love, M

❀ ── your husband had turned your sex life into something robotic; lights off, two minutes of awkward thrusting, then rolling over to check his phone. that night at the cabin party, the hunter of the yosemite park was there. you didn't even know that was a real job until you met him, and yet shane maguire cornered you like a mouthwatering prey against the wall of the old boathouse. within minutes he had your dress shoved up around your waist, adorable greeny panties yanked to the side and two thick fingers buried deep in her already dripping cunt. "been starving, haven’t you?" he growled against your neck. "poor thing" you came hard on his hand before he even got his cock out.

❀ ── when he finally turned you around and squeezed half of your face, still pretty red and warm, against the wall, he pushed inside you — raw, thick, and relentless —. you had to bit down on his hand in order to keep the party going on outside. shane fucked you like a man, not a husband. he smelled like sweat and like the soft ground after the rain pounding you against the wooden wall until your legs shook and his cum was leaking down your underware.

❀ ── without being able to walk in a straight line or remember your own name, you only had one thing on your mind, and it was shane, shane, shame?

❀ ── days after that unspeakable event, your husband was gone on another work trip. shane, who was keepin an eye on you, didin't knew you were married and he wouldn't even mind. he knocked your door under the excuse of fixing the faucet. ten minutes later he had you bent over the kitchen counter where you served eggs and coffee to your husband hours before, dress rucked up, bare tits pressed against the cold granite. he didn’t bother with foreplay and neither did you. he spat on his cock and thrust in hard, stretching you in one brutal stroke. "so fucking tight," he grunted as he railed you, one hand fisted in your hair as if you were young. the other slapping the fat flesh of your ass hard enough to leave red marks. making you whimper and bite back your moans

❀ ── you did something you couldn't believe it was actually real: you came twice. each one more fucking loud than the other, messy orgasms that soaked his balls before he buried himself deep and pumped full of hot cum. using the hands he had buried in your ribs to lean towards you, pressing his chest against your back and putting a thick arm over your stomach to breathe a little, smelling the hair on the back of your neck

❀ ── "pretty thing" it slipped out of him by mistake, because your home was all soft things: drying herbs in the windows, sun on the floorboards, and a place set for someone to come back to. and his words froze you in place, because you didin't knew if he was talking about the house or you. guilt branched out inside, sealing your lips.

❀ ── it was twisted and horrendous, but the thrill of almost getting caught made you reckless. shane texted you to meet him behind the abandoned mill. and you climbed into his truck and he immediately pulled you onto his lap. no talking. he shoved your laced panties aside and impaled you on his thick cock in one go. but, fuck, you learnt quickly how you wanted to rode him. desperately, tits bouncing in his face while he sucked hard on you nipples and gripped your ass, guiding you up and down, slowing your high a bit. "your husband ever make you this wet?" he taunted with a cocky smile that you hated. you slap him hard on the face and came shuddering around him with your last strength, clenching so hard he groaned and flooded your pussy with rope after rope of cum.

❀ ── what started as "just once" became an addiction. now you crave the way shane acts. the way he chokes you lightly while fucking you, the filthy things he whispers about everything your husband doesn't deserve, how he makes you beg to be filled. you started wearing the lingerie your husband never notices just so shane can rip it off, you buy new bottles of perfume insted of beers, you comb your hair in pretty braids or buns, you even caught yourself smiling at your own reflection sometimes.

❀ ── you always say the night before was the last time. but every time your husband comes home and and sits down on the sofa to turn on the football like another plant, the urge to shake him by the shoulder and yell at him for being so passive with life, turns into sighs full of longing, for a man who is not him.

❀ ── you two rented a cheap room on the edge of town, out of sight of the gossips. and shane spent time devouring you like he trully wanted to do it. he ate your pussy until you were grinding against his face, kicking and trying to push him off by the shoulders. then he smiled at you, naughty and greedy, cleaning his wet lips before flipping you over. you rested in your stomach with a gasp, feeling his big harsh hands running down your legs to position you the way he wanted, fucking you from behind, deep and punishing. he pulled your hair until your scalp stung, slapped your ass, and licked your spinal cord till pecking your sensible spot on the neck. almost crushing you beneath his body.

❀ ── "jessus christ, you’re dripping down my thighs," he grunted. “your husband ever make you this wet?” “shane...,” you gasped, nails digging into his biceps. “shane i love my husband. i do. he’s been my life for years." shane’s eyes darkened with something between lust and pain. he bit her shoulder almost angrily, then slowed, grinding against her clit. “then why does your pussy keep sucking me back in like it’s starving?” "fuck, shane, please" he came inside with a low groan, holding you close afterward longer than he should have, stroking your hair like you were something precious he couldn’t quite have.

❀ ── after, you both waited until you'd regained your composure and had some reheated room service dinner in bed. he made you laugh about something that, at the time, had mortified him in his army years. you told him you'd adopted an orange cat to feel less alone in that house, and he replied, "just like in your dream," in a calm and pleasant way. yes… like that dream you had. you barely even remembered it. but he did.

❀ ── the beggining of the end was on a rainy night. it was pouring outside when he parked his car on your street and you arrived like drops of cold water trickling down the windshield. your husband was home asleep, none the wiser. shane had you straddling him, nightgown bunched at her waist, sinking down onto his thick cock with a wet gasp he swallowed between kisses and licks. “ffuck… you feel like you were made for me,” he growled, hands gripping you hips as he thrust up hard. then softer, almost broken, he couldn't even handle it: “i think about you too much, baby. this ain’t just fucking anymore.” you moaned, riding him slower, tears mixing with rain on the window. “shane… i love my husband. i do. he’s safe. he’s what i always had” but your pussy clenched tighter around him as you said it. shane buried his face between his breasts, sucking hard, and fucked her deeper, almost desperately, like he could erase the memory of your husband from your body. no more words spilled out that night. he came with you with a deep groan, filling you until it leaked down his balls, whispering against your warm skin, "i’m not asking you to leave him… just don’t ask me to stop wanting you either"

❀ ── but will that be the last time? your guilt and your lust whisper to you at the same time.

You, Foggy, and Karen had just left Josie’s Bar to check on Cafaro when the loud crack of a gunshot filled the air and pain hits you from behind. It rips through your right shoulder, taking your breath away before you fully understand what’s happened, as the force of it sends you stumbling forward.

But what made you stiffen was the blood splatter on Karen’s face as you realised that the bullet had exited your shoulder and hit Foggy, who had collapsed onto the ground as people around you screamed in horror, and for a few seconds you froze in pain and panic before adrenaline kicked in and you were moving before your mind caught up.

Yelling for someone to call an ambulance, you press your hands firmly against Foggy’s wound, willing your powers to stop healing you and to heal Foggy.

To keep him breathing, and to keep him stable. To keep him with you.

You were so lost in your panic that you didn’t even notice when Karen put her hands against your shoulder until she pressed down hard enough to make you gasp in pain as she tried to keep as much of your blood where it should be.

“Stay with me.” Her voice broke as each word filled with more panic. “Both of you, please.”

But you don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when you're forcing everything you have into Foggy. Not when you can hear your brother fighting on the roof of Josie’s Bar, knowing that he’s listening to Foggy’s heartbeat, to your blood dripping onto the street.

With your body begging to heal the hole in your shoulder, your vision blurs as you push through the pain, putting everything you have into Foggy. You hadn’t even realised that you'd been repeating the same things over and over.

“Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. Stay with me.”

But the strain keeps building, becoming sharper with each passing moment, when a heavy impact lands behind you three. Your breath catches as your powers flicker for just a moment as you silently pray that you won’t lose them both tonight. Not Foggy and Matt.

Not your brothers.

Breathing deeply, you steady your hands, channel your powers, and check that Foggy is still breathing as the paramedics that have just arrived rush to help before you turn your head and let out a sigh of relief.

Not Matt.

You slouch into Karen's waiting arms, your pain finally catching up with you as you fully turn to look at Benjamin Poindexter on the ground, barely conscious, and as you make eye contact, it happens.

The pleasant burning feeling on your left collarbone. The sign you've been waiting nearly your whole life for.

The sign that you have met your soulmate.

And yours has just shot you.

Breathing deeply, you push the memory out of your mind, reminding yourself that you’re in your apartment tucked away in your warm bed and not bleeding in the arms of your friend.

But the ache is still there, still pinching, and you realise that no amount of gentle rubbing is going to relieve it tonight. Sighing you toss your covers back, slide your feet into your soft slippers to make your way to your kitchen, where you last put the pain relief balm.

Slowly you push yourself to stand, your aching shoulder throbbing in protest as you put on your fluffy robe, fingers brushing against the scar, and take a deep breath.

Checking your clock that reads 1:44 AM, you tighten the robe and step into the hallway.

The apartment is pitch black except as you make your way towards the kitchen, you don’t bother turning on any lights, using the moonlight to help lead you to the balm left on the center island.

Opening it, you gently massage the soothing gel onto your scar, letting out a sigh of relief as you feel it take effect. Placing the lid back on the tin and tucking it into your robe's pocket, you turn back towards the bedroom when the sound of fabrics moving against each other comes from the darkness of the living room.

Slowly you grab a knife from the wooden block and move carefully towards the sound, slippers gently slapping against the wooden floors. Keeping your breathing as quiet as possible, you slowly crept around the corner and quickly flicked the lamp on, flinching at the brightness and nearly dropping the knife when you saw who was sitting on the sofa.

Benjamin Poindexter was supposed to be imprisoned and serving multiple life sentences. Not casually sitting on your new sofa.

Blood darkening the side of his shirt as one of his hands pressed tightly against it, though a slow trickle of blood slips through his fingers. His head lifts the second the light turns on, and for a moment he doesn’t move; he just stares at you with a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

For a few seconds, neither of you speak. You just look at him, cataloguing everything that has changed since you last saw him. He’s bigger and bulkier than before, as if he had nothing to do in prison except gain more muscles. You ignore how it makes your heart stutter.

Dex’s eyes flicker briefly towards the knife clutched in your hand, and a smirk appears on his face as he looks you in the eyes. “Are you going to use that?” he asks quietly.

“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. “What do you want?”

Soulmate or not, this is still the man who shot you.

Dex’s eyes lower briefly to the blood staining his side. His hand still tightly clutching the wound. “I needed help.”

Then his eyes lift back to yours. “And I wanted to see you.”

Something tightens in your chest because part of you understands exactly what he means.

For a moment you stay where you are, knife still low at your side, eyes flickering once again towards the blood dripping from his hand and staining your sofa.

“You’re staining my sofa,” you say, placing the knife on the shelf, hands more steady than you feel.

Dex tilts his head, eyebrows twitching in confusion. “What?”

“My sofa is brand new, and you’re ruining it.”

“Oh,” he says, finally noticing his blood soaking the cushions. “So I am.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the last bit of adrenaline leave your body. When your brother told you this morning he was going to see Dex in prison, this wasn’t how you expected your night to go.

“Let me see it,” you say.

Dex stills at your words, his hand moving to his ribs, his eyes slightly hopeful.

“Your injury,” you sharply say, face flushing red. “Not that.”

His eyes stay on you for a second before he slowly moves his hands away from his body. Blood immediately gushes through the tear in his shirt, a stab wound from what you could see and probably a few hours old.

You swear softly under your breath. “You should be at a hospital, especially with those face wounds as well.”

“No.” His answer was quick but certain. “Just you, only you.”

You don’t bother arguing as you step closer, removing your robe and setting it below you on the coffee table. He looks worse up close, pale even in the light of your warm lightbulb, and the left side of his face was bruised.

But his eyes never left you, slowly roaming up and down, taking in your light blue PJs, and smirking at your fluffy cow slippers.

“What?” you ask, reaching for the box of medical supplies you kept in the ottoman. Usually you would have used your powers, but tonight you were too tired and drained from helping out at the back-alley clinic your boss ran.

“Fluffy cow slippers?” His amusement was clear in his voice.

