Soft Currents

Damn open floor concepts, you think to yourself.  But what can you get for cheap rent in New York? A shoebox. As slowly and soundly as you can, you slip from your bed and reach into the drawer of your bedside table where your pistol lays, intended for times like this. 

Again, living alone in New York has its price, but you always come prepared. Making sure the pistol is loaded, you place your thumb on the hammer and slowly pull it down to cock it. With one hand holding the pistol away from your body, you use your other to open your bedroom door as smooth and hushed as possible. The worst thing you could do is alert the intruder this soon. 

Okay, okay okay. You can do this, you think to yourself as you force yourself to slowly leave the haven that is your bedroom. 

Overlapping your hands on the frame of your gun, you slowly bring it in front of you. In the dark, it takes your eyes a second to adjust but this is your home and you have it memorized, your intruder doesn’t. With that reassurance in mind, you tiptoe across the wooden floor of your hallway, trying to even your breaths and steady your racing heartbeat. You cannot pass out with a stranger in your home. Breathing in through your nose and exhaling quietly through your mouth, you make it to the end of the hallway where your living room lies with your kitchen behind the couch, and next to it is your front door which remains firmly shut. 

A chill that isn’t induced by fear crawls up your arms when you slowly turn your head to face the window, curtains swaying with the humid night breeze. Only one person knows that a certain window in the whole apartment doesn’t lock properly. 

How is he here? He swore he would never find you again, not after everything he put you through.

The sound of hushed “shit shit shit’s,” pulls you from your racing mind and a new feeling rushes through you which causes you to tighten your grip on the frame of your gun.

Anger. 

Your strides become more confident but still smooth, you don’t want to give yourself away too quickly. Although you are still frightened and shaking with adrenaline, you know just how to handle him.

Or so you thought.

Rounding the corner of the kitchen counter, you see him in all his messy glory. Disheveled blonde hair, ripped pants and shirt matching in color, sturdy combat boots stained with what you know is blood.

 His? You’re not sure. Probably not. 

Laying beside him, you notice multiple crumbled paper towels stained with blood as he continues to press more into a wound that does not seem superficial and slow to stop. Knowing he’s wasting your products annoys you more than you thought it would, and with a sneer, you raise your gun and make yourself known. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here, Benjamin?” you ask, your voice shaking with unbridled anger. The audacity of this man. You keep your gun steady as your presence causes him to jump an inch into the air, grinning when you see him wince at the movement. Good, you think. His head whips to look at you and that’s when you notice the light sheen of sweat coating his face. It’s been almost two years since you last saw him and he barely looks recognizable. His face, littered in scars and lined with years of exhaustion and fury, looks mature since the last time you saw him. During those three years together, he was just baby-faced and lanky. Now, though, he looks broad and untouchable but you know that’s not true. Not true at all. 

With a whisper of your name, like he didn’t expect to see you in your own home, he tries to push himself up off the tiled kitchen floor but quickly stumbles due to the blood loss. You move out of the way when you see him stumble towards you, your gun raised to meet his eyes when he looks up after catching himself on the counter. His eyes narrow when he sees the barrel of the gun staring at him. 

“I’m only going to ask you one more time, what the hell are you doing here?” you ask through gritted teeth. 

“I know I swore I’d never come back, but I need your help. Please-” Dex begins, reaching for you. But with a single harsh nudge with the barrel of the gun, you hold him in place.

“Don’t fucking touch me and don’t get any closer. I owe you nothing so get the fuck out of my house.” 

You know he’s only here because you’re the only one who can patch him up. 

Well fuck that. 

With a pained groan, he rests most of his weight on the edge of the kitchen island and holds the bleeding wound on his stomach with a heavily saturated napkin. That’s not the only place he’s bleeding, you notice a deep cut on his left eyebrow, a slash across his cheek which looks like it was caused by a knife, and a… bite mark on his right hand. The napkin used to soak up his blood decides its had enough, and the wound begins to drip on the floor so he peels the useless towel away from his marred skin with a disgusting squelch. You’d think with your profession that sound wouldn’t bother you but hearing it in a surrounding that’s not the hospital is different. 

“Please. Just help me and I’ll leave after,” Dex practically begs and tries to step forward again, both hands up in the air to show you that he’s not a threat. Bullshit. 

