quickly. “Maybe tidy it up a little, but no. don’t get rid of it. I like the rugged look.”

Steve raised his eyebrows at you. You were being honest—he could tell by the look on your face. It was strange to hear such a compliment. Before he’d been changed, he’d always kept to a more clean-cut sort of look. “And your hair, too. Keep it like this. You look very handsome.” Your fingers combed through the strands again.

Steve was suddenly very aware of your body being pressed against his. He shifted his arms, so that one of his hands covered the expanse of your back, your skin hot beneath his fingers. It took no effort for him to hold you like this, your feet nowhere near the sandy bottom of the lake. He’d always been strong, but his transformation had made him even stronger. “Steve?”

“Mmm?” He’d been looking at your mouth already when you’d said his name, saw your tongue move for the st, your teeth graze your lower lip for the v.

He wanted to kiss you. So badly it hurt like a bullet ricocheting between each of his ribs. He didn’t get to do that. He didn’t deserve you. You were too good, too pure, to full of joy to be sullied by his history. He could love you and not do anything about it, he thought. He could love you and continue to see you live. Your fingers brushed the nape of his neck. “Steve?” you said his name again, and his eyes finally flickered up to yours. “Did you hear what I said?”

You’d said something other than his name? Now he was lost in your eyes. You seemed to see right through him. He might have called you stupid in the past, might have been callous and tried and push you away, but he knew you were more emotionally sensitive than you let on. You might not have done a very good job being concerned for your own well being, but you were pretty great about caring about his. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“It’s my turn to try to catch you now.” But the way you said it made him wonder if you’d actually asked him something else.

It was just as well, he thought. He should put distance between you. He needed to, before he did something that both of you might regret.

The next full moon was coming. It was bringing cold weather right alongside it. Steve knew that snow wouldn’t be far behind, and he also knew that it would get to a point where it really would be impossible for you to get out here, no matter how badly you wanted to. He’d have to make his one and only trip to the general store soon to stock up. He kept a running list throughout the year, and he’d learned from previous years up here what he would need more of, and what he could do without. He’d explained a little bit of his system to you already, when you’d sweetly asked if there was anything you could get for him that wasn’t available at the store that might be easier to find in town.

It was going to be hard to lose out on seeing you. He found himself entertaining your idea of getting him a satellite phone, too.

The day before he was due to shift, you came by like you had been. You had a jacket on for once. Hell must have frozen over already for you to be wearing one. But as much as Steve was happy to see you, some internal part of him lighting up like a sparkler, he thought that this was really a moon cycle you should have missed out on.

He’d already felt more agitated this time than he had the last few. He didn’t know if it was residual feelings over the upcoming loss of your regular presence, or something else. But he could feel it making the tendons in his hands and jaw jump. He felt it with the way the hair on his arms stood up at the faintest touch of your skin against his. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stick around for this one, bunny.”

You looked at him, puzzled. You’d just started to untie your shoes after following him in. Wind battered against the door. “Why? Is something different this time?”

“I don’t know.” He was fidgeting in the kitchen’s archway. “Yes, something is.”

“Well, all the more reason to stay. I want to help you figure it out.” You put a hand on his arm.

The contact burned. He stepped back from you instantly. You didn’t miss the reaction, and it made your frown deepen. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Steve touched his fingertips to his temples. “I’m worried I’m gonna hurt you. I feel really… wound up. I can’t explain it. Like anything could set me off. You should go, seriously.” He said the last part more firmly.

“I’m not going.” You said, equally firm.

“Bunny. I’m telling you that it’s not a good idea. You said you’d go if I asked. I’m asking.”

“No. You’re scared because you’re confused. That’s not a good reason. I’m here to help you, Steve.”

“Stop coming so close.” He bit out. You’d been taking very miniscule steps towards him, and he’d been matching them by moving backward. But he was about to run out of space. You weren’t even particularly close at the moment, but your scent was catching in the back of his throat like honey.

The realization came over him like a lightbulb turning on.

Lust. That was what was making him act out of order. He wanted to be all over you, which meant you had to go. Steve wanted to be on you, around you, inside you on a regular basis—he was sure that one of the things he’d gained after being bitten was an insane sex drive—but he’d always made do with his hand and a fantasy. Now, the fantasy was standing in front of him in a flimsy shirt and jeans that detailed every curve.

You held a hand up like you were trying to get close to a cornered, frightened animal, which in a way, you were. “Steve, it’s gonna be fine.”

“No, it’s not. You need to go. Would you just listen to me for once?”

“Can you just think rationally for a second? You’ve been completely fine the last few times.”

“God, you’re not listening.” He raked a hand through his hair, wanting to pace, to move, to go to you, to make you leave, to pull you close. “You’re driving me fuckin’ crazy, bunny.” He growled, exasperated.

You took another step. Your smell was all around him now. In his bones, in his skin. His lungs, his heart, his brain. It was too much. Especially with the way you looked at him, all soft eyes and compassion.

“God damn you.” he muttered, before any semblance of holding back withered away. He could no longer help himself when he closed the distance with one step of his long legs, pulling you into a kiss so fierce, it could have had teeth and claws of it’s own.

A tiny part of him felt guilty when he put his hands on your face, tilting your head up to his. In a perfect world, he would have asked your permission. Steve expected you to try and pull away at any second, to smack him and run away. But he also clung to you more tightly, pushing his tongue between your lips, eager to taste you, eager to claim.

It was the shock of his life to realize that you were eager, not repulsed. You jumped—literally—to meet him, your legs fitting around his waist like you’d been formed with him in mind. His hands slid from your face to the backs of your thighs.

He groaned into your mouth as your fingers scrabbled at the collar of his shirt, pulling so hard that he felt the back of it cutting into his neck. This was what he had wanted since before you knew the truth about him. It was a tiny, self-sacrificing reason as to why he’d wanted to push you away. Because you were a storm cloud he knew he wouldn’t mind chasing, if given the chance, in search of rain. And he didn’t think he was allowed rain.

You were intent on proving him wrong. Between scattered kisses, your mouth a bruise on his, you murmured, “Take me to your room now.”

He obeyed, walking blindly through the kitchen and down the tiny hall, careful not to bump your head on the ceiling. He’d had to pause right before the door, unwilling to let go of your for even a second to open it. It was even more difficult with you trailing kisses down one side of his neck, raking your nails across the other side. he hadn’t taken you for a biter, but he was pretty sure he’d find marks on his skin later.

The only reason he didn’t throw you down on the bed was because he didn’t want to break it, or you. But as soon as your back hit the dark green comforter, his hands were roaming across every inch of you. Your shirt was gone in a flurry of fabric. You actually ripped his collar in your haste to pull it over his head. Steve’s scalp stung from you tugging at his hair. Every time he nipped at your collarbone, laving his tongue over the bite afterwards, you’d pull on the strands and sigh. “More.” you moaned, tipping your head back as much as you could.

You needn’t have asked. For every bite you’d given him, Steve marked you with two. Your throat was already beginning to bloom with darker marks, like a haphazard necklace in the shape of his teeth. Even though Steve had fantasized about you many times, he’d never pictured taking you like this. His fingers pushed your bra strap off one shoulder. “Can I…” his lips brushed the curve of your breast.

“Why are you even asking? The answer is yes.” And before he could even do anything about it, you were reaching back behind you and unclasping it, flinging it away from your body like it was contaminated.

You were suddenly half-bare before him, and Steve couldn’t even stop to admire you. Later, he promised. Later, I’ll take my time. Right now, he couldn’t. Right now, he just had to feel every inch of you until he forget everything in the world except your taste and touch and scent.

Your sharp squeal changed to a whimper when he bit down gently on one of your nipples before smoothing his tongue over it and sucking, massaging your other breast with one of his large hands. “Oh, god,” you breathed. Your fingers had a vicelike grip on his hair, and he didn’t care.

Your other hand patted at his chest before travelling down his abdomen. It made him shiver. He’d never put on a belt, so you went straight to work on the button of his jeans. He did the same for you, peeling yours down by their belt loops. One popped loose from its stitching in his haste, before he was kicking is own off.

Your panties were soaked through at the center. The baby pink fabric did nothing to hide it at all, especially not when you parted your legs, biting your lip as you looked at him.

“Are you—”

You cut him off by pulling at the waistband of his boxers. “Don’t even think about asking me if I’m sure. I’ve been waiting for you to make a move for months.”

You weren’t shy at all about sticking your hand down the front and squeezing the base of his cock. “Do me now. Don’t make me wait anymore.”

“Jesus Christ, bunny.”

He almost saw nirvana just from the feeling of your hand around him. “Steve.”

“Fuck, okay.”

It seemed his shirt wasn’t the only thing that had finished being useful, because your panties met the same fate. He quite literally tore them from your hips. You both heard the soft rip of the fabric. You squeezed your hand around him again and he took a shuddering breath before cupping your pussy. His thumb rolled a lazy circle around your clit, just so he could see you squirm. Your legs jumped when you whined. “Now. Now, now, now. Please.”

His boxers were gone a second later, and he replaced your hand with his own, rubbing some of your slick over his cock. You only watched, your bottom lip red and plump between your teeth. “Are you really sure?” He asked—he couldn’t help it, even as he rubbed the head of his cock over your folds.

You sat up on your elbows then. “Do I need to be on top?” You said it like it was a threat, but really it sounded like a gift.

“Maybe next time.”

You had likely had some sort of retort on the tip of your tongue, but it dissolved into one loud, long groan, your eyes squeezing shut, as he pushed in. He’d only done the tip and already you were pulsing around him in a way that had him white-knuckling the bedspread next to your hip. “Not there yet,” He grunted, pushing deeper.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” You were chanting with your head thrown back, like you really were praying to a higher being.

Bottoming out was bliss like Steve had never felt before in his life. You were squeezing around him like you planned to keep him there for good. He pulled out nice and slow, relishing in the easy slide, before slamming back in so forcefully you jolted up the bed a little.

And then you were off to the races. His hips snapped against yours while his teeth landed on your neck. Your nails were ten tiny brands in his shoulders. He just wanted more of you, all of you. More of your noises, more of your reactions, your legs tight on his waist. He wanted to sear himself into your skin and it seemed like you were trying to do the same. You couldn’t stop touching him. Your hands kept moving from his shoulders to his ribs to his neck, like you couldn’t decide where to hold on, like you’d lost the ability to form an opinion.

But still, Steve wanted more.

He slowed down enough to pry your legs from him. He glanced up only to see confusion overtaking ecstasy. He supposed he was about to see how flexible you were.

He pulled out with a wet pop!, his cock smacking against his stomach. Your wetness was dripping off him and onto the bed. You whined out his name with a petulant look. “Why did you—”

“Trying something.”

He pulled your legs up to your chest before having you put your hands under your knees to keep them up, to keep you open. His dick twitched at the sight of you spread apart for him. He wanted to devour you. But he wanted to be inside you more. “Hold on for me, bunny. Atta girl.” Your eyes filled with tears when he entered you a second time. “Feels good?” He was panting, breath fanning across your mouth.

“S—so good, Steve.”

If he’d thought he was deep before, he’d been wrong. Now his cock was kissing your cervix with every thrust, and you couldn’t contain any of the noises you were making. You were loud, unashamed, and gorgeous. The tears in your eyes spilled, sliding down your temples, but he caught one on his tongue before it went too far. He couldn’t help it. He wanted everything you had to offer. You couldn’t hold onto him, folded in half as you were, and he cradled your face with one hand, the other holding him up. You tilted your cheek into his palm, nuzzling like a kitten.

It was that, and that alone, that had him saying, “I’m gonna come.” He had you in a position that exposed you to him completely, but it was the tenderness of your eyes that really did him in.

“Together?” you breathed.

“Mhm, together.”

It was with reluctance that he stopped touching your face to rub furious circles on your clit. You came a split second before he did, clenching down on him for all he was worth, and then he was spilling into you with a force he’d never known. Each squeeze from you sent another wave from him until you were both breathing so heavily, he thought one of you might pass out. He only stopped thumbing at your clit when you dropped one of your legs to weakly bat at his hand, and he settled it across your stomach, pressing down. You let out a small, choked cry. “Oh, fuck.”

“You’re so full.”

“Yeah…” There was no longer a thought behind those eyes of yours. “So full. So good.”

It made Steve smile, to see you so fucked out. He’d done that. He’d made you feel so good that you couldn’t even think anymore. And to think he’d wanted to turn you away for safety’s sake. He no longer felt any of the agitation that he had before, even as he looked at the uneven chain of hickeys across your throat. He’d definitely left impressions of his teeth in a couple of spots.

He kept his hand on your belly for a moment longer before pulling back and out. His cum spilled out of you in a steady drip. At least he finally had a use for his ripped shirt. He was gentle as he wiped you clean, then dropped it over the side of the bed. He could have gone again, he was sure, but you were clearly done for now. Instead, he settled next to you, pulling you close, curling around you like he’d done when he’d been a wolf. You both stared at the ceiling.

Finally, you’d returned to yourself enough that you murmured, “See? You didn’t hurt me. You need to trust yourself. Because I trust you.” Your speech was slurred.

But it was the first time Steve was convinced that maybe you had a point.

It was still hard for Steve to believe that you weren’t in any danger around him, but it was easier than he’d thought, too.

You talked about it at length the first couple of days after you’d slept together. You hadn’t really wanted to leave, and he hadn’t wanted you to. You were amazed that he’d never sought out any others like him. Neither of you believed that the wolf attack had been a normal wolf. There had to be more people suffering from his same problem. You thought that maybe it was time he tried. “I don’t even know where to look,” he admitted finally.

It was late at night, the window in the bedroom just slightly cracked open. You were both laying facing each other, his hand a gentle graze up and down your spine. Your fingers drummed against his chest. “I’m not suggesting you go right away, but maybe you need to go back to that forest. The one where you were bitten. That’s where it all started. If not there, then one near it. We know for sure that wolves like you were around at one point.” You smoothed your hand over his heart when you looked at him through your lashes. “I know that it might be traumatic for you. And I won’t come if you don’t want me to. But I think that’s the best place to start.”

He settled against his pillow and tucked you closer, your head fitting under his chin. “Maybe in the spring.”

He wasn’t ready to face it yet. And the harsh weather was going to be rolling in to stay soon, anyway. But maybe in the spring, he’d have wrestled with the idea for long enough to feel good about it. Your nose brushed against his throat, and you placed a kiss against his skin a moment later. “Whatever you decide, you know I’m with you every step of the way.”

It took a little persuading from you, but Steve agreed to come to town with you. Not just the edge of it, or the road just off the main one where the general store was. But right into town, where you lived and worked the most frequently. And he wasn’t just going for fun, either. It was a date.

He’d felt nervous like a teenager again. You’d come to get him, but he’d met you at the lot where you usually parked, not wanting you to venture all the way into the forest. You were wearing a dress he’d never seen before, this one an ocean blue slip of silk, peeking out under a wool coat. The bitter temperatures had already fallen into effect. Your hair fell in loose waves around your face, coming free from its clip. He suddenly felt very underdressed in his plaid button up and jeans, but they were the nicest of his clothes. He only got more nervous as you drove. “Should I have cleaned up more?” He asked, watching you.

Your tongue stuck out of the corner of your mouth as you frowned at the rearview mirror—you were trying to execute a somewhat dicey parallel park. But your eyes flicked to him for a brief moment, one of your hands leaving the wheel to touch his leg. “I told you never to shave the beard. I like the rugged look, remember? My wolfman.” That was accompanied with a sweet smile, and he felt a rush of heat not only to his face, but to his groin, too.

Once you were satisfied with your parking job, you turned to him, leaning across the console. Your fingertips danced over his jaw when you kissed him. “You ready to go in?”

The restaurant you had parked in front of was a study of dim lighting. He could see it through the window—the hanging lamps were made of mason jars. It was now or never, he supposed. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Steve was surprised it was going so well. There’d been a bit of fumbling around with the wine menu—he hadn’t had a drink in years—but the rest of it had been fairly simple, no over the top dishes in sight. And it hadn’t been too busy, either. The waiter kept to the shadows, only passing by your table once during the meal. And through the whole thing you’d kept your easy smile, your foot brushing against one of Steve’s ankles. The lighting might have been dim, but it didn’t dull the sparkle in your eyes.

As much as Steve was relieved that this outing hadn’t been a total disaster—a small part of him had been afraid you only worked together because of the seclusion—he didn’t feel ready to venture into town at will, not yet. He said as much to you when you asked. He wasn’t ready to abandon the cabin, either, even though it really was too small for both of you and didn’t have half the amenities he knew you’d prefer.

You looked at him over the table, your plate empty, and rested your knife and fork neatly across its surface. “Why don’t we compromise?”

He didn’t know what you meant, not right away. But after eating, you took him by the hand and got in the car. You drove him all the way through the town’s center before turning off one of the side roads. You drove for twenty minutes. It was the complete opposite side of town that you’d come from, the side he was most familiar with. The road itself was pretty bumpy, unpaved. But you stopped eventually at a circular driveway.

At first, Steve thought you were just taking him to the edge of town because you thought he’d be more comfortable there. But you got out and rounded the car to his side, until he climbed out to join you. You pulled him a little ways away, to a cluster of trees. “I’m not saying that it’s the perfect solution, but…”

You trailed off. That was when he saw, under the shade of some evergreens, a small stone cottage. It was bigger than his cabin all the way around, with rounded windows. Lavender and ivy had begun to creep up one of its sides. The pathway up to it was made of tiny pebbles. The lawn needed work. But the cottage was big enough for two without being overwhelming. It was far away from people, trees surrounding it. No, it wasn’t perfect. But Steve was moved by it all the same.

His stunned silence made you ramble. “I’m not saying this is the one, but I went looking around. There’re a few places like this one around here. Some are newer, some need a lot of TLC. But they have what we’d both want in a place.” You pulled your coat tighter around yourself. “It’s just a thought,” you added quickly. “I’m not trying to move too fast.”

He pulled you closer by your hips and kissed your forehead, then your mouth. “You can move as fast as you like, bunny. I’m with you.”

Winter had not splintered your relationship like Steve had feared, though it had been a real bitch to try and clear enough snow to let you through the forest and to the cabin. It was what made him finally unearth his rusty blue truck from where he’d hidden it under tarps and dead branches on a different trail. He’d been surprised it still worked. But it was easier for him to drive down to yours, to brave the town and stay at your apartment with you, than it was for you to come to him. And he found he didn’t mind staying in town so much when you were wrapped around him like a blanket. It was infinitely better when you’d come home after a shoot, shaking snow from your hair and your clothes and your boots, and he’d have dinner ready. Something simple, but less so than what he’d ever been able to put together at the cabin. And you’d eat on the couch, then tear his clothes off. Sometimes you didn’t even make it to the bed. Once, he was pretty sure the bakery across the street had seen you pressed against the window.

But afterwards, you would cuddle up against him in your bed, and put Star Wars on the projector, and you’d always fall asleep by the time the Millennium Falcon came into play.

By the following fall, you’d said goodbye to that apartment. You were waking up next to him in the countryside in an old farmhouse. It was half an hour from town, with wide open fields on either side, and a forest beyond. It needed a lot of work, but you’d revelled in taking all the before shots of it. The coffee table was blanketed by paint swatches. It was probably going to take a few years to finish. Steve had kept the cabin, though he really only stayed there in the summer months, now. He was still looking for answers about what had happened. But he hadn’t had a single accident. None of his transformations had recreated what had happened with Peggy. He was beginning to wonder if your theory was right.

He was just glad to be able to wake up next to you every morning and not have to feel fear and dread that he was going to hurt you. It was still in the back of his mind—it always would be, he suspected—but each passing day made him feel less and less afraid.

The part of the farmhouse you’d started on first, after getting the roof fixed, was the living room. The stone fireplace had been a joint effort to repair, but it fit in nicely with the burnt orange shade of the walls, the big leather couch, the cozy rug. The mantel was cut from a poplar tree, shaped by Steve and stained by you. One of his wooden figurines claimed the space on top. And right above it, in a simple black frame, was one of your photographs.

You’d gotten the picture you’d gone into the forest for. A wolf, your wolf with watchful eyes and a gleaming coat, standing on an overhang overlooking the lake. You’d decided not to put it in your portfolio.

That one was just for you.

TAGLIST;; @blowingbarnes, @superbassbuck, @flockoff-featherface, @unificsation, @firingstars, @barnesonly, @54nboo, @earthsmightiestbenders, @its-in-the-woods, @iamthatonefangirl, @winterdecember18, @houseofhyde, @heldbybarnes, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @stellacherryfairy, @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes, @buckysbunnny, @miraclediviner, @macbaetwo, @star-yawnznn, @kisskittenn, @dolcesaints, @akiyhara, @yourstrulymariii, @sassandscribbles, @emilyswortwellen, @colettebarnes, @starfire-irl, @pinksplace, @lunaskye999, @spdrveil, @shackoflove, @bbyanarchist, @venigrantrogers, @randomfanpage, @idkbeautiful

bonus note: yes, this was me working on the remaining seven scenes yesterday. yes, the timer went longer than this. yes, this broke me a little.

Almost none of you.

Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.

He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.

He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.

Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.

It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.

Asked.

Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.

You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.

“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.

You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.

Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.

You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-

“Sit up.”

Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.

There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.

He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.

“I told you to sit up-“

“I heard you.”

“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.

“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.

Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”

“No. I work under Nat.”

“Who works for me-“

“Does she?”

Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.

He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.

Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.

No one hates Steve Rogers.

He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.

So you must be the fucking problem.

You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-

Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.

“Yeah?”

Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.

And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.

“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.”

Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.

“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”

You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.

Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is. 

“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.

“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”

“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”

A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.

“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”

“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.

The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.

“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”

He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.

You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.

It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.

“What the fuck is your problem.”

Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.

“This isn’t a dating app.”

“I know that-“

“Didn’t seem like it.”

You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”

Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”

“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”

“That’s rude-“

“Oh, suck my dick.”

You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.

His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.

“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”

You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”

Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.

Not this again.

“If someone got the jump on you-“

“No one gets the jump on me.”

“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“

“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.

 “I didn’t say that-“

“Then what were you going to say-“’

“That you need to be careful-“

“And why do you care-“

“I don’t-“

“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“You- You fucking-“

“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”

You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.

You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.

“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.

Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.

“Nothing important-“

“It looked important.”

Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”

He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.

But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.

You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.

Passion, he said.

Idiot.

It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.

“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”

You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.

“Tony, what’s going on-“

“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“

You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”

“Well, I know it’s your fault-“

“Because everything is my fault-“

“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”

“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“

“I’m not in trouble-“

“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“

“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”

You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”

Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.

“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”

“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”

A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.

“You should sit down, buddy.”

Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”

“Don’t stand there like a creep.”

His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.

“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”

Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”

You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”

Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.

“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“

He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.  

From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.

“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.

Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.

Secret Love In the Avengers.

It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.

“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”

Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”

“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.

“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”

Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So what, do you need us to do another release-“

“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“

“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“

“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”

“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“

“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Yes. I do. And you do too.”

You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“

“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”

“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”

Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“

“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.

“They- What?!”

“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”

You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.

He never does.

“Did you know about this?” You hiss.

He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“

“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”

“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”

Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”

Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”

“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“

“Just- Not now-“

“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”

Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“

“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”

Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.

You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.

There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-

No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.

You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.

You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?  

He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.

Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.

Oh, no.

You want to fuck him.

Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.

He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.

There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute.  Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.

“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.

And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.

You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.

God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.

But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.

“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.

“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“

“We really don’t-“

“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“

You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.

Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.

“Let go-“

“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”

“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“

“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”

Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.

“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”

“Aw. I’m a woman-“

“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.

And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.

“I’m a problem?”

Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”

“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’ll live.”

For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.

“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”

“You’re impossible-“

“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.

“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“

“Yes. You do.”

“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“

“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”

You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.

Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.

“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”

You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“

“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“

“Steve-“

“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”

“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“

“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”

You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.

No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.

But Steve…

He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.

“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.

“Since the second I saw you.”

“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”

His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“

“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.

Stares for a second longer, then nods.

“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.

“Okay?”

 You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.

Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-

Steve snaps.

His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.

You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.

“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.

“Shut up, I could still stop this-“

“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”

Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“

“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”

Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.

He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.

“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.

“You would’ve killed me.”

And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.

“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”

Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.

He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t  been thinking small.

“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”

You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.

“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”

“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”

You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.

“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.

“You- You’re such an ass-“

“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.

A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.

“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“

You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.

“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“

Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.

And he’s still so hard.

You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.

“You’re- Uh-“

“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”

Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“

“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”

He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.

You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.

“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.

Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.

“You like that, doll?”

“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.

“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”

Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.

“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”

“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“

“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”

God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.

“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”

He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.

“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“

“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.

You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.

“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”

He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.

Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.

He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.

Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.

He’s looking at your tits.

He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.

“Steve- Ooh-“

“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“

Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.

He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”

And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.

You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.

He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.

You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“

You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.

When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.

“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.

You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.

This feels real.

You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.

“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”

You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”

“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”

You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.

“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”

You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.

“You gotta hold on.”

“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.

“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“

“I’m holding on tight.”

“Hold on tighter.”

You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.

“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.

“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“

“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“

“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”

He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.

His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.

“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”

“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”

Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”

And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.

The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-

Steve.

You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.

It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-

“Is that me?”

Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.

“Stay.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“

He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.

“You like that, huh?”

“Shut up-“

“No, you liked that-“

“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.

“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“

“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.

Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”

“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“

“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”

“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“

“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”

And all your protests slip out of your head.

I love you.

He- He said-

“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.

“I love you.”

He said it again. “Wh- Why?”

“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”

“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“

“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.

“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“

“It’s not.”

“But-“

Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“

“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.

It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.

“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”

You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.

“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“

“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”

Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.

“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”

Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.

He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.

“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”

You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.

“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.

“Yes?”

You glare at him, and he raises his brows.

“You getting on, or not?” 

For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.

Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.

“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”

He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.

“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.

You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.

He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”

You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.

“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”

You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.

But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.

You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.

Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”

You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.

“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”

“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“

“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”

Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.

“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”

He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.

“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”

Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.

It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.

“St- Steve-“

“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“

“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“

 Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.

“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.

“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.

“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“ 

It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.

There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.

He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.

“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.

You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.

“You gonna talk to me?”

You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.

“I didn’t hurt you-“

You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.

“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“

He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.

“Honey, it’s everywhere.”

You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.

“Okay. Five minutes.”

He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.

Like a real couple.

You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.

A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.

But now-

You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.

“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“

 You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.

Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.

“I love you,” you croak out.

His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.

And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.

And he might really be the only thing in yours.

You are still you. You still have your own heart, your own mind, your own love, your own mercy. But under your skin, behind your eyes, there is something divine and monstrous that wants to turn every sinner it touches into dust.

Like every other Ghost Rider before you, you have the penance stare.

It forces a a sinner to feel every bit of pain they have ever caused. All of it comes back at once as punishment.

Dex has seen you do it.

He has seen what happens when the Rider takes over and your skull is on fire. He knows the smell of smoke and burning leather and the way your voice stops sounding like one person and starts sounding like a chorus of dark angels hunting for a thousand damned souls.

He has watched your flaming skeletal hands grip AVTF agents by the jaw and make them look into your eyes. He had seen them scream. Most go catatonic. Some hearts simply stop because the body could not survive the weight of its own sin.

