Beesly Bee

You probably shouldn’t have invited him over, in hindsight. Of course, dinner and a movie would end up like this. The silly romcom you put on buzzes in the background, forgotten as the soft, wet sounds of Dex’s tongue against your own echo in your dark apartment. His lips are as gentle as ever, though you can feel the heat behind them as he leans you back into the plush cushions of your couch. Your hands grip onto his ridiculously strong shoulders as you lose yourself in the dance of foreplay. It’s not until your head hits the armrest and his hands disappear up your shirt that you remember a very important fact.

“W-wait, Dex!” Your voice is husky, tongue sluggish from the passionate make-out.

The words come out too slow and Dex’s rough hands grope at your overly sensitive breasts. A groan slips past your swollen lips at the harsh treatment, body wriggling beneath your boyfriend's heavy frame in an attempt to escape the desperate tugging at your nipples.

“What? I thought you loved it when I played with you?” The heat in his voice sends a wave of arousal through your achy bones.

“I do! But-“

“Then stop complaining.” Dex’s grin is like an aphrodisiac, soothing the cramps plaguing your lower stomach.

Before you can get another word out, his lips are back on yours. It's more heated this time, but you can barely focus as his hands move to slide into your shorts. Embarrassment burns your cheeks as his fingers find your slick pussy. Dex moans into your mouth at the feeling, still not aware that it’s not just his ministrations causing the lubricant between your legs.

“So wet for me, baby…” The words are barely a mumble, more like a prayer than anything else. “Knew you wanted this.”

His middle finger circles your clit, rolling the bud with sinful precision. Your hands claw at him, tugging his shirt as you writhe, any second thoughts getting left at the door as Dex works your sex like it’s second nature. Each flick of his wrist sends a cascading shiver of pure pleasure through your bones, muscles seizing with every wave. Your fingers sink into his biceps, holding on for life as an orgasm creeps up on you. Just as you’re about to fall over the edge, Dex stops, staring down at you with dilated pupils and a smug smile. His free hand tugs at your shorts as he removes the hand that was servicing your cunt. You feel the cool slick dribble onto your stomach as he does, and you make the mistake of looking down. Dex’s fingers are coated in a red mess, half blood and half arousal. Your cheeks flush, mouth opening to alert Dex of the news, but he’s already followed your eyeline and is staring at his hand with a look of awe. 

“Is that-” Dex’s voice wavers, and you feel sick to your stomach, the moment ruined. 

“I tried to tell you!” Your hands slam into your face as you poorly attempt to hide from the growing embarrassment, “I’m so sorry, I really didn’t think-”

Dex’s hand wraps around one of your wrists, prying your hand away from your face. Even in the dim light of your apartment, you can clearly see as he lifts the bloody digits to his mouth, sliding them between his plush lips with a whorish moan. Any nervous coiling of your stomach is long gone as a familiar ache of arousal takes over, watching in silence as Dex pumps his fingers in and out, tongue lavishing them thoroughly. You swallow hard, mouth dry as he removes them with a light pop. Dex drops your wrist, and you nearly dislocate a shoulder helping him tear off your shorts, throwing the offending fabric into the darkness of the room. It’s not long before he’s tossing your legs over his shoulders, settling into the gap between your thighs. Dex slides his tongue up the bloodied flesh of your cunt, groaning at the taste. 

Usually, Dex focuses on you during oral, keenly watching your facial expressions and body’s reactions to his actions. Tonight, it’s like he’s doing this purely for his own enjoyment. Instead of pointing his tongue, he’s flattening it to get as much of your bloody slick as he possibly can into his maw. You look down at him, taking in his darkened eyes and messy face, slightly reminded of a lion devouring a gazelle. You run your fingers through his short hair, muttering his name as he loses himself in the taste of iron and musk. Dex looks up at you for a moment before pressing a curled finger into your pussy, pushing it in deep before languidly sliding it out, pulling fresh blood and clots with it. A thumb circles your clit as he slurps at your sex, and your legs quiver around his head. 

Everything feels so wet, and you know that your couch will be covered in a pink stain once Dex has finished enjoying his meal. Your heels dig into Dex’s spine as the orgasm you were denied earlier comes back in full force, your hips canting into his face as he pushes a second finger into your sopping hole. Dex seems to notice the change and (reluctantly) focuses his fingers on your g-spot, forgoing his gluttony in favour of letting you cum on his face. His hot mouth replaces his thumb, tongue pointed as he flicks it over your clit. Once, twice, a circle, then a suck. A rhythm which wrecks your nerves, sending fire coursing through your blood. You cum with a deep moan, fingers threaded through his locks as you hold him against your pussy. Each spasm causes slick and blood to pulse around his fingers, the fluid dripping down his wrist as his mouth is occupied in helping you ride out the orgasm.  

Once you finally finish twisting on the couch, Dex pulls himself from your clit, sucking the mess you’d left on his hand with a purr. He rises to his feet, looming over you as you recover from the last waves of pleasure. 

A knock sounded at your door.

"Not now." You called out, hopping on one leg to slide your foot into your uncomfortably tight heel.

"It's Dex." You heard from the door. "Bought you coffee. I figured you slept in."

You stopped your frantic dance in readying yourself, pulling your door open to see your handsome neighbour. It had been months of flirtatious remarks, constant knocking on the other's door for help, and absolutely no progression of these feelings. Dex was not the type to initiate sex, not unless he was ravenous. But with you, he liked to wait. He would wait patiently until it felt right.

"I could kiss you right now." You sighed, taking the iced latte from his hands and sucking at the straw with vigour. "How did you know I slept in?"

Dex chose to ignore your comment about kissing him, because he knew if he put a second of thought into it, he'd have a raging hard on. So he swallowed it down, and released a blunt laugh.

"I usually cross paths with you on my way back from my run, and I didn't this morning." He wasn't convinced by his lie, let alone you. "I like routine. I'm observant."

"I've noticed." You smiled. "Thanks for the coffee. I need to go before my boss fires me."

"Can't be so bad, I know you hate working for that asshole." Dex paced away from your door, but his eyes remained on you. Your half-buttoned blouse that he was actively ignoring, with your sleep shorts and unbrushed hair. Perfect.

You would never wake up late if it were up to him. He would force you into his routine. He would wake you once he'd returned from his run, with a coffee, then as you got dressed, he would make you breakfast. And send you out the door with a kiss and ample commute time. No need to forget about locking your door, giving Dex access to your life.

He couldn't deny himself when he'd received your text.

You: Forgot to lock my fucking door. You: Are you home today? You: Will you keep an eye on it? Too far out to turn back now.

Dex: Of course.

You: Thanks Dex :)

He sat on your couch, convincing himself it would be safer if he were in it. Can't just stare through his peephole all day. He toured your apartment, tutted at the barren contents of your fridge, observed the magnets aligning the door, arranged your cupboards because your organisation made him sick. He learned you. Learned how you posed for photos in the frames lining your walls, learned your favourite musicians through your extensive vinyl collection, and learned your favourite flowers were roses because you had a scrapbook dedicated to pressing them.

You thought your day would be fine, just a minor hiccup in the morning that you would make up by staying later. But it had only just started rolling downhill. You had been given a big account, perhaps through your boss' pettiness of your tardiness, or the reason he shoved in your face.

"You are one of our most efficient employees. I trust this will be worked through meticulously."

Not only were you given the biggest account your firm had seen in months, but you had been given the role of trainer to the interns who would undoubtedly sit and watch you work alone. No amount of coffee, cigarettes or alcohol would help you get through this, and suddenly the tranquility of your weekend had been stomped on.

TUESDAY had been the opposite to your late start yesterday. You woke early, beaten the sun in rising from your bed and quietly gathering your work things. Dex had always been an early riser, frowning at the sound of your door clicking shut at nearly six in the morning.

He fought to find excuses to text you, considering breaking something inside your apartment just to send you a text. But he shook himself from those thoughts. He drafted so many messages, all stupid and swiftly deleted.

Saw you left early, good luck today. Work kicking your ass already? Want me to buy you dinner and let you rant to me about it?

Meanwhile, you were trapped in a meeting with your interns and their many eager questions. Your usually polite tone slipping the further you drained your coffee mug, your third coffee of the day. Dex would inevitably kill you over your caffeine intake. That ticker of yours is gonna seize one day, sweetheart, he would always say, whilst handing you your coffee.

What made it worse was the lack of support, it felt like your colleagues— your boss', were all laughing at you through the windows of the meeting room. Smirking at the barrage of young interns swarming you with hypotheticals. You hoped you would lose the account, and lose some reputation in the process, and live out the rest of your career with the same clients, same emails, same meeting, same salary. Same bland, old life.

Returning home felt like stepping out of a concert into a padded room. The dramatic shift in busyness and volume felt eerie and unsettling, you hungered to soak in a scalding hot bath all night. If your legs would get you up to your apartment.

"Oh, hey sweetheart." You heard from behind you in the stairwell, craning your head down to see Dex on his way up too. The sight of your face made his drop. "Everything okay?"

"I think you were right." You huffed, a blunted laugh trailed off as you thought back to yesterday. "Can't be too bad to be fired. I might quit if this week doesn't kill me first."

Dex laughed, a hand on the small of your back bringing forth every ounce of energy you had left. His gaze had always been so concentrated, like it was yours entirely. Not meant for anyone else in that moment.

"Do it. Smart girl like you oughta have options." He smiled. "Worth more than whatever they're doing to you."

His words sat with you, through your measly dinner, your hour long bath, the hours where you should be trying to get some sleep. But instead you thought about Dex, and how sickeningly sweet he was. Always the friendly neighbour, sometimes gave you a show when you knocked on his door early enough. The memory of him, shirtless with a kitchen towel over his shoulder, had you running to your bedroom to deal with the ache in your stomach.

WEDNESDAY felt monotonous. You had settled into a rhythm with the interns, and instead of wishing the world would stand still. You wished for it to speed up. Your eight hour day felt sixteen hours long, your lunch break the only gasp of air you got until you left that evening. You abandoned all hope the moment you got home, not able to muster the energy to unlock your door. Instead standing with your head pressed against it, eyes burning as you closed them in total exhaustion.

"Hungry?"

You felt something tap your calf, pulling your head back to see Dex stood with two white plastic bags in his arms. "Ravenous."

He only gestured his head for you to follow him into his apartment, instructing you to sit on the couch as he plated the takeout. You had gotten comfortable within seconds, trying to focus on his barren walls and minimal decor before your eyes fluttered shut once more. Sleep taking you far quicker than it did most nights.

Dex held the plates in hand, halting at you curled up on his couch. Fast asleep, bottom lip jutted out as you snored softly. He wanted to let you rest, God knows you needed it, but then he remembered your fridge. And how empty it had been, only tutting at your poor attempt at nutrition.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, dismissing the plates onto the coffee table to prod at your cheek, "you gotta wake up for me. C'mon."

You stirred, eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar fabric of the couch. And then the tall, handsome man hovering over you with a smirk on his face. "Oh fuck, sorry. I'm so tired."

"I know. But you gotta eat for me." He spoke so softly, doing very little to help you stay awake. Even as he handed you a plate. "Work kicking your ass?"

You scoffed. "Don't I know it. Asshole put me on with five bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, know-it-all interns. With one of the biggest accounts in months."

"Sounds like an asshole." Dex commented between bites, though he only really focused on you. The way your eyes were half-lidded with sleep, the way you spoke with such expression, the way your toes wiggled as you ate.

"I can't wait till I find a better job. Or that asshole dies, or something." You muttered into your fork, though Dex would've had every reason to take it literally if you hadn't laughed shortly after.