“I will shoot you if you come any closer,” you threaten and raise the gun which you hadn’t noticed you lowered. You know you won’t shoot him, you can’t no matter how much you want to. And you know he knows this too by the cock of his head. “I don’t know how you got inside,”   you know exactly how he got inside and you make a note to yourself to get the latch fixed,   “but you can see yourself out the same way you got in and go find a nice gutter to bleed out in,” you say and you hate that your voice shakes. You hate that his pain still affects you and you hate that you do want to help him.

“You know how I got in and I’ve told you time and time again to get it fixed. There’s no telling what can get inside,” he jokes with a slight tilt of his mouth. That smile is quickly replaced by a grimace and groan that sounds eerily similar to a whimper. 

With a roll of your eyes, you bravely step forward and push him back by his right shoulder. You continue to do that until you're about a foot away from the same window he came in. 

“Get out,” your voice comes out in a whisper, tears evident in the way you say it. Your gun shakes as you continue to hold it, partially due to sore arms and partially due to the onset feeling of defeat that is creeping up. You’ll always be a fool for him and you hate yourself for it.

“Sweetheart,” 

“Don’t! You don’t get to call me that. Not after everything you’ve put me through. Not after you lied to me about your job. Not after you killed an innocent man.” 

You won’t ever forget the day the version of the Dex you thought you knew shattered right before your eyes. Seeing the video evidence that somehow ended up on your computer of your Dex murdering a man in cold blood. Not after confronting him and having him hit the wall beside your head with his fist, not after being taken from your job in a blacked out van and being threatened that if you ever spoke about what you saw, no one would be able to find you. Not after you left shellshocked and with a broken nose. 

After Dex was arrested you thought you’d never see him again and you hoped and prayed you never would, even if a little part of your brain thought otherwise. So seeing him standing in your apartment, bleeding out and begging for your help, you selfishly found yourself in awe of the situation. Him, broader and more mature than the last time you saw him, you barefoot and in your pajamas holding a gun to his forehead. 

You felt euphoric which is why the next sentence out of your mouth not only shocked you, but him as well.

“Get on your knees,” 

Dex must realize you’re not bluffing, and with a pained whimper, he forces himself to his knees and looks up with glassy eyes and cocky smirk, blood lining his teeth. “There’s my girl,” he chuckles but is cut off by a wet cough, blood spitting out through his parted, cracked lips. 

Lips that used to kiss you awake, small butterfly-like presses to your forehead. Then your eyebrows, the apples of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, and finally your lips. 

Lips that used to make you sigh in ecstasy. 

Lips that used to press worshipful and reassuring words to your skin when you felt beaten down by the world around you. 

Lips that used to form the words  I love you.  

Even if that love wasn’t the traditional kind, it was still there. It felt real and raw. It was what he needed to feel normal and it was what you needed to feel wanted. 

Which is why a choked sob left you when his words registered in your brain. His girl. You haven’t been anything in so long and seeing him with blood dripping down his chin, glassy eyes unfocused, the smell of blood swelling around both of you, it only made sense for you to give in. 

A fool, your brain whispered but you held firm in your decision. 

“Stay,” is all you said before slowly backing away from him. You never lose eye contact until your back hits the closet door where you keep your first aid kit. After grabbing the massive bag, you move to another closet to find a sheet that you don’t mind discarding after this. You don’t need anymore blood stains on your floor and you sure as hell aren’t staining your couch. Walking back to the living room, you see that Dex hadn’t moved once but you notice that he’s rapidly declining. Part of you sings at the sight, it likes seeing him suffer. 

You push the spare pillows and throw blankets off the couch before draping the sheet across the upholstery. You’re aware this man now weighs at least two hundred pounds, so you brace yourself knowing you’re going to have to do most of the lifting. The position he’s in makes it easy for you to get an arm under his, and with a push and a shove, you manage to get his knees off the floor. Dex stirs with a grunt and almost keels over, but he must realize you’re holding most of his weight, and he stumbles over to the couch. 