So yes, Dex knows what lives inside you. And you know what lives inside him.

Because the Spirit doesn’t look at Benjamin Poindexter and see your boyfriend. It sees a man who needs to pay for his actions.

See, you can smell sin on people, and Dex is drenched in it.

Dex, who has thought terrible things, done terrible things, wanted terrible things. Dex, who would do more terrible things if someone gave him a reason and a clean line of sight.

The Spirit takes one look at him and goes: Sinner.

And you internally go, I know.

The Spirit says: Guilty.

And you say, I know.

The Spirit says: Burn him.

And that is when you bare your teeth and say, No.

Because you love him so much it is making you blasphemous. You love him so much you are arguing theology with the Spirit of Vengeance living in your ribs.

You love him so much you are standing in front of divine punishment saying, yes, I know he is guilty, yes, I know what he has done, yes, I know what he might do, but he is mine, he is my home, he is the only person who touches me like I am still human after the flames go out.

And Dex loves you for it. 

In his defense, when he first fell in love with you, he didn’t know about the Ghost Rider.

He just thought you were a pretty girl with pretty eyes he could get lost in. A pretty girl whose voice made his whole world narrow down into one fixed spot. He didn’t know there was hellfire under your skin. 

Then one day your eyes turned orange and your flesh burned away and suddenly the girl he loved was vengeance itself.

And Dex should’ve run.

He didn’t, because he knew you were still in there.

And honestly? He couldn’t care less about the Spirit of Vengeance.

He cares about you.

Dex loves like tunnel vision. Once you are the centre, everything else is just noise.

The Spirit hates him? Fine.

The Spirit wants him dead? Fine.

The Spirit wants him burned for every sin he has ever committed? Fine.

You warned him multiple times. Told him, “Dex, it wants to kill you.”

And Dex, an awfully devoted man, just looked at you like you had handed him a challenge, and boy does Dex love a challenge. Especially when the prize is loving you.

Still, there are good days and bad days.

On good days, when Dex is almost docile, Zarathos stays mostly silent as you go on your flamed bike and go hunt some other guilty soul instead.

But on bad days, when Dex kills and thinks about killing, he knows that loving him hurts you.

And he hates that.

Because for all the terrible things Bullseye has done, he wants you obsessively safe. Locked-door, checked-window, hand-on-your-back-in-a-crowd safe. He wants to protect you from every bad thing that has ever existed.

Except most of the time the bad thing is him. Because he is the one waking up the ancient spirit inside you. On these days, you actively have to bargain for his life to the Spirit. 

And Dex is not selfless enough to leave. He loves you too much, wants you too much, needs you too badly to do the noble thing and disappear for your own good. He can’t. He won’t.

But it still wrecks him.

It’s obvious when he comes home bloody.

The second he steps into the apartment, everything changes.

The whites of your eyes disappear and they go black instead of orange. Then, you just stand there, staring at nothing.

Dex freezes in the doorway, blood drying on his skin, and his stomach churns because he knows you are fighting on his behalf. 

You are somewhere inside your own head, teeth bared, pushing hellfire back down your lungs because Zarathos has seen him and smells blood.

SINNER.

You grit your teeth in your head. I know.

HE HAS KILLED.

I know.

HE WILL KILL AGAIN.

You cannot deny that.

You know Dex too well to think of him as innocent. You know the blood on his will never truly wash off. But the spirit lives in you. So if it wants to judge Dex, it has to go through you first.

The windows rattle.

The lights flicker.

Your eyes are somehow darker, darting back and forth as you are fighting a battle in your mind. 

Dex is behind you now, blood drying on his sleeves, hands settling at your waist. 

Zarathos snarls. HE BELONGS TO VENGEANCE.

No.

HE BELONGS TO JUDGMENT.

No.

HE BELONGS TO ME.

You bare your teeth inside your own skull.

You chose me, you hiss. You live in my bones. You use my hands. You wear my face. So listen to me for once.

In the physical world, Dex presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. Your fingers twitch.

You will not touch him.

HE HAS BLOOD ON HIS HANDS.

So do I.

In the real world, he presses another kiss, lower this time, through the fabric of your shirt. Dex’s mouth lingers there like he is trying to call you back.

HE IS DAMNED.

Then damn me beside him.

Dex’s arms fully slide around your waist. His forehead rests against the back of your shoulder.

“Baby,” he murmurs. “Come back to me.”

Zarathos roars.

The lights flare.

The air heats so quickly it feels like the apartment is about to catch on fire.

And then Dex, Benjamin fucking Poindexter, the man covered in blood, the man divine vengeance wants dragged screaming into punishment, kisses the side of your neck and almost whines. “Come on. I want a cuddle.”

Which is so ridiculous.

The Spirit of Vengeance is awake in your bones. Hellfire is crawling up your throat. An ancient force of punishment is trying to seize control of your body so it can burn your boyfriend’s soul clean out of him.

And Dex is behind you asking for a cuddle like a clingy housecat.

But that’s your Dex, alright.

And somehow, it works, because the Spirit is losing its grip on you. 

Zarathos roars, all fire and ancient hunger.

But Dex kisses your shoulder. Then just under your ear.

These were little kisses. Sweet, stubborn, selfish kisses from the world’s most guilty man.

Insane.

Because what do you mean you are arguing with divine vengeance over Bullseye? What do you mean the Spirit wants him punished and you are standing there saying no?

The Spirit snarls.

YOU WERE BORN FROM WRATH TO DRAG SINNERS INTO THE FIRE.

I know.

Dex kisses your cheeks as his hands tighten at your waist.

But not this one.

The black in your eyes starts to break as you come back to the real world. You suck in a breath like you just crawled out of a grave, and Dex turns you around before your knees can give in

“There you are,” he whispers.

You are mostly you now.

Mostly.

Your breathing is still shaky. Your hands are still gripping his shirt. The apartment still smells like smoke and the windows have just stopped rattling. The lights are still pulsing.

But your eyes still have a flicker of orange there.

Zarathos, the spirit of vengeance, is quiet, but it’s not gone.

It’s watching and Dex knows it.

Of course he knows. Dex notices everything, especially when the ancient entity inside his girlfriend is staring at him like it’s time for dinner.

He knows Zarathos could kill him. He knows that thing could drag sin out of him and burn him hollow. He has seen what you can do. He knows the Spirit does not bluff.

And still, he smiles against your lips, that smug little fucker.

Because as far as he was concerned, The Spirit of Vengeance is being forced to watch its vessel kiss its prey. And Dex is just awful enough to enjoy it. 

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, then your mouth again.

This time it’s slow and hot and a little mean with it, like every kiss is aimed at the orange glow behind your eyes.

“Dex,” you breathe, half warning, half plea, as if to say please don’t antagonise the ancient power in me.

He hums against your mouth, not even pretending to be sorry. 

Because he loves that the Spirit wants him punished, and instead has to sit there in the back of your eyes while you let him pull you into his lap.

Such a fucking Dex thing to do.

He looks right at that little orange flicker and smiles, like he is baiting it. Like he knows exactly what he is doing.

Like he’s saying, look! Look at her choosing me again!

His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it aches, and his forehead presses to yours.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

And you melt a little, because fuck does he know how to bring you back.

So you kiss him again, blood drying on his shirt, your hands still trembling against him, the Spirit burning silent and furious behind your eyes.

Dex loves making it watch.

Because every time Zarathos reaches for him, you come back to Dex.

Every time.

And Dex loves that he is winning.

—

You stopped him before he could rip the IV out, holding his wrists down.

"Stop it." You hissed out, trying to prevent him struggling but he was relentless, body writhing despite the pain that flared at each attempt. "You're going to rip your stitches open."

He let out a noise — half whimper, half groan, all weakness. He looked ashamed that he allowed the noise to escape, cheeks tinging pink as he continued to glare at you. You were unsure if his rouged cheeks were sourced from embarrassment or the suspected fever. He repeated the question, this time the words coming out clearer.

"Fucking shit—" He groaned out, the swears spitting out of his mouth as another wave of pain rippled through his body. "Who are you?"

He had stopped moving now, his fingers curling into the garnet silk as he tried suppressing another wince. He wasn't successful, his face screwing up. Everything just hurted so much — his chest, his ribs, his lungs, everything. Especially his abdomen, the skin prickled there, the pain was deeper, crueler.

You muttered a reply. His mind went blank when he heard it, trying to decipher the meaning behind it until he finally recognised it for what it was. A name. Your name. It was pretty, suited you well, but it meant nothing to him.

"That's not what I asked." He mumbled, the consonants slurring, softening. He continued to glare at you, or at least tried to. You were moving too fast, making him dizzy as you rounded the side of the bed going to something he was unable to see from his laying position.

"Someone your family kidnapped." You responded, not bothering to sugarcoat the truth as you grabbed the stethoscope once more, lifting the neckline of his shirt as you let the chest piece settle where his heart was, counting the beats. It was thrumming steadily, quickening for a moment when the cold metal kissed his hot skin, his body involuntarily shuddering at the sudden contact, but his heart beat settled once more. It was still faster than what it should have been.

He was quiet, unsure if you were lying to him or just making a weird joke, but the deadpan stare you gave him confirmed that you weren't.

You moved it lower, aiming for his lungs this time.

"Slow, deep breaths." You instructed, focusing on the sounds — it sounded mainly normal, except for the slight wheezing sound you could hear each time he inhaled.

You removed the stethoscope, moving to scribble your result onto a new page, ensuring to include a note about the patient being awake.

"You Blackfyre?" He finally asked, voice strained, his mouth feeling strangely dry.

You hummed softly at his question. You had heard that name far too many times in the past day, being mumbled like a curse. And even now when Aerion had said it, it was dripping in vitriol. You vaguely recognised it; you had seen it many times during your late night research, the name seeming to follow House Targaryen like a shadow, lingering on the sidelines. Far enough that you did not truly know much about the Blackfyres, but close enough that you knew there was history there. Hatred, to be exact.

It was deeper than simple animosity, harsher than just business ventures going wrong; there was shared blood, a certain permanence forged through relation. And that hatred seemed to never waver.

Maekar cursed it with anger, Aerion announced it with disgust — it was clear that this was an ancestral loathing that was being passed down generation to generation, and would certainly be inherited by the next.

"You're more stupid than I expected." You answered, keeping your gaze focused on the neat, equally spaced lines of your notebook, the ink swirling in the space between as you continued to write your observations. Clammy skin, looks pale. "Why would I be allowed to care for you if I was?"

You noticed his breathing becoming shallow, as if the very task of breathing was becoming difficult for him. You frowned slightly, shit. Was he getting worse?

He was quiet for a moment, and you could almost see the thoughts rattle in his skull, desperately trying to find a reason as to why you were at fault for being abducted. You suppose you were, in some sick twisted way. You should have never helped.

"Peake, then?" Aerion tried again, brows furrowing as he felt pain ripple through his chest with each breath he took.

"No."

"Then why the fuck would they take you?"

"No idea." You muttered exasperated, grabbing for the oral thermometer in the hopes that it would shut him up. Just for a few minutes at least. "Open your mouth."

He screwed his lips shut, forcing them into a tight line as he watched you with weariness, as if you were holding a dagger rather than a thermometer.

You were going to scream.

You closed your eyes, breathing in deeply, exhaling — repeating the motions once, twice. But still your head ached, and still you felt your anger flare once more. You just had to take care of him, ensure he wouldn't drop dead, and then you could leave. And now this loser wasn't even letting you do what you were abducted for? What you were being forced into doing?

He was pissing you off.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying desperately to not swear at him (and to not hit him either, which was becoming an extremely tempting thought).

"You were shot." You stated, your finger curling around the cool plastic of the thermometer as you forced your voice to remain stable. You pulled his shirt up, exposing pale skin and his bandaged abdomen as you poked at the very spot where the injury was. He flinched. "And I dug the bullet out. I cut your middle open to check if your organs had been blasted through. And I then stitched you up. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it then. Open your mouth."

He just watched you, eyes squinting as he tried to judge the weight of your words, to discover whether they held any truth. But thinking just made the room spin more violently, and he already felt sick.

Slowly his lips pried open, his gaze darting away from you as he allowed you to put the thermometer into his mouth, as if by denying you his attention he was not truly accepting defeat. The metal nudged against his tongue as you gently pushed it underneath the pink muscle. You held it there for ten seconds, the time seeming to drag as all you could hear was his shallow breathing.

You already knew the result before you had even seen the small digital screen, the square flashing numbers just confirming what you feared. 39°C. His temperature had jumped since the last time you had checked, and before you could control yourself, the back of your hand was resting gently against his forehead, gauging the temperature as if the thermometer had lied to you.

He moved his head at the contact, trying and failing to escape your hand (but he couldn't move much, and soon gave up).

"What's wrong?" He questioned, voice coming out hoarse.

You didn't answer him, instead turning to Dunk who had been lingering at the entrance the entire time, quietly observing you.

"I need paracetamol." You stated, ripping out a page in your notebook as you began to write the name of the antibiotics you needed, hesitating for a moment as you tried to recall the exact names and dosages. You offered the piece of paper to the tall man. "And, um, these antibiotics."

You had ensured your handwriting was legible, that each inked letter was clear and unable to be misread, but even then Dunk just stared at you blankly, his gaze darting from the piece of paper in his hand, to you, and then back to the paper.

"Ceftriaxone and metronidazole." You recited, your brows furrowing as you watched him repeat it back.

"Paracetamol, ceftriaxone, metronidazole." Dunk muttered to himself over and over, trying not to stumble over the syllables, turning to leave as he folded the piece of paper once, twice, placing it neatly in his blazer pocket. It had been written, so why was he determined to commit it to memory? It made no sense.

You turned to Aerion.

He had already been staring at you.

Observing you with a wary quietness, not truly trusting you. He didn't have to, the sentiment was shared.

"Am I dying?" He mumbled pathetically, and you rolled your eyes at him.

You wanted to reply sarcastically, to be cruel and mock him, but it was hard to be a bitch when he was watching you with genuine fear, his skin all pale and sweaty as he waited for your response with baited breath. It must've felt like he was dying, pain coursing through his body each time he tried to do something as little as breathing.

So you showed him some mercy, unable to find it in you to be mean.

"No. You have a fever."

You didn't explain what a fever could mean, that it hinted at another issue. That you prayed that you hadn't missed something during the surgery. You hadn't, right? You were certain that everything went well, but you could barely remember.

It seemed to have comforted him at least.

"Just a fever?" He repeated, letting you help him sit up, his back hitting the ornate headboard. Despite your gentleness, he still hissed in pain, a stabbing ache throbbing through his full abdomen, the air escaping his lungs. "Don't need meds then. Dragons don't take meds."

You stared.

One second passed, and then another. And you just sighed, choosing to ignore his words. It was the fever talking, it had to be.

(But with three separate dragon heads facing your direction, and numerous other examples of dragon paraphernalia dotted around the room, you weren't entirely sure. Was this dude a furry? You'd rather not know.)

'Mother Above, give me patience.' The silent prayer repeating in your mind as you began to lift his shirt, fingers ghosting his skin as you helped him out of it. The prayer had no value to you, and you felt slightly silly for resorting to muttering words you had not even recited since your father had died. But you were desperate and they helped distract your mind, even if it were only for a moment.

He grunted lowly as he allowed you to pull the cotton over his head, dropping the t-shirt on the end of his bed, the branded label flashing at you slightly as the fabric pooled by his feet. You would have to get him a new shirt, this one having the scent of iron and sweat clinging to the fibres.

You unwound his bandages, gathering the loose material as you disposed of it, your attention returning to Aerion's abdomen.

"Like the view, Angel?"

You frowned at his words, gaze flickering up to meet his only to find him smirking at you, his eyes sharpened with amusement.

"Oh definitely." You replied sarcastically, not even hiding the harsh eye roll you offered him. "The sight of deathly pale skin and blood really gets me going."

His smirk twitched slightly at your response, eyes narrowing. He didn't appreciate your sarcasm. But you didn't care, you weren't going to offer him sincerity, not when you hadn't slept in more than 24 hours, not when you didn't even want to be here. You preferred him when he was unconscious, when his brain was blurred with pain. When he was unable to speak.

He remained quiet as you cleaned his wound once more, your hands gentle as the skin twitched beneath your touch, watching as he tried to restrain his flinches. You noticed his sharp inhales, the way his fingers curled into themselves. You said nothing, but ensured your touch was lighter.

You wrapped his abdomen again, fresh bandages spanning around his waist, flush against the lean muscle, your arms wrapping around him in an awkward half hug each time the bandages circled his person. You were close, too close — he was able to smell the scents of your soap, something floral, something sweet, he was unable to pinpoint the exact notes.

He could only swallow harshly when you were at this distance, half sat upon the edge of his bed as you secured his bandages, ensuring they were tight enough. His gaze traced the contours of your face, the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek. Brows pinched in concentration, a small wrinkle forming in the middle of them. The plush of your lips set in a tight line. His gaze lingered there the longest.

But you pulled back all too soon, mind distant as you advanced towards the large mahogany armoire, rifling through it until you had found exactly what you were looking for. It was a strangely difficult task, to find an old shirt that would be baggy on his frame, it seemed like the silver-haired Targaryen dared not repeat his outfits, all clothing items appearing as if they had only even been worn a maximum of three times. You had only wanted to find something that wouldn't cling to him, that would have minimal opportunity to disturb his bandages, yet it felt as though you had searched through his entire closet just to find one that had been bunched up into the corner — the soft cotton now a faded grey, suggesting that it had once been dyed black but age had bleached its fibres.

It was slightly wrinkled, evidence of being neglected and forgotten (yet its very presence suggested the opposite — why would this remain when it simply did not fit the evident pattern of his wardrobe? Why was this not discarded also?) The typography was simple, white peeling vinyl simply stating VSC below the minimalistic image of an anvil.

Aerion did not bother speaking to you after that, his mind going blank as he allowed you to manipulate his limbs, dragging the old shirt over his upper body, your touch ghosting along his skin, causing goosebumps to rise. He was unsure of what to even say, all he knew was that he wanted to speak more yet his mind was not allowing him to do so. And soon he yielded to the temptations of sleep once more, falling into the clutches of slumber, the thought of you drifting across his mind as he began to have hazy dreams of gunpowder and arsenic.

You watched as he slept once more, kicking off the slippers that Dunk had brought you last night, busying yourself with cleaning any scratches that marred your skin, evidence of your failed escape. You wouldn't be able to leave through impulsivity, that was what you had quickly deduced. And you could not appear irrational to the Targaryens either, yet that was easier said than done.

You could argue that you were the most rational individual within the premises, yet they still outnumbered you.

Fucking Targaryens.

You were not entirely sure how you were meant to handle this situation. Your mind wandered, what would Rowan do?

Well, firstly your best friend would never be in such a situation. She would have had the sense to ignore strange noises in the middle of the night. Yet if she were to ever give you advice for this situation (which unfortunately you could not ask, nor would you ever seek for you knew that it would be truly stupid to involve her), she would laugh and remind you that you were surrounded by men.

Men were simple, as she would often say. She would have been able to manipulate them all, with a flutter of her lashes and a pleasing smile, she would have softened Maekar's brutish nature and convinced the otherwise unwavering Baelor to allow her to leave.

But you were not Rowan, and it seemed as though these men did not care for your anger or your tears. Yet you could still try.

It was easier than you believed — it was not in your nature to soften yourself. Yet when you offered Dunk a hesitant smile accompanied with a gentle 'thanks' as he handed you the very antibiotics you had requested (the doses correct, the names matching the very ones you had provided), you watched with gleeful triumph as his eyes widened slightly, cheeks tinged pink as he stumbled over a reply. Yet despite the slight pride that ignited within you, you found yourself not even focusing on the man before you.

Would you be able to have such an effect on Baelor? A small voice in your head whispered that you wouldn't. That even if you fluttered your lashes at him and appeared meek, the brunet Targaryen would most likely quickly deduce your intentions. Your heart fell at the thought; he certainly would not be rendered weak by your attempts.

Dunk lingered near you after that small interaction, watching silently as you began to administer the antibiotics into his IV, his gaze fluttering over you when he believed you would not notice. You did notice, it was hard not to when the half-giant was hovering beside you, his lips parting slightly as he tried to will himself to speak to you, before dissuading himself.

You decided to rescue him from his indecision, forcing him to reply to you as you began talking half-mindedly, your gaze returning to his momentarily as you allowed idle conversation to fill the air while you settled once more into the seat by Aerion's bed.

He would avoid your gaze as he muttered hesitant responses, only allowing himself to look at you when he believed that your attention returned to Aerion, who was blissfully unaware of his surroundings.

"Egg did that?" You giggled, lips stretching into a smile that felt too real (it seemed as if you were manipulating yourself more than him, and you just tried to excuse it with your own exhaustion — surely you would be more clearheaded once you slept), watching as Dunk offered a soft smile as he recounted the story of how he met the young Targaryen.

"The boy's far more clever than me, and I hadn't even realised what had happened." Dunk complained, yet the way his eyes crinkled exposed his fond pride as he recounted how Egg had conned him into believing that he was just another Smallfolk boy. "Just that he needed help, and I gave it."

You hummed softly, tone teasing as you leaned towards him. "Yet you benefited from his scheming in the end."

"I suppose…" He mumbled as you referenced how he got his job as a Kingsguard, blush violently remaining on his face as cracked his knuckles, the room beginning to lull into an even silence once more. He wanted the conversation to continue, yet he was unsure of how to do so. He was never good with his words. He was simply glad that your anger seemed to have dulled.

Your gaze flickered down to his hands, tracing the scars and callouses that were peppered across his skin, accompanied by the very grazes you had scratched into his skin the night before. The skin still appeared raw, angry red lines that had scabbed over slightly, the skin slightly torn. Silence stretched as your gaze remained unwavering from his hands.

"I think…" You began slowly, forcing your gaze to drag from his hands, returning to his blue irises. "I think I need to speak to Baelor again, especially now that…" Your voice trailed off, watching as Dunk began to shake his head, your brows furrowing as he motioned a wordless refusal.

You interrupted your own trail of thought, slightly confused.

"No?" You questioned.

He had the decency to appear sheepish as he confirmed that no, you could not speak to Baelor. "He's returned to King's Landing, along with Maekar."

You nodded gently, steeling your expression as you tried to not react to the word return. They returned to King's Landing, meaning that where you were, where they had taken you, was certainly not still in King's Landing. Where in the Seven Hells were you then?

"Oh, okay." You replied, voice hesitant as thoughts began to whizz through your mind, only furthering the headache that plagued you. "Dunk, could you do me a favour?"

He visibly stilled at those words, his eyes widening slightly as his brain began to malfunction, stumblings of a reply exiting his lips.

"Um—" He stalled, his gaze fluttering away from you as you watches as his focus darted around the room. "Maybe— depends? Why?"

You forced the smile to remain on your lips, hoping that it appeared more fond than strained. "I just need to make a call."

"I don't—"

"Come on." You urged, your gaze chasing his as you leaned towards him. "You do owe me, Dunk. I'll forget about the full thing if you just let me."

You watched his expression with avid curiosity, observing through your lashes as his lips tightened, his gaze unsteady, fluttering to you, then towards a sleeping Aerion, and then towards the flying dragons carved into the bedframe. You watched as indecision wavered on his features, brows tightening as he prepared himself to refuse you once more. You interrupted him before he could utter those dreaded words.

"I'm not stupid, Dunk." You quickly interjected, trying to hide the nervousness that began to seep into your features, keeping your tone teasing as you stood up, grabbing his hand gently. He flinched slightly at your sudden touch, yet still allowed you to grasp his hand, "I'm not going to tell them about what's happened, I just need to make sure my family won't worry about me."

He bit his lip slightly, a small frown dawning on his features. "You're not going to mention any of this?"

"Of course not." You responded, immediately latching onto the semblance of an offer, intertwining your pinky with his. "I promise."

His gaze dipped to where your fingers were linked, and immediately you knew you had won.

This would quickly be evidenced by the fact that within the next second he was fishing his phone out of his pocket, offering it to you with slight hesitancy as your pinkies remained connected by your side as you snatched the phone out of his hands. You weren't able to discern whether Dunk regretted his decision, your attention mainly focused on remembering Rowan's phone number, each digit quickly filling the top half of the screen as you pressed the green call button, the device vibrating slightly as you waited. There was one buzz, and then another, before the familiar melodic tones of Rowan's voice disturbed the silence.

"Hello?"

Your heart soared at the sound of her voice, a part of you almost wishing to just begin sobbing, airing each and every complaint that had festered within you. But you couldn't.

Her voice called out again, the vowels dragging as her questioning tone filled the air once more.

"Helloooo?" She repeated, and you could hear the murmurings of a male voice in the background urging her to hang up. "I don't know, I don't think—"

"Rowan." You interrupted, your voice coming out more breathless than you had anticipated. "Hi, sorry, I just needed to call you."

She uttered your name in that same questioning tone, and you could hear her fumbling with her phone, no doubt checking the number that had called her.

"Babes, what— what's going on? Whose phone are you calling me on?" Her voice was laced with confusion, words stumbling over themselves only for your voice to interrupt her once more.

"Just using a friend's, but that doesn't matter. Just needed to—" You exhaled a sigh, taking a moment to recollect yourself as you tried to not stutter over your words. "Just having a family emergency, you know? Could you take care of the practice for a while? Message Alys to cover my shifts please?"

Your voice came out in a myriad of questions, trying to force your tone to remain even, to not expose any evidence of the nerves that were haunting you.

"Friend? Emergency?" She repeated the words back incredulously and you suppressed the urge to wince. She could tell you weren't telling the entire truth. "Babes, I don't understand, what's going on?"

"Ro, I am so sorry, but I can't talk right now." You avoided her question, instead choosing to feign urgency. "I'll explain the next time I see you, yeah? Love you."

You hung up before she could reciprocate any farewells, the phone emitting a definitive click as you abruptly pressed the red button, watching as the screen returned to Dunk's homescreen, a picture of a sunhat-wearing Egg sat upon his shoulders.

You let go of his hand, letting his pinky fall out of your grasp.

"Thanks." You muttered weakly, offering him his phone and a tight-lipped smile.

"Go to the kitchen." He blurted out, his voice surprising you slightly. "I just mean, you should go eat something, I can watch him."

"I'm not hungry."

"You should still have a break." He insisted. You hesitated for a moment, your gaze drifting over Aerion. Dunk noticed. "I'll call for you if anything happens."

"Maybe just for a bit?"

"Just for a bit." He encouraged, offering you a soft smile as he moved out of your way.

You quickly regretted accepting his offer of a break, immediately feeling disoriented the moment you left the room, feeling almost blinded by the stark marble that shone at you from every direction. You felt dizzy seeing something other than bloody crimson and ornate dragon heads.

The rest of the manor appeared foreign to you in the daylight, unable to discern which direction you were truly heading in. You were almost certain you had not travelled these same corridors the night prior, however, by some miracle, you somehow managed to stumble upon the kitchen.

Which had been filled by the rest of Maekar's brood.

They all stared at you as you entered, watching you wide-eyed as you tried to blend into the walls, pretending as if you had not noticed their obvious attention. You instead directed your focus towards the actual room (how enthralling, you were now being entertained by furniture), unable to ignore how it appeared awfully clinical.