"What's so funny?" He asked, smiling as you did. He had a habit of mimicking you as you emoted. You even called him out on it, passing it as an adorably observant trait.

"Last weekend, I was out on the lake at sunrise with a cup of coffee and not a soul around." You reminisced, thinking back to your friends lake house, and what you would do to go back. "I wake up far earlier than my friends, so I'd have two hours completely alone."

"Sounds nice."

"And now I've got a cult of wise asses watching me 24/7, waiting for me to fuck up my job." You groaned. "I've hit rock bottom."

Once dinner was done, Dex cleared the dishes away as you gathered your things. He'd even walked you to your door, like a gentleman, with your arm laced within his. Physical affection so casual to you, but it would stain his mind forever.

"Thanks for dinner, Dex." You smiled. "Was really nice, we should do it again sometime."

He stared down at you, kicking and screaming at his brain to stop being so weak and just act for once. He even jerked his head forward, forcing himself to do something, but you yawned. He had claimed defeat tonight, though it had not been a total loss. Having you in his apartment, comfortable enough to sleep on his couch, sharing dinner with him. That was a victory for him.

"Night, Dex."

THURSDAY had been the worst of all. You hadn't passed Dex on your way out the door, nor had you received some random text of a funny graffiti tag he'd spotted on his run. Nothing at all. You found yourself craving his attention— his presence. It felt necessary, like you needed air to breathe.

Work felt so bland and grey, you slumped at your desk for hours just scrolling through your conversations with Dex. He would often text you at random times, with perfected grammar and punctuation. And you would respond with shortened words and emojis. It felt like you were texting your dad at times.

But no amount of his strangely formal texts could save you from the cliff edge you sat on, being given a deadline for every report only you would be able to complete. Reports you should've started earlier in the week, but couldn't because you were also training the interns. It felt as if the world was working against you, and with Dex being AWOL, it felt even worse.

You had hoped returning home would make you feel better, maybe pass your handsome neighbour with some new words of encouragement. But nothing. Not a knock at your door as you cooked dinner, or played your music too loud to get his attention. And not even when you'd given up trying, and settled for knocking at his door.

No answer.

Again, you knocked. You knew he wore his headphones a lot, perhaps he just couldn't hear you.

"Dex? You in there?" You called out.

Nothing.

And so you spent your evening alone, your bed not as comfortable as his couch. Your dinner not as flavoursome as the takeout he ordered. Your apartment felt silent, the quiet droning of reruns weren't enough to settle you.

FRIDAY had been your breaking point. Once again, no Dex to wave you off in the morning for work. No texts, though you hadn't looked at your phone all day. You were working double time to finish the reports, to answer every interns question to the best of your knowledge, with a forced smile. You had even worked through lunch to get more done, your stomach scolding you in the late afternoon.

And alas, it had all been for nothing. You lost the account, the pressure had grown too much. And so you slumped in defeat, having cried in your car for forty minutes until you felt capable enough to drive home. You had been dragged through Hell by your hair this week, with little care or concern from your boss. Or your colleagues. Not offer to help lighten your load, instead watching to see when you'd snap.

You had nothing in your fridge, you knew that. But you ignored every grocery store you drove past, wanting nothing more than your bed. You had felt so different this time last week, leaving work early to pick your friends up and drive out of town. And now, you were ready to kiss employment goodbye.

The climb to your apartment felt endless, legs aching and vision blurred through tears. But a pop of colour had broken through your bleak look at life, a collection of blue gathered at the handle of your door. You furrowed your brows, approaching the hue of blue to inspect it.

It had been a bouquet of roses, blue roses. Tucked into the handle of your door, a card attached to the woven string around the stems.

Best thing about rock bottom is you can only go up. Love, Dex.

You freed the flowers from your door handle, twisting the bouquet in your hand as you fought the tears falling from your eyes. It had all been too much, but these? It had sent you over the edge in a softer way, such a small gesture of affection weighed more than anything else in this moment.

You knocked at his door, the light under his door dimming as he approached you. His door had barely opened fully before you threw yourself at him, arms tightly wrapped around his chest as you cried into him.

"Woah, hey." His hands pet your hair, trying to detach you from him so he could look at you. "What's going on?"

"This work week kicked my ass." You cried, allowing him to brush the tears away with his thumbs. It felt nice to be cradled in the way he held you, like everything would be okay. "I lost the account, didn't keep up to date with my reports. I screwed up."

"You did your best." Dex mumbled into your hair once you had hidden into him once more. "That's all you can do. Can't bend over backwards for these assholes."

You sniffled, until your tears stopped. "Thank you for these, they're beautiful."

"You like 'em?" He asked, proud smile on his face as you admired them once more. "Went out of town just to get 'em. Not a florist in this damn city sells them, would you believe that?"

You chuckled. "You went out of town for these? That's where you were yesterday?"

"Why? Did you miss me?" He joked, fully expecting you to laugh, maybe look away.

But you nodded. "Stood banging at your door for twenty minutes, then went to bed and cried."

He pouted. "Oh, sweetheart. Come here."

His arms were big, tight around your body. It felt protective, like how you'd imagine feeling truly safe felt. He squeezed you so hard your brain had shut off, didn't question how he knew you loved roses, or how he knew your favourite colour was blue. You appreciated the gesture, and that had been all you cared about.

“Hey,” you said, bright but not pushy. “You look like you could use one of these.”

Dex stopped. He blinked at you once, recalibrating. 

Oh?

The first thing he noticed was that he thought you were pretty. For a second, he didn’t process anything beyond that. 

Then the details followed: the faint dirt on your hands, the natural way you handled the stems, the open shop behind you breathing out the scent of fresh blooms. You had a bucket of red roses with you, probably giving it to everyone who would stop to listen. You were a florist, obviously. That was your shop, most likely. 

“Do I?” He managed to say. 

“I think so,” you admitted, tilting your head as you looked at him. “You’ve got the whole ‘I’d rather be literally anywhere else’ thing going on.”

Most people didn’t say things like that to him. Not casually. Not with that little hint of amusement in their voice, like you weren’t intimidated at all.

“I don’t celebrate this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the chaos around you.

“Mm,” you hummed, like that was fair. Then you lifted the flower a little higher, wiggling it slightly between your fingers. “Good news, you don’t have to participate. This one’s free.”

He didn’t take it.

“Why give them away?” he asked instead, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’re losing money.”

You smiled, wider this time, like you liked the question. “Maybe I am.” Then you continued a little more playful, “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to cute strangers without it being weird.”

You thought he was cute? 

Dex almost laughed, but then decided that would probably be perceived as mean, regardless of his intentions. “That’s your strategy?”

“Hey, it’s working,” you said easily, nudging the flower a little closer to him. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

His eyes flicked from the flower back to your face, trying to find the catch, maybe some sign you didn’t mean it, some crack in the tone, but there wasn’t one. You just looked… sincere. 

“Do you say that to everyone?” he asked.

You shrugged, shoulders lifting just slightly. 

For whatever reason, he finally took the flower.

Your fingers brushed his, and you didn’t pull away quickly like most people would. You just let it happen, then eased back to take the next flower for the next person.

“See?” you said, satisfied, like you’d won a county fair grand prize. “Now you’ve got proof today wasn’t a total waste.”

Dex looked down at the flower in his hand, then back at you. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

You laughed, and he thought it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. “Take care of it,” you said, “Or don’t. It’s yours now.”

He didn’t react. He just awkwardly stood there for a couple of seconds, spinning the rose in his hand. 

“Dex,” he said instead, gesturing to himself like offering his name made sense here, like it belonged in this conversation.

Your expression brightened just a touch at that. “Dex,” you repeated, like you were testing it. “I’m guessing you don’t usually stop for random girls handing out flowers.”

“No.”

“Mm.” You smiled, just a little smug about it now. “Guess I got lucky, then.”

He stared at you for a second too long, because it didn’t feel like luck.

It felt deliberate. Like the world was pointing at you saying this one! This one is yours!

“Yeah,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Something like that.”

“Alright, Dex,” you said, stepping back slightly to let someone pass between you. “Try not to look so miserable, yeah? You’ve got a flower now. That’s a personality upgrade.”

He huffed a small smile.

And when he walked away this time, he didn’t throw the flower out. He held onto it, tighter than he needed to.

See, he’d been empty for a long time. Nothing ever held his attention for more than a passing second anymore. Everything just got reduced to patterns, targets, and white noise. So when his focus caught on you and didn’t immediately let go, it felt wrong, like his world slipped off-pattern.

Behind him, you were already smiling at someone else, giving someone another rose. But that didn’t make it feel less personal. 

It just made him want your attention back.

—

A week later, Dex stepped into your shop like he’d already memorized it, as if he’d been there a hundred times instead of zero. The bell chimed softly overhead, and you glanced up from trimming stems, fingers faintly dusted with green.

“Hi! What can I do for you today?” you asked, like he was any other customer.

For a second, he just looked at you.

“You don’t recognize me?” he said, and it came out more earnest than he intended. He sounded… disappointed.

You blinked, then leaned forward slightly, studying him. There was a moment where he could see your mind working, trying to place him, and then your eyes widened, recognition clicking into place.

“Oh! Dex, right?” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “From Valentine’s Day.”

The panic that had clawed in his chest eased immediately.

You glanced down then, noticing what he was holding in his calloused hands: A small glass vase. Inside it, the rose.

The rose you gave him. 

“How’s it doing?” you asked, going around the counter and stepping closer.

“I put it in water,” he said, watching you instead of the flower. “I did all I could.”

You leaned in slightly, examining it, your fingers hovering just short of touching the petals. “Mm,” you hummed, but you didn’t sound surprised. “It’s wilting.”

“It is,” he agreed, though his tone suggested that wasn’t the point.

You looked up at him then, a little apologetic. “Roses don’t last forever.”

He knew that. You knew he knew that, you weren’t stupid. But he wasn’t the first customer who was upset that a flower had the audacity to die. Living art has a way of turning sentimental to people, beyond logic or reason.

Dex’s grip on the vase tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing absently against the glass. “Can I keep it alive?” he asked.

The question wasn’t naive. Instead it was focused, as if he was asking, what else can we do? Are we exhausting all our options? 

“I mean… not really,” you admitted, “It’s just its time.”

He held your eyes, unwavering.

“I want it to last,” he said, and there was an absolution in the way he said it: stubborn, but not childish. He said it like it mattered more than it should because it was from you.

You, who he’d followed home for the past seven days without a second thought. You, who stopped at the corner supermarket to get your favourite blend of tea, who took the subway just to get coffee just because you liked how it was roasted better. You, who kept a herb garden on your kitchen windowsill meticulous and alive, and hung a suncatcher in your bedroom window so the light would break into colors across your room in the morning. You, who slept with the windows open because you like waking up to natural light. You, who slept in the cutest silk slips that barely leave anything to Dex’s imagination. And you, who had a rooftop garden hidden above your apartment, where you spent hours tending to things that grew because you cared. 

Oh, the garden.

Dex liked it most of all, because he found a high enough perch on a neighboring building to watch you without interruption, to stay still for hours at a time while you knelt among the plants and didn’t once look up, never once realizing your being followed, that your life was being studied by a very, very dangerous man. 

Your eyes flicked between him and the rose again, and then you let out a sigh, shifting closer to the counter. “Okay,” you said, thoughtful now. “I’ve got an idea.”

You reached for the vase and slid the wilting rose free. You handled it carefully, even in its fading state.