Having him in your arms again almost makes you freeze. It’s been so long since you last touched him, since being this close to him. The last time you were this close, he put a hole in the wall next to your head. That thought makes you feel queasy but you knew he wasn’t going to hit you. He never misses. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss you off, so you shove him down on the couch and suppress a smirk at the pained wheeze that leaves him. He’s able to roll over on his back but not without looking green in the face. 

“If you puke, I’ll kill you,” you utter under your breath as you reach into the first aid kit, brandishing a suture kit and gloves. Your apartment is already covered in blood, doesn’t mean you want it on you. Knowing the profusely bleeding wound is on his stomach, you grip the hem of his shirt which feels like kevlar, and push the material up. There you’re greeted with the sight of incredibly defined abs and muscles. Shaking your head to clear your mind, you find the wound which looks like it was caused by a gun shot. 

Wonderful, you think to yourself. Without the correct equipment, you aren’t able to see the full extent of Dex’s injuries. Inspecting the bullet hole wound with the flashlight you grabbed, held between your teeth, you begin to prod the wound to see if it went clean through, but with the amount of bleeding you know that’s not the case. 

“Fuck!” 

With a rough exhale and the assumption that forceps won’t be able to find it, you say a little prayer and dig your finger into the wound to search for the bullet. 

The feeling of your fingers digging into his flesh causes Dex to jump and try to get away from the sensation but by some magical force, you’re able to hold him down and explain what you’re doing, but you swiftly realize it’s pointless because he’s passed out. After about three minutes of searching and drenching yourself in his blood, you find the pesky thing that’s been causing all of the trouble, and pull it out of the wound. Unfortunately for you, the gash continues to ooze blood but you’re able to find the source of said fluid, and replacing your dirty gloves with new ones, you begin stitching the injury. 

Once you’re through with that, you douse a piece of gauze in betadine and you start to clean the superficial injuries on Dex’s face, starting with the eyebrow which needed a few stitches, and ending with the bite mark on his hand. Luckily the knife laceration on his face or bite didn’t call for stitches, but you took extra care cleaning the mark on Dex’s hand knowing he wouldn’t get proper care for it. 

You never realized you were crying while patching Dex up, nor did you notice he woke up some time during the treatment you gave him. As you were carding your fingers through his hair, he gently grasped your wrist and brought your hand down to his cheek. You should’ve pulled back, you should’ve put space between the two of you but you didn’t. Instead you felt your face crumble and your bottom lip quiver. To which Dex then turned his face into the palm of your hand that was still resting against his cheek, and pressed a chaste kiss to the heart of your palm. Any restraint you had left, perished from your body and you collapsed over his torso, sobbing.

So many emotions were coursing through your veins. Anger, hatred, loneliness, betrayal, optimism, tiredness, love. You despised yourself for the last one, and you always will, but witnessing him slowly wither away made you realize you couldn’t bear to lose him in such a violent way. You knew the second you saw him for the first time that he would fuck you up forever, and here you were. Bending over backwards for a man who would never truly know what it was like to love for real, but you’ve given so much of yourself to him before, what’s one more time? 

The feeling of fingers weaving through your hair brought you out of your daze and your tired, dried eyes met blue that were slowly regaining focus but Dex was still out of it. With careful, steady movements, you licked the pad of your thumb before bringing it to Dex’s chin and wiping the dried blood from his mouth. 

“Thank you, baby,” Dex whispered because that’s all his body could fathom. You wanted to grimace at the pet name but it had been so long since you last heard it, that your treacherous stomach did flips. Without saying a word, you slowly moved up closer to him and laid down on your side, your back to the living room. With one hand, you cupped his face and slowly brought your lips to his. Not yet kissing, but resting. Eventually, it seemed that the two of you were on the same page, and Dex tilted his head to the side and slotted his bottom lip between yours. With an anguished groan, Dex lifted his hand to tangle his fingers into the hair at the back of your head to deepen the kiss. 

At the hint of tongue brushing against your bottom lip, you pulled back with a small gasp and opened your eyes to see Dex already looking at you. Not knowing what to say, you just hold eye contact until Dex’s eventually flutters shut and he pulls you closer to his chest, pain and discomfort be damned. Silent tears drip down your cheeks when you think about the fact that this could have been the last time you ever saw him and as much as you can’t stand it, you don’t ever want that day to come. But with the life he leads, the chances of that are greater than none. 