“Shut up,” you say, putting all your supplies on the table beside you. “They were a gift from Karen, and they’re very comfortable.”

Dex snorted. “Sure.”

“Are you armed?” you ask, pulling on gloves and sliding to your knees.

“Yes.” He said, spreading his legs to give you more room.

“… Are you planning on using it?” You ask, facing your supplies.

“No.” His answer was quick and certain again. “Not on you, never on you.”

Again. You couldn’t help but think.

“You’re nervous,” Dex says quietly, still watching you, and you begin to wonder if he’s even blinked.

You snort at that. “You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and are now bleeding all over my sofa.”

“You’re still helping me.” He says like this means something.

You refuse to answer that as you reach for his shirt because deep down it does.

“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.

Dex obeys immediately and you lift his shirt. The movement exposing his defined muscles, and a few inches above the wound in black letters was your name. Unblemished, like he had done everything to protect it.

You freeze slightly at the sight of it, feeling the rush of emotions that happened every time you thought about him. Shaking the feelings away, you grabbed the disinfectant and soaked a gauze.

Silence settled between you as you dabbed at the wound, soaking up as much blood as you could before grabbing a fresh gauze.

“You didn’t come to see me,” he whispered breaking the silence, his eyes leaving you and going towards his blood-soaked hand.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, pressing the alcohol-soaked gauze harder against the wound than intended.

Dex barely reacts as his eyes move back to you. “Don’t what?”

“Talk like this changes anything.” You whisper, grabbing a new gauze to wipe away the remaining blood.

And for the first time since you walked into the living room, something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not hatred, but something you didn’t expect to see on him.

Hurt.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew, but you never came.”

You still at his words because what was there to say? For months you’ve refused to talk about what happened that night, focusing on your family and pushing every thought or feeling about him away.

For months you’ve kept your bond with him to yourself despite how much you wanted to cry and rant to someone about it without being judged or scorned.

You force yourself to keep working, fingers steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “Yes,” you say evenly. “I knew.”

The quiet is heavy as it fills the room before you clear your throat, reaching for the needle and thread in the kit. “You need stitches.”

“Sit up properly if you can,” you instruct, pulling all the necessary items closer to you.

Dex watches you for a second longer before pushing himself upright from the cushions, his jaw as he straightens himself up.

“Take the shirt off.” You say, preparing everything that you needed to stitch him up.

Dex drops the blood-soaked fabric onto the table behind you, exposing the full extent of the wound. The weapon grazed more than it pierced, but it still tore enough flesh to make a mess of his side.

Wiping the surrounding area with a fresh gauze, you gently rubbed some numbing cream around the wound and threaded the needle while waiting for it to dry.

“This is going to hurt.” You say, leaning closer towards him.

Dex goes still at your words, his attention once again focused fully on you.

You try to ignore his eyes on you, focusing completely on stitching the wound perfectly and not on how close he was now that you’re kneeling between his legs and leaning against him to get better access to the wound.

“You should’ve had this cleaned hours ago,” you mutter nearly halfway done.

“I was busy.” He answers as his hand gently brushes against your shoulder.

“With?” You ask, eyes still not leaving the wound but not shrugging his hand away.

His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”

Your hand slips slightly. Not enough to hurt him, but enough for him to notice.

“You already knew where I lived.”

“I wanted to see you.”

There’s that sentence again. So honest, like there was nothing else more important.

Silence settles between you again, broken only by the quiet rattle of paper as you open fresh gauzes and the sound of rain against the windows. Focusing once again on your task, you quickly lose yourself in what is familiar.

Then Dex quietly says, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You tie off the last stitch before grabbing more gauze and soaking it in antiseptic alcohol. “Most prisoners send a letter.”

“I didn't think you’d like letters from me.”

You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.

“Did you think about me?” he says quietly after a while. Hand tightening on your shoulder like the answer to this question could hurt him more than his wound.

You press the gauze against the stitches, cleaning them and the surrounding area. “You were all over the news, quite hard to miss.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He says cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.

His face is blank, but his eyes are looking at you like he’s already decided you belong in his life.

And maybe you did. But it causes that familiar complicated feeling to twist in your chest.

“You shot me,” you say softly before you can stop yourself. “I waited years for you, and you shot me.”

Your confession settles heavily between you, and for the second time that night, Dex looks away.

“I know.” He says his face filled with something you couldn’t place—guilt, maybe.

The apartment smells faintly of antiseptic, rain, and blood. Outside the storm gets stronger.

Inside the living room, neither of you move.

“You’ll live,” you say, taking off your gloves.

Dex looks down at the neat line of stitches crossing his side before his gaze drifts back to you. “I know.”

Standing up, you move all the soiled items aside so that you can toss them in the kitchen bin. “You should go before the numbing wears off.”

Moving back to the table, you pack up the remaining medical items, making a mental note to restock and place them back in the ottoman.

Leaning down to grab your robe, your breath catches as Dex reaches out his hand, gently grabbing your wrist, his thumb gently pressing against your pulse.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

“I’m tired.” You say, making no move to pull away.

“You’re drained.” He states.

You almost deny it. But what would be the point? He noticed everything else about you tonight.

“I’ve had a long night,” you remind him.

“And you still helped me.” He states like this means something.

Before you could reply, Dex’s gaze drops to your shoulder. To the scar barely hidden by your shirt. His expression shifts into the same look as earlier.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he says honestly. “You moved in front of him so quickly I didn’t have time to stop.”

You look away at his admission, part of you wanting to believe him while the other part wants to shoot him to make it even.

Rain hits the windows harder as you begin to feel it again, that persistent and wanting pull between you becoming tighter the longer he stays.

“You need to leave,” you say quietly.

Dex looks at you for a long second. “Why didn’t you come to see me?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Months of knowing exactly who he was to you, and you’d done nothing.

No visits. No letters. Nothing except pretend the name on your skin didn’t exist.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew where I was.”

You couldn’t force yourself to hold his gaze. Not when you knew what he was really asking. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you choose me?

But you can’t answer that. Not honestly. Not when the truth was that every day you wanted to see him, to betray your friends and your family just to get a day with him.

“You need to leave.” You say, instead of spilling the truth, pulling your wrist out of his grip.

For a second, you think he might argue. His stare fixed so intensely on you that you almost cave and spill the truth.

Then he stands, pulling his shirt back over his head, and makes his way towards the window. Pushing it open wider, as storm blows cold air and rain into the living room as he tosses one leg out before he pauses and turns to look back at you again.

“I’m going to see you again.” He states.

Then he disappears into the night, and you’re left standing alone in your living room.

Your fingers slowly brush his name on your skin, and you can’t stop the feeling of wanting to see him again.

A/N: This is my first one-shot written so feedback is welcome!

a part of him would try to go back to sleep, ignore his throbbing boner but touching you made it worse, so soft, warm, and you smell so fucking good. just how you did in his dream. the devastating part, is dex has already developed trouble sleeping if he weren't touching some part of you.

so dex shoves his hand down his underwear. actually, i feel like he's the type (especially when he's trying to be sneaky what a loser) to slide his hand through the slit down the front. it sort of constricts his movements, keeps him from stroking himself too fast or get too caught up in the pleasure.

but then minutes pass. dex's heavy breaths turn to sharp, shaky gasps as he moves on from squeezing his cock tip to base to just twisting his closed fist around his tip. he's copying you but his own hands will never compare to how yours touch him with such tenderness even when being punishing and cruel.

his hips twitch, thighs begin to shake and he can feel the bed jerk beneath him but not that burning sensation spreading from his cock throughout his body

your secret weapon— cupping his balls in your hand and pressing your thumb to the space below his cock— doesn't work. his hands are too big. they aren't soft enough. he's expecting it, knows it's going to happen. he's too in control to find the same pleasure he seeks in you.

you, who've been awake since his leaky dick first started to form a slightly uncomfortable wet spot on your sleep shorts, knows this and waits with a shocking amount of patience for dex to come to this realization as well, biting at your lip to stop yourself from jumping his bones every time he catches a pitiful gasp a little too late

and you really think he's got it this time, when you shift slightly because the pooling slick in your shorts is getting a bit unbearable. the idea of getting caught by you, so delicious in dex's brain he has to clasp his left hand around his mouth to say he at least attempted to muffle the hoarse moan that rattled through his chest

dex's legs would squeeze shut, accidently putting pressure on his balls just like you would and the shaky, surprised inhale he nearly chokes on convinces you he would cum like this. next to you in bed, while he thought you were asleep after having a very obvious wet dream that left your nape slightly damp from all his heavy panting.

then the bed stops moving and all you hear for a while is dex's uneven breathing sounding moments away from crying. you feel him move, lean over you and stare for what felt like eternity as if his thoughts alone could wake you up. then — and with less care than he would have used any other night, flop onto his stomach with his arm flung over your waist

his movements were subtle at first, testing to see if he liked the given friction and pleasure. then his tip slips from the waistband of his shorts due to the slick mess of his lower abdomen, slathered in his own pre-cum.

dex's thrust against the mattress become more erratic, every push of his hips driving his cock into the sheets you picked out together brings him closer to you. literally. it isn't until his cock head is trying so hard to wedge itself between your hipbone and the mattress does dex realize the difference.

"as long as he doesn't wake you up." he'd tell himself. you'd never have to know and it'd be a one time thing. you wouldn't want him to go on like this, frustrated, about to burst and it's your fault really. dex was perfectly able to get himself off while watching you, looking at your pictures, videos he may or may not have taken from afar, imagining your face on the porn he rarely watched because he had you.

and you are so wet when he guides himself between your thighs. fucking soaked. god, were you dreaming of him too? was this all still from earlier when he fingered you so good you were the one that was crying?

the memory of cleaning up those salty streaks with his tongue all but digging into your flushed face has him pushing into you faster and dragging kisses on your shoulder despite himself.

he needed to taste you. he wanted your lips on his, to suck your tongue into his mouth, nip at the muscle or your lip or both and hear you hum and have you spit in his mouth

but for now he'll settle for the faint hint of sweat lingering on your skin from one of new york's warmer nights and instead of clinging to your waist for dear life when your thighs shift just as he's bottoming out, dex white knuckles the sheets while releasing short, hot breaths into your shoulder. unaware if the metallic tang on his tongue is from his tears or if he finally drew blood from how hard his teeth dug into his lip

your shorts did nothing but piss dex of every time the soaked fabric caught on his tip instead of your plush thighs. you could tell he was losing his high again when the arm around your waist came down to furiously rub at his slit every time he poked through

he's start whispering, begging, "please please please please—pl-ah! ah ah ah" sighing with a long drag, imagining its you sweet spot he’s nudging repeatedly, not his fingers. begging you or himself to not let his orgasm slip away, neither of you can be sure. hell, dex does even notice he's mumbling until you're slipping your hand beneath the one touching his cock and circle his head in gentler, slower motions.

dex stutters, his frantic incoherent speech, his hips, the grip of his hand that had flown to your thigh the instant he felt your touch. your name slurred with whimpers and shaky gasps is all he knows. that and how your fingerprints feel dragging down the underside of his cock until you pull at his base like you're trying to draw him closer.

and boy, does he try.

now that you're awake, what point in there was hiding or holding back?

his other arm crawls between you and the mattress, underneath your shirt and straight to rolling your nipple between his fingers all the while pulling you as close as he can

wet, messy kisses are sporadically placed up your shoulder to your neck, his teeth barely contained. by the time dex reaches your jaw, he’s not even lifting his head between nipping kisses.

and when he reaches your face, he'd let you nuzzle your nose to his, bask in your sleepy affection before crashing his lips onto yours. when you'd stop him, because you have been holding in everything you wanted to say for the better part of an hour, with two fingers pressed to his lips, he'd kiss them all the same. from your finger tips, down to your wrist, biting at the pulse jumping beneath his tongue and trailing up your neck all over again

The quiet sound of your living room window opening and shutting stirred you from your sleep. The soft pound of heavy boots around your kitchen had you turning over under the covers, eyes cracking open the smallest bit to look over at the clock on his nightstand.