Stainless steel and glimmering marble; it was truly a gorgeous kitchen, yet it appeared so sterile you were certain you could have performed Aerion's surgery here without having concerns of cleanliness or a lack there of. It appeared more industrial rather than familial, like the kitchen of an upscale Reach restaurant rather than a family home.

And like everything within the manor, it appeared unused.

Daeron broke the silence as he watched you inspect the double doored enormous fridge (yet despite the appliance being so large, it's contents were so bare, with only a few random items on each shelf).

"Made you toast." He offered, pushing the plate in your direction as he leaned against the ivory marble island. "Would ask if you want something else, but unfortunately this is where my culinary prowess ends."

You turned slightly, observing the two sad pieces of sourdough bread he offered. Slightly charred at the edges, yet the middle appeared strangely untoasted. Gods, why did you feel kinship with the toast. Just another thing the Targaryens managed to fuck up.

You grabbed the jar of raspberry jam, letting the fridge doors swing shut as you mumbled a soft 'thank you'.

You weren't exactly well-versed on abductee etiquette, instead choosing to abandon any attempt at small talk as you allowed awkward silence to fill the air, the only sound being your stainless steel table knife dragging against your toast, smearing the vivid tart jam across its surface.

And clearly the Anvil's children's were unsure of how to handle such a situation either. But seeing as they were the abductors, or rather related to the abductors, it only made sense for them to take the role of interrogators.

"Are you really a doctor?"

"You're so pretty—"

"—Can you look at Meraxes now—"

"—Are you going to be our new Mummy?"

You choked at the last question, the toast feeling as if it had impaled itself into your pharynx as you struggled to breath, unable to look at the little girl.

Daeron did not help, immediately falling into a fit of giggles at Rhae's question. But the young Targaryen did not see the humour within her question, and instead repeated it with increased urgency.

"Well? Are you?"

"No." You wheezed out, your face feeling as if it were burning. Seven Hells, fuck your fucking life.

"Why not? You're taking care of Aerion, even though he's mean. And you're really nice, and pretty. Do you not like my Daddy?" Rhae interrogated, head tilting as she peered up at you through her pale lashes.

Darling girl, I don't think anyone in their right mind would like your Daddy.

Yet you found yourself wholly and truly dumbfounded, unable to respond. Speechless as you could only just stare at her.

"Think she's a bit young for Dad, Sun-Rhae." Daella interrupted, immediately noting how shocked you appeared as she watched unimpressed, flipping though her magazine (the front page boasted the title 'The Maidenvault' and you quickly recognised the image of Kiera of Tyrosh pictured).

"So? Auntie Dany is younger than Uncle Maron?"

"I just—" You cleared your throat, immediately noticing how strained your voice sounded. "I don't know your dad, and…"

And you couldn't believe that you were even bothering to explain why you would never marry the man who aided in your kidnapping???

"—And she's just here to help Aerion." Daeron finally explained once he stopped laughing, yet that stupid smirk remained on his face. At least someone was enjoying this interaction. You certainly weren't.

And you were so tired that you couldn't find it in you to correct him. Sure, you suppose you were here to help Aerion, despite it being unwilling.

"Okay…" Rhae mumbled, her voice trailing off as she continued to watch you, her soft lilac gaze observing you as she looked unconvinced by the explanations offered.

"Okay." You parroted, voice weak as you tried to focus on finishing the toast before you, yet it felt as if your appetite had suddenly abandoned you. You were going crazy, surely that was what was occurring. Sleep deprivation did that to a person.

"Pleaaasssseeeee, can you look at Meraxes now, pleasepleaseplease—" Egg's voice caused you to jump slightly as you finally noticed that the bald Targaryen had managed to sneak up behind you. You gasped sharply, spinning to face him as his hands grasped at the hem of your shirt, tugging at it slightly.

"Sure! Why not!" You exclaimed, finally relenting to Egg's pleas, more so excited to finally escape the kitchen. You were certain that if you remained there any longer you would truly become insane. "Just bring her to—"

And before you could even finish your sentence, Egg ran off, darting out of the kitchen with such speed that you found your head spinning.

You just took another bite of toast.

Maybe you had already become insane.

♤♡◇♧

Taglist

Your parents were never fully together, per se, but your dad was a fairly constant presence in your life. At every birthday, recital, soccer game. He’d go away for work, and come back with some kind of present for you, and a little gift for your mom too.

If somebody had told you that his ‘work trips’ simply meant that he was with his other, original, family, you would have laughed.

There’s no way.

How could a man maintain two entirely separate families in the same city, and not get caught until your mom has a massive heart attack and dies in her sleep?

As your newfound legal guardian, he’d been left to introduce you to Mark and his mother. The other Greene Family.

To this day, you’re still not sure how he broke the news. You’ve never asked Mark - it didn’t seem fair to reopen old wounds.

As a nine-year-old with no other relatives, you’d moved into the box room at the back of the house - barely enough room for a bed, much less a person. It didn’t help that Mark’s mom insisted every single trace of your life be confined to that room.

If somebody was visiting, they’d never know you even lived there.

In hindsight, you understand where she was coming from. Mark’s parents had been married, and your presence wrecked that. They didn’t separate, but it was never the same.

All of them, including your dad, would have been far better off without you.

Despite that, Mark was a saving grace. Never once did he hold your past against you, understanding that you had nothing to do with your dad’s grievances. Instead, he took you under your wing, even at eighteen. He played soccer with you, took you out to lunch, and looked out for you.

Of course, it couldn’t last forever, and soon Mark went off to college, leaving you caught between a depressed step-mother (if that was what you could call her), and an alcoholic father.

Life was hard, made brighter only by Mark’s occasional visits. He’d call and write, telling you all about medical school - how he had a girlfriend named Jen, and they were going to have a baby. Sometimes, you liked to pretend that you had no parents at all, and simply lived with your brother.

Even now, you wonder if you would have become a doctor without Mark’s influence.

You hadn’t quite taken the same path as him, training as a nurse during undergrad, before landing a scholarship for medical school. Even with the extra help, you wouldn’t have been able to afford to move to Chicago without him.

The nursing job at County? Definitely something Mark managed to wrangle on your behalf. You can pick up locum shifts whenever you need some extra cash - Carol always needs the help.

You moved into his and Jen’s spare room, barely bigger than your one back home, but endlessly more inviting. You paid your rent in babysitting Rachel until you had enough saved to get your own shoebox, and life suddenly started looking up. Now, finally, it’s all making sense.

You’ve started your clinical rotations. Practicing the job you’re going to be working until you’re sixty. Being at County helps - you’ve grown very familiar with Mark’s friends over the years. Doug, Carol, Susan.

Feels a little less like being thrown to the wolves.

After a harrowing six weeks in surgery, spending as much time as possible in the ER with Benton, you’re finally back until Christmas. You love it here. It’s exactly your speed.

There’s just one problem.

In your entire medical school career thus far, nobody has terrified you the way John Carter does. Not because he’s scary, or unpleasant, or anything of the sort.

But because you can’t think straight whenever you’re in a ten-foot radius of him. Which, unfortunately, is most of your day.

It’s not your fault. Carter is exactly your type - practically tailor-made to your tastes. If you’d been asked to build yourself a boyfriend at the age of ten, you’re pretty sure you would’ve come up with somebody almost identical to him.

Maybe he wouldn’t be quite so popular with women. You’ve never been one for competition - ironic, since you’ve chosen to devote your life to medicine.

You had been clocked immediately by Doug and Carol for your crush, leading to some interminable teasing during your surgical rotation. After all your time in Chicago, they’ve become as much siblings to you as Mark.

Unfortunately, Doug Ross is far more perceptive than Mark Greene, and likes to lord that fact over you. Thus far, his meddling has included shoving you into Carter, tricking you both into wearing matching costumes at the ER Halloween party, and even locking you both in a supply closet under the guise of a dodgy hinge.

Things have only gotten worse now that you’re in the ER every day, with a whole new group of students.

There are four of you. You, Iain, Madeline, and Emil. All entrusted largely to Carter for the duration of your placement.

Emil is nice. Quiet, and very obviously not cut out for Emergency Medicine (he’d confessed to you on day one that he was gunning for geriatrics), he’s smart in an entirely non-judgemental way, and you’ve studied with him on more than one occasion.

You tried your hardest to like Madeline. As one of the few other women on your course, you’d felt like it was important to have some kind of sisterhood. Support each other in a field dominated by men. She didn’t quite share the same sentiment. While she doesn’t seem to have a huge interest in the ER, she does have an interest in John Carter.

A big one.

If you thought your crush was obvious, Madeline is shameless. She’ll try and flirt with him over the most severe traumas, while the rest of you are elbow-deep in some guy’s guts.

The worst part was, you thought it might be working at the start. For the first week or so, he seemed to entertain it, leading to all sorts of rumours in the ER.

You’re not proud to admit it, but it made you sick with jealousy. Pulling some strings with Mark, you cited an interest in paediatrics as an excuse to work with Doug instead, and tried to put John Carter out of your mind.

It worked for all of a week, before you went to a hospital gala with Mark and the others, and Carter was suddenly everywhere.

It was like Madeline didn’t exist anymore. He was calling for you with traumas, showing you how to suture, and helping you with your charting.

You have no idea what changed.

According to Doug, Carter is into you. But given his track record with Carol, you’re not jumping to take his advice. You’re too scared to ask for anyone else’s opinion, for fear it gets back to John.

It’s only so long before Mark figures it out.

He may be oblivious, but he’s not stupid.

“What’s your problem?” He asks, dropping down next to you in the doctor’s lounge.

You jump slightly at the intrusion, having spent the last ten minutes lost in your thoughts. Madeline’s been even more overt with her flirtations today, and you’re starting to worry that it might be working. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Mhm,” Mark replies, entirely unconvinced. “You sound like Rachel. And she’s seven.”

You shoot him a glare. “I do not. I just don’t want to come running to my brother every time anything goes wrong. Gives the wrong impression.”

“You know - you don’t have to make everything as hard as humanly possible for yourself, just because you don’t want to ask for help.”

“I ask for help!” You protest, and Mark snorts.

“Sure. And I’m not getting a divorce.”

Finally, there’s Iain. The worst of them all. Before he even opens his mouth, it’s obvious that he wants to go into surgery. Trauma surgery, to be specific. He carries himself like he’s already an intern, like this placement is just a formality before someone hands him a scalpel and a title.

And for some reason, he’s decided you’re the easiest one to bait.

Carter is tied up with a complicated trauma, Madeline hovering nearby like a shadow, Emil buried in charts, and you’re left with Iain and a patient who needs sutured - simple enough on paper.

“I’ll do it,” You say, a little too quickly, trying to sound confident.

Iain doesn’t stop you. He just steps back, folding his arms. Watching.

It’s almost worse.

You prep the site, hands steady at first as you gather the needle. You’ve done this before. Plenty of times. But there’s something about the way he’s standing there - silent, expectant - that makes your fingers feel heavier than usual.

“Local?” he asks, after a beat.

“I’ve got it,” you reply, sharper than you mean.

A pause. Then, mildly, “Just checking you weren’t going to skip steps.”

Heat creeps up your neck. You inject the anaesthetic, wait a moment longer than necessary, just to be sure. The patient winces, then settles.

Taking a breath, you angle the needle and press it into the skin. You realise immediately that your bite is wrong, and that the stitch won’t hold. Instead, it tears the flesh at one side. Thankfully, your patient isn’t watching, instead opting to look out the window instead.

God, you wish it was a cannula. Or bloods. You’ve been doing them for years - can get even the most tricky veins with your eyes closed.

But suturing is almost exclusively medical students and doctors. You haven’t had nearly as much practice. Especially with Iain’s presence.

You’re totally off your game.

“Depth’s wrong,” Iain says.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Your jaw tightens. “I said I’ve got it.”

A small pause.

“Right,” He says. “Looks that way. You’re overthinking it. Or maybe underthinking. Hard to tell.”

You don’t respond, teeth gritted as you prepare for another attempt..

“Hand it here,” He adds, already reaching for gloves.

“No,” You snap. “I’ve got it.”

“Based on what?” he replies evenly.

You feel the patient shift under your hands.

“I said I’ve got it,” You repeat, quieter now.

His voice is devoid of all emotion, “You don’t.”

He steps in before you can stop him, close enough now that you have to move aside or be in his way. The decision is made for you.

God, you can’t believe he’s making such a fool of you in front of a patient. In private, you expect that kind of thing. But you’d hoped he would have slightly more respect for you in public.

“Watch,” He says, the word edged with a derision that makes your stomach ache. “This isn’t complicated.”

You leave him to it, for fear that you’re about to cry in the middle of Curtain Two. You’ve had enough embarrassment for one day, and stick to charting, to small tasks, to anything that doesn’t involve someone standing over your shoulder waiting for you to mess up again.

By the time things finally start to quiet down, you slip out under the excuse of grabbing supplies you don’t actually need.

The staff room is empty when you get there. Fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead, vending machine buzzing in the corner. You lean back against the counter, pressing your palms into your eyes for a second, willing the tightness in your throat to go away.

It was stupid.

It shouldn’t matter. You’ve done cannulas before. Nobody gets all of them first time. That’s not how it works. You shouldn’t be letting a stupid comment from a rich prick stick in your head like that. You’ve worked harder in the past year than he has in his whole life, just for the privilege of getting to be here.

A few tears come anyway.

Maybe Mark’s mom was right. Maybe you did just follow him out here because you had nothing else going for you.

“Hey.”

You drop your hands immediately.

John is standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, like he’s been there a second, like he’s been watching you.

“You alright?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”

He doesn’t move. “Carol said you were upset.”

You sigh. Of course she did.

You let out a small breath, shaking your head. “I’m okay. Just - long shift.”

“You’ve had longer. Worse. What’s different about today?”

If he keeps looking at you with such a tender expression, you think you might bawl. “Just Iain being a dick. I don’t really want to talk about it. Exam stress, portfolio stuff, it all just caught up with me. M’fine. Promise.” You offer him a smile, though you can’t imagine it’s in any way convincing.

“Want me to give him the impaction in four?”

You snort. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. Guy's a dick.”

“I think… that would make me feel a little better, yeah.”

“Consider it done,” Carter muses, before continuing. “I know you don’t like to use the Mark connection, but if Iain’s really bothering you-”

“I’m fine, John. Promise.”

He nods, and steps back towards the door, when you speak again.

“Carter?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you could maybe give me some suturing tips tomorrow? I think I could use some practice.”

He doesn’t seem at all surprised, and you wonder how much he knows. Just as he’s about to leave, he pauses. “You know, she had chronic steroid use. Makes skin really fragile.”

“What?” Your head whips round to face him.

“Not your fault,” Carter shrugs, and then he’s gone.

*****

You manage avoid Iain until your final hour, when Carter appears at your back. “Greene, McDougall - I want opinions.”

You fall into step behind John, Iain a few paces behind, barely able to hide his disinterest.

“Middle-aged male,” He says quickly. “Chest pain. Came in about twenty minutes ago. Central obesity, history of Type 2 Diabetes, currently taking Metformin, Propanolol and Atorvastatin. Here,” He passes you a chart, “is his ECG. Talk to me.”

You examine the patient in the bed first, while Iain goes straight for the ECG. The patient - Michael Murray, you note - is diaphoretic, pale, one hand pressed flat against his chest. Not sweaty, the way you’d expect from a straightforward MI, but you can’t rule it out yet.

Iain answers first, of course.

“Likely non-cardiac,” he says, glancing briefly at the chart. “Could be reflux. Maybe musculoskeletal. He’s overweight, risk factors unclear. When patients are that obese, they can’t really tell what’s chest and what’s stomach pain.”

You reach for the ECG, examining it carefully. On first glance there’s nothing hugely wrong - no obvious STEMI, or tented T-waves. But there is some ST-depression. “I would do another ECG. Posterior this time. Make sure it’s not an MI before I move onto other differentials.”

“Based on what?” Iain asks.

“ST-depression in the anterior leads. And I think I see some prominent R waves in V1 and V2.”

“It’s non-specific,” He cuts in. “You can’t call a posterior infarct off that.”

“I’m not calling it,” You reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“A remote one. Much more likely indigestion given the presentation.”

The patient shifts again, visibly uncomfortable. You glance at Carter, who remains quiet, and you suddenly realise what he’s waiting for. He wants you to fight for this, for your patient. “I’ll do another one,” You say, reaching for the leads. “Posterior, this time.”

Iain’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “It’s not necessary,” he says.

“Maybe not,” Carter replies evenly. “But it’s quick, cheap, and if she’s right, it matters a hell of a lot to this patient.”

It’s a strange feeling when the ECG comes back with massive ST-elevation in the V7 to V9 leads. On the one hand, you know the patient has just had terrible news delivered to him, and you empathise greatly. On the other hand, you’re so relieved to finally get one up on Iain.

Within minutes, the trolley’s being wheeled out, heading upstairs to the cath lab. As it disappears through the doors, Carter turns back. His eyes land on Iain.

“You see the problem?” He says.

Iain doesn’t answer.

“You didn’t even glance at the patient. You went straight for the ECG, and treated him like a textbook case. Pain, presentation, risk - those matter more than your first impressions.”

Iain’s expression is tight. “It wasn’t a classic presentation.”

“They rarely are,” Carter replies. “That’s the point.” He checks his watch, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Anyway, I think that’s a good place to stop for the night. Go, try and enjoy the rest of your nights, and be here for seven sharp.”

You all disperse, and make for the lockers. Despite the save at the end of the day, you’re still desperate to get home, and clean the hospital grime that lingers for weeks out of your hair. Carter follows, chatting absentmindedly about the MI. How he doesn’t think he would’ve caught it at that age.

Madeline tries to catch him on the way out of the lounge. Asking for some kind of favour regarding her portfolio.

“Hm? Yeah, I’ll catch you tomorrow. We can talk about it then.” Carter’s voice is distracted, and he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop.

Madeline falters, just slightly. “Oh - okay.”

But he’s already looking past her.

At you.

“You heading out?” he asks.

You nod, adjusting your bag. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “Come on - I’m done too.”

You push through the hospital doors together, the air outside cooler, quieter - for a second, neither of you say anything. You wipe at the sweat on your forehead, and let out a small sigh.

Finally, he speaks, “You did well back there.”

You glance over at him. “I almost didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” He shrugs. “I watched you hesitate. But you spoke up, and that’s what matters. You saved a man’s life today.”

“You knew it was a posterior MI,” You argue.

“I suspected - you confirmed.” He pauses for a second, as you walk up to your respective platforms. “Get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Me too,” he admits. “Long shift.”

The train pulls in, brakes screeching slightly as it slows. “See you tomorrow, Carter.”

He offers you a soft smile. “See you round, Greene.”

*****

You hear them before you see them. Heading into work first thing, you’d been planning on getting a head-start on some scut work to free you up for studying later. It appears some of your colleagues have beaten you to it.

You don’t mean to overhear, but the lounge door is creaked open, and when you pause to tie your lace, you catch a voice.

“…it’s getting ridiculous.”

Madeline.

You pause, just out of sight of the doorway.

“What is?” Iain’s voice, lower, disinterested.

“Carter,” She says, sounding annoyed. Like he should just immediately know what she’s talking about. “Or have you not noticed?”

A beat.

Then, dryly, “If this is about you not being the centre of his attention anymore, I’m not interested.”

“It’s not that,” She snaps, a little too quickly. It definitely is.

You should leave.

You don’t.

“It’s about her,” Madeline continues. “He keeps pulling her onto cases. Showing her things he doesn’t show the rest of us. I mean, I know she’s his boss’ sister, but come on.”

“He’s overcorrecting,” Iain says. “People do that. Get fixated.”

“On her?” Madeline scoffs. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Iain says, quieter now, but sharper.

Madeline doesn’t answer straight away.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, guarded.

Another pause. You can almost picture the look on his face. “Come on,” He says. “You’re not that naïve.”

Your stomach twists.

Madeline lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “You think - what? That they’re…?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“I think,” Iain says finally, “that kind of attention usually comes with a reason.”

“No,” Madeline says quickly. Too quickly. “That’s not - no. He wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t?” Iain repeats, almost amused. “I thought that was actually kind of his thing. If you’re to believe what the nurses say.”

“He’s not like that,” She insists, but there’s something strained underneath it now. “And she-” a scoff, sharper this time, “-she’s not exactly-”

She stops again, like even she doesn’t quite know how to finish it. She doesn’t have to.

“Right,” Iain says, unconvinced. “Because this makes so much more sense otherwise.”

“It doesn’t have to be that,” Madeline snaps. “Maybe he just… pities her or something.”

That stings in a completely different way.

“Sure,” Iain says. “That must be it.” His tone makes it clear he doesn’t believe that for a second. “Either way, it won’t last.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means,” He says, “if it’s about performance, she won’t keep up. I mean, she’s a fucking nurse, for Christ’s sake.” A pause. “And if it’s not,” He adds, “that kind of thing burns out fast. She’s just pretending, and they’re all indulging her because they like her.”

Madeline doesn’t respond.

You don’t wait to hear more. Your pulse is loud in your ears, drowning everything else out.

She won’t keep up.

That kind of thing burns out fast.

Not only do you have to deal with the very real prejudices against you for your background - now there’s apparently a sex scandal, so obscure that even you and Carter aren’t aware of it, despite allegedly being involved.

You just need to keep your head down, and ignore them entirely.

A patient needs reviewing. Then another. Observations, notes, small jobs no one else wants - you take them all, keep moving, keep your hands busy so your head doesn’t catch up.

When there’s a lull, you pull out your notes, leaning against the counter, flipping through exam checklists. Cardio, Neuro, GI, Breast - just a few of the practical exams you need to be able to perform flawlessly for your OSCEs coming up next month. You mouth them under your breath, like if you say them enough times they’ll stick in your brain.

“Practicing or hiding?”

You look up.

Carter nods toward the empty treatment bay. “Come on.”

You follow him in without question.

He sets up a practice pad, hands you the needle holder. “Show me.”

You start slower this time. Deliberate. Thinking about depth, angle, tension - getting the perfect bite. Already, things are looking better - all you had to do was remove Iain from the equation. He gives you a few tips, showing you how to do other stitches for different injuries, and you get to practicing on a banana.

He watches your next stitch. “OSCEs coming up, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be fine,” He says. “They’re more interested in whether you think about what you’re doing than whether it’s perfect.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It’s true,” John shrugs. “Talk through it. Show your reasoning. Half of this is just convincing people you know why you’re doing something. Tell them what any sign you spot could indicate”

You nod, tying off the stitch a little more neatly this time.

“See?” he adds. “That’s already better.”

Before you can respond-

“Carter - trauma incoming! We need you in the bay.”

“Shit,” Carter scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m sorry-”

You’re about to interject and tell him it’s fine, that he’s done more than enough already, when he keeps talking.

“You want to run through some examinations later?”

“Oh,” You reply. “I uh, I get off at five.” It’s not that you aren’t grateful for the offer. But you’ve been here since six-forty-five this morning, and the idea of overtime is not an appealing one.

“Yeah, I know. I do too. You could come round to my place - we could order pizza, do a practice exam?”

You must be dreaming. This cannot be real. And yet, Carter’s scribbling something down on a piece of paper, and pressing it into your hand. An address.

“Any time after six is fine.”

*****

It’s only when you’re trying to pick out an outfit that you realise what a terrible idea this may be. Half of your classmates already think you’re sleeping with Carter - anything that could come out of tonight would surely only further that.

Then, you really start to consider Iain and Madeline’s position in your life. Realistically, once this rotation is over, you’re unlikely to ever see them again. Your graduating class is huge, and soon you’ll all be picking electives anyway.

In an ideal world, you’ll match to County. Neither of them want to stay in Chicago after graduating.

You’re overthinking.

This is fine.

Carter is your friend, and that’s all this is.

You manage to get out of your head, and land on an outfit - a slightly-nicer-than-average top and jeans. Casual, but definitely a step up from scrubs.

Unfortunately for you, Carter had neglected to mention the fact that he lives in a literal castle. You’re still trying to get your bearings when he opens the door, smile wide. “Hey, you made it!”

“Are you like a Kennedy or something?” You mumble, glancing around the foyer as he leads you inside. Your whole apartment could fit in one tiny corner of the hallway “Jesus.”

He has the decency to look a little embarrassed, rubbing at his neck. “Uh, yeah - the Carter Family isn’t really known for subtlety. But my grandparents are away on holiday, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“I don’t think we’d be encroaching on their space even if they were here.”

Truthfully, you’re glad there’s nobody else here. While the red cotton is nicer than scrubs, it’s certainly not nice enough to meet Carter’s rich-as-God grandparents.

His room isn’t quite as extravagant - very Carter, but still obviously full of items that cost more than you make in a month. “Make yourself at home.”

You let your backpack drop to the floor, and perch at the very edge of the bed, too scared to touch anything else. “So… uh, how do you want to do this?”

“Well,” He starts, leaning back against the headboard. “I figured I could be your mock patient, and you can just treat this like an OSCE. Then we can go over anything you missed at the end over pizza?”

“Are all the medical students getting such special treatment?” Deep down, you know the answer already, but a part of you wants the confirmation.

Carter scoffs. “God, no. Emil, I would consider helping him out within my working hours. The other two are on their own though.”

“Really?” You murmur, leaning forward to rest your chin on your elbow. “Thought you were quite fond of Madeline-”

“Who said that?” Any teasing has disappeared from his tone, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Nurses talk,” You shrug. “You’re forgetting I still do the occasional shift. Lydia knows all.”

“Well, she doesn’t know that,” He grumbles. “I do not like Madeline. At all.”

“Got it,” You reply, suddenly desperate to change the subject. Maybe he’s regretting suggesting this. “Shall we get started?”

“What do you want to do first?”

“Um, Cardio.”

*****

“Okay,” Carter breathes, face only inches from yours. “What’s next?”

“I need to listen to the valves of your heart now,” You reply, trying to drag your gaze away from his. “But uh, first I need to feel your apex beat.”

“Good girl.”

You stiffen just slightly at the phrase, praying that he hasn’t noticed the shift. Your mind races ahead of you, wondering what it would be like if he was saying that in a different context, while you were writhing under him-

No.

You can’t think of him like that. Especially not now. He’s your friend, and he’s doing you a favour, and all you can do is think about how much you’d like him to-

“Mid-clavicular line,” You say, voice barely more than a squeak. “Fifth intercostal space.”

Your fingers press down his bare chest as you feel his ribs, moving slightly until you feel the familiar thump against your hand. It’s strong and regular, but definitely a lot faster than you’d be expecting from a guy Carter’s age.

“What do you notice?”

“It’s a little fast. I should listen to make sure.”

He just nods, and lets you reach for the stethoscope, before you press the diaphragm to the mitral valve. Just as you felt before, his heart is hammering.

You swallow heavily. “Still tachycardic.”

“Why do you think that might be?”

“Um, I guess it could be stress, high caffeine intakes, exercise…”

“Close proximity to a pretty girl?”

“What?”

“S’a good differential. Definitely one you should consider. Now, c’mon. Keep going.”