The feeling of a kiss being pressed to your forehead brings you up for air and you lay your head in the crook of his neck where it meets his shoulder, and you close your eyes for the first time in what feels like days when really it must have been two hours. With a sigh, you resign yourself to this spot for the rest of the night and however long it takes for Dex to heal. 

“Go to sleep, sweetheart. You deserve it,” with one final kiss pressed to your head, he whispers, “thank you.” 

He’s not there when you wake five hours later. 

He’s not there when you stay awake for nights on end waiting for him to come back.

He’s not there after a month of nothingness. 

He’s not there. 

Slamming the front door to your apartment shut was as cathartic as you knew it would be, your night shift coming to an end three hours after it was supposed to. Dropping your coat and purse to the floor, you kick off your sneakers and make your way to the kitchen that was only a few paces away. Washing your hands and filling a cup up with water, you rest your hip against the kitchen counter and look out of the window that faces towards the bustling city below you, curtains billowing in the wind. 

A shiver runs down your spine when you realize you never opened the window before leaving for work. Slowly turning your head, there on the center table in the middle of the living room, is a vase of lilies. Your breathing picks up when you see that there’s a note stuck between the petals. Apprehension fills your body like lead as you slowly trudge towards the flowers. Your head is on a constant swivel, feeling like a stranger in your own home. With trembling fingers, you pluck the note from the powder white petals, and open the folded paper. 

                 “You should really get that window fixed.”

“Pretty woman, walking down the street,” you bobbed your head in time with the beat of the song, earbuds tangled into a knot that you were too unbothered to fix. “Pretty woman, the kind I like to meet,” you gripped the handle that led into the little convenience shop on the corner of  2nd Avenue. You were unaware of the man behind you so you missed the small smile on his face when you let the door close behind you. 

After waving to the store owner, you walk towards the hygiene products aisle and begin searching for what you need. You had started your period close to the end of your rotation at the hospital which made you remember that you’re out of pads and tampons at home. 

Reaching for a box of Always, you lose grip on your phone and pads. 

“Shit,” you mutter after dropping your device which causes your earbuds to rip out of not only your ears, but the port in your phone. Luckily, your music paused before you could embarrass yourself any further. 

A hand larger than yours reaches for the box of hygiene products and you can feel heat begin to spread over your face when you realize the hand belongs to a man. Before you can grab the box out of his hands, he also reaches for your phone, holding both in one hand.

Oh. 

“Thank you so much, I’m so sorry about that,” you say when you realize you’ve been staring for too long, you grab your phone and box when he hands them out to you. 

“It’s no problem, though you should really look into switching to cotton products. Always is full of chemicals and shit. Could give you cancer,” the man says with a lopsided grin on his face. His grin widens when he notices the look of surprise but agreement on your face.

He’s not wrong.

“I’m very impressed by your knowledge on period products. Not a lot of men even bother to know that kind of stuff,” you say with a chuckle, brushing your hair out of your face. Tucking the box under your arm, you begin to wrap your earbuds around your phone so you don’t have to fumble awkwardly around this very handsome man. 

He’s taller than you by at least a foot but very lanky. His dirty blonde hair lays limply on his forehead and he’s wearing a quarter inch zip up that looks well loved. He must be a runner, you think when you notice the joggers and sneakers he’s also wearing. 

“Hm?” You hum, not realizing he had said something. 

“It’s a good song you’re listening to,” he says pointing to your lit up phone that displays Pretty Woman still paused. 

“I’m Benjamin but I go by Dex, it’s nice to meet you.” 

Ripping open the plastic wrapping of the pad with a sneer brings you out of your daydream. Go figure your menstrual cycle would remind you of Dex. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had it memorized. A small part is charmed by the thought of someone – Dex – having your cycle written down somewhere.

Jesus, get a grip, you think to yourself while finishing up in the bathroom. It’s only your first day off out of the three and you plan on spending the first one inside getting some housework done. It had been raining for a few days straight and today is the first time you can see sparse clouds in the sky. Living in the city when it rains makes the humidity unbearable so that’s why you’ve chosen to stay inside. However, when you look down into the basket you keep your pads and tampons in, you see that you only have one of each left. How do you let it get this low? You’ll never know. 