4 am. You let out a small groan, fists lifting to rub at your eyes. You sat up in your bed after a few moments, listening to him shuffle around the living room. The boot steps get closer and your bedroom door opens slowly, his masked head peaking in like he was in a cartoon.

“You awake baby?” He says quietly into the dark room, voice muffled and modulated from his helmet.

“Now i am” you reply back, waiting for his response. However it never comes as he toes off his boots and pulls his helmet off his head, dark hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead.

“Jay?” You call out when he doesnt respond, watching his shuffling form at the foot of your shared bed as he rips away at his armour and suit. He shucks it all to the floor, pulling everything off until hes left in his boxers. He takes a step closer to the bed and you raise your eyebrow.

He tilts his head before groaning out and flopping down on top of you, snuggling his wet hair into your stomach and wrapping his big muscular arms around your waist. You smile at him, one hand resting in his hair while the other moves to turn on the light next to the bed.

Soft golden light filters into the room from the small lamp, lighting up the features of his face in front of you. He looks up at you and your hands fall to trace over his cheeks and nose. Theres a new bruise blossoming against his cheek and his lip is busted, dried blood still coating the skin.

“You ok?” You ask softly, looking down at him.He grumbles, shifting on top of you to rest his head more comfortably against your lower stomach.

“Yeah just really fucking tired” he presses his forehead into your skin, strands of his sweaty hair soaking into your tank top and skin. You run your hands through it, pushing it back until the white strand is barely visible amongst his thick black hair.

He reaches over towards his nightstand, long arms aimlessly smacking on top of the surface until he finds his pack of cigarettes, long fingers carefully pulling one out from the pack without even looking. He turns his head sideways, temple pressed against you as he brings the cigarette to his lips and points to the lighter. You pick it up and flick it on, plucking the cigarette from his lips to light it before holding it back out for him.

He gives you a small grin before wrapping his lips around it, taking a drag of it.

“Wanna talk about it?” You try, fingers running down his arms and back, gently massaging the tension from his shoulders. He lets the smoke release from his mouth as he groans, arms flexing before releasing the tension as your hands work over his shoulders.

“‘Ts nothin’ serious, baby” he mumbles into your skin, kissing your lower stomach before taking another drag of the cigarette. He crawls up further on your body, face pressed against your chest as he kisses over your breasts before resting his head on them.

You giggle as you look down at him, getting the last bit of tension from his shoulders out. You gently tilt his chin up to your face, pressing your lips to his gently. He releases a small burst of smoke into your mouth, the dark cloud slipping past your lips and into the air around you.

He shifts up onto one of his arms, the other aimlessly trying to find the ashtray on the nightstand before finally stubbing the cigarette out. His hand moves to your face, cradling it lazily as he kisses you. His smell invades your senses, musky sweat mixed with the freshly smoked cigarette and something so uniquely him it makes your brain fuzzy.

You pull away slowly, smiling back at him when you find a sleepy grin on his face. He leans in kissing along your face and neck and your fingers slip down his shoulders to his arms, tracing along his tattoos and smooth skin.

“Can i make you feel good, Jay?” You whisper into the small space between you both. His kisses stop for a moment and he pulls back, head tilted in confusion.

“You already are, baby. This makes me feel good”

You shake your head, teeth finding your body lip as your hand presses into his shoulder, signalling for him to switch. He complies, rolling off of you and onto his side of the bed. He watches as you climb into his lap, body so warm and pressed against him. Your hair is lightly tousled from sleep, tank top clinging to your curves and pyjama shorts ridding up your thighs. He feels his face heat up just at the sight of you, cock stirring in his boxers.

“I mean like this” you smile, leaning forwards to kiss along his jaw. Your lips travel down his neck and over his chest, peppering small open mouth kisses all along his skin. Your hips press against his, cock fully solidifying as your heat presses against it.

“You dont have to” he starts but you quickly cut him off with a sloppy kiss, teeth dragging against his lip.

“But i want to” you pull away, hands falling to the hem of your tank top to pull it off your head. His eyes immediately fall to your breasts, watching as they move along with you. He leans forwards to kiss them but you push him back down, shaking your head.

“Dont make me tie you up” you tease, a grin spreading across your face.

He laughs at that, cock jumping at the way you purr it out before kissing along his own chest and nipples, sucking one into your mouth.

“Feels nice, baby” he groans out, shifting his hips under yours to grind against you. You smile into his skin, grinding your own hips against his for a few moments before stopping and lifting off him. He looks at you confused, arms behind his head so he could grip the headboard. You sink your fingers into the band of your shorts, pulling them off slowly.

“Yeah? You like this?” You ask, voice breathless and as sweet as honey as you press your lace panty covered pussy back over his bulge. He lets out a small whimper nodding his head, knuckles going white as they grip the headboard, eyes locked onto how your clothed heat drags along his boxers.

He could feel your wetness as it soaks into the fabric of his underwear, driving him crazy. He tries to rut up into you but you place a hand on his chest, shaking your head.

“Thought you wanted to make me feel good, princess. Why we teasin’?” He lets out a small strangled laugh, eyes flicking from your tits to between your legs.

“Say please first” his eyes meet yours and you bite your lip, fingers moving to pull his boxers down. When theyre finally off his cock springs free, smacking gently against his hard abs. They flex against the smack, leaking tip dripping onto his abs. God he was so big and pretty, you wanted him stuffed inside you so bad.

“Please, baby. Wanna make us both feel good” his voice had a slight whine to it as it came out that makes you clench around nothing. You lean forwards, kissing him as you push your panties to the side, reaching between the two of you to drag his cock through your wetness.

He moans into the kiss, head falling back as you sink in slowly. You lean back, giving him a full view as you sink down full onto him, so full of him as his tip kisses your cervix. You hum out at the feeling, watching him with a smile as you lift off slowly before sinking back down, both of you moaning in unison. His head falls to lean on the headboard, eyes tracking all of your body as you moved.

You watched him with just as much intensity, eyes locked on his rising and falling chest, the way his eyes flutter every time you sink back down on him. His lip was pulled between his teeth, copper taste flooding his mouth as he accidentally resplit his lip open. He thrusts up once into you harshly and you fall forwards, hands resting on his chest as you yelp out.

“D-dont do thattt, im supposed to be m-makin’ you feel good” you whine, hand gently hitting against his chest. He laughs beneath you, hips thrusting up again. “Cant help it, princess. Feels too good, doing so well for me”

You hum at his words, hips lazily riding him. One of his hands moves from behind his head down to between your legs, thumb circling your clit. You moan softly, head dizzy as you watch him. You lean forwards to kiss at his bloody lip, licking at it. The copper taste stains your tongue, but you just lift and drop your hips faster. His other hand moves from behind his head aswell, reaching to grab and squeeze at your tits before hes leaning forwards and sucking them into his mouth.

His hand falls to your hip, helping in lifting you up and down as his tongue swirls over your nipple, sucking it into his mouth. He releases it with a wet pop before kissing along the valley of your breasts to the other one, repeating the same actions. His hand grabs at the fat of your ass, squeezing it as he helps you move against him. You moan out as your chin rests in his sweaty hair, his cock filling every inch of you. Every pull out drags along the sweet spot inside of you and every push in hits him against your cervix. The tension is building under your stinky skin, and your fingers dig into his shoulders. Both of your paces quicken as you near the peak, lazy sleepy thrusts becoming hurried as you moan against each other, sounds filling your shared bedroom.

“Jay- ‘m so close, baby” you let out a whiny moan, his thumb working perfectly against your clit. His mouth finally releases your nipple, looking up at you as he nods.

“Making me feel so good, gonna make me cum. Come on baby, be a good girl and do it with me yeah?”

Your eyes squeeze shut at his words and the pressure in your gut finally snaps, cumming on him. You let out a small cry, body locking against his as he fucks you through it, chasing his own high. Both hands grab at your hips now, blunt nails sinking into your plush skin and bouncing you against him as he thrusts into you. Your juices squelch in the hazy room, so slippery and wet for him. His head rests on your shoulder, looking down at how he disappears inside you, small ring of your cum forming at his base and dripping down his nuts making him go crazy. His hips falter and he bottoms out inside you as he cums, filling you up with a harsh groan as he bites at your neck.

It takes a while before you both come down, leaning back on the bed as you rest on his chest, panting out. You shift up, sensitive pussy twitching around him as you move your hips up and off him. Gushes of his cum drip out of you and onto his cock, his eyes locked on the scene as he groans. He reaches over to his nightstand, silently grabbing the towel that he keeps there and uses it to clean up the mess between your legs before wiping his own dick off and tucking it back into his boxers.

“Feeling better?” You ask as you shift to sit on his abs. He nods, tossing the towel onto the floor and pulling you down against his chest. You let out a small yelp before snuggling against him, head tucked against his body. He reaches over for his cigarettes again, bringing it to his lips and lighting it before taking a drag, still leaning against the headboard.

“I love you” he says through a puff of smoke, looking down at you. He takes your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing all over your palm and the back of your hand before moving down your arm. You giggle and gently tug it away.

“I love you too, Jay but we should probably go to sleep” you gesture to the clock which reads almost 6 am and then to the cigarette and the dark bags under his eyes. He pauses for a moment before quickly sucking down the rest of the cigarette before stubbing it out.

“Yeah.. maybe youre right”

He watches your girly shows with him, getting too invested to a point where he is asking to watch more.

A little too overprotective, always watching you. Whether if its from afar while you hang out with your friends or through the cameras he installed around the house.

Watches your friends that he is suspicious of as well, trying to find any flaws about them to soft launch onto you so you cut them off.

Always buys you something wherever he goes. Sometimes its candy from the gas station he stopped at, sometimes its a cosmopolitan magazine he bought alongside of his newspaper.

He gets too shy to ask for it sometimes but loves getting his back, chest, arms scratched. He could lay on your hours at end if it meant he will be getting scratched.

Buys you lilies but cuts away the ‘male’ part so it wont be poisonous to your cat.

Always on urgent shopping duty. No flour left to make cookies? Give him five minutes. Cant sleep because its too hot? He is pulling on his sweats to buy ice cream.

Lets you lick the scar on his cheek, at first it felt kind of funny but now he adores it and lets you do as you please.

Helps with laundry duty, mostly to smell your dirty laundry before separating them in piles.

He hates when you are on your phone too much #oldman so eighter he grumbles when you’re on your phone too much or watches with his head on your shoulder.

He totally prefers physical media too.

Sorry but this man tolerates almost no male friends. And yes, sometimes including male relatives too. He cant help it, he knows how a mans mind works.

He had no true reason to be jealous, he met you through Matt after all. His trusted friend, who happened to be both a nurse and a person who would hold his secret. You'd seen plenty of Matt over the years, wounds on the spectrum of severity. And you'd seen Frank, Karen, and now Dex. Each needing your vast medical kit you kept at home, having stolen supplies from the hospital when Matt had once arrived with the threat of a fatal wound.

Dex had been dragged to your door one night, arm around Matt, suffering a gut wound as he made a mess of your couch.

"Wait!" You exclaimed, hands raised as you scurried around your apartment to find old towels. "I am not spending my day off scrubbing blood out of my couch."

Matt held the larger man up with a pained grunt, as you draped towels over the soft fabric of your couch. And let him throw the man against them, with a rather vigorous thud. Completely unlike him.

"Who the fuck is this?" You sighed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes to find your medical bag. It had expanded beyond the regular box most people had in their cabinet, and had now grown into a duffel bag in your closet.

Judging by Matt's silence, and the many dazed conversations through stitches and bandages, he needn't say a word. You knew exactly who this was.

"No fucking way." You whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. "What fucking time is it?"

"An appropriate time to be awake, don't worry." Matt insisted, hissing as he took one of your dining chairs to sit in. "Well, maybe not for you."