As if you can think about anything else after that admission. But he’s looking at you expectantly, and you try desperately to make your brain start thinking straight again. You listen to the other valves, and start to check for thrills and heaves, praying that he can’t tell how clammy your hands have gotten.

You press the bell of your stethoscope to his carotid, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep flitting to your lips. “No sign of aortic stenosis,” You say softly, and Carter nods.

“Good sign. What next?”

“Um…” Shit. Your mind has drawn a total and utter blank. Your brain is too occupied with the way Carter’s cologne tickles your nose. “I don’t remember.”

He watches you for a second, before deciding to put you out of your misery. “You should check my back next.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks.”

You check for scars or deformities, before listening to his lung sounds. Because of the way he’s sitting up, your back ends up bent at an awkward angle while you try and check for sacral pitting. “You know,” He murmurs. “Might be easier for you to just sit there.”

The idea of being any closer to John than you are right now makes you positively dizzy, but you’re not in the habit of not listening to him. Mostly.

Bracing your hands across his bare shoulders, you hoist yourself behind him, and get settled. Really, it’s unnecessary. You know already that Carter doesn’t have sacral pitting.

“Nothing interesting?”

“Nope.”

“Can’t really hear you from back there,” He replies. “Sit up a little closer to my ear, honey.”

You comply, getting ready to give him a rundown of the examination, when Carter tilts his head, and kisses you.

Even though the entire study session has arguably been preamble for this, it still manages to catch you off guard. His lips are soft but intentional, parting your own with his tongue.

God, you can’t believe this is happening.

In just a single movement he twists, bracing over you as you’re crowded up against his headboard. Your hand tangles in his hair, pulling him further into you.

As close as he can humanly get.

“Nobody would dare fail you if this is the kind of exam you give,” Carter mumbles between kisses, and you groan.

“You’re so mean.” There’s no real bite to it, but you pout against his lips anyway.

His fingers tug at the hem of your sweatshirt, and you lean back to let him discard it, leaving you in only your bra. It’s definitely not one of your sexier items of clothing - focused entirely on comfort during long shifts in the ER - but up until twenty minutes ago you’d assumed that this was simply a study session.

If it were anybody else, you’d feel self-conscious.

Something about John puts you at ease, though. It always has. Even when you were deeply terrified of him, of embarrassing yourself in front of him, you’d known deep down that he’d never make fun of you, even if he didn’t feel the same.

Based on the way you can feel him hardening against your thigh, you figure that’s not an issue. “Prettiest girl in the world,” He mumbles, lips returning to your neck. Eyes fluttering closed, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, and he allows you to tug them downwards. Yours go next, leaving you both in your underwear.

When it comes to foreplay, you’re used to a finger or two, scissoring you open just enough for the main event.

You’re not expecting John to draw back entirely from you, as he starts to press kisses down your navel.

You’re almost embarrassed for him to reach your panties, given how much you’ve managed to soak through them in just a short time. “Is this for me, or do cardio exams just really get you going?”

He shoots you that shit-eating grin, and you roll your eyes, before allowing your upper half to flop back onto his pillow. If he wants to be a dick, two can play at that game-

“Oh.”

Carter wastes no time, mouthing at your cunt through the wet fabric. One hand settles on each thigh, holding you firmly in place for him.

There’s no build-up - just John and his tongue, relentless against your skin. You don’t even register when he gets the fabric out of the way, your hand finding a home in his hair to guide him to where you need it most. “F-Fuck, John-”

“Yeah, honey? You like that?”

The coil in your belly is tightening, and you feel the familiar wave of panic start to wash over you. You’ve never been good with orgasms - it’s always felt too scary to let yourself go like that with another person. What Carter is doing feels really fucking good, but you also know that you don’t want to ruin this. “Need you up here-”

He complies immediately, clambering back up to press his lips to yours. You taste yourself against him, moaning into his touch.

Everything’s going so well, Carter’s reaching for his bedside table, when…

“You have had sex before, haven’t you?”

You pull back. “You did not just ask me that.”

“What? You're… young.”

You stare at him, jaw dropped. “I'm twenty-five, not sixteen. What are you - twenty-nine?”

“Twenty-eight,” He grumbles.

“Well - I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Not worried,” He replies, more earnest than you expected. “Just want it to be good for you.”

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with a deep affection for the man in front of you, and lean forward to kiss him again. The wrapper crinkles as John fiddles to get the condom out without breaking contact with you.

“You’re sure about this?” He asks, and you laugh.

“Not sure I could get a better anatomy lesson if I tried-”

Your voice cuts off in a sharp gasp as he pushes in just slightly, before pulling out again, cock head dragging through for folds. “Fuck.”

He does it again, pushing just a little further, and then retreating. Only on his third time, does your hand cup the back of his head, to draw him against you. Carter bottoms out with a low moan, hips rolling so he catches your clit.

Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, and he starts to move.

“Thought about this so much, sweet girl,” He grunts, peppering kisses across your cheeks as he rocks against you.

It’s a real effort to form a coherent thought, and you lace your fingers through his. “You h-have?”

“Haven’t been able to get you out of my head since that gala. H-Had to get myself off in the shower as soon as I got home, ‘cause of that dress. ‘Cause of you in that dress.”

“Didn’t realise you even noticed.”

“S-Should’ve taken you home right there. Shouldn’t have left you wondering how I felt.”

Carter looks just as overwhelmed as you feel - a bead of sweat is trickling down his chest, and there’s a vein on his forehead that looks like it’s in serious danger of bursting. He picks up the pace a little, and you whimper.

You’ve never whimpered in your life.

You hope you remember this moment for the rest of your life. “Kiss me, Johnny.” Your voice is breathless, almost unmoored from your body.

You can feel the coil tightening again, but it doesn’t feel quite as scary when John is looking at you so sweetly, and pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth in between his praise.

It creeps up on you, and soon your face is buried in the crook of his shoulder as you cry out his name.

*****

“God. Your brother is going to kill me.”

“Mhm, he’ll get over it.” You’re currently tucked into Carter's side under the duvet, fingers tracing soft patterns onto his chest.

“Easy for you to say,” John snorts. “You won’t be the one he kills.”

“I’ll make sure that you’re remembered,” You hum, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you bite back a laugh. “I’ll throw you a memorial, get Benton to eulogise you. It’ll be the event of the season.”

“Glad to hear it. “Make sure to make it tasteful,” He adds, deadpan. “I want something upbeat. Something that says ‘he died young, but at least he had good hair.’”

“You do have good hair,” you murmur, carding your fingers through it like you’re proving the point. “I’ll make sure that’s mentioned. Extensively. Very pullable.”

“I’m sure my grandmother will love to hear that that’s my defining trait.”

“Well, you also give really good head. I’m not sure she’d want to hear about that, though.

A comfortable silence settles over you both, Carter’s arm tightening round you. “…You really think he’ll be that mad?” He asks after a moment, voice dropping just a notch.

You shrug against him. “Mad, yeah. Murderous? Probably not. He likes you.”

“He tolerates me. But just so we’re clear - if I do die, I want you to erect a statue in my honour.”

You groan. “Absolutely not.”

“Life-size.”

“No.”

“Bigger than life-size. Ten feet fall.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Bronze,” He continues, ignoring you entirely. “Dramatic pose. Maybe a sword.”

“You’ve never held a sword in your life.”

“Details.”

It isn’t until an hour later, when you’re cross-legged on John’s bed wearing only his shirt, a pizza box perched between you both, that you have the courage to ask. “So… like, was this just a one-time thing, or… what?”

Not your most eloquent of phrasing, but you figure you’d scare him off if you admitted that you’ve been in love with him pretty much since you saw him for the first time.

“Technically it’s already a two-time thing, since we fucked again in the shower.”

“John-”

“Okay, okay,” He concedes, hands in the air. “Comedy surrounding the sex is not appreciated. Noted. Well… on that note. I think I’d really like to take you out for dinner. Celebrate your catch yesterday properly. Celebrate you properly.”

You smile, so wide that it almost makes your cheeks hurt. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Greene.”

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You can't remember if it was always that way, truthfully. All you can is the way things are now. It's like what's happened to you has eaten holes in your brain—but only through the pleasant memories. Maybe it's a strange sort of coping mechanism. Can't miss something if you don't remember ever having it, like safety or happiness.

You watch as people flit by the door—always seemingly in a hurry. You wonder what your providers must think of you since you'd indicated 'homemaker' on your patient forms. Here, they spend their days saving lives while you have to vacuum and dust to keep him happy. Nothing wrong with maintaining a household or family, but that's only when it's your own choice to do so.

He has something in common with them, though: preferring things to be neat.

That's your job.

You glance up when the door swooshes open and the cacophony of the ED ushers in before it seals thankfully shut again, once again bathing you in calming silence.

You watch as a tall middle-aged man with a well-trimmed beard and kind brown eyes enters the unoccupied space next to you, followed by him pulling on a pair of robin's egg colored gloves. A color you would find pretty under different circumstances.

"My name is Dr. Robinavitch," he says with a smile before seating himself on a stool and wheeling it toward you. "But you can call me Dr. Robby. So, you've come in for a wrist fracture today?"

You nod while trying to think of a polite way to request a female doctor.

He won't be pleased that you've been seen, touched by, or are talking to a man. No, he'll be angry.

"And did this happen today?" he asks while reaching for your wrist.

"A couple days ago," you reply. So quietly that it's practically a whisper. "I...I fell on it. I was bringing groceries in. Tomatoes went everywhere," you say with a smile, hoping that humor will throw him off the trail he may soon stumble his way onto.

You must always be attuned to other people's reactions, lest they discover the horrible truth you mean to hide.

"May I ask why you didn't come in when it happened?" Dr. Robby asks while folding back the cuff of your sweater.

He'll see.

If he goes any further up, he'll see. You have to stop him. Answer his question, pull away, get out of the bed and go back home and try to fix it yourself.

"I—I just—I tried resetting it like always. It—it didn't work. It hurt, and—" You clamp your mouth shut then.

You only made it worse.

And now he sees it anyway.

The more he rolled, the more horrified he became. It'd been like peeling back decorative wallpaper, only to reveal rotting mold beneath. An attractive veneer on the out, but its purpose solely being to hide something malignant that swarmed under it.

Brushing his thumb along the dark bruising which paints the smooth skin of your arm, his brows furrow. "What did you mean by resetting it like always?" he asks while looking at you.

You read his lips, but didn't really hear him—you couldn't over the ringing in your ears.

"W-What?"

"Have you reset injuries before? On yourself?"

You blink back tears while considering a trash can in the corner.

You think you may be sick.

"I don't know why I said that," you blurt out. "No. No, of course not. I wouldn't even know how to do something like that," you say with a nervous laugh, which doesn't reassure like you intend for it to, but instead only further cements Robby's suspicions.

His eyes flit between yours, and for a moment, you think he may hit you.

That's what happens when things grow quiet and a man stares you down—they're considering violence.

Just as you open your mouth to begin apologizing, he stands. An action which causes you to flinch.

He notes it.

"Just to rule out a break and see exactly how severe the fracture is, I'm going to do a portable X-ray. Is there any chance you could be pregnant?"

A hand flutters toward your stomach subconsciously. "No. I took a test a couple days ago. It was negative."

Always a relief when that's the case, since you're not allowed to use condoms anymore. He's not a fan of birth control either, but at least he's permitted it.

For now.

Dr. Robby nods while swinging around a strange looking apparatus that's attached to a tall, sterile white machine. "Alright, just hold your wrist still for me while I take a few pictures."

Your heart quivers in your chest as you wait for Dr. Robby's return. Maybe if you'd just dug further online—watched a couple more YouTube videos—you could've figured it out on your own.

He was already enraged when you asked to go to the hospital, but you couldn't sleep because you were in so much pain, so you didn't see any other choice. When you began to cry and apologize, he softened before finally taking you into his arms and telling you that he was sorry—how it's all his fault in the first place.

Then he'd started in on hospital bills that he wouldn't be able to afford. You remained quiet as he backtracked and told you that you could go—but because he had to work, you needed to be very careful in what you told them in terms of the explanations you provided for the bruises which littered your body.

Stupidly, you'd almost asked about vaginal tearing, but refrained because there'd be no reason for them to venture past your forearm at most.

You jolt when Robby returns. "Got your results back," he begins while pushing a few dark colored floppy images onto a display next to you, which you turn to see. Switching it on, you stare at X-rays you've little idea how to read.

"Wow, that's inside of me?" you ask while glancing to him.

At least it earns you a chuckle.

"Hairline fracture," he says while tracing what looks to be a a thin crack in your wrist with his pinky finger. "It'll require a splint, as well as you keeping mobilization of the area to an absolute minimum for the next month and a half." He switches the light off, then comes to stand next to you with crossed arms. "A follow-up appointment will be scheduled so the injury can be reexamined and the splint taken off if the fracture has healed."

You nod, despite knowing that you won't be coming back.

He steps over to a supply cart and pops open a drawer before removing a newly packaged splint. Returning to your side, he seats himself again while taking your wrist between his hands. "I saw what looked to be an old break in your forearm."

His eyes flit to yours. "You wanna tell me about that?"

Lie, lie, lie. "It was from when I was a kid."

He grabs the splint. "It didn't heal clean. You know that injury may end up causing you long-term chronic pain, right? Not to mention deformity, arthritis, nerve damage—"

"It was a long time ago," you sputter, interrupting him.

And then you look at the doctor in a panic. Why didn't you let him finish speaking?

"Sorry," you mumble while looking away.

Once he's securely tightened the velcro straps, you settle your wrist back into your lap.

"Sweetheart, look at me."

You wince. You know what's about to happen, but being given even a modicum of kindness makes you feel indebted to him. That's what has been taught to you: for every thing you are given, you owe repayment. Ten fold.

It's why you hate when he brings home flowers or dinner in apology. Would save you energy if he just gifted you another punch instead. You don't have to pay him back for those with spread legs or an open mouth at least.

You glance to Robby before hanging your head in shame.

"Can you pull down the neck of your sweater for me?"

You slowly shake your head while biting your lower lip.

He reaches up and you slam yourself back against the bed in panic.

Robby hesitates, then hooks both his index fingers over the neck of your sweater before pulling it down to your clavicle. "Jesus," he whispers.

He'd hoped with futility.

Settling your clothing back into place, he sits once more. "Did you know that you are 750% more likely to be murdered by him after he's strangled you?" Robby asks gently. "Your body is covered in signs of his abuse. He's broken bones, fractured them, cut off your airflow, grabbed you with enough force to leave bruises all over your arm," he says while counting off on his fingers before resting his palms on his knees.

You shouldn't have come.

Robby shakes his head. "And those are just what I've been able to see. I don't want to imagine what's still covered."

"Am I free to go?" you whimper.

"I'm obligated to report this to law enforcement," he informs you—his tone gravely and low.

Your head jerks in his direction and your heart lurches into your injured throat. You grab for his hands to make him listen while shaking your head. "No, no, no, you can't do that! They—They'll—You just don't understand. It's not always like this. I promise. I promise I can fix it. I can do this. He'll stop. I can fix him. I can't go into a shelter. I won't survive without him. He—He takes care of me. He works and I—"

You swing your legs over the side of the bed. "I have to go home. I need to—"

Robby rests a palm over your knee. "Nothing has happened yet. We're just talking. I am begging you to stay. Please."

You waver.

"I know that we don't know one another, but, as your doctor, my obligation is to your wellbeing and safety. If I let you go back to him, I would be breaking my Hippocratic Oath."

Your brows furrow.

"I'm obliged to abstain from intentional wrong-doing. Letting you return to someone who is physically and psychologically harming you would be doing just that."

You swipe hot tears from your eyes. "You don't know him," you begin softly. "I do. His parents weren't there for him like they should've been. He... He wasn't mothered the way he deserved to be."

His eye twitches.

"It's my job as his... As his to give him what he's missing. I take care of him," you insist while resting a hand over your heart. "He just gets so overwhelmed. He doesn't know where to put it. Talking isn't easy for him."

Robby grimaces.

"I know he doesn't mean the things he does in moments of anger. I have to love him through it. I will not abandon him like everyone else. You don't just..." You shake your head. "When things get hard, you don't just walk out. You cling to them, despite it."

You sniffle. "He works so hard; too much. He... Without me, he'd fall apart. I cook and clean, and comfort him. We'll die without each other. Don't you see that?"

Staring at the floor, he blinks, breathes, then looks at you. "You'll die if you stay."

Why won't he just listen? All he sees are bruises, whereas you see a man who's hurting and just doesn't know how to handle it yet. But he always promises that he'll change for the better—for the sake of his love for you.

And when he's kind... It's so wonderful. Because he's warm and affectionate, and tells you all those things you've been so starved to hear.

You chase those moments to hold them close. Such as right now.

Now quietly crying, you grab his hands unexpectedly. "Please. Dr. Robinavitch, I am begging you not to do this. The arrest won't stick. You and I both know he'll get a slap on the wrist, then released soon after on bond. Proceedings won't even get a chance to begin because I'll refuse to press charges. He'll come home—because I am not living in some temporary shelter that doesn't know or care about me like he does—and things will get worse."

Brushing his thumbs over your knuckles, he sighs while shaking his head. "I'm being put in an impossible position. By reporting, a process can be started—"

You scoot further toward the edge of the bed, indicating that you're ready to leave.

"Fine!" he relents. "Fine. Just...stay a little longer while I try to figure out a way to help you."

A gentle sob crests up your throat and over your lips. "I can't trust you to walk out that door and not make a call. I need to go home to him. I have to get started on dinner."

Hesitantly, you raise a trembling hand and cup his cheek.

Robby's breath catches, and all his nerve endings converge into that one patch of skin where you've made contact.

You know how to bring a man to a standstill, he'll give you that much.

"Thank you for your concern," you say quietly while brushing your thumb along the apple of his cheek. "I know you're right. But I'm not ready for that yet. I am not done loving him yet."

Gingerly, he slides your hand from his face to hold between each of his own instead. "The next time I see you will be on the news as another statistic. He doesn't deserve someone so dedicated and kind. He's not going to change."

"It's easier if I stay," you whisper. "It's a convoluted process which I'll throw in the towel over before it even gets a chance to begin."

"You can file a protection order—"

"Which is temporary," you retort. "Yes, they would probably give me a long-term one. But it will eventually expire, and I'll be required to keep refiling it. That's given that he even honors it. It's just a piece of paper—"

"You've researched this," he says with realization.

"And every time I did, my resolve crumbled when I saw how futile my efforts would be." Your chin wobbles. "I'm tired. I don't want to fight anymore. It's easier just to give him what he wants. That much I can do because it's all I know now."

His eyes flit between yours before he stands and begins to pace.

You watch idly as he walks this way and that with slow, measured steps of silent contemplation.

Just as you think to settle your feet on the floor, he crosses his arms while turning to face you. Walking over to the bedside curtain, he draws it forward so that no one can curiously peek inside.

You stare up at him with weary eyes.

"I'm risking everything by making you this offer: my career, my medical license..." He sighs while running a nervous hand down the back of his head. "I'm not trying to be another man who tells you what to do, or to keep his secrets, but if you decline, I implore you to keep this between us," he begs with hands folded like they're in prayer.

You shift in uncertainty, but ultimately nod in agreement.

Returning to your bedside, you gaze up at him while he settles a hand on your upper arm. "I have an extra room... And it's yours if you want it."

Time slowing to a standstill, you stare up at this man who is both stranger and familiar to you now. In the last twenty something minutes, you've divulged more of your personal truth to him than you have anyone else since you gave up every facet of your life to please the man at home. Familial connections, friends, employment, savings, reproductive freedoms.

It had been...important to him that you rely upon him and find him to be deserving of the privilege once that process began.

It had seemed like a choice when you relinquished your freedom. With hindsight, you realize he had just been very persuasive in achieving his own selfish ends at the cost of your autonomy.

"I can't become a burden to someone else—"

Robby shakes his head. "You wouldn't be." He gestures toward himself. "I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't certain."

Your brows knit together and your nose tingles. With a slowly tightening throat, you force a response. "You don't know me."

With a gentle smile, he slides his hand to the crown of your shoulder. "I know enough to be sure that I'm doing the right thing."

Standing in the doorway of your new home—you're not wholly sure that it's right to think of it as such just yet—it's with bags of your things clutched to your chest and dangling from the crooks of your arms.

You jolt when Robby plants a hand against the small of your back. "You want me to show you to your new room?"

You stare up at him and nod dully.

Leaning against the doorway, Robby watches as you wander around the limited space curiously. "It's yours to decorate as you please. You can rearrange the furniture... Just, do whatever you need to to feel at home. Safe." He taps the doorknob. "It has a lock on it." Robby nods toward an empty chest of drawers. "The only keys are on top of the dresser. I will never come in here unless you invite me to. This is your space."

You plop your bags down on the bed and begin to softly cry from exhaustion.

Robby pads over to you and draws you into the comfort of his chest while reassuring you that no one will ever harm you again.

Not here.

The sun has only just crested when you're awoken by the sound of shuffling footsteps not far from where your bedroom lies.

Forcing yourself out of a sleepy, morning fog, you plant your bare feet on warm hardwood floors and pad to the door before peeling it open and heading toward the living room.

It's going to take getting used to, to be certain: awakening in a new place each morning.

"Are you leaving for work?" you ask while watching Robby gather his things before shrugging on a backpack.

"Did I wake you?" Robby rasps while pulling on his shoes.

You come closer. "I'm a light sleeper."

The truth is, you tossed and turned for hours as your mind raced with horrifying thoughts. What if he found you? Hurt Robby? Killed you both? Set fire to Robby's home just for trying to save you?

You had seriously considered at one point leaving to go back to him, but staring at your shoes near Robby's by the doorway, you couldn't bring yourself to do it.

You're not entirely sure why. When you did fall asleep, you were awoken by a nightmare of him strangling you in your new bed while something painful was shoved inside you.

But you can't tell Robby about any of that. You don't think you should, anyway. Much that you want to.

"I should make you breakfast," you state in a hushed tone before turning to head for the kitchen.

"No. No, sweetheart, it's fine. I don't have time. I really do have to get going."

You turn back to him with hooded lids and a head of messy hair. With only an oversized t-shirt hanging from your frame, he's given cause to swallow thickly from nerves.

"I'm sorry," you whine. "I would've gotten up earlier if—"

Robby advances toward you before cupping the back of your head and planting a soft kiss atop it.

He doesn't notice how your body goes rigid from what you had thought he meant to do.

You squeeze your eyes shut to fight back tears, and your hands into fists to prevent their shaking.

"I'll see you tonight. Just try and go back to sleep for awhile, honey," he murmurs before turning back toward the door, grabbing his keys, and making an exit.

Being alone you know; can make do with. But in such a spacious home still yet left unexplored... You feel a bit out of your depth.

You decide to go back to bed like he suggested. Taking orders you can do, too.

After retrieving you while he was at work, Robby had taken you to get a new phone—you were only afforded an old landline at the house—so you spend awhile familiarizing yourself with the shiny new device. It's been a handful of years since you've been afforded such flashy technology, so the learning curve is steeper than you initially anticipated it would be.

You steer clear of all social media and don't even bother with an email. Instead, you spend awhile playing match-3 and hidden object games to pass the time.

The only number stored in your contacts being that of Robby and his workplace—the ED at PTMC—it's not like you have anyone to chat with, either.

You consider asking permission to clean his house, but don't want to interrupt him at the hospital. Plus, men seem to like when women do that: mop and do laundry and wipe down surfaces laden with crumbs. Not that his living space looks like it really needs it, but you've become an expert at locating overlooked nooks and crannies that've been sorely neglected.

He'll be pleased once the place is sparkling top to bottom.

It'll put him in a better mood when he gets home. Less chance of him yelling at you because you've been wasting time all day playing mobile games.

When Robby steps over the threshold of his house, it's to the sight of a faintly flickering candle set atop the entryway's narrow table, and the scent of seasoned chicken and roasted vegetables wafting down the hall from the kitchen.

Toeing off his shoes, he takes note of how his boots and running shoes, and even an old forgotten pair of slides have been polished and aligned by designated purpose.

Even the crooked rug he kept meaning to wash and recenter against the doorway looks freshly laundered.

"Welcome home," chimes a musical, feminine voice from the end of the hall.

Jerking his head up, he stares at you in surprise.

"I made you dinner. I... I hope that's okay."

"You did?" he asks foolishly.

You nod while clasping your hands together. "Does... Does that bother you? I used food from your fridge—"

He shakes his head with a contented grin while walking toward you. "No, honey, that doesn't bother me at all."

Robby seems very pleased that you took painstaking care to clean every inch of his home that you could reach and think of. He apparently forgot he had an iron. You learned as much when you disclosed that you used it on his scrubs.

While taking small bites of your food—never wolfing or scarfing, as that would be unattractive—you watch attentively as he dines on a hot, homecooked meal made by your own two hands.

His pots and pans had been far fancier than anything you were accustomed to. So shiny and brass that you'd been afraid to use them, in fact. You had considered it a treat as you dallied around the kitchen and acquainted yourself with a thick wooden cutting board, an expensive looking knife block, and a collection of hard to pronounce spices.

Sliding your socked feet together, you take another bite of steamed broccoli. "Is it...good?"

Robby hardly looks at you as he continues digging in. Popping up a thumb, he nods. "'S fuckin' great," he drawls.

You grin and breathe a sigh of relief you'd not realized you'd been holding. "I'm so glad."

"While I can't begin tell you just how much I appreciate everything you did today, I do want you to know," Robby begins while shutting the dishwasher and switching it on, "That it's not necessary. I know that with him, it was expected of you to keep house; to tend to all domestic duties."

You watch as he wipes his hands with a dishtowel.

"But I don't."

He tosses the towel down, and you mentally note that you need to refold it. Leaning his hip against the kitchen island you each stand at, he loosely crosses his arms. "The only thing I care about is that you feel safe. Happy. That you're given a chance to heal." He slides a hand over your splint. "In every way you need to."

Your eyes flit to his. "I folded your laundry. I hope it's okay that I went in your room."

His brows furrow.

Perhaps you just don't have any idea how to respond to reassurance and concern; care. Maybe it came with an ulterior motive before, at least a portion of the time. Or expectations. Nothing being allowed to come from something.

"Yeah, honey," he says while giving your fingers a reassuring squeeze. "That's fine. You're free to go wherever you like in this house. Nothing is off-limits."

On your way for a midnight trip to the bathroom, you're just passing by Robby's room when you catch, out of the corner of your eye, the familiar glow of a TV casting a darkened room in muted neon colors.

Gently pushing his bedroom door open, you hesitate in the hall before finally stepping over the transition strip and sinking your toes into soft brown carpet.

Starfished across the bed, Robby snores quietly with a comforter thrown haphazardly over his waist and legs. A smile tugs at your lips when you see one of his feet peeking out. You right this by tugging a blanket over it and rounding the foot of the bed to watch him from the other side for just a moment. With a pillow shoved beneath his chin, he draws in a deep breath before releasing a snore, and you giggle quietly.

He's peaceful like this. Lost in dreamland.

Part of you wants to smooth tousled hair from his brow and run a soft hand down his naked back, but refrain.

You miss being touched very much.

Swiping the remote from his bedside table, you click off the TV before quietly settling it atop his bedside table. You exit the room then and softly shut the door behind you.