With a long groan, you trudge into your bedroom to find something suitable to wear outside. After putting your sneakers on and grabbing your purse, you walk over to the window with the still broken latch. I know. You make sure it’s closed all the way before slipping out of your front door and locking it behind you. 

Luckily you live within walking distance from the convenience store so you don’t have to worry about braving the subway today. You’re glad it stopped raining for the week, because all of the little pop-up shops are in full swing, corner store florists bring light and color to the still drearier street which you appreciate. 

“Good morning, Miss Greta. How are you today?” you ask the older woman who runs the flower cart. You’ve known her for years, she was the first person to really welcome you to Hell's Kitchen and everyday since then, she’s given you a small flower. Today is no different.

“Good morning, dear. I’m doing well and you?” 

“Pretty good, just on my way to one-oh-seven. Gotta grab some stuff,” you reply and grab the short stem from the woman, the petals a light purple. Noticing a woman behind Greta, you can tell she’s a waiting customer so you bid the older woman a goodbye with a short hug and smile. 

As you make your way down the sidewalk you begin to feel eyes on you, a chill creeping up your back despite the humid air. Quickening your pace, you make it to the shop within five minutes and slam the door shut behind you, resting for a minute to catch your breath. Luckily no one was there to witness your lapse in decorum. With the door protecting you from his prying eyes, you beeline for the hygiene products and grab whatever cheap brand they have, and with swift steps, you walk up to the line that’s formed, and wait to pay. The ding of the bell from the door being opened causes you to tense for a moment, breath catching in the back of your throat. And when you hear the notes of Pretty Woman being whistled, it takes everything in you to not run out of the shop. 

As much as you wanted to see Dex, your body didn’t agree with that.

With as much discretion you can muster, you turn your head to the right to see if it really is him and you’re able to breathe a little easier when you see that it’s just an older man who was flipping through a magazine. When it’s your turn to finally pay, you do it as hurriedly as possible without seeming rude. With a polite smile, you leave and start a brisk walk to make it back home before you have a breakdown in public. 

You’re glad you decided against wearing earbuds today because the sound of heavy footfall behind you causes you to speed up your walk. You risk the chance and turn to take a look at who is behind you, and the sight of a tall man with blonde hair causes you to trip over your feet but you're fortunate enough to catch yourself on the wall and not the ground. The man just passes you with a dirty look and you don’t bother to make a face back, you’re too busy trying to catch your breath. With your back to a wall, you take a moment to gather your bearings and to look around you. Trying to pick him out of the crowd. 

You know it’s going to be impossible, he’s been trained for this. 

The sound of church bells causes you to jump about an inch into the air and you shake your head at yourself and your ridiculous beating heart.

Later that night, you make sure to add a piece of wood into the window to keep it firmly shut.

The following day you spend it in bed, not having slept well the night before, the thought of Dex entering your home again kept you up and you made sure to keep your gun loaded on your bedside table. 

That was the routine that unfortunately started to take place and you haven’t been able to shake it for weeks now. The constant vigilance was starting to tear you down and it makes you feel like you’re losing your mind. It even gets to the point where you’re thinking about finding a doctor to prescribe you anxiety medication. You’ve had to sleep with your TV on for weeks now, for some reason the extra lighting in your room feels like protection. Due to the crippling exhaustion and fear, you forked out enough money from your savings to get the window fixed. 

You haven’t seen Dex in about five months but you’ve felt his eyes on you. Watching you to and from work, your nights out with friends, your failed dates, and watching you run your errands. You don’t know why he won’t just come out of hiding and come to you. 

What’s wrong with me? 

Is it me?

Have I done something wrong?

Does he not miss me like I miss him? 

You hate that you long to see him while dealing with his torment. 

He’s breaking you down, he wants you to give in.

“I know!” you sob as you answer yourself out loud in the comfort of your home. You haven’t slept in a day and it’s starting to take its toll. You’re answering yourself for christ sakes. The emotions that have built up in the past couple of days finally boil over, and roll onto your side and cry. 

It’s the kind of cry that makes your chest feel empty and hot, and your throat dry. The kind where you can feel the heat of your tears on your cheeks, and the gasping breaths trying to claw their way out of your lungs. 

The whole time you cry out his godforsaken name, you don’t notice him standing outside your window. 