"I'm on call tomorrow. But I'm getting sleep where I can." You confessed. "It's going to be a long fucking night."

And since then, you'd seen more of Dex. Though not chained to your radiator, like he had been the first night you patched him up. You had every intention of not seeing him again, just a person to save and send them on their way, as was the case with every patient you'd see at the hospital.

But he'd arrived at your door in the middle of the night. Over and over again, forcing his eyes open to watch as you cleaned his wounds, bandaged him tightly, fed him pain medication and let him sleep on your couch. He would never say a word, barely responding to your blunted questions from being ripped from sleep.

"It's like you throw yourself at the danger." You sighed, dabbing the alcohol-soaked cotton pad against his graze. "How did this even happen?"

Dex was silent, for a few minutes. No intention of replying, until you yawned. And he felt a pang of guilt, the feeling sour in his gut, from waking you once again.

"Dragged against a wall." His voice was so low, soft enough to match your own. Respecting how stupidly early it was, the sky lightening in the window beside you.

"Dex," you chuckled, though not a humorous one. More of a stop-waking-me-up-for-every-cut-and-scrape way. But he couldn't tell the difference. "You have to be more careful."

"Then who will you patch up?" He snarked, his smirk visible even through the low light of your apartment.

"Uh, my patients. At the hospital." You retorted, hand placed against his forehead to push his body backward, until his back connected with the couch. "I don't get paid to clean you up."

"Now sleep." You huffed. "And leave me alone."

Even when you were on the late shift, dragging your limbs up the stairs to your apartment, eyes burning for sleep. You'd see him slumped against your door, near sleep himself.

"It's not that bad this time, promise." He would smirk, taking the hand you'd reached out to help him up. With what little energy you had left.

"But still bad enough for me to do it?" You argued, scrambling to find your key.

Dex found peace in watching you clean him up, with such precision and care, no matter what you truly thought of him. His eyes would fix on your hands, often sparing glances up at your face, as you firmed your lip in concentration. He didn't know, or care to know, what that aching feeling in his chest was. But it absolved him of his guilt. For every hour he spent being cleaned— being fixed by you, his mind was silent. Truly, comfortably silent.

And he hoarded that feeling. He possessed it like a hungry dog would a bowl of food. He would chase it until he was satiated, until he next needed it.

And tonight had been one of those nights, where his mind was packed with static, where he threw himself into violence to quiet the pulsing thoughts. All of which to bring him back to you, at a more reasonable hour.

He rested his head against your door, knocking with a heavy fist and awaiting your answer. He could hear you shuffling on the other side of the door, the crumpling of a trash bag, before the heavy oak left his forehead.

"Dex." You strained, voice full of exhaustion and forced pleasant tone. A skill in which you'd honed with years of nursing. But he smiled nonetheless. Regardless of how you felt seeing him, he was happy. And that was all that mattered to him.

The room smelt like blood and sweat, the trash bag beside the couch full of bloodied tissue and cotton pads. And the familiar towels draped over your couch. Someone had been here.

"Busy night?" He huffed, situating himself in his usual spot. On the edge of the couch, body twisted to face the already stationed dining chair beside it.

"You could say that." You let out a blunted laugh, returning to the dining chair. Fully expecting to spend the next few hours with Dex's constant gaze, his occasional questions, and his lingering touch on your arm as a silent gratitude.

But nothing.

Nothing at all.

He wouldn't watch you clean his wounds, bandage him and put him to sleep on your couch. He was stiff as a board, eyes taking interest in your light fixture instead. You could hear the steam coming from his ears, and it was not often Dex showed any emotion. And a simmering anger, least of all.

"Dex." You spoke, as if talking to a child to ask if they'd misbehaved. And his eyes flickered over to yours, your voice speaking his name was a siren song to him. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head, returning back to the detailed grooves of your ceiling mouldings. He wouldn't admit it; he would not admit he was jealous of Matthew Murdock. Of your friendship with him. Of his already advantageous standing with you, and how far he had yet to climb to be where he was.

But you'd seen every emotion in your career; from depressed teenagers, to hot-headed parents, to grieving children, to jealous partners. You had grown familiar with every kind of feeling, albeit warranted or not. And Dex's jealousy had been no different, though you were only confused.

And for as stubborn as he remained in keeping his envy to himself, you would honor that. You would let him stew in his petty feelings, and instead show him he had nothing to be jealous of. You didn't give preferential treatment to Matt over Dex, you cared for them both in the same manner. So you cleaned his wounds tenderly, and fixed him up with a humorous smirk on your face. Silent with every tell of his, his clenched jaw, his stiff upper lip, his averted gaze.

You reached your hand out to glide over the side of his head, fingers drifting through his hair before nestling against the curve of his skull. And his eyes had finally settled onto your tired ones, speaking with no words at all. You smoothed your thumb over his cheek, over the cuts and scrapes that had taken to scabbing.

"Dex."

"Hm."

"Would you like to stay the night?" You offered, and your smile evoked his own. Jealousy dissipated in his stomach, that ache returning— the silence returning.

You weren’t in the diner that following morning.

Dex always got there a little earlier than you, making sure to claim the same booth every time. It was that same one you shared the very first time you sat together in this diner. 

When the clock hit 8:15, give or take a few minutes, he would hear the bell above the door and the shuffling of your shoes.

Then your smiling face came into view as you slid into the seat across from him and rambled about whatever inconvenience struck that morning.

Small things you’d tell him as a greeting, probably expecting he wouldn’t think twice about it.

Like, that your walk over took an extra few minutes because you forgot your umbrella. Or you spilled coffee on your blouse and had to change it. There was a cat you stopped to take a photo of. 

But today, no sign of you by the time it hit 8:45. 

On the weekends you always lagged a bit because you’d sleep in an extra ten minutes but even accounting for that, you were late. 

Not fashionably so, either.

He began to think you weren’t going to show at all. Maybe you were punishing him for the photo incident between you, even though you had scribbled that cheeky note on the back of it before you left his apartment last night.

Did he misinterpret the situation? Were you actually angry after all? Creeped out? Was there something written between the lines he failed to pick up on in your message to him?

The thoughts were infiltrating his mind before he could quiet them. Loud and incessant, bouncing off the inside of his brain. 

“Dex?” He heard your voice through the fog.

You were standing beside the table, tilting your head, gaze warm and curious at the same time. 

“Where were you?” You asked as you slid in the booth across from him. 

He could ask you the same thing.

“I was distracted,” he motioned to the porcelain mug on the table. “I ordered you coffee but it’s probably cold by now.”

You took a sip, “that’s okay. Sorry I’m late, I was caught up in a phone call.”

He couldn’t believe he was almost done in by a simple phone call running over. But you were here now, and that’s what mattered. 

You took another sip of coffee, and the moment the mug left your lips he could see the smirk you were sporting. Not good.

“About that favor,” you rested your head in your hand on the table. 

“Cashing it in already?” His smirk mirrored yours. “What can I do for you?”

Dex had spent the previous night imagining what you’d ask for in return. Especially since with his line of work, any time someone was calling in a favor, they would ask him to kill someone. 

And he was pretty sure you weren’t about to ask him to do that–even though he probably would if you did. But now wasn’t the time for him to unpack that.

“First, you should know I put a lot of thought into this. My first idea was to ask you for a photo you in return.” Your smile went wider at that and he tried not to think about what that implied.

Even though he felt excitement stir in his chest at the idea.

“And you thought of something worse?” 

“Much worse,” you said. “I want you to be my plus one.”

He looked at you, puzzled. “Plus one to what?”

“To my best friend’s wedding,” you declared like it was obvious. “We talked about it on the plane, but you probably don’t remember.”

Which, to be fair, Dex did remember. Of course he did. Your voice was in his head constantly when he was on missions now, keeping him stable enough to do what he needed to do.

He’d involuntarily repeat your dialogue in unconnected strings and your conversation about your best friend’s wedding did cross his mind recently.

Still, that didn’t mean he ever thought you’d ask him to accompany you to something like that. 

He wasn’t even sure what being a plus one entailed. Did you want him to meet your friends? Wear a suit? He could. 

Wait, was he your date? 

“Okay,” he nodded, and all of those questions seemed to die on his lips. The urge to be the one to put that inevitable look of relief and gratefulness in your eyes won out for him. 

And yeah, the way you lit up in excitement was worth it. He’d figure out the rest later.

“Really? Thanks Dex!” You cheered. “It’s on the 25th. But make sure you actually have that day off though, because you tend to disappear a lot for work…”

“I’ll make sure they don’t need me that night.” And he would. This was the one thing you’d asked of him, and he was going to see it through.

You reached into your bag and pulled out a berry red filofax. “Good, because I’ve got a checklist for today.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A checklist?” 

“For the wedding, duh.” You were flipping the pages in your organizer. “You’re plus one to the maid of honor, which means you’re gonna help the maid of honor finish her duties.”

Dex could tell he was being roped into way more than he signed up for. But he was going to put up with it for your sake. But as far as he could tell, you felt that he owed you, and he decided he was going to honor that. 

You didn’t actually expect him to agree to drive you around for the day, though. Especially on such short notice. As you listed off the tasks from your filofax, he nodded after each one, in an almost robotic fashion. 

He’s good at following orders, you mused internally. 

After finishing coffee and a quick breakfast together, you were in the passenger side of his car. 

“Can I play music from my phone?” You eyed the center console. “Or do you only use CDs?”

He scoffed at your teasing remark as he turned the car on. “It has bluetooth. Go ahead.”

Once you had music playing, you turned from the window where you were watching buildings go by and broke the silence between you.

“Speaking of CDs. Should we talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“The photo of me, why you took it,” you listed.

His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“I don’t know. Should we talk about it?” He deflected. 

“Well, you didn’t take the semi-nude, so I know it wasn’t for perverted reasons. I don’t know if that weirds me out more or not, though,” you teased.

Dex didn’t find it as funny as you did. He wasn’t angry with you, but judging by the look on his face he knew he was being reprimanded for something he did. 

“I wasn’t trying to–” he huffed. “I wasn’t taking it to be a ‘pervert’.” He repeated your phrasing like it disgusted him. Like the word didn’t describe him at all. 

That’s what it was–frustration that you didn’t understand his intentions.

“I just liked the photo,” he explained, softer.

“What did you like about it?” You were intrigued now.

And he realized you weren’t judging him after all. You were trying to understand him.

He took the chance to speak freely.

“I like how you look in it.”

Drenched in blue from the aquarium lights, yet still smiling in a way that juxtaposed such a melancholy atmosphere. Holding that stupid little shark plush to your heart like it meant something to you even though you probably bought it minutes before the photo was taken.

Maybe he envied you.

Maybe he wanted that photo of you hung on his wall so he could look at you, remind himself of your perspective of the world and try to embody you. 

Then, what began as the desire to mimic bloomed into the desire to have. He wanted that smile to be directed at him. He wanted you to carry him close to your heart.

That’s why he was careful about what aspects of his life he let you see.

Dex knew the type of person you were. If you saw beneath the surface, you would run. And he wasn’t going to give you the chance to.

You, on the other hand, were oblivious to all of this. You were too caught up in interpreting what his words meant.

I like how you look in it.

Something was hidden between the lines there, waiting to be uncovered. But you just didn’t know what it was.

He was always so push and pull, letting you believe you knew so much about him but really it was only curated aspects he would drip feed you. 

But instead of satisfying your curiosity, he only ever made you want more.

The checklist took the better half of the day, morning drawing to a close when you were halfway through and the afternoon sun beaming down when there was one last task to complete. 

You made it to the jeweler to pick up the rings. It was simple enough of a responsibility, but the most important one on the list. Your best friend and her fiance couldn’t get married without the rings, after all.

When you and Dex stepped inside,  you walked straight to the counter and gave your name, which the happy couple put the order under. All you had to do was make sure the rings were matte gold and had the proper engravings on it.