Then you turned, plucking a fresh rose from a nearby bundle, and held it out toward him with an encouraging smile. “You can take a new one,” you offered. “If you change the water every other day, it’ll stick around for longer.”

Dex didn’t even glance at it. His attention stayed on the original, now resting lightly in your hand.

“I don’t want a different one,” he said, smaller now, but no less firm.

You hesitated. “You… don’t?”

“I want that one.”

Your brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through. “The dying one?”

“…Yeah.”

There was a certain vulnerability in his eyes that made you pause. Was he… attached?

You looked down at the rose again, then back at him. The lines in your face lowered like you were starting to understand, at least a little.

“Okay,” you murmured, thinking it through. Then, when you got an idea, you said, a bit brighter, “I could press it for you.”

Dex’s eyes shifted back to you.

“It’ll at least preserve it,” you added, gesturing lightly with the stem. “Flatten it, dry it properly. I know it’s exactly the same, but…” you smiled faintly, “it’ll last.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“You could come back to pick it up at a later date,” you continued. “I was already planning to press some gerberas anyway, so it’s not a big deal to add one more.”

Dex was silent for a moment, weighing not the practicality, but also its implication. Then he nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

You smiled and turned to set the rose aside carefully.

Dex stayed exactly where he was, watching you move, already certain he’d be back long before the wait was over.

—

Twelve days later, Dex stood across the street from your shop for eight full minutes before going in.

He wasn’t pacing, not even fidgeting. He was just standing there, coffee in hand, watching the door like it might open on its own and solve the problem for him.

He had already timed how long you usually stayed behind the counter in the morning, how often you stepped out to rearrange the display, the pattern of customers drifting in and out, and when you disappeared into the back room for exactly three minutes and twenty seconds at a time.

Still, he stood there a second too long, staring through the glass at the familiar arrangement of flowers, the counter, at you.  

The coffee in his hand was still warm. Not hot anymore, but not cold either. He’d made sure of that.

Finally, he crossed the street.

The bell chimed when he pushed the door open.

You looked up and smiled. This time, you recognised him immediately. “Hi, Dex.”

And just like that, you made his day. Maybe his week. 

He stepped closer, more confident than he did before.

“Hi,” he said back. There was a second where he just stood there, looking at you like he’d forgotten why he came in at all.

Then, remembering, he held the coffee out. “This is for you.”

You blinked, surprised, but reached out to take it. “For me?” you echoed, turning the cup slightly in your hand. “You didn’t have to—”

You stopped to turn the cup slightly, reading the label, then glanced back up at him with a small tilt of your head.

“Oh my god,” you said, half-laughing already. “No way.”

Dex’s stomach dropped briefly before your smile widened.

“This is my coffee place,” you said, amused. “Like, my favourite cafe.”

He blinked, just feigning enough surprise to feel real. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you laughed, lifting the cup like evidence before you took a sip. “Dex...”

His shoulders tightened just slightly. “Yeah?”

“You got my order right.” There was a long second before you broke into a grin, bright and delighted. “That’s crazy.”

He let out a small, relieved breath through his nose. “I just guessed.”

“Insane guess,” you corrected, shaking your head as you took another sip, like you were still processing it. “You just nailed my entire personality in a cup.”

“I got lucky,” he said, shoving his hands in his pocket. 

You glanced back up at him, still smiling as you sat the cup down to clean up the leaves from the counter, leftover from conditioning your antirrhinums for an event in a few days. “Well,” you said, “your luck just made my morning significantly better, so...”

“That was the idea.” It slipped out before he could filter it.

Your face shifted from amused to warm, just a touch more focused on him. “Yeah?” 

Dex nodded once, like that was obvious.

A bout of silence settled, but it wasn’t empty. It stretched comfortably as you leaned a little against the counter, still holding the coffee between your hands.

“So,” you said, tilting your head, “what’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Dex answered, “Just… thought you’d like it.”

You shifted closer to the counter, resting your elbows there, facing him more fully now. “Do you do this a lot?” you asked. “Or am I just benefiting from a very specific moment of generosity?”

“Not a lot,” he admitted.

“Well,” you said, lifting the cup slightly toward him in appreciation. “I’m not complaining.”

Okay. Dex thought. This was the lull in the conversation he had been waiting for. It was a gap, a narrow, fleeting window, and he could feel it closing even as it formed. If he didn’t do it now, it would slip, reset, become another loop of almost. Ask her out. Now. 

His heartbeat had gotten loud in his ears, his focus narrowing down to you and the space between you, to the way your fingers rested around the coffee he’d brought, to the way your mouth had just barely parted.

If he didn’t ask you out on a date, then he would just be the creep, right? If nothing came of these small visits, then you would just be a florist and he would just be a customer, right?

He had the words in the back of his tongue, he had practiced in the mirror all fucking morning. It was there, just waiting for him to catch up and say it out loud—

“You’re different today,” you said, interrupting his train of thoughts before it derailed.

“I…” he struggled, but then decided to play along. “How?”

“Less intimidating,” you said, smiling. “Last time you had this whole… intense thing going on.”

“I wasn’t trying to be intimidating.”

“But you kind of were anyway.”

He considered that, then nodded once, like he’d accept it.

You watched him for a second, then laughed softly to yourself.

“What?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re just… not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

You glanced at him, smile tilting.

“I thought you’d be the type to take the flower and disappear forever,” you admitted. “Not appear with coffee and—” you gestured lightly toward him, “—actual conversation.”

Dex’s mouth shifted slightly at that.

“That’s a good thing, right?” he asked, almost proud of the achievement you pointed out. 

“It is,” you said. “Because I was hoping that wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

“It’s not,” he said instantly. 

You studied him for a second, then nodded, like you believed him. “Okay,” you said. “Then we should probably keep talking somewhere that isn’t my shop while I’m technically working.”

Oh. Were you asking him out on a date?

Dex’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Yeah,” he said.

You smiled, a little more playful again now that the words were out there. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You picked up your coffee again, almost absently.

“Dinner?” you suggested, like it was the most natural next step. “That feels like a reasonable escalation from coffee.”

“It does.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” You drank the coffee again, a little ahh when you finished your sip.

“How about Saturday?” you asked. “I’m working a wedding, but I’m free after seven.”

“Yes,” he said, too quickly, too excitedly. “I’ll pick you up if you… uh, text me your address.” 

As if he didn’t already know. 

Your smile widened just slightly, already scribbling your number on the back of a receipt. 

“Saturday it is,” you said, giving the paper to him. 

And just like that, a plan settled into place.

Dex stayed where he was for a second longer, amazed at how everything had worked out in his favour. 

He had planned this differently.

He thought it would take more. He thought he’d have to push it there himself.

But you… you had met him halfway without even making it feel like effort.

—

Saturday arrived quicker than you had expected. 

You just got back from the wedding cocktail hour, and you barely had time to change from your blazer to a flowier dress before the doorbell rang. You checked your reflection one last time before heading downstairs, adjusting your bag just to keep your hands busy. 

It was seven. Exactly seven. 

Not early enough to seem overeager. Definitely not late enough to feel careless. It just felt… precise.

When you opened the door, he was already standing there with his shoulders squared, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes finding you immediately. 

“Hi,” you smiled, closing the door behind you.

“Hi,” he replied. “You look…” he started, then hesitated.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He exhaled faintly through his nose, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. “You look good,” he settled on, like it was the safest word he had to a much stronger reaction.

You laughed lightly. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. 

“I was thinking we could walk,” he said. “The place I had in mind is just a couple blocks over.”

“Walking’s perfect,” you nodded. “Lead the way.”

He stepped into pace beside you easily, adjusting without thinking so you stayed in sync. Your arms brushed once, then again, and neither of you rushed to create distance.

It was comfortable. 

You pointed out a bakery you liked; he asked a few questions, just enough to keep you talking.

Then you turned the corner… and you froze in your steps. “Oh my god, wait.”

Dex halted immediately, “What?”

You looked up at the small restaurant in front of you, disbelief turning into a smile. “Dex,” you said, half-laughing, “this is my favourite Italian place.”

It was tiny. It had barely ten seats, warm light glowing through the windows. It was the kind of place you only found if someone told you about it or you got lucky wandering.

You looked back at him, still smiling. “How do you even know about this?”

“I’ve heard it’s good,” he simply lied.

He opened the door for you, his hand hovering near your back as you stepped inside.

The cozy warmth hit you immediately, along with the smell of garlic and tomato sauce. 

“Hey! Back again?” the owner called out.

“Of course,” you smiled, glancing back at Dex. “Couldn’t stay away.”

You slid into one of the tiny tables, knees brushing his under the narrow space. He didn’t pull away.

“This is such a good choice,” you said, leaning forward slightly.

Dex watched you for a moment before answering, “I’m glad you like it.”

You met his eyes, and for a second, everything felt like a very happy coincidence.

—

The date went… really well.

Like, unexpectedly well.

You stayed longer than either of you planned, the tiny restaurant slowly emptying around you until it felt like the two of you had the place to yourselves. 

And still, neither of you moved to leave.

You talked in that wandering way that only happens when you’re comfortable, jumping from one thing to another, doubling back, interrupting each other without apology. It didn’t feel like a “first date” anymore. It just felt like time spent together.

All that time, he couldn’t stop looking at you. It wasn’t too obvious, but everything kept circling back to the way your mouth moved when you talked about needing to check on bubbles when you got home or something (whatever that meant), the way your hands followed your thoughts like they couldn’t keep up, the way you leaned in like the space between you didn’t matter.

Dex had spent years studying people, reducing them to patterns, weaknesses, outcomes. You didn’t fit cleanly into any of it. You felt… brighter than that. So whatever you were, he already decided, it was something he wasn’t going to lose.

“Today was insane, by the way,” you said at one point. “The wedding I told you I was working today? Completely unhinged.”

“What was it?” Dex’s attention didn’t waver. “Bad planning?”

“Bad everything,” you huffed a laugh. “The bridesmaid was losing it over nothing, the timeline kept slipping, and the groom—” you paused, rolling your eyes slightly “—the groom was… a lot.”

Dex didn’t care about the groom, not really. He cared about the way your nose scrunched slightly when you said it, the faint irritation in your voice. Even when annoyed, you were still… perfect. It didn’t make sense to him, how consistent it was. Still, he would listen to you simply because it was you. So he tilted his head just slightly, as if telling you to go on.

You hesitated, not like you didn’t want to answer, but like you were deciding how honest to be.

“He was…,” you said finally. “Like, weirdly controlling. Not just with the schedule, but with her.”

“The bride?” he asked, picking up his glass of red, taking another sip. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, your mouth tightening just a fraction. “Everything had to be his way. The food, the layout, even the order people walked in. And if something wasn’t exactly how he wanted it, he’d just…” you made a small, snapping gesture with your hand “… shut it down in front of everyone. His mom was almost worse. She’s just enabling him all the way.”

Dex’s eyes narrowed, though his expression stayed neutral. Then, just as quickly, you shifted the topic.

“But the flowers looked amazing,” you added lightly, leaning back again. “So, you know. At least something went right.”

Dex nodded once, like he understood that more than you meant.

Then, your phone lit up again.

You glanced at it again, for the first time that night. Dex noticed.

“You expecting something?” he asked, casual enough.

You looked up, like you hadn’t realized he’d caught that. “Hm?”

“You’ve checked your phone a couple times.”

You shrugged easily. “I’m looking out for follow-up stuff from the wedding. People always need something after.”

“Even after it’s done?”

You shook you head. “Especially after it’s done.”

He didn’t question you. If anything, his instinct leaned the other way entirely. You had your reasons, you always would. Whatever you did, whatever you said, he trusted without needing to understand. 