It doesn’t happen until the following week after you’re leaving the subway station after getting stood up by your coworkers at the bar they promised to be at, but they miraculously all got called to stay on night shift. With a scoff, you wrap your coat around you a little tighter, the wind picking up with the oncoming rainstorm. It would be just your luck to get stuck in the rain.

It’s not often that you have to walk home in the dark but you always make sure to keep your weapon on you. You aren’t going to risk it. And you’re glad you do because not a moment later, do you feel someone trying to grab your purse.

With a grunt, you push the perpetrator as hard as you can and you suppress your smile when they hit the wall with a grunt. But unfortunately they kept their grip on your purse which now lays on the ground, its contents spread across the pavement and collecting the raindrops that have started to fall. You failed to notice that there was a second person until it was too late, and then there was a hand being held over your mouth. You yelled anyway and started thrashing your body and kicking your legs, however the man holding you was stronger and taller than you, so it didn’t do much. 

The man that you had pushed walked over to where you were being restrained and cupped your face gently, giving you a small smile before slapping you across the face. A sharp pain rings in the inside of your cheek after you bite it, hard enough to feel the heavy warmth of blood in your mouth. With a smirk on your face, you spit the blood in the man’s face. 

As fulfilling as it felt, the punch you got to your stomach after was not welcomed at all. With a pained groan, you double over in pain, the second man pushing you into the pavement. You’re so focused on the pain in your stomach that you can’t properly catch yourself, so your chin hits the concrete hard, and you taste even more blood in your mouth from where your tooth went through your lip. 

“Help! Please,” your cries aren’t as loud as you need them to be, the air has not yet filled your lungs properly. The blood in your mouth spills down your chin as you gasp for air. You’re still laying on the ground with one arm wrapped around your stomach, while your other continues to blindly search for your gun. Your ears are ringing and your vision is distorted by your own tears and rain, you don’t hear the first body hit the ground. You only know because he lands on the ground right in front of you, eyes blown and a single bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. A single bead of crimson drips from it.

With all the strength you can muster, you use it to scream and scramble up, whimpering at the pain that radiates from your face and stomach. With the other perpetrator distracted by his fallen comrade, you grab your gun, cock it, and point it at the man. 

“Get the fuck away from me!” You shout. Your hands are shaking so badly that you’re surprised the man takes you seriously as he does start to back up. But it’s not until you register another pair of footfalls that you understand why this man is backing up. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart.” 

A sob of relief leaves your mouth, your body sagging against the wall you’ve leaned yourself again. You’re still out of it but you see Dex grab the man by his neck and throw him onto the ground with a sickening thud and squelch. The man doesn’t get back up but that doesn’t deter Dex, the man touched you and even though aren’t Dex’s anymore, he’d kill for you. And you know he’s about to again. 

You can’t bring yourself to care. 

You look away in time to see Dex raise his knife, before he drags the blade across the man’s jugular, killing him instantly. The sound of the man choking on his blood is enough to make you gag, but Dex is there to pull you away from the scene. 

You’re shaking from the adrenaline and you’ll blame it on the exhaustion later, but you lean most of your body weight onto Dex but he accepts it gladly. If he knew you wouldn’t put up a fight, he’d pick you up and carry you home. 

Home. 

Home. 

Home. 

His arms around you remind you of coming home from clinicals, tired and hungry, only to find dinner on the table and dimmed lights. Dex standing close by the door so he could take your coat and purse from you. 

His arms remind you of coming home from a perfectly planned dinner date that ended with you two laying on the rooftop of your apartment, trying to single out the constellations through the smog. 

His arms reminded you of coming home and holding him in your arms when he was having a hard day, whether that was from work or he just couldn’t regulate his emotions. When it was the latter, holding him in your shared bed and scratching his back gently brought him as close to the surface as he could get when he got too deep into his head.

All of these emotions bubbling up added with the nostalgia, it didn’t take long until you turned in his arms and cried. 

“Shh, I know. I’m here now,” 

You wanted to scream at him, wanted to know where the hell he had been before tonight. 

But. 

He was here now. 

“Please. Please don’t go,” you sobbed and clutched onto his shirt, rubbing your face into the material. You know you were getting your blood on him but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. His heavy hand landed on the back of your head, just holding you to his chest and letting you cry. 