The jeweler gave you the padded velvet box with the receipt tucked under it. You opened the royal blue box and began to analyze the rings closely.

Both were matte gold, and the personal messages and dates were correct. 

But you couldn’t breathe a sigh of relief yet. 

The name of your best friend, which you had read and wrote dozens of times in the eternity you had known her for, was spelled wrong. A simple vowel switch but noticeable–definitely not the standard you held for her.

Your chest tightened. Now, two weeks out from the wedding, was not the time for this. 

Dex seemed to notice your distress and stepped closer in quiet concern.

You turned to him frantically, and then to the jeweler. “Excuse me, but the engraving on this ring is misspelled.” 

The jeweler at the counter frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. Can I have your name?”

“My name?” You didn’t register what the question was for at first.

“For the ring.”

Warmth crept up your neck. You turned to look at Dex, flustered. 

Did the jeweler…think the rings were for you two? That you and Dex were a couple?

Dex caught onto the mix up and an amused smile tugged at his lips. But he didn’t interject. He probably enjoyed watching you squirm.

“Uh, I’m sorry, we’re not the…” You stuttered. “The rings aren’t for us.”

The jeweler looked unimpressed. As if that detail didn’t matter to him–but it did to you!

“The name on the order, please.” He clarified.

Now you were even more embarrassed.

“Oh, right.” You fumbled for the receipt in your hands.

The jeweler helped resolve the situation but informed you that the engraving would need time to be redone.

No amount of arguing or pleading could get you an earlier date than the very morning of the wedding though.

Dex could tell you were stressed out about it because your knee was bouncing up and down as you sat across from him at lunch. 

“I’ll pick it up with you in the morning,” he told you, not offered.

You sighed out and gave him an appreciative smile. “Thanks. I just don’t like loose ends. She’s counting on me.”

“You were panicked about more than the ring.” He had brought it up as an observation, but you must have taken it as him teasing you, because you smiled sheepishly.

“Oh, you mean…the mix up?” You looked down at your pasta. “Well, maybe he shouldn’t assume every pair of people who walk into a jeweler are a couple.” 

“We were picking up wedding rings.” 

“So?” You huffed and crossed your arms.

Something was clearly bothering you.

“Does marriage freak you out?” He asked, because it was more comfortable than asking if being mistaken as dating him freaked you out.

You looked back up at him, almost ashamed. Like you thought he was going to judge you for it.

“Yeah. A little. It didn’t used to, but when my best friend got engaged…I don’t know,” you explained softly. “I haven’t had the best luck with relationships. My last one ended…not amicably to say the least. I’ve had trouble trusting anyone enough since then.”

Dex hadn’t ever asked you about your romantic history. He wasn’t curious about it in the slightest. Whoever you had been attached to before him–if you even were attached to him–wasn’t his concern. 

But he let you continue anyway.

 “And every first date I’ve been on since then has been horrendous–don’t ever agree to blind dates, word of advice.” You pick at your pasta. “I don’t want to get married just to avoid being alone, either.”

“Is that why your best friend is getting married?” 

“Huh? Oh god, no. She found someone good. They have it–you know, the real thing. One day she was introducing me and the next they were getting married,” you chuckled sadly. “Life is strange like that, I guess. It moves fast…always moves on without me.”

Dex understood what the underlying issue was. You thought you were being left behind by your best friend. And by helping her get married, you were helping her leave you.

“How about you?” 

“Marriage? I don’t know. I don't think about it." The question caught him off guard. “Never been able to open up to anyone like that.”

“Why not?” 

Dex was hoping you wouldn’t ask.

He should have put something together in his head before he spoke because you caught on right away.

“You’ve never been in a relationship.” You observed quietly. But kindly. 

“Yeah. You got it.”

He was almost embarrassed with the way your eyes widened when he confirmed your suspicion. It made his heart leap in a way he wasn’t prepared for. 

“You’re serious?” You leaned forward over your pasta, lips pulling into a coquettish smile. 

He didn’t like how your reaction tripped up his ability to form sentences. 

“Never had the time. My old job…” He swallowed hard. He hadn’t thought about his old life in a while. “My old job was a lot more time-consuming.”

“Workaholic.” You accused him with a gentle smile. 

“It was good for me,” he replied honestly.

He wondered if things would be different if you met him back then. He had less to hide. Before Fisk. When he was still on meds. When he didn’t have to use a fake name just to get around. You still didn’t even know his real, full name.

“Still. Having a busy schedule doesn’t make people around you blind.”

It didn’t, that was true. He used to get hit on regularly back when he was still FBI, so he was at least somewhat aware of what he looked like. But all of his focus was on his rigid structure, not forming attachments.

His perspective was a bit different nowadays, though. Instead of trying to fit attachments into said structure, you were a part of it.

He dropped you off at your apartment when you finished lunch.

“We should exchange phone numbers so that things go smoothly on the day of the wedding,” you suggested, still sitting in his passenger seat. “It’s about time, anyway, don’t you think?”

You handed him the phone you were still playing music on his stereo from. There was an empty contact screen, and he smiled down at the blinking blue line where he was supposed to type his name into. 

“I know I asked this as a favor,” you started softly, “but I really appreciate you doing this for me, Dex.”

He wanted to hear you say it again.

In that brief moment, he thought about what else he could do to help you get more favors out of him. For you to keep needing him.

“Sure. Tell me if I can help with anything else.”

“I’ll see you next Saturday morning.” You left him with a sweet smile for him to keep in his mind on the drive home. 

To help your best friend with the wedding planning in the final two weeks, you told Dex you’d be taking a rain check from your morning meetings. But he told you over the phone he had to take a work trip anyway.

“But you’ll be back by the 25th, right?” You asked into the phone.

“I’ll be back by the 25th.”

Dex told you that because that’s what he was promised–that this was a quick mission where he could be in and out within the week. 

But now it was midnight on the 25th, and he was stuck in some godforsaken city across the map. 

And he wasn’t happy about it.

He made sure the people tasting the other end of his blades knew it, too. He told you he would be there for you in the morning to help you pick the rings up. He told you he would be there for you. 

That thought was pounding in his head like the drums of war, growing louder every time he threw another knife.

But even if he got on a plane right now, he wouldn’t be back in time.

It was seven in the morning when you were up, ready to pick the rings up before helping your best friend get ready. Dex hadn’t returned your texts you sent the night before to remind him, though, nor had he returned any of your calls.

An hour passed and you realized he wasn’t going to come. With an annoying lump in your throat, you got a cab and picked the rings up–made sure the engravings were correct this time–and then went back to the hotel you were staying at for the wedding. 

You had a curling iron in your hand when your best friend got your attention.

“Didn’t you say you were bringing a plus one?” She asked you.

You looked at her in the mirror, and caught a sulky frown you didn’t know you were sporting. 

“I did say that,” you gave her a tight smile. “He got caught up with a work trip, though.”

She sighed. “I really wanted to meet him.”

“It’s not a big deal. He’s just a friend, anyway,” you tried to brush it off, like you weren’t disappointed too.

“You’re with him every morning though.” She smiled at you knowingly with her expertly painted lips. “It’s okay if you’re upset with him. It’s not your fault he’s got an overly mysterious job.”

“He does have an overly mysterious job.” You scoffed, putting the curling iron down. 

You redirected the conversation to her after that. It was your best friend’s day after all, and you didn’t want the pinch in your heart at being stood up to deter you from doing your job as maid of honor.

After all, what if this is the last day she needs you?

You shake the awful thought off. 

The wedding was perfect, going off without a hitch just the way your best friend planned it. You cried when she read her vows, and cried harder when she thanked you. Not for being her maid of honor, but for being her best friend. 

Your feet hurt by the end of the night. You did a lot of running around to make sure things were perfect, and a lot of dancing too. It stung a bit when you had to endure a slow song playing and watch the couples out on the floor with your mind only blinking back to one person.

Who couldn’t make it.

Damn him and his mysterious job.

Maybe it was the liquor in your system, or the emotional roller coaster from the wedding giving you an adrenaline rush, but you ended up standing outside Dex’s apartment building at the end of the night with your heels in your hand. 

It was past midnight, and you were jamming your fingers into the elevator button like it owed you money. You knew he was back because he had his location on.

He didn’t even bother sending you a text to let you know he was back in New York.

Was this a bad idea? Probably. But you only asked him for this small favor–to just show up–and he couldn’t do it. 

It was made all the worse by helping someone get married today while you stood watching alone from the sidelines.

You felt guilty thinking that way when your best friend was so dear to you. But when was someone going to show up for you?

So you were going to give Dex a piece of your mind. 

You knocked on his door. There was shuffling on the other side, but no answer.

You knocked again. “Dex, I know you’re home.” 

A shadow passed under the door and you stepped back.

Dex answered, looking down at the floor. Disheveled. Jaw clenched.

“Well?” You asked, not in the state of mind to consider his frazzled disposition.

“I just got back.” His voice was steady, as if he was trying to keep his composure.

“Yeah, that’s clear,” you crossed your arms. “You couldn’t have at least called and told me you weren’t going to make it?”

His lips tightened. “I tried to get here in time.”

You scoffed. “Glad to know I came here just to hear you say you tried. I was counting on you—”

“I did everything I could, I don’t know what else you want me to say,”

“—I was counting on you to not make a fool out of me, Dex!” Your voice broke. “I was alone. I told you that I haven't been able to trust anyone in a long time. I feel like I lost my best friend tonight too, and I…really needed you.”

That broke him.

You knew in your heart you weren’t really losing your best friend. She married someone good, someone who would make her happy. That’s all you wanted for her.

But that gnawing feeling that life was moving on without you, that she was moving on without you was pushing you over the edge right now.

And now you were taking it out on him.

He swallowed hard, his throat twitching when he did. Then, he let go of the door handle and stepped back into his apartment, leaving you standing there, disappointed in your emerald green dress.

You followed him inside, because you took him not shutting the door on you as a silent invitation.

When you looked around at the state of the place, your anger melted into concern.

There was broken glass on the floor of the living room, strewn out before the stereo system. You caught sight of the handle of a pocket knife sticking out of it.

“Dex,” you dropped your heels by the door, stepping towards him cautiously. “What happened?”

You weren’t trying to placate him. There were many things you didn’t know about him, sure. But one thing you knew for certain is he wouldn’t hurt you. You don’t know why you trusted him when he hadn’t given you a reason to. 

You just did.

He shook his head, looking at the floor between you. “I know why you’re here. Just say it and go.”

Your gaze softened. “Why am I here, Dex?”

“I tried. I swear, I told them I'd leave if they pulled another stunt like that again.”

“Can you look at me?” You pleaded, barely above a whisper.

“You're done with me.” He grunted the words out so finally, like he was so sure it was decided before you even said anything to him. “So just go already. Before I...”

“I'm not going to leave.” You reached for him, and he paused, watching your hands. Waiting to see where they were going to land. “I'm not leaving.”

You approached closer, slowly. Your hands took his, just holding them. Your thumbs brushed over the backs of his hands and it’s all he could focus on.

“I’m not leaving, but there’s things you’re not telling me,” you swallow hard. “And if we’re going to keep…spending time together, I need you not to lie to me.”

“I never lied to you,” he argued.

“Leaving things out of the truth is still lying, Dex,” you reminded him. “And that hurt me today."

“Fine,” he gritted out. He glanced about the room, taking in the state of his living space. 

You knew it was making him uncomfortable to stand in the aftermath of whatever struck him. 

“Let’s go outside.”

He let you lead him towards the fire escape. 

“Wait.” He stopped you, and you turned to see him grab something off the back of his chair before handing it to you. 

It was a hoodie.

You shivered when you stepped outside into the crisp evening air, and slipped it on over your dress. It smelled like gunpowder and the undertones of cedar from whatever cologne he always wore. 

You leaned against the railing, letting him stand beside you. His eyes were on you, just watching you like you were grounding him. And you remembered what he said to you in his car.