A few minutes later, you stood up. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” You said, then you added playfully, “don’t disappear.”

“I won’t,” he said. As if he would run out on the love of his life. 

He waited until you were out of sight, before absentmindedly reaching for his phone. He didn’t have much going on, just a police scanner app to track task force, a text thread with Mrs. Smithers in case her cat needed babysitting, and… you. 

So yeah, it was mostly out of habit. He was going to lock it and put it back in his pocket before you came back, but the news app gave him a notification he could ignore: 

Groom Dead at Wedding at The Plaza — Two Hospitalised.

His eyes moved over the words once. Then again, slower.

He looked at the name, the timing, the location. Everything aligned too… cleanly.

His thumb hovered for half a second before locking the screen.

When you came back, you slid into your seat like nothing had shifted.

“Okay,” you said, settling in. “What did I miss?”

Dex didn’t answer that. Instead, he turned his phone toward you. “Have you seen this?”

You leaned in slightly, your shoulder almost brushing the table as your eyes moved over the screen.

He expected you to be horrified. To gasp, to be shaken. But you didn’t react the way most people would.

You just leaned back, eyebrows furrowed.

For a while, Dex couldn’t get a read on you— and that was terrifying. Were you grieving? Were you in shock? There was nothing in your usually animated eyes that gave anything away. 

“Oh,” you said.

Dex watched you closely. “That’s the wedding you worked, right?”

Your fingers found your glass again. You rotated it once, before answering. “Yeah.”

He didn’t look away.

You glanced up at him, then back down, your voice lowering just slightly. 

“He did get sick during cocktail hour,” you said, as if it was a realisation. Your tone didn’t change, though. 

“Food poisoning?” Dex speculated, his mind running through all the possibilities. Somewhere along the lines, he was also relieved that even though you told him you ate the canapés at the wedding, you weren’t taken ill at all.

You shrugged lightly. “That’s what they’ll say.”

Oh. Interesting. 

Not that’s what it is. You said, That’s what they’ll say.

“And you don’t think that’s what it was?” he asked, biting the inside of his cheeks. 

You looked at him then, properly. There was no panic in your expression, fear of saying the wrong thing. 

“I think,” you said, dragging out the words, “that sometimes people end up exactly where they were always heading.”

You picked up your glass again, taking a small sip before continuing, almost as an afterthought. “I mean… She wanted to call it off.”

It was clear that you were talking about the Bride. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you now with a different kind of focus.

“She wasn’t going to get out on her own,” you continued, “and now…” you gave him the faintest shrug, “…she doesn’t have to.”

—

You saw him again a week later, when he came by the shop.

The bell chimed, and you glanced up out of habit, shears still in hand, a stem caught mid-trim between your fingers.

You didn’t expect it to be him.

But the second realised, your eyes lit up. “Hi, Dex.”

His shoulders eased, just slightly, like he’d been waiting for that reaction. “Hi.”

As he stepped further inside, his eyes moved over the shop. He studied the in the buckets lined along the walls, the arrangements you’d spent hours shaping, the little details most people skipped over entirely.

He was cataloguing it, learning it. Or, at the very least, he was pretending to.

You leaned lightly against the counter, watching him with a gentle smile. “Looking for something specific?”

“Maybe,” he said.

It wasn’t the most helpful thing a customer would say, but you chuckled anyway.

He moved toward a small arrangement near the front, a small spring bouquet you’d put together that morning, filled with yellow and whites and eucalyptus foliage. It wasn’t flashy, but it was balanced. It was thoughtful. 

Dex picked it up, turning it slightly in his hand, ever so carefully, as if it required inspection.

You tilted your head. “That one?”

“It’ll do,” he said.

It’ll do.

You let out a huff of laughter at that, setting your shears down with a clink before stepping around the counter. “Wow. Glowing review. I should put that on a sign.”

He glanced at you, as if to say I didn’t mean it that way. “I need more decorations.”

You didn’t push as you reached for the wrapping paper and cellophane. You didn’t ask why a man who didn’t even know what to do with a rose suddenly cared about daisies and carnations and violet-tinted gypsophilas.

You just nodded and got to work, wrapping the stems neatly, your fingers moving with practiced precision.

He watched the way you tucked the stems in, the way your thumb pressed the fold flat. The tiny, unconscious movements that made everything you did feel trained and deliberate.

You had a feeling he didn’t really get flowers, it was pretty evident after your first date. He didn't seem to know what to do with them. He didn’t seem to care about arrangements or meaning or seasonal choices.

But he kept coming back.

And if flowers were the excuse he used just to see you, then you weren’t complaining. 

The rustle of paper filled the room, followed by the faint drip of water somewhere in the back. When you finished tying it off, you lifted the bouquet and held it out toward him, a flicker of playfulness returning to your voice.

“So,” you said, “is this one going to need preserving too?”

His eyes dropped to the flowers, then back to you.

“Maybe,” he said.

It didn’t sound like a joke. And if it was, he didn’t deliver it like one.

Your smile softened anyway. “Good to know. I’ll start preparing.”

He took the bouquet from you and paid, sliding the money across without looking away for long, then gathered the bouquet carefully, holding it like it mattered more than he’d ever admit out loud.

But he didn’t leave right away.

Before you could say anything, he shifted the bouquet slightly in his hand, and then, almost absently, plucked a single daisy from it.

Your brows lifted, a quiet “hey” forming before you could stop it, maybe to playfully remind him that you worked hard on that arrangement, but you didn’t actually protest.

He stepped closer.

His hand came up to reach over the counter. Gently, he brushed a strand of your hair back behind your ear.

He did it so carefully, as if you were made of a million little crystals and might break at the wrong frequency.

Your breath hitched, only slightly.

Then he tucked the daisy there. His thumb lingered, rubbing a single slow circle under your ear. His hand dropped a little, only to rise again, this time under your chin.

He tilted your face up, just enough to catch the light properly.

His thumb rested lightly against your jaw, his pointer finger locking his hold. His gaze was fixed entirely on you now— on the flower, on your face, on the way both fit together like you’d been sculpted by the gods for his enjoyment, and that alone. 

Then he smiled, lips pulling at the edges of his mouth just enough to draw toward the scar on his cheek. “Beautiful,” he muttered under his breath.

You weren’t sure if he meant you. Or the flower. Or both. You weren’t even sure if he meant to say it out loud, or if he meant for you to hear it.

Your heart did a stupid flip in your chest anyway.

“…thanks,” you said softly, suddenly very aware of the way he was looking at you.

His hand dropped, but not abruptly. He looked… satisfied. 

“We’ll start planning a second date, yeah?” The way he said it wasn’t really a question. It was more like a conclusion he’d already reached, a decision you were simply being informed of.

You should’ve pushed back. Maybe teased him for it, made him work a little harder to get you.

But instead, you just smiled.

Because you didn’t feel the need to argue with it. Not even a little.

—

The second date came on a Friday, and it felt nothing like the first.

There was no careful planning, or buildup inside a restaurant, no structured beginning or end. It just happened.

It started late, later than most people would bother going out, when the city had already begun to be less crowded, less performative. 

You met him with the same familiarity that had been settling between you.

You ended up just walking with no destination in mind; though he did steer you to a less crowded route. Before you knew it, you found yourself by the Hudson River, the air cooler there, touched with that faint edge of water and wind. The city lights stretched across the surface in long, shimmering lines, breaking and reforming with every ripple.

You walked side by side, close enough that you were always aware of him, his pace adjusting subtly to yours.

The conversation came without effort, drifting between small observations and half-finished thoughts, the kind of talking that didn’t need to impress or prove anything. You even talked about your personal life— mostly your flower pressing. You did mention, again, what he now assumed was a pet: “I need to feed Bubbles as soon as I get home!” Which was weird, because he was yet to see any signs of animal life in the apartment. 

Before he could ask, you darted to a different topic. 

But whatever. How could he focus on something so trivial when his girl was right in front of him? 

At some point during the night, he stopped at a street vendor.

You didn’t even realize you were hungry until he came back to you with a sweet and sugary smelling food. 

“Wait, what is this?” you laughed, peeking into the paper tray.

“Churros,” he said simply, then also pointed at the chocolate pot, like an offering. 

You looked up at him, smiling. There was no point really, in telling him you loved churros. He seemed to always know what you were craving and what you wanted, that he was always somehow one step ahead of you. It’s as if he knew you better than you knew yourself. “You’re just making executive decisions now?”

“You didn’t object.”

Of course you didn’t.

You took a bite instead, the crisp sugar coating your mouth. You immediately let out a small, pleased sound before you could stop yourself.

“Good?” he asked.

“Very,” you admitted, already going in for another bite of your favourite dessert. “You’ve set a very high standard for future dates, just so you know.”

“I can keep up,” he said again, like that was the easiest promise in the world.

You walked and ate and talked, and you can’t help but feel like you’d skipped awkward and landed straight into comfortable.

You were out for hours, and it flew by as if it was just minutes. 

By the time you circled back toward your place, the city had lulled even more. There were fewer people, quieter sounds. The only significant noise was the distant hum of traffic and the echo of your footsteps on the pavement.

You slowed as your building came into view.

Dex stopped just short of the door again, like last time, like there was an invisible line he was still choosing not to cross without permission.

You turned toward him, still holding the half-empty paper tray in one hand.

You looked at him, at the way his attention was always so focused when it landed on you, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. 

Then your eyes dropped, just slightly, to his lips. “You’ve got something there,” you said, you pointed out.

He tilted his head. “Where?”

You stepped closer before he could overthink it.

“Here.” Your fingers brushed lightly against his jaw, guiding his face just enough. Then, before you could think any better of it, you pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, tongue brushing his skin just enough to take pry sweet liquid off.

Dex went completely still.

You pulled away just quickly, thumb swiping the little wet patch you’d accidentally left behind, and Dex leaned into your touch without a second thought. 

You smiled a little too casually for what you’d just done.

“Chocolate sauce,” you explained, tapping your own lip like that was the only reason. “Couldn’t just leave it there.”

“I…,” he said finally, almost stumbling over his words. “…right.”

You smiled wider, like you knew he had a soft spot for you, like you knew you would get away with it if you committed hard enough.

“Goodnight, Dex.”

And just like last time, you slipped inside before he could stop you.

—

He stood there for a while, longer than necessary.

His hand lifted briefly, brushing the corner of his mouth where yours had been, like he could still feel it there.

After a few seconds, he forced himself to snap out of it. He had somewhere to be, of course. 

Not home, but it was somewhere he had grown to like more than home.

See, there was only ever one place he could go after a night like this.

He walked across the street, then around the corner, then up the stairwell he already knew too well. His body moved through it like routine, but his mind stayed exactly where you’d left it—

At your door, your lips. At that fleeting kiss that had lasted barely a second and somehow rewired the rest of his night.

See, he knew what you did on Fridays. You would go up to the rooftop and tend to your plants. You would check on them, do some maintenance, and sometimes, you’d even harvest them and put them in a mortar and pestle, crushing and storing them in a little bottle. Herbal remedies, Dex had assumed. It was adorable, how much care you put into your cute little garden.

When you were done with your plants, he would watch you through your naively opened bedroom window as you got ready for bed. 

After your last date, he had even watched you lay there as you ever so slowly reached your fingers under your cotton panties. It wasn’t long before he realised you were touching yourself while mouthing his name. 

If he was lucky, he’d get to witness that again today.  

—

Dex had been watching from his perch for fifteen minutes.

You had changed into a comfortable black hoodie that swallowed your frame— he saw that much through the glow of your bedroom window. 