Despite Robby's protestations, you've been getting up early every morning before him so you can make him breakfast.

The dishes vary, because variety seems to be important to you. One morning, it's a burrito with cheesy scrambled eggs, chopped bacon, and diced peppers. Another, pancakes with butter, strawberry syrup, and freshly sliced fruit. This one? Waffles with bits of fried chicken and cups of fresh-squeezed orange juice to accompany.

He'd half considered taking your phone away so you wouldn't have an alarm to wake you anymore—it's important to him that you get plenty of rest—but knew any trust you now feel toward him would dissipate entirely if he did so.

At least he's not operating for hours on-end with nothing on his stomach but black coffee and a cheap protein bar now.

Speaking of, you even bother with filling a tumbler for him each time he's readying himself at the door with fresh coffee—complete with plenty of cream and sugar mixed in for him to take along during his commute.

He's worried you feel obligated to do all that you are. Rather, he knows that you do. But he's also aware that you want to feel useful—are keeping yourself occupied when he's not here with you.

He offered to buy you an e-reader, or puzzles, or supplies for any hobby you think you'd like to try to busy yourself with, but had been met with resistance when you told him "not to waste money on you".

He picked you up the most expensive Kindle he could find anyway, as well as a hundred dollar gift card for it, a protective case, and a felting kit that's supposed to make a kitten holding a daisy.

Not exactly his thing, but you seem sweet enough that he'd hoped it would pique your interest.

"Did you turn my TV off last night?" Robby asks between chews of crispy chicken.

Your utensils clatter against your plate. "I... I was going to use the bathroom and saw that it was still on. I didn't want it to wake you—"

He shakes his head while taking another bite. "I sleep with it on," he explains. "Just a habit I can't seem to kick," he states with a casual shrug.

You slide your trembling hands between your thighs and swallow down the lump in your throat. "I'm so sorry," you whimper. "I didn't mean to upset you—"

His head jerks up.

"I won't ever go in there again. I promise. I—"

"No, sweetheart, you didn't upset me. I'm not angry. I was just telling you that I left it on on purpose."

You nod fervently. "I'll do better. I promise."

He stands, lifts his chair, then settles it next to your own before sliding an arm around your shoulders. "I appreciated it: you trying to look out for me." He chuckles. "Now you understand why I've tried insisting you not get up to make me breakfast."

You turn to look at him.

"Your sleep is just as important to me as mine is to you."

Heat rushes to your cheeks when he presses his lips to your left one, and you cross your legs at the ankles when his beard scratches pleasantly against the soft skin. "Thank you," he rumbles.

"You're welcome," you chirp.

You're not sure why, but every time your phone dings with a text from Robby, your heart flip-flops in your chest. Maybe because you're not used to such communication methods, so you're always worried about your tone being misread because of it being typed words.

It's usually about the same time every day the thing goes off now with a Having a good day? message occupying your lockscreen.

What you don't know, is that Robby watches with eager anticipation as those three dots pop up... Then disappear. Pop up... And disappear.

Then, Yes, thank you 😊

Need me to pick up anything on my way home to you?

He shakes his head with a frown and proceeds to delete the last two words before pressing send.

Same song and dance: dots, disappear, and so on.

Almost out of your coffee.☕ And if it's not any trouble, a pack of strawberries.🍓

Your constant inclusion of emojis only serves to endear him to you further. He assumes it's because they're new to you, and you have a mild fascination with their being a new sort of lexicon.

You got it, sweetheart.

Once again, he deletes the last tacked-on word.

Thank you!🐝

He doesn't ask about the bee. Instead, Robby stares down at the photo he took with you a couple weeks back which he has set as your contact photo: the two of you sat on the couch, and his lips pressed to your cheek while you smile shyly at the camera.

You'd been so flustered when he surprised you by snapping it, but could see from the way you squirmed after that it wasn't due to discomfort, but something else entirely.

And now, every morning before he leaves for work, it's become an unspoken part of his routine: you padding over with a tumbler of coffee, which he takes while leaning forward to kiss one of your cheeks, or forehead, or the crown of your head while telling you to have a good day. In return, you tell him to be safe.

You've become something he looks forward to seeing again once each impossible shift is finally through.

He never knew just how worth having someone to come home to could be.

Robby doesn't acknowledge the one word which sums up the warmth that's developed in his chest every time he thinks of, or sets eyes or hands on you as he turns to head back inside to tend to a trauma case.

"Oh," you quip before dropping a stack of Robby's clothes onto the edge of his bed. Unable to stop yourself from greedily studying every inch of his half-naked form, your eyes flit from one facet of his body to another like you're trying to memorize it before this moment passes.

He's just exited the bathroom and his hair is a damp, tousled mess. A towel is wrapped loosely around his waist, which his belly that's smattered with dark hair hangs heavily over.

Your mouth grows dry at the generous swell of it.

Is it strange if you want to press your hands into the plump skin while straddling his bare waist?

You nearly glance down at your own waist when you feel a foreign fluttering start up between your thighs.

For so long, even just watching kissing on TV disgusted you. The thought of intimacy which went any further made you feel downright nauseous.

But seeing Robby like this... It stirs something within you which you once thought lost.

You study your slippered feet. "Sorry," you mumble. "I thought you were still in there."

He plucks a pair of briefs from the top of the folded pile and pulls them on beneath his towel before removing it from his waist and balling it up to toss into the hamper in the bathroom. "It's okay. Just glad I had a towel on."

You bite back a smirk because the thought of him without it...

"Would you like for me to put your clothes away?"

He turns back toward the bathroom. "I can do it. Don't worry about it."

You chew your lip for a moment, then grab his underthings and pad over to his dresser anyway.

When Robby emerges from the bathroom again, it's to the predictable sight of you tending to yet another chore that you've made your responsibility.

He does appreciate the unspoken intimacy of you folding his underwear, though. Only woman who ever has, in fact. Minus one other, but that ended decades ago.

He pulls a dark t-shirt from the pile as well—one less thing for you to throw on a hanger, he figures—and just as he goes to pull it on over his head, you turn back to him.

"You don't have to," you say quietly. "Incase you're...still hot from your shower."

At times before, he would go shirtless, but not with you here now. Everything he does, he does while trying to keep your comfort in mind. "Not as fit as I was twenty years ago," he says with a chuckle.

"I didn't know you then," you say while grabbing a couple pairs of his scrubs. "But I find it hard to believe that you looked better than you do right now."

When you turn to place the items in his closet, it's with him being left utterly speechless.

Robby forgoes the shirt, much to your satisfaction.

It'd sent you into an utter tizzy, but the day Robby brought home the charming little sedan he purchased for you is the day the dam broke.

Abbot pulled up behind him, still somewhat fuming, because only that afternoon when he accompanied him to the car lot so there would be someone to get his truck back home for him is when Robby finally divulged the dirty little secret he'd been hoarding for months: he was living with a patient. Not just any patient, either, but one that should've been referred to law enforcement or a battered woman's shelter instead of taken into his home to receive the professional help she needed.

Jack had lain into him with no sign of stopping before Robby finally blew his top and screamed at him that he was in love with you, and that you were his to care for now. That he was just as professional as they and knew good and well how to take care of things. And that if he had an issue with it, then it was his shit to sort out. Not Robby's goddamn problem, because he couldn't lose you.

The two of you helped fix each other in so many wonderful ways, and he couldn't bear the thought of relinquishing the home he'd found in you by providing you with a literal one in exchange just because some may think it "unethical". Unethical would've been letting you go back to him when Robby had a safe place to take you to.

It would be a cold day in Hell before he allowed that to happen.

When Jack watches from the driver's seat of Robby's truck, however, and sees the way you wrap yourself around him—literally—when he sweeps you off the ground before circling his waist with your legs and your arms around his neck before you each cradle the other's head while showering one another with kisses and happy tears, he vows to keep his mouth shut about things.

He once told Robby that he spent too much time alone, and that it wasn't doing him any favors. So how can he be angry when he sees that he's rectified it?

Jack exits the cab to come and meet you—the girl who saved his best friend from himself.

Things continue to be gradual, but you've come far from where you once were.

You now work part-time at a small local library, and sleep in the same bed as Robby. You haven't been intimate yet, but he did watch one night as you touched yourself while pawing excitedly at his stomach, while you straddled his lap.

He couldn't quantify how flattered it made him feel with mere words—the fact that you find his one insecurity to be so incredibly erotic.

He hardly wears a shirt around the house now because of it.

Not that you ever complain.

You still play homemaker, and Robby has assured you that you don't have to work, but if it brings you joy, then by all means.

He even helped you set up a bank account that's solely in your name.

In the morning, you now kiss on the lips before Robby leaves you for patients and leading his ED staff, while you flit around the house and do chores before heading off to work yourself.

And biggest of all: you're now in therapy. You had to manipulate the truth as to how you and Robby met, lest you risk him being reported, but your ex is what you focus on discussing—it's the trauma he caused which you mean to work through.

Robby pays for the sessions so you can save your money for whatever else you like. You've recently gotten into adult coloring books, for example.

Jack sometimes comes over for dinner, and it makes you smile to see he and Robby joking around; that he has such a close friendship. You had worried that Jack would have opinions as to your two's relationship, given that he's an attending just like Robby, but to your relief, he seems rather fond of you.

You may've tried to bribe his good graces early on by purchasing him a special polish for his prosthetic, as well as a cream for his amputation. He took it from you with thanks and a grateful smile before joking that maybe he and Robby take turns over having you when the other is at the hospital.

You'd wandered away with a bashful laugh.

You’ve always had a somewhat fraught relationship with imagination. People say you lack it, to put it plainly. They say you’re too literal. As if being literal isn’t the reason airplanes stay in the air and bridges remain standing. 

But you just happen to find reality plenty beautiful. More than beautiful, actually. Reassuring. There is dignity in a thing that can be tested, reproduced, and counted on.

Newton’s law. The sodium-potassium pump. Entropy. Even the grimmer systems at least are consistent if nothing else.

So naturally, medicine was what you pursued in college. Everything means something. Everything is attached to something else. Symptoms are not random; bodies are not whimsical.

Even if an answer is hidden, it exists, and if you are willing to stay with a problem long enough, turn it over enough times, peel it apart layer by layer and build it back from the inside out, eventually it reveals itself.

Fiction does not afford you that courtesy. Fiction wants you to tolerate blank spaces and gaps. You hate gaps. You love knowing.

Fiction gives you half a scene and waits expectantly, like congratulations, now you do the labor.

Build the room. Place the bodies. Infer the angles. Ignore, apparently, that the human body is not an abstract concept but a heavily regulated system of hinges and limits and gravity and very obvious spatial constraints. 

You are experiencing one of those gaps now, staring so hard at the page your eyes begin to sting a little, focus tightening to a punitive little point. You think if you look at it severely enough the scene might resolve into something you can understand.

The book says the woman is “on top,” which should be clear enough on its own, except the next sentence immediately ruins that clarity by describing angles that do not, as far as you can tell, exist in three-dimensional space. 

And you have so many questions.

Is there a bed involved here? A couch? A floor? Any surface at all?

You reread the line. Maybe you overlooked a prepositional phrase hiding in plain sight. A detail that will clarify whose leg is bent and why it apparently now has the range of motion of a paper clip.

Nothing. No luck. Still opaque.

Possibly more vague now, because repetition has begun to dissolve whatever confidence you had in your own reading abilities.

It is difficult to overstate how humiliating it is to be bested by mediocre smut. 

You sigh and look to your watch. 9:18 p.m. Late. The bus is always late. That’s why you have this book in your hand in the first place, wanting to turn dead time into something educational. Unfortunately that’s not how it’s going.

You blow out a breath as another gust of wind snakes over the exposed strip of skin between your socks and the hem of your jeans.

They used to hit lower on your ankle, but courtesy of your building’s shitty communal dryer, they don’t do that anymore.

“Interesting reading choice.”

It is not a voice you prepared yourself to hear. You weren’t prepared to hear a voice at all, really.

So when you hear the familiar pitch of Landon, your body overcorrects, sending you backward like a startled deer losing traction on ice.

You see the next ten seconds in a flash: the hollow thunk of your head on the pole behind you, the stuttering apologies delivered as your vision tunnels, the concussion protocols that will surely haunt you for weeks, months, possibly forever.

But those ten seconds never actually happens.

Instead, you cautiously peer up into the flat, coolly appraising expression of Langdon, whose hand is placed behind your head, taking the brunt of the impact.

“Oh. Hi. Dr. Langdon. I, um, this isn’t — I’m not —” You’re already floundering, trying to assemble something defensible out of a situation that is not defensible. “It was recommended,” you say at last, which is true, though not in a way that sounds remotely exculpatory once spoken aloud. “By Javadi. She said it was good, which I assumed meant, like, well-written, not — this. Which I know sounds — I hear it, I hear how it sounds, but I didn’t just, like, seek this out independently. I was curious from a clinical standpoint.”

Shit.

You just lobbed Victoria under the bus didn’t you? And unlike the literal bus, this metaphorical one arrived enthusiastically on time, probably even honked.

You add it to the growing ledger of things you owe her. Coffee, at the very least. Something artisanal, thoughtful, handcrafted.

A note, handwritten in apology, because email would be cowardly and texting would feel insufficient, and really — after what you’ve just done, you’re not sure anything short of ink, paper, and a tangible record of shame could suffice.

He removes his hand, the pressure at the back of your head disappearing as he shifts to rest it along the bench behind you instead.

“Clinical,” he repeats. His eyes flick briefly to the book in your hands, then back to you, unimpressed. “And what have you concluded so far, doctor?”

“Not a doctor yet,” you point out. Not sure why you do. “But, um, just that it’s just not very clear? Like, the scenes move really fast, and I feel like I’m missing steps in between, so I keep trying to visualize what’s happening and I just end up getting stuck on, like… where everything is supposed to go and —” You stop, frowning now. “You — you probably didn’t actually want an answer to that, did you?”

His mouth pulls just enough to suggest he’s entertained despite himself. “Not initially.”

You nod. “Okay, good, because I definitely wasn’t planning to provide detail. Just, you know — general plausibility stuff. Realism concerns.”

“Let me see,” he says, and before your frazzled brain can form an adequate objection, he's already reaching forward, extracting the paperback from your suddenly slackened grasp.

You stand abruptly, the bench scraping in a terrible sound against concrete as you reach for the book.

“You really don’t have to do that.”

A correct statement. Useless, however, as he lifts the novel out of reach without even looking at you, arm extending just enough to make it clear that this is not a negotiation, and also, somewhat insultingly, not even difficult.

You briefly consider climbing him. Scaling him like a distressed, socially compromised marsupial and retrieving the book by force.

It feels like a viable solution. You dismiss it only on the grounds that in the last five minutes alone, accumulated enough embarrassment to sustain a normal person for at least two lifetimes.

And theoretically there should be a cap.

There is not, apparently.

Because after a brief glance at the page, he starts reading aloud: “She sank down on him with an aching slowness, savoring the stretch of it, the sweet friction that made her pulse flutter faster with every roll of her body. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her, keeping her there while the pleasure mounted in teasing waves until she was shaking with it, desperate and almost there.”

You feel the heat spark up your spine and towards you neck before saturating your face. The intensity momentarily blurs your vision.

Your hands tighten uselessly at your sides, a strange, unfamiliar tightness coiling low in your stomach.

You try your very hardest not to let your mind start making substitutions. You try not to let the faceless bodies on that page acquire identifiable features. A chin dimple, for instance. You try not to let the voice in front of you fuse itself any further to the text than it already has.

You wrench your gaze upward, fixing it somewhere behind his left ear, hoping that physical distance might somehow dilute your newfound imagination that just five minutes ago you were bashing.

He closes the book with a snap, eyebrow arched. “Sounds perfectly reasonable.”

“I mean, maybe,” you respond, a little too quickly. “If there were just… more specifics? Like, about the positioning. The angle, or where —” You take a quick breath. “Never mind.”

“And exactly how would you clarify it?”

“I’d probably just… add another line,” you say. “Like, specify that her hips are lower, or that her weight is shifted forward so her center of gravity is closer to his. Just so it’s clear what’s actually happening.”

He doesn’t say anything right away and when his eyes flick forward again, they look a little different beneath the dark of the sky, the blue of them deepened into something richer. A little less straightforward, you think. Lapis held in low light, saturated in silver strips and a little too pretty.

You watch as his tongue drags across his lower lip, the briefest glimpse of moisture highlighting the subtle contours and fine, shallow ridges of texture there.

“If you’re that concerned with accuracy,” he murmurs, “I’m sure there’s ways to run a practical demonstration.”

You have a hard time understanding what he means by that and when your mind does attempt to furnish the words with imagery, you have to recoil from your own thoughts.

Does he mean with him?

No, surely not, that is not where he wanted this conversation to go, and besides, that interpretation feels reckless, egotistical even, considering he is almost certainly saying it in the most neutral, solution-driven sense possible.

If that’s what he’s saying at all. He might not be. You can’t tell.

He is offering a suggestion for you.

You are the one making it weird.

“Oh. Well, it’d probably end up being more complicated than it’s worth. I’d need a controlled setup, probably multiple attempts, and at that point it’s less a demonstration and more a full reconstruction.”

A muscle feathers along his jaw as he tips his face towards the moon-lit sky. He seems to do that a lot. Like he’s appealing to some higher power for fortitude to deal with you. Or maybe not you specifically, which would be preferable, expect it does feel rather like you are the central to the current crisis, you just aren’t sure how.

Then he exhales a small laugh, thin with disbelief, and shakes his head once. 

“You’re right,” he says, voice deadpan. “Clearly I wasn’t thinking this through. Practicality first.” He glances pointedly at his watch. “It’s late. I’ll give you a ride home.”

You accept his offer without arguing, you’d be a fool not to, and trail him out toward the parking lot. A step behind, then a half step, then back again. You can’t quite decide on the appropriate proximity.

When you reach the row of cars, you realize you’ve never seen his before.

It’s nice. Grey, practical, a four-door SUV that screams fiscal responsibility and weather-appropriate footwear, a vehicle with divorced-dad energy so specific you can practically invent the rest of the man around it: patient at youth soccer, quietly resentful in a grocery store parking lot, pretending not to be wounded by logistical disappointments. 

The interior only deepens the impression. It is clean, but not in a forbidding way, not scrubbed of personality.

There is a toy in the cupholder, a crumpled napkin tucked into the side compartment, a few fast-food receipts scattered near the floor like the residue of a life conducted at speed.

It feels lived in, which is somehow more intimate than if it had been spotless.

It is, disconcertingly, human. More human than you expected from a man who often carries himself like a sealed document. 

Nice, you think again, and then, unhelpfully, him, the two notions beginning to blur together before you can stop them.

It’s a relatively quiet drive to start. The radio tuned to some Catholic station it must have picked up nearby, murky and hard to decipher, while streetlights drift past in bands of orange and green, staining the inside of the car with color and then taking it back.

“Javadi really recommended that?” Frank asks suddenly, piercing the silence.

“Yeah,” you admit, then wince almost immediately. “Well, sort of. I mean, I probably should not make it sound like she shoved it into my hands in some kind of corrupting-the-youth campaign. She mentioned it, but I was already curious. It was not not my idea.” You glance down, suddenly very interested in your own hands. “I’ve just been trying to do a little research, I guess.”

His fingers tap once against the steering wheel.

“And what, specifically, are you hoping to learn?”

Your mouth presses thin for a second. You’re not sure if you should continue.

“I was mostly just trying to get a better sense of... how certain things work in real life,” you say, picking each word carefully. “As opposed to in theory. Or in whatever version of reality people usually pretend is self-explanatory.”

He says nothing at first. Then through grit teeth: “You mean because no one’s explained it to you?”

You glance over, caught a little off guard by the question. “Well, not in any useful sense.”

His jaw flexes. 

“And the alternative,” he says slowly, “was assigned reading.”

You wince. “When you phrase it like that, it does sound bleak.”

“When I phrase it like that, it sounds like you’re trying to teach yourself something most people learn by experience.”

“Well,” you mumble, “yes. More or less.”

The light changes and he brakes, the red wash from the signal pouring through the windshield and across his face, tinting his skin rose-gold.

He screws his eyes shut for a brief second, hands drawing tighter on the wheel before he exhales.

“In that case,” he says, opening his eyes again, “I’m not entirely convinced that’s the most reliable educational resource.”

“Why?” you ask, with enough sincere confusion to make it clear you are not arguing so much as requesting clarification. 

The light turns green.

“Because it’s not source material. It’s entertainment.” His tone stays level, but only just. “It takes whatever is most dramatic, most flattering, most appealing, and presents it like it’s standard. It leaves out the parts that are inconvenient or unsexy, which means if you treat it as educational, you’re going to come away with a very distorted sense of how any of it actually works.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “There were definitely sections where I kept thinking, surely that cannot be how that happens. Or at least not without significantly more preparation, flexibility, or orthopedic intervention than the text was willing to acknowledge.”

“So I gathered.”

You fall quiet after that, though not for lack of further questions. In fact the opposite is true, because now he has accidentally positioned himself as a person with knowledge of how sex works.

But that would be inappropriate on at least six different levels. 

He is driving you home as a favor, not volunteering to become some kind of after-hours consultant on the mechanics of sex, and there is no universe in which asking for elaboration would make you seem anything other than catastrophically unwell.

You almost ask him anyway. 

But before you can make what would almost certainly be the worst possible decision available to you tonight, the car slows, turns, and then stops. 

You stare at the windshield, disoriented by the fact that you are suddenly at your apartment.

“Right,” you say, gathering your bag with the abrupt, clumsy movements of someone trying to recover from her own thoughts. “Thank you. For the ride.”

He gives a brief nod, one hand still resting on the wheel. “It was no trouble.”

You do not believe that for even a second. Still, you murmur goodnight and let yourself out, hurrying inside with as much dignity as can be salvaged after a conversation like that.

A couple days later, you’re sitting in the breakroom with your head propped in your palm, devoting a frankly heroic amount of effort to not drop face-first into the laminate.

You are exhausted, which is surely unrelated to the fact that you stayed up too late conducting what can only be described as independent research.

There is, it turns out, an astonishing amount of positions.

More than seems necessary, honestly. Far too many names. Far too many diagrams. So many that appear to require either exceptional upper body strength or a level of mutual coordination that feels statistically unlikely in the average civilian population. 

Some are perfectly straightforward. Many are not. Several seem just down-right wrong.

The door opens and you glance up, prepared to offer some vague nod of recognition to whoever has come to interrupt your private collapse. 

Langdon.

“Oh,” you say, straightening a little too quickly. “Hi, Dr. Langdon.”

That seems to be your automatic response to his presence.

His eyes narrow. “Rough morning?”

You give a small shrug. “M’fine.”

“You’ll have to excuse my skepticism.” He drags the chair across from you and sits.

“Just stayed up too late.” 

You hope that doesn’t inspire follow-ups.

He slides something across the table toward you. A book. You stare at the cover. Then at him. 

“This,” he says, tapping two fingers once against the cover, “is at least designed to explain things.”

Slowly, as if touching it too fast might make this more real, you pick it up and turn it over.

The back is dense with tidy paragraphs about desire, arousal, and the science of how women’s bodies actually work, all written in the reassuring language of expertise, which would be comforting if your pulse were not currently behaving like it had something to hide.

“That’s… unexpectedly thoughtful,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make too much of it.”

“I won’t,” you say, which is a lie so poorly constructed it barely qualifies as one.

You are, in fact, almost certain to make too much of it later, probably in bed, probably while staring at the ceiling. 

Then the door opens again. You nearly jump. You pull the book against your chest like you are protecting classified material. Langdon’s eyes narrow a fraction.

Garcia steps inside a second later, pauses, and looks between the two of you.

“...Am I interrupting something weird?” she asks.

You stand so quickly the chair legs scrape against the floor.

“Nope,” you say. “Not at all. Nothing weird. Not even slightly.” You clutch the book tighter. “I do, however, suddenly need to go be elsewhere. For work-related reasons. Very legitimate ones.” You nod once. “Okay. Bye.”

It’s late when you finally start to read the book Langdon gave you. Your first mistake, really. You have to be up in four hours. Four.

But the book turns out to be more useful than expected. It has information. Real information. Terminology and diagrams and explanations that move in a sequence a human brain can follow, one thing leading intelligibly to the next instead of that gauzy, vague, everyone-just-knows-what-to-do, magical event nonsense.

And this all should, theoretically, be enough to satisfy you.

Except every answer you get splits open into three more questions, hydra-style, the whole thing multiplying the second you think you have a grip on it.

And yes, sometimes Google is enough. But sometimes it is not.

Too broad, too contradictory, too many tabs open at once, too many Reddit posts written by men with misplaced confidence.

So now you are sitting on your bed staring at your phone, typing a message, deleting it, retyping it, deleting it again. Because this is weird. It is weird to text him.

But then again, he did hand you the book.

He did, in a very real sense, amplify this situation. And maybe giving you additional reading material counts as tacit approval for further questions. A follow-up. Continuing education.

You hit send.

hi dr. langdon. sorry. i have a question about the book!

It takes only a couple seconds for him to answer.

Go ahead.

You sit up so fast the book slides off your leg and drops onto the bedspread with a soft thump.

You stare at the screen.

You expected eventuality, a response tomorrow morning maybe, sometime after sunrise, sometime under the polite cover of daylight when everybody involved could collude in pretending this was a normal academic exchange and not you texting a senior resident after dark about sex-adjacent material like you were requesting clarification on electrolyte imbalance.

You glance at the clock and frown.

What is he even doing up?

Surely you didn’t wake him. You cannot imagine he sleeps with his ringer turned up loud enough for that. No, he feels like a phone-on-silent, notifications-curated, emergency-contacts-only kind of man.

You spend four minutes composing the question. You send six words.

what does “building sensation” actually mean?

Need more context than that.

You photograph the page. You send it. You put your phone face down on the quilt and do not look at it for a full minute.

When you finally make yourself turn the phone over, he’s answered.

It’s the physiological buildup to orgasm. Increased blood flow, heightened sensitivity, pelvic muscle tension. Sustained and constant stimulation. The sensation compounds on itself.

Your thumb catches idly on the hem of your pajama shorts, worrying the fabric back and forth while you stare at the screen. It takes a long amount of time to realize you’re doing it. You stop. Then start again without meaning to, fingertips slipping under the edge to press against your thigh. 

is consistency about location or pressure or both? the book implies they're interchangeable.  

Both. Generally location first, then pressure. If you keep changing where you’re touching, it’s harder to build anything. If the location is consistent but the pressure is erratic, same problem. They’re related, but not interchangeable.

Your free hand has drifted north to the waistband of your shorts, thumb pressing little crescent moons into overheated skin. Almost feverish.

Location first. 

An unfortunate instruction to receive while being aware of the exact location in question, muted now by two thin layers of cotton.

You should stop there. Obviously.

You should set the phone down, turn off the lamp, go to sleep, and revisit all of this in the morning when you are less suggestible. 

Instead your hand keeps moving, slow enough that you can perhaps pretend you have not consciously decided anything, slipping lower until it hovers over your underwear, where your clit presses back against the fabric. Swollen. And then lower than that, wet.