I like the way you look in it. 

So you let him eye you, standing there in his hoodie and the dress he didn’t get to see you in tonight.

“Do you want to talk now?” You tried, watching him nod slowly. 

He was noticeably calmer than before. 

“What held you up?” You asked, now feeling a little guilty for your outburst earlier. 

“I work for the CIA,” he said. You raised an eyebrow. “They have me working around the states, sometimes overseas.”

That wasn’t too far off from what you were expecting. His secrecy had you expecting him to be some kind of government agent. You’re still not sure why he would lie about it, though.

“Okay.” You nodded. “And the fake name…?”

“I needed a fake identity to get an apartment,” he explained. “My real name never would have worked.”

“Why not?” 

There was a long stretch of silence after your question. You heard the sounds of sirens in the distant streets. The overexcited squealing laughs of drunk passersby on the sidewalk below. 

“My real name is Benjamin Poindexter.” 

You waited for some big, dramatic moment of realization to hit you. But it never did. The name meant nothing to you. 

Well, besides the fact that it was his of course. Maybe you should read the local news more.

“Alright.” Your lips quirked into a playful smile. “You’re definitely not a Tony, by the way.”

He shook his head at you, half in disbelief, half in amusement. 

“Too late to change it now.” 

“As long as we’re in agreement that I’m not going to call you that,” you chuckled. “Dex is just fine, in my opinion.”

There were still things left unresolved. Like the apartment being a huge mess, his hesitance to reveal his full name, or what exactly his job entailed for him to be traveling so often.

But he was opening up to you, and you didn’t want to rush him. No, that wasn’t accurate.

You weren’t ready to hear the answers to those questions yet. What you heard from him today was plenty for you to dwell on. 

“Do you want help cleaning up?”

He still seemed a little intimidated by the mess. The fact that you had to go to the fire escape for him to be able to clear his head made you want to give him a hand.

You couldn’t just clean quietly though. The stereo didn't survive the knife attack, so you played music from your phone again. Something softer that you hoped wasn't giving you away.

And as you reorganized CD’S back onto his shelf, you told him about the wedding. How happy you were for your best friend, and how silly you felt moping over losing her to marriage. 

Then, you realized, you viewed Dex as a constant, too. He was there every morning, waiting for you. In the exact spot, at the exact same time.

You took for granted that he would always be there for you and the one time he wasn’t, you panicked. 

It was unfair of you, you realized. Especially when you saw how upset he was over letting you down. How afraid he was that you would punish him for it by leaving him behind.

You noticed how intently he hung off your every word as you were recounting a boring story about how the cake ran out before you got a chance to try it. 

Dex was tinkering with the broken stereo, but…your voice was his main focus. He looked the same as he did when he was listening to music on the plane beside you. Calm.

Did your voice really have an effect on him like that?

You tried to ignore the butterflies that formed in your stomach at the thought. Instead, you shrunk deeper into the hoodie he had given you because he didn’t want the midnight chill to touch your skin. 

“You still owe me, by the way,” you reminded him as he swept up the glass. You pretended not to notice his arms as he did. 

“I gathered that, yeah,” he chuckled. “Feel free to cash in that photo of me you wanted.”

“Tempting,” a smile danced on your lips, and you were pretty sure you were being totally unsubtle now, gaze flickering back down to his thick arms. “But I’ll think of something more interesting and get back to you.”

You thought back to the knife in the pocket of your hoodie. You had been the one to remove it from the stereo's console when you both started cleaning.

And upon closer inspection, you noticed it wasn't just a regular pocket knife like you initially thought.

You had made sure to tuck it away before Dex saw.

It was only a fair trade, after all.

taglist @bakameeee @not-the-teen-witch @snowwythegloww

Tuesdays are meaningless to him, they’re depressing. Why are Tuesdays so depressing? 

Dex once read an article on the internet that suggested the most productive day of the work week is Tuesday, which only proves that productivity is a disease and humans are its willing hosts. He has nothing against Tuesdays specifically, only against the assumption that any day should matter more than another when all of them end the same way; in silence, and the mechanical act of loading his sniper just to feel the magazine seat properly against his palm.

Dex had been counting his days into laying low. The AVTF has his face on file, his fingerprints, his particular brand of violence listed and cross referenced. He wants Wilson Fisk dead, so Dex waits. He takes the apartment with low rent, because it has windows facing the street so he could see, also because the landlord asked no questions when Dex paid him cash and a knife to his throat, the walls are thin enough to hear the couple next door fuckin, and the nice old woman below watching the same game shows on repeat. White noise. The soundtrack of people living their insignificant, dying lives. 

But he also needs his coffee, that’s the whole of it. Need is a strong word—want is more accurate, but want means appetite, and Dex has never had much of that either. He simply knows that caffeine sharpens certain neural pathways, and he’d been sitting in the dark for three hours, rolling a catholic token across his knuckles, for his hands have begun to feel like they belong to someone else.

The coffee shop’s name was as basic as it looked like. Dex has been a frequent customer here and it wasn’t because the coffee was exceptional, no—it was entirely something else. Shop’s almost empty, too. A man in a beanie taps at a laptop in the corner. A woman with grey hair reads a paperback so worn its spine has split into three distinct sections. Dex’s gaze sweeps over the vastness of the area, looking for someone until it lands to who he was looking for.

There you are, Dex thinks. He’s smiling. Between his plans, the surveillance, and the hunt to eliminate Kingpin’s circus, AVTF—there are gaps. Hours that belong to no one but himself.

Dex spends them watching you.

You were behind the counter, wiping down the steam wand with a rag that’s seen better days. Your hair is pulled back, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You weren’t looking at him—you haven’t even noticed him yet, and you were humming under your breath, some song Dex couldn’t name if his life depended on it, the sound travels through the ambient noise of the café.

Dex approaches the counter and his posture shifts; shoulders dropping, spine relaxing, it was a deliberate imitation of ease.

“Good morning,” he greeted along with your name, Dex’s eyes drifted to the name tag on your chest, just long enough to prove he looked, and then his gaze returned to your face again. 

“Oh—hi, Tony,” you say almost delightfully, and there’s a flicker of recognition in your eyes. “The usual?” 

Months ago, you didn’t know his face. Then weeks later, you have come to learn his order and fake given name. Today, you have christened it the usual, as though his presence here has weight, that his absence would have left a hole for you. Dex feels a smile try to happen, but he swallows it down. 

“Yes,” he replies. “Please.” Because Dex is good like that. He wants to be that—for you. He wants to be anything you want him to be. If only you would allow him.

You nodded and turned to the espresso machine, your back half turned to him as you reached for the portafilter. Dex stood at the counter watching the movements of your hands—your efficiency to tamp the grounds, and the slight tremor in your left wrist that suggested either fatigue or a healed injury, he watched you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and revealed the soft hollow just below it.

You’ve been working here for six months, and Dex knows this because he’s learned the schedule changes taped to the back office door, visible through the crack when the manager leaves it ajar. Tuesday through Saturday, opening shift. You take your break at ten, give or take four minutes, spending it in the alley behind the dumpster with a paperback book and a lit cigarette placed between your lips, taking long drags.

Dex also has learned the titles of these books you’ve been bringing to work. He’d read all of them, sometimes after he comes home from killing some of the AVTF agents, his laptop open on his kitchen table while the camera feeds from your apartment, appearing on a secondary monitor.

He installed those three weeks ago. 

It had been remarkably simple, your building’s security was a god damn joke—a buzzer system that could be bypassed with a paperclip and a landlords’ indifference that bordered on criminal negligence. Your apartment was a studio type on the third floor; one doorman, and a few old cameras in the hallway. Dex let himself in on a random day, when he knew from two weeks of observation you would be out meeting your friends, and your downstairs neighbour, Mr. Hargrove, would be watching his late-night Westerns loud enough to cover any incidental noise. 

The cameras were small. Disposable. It was the kind Dex could buy with cash at four different electronics stores across the city, assembling the components piecemeal so no single transaction would register. He placed one in the smoke detector above your bed, one in the charging block you kept plugged in by the microwave, and then in the spine of a cookbook on your shelf that you had never opened. 

Careless, he thinks, and the word carries no judgment, only perception. You are careless. You leave your curtains half open at night, offering anyone with eyes a view of your living room. You check your phone while walking home, earbuds in, oblivious to the world around you. You never look over your shoulder nor do you ever cross the street to avoid a stranger. 

You are, in every measurable way, a target waiting to be acquired.

What if somebody follows you? Dex wanted to confront. What if somebody learns your routine, memorizes your schedule, watches you through the gaps in your defenses? What if somebody is already watching—and you have no idea? You should be more careful, he thinks as he stands inside your living room while on the other side of the room you sleep peacefully. You don’t know who’s watching. 

If he were a different kind of man—if he were the kind of man he is warning you against, Dex could do anything to you, and you wouldn’t even wake until it was too late. 

“How’s your day going?” you suddenly ask, snapping him back to reality, you slide the finished cup across the counter. Your fingers brush his, brief—electric. His cock twitched at the contact.

What should he tell you? His day has consisted of three hours of surveillance on a AVTF supply route, forty five minutes of strength training, a cold shower in which he imagined your hands running wet on his back, and the slow torture of cleaning his sidearm while listening to the couple next door argue about whose turn it was to buy groceries. 

Dex didn’t think you wanted to hear any of this, did you? He wondered what your reaction would be if he said what he was thinking. 

“It was eventful,” he says instead. “But almost quiet.” 

You nodded like you understand. “Those are the best kind,” your lips turn up slowly, soft expression. “The quiet days.” 

Dex wants to say something back. Wants to explain his version of quiet days are the dangerous ones, where his thoughts get loud, the buzzing in his head threatens to turn into worse—rage, grief, or the type of wanting that has no object and therefore no end. 

But you were looking at him with those eyes—those innocent eyes that have somehow become the only fixed point in his drifting, Dex finds that he cannot contradict you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” a hopeful tone in your voice, he noticed. 

Dex nodded, smiling. Showing his teeth. “I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else.”

His hands are shaking and he’s inside your apartment—where you undress, where you sit in your chair with your back to the window and your face turned away from the world. The air smells faintly of you despite your lack of presence, and it makes his chest tighten. Everything about him hurts.

Dex almost died today.

Although he knows he wasn’t ever going to, not like that, at least. He couldn’t, especially now that he’s found his north star. But the AVTF has gotten faster, smarter. Someone has been feeding them information, and he has a short list of suspects, in which all of them will be dead by the end of the month, Dex guarantees. And yet, that’s not what matters right now—what matters was the shit that happened in the second between hearing the shot and dodging it.

He thought of you. 

Your name fallen on his busted lips, your face blooming in his peripheral vision like a dark flower. His brain is tricky sometimes, it offered him a vision of the future—your expression, three days from now, glancing at the door of the coffee shop, waiting for a man who would never walk through it again. You wouldn’t understand why you felt the absence so acutely ( you don’t even know his real name ) but you would feel it. Emptiness. And eventually, you would stop waiting, and you would take someone else’s order, remember them instead of his, then you would have forgotten him entirely. Dex can’t allow that.

You have no one if he dies. He’s already checked. No partner, no roommate, no family that calls more than once a month, plus, you only have three friends you see on rotations. You are alone in this city, and the city is a mouth full of teeth with Dex’s only hand reaching into it. 

The idea of dying would mean leaving you unprotected, the thought of someone else’s hands on you, someone else’s eyes gawking, makes the shaking in his hands feel like rage.

You’ve made him yours, even if you don’t know it. You’ve given Dex a reason to wake up in the morning that wasn’t spite nor the grind of survival. He will not let that go—he will not let you go. Even if it meant he has to crawl back from the grave to watch over you, Dex will. 

He’ll appear in full gear, the armor of ugly indefinite livability, the real body, alive or decay—he’ll appear like a thundering, and he’ll save you. 