The sound of his heartbeat under your cheek was soothing enough that you were able to catch your breath.

The feeling of a finger under your chin fully brought you back up to the surface. You kept your eyes down as Dex examined your maimed face, you couldn’t look at him like this. Dex’s thumb brushes over your still bleeding lip, causing you to wince and finally look up at him. 

“Oh my poor girl,” he coos while his other hand brushes your hair away from your face. You feel your bottom lip tremble as he continues to treat you with soft touches, a soft cry leaving your lips when you feel him press a kiss to your brow bone. 

You must have been in a trance because the next thing you know, you’re being ushered into your apartment and being carefully set down on the couch. You hear Dex looking through the closest that’s down the hall and you know he’s looking for the first aid kit. The same one you used to patch him up all those months ago. 

You flinch when he settles in front of you, sitting on the edge of the coffee table to reach your height as you sit as still as possible.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers your name and you’re finally able to see Dex clearly.

His brows are furrowed in anger – not directed at you – and concentration as he saturates a cotton pad with betadine to clean the wound on your lip, the blood now congealed. He still looks the same as he did months ago which causes anger to simmer in your body.

How dare he look the same while you have had to cover your eye bags due to the lack of sleep you never get, or the layered clothing due to losing weight from the loss of appetite. 

You’re too tired to make a big deal out of how you’re feeling, so you just watch Dex’s movements with a careful eye. As unbalanced as he is, you trust him to take care of you.

After the stitches in your lip are complete, he leads you to your bathroom and sits you down on your bed while he runs the bath and gathers your pajamas. It bothers you how natural his presence feels in the home you once shared, how domestic it feels. It feels like he never left. 

But he didn’t leave willingly. 

With gentle hands and assured words, he removes your clothing as slowly as possible so as to not agitate your sore stomach. You don’t know why you allowed him to undress you but you did. You also allowed him to carefully submerge you into the warm water. 

“Why?” You ask with a rough voice, your back turned to him as he washes your hair. His deft fingers rub the shampoo into your scalp until it’s a frothy mess. 

“Why what?” 

“Why did it take you so long to come back?” The ‘to me’ goes left unsaid but its presence is felt from miles away. Your dry eyes fill with tears and it burns, burns like the hatred and the grief you feel in your heart.

Dex is quiet for a few moments and in that time, he rinses your hair with one hand cupped over your forehead to prevent water from dripping down your face. Foregoing conditioner, he wets a wash rag and then lathers soap onto it. As you turn back to face him, he grabs your right arm and starts to wash you. 

He avoids your eyes while he does this but you continue to watch him. It’s sickening how your stomach fills with warmth and your body unwinds with his careful hands. It’s been so long since someone last took care of you, you choose to ignore that Dex was the last one to take care of you. 

“You told me to never come back so I didn’t.” 

He means when you found the video on your computer of him murdering an innocent man. You weren’t able to tell him to never come back after he broke into your house months ago because he was already gone. 

You’re not sure you would’ve told him to leave. 

You didn’t know how to reply to that so you spent the rest of the time you were in the bath in silence. 

It felt like hours later but it was probably only one when you were finally dressed in your pajamas – you were too weak to say no when Dex offered to help – and sitting on the counter top in your bathroom, Dex standing between your spread legs and applying the antibiotic ointment to your lip. You knew he had to look at your lips but it still caused warmth to cover your cheeks. You had no reason to look at his lips yet here you were. 

You missed the way they felt when he kissed you.

You missed the way they looked when you laughed together.

You missed the way they formed songs when you brought pleasure to each other. 

You missed him. 

You don’t know what led you to do it,

Yes you do.

But you brought your arms up to wrap around his shoulders and tugged him down to your level, and crashed your lips onto his. 

You’ll swear that the whimper you let out was due to the pressure on your lip wound, but you both know that’s not the truth based on the smirk you can feel against your lips. 

Dex brought both of his large hands to hold both sides of your face, his fingertips brushing against each other on the back of your head, and as gently as possible with a lip injury, sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and he let out a quiet moan when he could taste the copper on his tongue. You slid your hands up from his shoulders to cup each side of his neck, and you nipped at his bottom lip, asking for entrance which he gladly accepted. 