That startles you more than anything. From what, exactly? A sex manual? A few texts? Him?

No. That last one is inadmissible. Wildly inappropriate.

So you drag your mind back to the book instead, using it as a kind of corrective, something technical to blunt that he is, however indirectly, implicated in this. 

Start with indirect stimulation. Let the body acclimate. Don’t rush the thing. Let the thing, apparently, arrive on its own like a skittish woodland creature you are trying not to scare off.

Fine. Whatever. 

You press your thumb down and make a circular motion, sucking in a breath so sharply it almost hurts, mostly because the sensation is immediate and strange and good. You wouldn’t say overwhelming. Though maybe you would. You can’t think straight. Surprising, then. Concentrated.

Like pressing a bruise, except the complete inverse of that, if they lit up instead of aching. It makes you want to do it again.

So you do.

Small circles. Experimental. Testing the waters.

And it’s not like this is technically new. You have tried before.

But before was rushed and graceless and was the sort of thing done half-curiously and abandoned quickly, with no patience for your own body.

You were raised sheltered, and beyond that, serious. Preoccupied with things that seemed more pressing, more worthy of your attention, as though this part of yourself could be indefinitely postponed without consequence. 

You pick the phone back up with your unoccupied hand.

okay. that makes sense.

You stare at it, dissatisfied. Too final. Too capable of ending the conversation. You add another line before you can overthink yourself out of it.

and if the sensation is building, when are u supposed to switch? like to inner stimulation, i mean. or are you not supposed to unless what you’re already doing stops working?

The typing bubble appears instantly.

You don’t have to switch. That’s the first thing.

External stimulation is usually more important, especially early on. Inner stimulation is optional, not a required next step.

Little gasps keep escaping you as you refine the motion, not changing much, just enough pressure to sharpen it, back arching into the mattress.

It feels good. You don’t remember it ever feeling this good.

Maybe because before did not involve a very attractive doctor explaining your own body back to you in real time.

It is getting harder to text. Harder to think in complete sentences. Still, you manage, so if it’s working, is it better to not change anything? even if it starts feeling a lot more sensitive?

Your phone starts ringing.

You freeze when Frank's name flashes across the screen.

For a moment you can only stare. Your pulse jumps in your throat, fluttering there like something trapped, and then you are yanking your hand from your shorts and grabbing for the phone with fingers that suddenly seem to belong to someone much less coordinated than you.

“Hi —,”

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, though your voice already sounds guilty, chest rising and falling unevenly. “I’m — nothing. I’m just reading.”

“You’re not a very good liar.”

You frown at the dark ceiling. “I hate the confidence with which you say things.”

“It’s usually earned.”

You make a face at that, even though he cannot see it.

“I wasn’t prepared for a pop quiz,” you mutter. “You called out of nowhere.”

“A call seemed appropriate,” he says through the soft buzz of static.

“Why?”

Your whole body feels keyed up now, strung too tight, humming with a surplus of energy like you have been plugged into the wall and simply left there to glow.

It's hard to keep still under the blankets. Harder with his voice in your ear, that low grain of it roughened by the hour, touched with that tired edge that makes him feel closer than he is. He sounds warm. He sounds half-undone.

You can picture him without trying. In bed. Hair rumpled from sleep or from his hand shoved through it one too many times, one stray piece fallen near his eyes. Maybe in pajamas. Maybe not. Either option is equally disruptive. You brain offers a shirt pushes up a little, one arm behind his head, a strip of stomach, a line of hair disappearing into plaid boxers.

You shift on the mattress. Your hand trails back down your front, fingers resuming their place on your underwear.

“Because your last text didn’t read like a theoretical question,” he says. “I wanted to hear whether I was right.”

The words move through you, like he has reached through the phone and pressed a hand flat to your lower stomach.

“And were you?”

Your hips shift on the mattress again, angling into your own touch.

You bite your lip around the small throb of pleasure that follows.

“Yeah. I was.” His voice comes through coarser now, the line fuzzing around it, but not enough to hide the change. “And if I’m hearing you correctly, you haven’t stopped.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“...maybe.”

There's a brief pause on the line. You hear the rustle of him moving, before he speaks again. “Tell me exactly what you're doing.”

“I’m, uh…” You mouth goes dry. “I mean, you know.”

“I can’t tell you what to do if you won’t tell me what you’re doing,” he says. “You need to be specific.” 

You swallow.

“I’m touching over my underwear,” you admit finally, the words coming out hushed and a little uneven. “Just with my thumb. I’m not really… doing anything more than that.”

A soft exhale crackles through the phone.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it feels good.”

Your lashes flutter at the words. Your thumb keeps tracing the same spot, a little more rhythmically now, and every so often your hand falters when the sensation catches unexpectedly bright, a live wire under your skin.

Flashing hotter and hotter and hotter until you can barely stand it.

Your thighs draw in on instinct, then ease apart again, restless, unable to decide whether they are trying to hold the feeling or escape it.

“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage. 

You start to picture him again. Existing in real time in the dark on the other end of the line now.

It sends the throbbing in your cunt up tenfold, sharp little bursts of color flying behind your eyelids, green and orange and something almost gold.

You use your imagination to conjure up the image of him doing the same. Him with the phone in one hand and the other moving in lazy unhurried strokes around his cock, like this is no great strain for him, like he is as controlled in private as he is everywhere else.

You wonder what it looks like. His cock. Probably big and pink and veiny.

You know, rationally, that he is probably not doing that at all. He is probably just lying there in the dark, listening, talking, being composed for both of you.

But it is a nice thought anyway. More than nice, really. Your body answers it before you can caution it otherwise, your clit going heavier and more swollen, as you move to touch yourself without the barrier of your panties. It’s more sensitive that way. And your whole lower half seems to lean vainly into your own hand, practically preening toward the touch.

“Now I’m, um, touching myself directly.”

“Alright. Want you to try something. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. A little too eager. “I can.”

“Good girl.” The praise makes your stomach tighten. “Want you to slide two fingers into yourself a little. Not all the way, just enough to get them wet, okay? Then bring them back to your clit and keep using your thumb, or your fingers if that feels easier. Same pace as before.”

You nod even though you know he can’t see it and slip two fingers down, enough to feel the sticky warmth of yourself, coating your digits.

You bring it back up, smearing it over your nub.

“Oh,” you mumble breathily.

“Yeah?” he teases quietly. “That better?”

“A lot.”

“Good. It’s easier like that. Less friction. If you’re getting more sensitive, too much drag starts working against you.”

He’s right. He’s always right. You feel a little strange and floaty now, like your whole body has narrowed down to one incandescent point.

“How do you know all this?” you prod.

A pause. Then, “Experience.”

“Right. That.” Another circle, another spark of pleasure down your spine. “I don’t exactly have that.”

“I gathered.”

Something in his tone makes you go a little still. Not enough to stop, but your hand falters, tightening around a thought before you can even identify it.

He notices immediately. He has some terrifying sonar for you specifically, some private frequency calibrated to every tiny shift in your breathing, every dropped beat, every half-second hesitation.

“Hey,” he says pointedly. “Don’t get in your head now. Never said it was a bad thing. Keep going. Think about something else.”

“Such as?” you whisper.

There’s the sound of breathing from the phone before he answers, “that’s up for you to decide.”

You suck in a sharp breath, squirming as you adjust phone closer to your ear

“Can you just… keep talking to me?”

There’s a huff on the other end, almost a laugh. “That’s not very specific.”

“I know.” You’re sure you’re not making much sense right now. “I just — don’t stop. Please. Just wanna hear you say anything.”

He’s quiet for a second, like he’s trying to decide what, exactly, you’re asking for. The problem is, you’re not entirely sure either.

You only know there’s a strange, tightening warmth low in your stomach, something gathering there, and his voice seems to nurture it instead of breaking it apart.

You hear something clang on the other end of the phone.

“Fuck. Okay. First need you to breathe, okay? You're tensing up, I can hear it. Relax your legs.”

You try to do as you're told.

In. Out. In. Out.

Each breath feeding the whole thing oxygen, driving you nearer and nearer to the vanishing point until your eyes threaten to roll back and your body feels like on extended nerve.

“I —” A breath. “Sorry, I just —” Another one. “Frank I think I'm — I'm close, I think, I don't — It's really intense and I don't know what I'm —” You lose the thought entirely. “I just don't know what I'm supposed to do when it starts feeling like this. Do I stop, or —”

“Shit baby, you've never gotten there before? Not even —”

“No,” you manage.

“Oh, poor thing.”Quiet. Almost to himself. “Okay. ‘S okay. Don't stop. I need you to stay with me and just let it happen, can you do that?”

“I think —”

“Don't think,” he cuts you off. “For once in your life, don't think. Just feel it.”

Something in you finally gives.

You feel all of it at once.

Your orgasm peaks so fast it almost feels like losing power everywhere at the same time, every room going dark together, and your back comes off the pillows and your hand presses harder before you even mean for it to and a gasp tears out of you, high and helpless and so unlike anything you have ever heard from yourself that for a second it barely sounds like yours.

“That’s it,” Frank says, low in your ear.

It rolls. That's the only word for it.

It rolls outward from your pussy in a slow, stunned series of tremors moving through your thighs, your spine, your chest, each wave its own distinct thing and yet not distinct at all, each one its own event, its own brief undoing.

You cannot do anything except lie there and take it, receive it as it passes through you, because there is nothing else available to you now, no other function left online, no thought, no dignity, no language, only this long bright aftershock and your body answering it whether you understand it or not.

Your breathing takes a while to come back to anything recognizable.

At first it is just air dragged in and let back out. Sweat has glued a few strands of hair to your forehead. Your hand has gone slack.

“You still with me?”

That is when your brain comes back. All at once. Hard. Fast.

Because now you are not just a body coming down from an orgasm.

Now you are yourself again. And Frank Langdon just talked you through getting off.

Frank Langdon, your coworker. Frank Langdon, your superior. Frank Langdon, whom you have just used as a combined anatomy instructor, practical demonstration guide, and live sex education resource.

“Yes, yeah, sorry.” You swallow, wipe at your forehead with the heel of your hand. “I'm here.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Your sensitivity's going to be elevated for a minute, so just let your muscles relax and let your breathing even out. If you feel shaky, that's normal. If you heart's racing, also normal. Get some water when you can. Sit up slowly if you're going to move.”

“Okay,” you murmur, because he sounds so certain that for a second it is easy to borrow some of it. You try to unclench by degrees, thighs, stomach, shoulders, one thing at a time. “I am a little shaky, which is good to know is normal and not, like, a sign that I’ve accidentally broken something."

“No,” he says, and there is that low note of dry amusement under it now, just enough to catch. “You didn’t break anything. If you had, trust me, we’d be having a very different conversation.”

“Right, no, I know. Though sex-related injuries are not exactly unheard of. Do you remember that girl in the ER who had a condom stuck in her for over two months and didn't realize it? That would suck."

"Mm. It would," he agrees. "Protection is important. Equally important to make sure it actually comes back out with you."

You let out a small giggle at that and shift on the bed, drawing yourself up a little slower this time, careful like he told you to bed. The quilt bunches under your legs.

A quiet opens up. And it might be comfortable if it with anyone else. But it is not with anyone else.

You break first.

“So what happens now?” you ask, trying for light and missing by a little. “Do we pretend this was a totally normal educational exchange and never speak of it again?”

“I don’t think you’re capable of pretending that,” he says.

You flush hot all over.

“And you are?”

A pause.

“No.” The room goes still around you. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, but he does say: “You should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Probably.”

You have to be up in three hours now. Have to see him in four.

Another beat. Neither of you hangs up.

Then, very quiet, very even, he says, “Next time, ask sooner.”

“Next time?”

“If you’re going to use me as a reference source,” he says, all dry composure again, though now it feels a little put on, “I’d prefer a more reasonable hour.”

Your cheeks heat with the power of a thousand suns.

“Oh, well, Dr. Langdon, I think —”

“Goodnight.”

The line clicks dead.

You lie there staring into the dark, phone still pressed to your ear, and understand with awful, perfect clarity that this has not ended anything at all.

More gaps in your knowledge.

And you really hate gaps.

A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts 4 ten thousand yrs!!!!!!!! thinking about writing a part two but we shall see. anyway thanks for reading!! love ya always

Dex's not-so subtle moans fill your ears. His jaw working. His fingers press into his mouth, sucking and licking them clean. His gaze levels yours with a smile.

Your face burns and you look away while you clear your throat.

"Food's good. Thank you."

You turn back to him, face still aflame as you stand, clearing your plates from the table. "Of course. You need fuel to help heal your...body." You almost cringe at yourself, trying not to glance down at his shirtless state. His damp hair messy on top of his head. You turn abruptly to the kitchen, hands full with the dishes. He watches you closely, tracking your every move. You're trying not to squirm, try not to think about these thoughts he's eliciting out of you. After cleaning the plates, you take your time washing your hands as he stares from the dining room table. Maybe you just needed to keep some distance away from him.

"You feed Matt while he's here?" 

The question makes you frown and pause in your task, looking back up from to catch his stare. Dex's tone every time he's mentioned the Daredevil has been laced with...you want to say, unfriendliness. Maybe even hostility. It confused you, weren't they supposed to be friends? He was sent here by him, was he not? His hands are busy picking nonexistent lint off the sweats you gave him, as he looks away from your questioning regard. 

"Uhm...no, I don't think I have." You actually try to think back to those countless nights. Maybe there was a pizza ordered here or there.

"Too busy with each other, huh?" 

You miss the seething hatred in his tone as your brain tries to think about Matt and food and when the last time you saw him was. 

Airily, without thinking, you reply, "Yeah, we're always busy when he's here."

You turn away to grab a rag to dry your hands, sink water turned off. This means you also miss the way Dex's lips twist up in a sneer, the way his hands clench and bunch up the grey fabric of his sweats. When you're done with your tasks, you turn towards your bedroom door, peering in before turning back to him. You were exhausted. You assess the man still seated at the table, his lips pressed into a thin line. Maybe he really was still in pain.

"I'll get you some pain medicine." You head into your bathroom cabinet, grabbing some acetaminophen and ibuprofen. It was the only thing you had on hand, hoping the two combined with the right dosage would help him ease some of his obvious discomfort.

When you come back, you're shocked to see he's moved to the couch. Pillow over his lap, legs kicked up onto the coffee table in front of him.

Before the two of you had sat down to eat, he'd helped you roll up the ruined rug, despite your protests about his wounds. You stood there and watched his muscles work, trying not to think about his hands on you while his arms worked the rug into a roll. Watched his back muscles roll when he lifted it up, hoisting it over his shoulder. Blushed when he'd given you a wink, not even phased, not even winded. You had to scold yourself when thoughts about him hoisting you up over his shoulder, ushering you into the bedroom, maybe even his hand swatting your ass had clouded your mind. He had looked at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

So the rug was gone. As was his cut up suit. His weapons, however... They sat right next to his feet on the coffee table. They unnerved you, to say the least. Daredevil didn't ever have any real weapons on him. He wasn't a killer. You didn't know much about the man you had in front of you, but you could venture to assume that he was similar to using violence as a tool like Frank Castle. You weren't sure how you felt about that. 

You step closer to Dex, hand reaching out to drop some meds in his outstretched one. Instead of letting the medicine fall into his palm, he catches your hand with his, his rougher and larger hand engulfing yours. You catch yourself from pulling back in shock, instead turning your hand in his so he can properly take the medicine from you. He hums when you finally pull away from him, popping the medicine into his mouth like candy with a devious smile. Your skin tingles from where he'd touched you.

As a distraction, and curiosity, you look back at his weapons, trying to keep cool about everything. You doubted the Daredevil wanted you lusting over his friend, who was obviously in a vulnerable state. There's a moment of silence, as you turn away from his weapons and look around the room, until you're staring back at him. He smiles and pats the cushion next to him. A bit awkwardly, you move around the coffee table and sit on the opposite end of the couch, hands folded in your lap like this wasn't your home. 

Taking a steadying breath, you turn to him with a careful voice, "What...what happened last night? Is Daredevil...is Matt okay?"

It was Dex's turn to look away from your gaze. Which was odd, considering how he never seemed to stop staring at you. His tone was nonchalant, "There was a fight. I can't get into too much detail." He turns back to you, his eyes slowly assessing you, "I'm sure he's fine."

You don't feel satisfied with his answer, "Okay, well, you're going to have to give me more than that. What is going on?" Your body turns more towards him on the couch, brain now on a mission. He was being way too vague from the get go. "Why did he send you here?"

"I told you," his shoulder lifts up in a shrug, "He told me to come. I had to get out of there."

"So, that's the part where I'm concerned, Dex," you stress his name in a scold, "If you came here in such a state, who is to say that Matt isn't worse off? Shouldn't we call the authorities or go check on him?"

He clenches the pillow on his lap, he teeth biting together. "Why are you so worried about him?"

You blink. 

"What?" You ask, taken aback from his accusatory tone.

"I said why are you so worried about him." He almost hisses it out.

"I heard you." You frown at him, suddenly not liking where this conversation was going. All those comments on Matt from him starting to line up together in your head. Oh God. Did he...did he not like Matt? "I...I'm sorry, I'm confused. Why would I not be concerned about him?"

"Are these his fucking sweats I'm wearing?"

Your brows pull together into a deeper frown, glancing at the grey sweats around his legs. They weren't. They were a pair of your ex's you had stolen, unwilling to give them back and in a way, spitefully keeping them after the breakup years ago. They were comfy, and you doubted the SOB was missing them. Maybe it pleased you if he did, but that was besides the point. What was going on in this conversation with the man in your house? On your couch.

You slowly stand from the couch, red flags and warning bells now ringing in your head. God, you were stupid. Falling blind to his attractiveness, thinking he was here because Matt sent him. What if he killed him? You look down at the weapons on the table with widening eyes. Oh God, what if those wounds you patched up on him were from the Daredevil himself? You feel your feet backing up slowly, trying to subtly gain space from Dex.

His eyes darken, his lips parting into a dark smile. "These are, aren't they?" He makes a low furious noise as he stands from the couch. "No wonder they don't fit properly." Dex rises to his full height, tossing the pillow behind him, back onto the couch. He takes a slow step forward as you're taking a slow step back.

Sweat drips down your back. Eyes trailing his down his torso, to the waistband of the sweats. You're about to tell him, No, of course they aren't. Why would you have his clothes here? But your mouth dries and you force a swallow as you see the obvious outline of his thickening dick through the material. You feel your skin burn, desire filling your belly. You feel dizzy from the mixture of fear and arousal. What has gotten into you?

The man chuffs an amused noise as you take him in as he continues to stalk you like prey around your coffee table. Your legs quiver with anticipation, your body wanting to bolt. Fuck, you're wet. He's so tall and broad, the outline of his cock in the sweats burning into your brain. He looks big and thick and heavy. He takes step forward, and you flinch at the sudden movement, heart rate quickening. Your lips part in a pant before your tongue swipes out to wet them. Your mind clouding with desire. Your gaze trails back up his body, his mouth still lifted up in a smirk. Like he's happy to see that you caught on to him. That you're still catching up to the game he's been playing since you let him in. He's somehow moved so subtly, that he's an arm length's away. Your body racks itself into a full shiver, just before you're jolting into action.

Except he's faster. His hand reaches out to snatch your loose pajama shirt, almost tearing the fabric as he pulls your body back to him. His built arms coming around you to capture you against him, his breath leaving him in a short laugh when your back hits against his torso. You can feel the press of his hard cock flush against your ass as you squirm against his hold, one arm of his cording around your waist to keep you trapped to him. His other arm banding across your chest, hand going up to flex over your throat. You let out a small simpering and pathetic sound, pussy painfully throbbing with the contact of his body against yours. He presses his hips into you, the length of his dick grinding in between you two. 

"Easy, girl." Dex's voice presses on the shell of your ear, like he's trying to calm you down. His fingers flex over your throat, not cutting off your oxygen, just keeping you in a hold. "Fuck, you're squirmy." He groans as you try to continue, weakly, to get out of his hold, your ass rubbing up against his hard cock. You feel it jump against you. You freeze while pull in air through your bared teeth.

"What are you doing?" You hiss out to him, biting back a whimper when he grinds into you at the sound of your voice. 

His nose presses into your hair, a shudder racking his body behind you as he takes in a breath of your scent. "Do you fight Matt like this?"

You can't suppress a gasp when his mouth comes down to your throat, his fingers just barely parting for his tongue. He licks you softly, like he's testing your taste. Your eyes flutter shut as your head tilts, giving him more space. Dex notices and hums, pleased with the permission you gave him, his hand coming up to your jaw to tilt your head more as he sucks a spot on your neck. His grasp on you loosens, though he's still keeping you caged against his hard body as he works you up with mouth and tongue. Your panties are thoroughly soaked, and you grind back against him with a small moan. He releases your neck with a sucking pop, pleased to see his mark on you. He wants more of them on you, dark thoughts almost overtaking him until your hand is reaching in between the two of you, seeking out his throbbing length. He chokes when you grip him through the sweats, his head dropping to your shoulder. 

You suck in a breath as your hands grip his girth, feeling him throb underneath your fingers. You work him through the fabric, his hips twitching up to press more into you. Dex's hand leaves your jaw to trail down to your breast, squeezing you through the fabric of your shirt, eliciting another weak moan from you. You hadn't bothered putting on a bra after your shower last night, something you don't ever sleep in. His fingers finding the peak of your nipple, rolling it in between them, causing your grip on him to tighten. He lets out a curse behind you, his mouth going back to your throat to suck another mark into you. When he's satisfied and finished with his bite, he quickly releases you, spinning you around before his mouth comes crashing down on yours, his hands grasping the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair. 

A surprised noise leaves you, smothered into his mouth, body rigid with the sudden movement until you soften into the kiss, mouth parting for him. You can feel him shudder again, pleased with how obedient you were being. How soft. How willing. But his mouth turns harsh, consuming, his kiss almost biting and clashing with anger. He's thinking about Matt having his hands on you, swallowing your moans. Having your hands pulling him in. An angry noise spills into the space of your battling mouths, his hands now hooking up under your thighs and ass, hoisting you up into the air with such ease it shocks and scares you. He was so strong, so agile and quick. Your thighs come around his waist, knocking into his wounds and stitches, the pain egging him on as he lets out a anguished noise. You try to slow down, to apologize, to tell him to put you down so you don't hurt him, but he kissing you with such angry abandon that you can't get anything out, can't even think straight as your hands come down to clutch his broad shoulders. His fingers dig into the swell of your ass, gripping you so tightly you're sure to have his fingers imprinted on you. Dex walks the two of you steadily back into your bedroom, placing you onto your bed, following you without his mouth leaving you once.

The situation starts to play your mind, your lower belly burning with want and need, legs spread for him to make space as his cock rubs along your clothed sex. You let out a moan into his mouth, your hands trailing up to his hair, tugging, trying to get him to take his mouth of yours so you can at least speak. The pain just seems to encourage him, his dick humping into your cunt, the friction from his weight and clothes making you hotter and hotter. You pant openly against his mouth, his tongue slipping in with an eager groan. You feel his hands pet along side of you, touching and gripping as much as he can through your clothes. He pulls away to look down at you.

Hell. You're looking up at him with hungry eyes, soft and pliant in his arms. Lips red and puffy from his attacks. Your pupils are blown out in lust, and it makes his stomach tighten as he thinks about Matt of all people in this moment.

"You look up at him like that too? Or is that just for me?" He grips your jaw, making you look at him dead on as your face scrunches up in confusion.

"Wh-" You start, until he's cutting you off by smacking his lips against yours again, teeth biting at your lips. You let out a shrill, hands coming to his shoulders to push him away.

"What is with you?" You hiss at him, thumping a hand against his shoulder as you try to push him off you. You're fighting him again, weakly, you might say, as his fingers wiggle their way under your shorts, making you pause in your fake struggle. You look back up at him, his dark gaze on your face as you watch him watch you feel his quick fingers just outside your soaked panties. He swipes them against the heat of your clothed core, your hips bucking up in response. He presses his fingers against your sopping wet entrance, smiling at the way your mind goes blank just from his touch.

"Tell me you want me more than him." Dex growls down at you, the pads of his fingers pressing onto your clothed and aching clit. You let out a broken gasp as he finds your spot easily through your clothes. 

"Dex," you whine, trying to grind down on his fingers, needing more friction than he's allowing you to have. You give him no other response but a short cry, as he's suddenly shoving your panties to the side, underneath all your clothes, his fingers brutally shoving inside you. Even fully clothed, you feel exposed as two of his fingers stretch you open, making squelching noises around his digits as he fucks them into you. Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, fingernails digging into his flesh. He can't pull his fingers out properly to thrust them in, so he moves them in a debilitating up and down motion, scissoring them into you, pressing harshly against your G spot. You suck a sharp breath in, your exhale a long devastating moan. He's ruining you, destroying and rewriting you this quickly. 

You don't realize the noises you're making until he's leaning down to swallow them, his mouth sucking another biting kiss into yours. Your fingers clutch the strands of his hair as you keep him to you, the moans and whimpers you're making not stopping, just getting muffled into his lips. There's dull and hot sensation in your core as he works you, he's shoving you towards a sensation you've never really felt before. Your legs tremble with the stimulation, and you almost want him stop - it's so strong. Your muscles clench and release, like you're body is trying to catch up with the way he moves. You can only feel pleasure, as his fingers isolate a perfect spot inside of you, overwhelming you with the fire blurring hot inside your veins and entire body. He pulls back from your mouth, staring down at you. You almost cry when he starts talking again, his fingers pushing you higher and higher-

"That's it. That's it. Fuck yes." 

What is happening? Your pussy is clamping and fluttering around his fingers, your mouth opens with a silent cry and you suddenly feel soaked. Your back arches into the bed, head tipping back, eyes screwing shut and that's when you finally feel it. Sparks zapping inside you, energy sucking up out of your body. You feel your orgasm through your entire body, rather just down there, body cumming before your brain even knew what was happening. You pant as you come down, limbs heavy. Dex eases his fingers out of you, humming a pleased noise in the back of his throat. He pulls his wet fingers out from underneath your shorts, your eyes darken as he sucks them into his mouth, cleaning them up noisily. It makes that need and want crawl back inside of you, core clenching with just the act of him doing that. He smirks around his fingers, teeth biting into his flesh as he looks down at you. Looking every bit of handsome and dangerous. You almost forgot who you were dealing with here, your legs starting to push you back up the bed away from him.

Dex grips your ankle, yanking you back down to him. You let out a weak squeak, helping him anyways when he goes to shuck your ruined shorts and underwear off you. His nostrils flare and pupils dilate as he takes in your lower naked half, his large hands gripping the back of your knees to lift and spread your legs, exposing your wet and fluttering sex to him. You blush, embarrassed by the unwavering attention from him, trying to squirm away from his hot gaze. He groans and presses your legs open even more, his clothed cock coming to rub against your soaking pussy. You watch as your wetness darkens the grey fabric and whimper when he drags his heavy cock against your sensitive slit. He curses at the feel of you, at the sight of you. 

His fingers flex against your skin, letting go of his hold on you. He reaches up instead to strip you of your shirt, completely exposing you to the air. Your nipples peak with the temperature change and you blush, hands going up to cover over yourself. He growls with a frown tugging on his face, knocking your hands away from yourself. 