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against the cold concrete.

You always went up to the rooftop after you changed. It was a pretty reliable pattern.

So when you didn’t appear on there, when five minutes stretched past where you should’ve been stepping into the open air, his chest tightened.

Dex didn’t move, but his focus heightened instantly, attention narrowing as he recalibrated. His eyes flicked once more to your window… and then the front door of your building opened.

You stepped out.

The hood was down, your hands tucked briefly into the pocket before you pulled one free, adjusting your sleeve as you moved.

Dex’s head tilted just slightly.

That… wasn’t part of your routine.

You wouldn’t go out at this hour alone. Especially not after a night like this.

“What are you doing?” he murmured under his breath, more observation than question.

He pushed off the ledge, already deciding he would follow. 

After all, he had to keep his girl safe. 

—

Distance was easy to maintain when you understood movement, when you could predict the rhythm of someone’s steps before they took them.

He stayed behind you, offset just enough to disappear into reflections, into shadows, into the gaps people never noticed. Your figure stayed in his line of sight the entire time, framed between streetlights and reflected storefront glass.

You didn’t look back.

You turned down a smaller street, then another, the noise of the city thinning out until it became distant. Your footsteps echoed here.

You were more exposed.

Dex adjusted accordingly, his own steps falling soundlessly into place.

Then you turned into an alley. He slowed down immediately, slipping to the edge before you disappeared fully from view.

When he shifted just enough to see, he realised… you weren’t alone.

A man stood waiting in the shadows, wearing a dark grey jacket. What was more interesting, though, was that he was wearing thick black rubber gloves. 

Dex’s eyes narrowed as you walked straight to this stranger without hesitation.

What the hell?

You reached into your pocket and pulled an envelope out. The man handed you a small and unmarked box in return.

Dex’s mind ran through possibilities fast, each one worse than the last. A deal. This was a deal. A drug deal?

His grip tightened slightly against the brick beside him.

No. No, that didn’t fit. Not you. You weren’t…were you? His girl didn’t deal in things like this.

Did she?

The thought sat wrong in his chest, and he was starting to get irritated. 

You took the box without a word, and left. Dex didn’t follow you this time.

The man was still there, and Dex had questions.

So he watched him from the shadows, counted the seconds, and waited for an opening. 

Stupidly, the man decided to check the cash right then and there.  That was when Dex reached down to a bit of rusted metal (probably fallen off someone’s fire escape).

He prepared for a precise throw… 

And it drove straight into the man’s leg.

The sound that came out of him wasn’t a full scream at first, more like a strangled choke. It was horrifically cut off as his body folded, collapsing hard against the wall. His hands scrambled, one reaching instinctively for the bar buried in his thigh, the other bracing uselessly against the ground.

“What the…fuck—!”

Dex was already on him, closing the distance before panic could turn into a fight or flight response. He crouched just enough to bring himself into view.

“Don’t,” Dex said quietly, nodding once toward the bar when the man’s fingers twitched again. “You’ll make it worse.”

The man froze. “Who the hell are you—” he started, breath hitching.

Dex grabbed his wrist and twisted hard, bones cracking within seconds.

This time, the scream came out full.

It echoed off the brick walls, cut short only when Dex tightened his grip just enough to keep him grounded in it.

“You’re going to tell me about the deal you just made,” Dex said.

The man’s breathing turned ragged, eyes wide, darting like he was trying to find a way out that didn’t exist. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

Dex tilted his head slightly, then pressed down, just enough on the broken arm.

The man choked on the next sound, panic flooding in properly now. “Okay, okay! Fuck—okay!” he gasped. “I’ll talk, j-just stop—”

Dex eased the pressure. Not out of mercy, but out of efficiency.

“Talk,” he repeated.

“I’m just a courier,” the man rushed, words tripping over each other. “That’s it, I don’t make the deals, I don’t ask questions, I just move shit from point A to point B—”

“A courier,” Dex echoed, unimpressed. His grip didn’t loosen. “For what?”

“I don’t know everything, I-I swear!” The man’s voice cracked, eyes glassy now, pain bleeding into fear. “I just get told where to go, what to hand over—what to pick up—”

Dex didn’t blink as he listened to the man breaking under pressure.

“I think it’s plants, okay?” he blurted. “Restricted ones—imported shit, hard to get, I d-don’t… know! That’s all I know, I don’t grow it, I don’t sell it, I just carry it—please—”

Dex studied him, weighing the truth the way he always did, not through words, but through the way they came out. 

Then, he let go.

The man dropped fully to the ground this time, clutching at his arm, his leg, his whole body curling in on itself like it might hold him together.

Dex stood and looked down at him, unmoved. Whether he bled out or crawled his way to help didn’t matter.

He’d already given Dex what he needed.

—

Even nearly two weeks after that, he had been thinking about the alley more than he cared to admit.

About the man. The deal. The box. But mostly about you.

He had turned it over in his head enough times to sand down the edges. Right, so it was restricted plants, rare imports, probably something you just liked. That tracked. You liked things that grew, things that needed care. It was… harmless. Endearing, even, that you would inconvenience yourself to a fault to satisfy a hobby. 

Cute, That’s what he settled on. Your apparent hobby of collecting rare plants was cute. 

So when your text came—come by the shop after closing?— thoughts shifted immediately, like a switch being flipped.

How could he say no to his girl?

By the time he stepped inside, the lights were already dimmed. It smelled stronger at night, but still faintly distinctly sweet underneath.

You were already there, waiting behind the counter.

“Hi,” you said, softer than usual, like the hour demanded it.

“Hi,” he echoed.

The second thing Dex noticed after you, were the chocolates. 

It was a heart-shaped velvet red box, and it was open, ribbon pushed aside, a couple already missing. 

It was a gift chocolate, not one you would buy for yourself. That alone was enough to get his chest hot with anger or jealousy, maybe both. It didn’t help that you were casually picking one up, inspecting it like it deserved your full attention.

You followed his line of sight, then smiled knowingly. “Oh.” You picked one up, turning it between your fingers. “These?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” you hummed, popping it into your mouth without breaking eye contact. “They’re actually really good.”

It felt as if a rope had been pulled around his heart.

You chewed thoughtfully, completely unbothered. “Hazelnut, I think.”

Dex stepped closer, slower this time. “Who is it from?”

“From Daniel Harper,” you said, reaching for another one. “He’s the crypto guy who got flowers for Mother’s Day once and wouldn’t stop asking me out. But I think…” you tilted your head carefully, “I think he got the point now.”

“You’re eating them,” he pointed out, the entire world blurring into a haze. All he could think was that another man brought you gifts. Another man wanted you. Another man had the audacity to fucking try.

“I’m not wasting perfectly good chocolate,” you said, like it was obvious. Then you tilted your head, studying him as you unwrapped another. “Fuck, you’re so obvious right now.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” you smiled, like you were enjoying it. “You hate this.”

“I don’t hate it.” What a fucking lie. 

“You do, a little,” you said, stepping around the counter, closing the distance between you. “Which is funny, because—” you held the chocolate up between your fingers “—you’re the one I invited here.”

Dex’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand then back to you. 

“C’mon,” you said, voice turning playful again, nudging it closer to his mouth. “Spoils of war.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “War?” He echoed. Still, as much as he hated all of this, he couldn’t help but find your attempt to feed him endearing.

“Harper is a man who tried and failed to get me,” you grinned. “You’re benefiting from his loss. You’re welcome.”

He didn’t take it, mostly because he was stubborn— but so were you. You nudged it closer. “C’mon Dex,” you pouted, remembering how much he liked the chocolate sauce on the churros. “I know you like it. Don’t be difficult.”

Dex leaned in slightly, and instead of just taking the chocolate, his mouth closed around your fingers.

Your breath hitched.

His tongue brushed against your skin as he pulled away, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Then he took the chocolate between his teeth, like nothing had happened.

You stared at him.

“I…,” you said after a beat, a little breathless now despite yourself. “That was—”

He didn’t respond. He watched you, an arrogant grin now playing on his face. If his sweet girl wanted to tease and taunt, he had to show you two can play at that game. 

Your composure came back quickly, but your smile had changed. It was less teasing, more charged.

“Right,” you cleared your throat lightly. “Actually—” You turned, gathering your thoughts and reached under the counter. “I didn’t ask you here just to steal Harper’s dignity,” you added, glancing back at him. “I have something for you.”

You waited until he was close, closer than necessary, before you said, “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so,” you shot back immediately, “don’t be so suspicious. It’s a flower shop, not a crime scene.”

His mouth twitched. “Is it?

“Dex.”

He sighed, quiet, but obedient, and let his eyes fall shut.

He heard you move closer, the shuffle of your steps, the faint clink of something being set down. There was a pause, like you were checking and adjusting your secret prize.

Then, you said, “Okay. Open.”

He did.

Oh.

It was the rose.

Maybe he had expected just a dried, pressed flower, but definitely not… this. 

It was preserved and framed in a gold-planted wood, intricately carved. The petals were darker now, fragile-looking but perfectly intact, held in place.

Your smile wavered just slightly. “Okay, that silence is… concerning. Say something.”

He blinked once, like he was catching up to the moment.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said.

“Well,” you huffed a small laugh, folding your arms loosely. “That was kind of the whole point of you leaving it with me.”

“No,” he shook his head once, stepping closer. “You… you didn’t have to do all this for me.”

Your eyes softened at that. He said it as if he truly believed he didn’t deserve it. 

“I wanted to,” you reassured. 

He reached for it slowly, like it might fall apart if he wasn’t careful. His fingers brushed the edge of the frame, then traced it.

“It’s better,” he said simple.

“Better than a fresh one?” you teased, tilting your head.

“Yes.”

“That’s bold.” You raised an eyebrow. “Florists everywhere just felt personally attacked.”

“I don’t care about them.”

You laughed a little, and his chest tightened in a familiar way. It wasn’t entirely jealousy anymore.

“I’m glad,” you said. “Would be awkward if you were secretly seeing other florists behind my back.”

His eyes flicked to yours, as if the implications were laughable. “I’m not.”

“I know,” you grinned. “You don’t seem the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The ‘casually shops around’ type,” you said, gesturing vaguely between him and the shop. “But… you actually like it, right?” you asked at the frame, smaller this time, just to be sure. As if you were anxious that you put so much effort in something he wouldn’t care about.

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

Your smile came back, like that answer meant more than you were letting on.

You were still standing so close.

Dex noticed that neither of you had stepped back from the frame, like the space between you had just… disappeared.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth.

“I know.”

That should’ve made you pull away.

Instead, your fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the frame still on the table. “If you break that," you teased. “I’m not making you another one.”

“I won’t break it.”

“You say that,” you said, glancing up at him through your lashes, “but you’ve got kind of a… destructive vibe.”

He frowned. “You think that about me?”

“I think,” you stepped just a fraction closer, “that you get intense about things you like.”

His eyes locked onto yours. And you could tell that hit a lot closer to home than he intended. 

“And you like this,” you added, tapping the frame once more.

“Yes.”

“And you like… flowers?” you pushed, clearly enjoying yourself.

“No.”

You chuckled, almost a sweet giggle. “So it’s just me, then?”

He didn’t answer. That was your answer.

“Good,” you said under your breath.

Your hand slid off the frame, brushing against his fingers on the way down. Your eyes dropped, just briefly, to his mouth.

Dex noticed.

His grip on the frame loosened, setting it aside without looking, his attention already back on you like it had nowhere else to go.

“You’re still staring,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

Your breath hitched, slightly. Then, before you could think twice, you issued a challenge, “Do something about it, then.”