The last kiss you had with him was not this passionate, it was brief and it held so many tolling emotions. Not that this one didn’t, but you both could feel the difference in this one. You could feel the acceptance and uncertainty at the same time but you both know what you want. 

The feel of Dex’s tongue brushing against yours caused you to let out a short whine and shiver. Both of which Dex caught as he pulled back slightly to give you a cocky smile.

“Yeah, baby?” He whispered, tilting his head down to meet your gaze. 

“Mhm,” you whined, craning your neck up to connect your lips again but he pulled back at the last second and gave you a teasing smile. “Please, baby,” you urge, hoping the pet name works in your favor.

It does. 

Dex groans as he dips back in to kiss you, slipping his tongue in and running it against the spot you bit into during the scuffle earlier that night. That caused you to shiver again, goosebumps covering your arms and legs. Regrettably, you both pull away to catch your breaths but you continue to place desperate little kisses against the corners of his mouth, chasing the soft laughs that leave every time you sneak a kitten lick. 

“Baby, baby baby,” Dex whispers as he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed with bliss written all over his face, along with a pink flush against his cheeks. You can’t help but leave a chaste kiss on his mouth again but that’s when you notice the entirety of the bottom half of his face is covered in a light layer of your blood. A small gasp leaves you as you bring your hand up to your mouth, and sure enough, your fingers are coated in blood when you retract your hand. 

However, Dex looks unperturbed. Instead, he just runs his tongue over his lips to get one final taste of you before he cleans you both up. 

It only takes about five minutes to clean up and after that, against your better judgement, you both end up in bed together. Dex closest to the door. He’s dressed in an old pair of his sweatpants and shirt you refused to get rid of when you broke up, a fact that you’re happy about because now he can be comfortable. 

You both lay facing each other, close enough to brush noses and smell the toothpaste on each other's exhales. It’s the most you’ve ever felt safe and sound in months. Dex raises his left hand and gently cups the side of your face, tracing your eyebrow, all the way down to your jaw where a bruise is already starting to form. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough,” he said quietly, not wanting to disturb the peacefulness that surrounds you both. 

“You saved me anyway,” you brush your nose against his in silent reassurance. You know where his mind can lead him when he thinks about hypotheticals. 

“You could’ve saved yourself, don’t think I didn’t see your gun. My brave girl,” you could feel a blush covering not only your face, but your ears too. Your only saving grace was that there were no lights on. But you should’ve known better because Dex knows you. “What?” He asked, moving closer to you, one arm scooping under your waste to pull you in closer, the other arm guiding your leg to rest over his hip, which left you no choice but to curve into him, leaning back so you could still look at him.

“I like when you call me that. Your girl,” you answered truthfully, fully intending for Dex to let out a laugh but instead he lets out a choked sob, burying his head in your shoulder. Alarmed, you bring your arms up to cradle him into you, and you begin to rock both of you, moving as much as possible while being held. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” the use of your name makes you hold onto him tighter. During previous fights, Dex would always use pet names to sway your attention away from what was causing the rift between you, but the use of your name lets you know he truly is sorry. 

Or as sorry as he can feel. 

But it’s enough for you and you tell him that. You tell him you’re not sure how you can forget him in that video that’s burned into your brain, not sure how you can forget him nearly hitting you in a fit of rage when you asked him about said video. You tell him you’re not sure how you can forget months of silent torment from him. You tell him all of this and he does cry through it, but he acknowledges it all. 

“But I also can’t forget how intensely you loved me.” 

“Love. I love you and I don’t think I can ever stop. I don’t want to,” 

“I don’t want you to either. I miss you everyday even though I know you’re out there watching me. I can’t tell you how many nights I stayed awake hoping you’d come home,” you confess. “And I love you, too. I want you to come home,” you add. You close your eyes, not sure if you can handle to see the rejection that might grace his face. However, you’re surprised when he presses his lips to yours with a pleased hum. 

“I want to come home. Please let me,” Dex begs and you can see his bottom lip trembling slightly, small wrinkles in his chin. You bring your thumb up to smooth out said wrinkles, and you place a small kiss on his chin. 

“I’ve kept the window open for you.”