“Don’t hide. Do you hide with him? Huh?” He palms your breasts, spreading his fingers wide to catch all of you, his cock thrusting against you just once, letting you feel him through the pants. 

You find yourself shaking your head. What were you doing? Why were you playing into this with him? You liked how anger spread through him, made him rougher. Made him act like he had something to prove. Made him possessive. He’s angry with your answer, not necessarily at you, but angry with Matt. Angry that he gets you like this. The anger and jealousy heed inside of him, consume him. He yanks down the waistband of the sweats, not bothering to remove them all the way. His heavy cock smacks down against your soaked pussy, making you jump with the sudden stimulation. You feel him throb against your sex, hot and thick and heavy. Your eyes widen at the sight of him, his tip pink and leaking, twitching and pulsing with need. 

He slides his tip up and down your sopping cunt, teasing your clit with every up motion he drags through. On his next down movement, his tip catches in your fluttering entrance, just barely pressing.

Your hips raise on their own accord, trying to catch him better inside you, a whine spilling out of your mouth. His hands squeeze your chest in response.

”Fuck you better than him.” He mutters, more to himself, as he’s staring down at where you two are just barely meeting, entranced.

You answer him anyway, with a needy and whiny tone, “Please, Dex.”

His gaze snaps back up at you, in shock, his lips parting with a pant. He looks fucked out already, his eyes glassy, hair a mess from your fingers, lips red and swollen from kissing you with abandon. He keeps eye contact with you, a devious smile splitting his lips as he starts pressing inside of you as slow as he can. You let a long whine, keeping your legs spread for him, grabbing onto the back of your thighs to stay open. He gets about half way before you’re panting and shaking, the stretch of him so much that it’s making you lightheaded. It hurts so good. When he bottoms out, your eyes almost roll to the back of your head as you let out a simpering moan. 

“He stretch you out like this?” Dex laughs, his length pulling back just barely before he’s pushing back into you, grinding his hips when he gets flush against you. 

“A-ah. No, Dex,” you whimper out, head tipping back before he’s catching the back of your neck, tilting your head up for you, making you look down at where he meets you.

”Watch.” He hisses out. His cock moves back, letting you see how slick and shiny he is with you. Your pussy makes obscene noises around his girth, as he’s thumping his length back into you, making you watch the way your pussy clings to him and pulls him back in. He lets out a groan as he watches you take all of him, pussy warm and fluttering around him. It feels better than he could have ever imagined. You’re tight and warm and slick. He bites back his own whimper as his hips start picking up.

You let out such perfect noises as his hips smack into you, the slap slap slap and creaks of your bed making music in your house. He feels drunk. He leans down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, hearing a cry from you when he sucks and bites. He wants to mark you up everywhere, so the next time Matt sees you, he knows. Knows who you really belong to. Dex leans his weight onto you, his hands coming up underneath your hips, so he can use his strength to fuck you back onto his thrusts. He feels your nails dig into his back, your legs squeezing around his torso, sometimes knocking into his wound at his side, the pain and pleasure mixing something deadly inside of him.

You keen when he lets go of your skin with a wet pop, your chest littered with red marks and bites from him, the sight of you driving him insane. The feel of you. He can feel your pussy clench and tighten around him, more and more. You're getting close. One of his hands leaves your hips, to trail in between you, his fingers pressing and finding your clit. He rubs you in a way you like, by finding out how and where just by the hitches in your breath. 

It does something devastating to you. The stimulation from his cock dragging back and forth, hitting and pressing against your cervix, his fingers on your clit. You moan out, saying something that’s got to be a plead. You don’t hear it though. All you can do is feel, feel the way your body reacts to him. 

“I’m gonna — Oh, Dex. I’m g—gonna,” you start to hiccup in a babble, holding onto him as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. He moans back to you, catching your mouth in his, like he can’t stand not kissing you while you spill over the edge. 

You let yourself go, body filling with hot plasma and euphoria, going away into that dark voided space as you black out while you cum around his thick cock. He pulls back to watch, his thrusts easing up while he fucks you through it, your pussy painfully squeezing around him. He almost chokes as you milk him, having to stop entirely, his hips twitching in need while you clamp down around him. He wants to fill you up so badly he can feel it in his bones. His cock throbs in need, the need he’s denying himself while you come back to him. 

“Come back to me,” he whispers, lips trailing across your cheekbones as you gasp and heave for air. Body trembling. It’s delicate and intimate, this space he has you in now, as he presses his lips against you just barely. Light kisses butterflying across your face and mouth as you come back to reality. 

Dex is kind enough to let you adjust before he’s pulling out of you. You whine at the loss of him, weakly reaching out to him. He lets out an amused and breathless sound, before he’s picking your boneless body up, turning you over to lay prone on your bed. He hoists your hips up, stuffing one of your pillows under them. He braces one hand on the outside of your body, the other tangling into your hair, close against your skull, tugging your head up and back towards him. Your throat is exposed, the pressure making your moans throaty and deep. He shoves back inside you with a single deep thrust, not letting you adjust again before he’s slamming down into you. Your hips and ass tilted up to him with the aid of the pillow.

Dex’s free hand comes back to palm your ass, gripping and groping you as his hips slap heavily into you. He groans watching his cock being swallowed up by your pussy from behind. You’d blush if you weren’t so fucked out and delirious from him, his cock hitting you deep in an angle you’ve never felt before, your animalistic moans struggling to leave your craned throat. He tugs your hair a bit, letting you feel the delicious pain from his grip. A sharp slap hit your ass, a surprised but greedy moan leaving you in reaction. Your pussy clamps down on him and gets even wetter, if that were possible. Dex growls with pleasure, his palm smoothing the pain out from his slap he delivered to you. Liking the way the red hand print started to show already. He plunges into your wetness over and over again, your hips fucking back onto his couch with such a greediness that makes him curse lowly. You cry out with a hoarse voice and he shudders with the sound.

"Let him hear it, let him hear you." He hisses out, tugging your head back after it falls forward. 

You have no idea if Matt is anywhere near your place, if he can hear you, why Dex said that, but it puts a dark thought in your mind. It makes your cunt clamp down on him, thinking about Matt walking in and seeing Dex claim you as his. The thought picks you up and carries to the edge of your orgasm, a cry falling from you. Dex feels it, feels how tight you're getting around him and he almost laughs before he lets out his own devastating moan. That's all it takes before your cumming again around him, the wave of it brutalizing your body and senses. He doesn't slow down, dropping his grip from your hair, hands going around your hips to drag you back onto his cock and thrusts. You're moaning, whimpering, gasping, unable to keep any noise to yourself as you try to come back to Earth.

Dex grits his teeth as he keeps pounding into you, watching your ass bounce with every thrust. There's a ring of frothy white cream around the base of his cock and he has to tip his head back up to the ceiling at the sight. You feel so good, look so good. He doesn't want to stop. You're writhing and squirming around him, no doubt overstimulated, but he can't help himself. He moves over you, putting his torso flush against your back, arms wiggling up underneath you to trap you against him. He slides own of his arms around your throat, hand going to your opposite shoulder, caging you in a chokehold without actually choking you. He can feel your moans vibrating on his forearm, his other arm going around your torso to keep you as close as he possibly can. He cages your entire body, making you feel so small, so trapped, and so dominated that you know he's going to ruin you for anyone else. 

His mouth drops to the shell of your ear, his face pressed just barely behind yours. His dark and low voice make you shudder, his hips still snapping something violent into your pussy. "He fuck you like this? Hm?"

You shake your head, voice tiny and weak, "N-no, Dex."

"He ever make this pussy feel this good?" 

You cry out, tears starting to fill your eyes from how good he's making you feel. How overstimulated you are. His cock hitting a spot deep inside you over and over and over--

"Please," you whine out, not even sure what you're begging for. 

He licks your ear from behind, wanting to get to every part of you. But his cock is throbbing, he's not able to hold back for much longer, his thrusts getting choppier, sloppier. The sound of your pussy squelching and cries filling the room. It fills him with some sort of pride, seeing how submissive he got you. How he marked you up. How he's made you come and cry like this before the end of the day. 

"His dick fill you up like this?" It makes him angry even thinking about it. His arm banded around your throat just tightening briefly. He feels you try to shake your head no, and he loosens up.

"No--no one--no one ever--" you're gasping out, fingernails reaching up to dig into his forearm.

"Yeah? Good." He shudders, thinking about how you're taking him. Taking him so fucking good. He groans, balls tightening up to his body, but he can't stop. Can't stop fucking into you with abandon. With need. With possession. 

"No one ever gets to,hear me?" He hisses out through gritted teeth, making sure you hear him loud and clear when he ducks his voice to your ear.

You'll do anything at this point, you're so high on him. You nod frantically, begging again, pleading and crying and whimpering. Pathetically wet and creaming on his cock just to hear how he claims you with no problem.

"This cock is yours." He fights back a whimper, so close so close. You moan lowly at his admission, starry eyes crossing as your belly starts to fire up again. You feel his head drop down to your shoulder, his teeth coming down to bite gently onto your flesh there. He had claimed you, physically, but he was giving you him. It made you dizzy. Made you hot, made you messy. 

You cry out, gasping, "Fuck, Dex, I'm going to cum again, I--I'm going to--" you're trying to catch up with yourself, trying to stop it, trying to finish it, you're not sure. 

He just slams into you with more force, his whines spilling out of his mouth as your cunt starts to milk him, his cock just hitting the right place inside you, again and again. The wave of your orgasm crashes over you, leaving you crying out in a near scream, his cock bursting inside of you, lengthening and strengthening the force of your orgasm. His hips still as your milk his cock, both of you making obscene animalistic moans and cries, your walls pulsing around him to take every drop of his cum. Dex lets out a broken sound as his weight crushes against you, letting the pleasure of cumming in you wash through him. You can hardly breathe though, so you start squirming and whining for a whole different reason before Dex groans like he's in pain, eases his weight up and off you.

He keeps his cock buried in you, so he can lean back and watch his length leave your perfect hole. There's cum all over your thighs, wetting his cock and matting his pubic hair down. It's so dirty and filthy, it makes him smile as he eases out of you, his cum dribbling out. He makes a soft and enamored moan, the image of your ass up, pussy wet and used with him, burns into his mind. 

He playfully swats your ass before he's tumbling into the bed next to you, sighing out. Exhaustion takes ahold of both of you. You're fucked out, limbs heavy, eyes heavy. Dex leans over, helping you ease the pillow under your hips out, using it with a smirk on his face to prop his head up. You scrunch your nose at him, about to scold him and tell him to use a clean one when a knock sounds at the door.

Dex watches you with an amused smile, as you start to piece together what just happened. The knock sounds again.

Frantically, with panic surging through your sore body, you sit up. "Coming!" you shout out, and try to run a hand through your tangled hair. Dex can't help but laugh, as he puts his wet cock back into the sweats he never bothered to take off. He watches you try to put your shirt on, cum leaking down your thighs. You have bite marks on your back, on your tits, on your neck, really anywhere he could get his mouth on you. You pull your shirt on over your head backwards, and he doesn't bother to tell you the fact. You scramble for your ruined panties, but think better on it, just pulling your shorts on commando. He watches you stumble out of the bedroom, and he hears you open the front door.

"Matt!" You shrill out in a too cheery voice. 

Dex can't help but feel more amused. More smug. He puts his hands up over his head, unable to wipe the smirk off his face. He hears Matt ask if you're okay with a concerned tone. You tell him you've never been better. Dex's eyes close as he takes it all in, victorious. 

Matt can't see your state, but can hear your heart rate. Can smell the sweat on your skin. Can hear another and smell someone else's sweat too. "Is...this a bad time?" He asks you.

"Uh..." You're about to lie to him, he can tell. So he cuts you off.

"Listen, I'm looking for--"

Dex emerges out of the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe, that smug look on his face hasn't left. "Right here, buddy. Pretty girl over here was just telling me all about you."

Your face heats as both men turn to you. 

"I really should thank you for sending me over, Matt." Dex moves over to you, looping an arm over your shoulder, tugging you in close to him. His head dips to smack a loud kiss on your lips. He pulls away before you can even react, his eyes dark as he looks down at you with mirth swirling in his eyes.

Matt had stood there in front of God, Fisk, Karen, the cameras, all of New York, basically, and said it. He had torn the last piece of himself open with his own hands.

He was Daredevil.

There was no putting that back.

Fisk took the plea, and he was finally out of office. Fucking finally. The city had helped, and for better or for worse, the streets had bled because of it. Riots broke out, and sirens were everywhere. The whole city sounded like it was trying to crawl out of its own skin.

And Matt knew his days of moving freely were numbered.

It would not take long for the paperwork to be in order. It would not take long for the police to get their arrest warrant.

His name would spread through every system he had spent years trying to evade. Matthew Michael Murdock, Daredevil.

Whatever he was to people; Catholic boy, blind lawyer, vigilante, hero, hypocrite, all of it? That meant nothing. He was just a criminal who had to pay for breaking the law now. 

So, fine.

But before all of that happened. He needed to tie up loose ends.

That was what he told himself as he put on a hoodie the morning after the courthouse, at 2 AM. 

He crossed rooftops and fire escapes, ribs aching, lungs burning, sweat cold beneath his hoodie.

He was gonna check on him, that’s all. Make sure Dex was not out there killing people for the love of the game. Make sure the city didn’t have one more monster loose before he was taken away.

This better be quick, because would really rather spend his time with Karen before getting locked up.

By the time Matt reached Dex’s apartment building, the riot noise had thinned, like thunder moving farther away without ever really leaving.

Outside, New York still burned in fragments. Inside the building creaked. Old pipes ticked in the walls. Someone two floors down whispered angrily behind a locked door. A television murmured emergency coverage through cheap speakers. The exhaust fans gave a faint metallic complaint above him.

Matt climbed the stairs, knowing Dex’s apartment was ahead.

And then… Matt heard sobbing.

He stopped at the door.

It wasn’t theatrical, not the kind of crying meant to pull attention from the other side of a wall.

It was smaller than that. It almost made it… worse.

It came through Dex’s door in little broken pieces, like your body had run out of strength before it had run out of panic. One shaky breath, then another, then a thin, wet sound you tried to swallow and failed. You were trying to be quiet, Matt could tell. You were trying not to make noise and still the hurt kept leaking out of you anyway.

Matt stopped dead and assessed the situation.

There was a woman crying inside Benjamin Poindexter’s apartment.

For one second, Matt thought about every horrible thing he already knew about him.

Foggy, Father Lantom, all the other bodies he left in his wake.

All of them were there in his head at once, not as memories, but as evidence. As proof against Dex. As a case already built and closed in his mind.

Dex had never been someone Matt could afford to give the benefit of the doubt, not after what he had done. Not after who he had taken. Not even after all that bullshit about one good deed, about evening out the scales, as if taking another life could balance out the lives he had destroyed.

So Matt listened.

And then Dex spoke. “Baby, breathe. Come on. I’m here.”

Matt’s stomach tightened.

Baby?

From anyone else, maybe it would have sounded the way it was meant to: a soft comfort, words meant to soothe.  

But coming from Dex, the words twisted in Matt’s ears.

Still, Matt knew it sounded… sincere. 

Soft, but not fake-soft. Not mocking. Not cruel. Not even controlling.

It sounded… exhausted and careful. It frayed apart at the edges, like he had been kneeling there for hours, saying the same few words over and over because he was terrified you would disappear somewhere he couldn’t pull you back from.

“I’m right here,” Dex murmured. “You’re okay. You’re with me.”

You made a small, broken sound.

It was this heartbreakingly helpless, breathless little noise that caught in your throat and dragged itself out anyway. It was as if your body was trying to keep crying after you had already run out of strength for it.

Your breathing was too fast; Matt could hear every jagged inhale scraping up short in your chest, every failed attempt to steady yourself. Your heartbeat fluttered, frantic and uneven, skipping over itself like it was trapped.

You were on the floor. He could tell by the way your sobs hit the wood first, the way it sounded low and folded down. You were curled into yourself, maybe. 

And Dex was too close. He was close enough that his voice barely had to rise. He was close enough that Matt could hear the shift of his body beside yours, the drag of fabric against the floor, the way he moved like he knew exactly which sounds would hurt you and which ones would not.

Everything Matt heard told him Dex was not hurting you.

The care was there. The patience was there. The way he kept his voice quiet enough not to startle. The way he didn’t grab at you, didn’t bark orders, didn’t crowd too fast. He seemed to be making himself smaller just to keep from adding to whatever was tearing through you.

Benjamin Poindexter sounded…. kind.

Matt hated that. his senses were giving him one answer and his memory was giving him another.

His senses said Dex was helping you. His memory said Dex hurt people.

His senses said Dex was gentle with you. His memory said Dex had killed Foggy.

His senses said there was love in the room. His memory said Benjamin Poindexter didn’t know how to love correctly.

His mind immediately assumed the worst.

Had he held you here? Kidnapped you? Had he convinced himself he loved you, and was he trying to convince you to love him, too? 

Your sob hitched again.

“I can’t,” you whispered, voice shredded thin. “I can’t, Dex, I can’t—”

“I know,” Dex said immediately, and Matt could hear his skin on yours, rubbing gentle circles on your arm. You weren’t pulling away. “I know. Stay with me.”

There it was, the softness again.

That was an almost desperate patience in his voice, and still, Matt couldn’t make himself trust it.

Not with Dex crouched close enough for his voice to brush your skin. Not with you breathing like the room itself was killing you. Not with the door locked and the city screaming outside and no one else coming.

Then your breath snagged hard “Dex.”

“I’m here.”

“No.” Your voice thinned, almost terrified. “Someone else is h-here.”

Matt went completely still.

Behind the door, the apartment changed.

It was just a shift in the air. Dex went quiet all of a sudden. Matt understood, somehow, that you knew he was there.

For one suspended second, no one moved.

Your breathing trembled in the silence. Then Dex’s heartbeat slowed as he turned.

That was what made Matt decide. The sudden stillness of a killer turning his attention toward the door.

Whatever comfort Matt had heard before, whatever gentleness had almost confused him, it collapsed under the weight of everything else he knew:

A woman was crying in Dex’s apartment. Dex was too close to you. Ergo, Dex was hurting you and Matt had to get you out.

So Matt stepped back once he kicked the door down, and it broke inward. The sound tore through the apartment, wood splitting against the wall.

Matt stepped, expecting you to recoil.

He expected you to scramble backward on the floor, away from Dex. He expected fear to pull you toward the farthest corner, toward the broken doorway, toward him.

Anything but what actually happened.

You moved toward Dex.

It was a clumsy, desperate little scramble, knees dragging over the floorboards, one hand slipping against the wood as you tried to push yourself up and failed. Your breath came in miserable pieces, your whole body folded around the panic like it hurt to exist inside your own skin.

“Dex,” you choked.

Dex was already moving. He closed the distance before you could reach him properly, like he couldn’t stand the sight of you having to cross even that little distance alone. His hands came out, open, and you clambered into him.

There was no other word for it.

You climbed into his arms like you were trying to get beneath his ribs. As if you pressed close enough, hid deep enough, the rest of the world might lose track of you. Your fingers caught the front of his shirt and twisted there, tight and frantic, pulling yourself higher until your face was buried against his chest.

Dex caught you with his whole body. One of his arms was wrapped around your back. The other came up over your head, shielding your face, tucking you under his chin. He bent around you so gently it was almost painful to process, all that deadly mass turned into cover, into shelter.

Matt froze.

You… were not trapped.

Your cheek was pressed to his chest, hands fisted in his shirt. Your body shook against his, but the second he held you, your heartbeat changed. It was still too fast, still terrified, still broken up with panic, but it reached for his rhythm like a drowning man reaching for shore.

Dex lowered his mouth to your temple.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you, baby.”

You made a devastated sound and curled tighter.

Your knees drew up against his thigh. One of your hands slipped from his shirt to his shoulder, then to the back of his neck, gripping there like you were afraid Matt might pull him away from you.

“He’s loud,” you managed.

Dex’s eyes stayed on Matt, who still hadn’t said anything. “I know.”

“He’s loud, Dex, he’s so loud.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

You shook your head against him, hiding your face harder in the hollow of his throat. “Baby,” you whispered, voice barely there. “He thinks you’re hurting me.”

Dex went still. 

“I’m not,” he said.

“I know.” Your voice cracked on it. “I know. But he thinks it and I can hear it and it hurts.”

Matt’s throat tightened. What did that even mean?

He heard it then, not just the panic and sobs. He heard the trust.

Your fear was everywhere, all over the room, spilling out of you in ragged breaths, but it was not aimed at the man holding you. Dex was the only place in the apartment your body seemed to recognize as safe.

You kept trying to disappear into him.

Every time Matt shifted, even slightly, your fingers tightened. Every time the broken door creaked behind him, your breath snagged and Dex’s palm moved slowly over the back of your head, as if smoothing you back into yourself.

“Don’t listen to him,” Dex murmured against your hair. “Listen to me.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

“It’s too much.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Matt took half a step forward. Dex’s head snapped up. “Don’t.”

The word was quiet to not startle you, and that was enough to stop Matt anyway.

Dex shifted on the floor, turning his body more fully between you and the doorway. You followed without thinking, clinging to him as he moved, your face still hidden against his chest. He kept you tucked there, one arm firm around your back, the other curved protectively around your head like he could keep Matt’s thoughts from touching you if he just covered enough of you.

“Poindexter,” Matt started, and it was smaller now.

Dex’s expression did not change. “Get out.”

“I thought—”

“I don’t give a shit what you thought.”

You trembled harder at the anger in his voice. Dex felt it instantly. His eyes flicked down, and when he spoke again, it wasn’t to Matt.

“Not you,” he whispered, pressing his mouth briefly to your hair. 

You made another broken little noise and pushed closer, like the words had gone straight through your heart.

Dex held you tighter, not possessively in a way that trapped, but just enough to tell your body there was he was around it. 

Matt stood there in the wreckage of the door, listening to your heartbeat try to steady itself against Dex’s chest, and for one awful second he didn’t know what to do with what his senses were telling him.

Because Benjamin Poindexter was still the reason too many people Matt loved were dead. But you were curled into him like he was the last quiet place in New York.

“He’s still here,” you whispered.

Dex’s eyes lifted. “I know.”

Dex’s face changed, but not by much. Matt doubted anyone else would have noticed, but he did. He heard it in Dex’s breathing, in the shift of his weight, in the sudden burst of restraint. The city outside was loud. The riots were loud. Matt was loud. His suspicion was loud. His righteousness was loud. His judgment was loud.

And somehow, you could hear all of it.

“I don’t want him here,” you said.

That was it. Whatever patience Dex had left for Matt died right there on the floor.

His hand stayed gentle on your back, but his voice didn’t. “Get the fuck out.”

For once, he did what Dex told him to do.

Matt stepped back into the hallway and got out.

The ruined door dragged crookedly against the floor when he pulled it mostly shut behind him. The lock was useless now, broken out from the frame, hanging loose in splintered wood, but Matt still closed it as much as he could.

He stood there in the hall, one hand still near the broken door, breathing quietly through the dust and old paint and the faint metallic tang inside the apartment.

He should have left. He knew that.

You had wanted him gone. Matt had seen enough, heard enough, to know he had been wrong about at least the first thing: Dex hadn’t been hurting you.

But Matt still could not make himself walk away.

Because Matt has convinced himself that love, in the hands of someone like Benjamin Poindexter, could become a locked room so easily.

Matt stayed.

Not close enough to push the door open again, but not far enough to pretend he wasn’t listening.

Inside, your breathing was still ragged.

Dex was still on the floor with you.

Matt could hear the tiny, frantic movements of your hands in Dex’s shirt. The tremor in your inhale. The way you kept trying to tuck yourself into him like the world might stop finding you if there was enough of his body between you and everything else.

“He’s still out there,” you whispered.

Dex’s answer came after a second of consideration. “Is he, now?”

Your breath hitched. “He didn’t leave.”

Fuck.

Matt stood very still in the hall.

“I’ll take care of him,” Dex murmured.

Your breath snagged. “Don’t hurt him.”

There was a pause. It wasn’t long, but long enough.

Then Dex said, “I won’t kill him.”

“Dex.” You didn't sound convinced.

“I won’t kill him,” he repeated, softer this time. “Promise.”

“You’re mad.”

“I know.”

“It’s sharp,” you winced.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” Inside the apartment, Dex went quiet in a way that felt less like guilt and more like being seen too clearly. “I won’t hurt him unless I have to.”

“Dex.”

“I won’t hurt him,” he said, and this time there was no loophole in it. There was only surrender, because it was you asking. “Okay? I won’t.”

Your breathing shuddered as Dex shifted on the floor.

“I’m going to move you, okay?” he said. “Just to the bed. I’ve got you.”

You made a small sound, and Matt could picture it too clearly now. You curled in on yourself, face hidden, body shaking from too much of whatever it is you could sense. 

Dex crouched slowly, though he was already close. Like even now, even with you clutching at him, he was careful not to startle you.  He slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back.

You clutched at his shirt with shaking fingers. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“No.” His voice went firm immediately. “No, don’t say things like that.”

“I ruined your night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

“I came here and I—”

“You came to me.” Dex pressed his mouth to your temple, quick and fierce. “That’s all. You came to me.”

You made a broken little noise against him.

Matt stood in the hallway, just outside the ruined door, listening to Dex lift you from the floor.

He heard the way your breath caught when your body left the ground. He heard your hands grip for a better hold. He heard Dex adjust instantly, pulling you closer.

“I’ve got you,” Dex murmured. “I’ve got you. I know.”

“You’re going to leave.”

“No.”

You sounded so small when you said, “You are.”

Dex carried you to the bed like every step had been chosen before he took it. Like he knew which floorboards made noise and which ones didn’t. Like he had learned how to move through this apartment in a way that made the least amount of noise for you.

“I’ll take care of him, okay?” Dex murmured. “I’ll make him go away.”

Your breathing hitched as you started to say something, but Dex shushed you gently.

“Yes, I know,” he said, softer. “I know you don’t like it when people see you like this. I know. It’s just gonna be me and you, okay? Just me and you.”

The mattress dipped down under your weight.

“I’ll close the door,” Dex continued. “I’ll turn the lights off. I’ll come right back.”

Your fingers caught the fabric of his shirt again. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving.” Dex let out a slow breath. “I’m right here.”

“You’re thinking about going.”

“I’m thinking about making him leave.”

“I can’t tell the difference.”

Dex went quiet.

Matt heard him sit beside you instead of standing right away. The mattress shifted again as the room settled around the two of you.

You cried a little, more exhausted now, as if the panic had torn through you and left you hollowed out behind it.

Dex’s hand moved over fabric in a slow, repetitive pass. Matt realised he was making the sheets smooth for you as he laid you down.

His hand slid up from your back to the side of your face, thumb hovering near your cheek, not quite wiping the tears away until you leaned into it first. “Look into my mind, baby.”

Matt’s head tilted from the hallway.

What?

Inside the studio, everything went still except for your breathing.

The room was not large enough for privacy. Not really. The bed sat pushed into the far corner. The broken front door was too close. Matt was too close. The whole world was too close.