That was all it took for all pleasantries and manners to fall apart. Not that it ever had any leg to stand on.

Dex closed the distance immediately, his hand finding your waist as his mouth met yours, like he’d already done this a hundred times before.

You didn’t hesitate to kiss him back. 

Your hands were on him, gripping his jacket, pulling him closer as you kissed him back just as hard, just as certain. You were quick to match his intensity, biting a bit of his lip just to drag him back to the real world. You could tell he was spiraling, that he had been all consumed by the gesture. 

When you broke for air, it barely lasted a second. “Dex—”

He kissed you again. 

And this time, it deepened, slower but heavier, like he was learning you in real time and refusing to let go. Like if he could, he would fuse his bones into you. 

You laughed softly into it, breathless. “Okay… okay—”

But you didn’t stop him. Whatever you were about to say got lost when his hands tightened at your waist and he lifted you like it was nothing, setting you back onto the workbench behind you.

The tools rattled softly, a pack of floral tape rolling off to the side, but neither of you cared.

Your legs shifted instinctively, pulling him closer by hooking it around his hips, and the kiss didn’t slow. It only got more insistent, like neither of you had any interest in stopping now that you’d started.

“Still think I’m intense?” he murmured against your mouth.

You smiled against his lips. “A little.”

He kissed you again like that was the wrong answer, and you let him.

When your fingers tangled in his hair, he let a sweet moan against your mouth. Interesting, you thought, as his grip tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, like there wasn’t enough distance in the world to satisfy him.

It was messy and overwhelming in the way neither of you tried to control.

His hand slid up your side, under the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing skin…

….and you snapped out of it.

“Dex—”

He hummed, trailing a kiss down your cheek, latching on your neck….

But then you pulled away softly, slow enough to not be abrupt, but out of place enough that he felt… confused.

What had he done wrong? 

Your breath was uneven when breathed out. Gently, you pushed his hand from under your shirt. You were met with no resistance as his big palms splayed on your lap, kneading anxiously, as if he was itching to touch you again, to kiss you, to take you. 

Then, you gently pressed your forehead to his. “I… we shouldn’t.”

For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. 

“Oh,” he said quietly. His thoughts were spiralling, you could tell. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up, playing over and over again in his head. 

“No, hey, hey,” you rushed, hands coming up to his face, cupping his jaw. “Not like that. Not… not because I don’t want to.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“I do want to,” you said, more certain. “I just… I’ve got to work a baby shower early tomorrow, and I still need to finish a couple arrangements tonight, and if we—” you huffed a small, breathless laugh, “—if we keep going, I’m not getting anything done.”

Dex stared at you, processing.

“I…” he started but could not finish, as if he needed to say something, anything, to stop himself from falling off the deep end. 

“I’m sorry,” you smiled sadly, a little apologetic. 

He exhaled slowly, trying to recover, trying to place where you were in his mind.

“I like you, I really do.” Your thumb brushed lightly along his lower lip, where a string of moisture had collected. Dex’s eyes darted away, simply because like was not what he felt for you. What he felt was obsession, devotion, perhaps love that grew in such a short time. Still you reassured him. “I like you. I want you. Just… not right now, not here.”

Dex looked at your lips, almost still in a daze. 

Then you added, a little more playful again, “Come over tomorrow? We can… continue this. Properly.”

And just like that, his brain rearranging itself, making space for a schedule. 

It's okay. It’s okay. It's not the end of the world. She wants you, she still wants you… 

Then, to quiet the storm in his mind, he leaned in again, kissing you once, shorter this time, but just as certain.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you smiled against him.

“Yeah,” he said, breathless, discreetly wiping a tear from his eyes. “Yeah.”

—

That night, Dex didn’t go straight home. He found himself outside Daniel Harper’s building, hoping he could finish the job for you. 

It wasn’t hard. The door wasn’t even locked. 

Inside, Daniel sprawled on the couch, body slack, mouth parted with a thin line of foam dried at the corner, eyes glassy and gone. 

He was already dead. He had been for a while, by the looks of it. 

Dex stood there for a moment, taking it in: the stillness, the lack of struggle, the timing of it all, and tilted his head slightly, almost thoughtful. 

“Huh,” he murmured to no one, cataloguing what mattered and what didn’t. 

How weird.

—

Dex couldn’t wait for tomorrow. He spent the night thinking about you, and then the morning, and then the entire day in that same tight loop of fixation, until even the idea of distance felt like a grenade swallowed and exploding from the inside. 

It wasn’t just want. It was compulsion, an itch under the skin he couldn’t stop scratching at no matter how much it bled. 

So he did the only thing that still made sense: he went hunting for Task Force from the break of dawn, anything to keep his mind from turning fully toward you. Because when it did, he was just turned into a pathetic little puddle of emotions.

When it came down to going to your apartment, his nerves were practically buzzing off the roof. 

The second you opened the door, he was already moving, one hand bracing the frame as he stepped in, the other finding your waist and then he kissed you, like the space between seeing you and touching you had been unbearable.

You laughed into it, surprised but not resisting, your hands catching on his jacket. “Dex—”

“I missed you,” he said against your mouth, already walking you backward as he nudged the door shut with his foot, his grip tightening just slightly at your side.

“You saw me last night,” you teased, breath catching as his lips found yours again.

“Hmm,” he dismissed, picking you up slightly at your feet.

“Careful—careful!” you suddenly laughed, twisting slightly in his hold.

Dex stopped instantly, setting you down like you’d burned him. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Watch out for Bubbles.” You were still smiling, a little breathless, pointing past him. “Don't wanna wreck her enclosure.”

“Bubbles?” He’s heard you say that name once or twice before. A pet, he assumed. A cat, maybe a small dog? Though he never saw anything through the window, so in the back of his mind, he had chalked it off to being a carnivorous plant.

But when he turned… he saw a small tank he didn’t recognise. After all, he had never been able see this part of your apartment from his perch. 

Dex stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly.

An… octopus. 

It was small, beige and yellow, though the second it clocked him, it flashed aggressive blue rings. Its limbs curled slowly against the glass. It had a maze in its enclosure, an enrichment of some kind, perhaps? 

“Oh,” he said. That was the last thing he ever expected. 

“She’s cute, right?” you beamed, coming up beside him like this was completely normal. 

Dex watched it for a second longer than necessary. “…yeah.”

It blinked, beady eyes looking straight into his eyes. He blinked back.

“Okay. Come on,” you grabbed his hand, tugging him away with a grin. “I don’t want Bubbles to watch.”

He let himself be pulled, though his eyes flicked once more over his shoulder before following you down the short hall.

You passed a door, and heknew where it must go: the rooftop. Your rooftop— idle and calming. In all its domesticity, you were your happiest there. “Where does this go?” He feigned innocence. 

You didn’t miss a beat. “Junk closet.”

He looked at you, and you smiled too quickly. “…right,” he said.

Why would you lie?

The thought barely had time to settle before you pushed him back onto the bed, climbing over him, straddling his thighs like it was second nature.

That distracted him immediately. He didn’t even have the time to take in the bedroom he had spent so long looking through. 

Your hands found the hem of your shirt, and you pulled it off without hesitation, tossing it somewhere behind you like it didn’t matter.

Dex’s attention snapped back into place like a puzzle piece. Whatever question he had dissolved under his tunnel vision, his focus now on you. 

“You think too much,” you murmured, leaning down, your hands braced on either side of him.

“I don’t.”

“You do,” you smiled, your nose brushing his. “Good thing I know how to fix that.”

His hands came back to your waist like they’d never left.

And this time, neither of you stopped.

—

Dex had been overwhelmed in the best way possible way

Not just by the way you’d pulled him apart piece by piece, with your hands, mouth, all of it; but by how easily you’d met him there. 

How easily you matched him, pushed back. There had been nothing hesitant about you, nothing uncertain; every touch had felt intentional, every sinful sound felt like it belonged to him. The touch of your tongue lingered even now, under his skin. His body still felt too warm, too aware, even as the room cooled down.

He could still feel the faint press of your nails at his shoulders, how you had traced the scar on his back and not even question where it came from. He could still feel the heat of your breath against his throat, where it dragged down to his chest, then his stomach, then between his legs. You’d pulled him closer like you didn’t want even an inch of distance between you. 

When he helped you chase each others’ bliss, it didn't feel casual, or even just physical. It had felt all-consuming, addicting, euphoric. And he would change a thing. 

The shower hadn’t helped the nerves, though.

If anything, it had made it worse. It was your idea to clean up together, your hands sliding over him beneath the water, slower this time, exploratory, like you were learning him just as much as he was memorizing you. The steam had wrapped around both of you, turning everything hazy. Even now, lying beside you, he could still feel it, the imprint of your palm on his bare skin and his on yours. 

Now, you were asleep.

You were curled into him, your leg draped over his like you’d claimed him without thinking. Your breathing was steady, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the way he was looking at you.

Dex didn’t even try to drift off. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

His hand hovered just above your waist, then settled there lightly. His thumb moved once, almost absentmindedly, like he was testing if you were real, making sure you weren’t a fragment of his broken mind it made as a coping mechanism. 

You shifted closer in your sleep.

Mine.

The thought came into his mind uninvited, but he didn’t push it away.

But still… like a weed going through cracks, he couldn’t help but think about the door. 

Junk closet, you said. 

His teeth clenched. No. That wasn’t right.

He knew the building— found the layout and structure long before he ever stepped foot in it. He knew exactly how space worked, how things connected. There wasn’t room for a “junk closet” there. 

Which meant… you lied.  Why would you lie to him?

The thought didn’t sit right. It didn’t settle, didn’t smooth over the way everything else about you seemed to.

You didn’t lie. Not really. Not about things that mattered. So why this?

His back tightened slightly, his thumb pausing where it rested against your waist. His eyes darted, involuntarily, toward the direction of the door again. Junk closet.

No.

His mind ran it again, as if to double and triple check. He could see it clearly, like a blueprint burned into the back of his skull. There was no space for that.

You had lied. You must’ve.

Why? To keep him out? To hide something? From him?

His chest tightened at that, a bitterness threading through his mind previously touched by your warmth.

Check it.

The thought popped up in his mind, clear as day.

Check it.

His eyes dropped back to you immediately. You, still curled into him, your breathing even, your face relaxed. You trusted him enough to sleep like that.

His hand shifted slightly against you, fingers pressing just a fraction deeper, like he could fuse himself to you.

Stay.

That was his next thought. After all, it felt stupid to leave you alone, in bed, defenseless, in favour of a theoretically imaginary junk closet.

Don’t move.

You looked… safe. Happy. Like having him here was enough to solve all his problems.

Check it.

Fuck, that thought came back unannounced, and it came back louder.

Check it. Check it.

His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut for half a second, like he could shut it out.

You lied. Why would you lie? Check it.

His fingers flexed once against your side, restless now.

Check it.

His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. He opened his eyes again, staring down at you like the answer might be written somewhere in the shape of your face. Still, he found nothing.

Check it.

His head tilted slightly, the thought settling in deeper this time: He needed to know.

A quiet sigh left him as he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your cheek. 

You stirred faintly, an adorable little snore slipping from you, but you didn’t wake.

Dex slid out from under you carefully, easing your leg back onto the mattress, making sure you stayed comfortable before he stood. He paused for a second, just watching you again, like it physically hurt to look away.

Then he turned, moving through the apartment soundlessly. As he wandered into the living room, he caught a bit of movement. 

His head snapped toward the motion, and then relaxed when he realised it was just Bubbles, moving in her tank.