So he’d decided to put a tracker into the lining of your coat for safety purposes, the one you wear every day to work, hangs on the hook by the door. Dex contemplates putting one inside your body, too. Perhaps if it ever comes to that point. He’ll watch you swallow your carbonated drink, and it would have been there, swirling inside you. Unremovable. 

Then he sits on your bed and only for a moment. He wanted to know what it feels like, his long fingers running along your sheets and they are soft—cheap cotton, washed so many times they’ve lost their stiffness. Your pillow still holds the dent of your head, he puts his face there, buried within and inhaled deeply. Dex would offer it all, any trade, any sacrifice, anything to become yours. Maybe he’d cut his soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home.

Dex’s still in his gear, masked face, and his breathing is uneven. The suit feels tighter, somehow, or perhaps it’s the aftermath of the bullet that almost split his skull, his kevlar weave felt warm against his chest, holding the heat of his body from the chase. His knuckles bruised beneath the gloves, there’s blood on his cuff he knew wasn’t his own. 

He doesn’t care about any of that, and instead goes to press his face deeper into your pillow, the scent of you floods his senses. Dex’s breathing changes, heavier. The adrenaline from the fight hasn’t left him and now was being redirected—pooling low in his belly, curling through his thighs, making him ache in a way that has nothing to do with the mild injuries he’s ignoring.

His cock was painfully hard. 

And without thinking, Dex reaches down; his calloused hands fumbling with the armored waistband of his tactical pants until his cock sprang loose; thick and pulsing, already weeping with a bead of pre cum. His fingers wrapped around the length of him and it felt nearly unbearable as it demanded this sweet sweet release that mirrored the buzzing in his ears from the fight. 

He then would lay back, his broad shoulders spreading across your pillows, and gripped himself. His hand was large enough to nearly swallow the girth of his cock, then he’d began to stroke a slow, heavy slide of leathered palm against skin, his thumb tracing the ridge of his tip with pressure. 

“Mm. Fuck,” Dex groaned your name, tasting the blood in his mouth, his gaze drifted towards the empty pillow beside him, imagining your head resting there, innocent eyes staring right back at him. He could come in the mere thought of that, he thinks.

He shut his eyes closed, and tries to visualize your face. All you—you and your kindness, the way you would smile at him every time he comes to the coffee shop, how you never seemed to be bothered that Dex would sit there for hours even if his cup was already finished long ago, and why you never seemed to look at his way. Why don’t you look at him? 

His pace quickened, his breathing turning into shallow hitches that reverberated across your bedroom. Dex didn’t know how to be gentle when his blood was this hot. He grasped himself with a white knuckled intensity, his hand sliding up and down in punishing strokes. Dex’s grunts became more frequent as he jerked himself harder and faster, using his pre cum as lube for the time being.

He wanted to feel the friction—the sheer overwhelming sensation of his own body responding to the memory of you. Dex imagined your hands; those delicate hands replacing his own, your fingers tracing the scar on his cheek before sliding down to claim his cock, or your lips wrapped around his entirety, gagging with tears prickling in the corner of your eyes, motioning him to stop but he’d go on, tell you it’s gonna be okay, that he wouldn’t hurt you like that, then—he’d thrust his hips forward, his cock would reach the back of your throat so deep he’d feel you choke on it. 

“I need you,” he whines feverishly, your name falling on his lips repeatedly, and the pressure built behind his eyes, a mounting tension that reflects the ache in his groin. Dex needed you, even if you weren’t here to witness his desperation. “Fuck—please, I need you—please.”

Dex could feel it then, the familiar yet terrifying surge of a climax approaching, and there was nothing more he wanted than to spill himself into your space, to leave a part of his existence on your sheets. With a sharp, strangled cry that he muffled against the fabric of your pillow, Dex buckled. His body jolted, muscles snapping taut as he came into the thought of you. 

Yours, he thinks over, and the word is a prayer. Yours, yours, yours.

He shuddered violently, his vision blurring as he emptied himself all over, and the hot thick reality of his cum coating the fabric in a humiliating sprawl. Letting out a shuddering exhale, his forehead remained pressed hard against the pillow as the aftershocks of the orgasm rippled through his heavy limbs. He felt drained, utterly revolting.

Dex stayed there for a while, slumped over your bed like a fallen soldier, with his skin slick in a mixture of sweat and the cooling remnants of his release. 

He’ll clean them later, Dex thinks. First, he wants to cherish this moment. 

Everything you do, you do it alone. 

Years ago, you have decided that love was not for meant for someone like you. You had watched your peers catch it like a fever, trading their dignity for the shallow comfort of a hand held in the dark. It’s awful, your watching; the refusal to participate, the ogling and smug superiority, and the approximation of a true desire. It’s fake, you assumed. But it isn’t. Sometimes you can feel them pretending to know love more than you, they’re pretending yes, but it doesn't matter because they’re actually doing it.

There’s no ounce of motivation to form genuine connection so you’d choose to sit in the sidelines instead. You hadn’t remembered a time where you’ve longed for people. Was it when you were a child, full of naivety, purest of heart—never knowing the reality outside the door? You feel like a spectator of your own life. 

You keep trying to slip away from everyone around you, it was written all over your face, and you should have been used to the feeling by then, you reasoned. But the feeling of unbelonging had started much earlier. Since childhood, there had been a glass wall between you and the rest of the world; you saw things in fractures, had noted the way the light died in the corners of the room, or how people used words like ambition to mask their fear of being mediocre.

This job as a barista was eating you alive, but you had no other choice anyway. 

You had friends back home, of course. People you’ve grown up with, people you’ve met during high school—but you have never allowed yourself to let them see the entirety of you. Were you afraid? You supposed, till now, that you are. And you thought that maybe moving to an entirely different city would change that feeling; that you’ll become an entirely different person—you would never feel it anymore. 

You had never felt more alone in your life. The truth was, no matter where you go, you will always be caged within yourself. There’s no escaping you. 

There’s this stranger though. Tony. He comes to the café almost every day at the same time, it’s kind of endearing how he has his own routine even if you don’t know the whole of it. You also think he was attractive, probably a lot older than you, too. He’s nice. Talks to you sometimes when you ask him about his day, nothing of substance but at least he wasn’t creepy. He was just kinda there. 

You were on your way home. It’s late, you’re a little tipsy from the bar you and your friends went to, and the vodka is still warm in your chest, loosening the usual tightness behind your ribs. You could have called a cab or booked a ride, but you decide to walk it off instead. Makes you feel grounded.

Long walks are something you’ve come to enjoy. Back home, it's all you ever did—walking, occupied by the surroundings, letting the city breathe around you while you held your own. The air was chilling, bites at your cheeks, and the sliver of skin between your scarf and your jacket. Then your building comes into view, stairs are endless but you take them one at a time, hand sliding along the banister, your reflection ghosting across the hallway windows. 

Your hands struggle to find the keys, dropped them once on the stoop, and pick them up with clumsy fingers. The lock gives, and finally the door sighs shut behind you.

Inside your apartment, it was dark exactly as you left it. You don’t turn on the light—the streetlamp through your curtains is enough, casting everything in shades of blue and grey. You kick off your heels, then drop your keys in the bowl. Shrugging off your jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door, right where it always goes along with your untouched coat for work.

You were too intoxicated to notice the wrongness of your place, and too alone in your head to feel the weight of someone watching from the corner of your bedroom, pressed against the wall where the shadows are thickest, his breathing slow, deliberately silent.

You shuffle to your bed, and don’t notice the sheets were slightly rumpled more than you left them, but you were too exhausted to register the difference. Your whole body plops down onto the mattress face first, still in your clothes from the bar, and the world spins once behind your closed eyelids before settling into something manageable.

You just… sleep, surrendering to the pull of unconsciousness like stone sinking into deep water, your body heavy and warm and devastatingly unaware. 

Dex knows he should leave. The tracker is in place, and he’s already pushed his luck further than any man would dare, but rationality left him the moment he heard you coming. He stares at you, sprawled across the bed you don’t know he stained with his cum from hours ago. 

Then he moves, his boots make no sound on your floor, crosses the room in a few steps, then lowers himself to his knees beside your bed. His face levels with yours—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin, you smell of liquor and nicotine, something underneath that is just you. Dex can already tell the headache you’ll have come morning, he wonders if you’ll work later or call it off with your boss. 

He could take you right now. That’s the thought that circles his mind like a vulture. Take, take, take. Dex wants to touch you. God, he wants to touch you badly. You’re right there, pliant and warm and so fucking trusting, and the proximity is challenging. Dex has never been good at denying himself anything he truly wanted, but this—you, are different.

Not yet. Not tonight.

And if you saw him—if you opened your eyes and found a masked man kneeling beside your bed, still wearing the remnants of violence on his suit, you would scream and be terrified of him. You would look at him the way everyone eventually looks at him; a monster. 

Dex doesn’t think he could survive that from you. He doesn’t touch, but he leans in anyway, his lips ghosting above your head. 

“Good night,” he muttered under his breath, pressing his lips against your disheveled hair before turning around. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The next morning, he arrives at the coffee shop before you do.

This is new for him, a deviation from routine, and Dex doesn’t deviate lightly. He woke at four in the morning because he heard muffled noises from his monitor. He had fallen asleep while watching you, then he realized you had a nightmare, that’s why.

Dex watched you thrash for three minutes before falling back to sleep; your limbs tangling in sheets, and small broken sounds escaping your lips. His hand hovering over the keyboard, fingers twitching with the urge to do something. To wake you, to hold you? He wants to promise you that whatever monster chased you through your dreams, he would kill it.

He couldn’t go back to sleep. So instead, he dressed, walked around for a bit, and then stood near the alleyway outside where you work, waiting. He checks his phone, and the live recording shows you were still asleep, turned onto your side, with one hand tucked under your pillow, he could see your breathing even. No more nightmares. Good. Dex would have hated to see you suffer twice in one night. 

Your male coworker with the septum piercing opens the shop at seven. Lane with a last name he’d already forgotten. Twenty four years old, no girlfriend, and lives alone. He’s done his research, of course. He had to know the people who surrounded you. 

Dex exhales slowly, and the cloud of his breath dissipates into the dark. The boy thinks he’s being subtle with his lingering glances and his casual touches, but Dex sees everything. He sees the way Lane’s gaze drops to your mouth when you’re not looking, sees the way the boy positions himself near you during slow hours, always finding excuses to be in your personal space. Harmless, he tells himself. It’s harmless, though it doesn’t stop the way his jaw tightens every time you indulge yourself in your coworker’s antics.

Was it luck? Timing? Did Lane simply exist in the right place at the right moment, and you decided he was worth your attention? Dex has been coming to this shop for months. He’s been polite and patient. He made himself appear warm and approachable for you, and yet you still look at him like he’s a stranger.

He needs to do something. Kill Lane or finally talk to you properly, Dex doesn’t know—but he needs to make his move.

“You’re early,” you greeted him as he approached the counter, half yawning and your eyes looked exhausted. But you did try to look presentable in front of a customer.

“Hey,” he says with your name, his mouth twitches. “Couldn’t sleep, I thought I’d get an early start.” 

“Me neither,” you admitted, and your voice seemed quieter now, more private. “Hangover and bad dreams.” 

“Tell me about it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t remember anymore. Just the feeling… you know the type that sticks around after you wake up? Yeah, that’s—I mean, yeah. Sorry. Uh, the usual?”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” there’s something almost boyish in the way Dex fumbles over the words, desperately attempting to sound genuine like a person who understands what you’re feeling, but the effort shows he’s trying. “It must have been hard, really hard.” 

“It’s okay,” You shrug, a small and worn down gesture. “Comes with the territory.”

Dex inhaled a breath. “What territory?” 

“Being human, I think.”

You look at him, your gaze traced the soft creases of his eyes, lined by pretty lashes, the way you did the first time, when you smiled and asked if he’d had a long night. 