But Dex bent over you like he could make distance with his body alone.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

You stared up at him through wet lashes, face blotched from crying, lips parted around breaths that still would not come right. Your fingers trembled against his shirt, twisted in the fabric so tightly the seams strained.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then your grip loosened by a fraction.

Your eyes fluttered.

A shaky breath left you, not calm, not even close, but relieved enough that Dex’s shoulders almost caved in with it.

“You’re coming back,” you whispered.

Dex nodded once, forehead nearly touching yours. “Yeah.”

“You’re not leaving forever.”

“No.”

The answer was immediate. No room for doubt. No space for the thought to grow teeth.

But then your expression crumpled again.

“You’re mad.”

Dex closed his eyes for half a second.

He didn’t deny it. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. Not to you. “I am.”

Your breath caught so suddenly it sounded like it hurt.

Dex’s whole face changed. The anger was still there, Matt could hear it in him, running hot under the skin. But with you looking at him like that, terrified because his fury had no color, no label, no clear direction once it got inside your head, Dex felt almost sick with it.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said, urgent in a way that made the words rough. “Never at you.”

Your mouth trembled and repeated yourself. “You know I can’t tell the difference sometimes.” It came out so pained Matt felt it in his own chest.

You said it like an apology, like you hated needing him to explain the direction of his anger because you could feel it anyway, and feeling it didn’t mean understanding it.

Dex swallowed. His hand curved more fully around your cheek now, warm and steady, thumb finally catching one tear before it slid down to your jaw.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

You looked at him for another second, searching his face like your own mind wasn't enough tonight. Like even seeing inside him had not made your body believe it yet.

Then he lowered his voice. “I have to make him leave.”

Your fingers tightened again, not as badly this time.

Dex did not pull away. He leaned in instead, pressing a short kiss to your forehead, then another to the corner of your temple, like he could nail the promise into place with his mouth.

“I’m going to turn off the lights, okay?” 

You nodded, barely, as breathing scraped in and out through your nose.

Dex shifted only when you let him. He eased you back against the pillows in the bed, not putting you down so much as arranging the room around your collapse. One hand stayed on you the whole time, a constant point of contact while the other reached for everything else.

He crossed the few steps to it and slid the window shut with painstaking care, catching the frame before it could knock. Street noise dulled at once.

Then he pulled the curtains together until the thin spill of city light vanished from the wall and your face disappeared into darkness.

As promised, he clicked the lamp off.

The studio fell dimmer, warmer, reduced to the weak strip of hallway light bleeding through the ruined front door.

The phone was next. He picked it up from the small table beside the bed and silenced it without looking, thumb moving from memory. He put it back, screen turned down.

A radio sat near the kitchenette, cheap and old, still plugged into the wall. Dex crossed to it barefoot and pulled the cord free. The plastic scraped faintly against the outlet, and even that made your breathing tremble.

Then, he opened a drawer near the bed.

Something rattled softly as he picked it up. A pill bottle, maybe? No, it could be earplugs in a little tin. 

He came back with them in his palm.

You must have watched him through the dark because your breathing changed when he got close again, sounding less lost than before.

Dex sat on the edge of the mattress.

He tucked the blanket around you, drawing it up over your shoulder, smoothing the edge down like he was sealing the world out inch by inch. His hand lingered there after, broad against the blanket, feeling the shake of you through the fabric.

The apartment had become smaller. Every sound had been answered. Every light had been put down. Every little edge of the room had been softened, covered, turned away from you by hands that knew the ritual too well.

He had done this before. Like he had learned, piece by piece, how to make the world survivable for you.

At some point, you must have reached for him again, because Dex’s voice dropped inaudibly. “Hey,” he whispered. “I know.”

The bed creaked as he leaned closer.

A kiss touched your skin. Your forehead, maybe. Then another, lower. Your temple. The damp line of your cheek.

“I’ll be right back,” Dex breathed.

You made a small sound.

He stayed another second, maybe two. Long enough for your fingers to loosen.

Then he stood.

Dex walked to the other side of the apartment without turning on a single light. He made no wasted movement, not a single sound he didn’t mean to make.

At the broken front door, he paused and looked back once.

Matt could hear the small turn of his head. The habit of making sure you were still under the blanket, still breathing, still there.

Then Dex slipped into the hall and pulled the ruined door mostly shut behind him.

It couldn’t latch. But he cracked it closed as carefully as if it still mattered, leaving only a narrow gap of darkness between the apartment and the hallway.

He was keeping the light out. He was keeping Matt out.

When Dex turned, he stood half-shadowed in the corridor, eyes red-rimmed and flat with exhaustion. His face was calm in the way loaded weapons were calm. His voice stayed quiet, almost gentle, but not for Matt.

He did it for yous

“I told you,” Dex said, “to get the fuck out.”

For a while, Matt didn’t say anything.

The hallway held them in the aftermath of what Matt had done. The door hung crooked in its frame, pulled mostly shut even though the lock was split and useless, the wood around it cracked open where Matt’s boot had forced its way through. It couldn’t protect you anymore. It could barely pretend to be a door. Still, Dex stood in front of it as if his body could replace what Matt had broken, as if he could become the lock, the wall, the whole goddamn building if he had to.

Matt could hear the anger in him as clearly as he could hear traffic below: hot, contained, and viciously focused. Dex wanted to do something with it. Matt knew that, but he kept it buried beneath his ribs because you were behind that broken door, and if he let the rage rise any higher, you would feel it.

That was what Matt could not stop noticing. Not the anger. The restraint.

Inside the apartment, you shifted under the blanket. It was only a movement of fabric, barely anything, followed by the small uneven catch of your breath as you tried to settle yourself in the dark corner Dex had made for you. Dex turned his head at once. Not fully, not enough to take his attention off Matt, but enough that Matt realised that some part of Dex had never left the room with you. Some part of him was still sitting beside the bed, counting your breaths, waiting for the slightest sign that you needed him again.

For one moment, Matt didn't feel like he was looking at Bullseye. He was looking at a man furious enough to kill and still aching to go back inside because the woman he loved was trying to remember how to breathe without him there.

Matt swallowed. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

Dex looked back at him and the answer was obvious. Matt had no right to know. No right to ask. He had no right to stand there in the hallway after frightening you and pretend the question was harmless.

“I didn’t tell you.”

His voice was flat and guarded, the words set down like a barrier. Matt’s mouth tightened. 

Behind the door, your breathing hitched again, smaller this time, like the sound of voices through wood was still enough to scrape against you. Dex heard it too. The anger in him shifted immediately, folding smaller, tightening down.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked.

He knew it was wrong the second it left his mouth. The words were too blunt, too harsh, too clinical. He had meant, What happened? He had meant, Is she going to be okay? He had meant, What did I just walk into, and how badly did I make it worse? But none of that came out. What came out sounded like you were a problem. 

“Nothing is wrong with her,” Dex said, and Matt could tell he was trying his hardest not to snap.

Matt didn’t move. Dex stepped closer by the smallest amount, and the entire hallway seemed to narrow with him. His face had gone hard, but not empty.

“Nothing,” Dex repeated, each syllable harsh enough to cut. “She’s perfect.”

Matt exhaled slowly through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did.”

Dex didn’t have to snarl. He didn’t have to raise his voice. The accusation sat there between them, plain and ugly, and Matt couldn’t defend himself from it because part of it was true.

Inside, you were quiet now. Not calm, but silent in the way people became when they were trying very hard not to take up too much space with their hurt. Matt listened to the small tremor and felt the pieces beginning to arrange themselves in his head.

You had known he was outside before Dex opened the door. You had reacted to him even before he even stepped inside. You had known Dex was mad but couldn’t tell where that anger was aimed. Dex had told you to look into his mind with the ease of someone offering proof, not metaphor, not comfort dressed up as poetry, but a real thing he knew you could do.

Oh.

Matt looked back at Dex and stated the painfully obvious explanation. “She can read minds.”

Dex’s expression changed only a little, but Matt heard the rest. The brief tightening of his mouth. The instinct to protect you by lying took over, followed almost immediately by the realization that lying to Matt Murdock was pointless.

Dex looked away, and said, “Yes.” 

His voice had changed, still rough around the edges, but the explanation seemed to cost him a part of his soul. Every word about you had to be handled carefully because it belonged to you first. He kept his eyes on the door as he spoke, as if even describing your pain required him to make sure it had not worsened.

“She hears thoughts, feelings. Most days she can keep it out, or keep it separate, or read one mind at a time. She knows how to get through the day.” His teeth clenched, and he looked down for half a second before forcing himself to continue. “But when there are too many people, when emotions run too high, it stops being individual thoughts and turns into noise.”

Oh.

Oh shit, Matt thought as he realized that last night hadn’t only been bad for you. It had been a disaster built exactly out of the things that hurt you most. 

Last night, protests clashed with Fisk’s Task Force. Bodies were pressed shoulder to shoulder in the streets, voices raised, officers behind their shields, civilians furious and terrified and righteous all at once. Fisk’s fall had moved through the city like a shockwave. Matt Murdock’s confession that he was a Daredevil had made a home on every screen, in every mouth, in every disbelieving mind.

His confession had not stayed in the courtroom. It had spilled outward, turning into rumor and revelation and riot, and you had walked straight into all of it because you thought Dex was hurt. Because you missed him.

Matt felt his stomach sink.

He thought of you moving through that crowd, not just hearing the sirens and shouting like everyone else, but taking in the thoughts beneath them. Panic layered over rage layered over grief. Thousands of minds all pushing against yours with no space between them. A whole city losing control at once, and you were caught in the middle of it, trying to find one person.

Dex’s face tightened as if he could see the same picture and hated it more because he had already lived the end of it. He hated that he had found you like that. 

Matt understood that without being told. Dex had found you shaking apart in this same apartment, or near it, or on the street outside, too overwhelmed by everyone else to find yourself. He had found you and brought you here and spent the night closing windows, killing lights, silencing phones, making the world smaller with hands that had done unspeakable things.

“She came looking for me,” Dex said.

The words were almost stripped of anger now. Dex looked at the door again, and his body softened before he could stop it. But Matt heard it in the way Dex’s breath caught around your existence on the other side of the wall.

Benjamin Poindexter loved you.

Matt didn’t want to know that. He didn’t want to have to make room for it inside the shape of the man he hated. He wanted Dex to stay simple. A killer. Someone with a label simple enough to condemn without complication. But love was written through him now in ways Matt couldn’t ignore. 

Matt’s voice came quieter when he asked, “Does she need a doctor?”

Dex scoffed. “Doctors are what made her like this.”

Matt went still.

Dex didn’t explain. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Matt hadn’t earned that part of the story. But still, he was opening just enough of a door for Matt to picture the white rooms, fluorescent lights and people calling pain research, behind him.

Dex looked back at the broken door, and for half a second, the rage in him gave way. “She has good days and bad days,” Dex said. His mouth tightened, and when he spoke again, the grief in it was almost unbearable. “And she was having a good week.”

That mattered.

Matt couldn’t possibly understand the full weight of that sentence, but Dex did. A good week meant sleep. It meant you could eat without feeling nauseous. It meant you had mornings where you didn’t wake up already bracing against other people’s thoughts. 

You’ve had several really good weeks, actually. 

It mattered because Dex had met you on a bad day.

—

Twelve months ago… 

OXE hired him to kill you.

A freelance gig, really. 

The file was from the private medical trial branch of the corporation. It said that you were a failed participant. You were a liability. You were just a woman whose condition had become unpredictable.

They sent Dex a name, a photograph, an address, and a warning not to engage longer than necessary.

The house they had sent him to had no security. It was an old, empty place with drawn curtains and stale air and dust gathered thick in the corners.

You hated it.

Dex found you in the attic under the slanted roof, sitting in the weak orange spill of late afternoon light, one wrist was handcuffed to an exposed pipe. Your knees were drawn up close to your chest. Your hair stuck damply to your face, and your lips were bitten raw, like you had spent hours trying to keep something inside your mouth by force.

The key was across the room.

It was kicked. Dex could tell from the scrape in the dust where it had skidded away from you, just far enough that your fingers couldn’t reach it unless you pulled hard enough to tear the skin around your wrist. The cuff had already bruised a dark, ugly ring on your skin. 

You looked at him once.

A small, breathless laugh left you. It wasn’t happy, not even close. It was more like your body had mistaken despair for humor because it had run out of other ways to hold it.

“You’re…” Your voice cracked. “You’re here to kill me.”

Dex didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Your eyes moved over his face, and something strange passed through them. 

Then you laughed again, barely. “You think I’m pretty, Dex.”

The attic went still as dust drifted in the light between you.

Dex’s finger rested near the trigger.

“How do you know my name?”

You looked at him like the question itself was tired. “Mind reader,” you said. “Obviously.”

Dex stared at you for a long moment.

You didn’t look like what OXE had described.

Dangerous, yes, maybe. But not in the way they meant. You looked exhausted, cornered, and afraid of yourself than of him. Your whole body was tense against the cuff, but you weren’t trying to get free anymore.

Dex’s eyes flicked to the key, then back to you.

“Why lock yourself up here?”

For the first time, you looked ashamed. “Because it’s loud.”

Dex glanced around the empty attic.

You heard the thought before he could speak.

“Not here,” you said, swallowing, then pointing to your head with your free hand, “but here.”

Your hand then curled briefly around your own throat, not pressing, just remembering. 

“I kicked the key away,” you whispered. “So I’d have time to stop myself.”

“From what?”

You closed your eyes. Your voice came out small. “Strangling someone.”

Dex didn’t move.

You opened your eyes, wet and miserable, and looked past him because looking right at him was suddenly too hard.

“He was loud. He wouldn’t stop. He kept thinking and thinking and thinking, and I kept hearing it. I told him to stop to shut up, but they couldn’t, because people can’t just stop thinking, and I knew that, see, I knew that, but I—

Your breath broke as you looked down at your cuffed wrist. “So I locked myself up here. Before I kill someone again.”

Dex should have killed you. That was the job.

OXE had paid him to remove a problem, and there you were, handcuffed beneath a slanted roof, bruised and filthy and shaking because the world had made you into something you were terrified of becoming.

He should have pulled the trigger. Instead, he lowered the gun.

Your face fell immediately, like mercy was its own kind of threat.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

Dex paused.

“If you’re going to kill me, just do it,” you said, voice cracking. 

Dex’s mind went quiet.

He had no idea what to do with that. No idea what to do with you.

So he did the only practical thing he could.

He walked across the room and picked up the key.

You cried then, silently at first, tears spilling over without sound as he came back and crouched in front of you. Dex moved slowly. He set the gun down beside him, close enough to reach, far enough that you could see both his hands.

“I’m going to unlock it,” he said.

You stared at him.

“You can read my mind,” he added, awkward and blunt because gentleness was not a language he spoke well yet. “So you know I’m not lying.”

Your breath shook.

You looked at him, really looked, and you squinted your eyes in the smallest, most painful disbelief.

Dex unlocked the cuff.

The metal fell away from your wrist. 

You didn’t move.

You only stared at your freed hand like it belonged to someone else. The skin beneath the cuff was swollen and angry, the bruise already darkening. Dex looked at it for too long.

Then he took off his jacket.

He draped it over your shoulders.

You were shaking so hard the leather fabric around you.

Dex did not ask if you could walk. He already knew the answer. He saw the way your legs failed when you tried to gather them beneath you, saw the way your hand went out blindly toward the pipe, toward the wall, toward anything that would keep the room from tilting.

So he picked you up slowly, one arm under your knees, one behind your back, no grip tighter than necessary.

You went rigid in his arms for half a second, then sagged, exhausted past the point of fear.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

Dex looked down at you.

He didn’t know how to answer out loud.

Because I know what it means to be made wrong for the world, too.

Maybe, now that we’ve found each other, we don’t have to be alone anymore. 

He said none of that. But you said, “okay.”

He carried you down from the attic and took you back to his apartment because he didn’t know where else to take you. 

You sat on the edge of his tub in his jacket while he ran the water warm.

Dex kept looking away, not because he was embarrassed, but because he understood, somehow, that being looked at was another kind of noise. He handed you a towel, found some soaps and put a clean shirt on the sink. 

When you could not lift your hands without trembling, he helped.

He helped you into warm water and rinsed dust from your hair, cleaning blood from your bruised wrist. His hand was steady on your skin when you started crying again.

He didn't ask you to stop.

He only said, once, very quietly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

And because you could read his mind, you knew he meant it.

Benjamin Poindexter had been hired to kill you.

Instead, he took you out of the attic and bathed you.

—

Over the next couple of days, you were mostly good.

Mostly.

Because Dex learned quickly that good didn’t mean cured. It meant you slept more than you usually did. It meant you could sit by the window without pressing your palms to your ears. It meant you could make tea in his kitchen and smile at some thought he hadn’t meant to give you.

Within the first week, his apartment changed because of you. He installed wall panelling first, because the building was old and thin and the neighbors came through the walls too easily when everything felt hollow. Then, he gave you thicker curtains, then rugs. Then a new refrigerator because the old one hummed at a frequency that made you bare your teeth and say it tasted wrong.

Dex didn’t ask what that meant.

He just replaced it.

After all, your mind was already susceptible to being invaded by foreign thoughts, he didn't want you to be overstimulated by your senses, too.

That was how it started with him, really. Not with declarations. Dex loved in corrections, adjustments, and threat assessments. He noticed what hurt you, and then he removed it. He learned the signs of your bad days and built around them, one practical act at a time.

You fell in love with him so fast it should have scared you.

It didn’t, but mostly because you knew he had already fallen too.

You could hear it.

He thought he was being subtle, which was almost funny. Dex, who could control his breathing to take a shot, couldn’t hide wanting you to kiss him for more than a week.

You could hear his thoughts every time you came too close.

Not words, exactly. More like flashes of your mouth, your hands in his mind. The curve of your shoulder when you wore one of his shirts. The split-second image of him leaning in, followed by a disciplined thought-wall of don’t, don’t, don’t, because Dex could kill a man without blinking but apparently touching you first was too much.

You let him suffer with it for six days, mostly because you were giving him time to change his mind. 

He didn’t.

On the seventh, he was fixing one of the new panels in the kitchen, teeth clenched because the wood refused to sit straight. You were sitting on the counter with one of his old FBI academy shirts that had since gotten too small for his bulk now, bare legs swinging, watching him pretend he was not acutely aware of your knees on either side of his ribs when he stepped between them to reach the wall.

You had laughed from where you sat.

He looked over at you. “You think that’s funny?”

You tilted your head. “You’re thinking about shooting the wall.”

Dex stared at you, setting the screwdriver down too carefully.

“You shouldn’t go digging around in my head.”

“I didn’t dig,” you said. “You’re loud when you’re annoyed.”

That should have bothered him. It did, maybe a little.

But then you smiled at him like his mind was not a terrible place to be. Like you could look at all the terrible things in there and still find him underneath. Like understanding him did not disgust you.

Fuck, he thought, don’t do things that make me want to—

“You want to kiss me,” you interrupted his train of thoughts.

Dex went so still it was almost sweet. Then he turned his head. “You shouldn’t listen to that.”

“You know I don’t mean to.” You hooked two fingers in the front of his shirt and tugged him closer. 

His eyes dropped to your mouth, and that was answer enough.

So you kissed him.

Gently at first, just to see what he would do with it. Dex froze under your hands like his body had forgotten every instruction except stay. Then he made this small, ruined sound against your mouth and touched your waist like you were a fragile crystal he had been warned not to break.

After that, neither of you stood a chance.

Neither of you did anything halfway. Dex didn’t know how to want normally, and you didn’t know how to be wanted normally. Kissing turned into touching, touching turned to stumbling into his bed, and being in his bed turned into Dex curling into you afterward like he had found heaven and was furious nobody had warned him it would feel like this.

Sex with a mind reader should have terrified him.

But after the first time he understood what it meant with you. There was no pretending or hiding behind control. He couldn’t pretend to be calmer than he was. He couldn’t hide how badly he wanted to kiss you again, how much he liked your hands on him, how ruined he got when you said his name in that breathless sigh. You knew when he was overwhelmed and you adjusted. You knew when he needed to slow down. You knew when he was thinking too much and when he needed you to pull him out of his own head.

You kissed him through it. You talked him through it. You touched him like his wants were not shameful just because they were intense, like the inside of him was not too much for you.

And you loved him for it.

You loved the strange, violent tenderness of him. The way he checked your face before his hands moved. The way he liked when you told him what he wanted. 

“You love me,” you whispered after the second month, half asleep against his chest, your fingers tracing lazy shapes over his ribs.

Dex went still beneath you.

You smiled into his skin. “Don’t panic. I love you too.”

He didn’t say it back then because he didn’t have to.

But his arms tightened around you like the thought of you leaving had become physically unbearable. His mouth pressed to the top of your head, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth, almost desperate.

He loved you with every ruined, desperate, loyal part of himself. He loved you like gravity, like a fixation, like a religion he had invented alone in the dark and then accidentally found living in your body.

You smiled up at him, eyes wet.

“I know,” you whispered. “I can hear you.”

Dex’s hand came up to the back of your neck and kissed you.

You heard it in him constantly after that, and not  like a normal man thinking I love you in a normal way. 

Still, there were rules.

You didn’t care that he killed AVTF agents and assassination jobs. You had heard enough of their minds to know duty didn’t make most men good. You didn’t hate him for coming home with blood on his hands. 

If anything, Dex loved that about you. Because for once, he didn’t have to explain himself.

He didn’t have to come home and build a careful human-sounding justification for the violence. He didn’t have to say he had no choice, or they were a threat. You already knew. You reached into his mind, found his reasoning, and understood it before he even greeted you.

And you would look at him and say, “That’s fine.”

Not because you were naïve. But you knew exactly what he was.

You knew the terrible things he had done. You knew the sound of his mind when he decided someone had to die. You knew how quickly he could make peace with blood if the reason made sense to him. And somehow, you accepted it.

But proximity to killing was a different thing altogether. A hurt mind was a loud mind and a dying mind was worse. 

You explained it after an agent got too close to the apartment. 

Dex knew that he couldn’t risk a search. He knew he couldn’t risk him writing down the address. He couldn’t risk OXE finding you again.

So he killed him outside, close enough for you to feel the pain. 

By the time Dex came back in, you were on the floor beside the bed, hands pressed to your ears even though that never helped. Your face was pale, eyes unfocused, like you were still hearing dead thoughts long after the body had gone limp.

“A hurt mind tastes like TV static,” you whispered.

Dex stopped with blood drying on his sleeve.

You tried to explain because he needed to understand, and with you, Dex always listened like the answer might save your life later.

“I don’t hear words when they’re hurt. Pain turns everything white and icky. It buzzes behind my eyes.” You swallowed hard, breathing through it. “And dying is worse. A dying mind clings to anything it can. A face, a  smell, a prayer. Some room they were in when they were little. Anything to stay. It’s so loud, Dex. I can’t filter it, I can’t, I-I… can’t.”

Dex didn’t look sorry for the dead agent, that was not how he worked. But he looked… hurt. He was hurt because you were.

“I know why you did it,” you said, eyes wet. “I know he got too close. I’m not mad.”

That was worse, because he could’ve handled anger. He didn’t know what to do with forgiveness. “I just can’t be near it,” you whispered. “Please.”

It had never been easy for him to change rules, but just like that, because you were hurt, he changed it. 

He promised no killing within half a mile of the apartment. He promised there would be no bodies in the building. If danger came near and you were close enough to feel it, Dex would send you away first. 

And if he had no choice, if someone had to die and had to die fast, Dex dragged the body away before the mind finished breaking.

He’d drag them down alleys, around corners, behind dumpsters, far enough that their minds could get loud somewhere it wouldn’t reach you.

For a while, that was enough.

Then one day, Dex came home and you weren’t in the apartment.

The door was locked. The curtains were drawn. The lights were low the way you liked them. The kettle sat cold on the stove, even though it was time you usually had tea. Your blanket was half-folded on the chair, one sleeve of one of his shirts hanging off the armrest where you had left it that morning.

But you weren’t there.

Dex stood in the middle of the studio and listened.

He couldn’t hear bare feet shifting against the floor of the bathroom. He could hear breathing from the corner beyond the bed, where you usually were when you were overwhelmed. 

Nothing.

His body reacted before his mind did.

A bloom of panic opened behind his ribs.

“Sweetheart?”

No answer.

He checked the bathroom, the closet, the fire escape. The bed, even though he could see you weren’t  in it. Then again, because panic didn’t care about logic once it got its hands around his throat.

No.

No, no, no.

For one sick second, all he could think was OXE.

Someone had found you. Someone had gotten in while he was away. Someone had taken you from the little box he had built to keep the world out, and he hadn’t been there to stop it.

Then he heard you.

You were… down the hall?

You let out a sob muffled through someone else’s door.

Dex turned toward it so fast the room seemed to tilt.

He knew that sound. He knew every version of your crying by then. The small ones you tried to hide, the sharp ones that meant you were hurt, the breathless ones that meant too many minds had gotten in and you couldn’t find your way back out.

This one was worse.

This one sounded like shock and the beginning of self-hatred.

Dex was already moving.

The neighbors’ apartment door was unlocked.

He pushed it open and found you on the floor.

You were curled up near the kitchen tiles, knees drawn tight, hands pressed over your mouth as if you were trying to hold the sobs in with your fingers. Your whole body shook.  

You were barefoot. Your hair was a mess. One side of your face was wet with tears.

Then Dex saw the bodies around you, and it belonged to the couple who lived there.

The ones who screamed through the walls so often their voices had become part of the building. The ones whose arguments rotted into your apartment at night. The ones whose thoughts were worse than their mouths, according to you. They were bitter and poisoned all the way through.

He knew pieces of them because you knew pieces of them.

You told them they had a son who didn’t live there anymore. The grandparents had taken him in because the father’s anger had become too physical and the mother’s neglect had become too easy to pretend not to see. The child’s room was now turned into storage. 

They had been horrible people.

That did not change the fact that you had killed them.

You looked up at Dex. “I’m sorry.”

Your hands fell from your mouth to your throat, fingers hovering there like you could still feel what you had done.

“They were so loud,” you whispered.

Dex stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Your eyes darted to the bodies, then back to him, wild and wet and ruined.

“I knew it would hurt,” you said, words coming faster now, tumbling out of you before you could stop them. “I knew. I knew dying minds hurt me. I knew it would be loud when they died, I knew it would get in, but they were already so loud, Dex. They were already in my head I couldn’t think.”

Your breath hitched hard.

“They were fighting again. Not just out loud outside, but inside. Inside was worse. He was thinking about what he wanted to do to her, and she was thinking about what she should have done to him years ago, and then they were thinking about the boy, and neither of them even missed him right. They just—”

You choked on it.

Dex took one slow step closer. You shook your head, frantic. “No. Don’t. I’m awful right now. I’m so loud.”

“You’re not too loud for me.”

That made you sob harder. You curled forward, forehead nearly touching your knees.

“I tried to go back,” you whispered. “I tried to go back to our apartment. I tried to shut it out, but they kept going and going and going, and I couldn’t tell what was mine anymore. I couldn’t tell if I hated them or if they hated each other or if the whole hallway hated them, and then I was here.”

Your hands twisted in your lap.