The small octopus had shifted the second she saw him, her body tightening, skin rippling. Suddenly, blue rings flashed brightly on her skin again.

Dex could’ve sworn, that for a second, they stared at each other. 

There was something unnerving about the way her eyes locked onto his, unblinking, aware in a way that didn’t feel like an animal should be. Like she knew he was dangerous. Like she perceived him as a threat. 

His head tilted slightly, studying her right back. “Hi, Bubbles,” he murmured under his breath.

Her color pulsed again, blue agitation flickering through her small body. For a second, he saw himself in her. For a second, he wondered if her blue rings were a sign of anger.

Dex’s mouth twitched, almost amused and a little irritated that he let an octopus the size of a golf ball get to him. “Relax,” he said quietly.

She didn’t, but he decided to look away anyway.

He reached for the door, hand resting on the handle. For a second, he didn’t move.

Then…

He opened it.

Part of him hoped he was wrong, that he had simply been mistaken somehow, that you had told him the truth.

But… all he saw was stairs.

Of course.

“Don’t judge me,” he muttered to Bubbles, letting obsessive certainty take over as he moved upward, each step soundless.

The door at the top gave way with barely a push. As he suspected, it was your rooftop.

It was… beautiful.

Bright moonlight spilled across the space, reflected on leaves and petals and glass, turning everything silver-edged and almost ethereal. Rows of plants, carefully arranged, meticulously kept, thrived under your attention. Vines curled where they were meant to. Blooms opened toward the sky. 

Dex stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning, taking it all in with a kind of reverence he didn’t usually allow himself.

You spent time here. You cared about this.

So why?

Why wouldn’t you show him this? Why wouldn’t you tell him? Didn’t you trust him?

He would’ve listened. He would’ve understood— well no, maybe not understood, but he would’ve learned. For you.

You didn’t have to hide things from him. You didn’t have to keep parts of yourself away.

His eyes landed on the workbench to see a box, the same unmarked one he’d seen exchanged in that alley.

So it was that.

Next to it was a small juvenile plant, carefully potted. You had even given a handwritten label to it: Rosary pea.

Dex frowned slightly. He didn’t recognize the name. It sounded… almost gentle. Like everything else here.

Just a plant, right? Just you, collecting things that grew, things that needed care.

That’s all. That’s all it had to be.

He let out a sigh, tension still sitting tight on his shoulders. His eyes drifted again, unfocused now, thoughts spiraling faster.

Why didn’t you trust him? What did he do wrong?

He tried. He did everything right. He showed up. He listened. He gave you what you wanted, what you liked…  Didn’t he?

His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. It was tight.

His attention snagged on something else nearby, this time it was a spire of flowers. The plant was tall and slender, violet bells hanging delicately from thin stems, catching the moonlight like they were almost glowing.

Dex stepped closer without thinking.

His fingers reached out, brushing one of the petals. It was pretty, like you. 

His chest tightened, and nothing could push his thoughts away:Why didn’t you tell him?

It looped, faster now, louder.

Why did you lie?

“Huh…?” he murmured under his breath, voice barely there now, strained.

His fingers lingered against the flower, tracing it absently. But something felt… off. First, he felt as if his fingers, the ones that touched the petals, were going numb.

Then, he felt a strange heaviness in his chest. He frowned slightly as his heart stuttered once, hard enough to make his breath catch.

Dex went still. “…what—”

The word barely formed before his vision shifted. The edges blurred, the rooftop tilting just slightly out of place.

Dex blinked hard, trying to steady it, but it didn’t stop. His breathing hitched, his hand gripping the edge of the workbench.

His heart skipped a beat again.

No. No, no—

His knees weakened without warning, his body suddenly too heavy, too slow to respond.

The world tilted harder this time.

The last thing he saw was your garden, blurring into streaks of green and violet under the moonlight.

—

Dex woke up slowly, like he was being pulled up from the darkest depths of his mind, his body reluctant to follow. The first thing he registered wasn’t the room, or the fading light of dusk bleeding through your windows. Instead, it was you.

Even half-conscious, disoriented, his senses found you first.

Then his eyes opened fully.

Where was he?

He was no longer in your garden. Instead, he saw your coffee table, a TV, and a couple of harmless houseplants. Oh. He was in your living room, on your couch. 

As he got a better look at you, he realised you were slumped in the armchair across from him, unconscious, your head tilted slightly to the side, your arm stretched toward him.

You looked smaller like this, folded in on yourself. It didn’t match the version of you he remembered in his head— the one that laughed behind the counter, that handled petals like they might bruise under the wrong touch. 

That’s when he saw an IV tube connected to a needle in his arm. He followed it… to you. It was a makeshift transfusion.

For a second, he just stared, his brain lagging behind the image, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of why you were connected to him like that, why your blood was in him, why you looked so… still.

His stomach dropped. This was desperate. This was you cutting into yourself, giving a part of yourself away just to keep him breathing.

Why were you so still? 

It felt wrong. His body recognized it before his mind could catch up. Still meant a part of you had gone. And his chest tightened, rejecting the possibility before it could fully form.

“Hey—” his voice came out rough, barely formed.

You stirred awake. 

Your lashes fluttered, eyes opening slowly, and the second they landed on his face, on the fact that he was awake, relief flooded your eyes.

“Oh,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You’re awake.”

Dex moved too fast as adrenaline slammed into him, panic overriding everything else as he ripped the needle from his arm with no hesitation. Blood followed immediately, a thin line down his skin, but he barely noticed. 

After all, he wasn’t thinking. Thinking was slower than fear, and fear had already taken over. All he knew was that something had been done to you—or because of him—and that was unacceptable.

You jolted upright. “Whoa, hey! Relax, relax—”

He was already pushing himself up, unsteady but determined. He needed to make sure you were real, that you were okay.

“What happened?” he demanded, breath uneven, voice tight

You blinked at him once, then twice, grounding yourself before answering. “You went into my rooftop,” you said, almost resigned, save for the hint of affection in your time. “Full of poisonous plants.”

Rooftop.

His jaw twitched at the confirmation that you had hidden it. 

Dex frowned, trying to latch onto the memory. “What—”

“You touched my wolfsbane.”

He blinked, piecing memories together: The garden. The flowers. The dizziness.

You leaned back slightly, already reaching to remove the needle from your own arm, wincing faintly as you pulled it free, wiping the blood away like it didn’t matter.

“I’ve been selectively breeding them for five years,” you continued, almost absently. “That one’s about seven times more lethal than standard wolfsbane. Contact alone is enough.”

Dex stared at you.

“Most of the plants up there can kill you, actually,” you added, gentler this time. “That’s why I told you it was a junk closet.”

You said it so easily, like it hadn’t mattered, like it had just been a small, harmless deflection. But it wasn’t harmless. At least not to him.

“You lied,” he said, but it didn’t come out accusing. It came out… hurt and confused. Like he couldn’t reconcile it with everything else he knew about you.

You didn’t flinch, ambient interrupt. 

“But I’ve seen you,” he pushed, stepping closer without realizing it, drawn in like he always was. “You touch them without gloves. I—I don’t—”

You laughed, but it wasn’t dismissive.

“I should’ve known you were watching me,” you said, glancing at him through your lashes.

And there it was again—that pleasure in your voice. This time it had reason for concern. You weren’t afraid, or disgusted at this newfound knowledge. If anything, you looked… flattered. It was as if you had suspected it, and just like the garden, you had lied through your teeth. 

Dex’s chest tightened.

“If I almost died from touching one,” he said, rubbing his trail of blood away with tissues on your coffee table, “then you—” he choked at the words, as if he couldn’t physically say it. He tried again. “Then you should—“

“I should be dead?” you finished for him, noticing his struggle. 

He swallowed hard. How could you even say it, when he couldn’t even let the idea sit in his mouth?

The image formed in his mind anyway, uninvited: You, collapsed the way he had been. You, unmoving in that chair, permanently gone. His mind rejected it so violently it made his lungs feel like it was collapsing.

Your eyes softened. “I’m… immune.”

“What?”

It didn’t quite make sense to him. It felt disconnected from everything he understood about you. About the girl who laughed behind a counter, who fed him chocolates, who pressed flowers into frames simply because she wanted to.

You shifted in your seat, like this part of you was just… a fact. 

“My dad was a cocaine dealer,” you started, almost casually. “When I was five, I got into his stash. I ingested enough to kill little ol’ me twelve times over.”

Dex’s stomach dropped.

“But I was…,” you continued, “unaffected.”

Your fingers absentmindedly brushed over the velvet fabric of your chair.

“Doctors said I’ve got some kind of mutant gene. Means nothing really sticks in my system. I can’t get drunk. I can’t get high. Toxins don’t work the way they should.”

Dex didn’t look away from you once.

“When I was a teenager, I broke my arm,” you added an example, a faint grimace crossing your face. “They had to put pins in while I was awake. Anesthesia doesn’t work either.” You managed a sarcastic laugh. “That wasn’t fun.”

You said it lightly, like it was nothing, But he could see it anyway a younger you pinned down, awake, forced to feel everything. 

You were different. A mutant, that’s the term you used. You were… oh, fuck.

You were more capable than he ever deemed you to be. 

And that realization didn’t push him away the way it should have. It rooted him deeper. Because if you had always been this untouchable, then what he felt wasn’t built on fragility. You wouldn’t disappear under pressure. And he couldn’t seem to step away from you, no matter how much sense it would make to try.

Dex stepped closer again without thinking, like gravity pulled him there. Even confused, overwhelmed, heart still not fully steady, he needed to be near you.

“I… I didn’t know,” he said, as if he felt stupid for not seeing it sooner. There was even a shame in admitting it. In his mind, he had placed you in a gilded cage, easier to understand, easier to protect. But you had never belonged there at all.

You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

Across the room, Bubbles shifted in her tank, the faint glow of her skin calm now, her earlier agitation gone now that you were here. Her limbs curled slowly, as if the fact that you were awake meant that there was nothing to worry about.

Dex barely spared her a glance. The room, the hum of life continuing outside these walls all flattened into background noise. His mind had already narrowed its focus down to one fixed point, and it was you. It had been you for longer than he wanted to admit.

“How did I live?” Dex asked, but it didn’t come out demanding. It came out raspy and rough. 

His hand found your wrist without thinking, thumb brushing over the place where the needle had been, where a faint smear of blood still lingered. He wiped it away, almost reverently, like it mattered more than his own safety that you weren’t hurt. 

He didn’t think about it. His hands just… adjusted in a way they never did anywhere else, like he understood, on a level deeper than thought, that you should not be handled carelessly, no matter how strong you turned out to be.

“You have a Cogmium steel spine,” you said, like you were reminding him of the obvious.

His brow furrowed slightly, confusion threading through the lines on his face. “How do you know that?”

Slowly, you smiled, almost shy. 

“Oh, please,” you murmured, leaning back just enough to look at him properly, though your fingers came up to loosely curl in the hem of his shirt like you hadn’t quite decided to let him go either. “I knew who you were since after the second date, Benjamin Poindexter.”

That was… new information. At least to him. 

“My rare plant dealer complained that his courier turned up dead,” you continued, almost idly. “I got curious and looked into it. It wasn’t long till I put two and two together.”

Dex exhaled faintly, a small ah leaving past his lips. It was not quite relief, but acceptance. Because of course you had figured it out. Of course you had seen through him, the way only you could.

And you were still here, as if nothing had changed. You were still looking at him like he hung the moon for you, regardless of how many people he had killed, how many mistakes he had made.

People usually changed the second they understood. He had seen it happen too many times, the mind recalibrating upon the realisation of how dangerous he was. But you… you were still looking at him like nothing in him needed to be feared. Like nothing in him needed to be fixed.

Your hand lifted then, resting lightly against his chest, right over his sternum, where his heart was still finding its rhythm again. “Your spine, I—” you went on, your voice dipping more intimately. “It bonds to you.”

Dex didn’t interrupt. He just watched you like every word mattered simply because it came from you. He didn’t follow every word—not the science, not the mechanics—but he followed you. You spoke about him like he was worth understanding.

“Blood cells are made in the bone marrow,” you said, your fingers tracing absent patterns over his shirt, “That’s your immune system, your oxygen transport, everything. The aconitine would’ve disrupted the entire process.” You tilted your head slightly, studying him like he was one of your raw poisonous plants. “But yours isn’t normal anymore.”

His hand came up to your wrist again, grounding himself in you as you spoke.

“The steel fused with your spine,” you continued, almost fond in the way you explained it. “So the blood you produce now is… stronger.”

Dex’s eyes didn’t waver as he rubbed absentminded circles on your skin. 

“When you touched the wolfsbane, the toxin should’ve shut everything down almost instantly,” you said. “But it didn’t. Your modified cells slowed it down,” you said. “And while you’re not immune, it bought you time.”

Your thumb brushed lightly against his chest, like you were feeling the heart, measuring it.

“I didn’t have an antidote,” you admitted. “So I used what I had.”

His eyes flicked briefly to your arm again, to the faint mark. You shifted closer without thinking, your knees brushing his.

“I hooked us together,” you said, quieter now. “Your blood was slowing down, so I had to pump mine manually for the first couple of hours to keep the flow going.”

Dex’s hand slid from your wrist to your arm, fingers curling there. It was as if he needed to hold onto you to fully understand what you were saying.

“My blood doesn’t process things the way it should,” you continued. “It breaks them down and neutralises them. So once it got into your system…” You gave a small, almost playful shrug. “It did the rest.”

You smiled at him then, pride lighting your face.

“Ta-da,” you said lightly, kissing the corner of his mouth just to make sure his lips had warmed back up, “You’re alive.”

Dex didn’t pull away from you even when he was still processing everything. If anything, he leaned closer. His hands slid upward, as if he needed to map you again now that he understood what you were capable of. What you had done. What you had survived.

And suddenly, all the puzzle pieces started to fall into place— why death seemed to follow you, why you always seemed in control when you looked like you had so little power. 

“The groom?” he asked, not accusing. He was just trying to understand. 

When you nodded, his shoulders softened. That was the strange, almost painful thing about Dex. Every revelation, no matter how dark, only seemed to pull him deeper under your gravity.

“Foxglove tea,” you explained, your voice clinical. “His mother and brother getting sick were… collateral. But the bride came to me the night before, crying. She….” You paused. “She had marks.”

Dex brushed his absently over your skin, like he was grounding himself in your heart. Coming to terms that you were untouchable in ways he couldn’t quite grasp.

“Harper?” he asked next.

You nodded again, and there was the faintest flicker of irritation in your expression. “Oleander cake. He… tried to touch me.”

That set him off. Dex’s brows furrowed in anger, but still wounded and earnest and almost unbearably tender, over the fact that you didn’t go to him for answers. His hands moved to your face then, clumsy and urgent, like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. His thumbs hovered at your cheeks before pressing in gently, as if you might disappear if he didn’t hold you there.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, and an almost boyish hurt threaded through. 

You didn’t flinch under his touch. You leaned into it, your fingers gently circling around his back. “Because I can take care of it,” you said simply. “I did take care of it.”

That answer hurt him more than anything else you’d confessed.

“I know you can,” he said, and there was no doubt in it. His forehead dipped to yours. “But you don’t have to," he added, barely above a whisper.

You could feel the way he held on to control, as if the word letting go didn’t exist for him when it came to you. It was in the way his fingers lingered at your jawline, the way his breath mixed with yours, the way his entire body seemed angled toward you like you were the only point of gravity in the room.

You, who needed no one. And him who needed you, so openly it almost hurt to look at.

His eyes searched yours then, and he wasn’t searching for danger anymore. That part of him had already settled. What he was looking for now was some indication that he still had a place here, that he wasn’t just… incidental to you.

His voice dropped, fragile in a way he never was anywhere else. “Is it because you don’t trust me?”

You sighed, pulling away completely until his fingertips were bare and cold where your skin used to be. 

His chest tightened, a familiar spiral already coiling. Silence had never meant anything good in his life. Silence meant distance. And distance was always the beginning of the end. Before he knew it, everyone would slip just far enough out of reach that he couldn’t pull it back, no matter how tightly he held on.

But you didn’t leave him. You just stood up.

He watched you walk across the room as you approached the tank. The glow of it lit your face in shifting blue, and for a Dex stood up, caught between following you and giving you space.

You reached into the water without hesitation, lifting Bubbles from the tank, water slipping through your fingers as easily as breath.

You turned back to him, and Bubbles curled in your palm, deceptively cute and delicate, until she noticed him.

The second she saw him, the same electric blue rings from last pulsed across her body. 

Dex tilted his head. The warning was immediate, and honest in a way people never were. He wondered, briefly, if that was what he looked like to the rest of the world.

“She feels… threatened by you,” you chuckled, like it was amusing, your lips curving up. “She thinks you’re going to take me away from her.”

Dex stared at the tiny creature, at the warning written so clearly across her skin. And yet, she stayed in your hand. She didn’t flee, nor did she strike.

“But you two are more alike than you think,” you continued, softer now.

You held Bubbles closer, and she curled into you. Dex knew that feeling— the feeling of needing you, the feeling of wanting to be close to you because you felt safe.

“She’s a blue-ringed octopus. One of the most dangerous creatures alive. Their venom has no antidote.” Your fingers shifted slightly, letting the little creature settle against your skin. “I rescued her from a lab. She was… experimented on. They wanted to use her, to extract her as a biochemical weapon. As a result, her venom’s thirty times more potent now. She can thrive out of water for hours. Her species’ average lifespan is 6 months, but she...” you gently rubbed a finger over one of her tentacles as naturally as you would rub the belly of a puppy. That's when he noticed that one tentacle was marked— almost as if acid was poured over it in the quest of making her a living weapon. The poor thing had a scar, one not unlike his own, “…is turning two years old soon.”

Dex swallowed. Everything you said felt too familiar.

“I’m the only handler she didn’t kill. I’m the only handler she has never stung,” you added, almost absently. “Not just because she can’t. But because she trusts me.”

Dex had a feeling you meant more than just her. 

“Just because I can use her venom to kill for me,” you went on, your voice lowering, as you ran your hand through her squishy body, “just because she’s more dangerous than anything I grow upstairs… doesn’t mean I want to use her that way.” You exhaled. “She’s suffered enough.”

Dex watched intently as you leaned forward and returned Bubbles to the tank. She drifted for a moment, then settled against a rock, her colors fading, her body going docile again, simply because you were here.

Dex saw it then: the kinship, the invisible bond, the mirror that he had when he looked at the little creature that you cared so much about. 

Like Bubbles, he was already dangerous before. But now, he could fall off buildings. He could take a hit. He could survive beyond the constraints of his species. 

And like Bubbles, for the better part of the last decade, he had been manipulated, taken advantage of, and used as a weapon for agendas of more powerful men, a solution, a last resort. People didn’t want him. They wanted what he could do, what he could survive, what he could destroy.

You had never asked that of him. You hadn’t handed him your problems like weapons to solve. You had handled them yourself.

That feeling was… foreign and disorienting in all its kindness. It didn’t slot neatly into what he understood. There was no place to file it, no rule to attach it to. It left him… exposed.

Dex stepped towards you before he fully thought about it. He was close again, like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. His hands found you desperately, one at your waist, the other sliding up your arm like he needed to make sure you were still here.

“You didn’t…” His voice caught. “You didn’t want to use me.”

It wasn’t really a question.

His forehead dipped toward yours again, his breath uneven. Dex had never known what it meant to be wanted without purpose. And it terrified him a little, because if there was no function or role, then there was nothing to hide behind. There was nothing to blame when it inevitably went wrong. He concluded, then, that you didn’t even think this could go wrong. It was the only plausible explanation.

His voice dropped, “you just wanted me.”

Dex stayed close. After all, distance had become unnatural to him where you were concerned. His grip on your waist had changed. It was less desperate now, more certain, like he was learning how to hang on instead of bracing for loss.

He looked at you like he was still catching up. Like every piece of you he uncovered only made him want to understand more, not recoil.

“You still could,” he said, eyes glistening in awe. His thumb moved in slow circles against your side, like he needed repetition. “I still would.”

You knew that. You knew he would burn the world down for you if you just asked. 

You reached for his hand, not to steady it, but to hold. 

Your fingers laced through his, almost disarmingly. His hand tightened around yours in a reflex.

“I don’t want to,” you said.

Dex’s breath stuttered out of him. Of all the things he’d expected, all the ways this could have gone… this was the one thing he didn’t know how to defend against: Care, without cost.

He shifted closer again, until there was no space left between you, your joined hands pressed lightly between your bodies. His forehead found your shoulder this time. He wasn’t collapsing. He wasn’t even breaking. He was just resting, letting himself exist in your orbit, without needing to prove anything.

It was almost shy.

“I don’t… know what to do with that,” he admitted, voice muffled against you, smaller than you’d ever heard it. 

Your free hand came up, and settled at the back of his head. Your fingers threaded lightly through his hair, answering a question he didn’t know how to ask, “You don’t have to do anything.”

But how? 

He had always been something done with. A weapon pointed, used, unleashed. An arrow for a stronger master to wield, and more recently, a servant to his own broken mind, searching for purpose in the world. 

He didn’t know how to simply exist without rules or confines or borders or expectations of how he was supposed to be. 

You, on the other hand, made it look easy. Effortless, even. It's as if that after spending a lifetime being a mutant, you had decided that being violent and gentle were not opposites, but two sides of the same coin.

Dex didn’t know how to do that yet, but he knew, that he wanted to learn.

He turned his head slightly then, not pulling away, just enough that his temple rested against you instead. His fingers shifted in yours, tracing lightly over your knuckles.

“I think I like this better,” he murmured, almost to himself.

And for once, there was no tension in him. No trigger to pull, no violent tendency waiting to be called on.

Maybe you had always been drawn to dangerous things because you could handle them. Or maybe, it was because you were one of them.

Both Dex and Bubbles, in all their blue-ringed, lethal glory, were remade weapons too strange, too deadly for anyone else to hold. But not for you.

They didn’t have to make themselves smaller in your hands. They didn’t have to be hidden or used.

They could just… be.

In Dex’s mind, it couldn’t simply be luck. You were a mutant, you had explained, your body had never had to adapt or learn anything— you were born already ahead of them. You were built to survive them. You were made by the powers that be to endure what should have killed anyone else.

And Dex latched onto that divine intervention with frightening certainty. You were a design, not a coincidence. It was different from the way Bubbles had been remade, different from the way he had been reshaped and reinforced. You hadn’t been altered. In Dex’s mind, you had been made perfect because you were born different.

It was as if the universe had accounted for him and then, carefully, built you around that problem. You were made to love him. It was written in the stars, he was sure of it, as sure as he was that the sky was blue.

It might not be the healthiest way to think, but at least it was his own.

And as if she understood his thoughts unfolding, Bubbles moved closer to the glass, seeing Dex in a new light now. She raised her marred tentacle like a wave, then drifted once more, almost languid now, like a reluctant concession:

You’re fine, I guess.