It feels like an affliction when you say it like that, as if it was something you suffer through rather than what you are. Dex has spent his whole life watching everyone from the outside, studying their emotions, their desperate need to matter. He understood them and yet, he had never once felt like one of them. 

Dex wants to tell you that he knows what that feels like, he’s been carrying the same weight, this alienation. Because most mornings, he opens his eyes and waits for the emptiness to fill him, and sometimes it doesn’t, sometimes it does, and either way, he gets out of bed and loads his weapon and pretends to be a person. You’re pretending too. He can see it—the effort behind your smile, the emptiness behind your eyes. You’re pretending you’re not falling apart, and Dex is pretending to be human, neither of you is fooling anyone. 

Except maybe each other. 

He stands there with his hands at his sides and his heart beating too fast, mind racing through all the things Dex wants to say but can’t. He wonders if you know how much you sound like him.

I don’t know how to be human, he wants to say. But I do want to know how to be yours.

“He asked you out? This Tony guy?” Lane says, eyeing Dex from where he’s sitting—hunched over, holding a book you seemed to recognize, in the corner, his coffee cup half empty, pretending not to watch, then Lane gazes back to you. “And you said yes—are you fucking insane?”

“What’s wrong with him? He’s actually nice,” you argue, shaking your head.

Lane’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. “Nice? The guy doesn’t talk to anybody. He sits in the corner for hours and stares at practically nothing. I’ve literally never seen him blink.”

“Well—I mean, he talks to me, you know.”

“Yeah, because he wants to get in your pants.” Lane lowers his voice, leaning across the counter. “Come on, you’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not normal.”

You glance over at Dex, he was reading yet you didn't notice the way his eyes weren’t moving across the page. You’ve seen that book before. Crime and Punishment. You read it once in college, struggled through the dense paragraphs and Raskolnikov’s spiraling guilt. Then some part of you wondered if he had nightmares too. Does he also wake up in the middle of the night with his heart pounding and no one to hold onto, all alone? Perhaps he was lonely as you are—you could understand that. 

“He’s just shy,” you say, turning back to Lane. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“He’s not shy. He’s fuckin weird.”

“You’re weird.” 

“I’m charmingly eccentric. There’s a difference.” Lane crosses his arms, the septum catching light as he tilts his head. “Seriously. You don’t know anything about him. Where does he live? What does he do? Does he have, like, a criminal record?”

You roll your eyes. “Not everyone has a criminal record, Lane.”

“That you know of.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“And you’re being reckless.” his voice softens along with your name, losing some of its teasing edge. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay? You’ve been through enough.”

Your expression contorts into something akin to annoyance, Lane has no right to stand there, acting like he’s protecting you from yourself. You told him things because you were lonely—because he was there. Sometimes you say too much when you’re not paying attention, though you wouldn’t consider him as a friend. You’re not even close. Lane is someone familiar, a familiar face in a city where every face is a stranger, and the notion of him acting like he’s more than that feels rather intruding. 

“Thanks for the concern,” you flatly replied. “But I’ve got it handled, Lane. Trust me on this.”

Dex will not show his teeth too quickly, he decided. The date is three days away. Saturday. A dinner at a restaurant you were familiar with—neutral ground, you had said, because you’re cautious without realizing it, some part of you knows that strangers are dangerous even when they seem nice, and Dex appreciated that about you; the instinct, your own self-preservation. He agreed to your terms, of course.

The book in his hands was a prop, he hadn’t read a single word since Lane started running his mouth. Dex didn’t need to, he heard every single word of your conversation. He wants to get in your pants, he could almost snort at that because Lane had no god damn idea. No idea that Dex had already been in your apartment, laid in the intimate spaces of your life while you were completely unaware. Getting to fuck you was a formality at this point, a pleasant inevitability, sure, but not his main objective.

The goal was you, anyway. You wanted to believe Dex was safe, that he was worth the risk, and he was going to give you every reason to keep believing, despite not even knowing his real name.

You would, though. Eventually. When the time was right. When the mask wears off and Dex shows you who he really was—not all at once, never in a way that would terrify you, but piece by piece, until you were too invested to run, too attached to look away, fully his to even think about leaving. He knew you better than anyone ever had, he won’t fuck this up now.

Lane could stand behind the counter with his misplaced protectiveness and his complete ignorance of what Dex was capable of—and still, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

He came early. 

The restaurant was small and kind of intimate, you described it as cozy when you suggested it, your voice casual but your eyes watchful, testing to see if he’d push for somewhere else. Dex didn’t, tells you it sounded perfect, and meant it. His clothes were new and he had worn them tonight, too. He’d stood in the mirror in his place for twenty minutes, staring at his own reflection, trying to remember the last time he bought clothes that weren’t for work.

Dex looks normal, he thinks. Almost human.

He’s spent the extra time studying the exits, assessing the other patrons, and positioning his chair so his back is to the wall and his eyes have a clear sightline to the door. Dex orders water—does not drink it, ice melting as he watches the condensation crawl down the glass like beads of sweat. 

The menu is in his hands but he wasn’t reading it. Instead, Dex’s running through contingency plans. What if you’re late, or worse, you don’t show up at all? His hands clenches at the thought, then relaxes because you wouldn’t do that to him, would you? You already agreed, and you come home alone every night—you were his. 

His doubts had been cleared when he saw you walk in. 

For a moment, Dex forgets to breathe, his gaze sweeping over to trail down your body because you’re wearing a dress. Nothing fancy, it’s a simple one. But the dress had been black and it fell just above your knees, your legs are bare where he could run his fingers along your thigh and find the heat between your legs, and oh, your hair is down too. 

He also noticed that you’ve done something to your eyes—darker than usual, smokier. You look like you're trying not to look like you tried, and the effort makes Dex’s mouth go dry, a growing bulge in his pants but he kept those thoughts locked away.

You spot him and smile shyly, Dex rises from his seat. 

His tenderness toward you had the polished quality of a practiced performance. Dex pulled out your chair, waited until you’d taken your first bite before he touched his own. He asked if you were warm enough, or if you wanted another drink, asked simple questions if the commute here had been okay. 

Each small courtesy landed, and you found yourself relaxing despite your better judgment. 

The wine you were drinking helped, though every so often, you’d catch him looking at you with an expression that didn’t match the gentleness of his voice—intense hunger lingered in his eyes. Made your stomach flip. It would vanish as soon as you noticed, replaced by that boyish smile Dex has. You told yourself you imagined it, you were pretty sure you didn’t.

Still, talking to Dex had been easy, you braced yourself for awkward pauses, for the strange tension of sitting across from a stranger whom you knew his coffee order but not his life. The inevitable moment when conversations would curdle into silence and you’d both stare at your plates like they held the answers to questions neither of you knew how to ask.

None of that happened.

Instead, Dex asked questions that made you feel seen without feeling exposed, and you answered without meaning to, the words falling out of your lips, tumbling into the space between you. And he simply listened, with his eyes never leaving your face. It should have felt invasive, and yet it felt like being wrapped around in warmth. 

“I feel stuck,” swirling your wine glass, elbow on the surface of the table, yet your gaze drifted away on to the strangers around you. “My life feels muffled... static? Somehow, I’m continually surprised when faced with this proof that the world is indeed moving—that it’s barreling forward… possibly without me.”

Dex set down his fork, the metal clicking softly against the plate. “Hm. Maybe you’re not stuck,” he finally offered, uttering your name. “Maybe you’re just waiting. For somethi—someone.” His eyes held yours. “The world doesn’t get to decide if you’re in it or not. You do.”

He doesn’t feel stuck when he’s with you, that’s for certain. Dex has to remind himself to keep his hands flat on the table because what he wants is to hover his hand above yours, and simply caress your softest skin, thumb rubbing in a circular motion, almost soothing. 

He wants to build you a cage, a beautiful one. 

A place where nothing could ever reach you, not the crushing weight of a world that doesn’t see you the way he sees you. Dex would line it with every book you’ve ever loved, make the cage to your liking. Then, he would sit outside it just to watch you. 

Would you like that? Where he’d take your uncertainties, your doubts, everything that makes you feel less—Dex would carry them with him to his grave. You don’t have to worry about anything, because you only need him. 

You laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to show up. No one ever does,” you leaned back in your chair. A strand of hair fell across your cheek, and you didn’t bother tucking it back. “Maybe I’m just not the kind of person people show up for.”

“You have me now, I’ll take care of you.” 

There was a beat of silence after Dex spoke, and in that silence, you felt the strangest urge to apologize. For what, you didn’t know. Perhaps, for making him say it? You had always thought you wanted someone to say something like that to you. To look at you with that kind of certainty and promise you that you weren’t alone, although now that it was happening—you realized you hadn’t prepared yourself for how it would feel. Heavy on the chest. 

His words terrified you in a way. This man was practically still a stranger to you. 

You shook the thought away almost as soon as it came, scolding yourself for being dramatic. Tony was just being nice, saying what people said, and yet you could feel the coldness of your hands, wine glass slippery against your palm. When you glanced up at him through your lashes, he was still watching you, as though you were the only one worth waiting for.

So why did it feel like standing on the edge of a cliff you couldn’t see the bottom of? You tucked your hair behind your ear and looked away anxiously, you didn’t say anything after that. 

Dex must have sensed your discomfort, because when he spoke again, it was to change the topic to somewhat more lighthearted. You felt grateful for that. 

“Can I drive you home?” 

The question hangs in the air between you, soft as smoke. Dex’s voice seemed careful but there’s something underneath it, a current he can’t quite hide. His keys are already in his hand, held loose between his fingers, and he watches your face trying to decipher every micro-expression, your flicker of hesitation.

Say yes, Dex craves in his mind. Say yes, please.

Your gaze finds him, your head a little tipsy from the bottles of wine you’ve managed to consume in one night. Your eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed, and demeanor almost careless. The streetlight catches your face, painting you in a beautiful light, and you’re smiling—a real one, soft and warm and slightly lopsided from the wine.

And Dex thinks he would kill someone for you right now if you asked. Anyone. Anywhere.

“I’d like that, thank you.”

Good, Dex thinks as he opens the passenger door for you. This is good. You’re doing everything right.

He walks around to the driver’s side, his heart beating frantically. Dex steals a glance at you—buckling your seatbelt, fitting into his space like you’d always been there, he allows himself a small grin. A surge of pride blooms in his chest, it was the pride of a man who has devoted months to learning you, watching you, edging into your periphery until you forgot he was ever an outsider.

The city slides past the windows in streaks of neon and darker hues. Dex keeps his eyes on the road, but his attention never leaves you; the sound of your breathing, your head resting toward the window, soft sighs you make when he takes a corner too slowly and you sway slightly in your seat.

Dex’s right hand comes to rest on your thigh, a bold move, yet you don’t pull away from him. A smile crosses his face.

When you reach your building, Dex parks the car and kills the engine. The street is quiet this late, the only sounds a distant siren and the click of his turn signal as he switches it off. You step out onto the curb, and he gets out right after, leaving the silence between you to expand on its own.

You stop at the front door. Your keys are already in your hand, fidgeting with them—twisting the metal between your fingers, the nervous energy rolling off you in unconscious movements. You keep glancing at him and then away, like you’re trying to gather courage for something. It was adorable, Dex thinks as he watches you.

“This was nice,” you finally break the silence, and the softness of your voice doesn’t go unnoticed. “I had a nice time with you.”

“I did too. You are beautiful.” 

He doesn’t trust himself to say more, not when you’re standing this close, and the wine has loosened something in you that Dex wants to keep loose, with his instinct screaming at him to close the distance between you and never let it open again.

Your gaze lifts to meet his, and then realize the proximity. How the darkness and the quiet and the wine have conspired to draw you together like magnets, pulling. Your face is close now—closer than Dex allowed himself to imagine during those long nights in his apartment, watching you through his screen, with his right hand wrapped around his cock, memorizing every inch and curve of your body.

He can also see everything from here; fine lines at the corners of your eyes, your pupils have dilated, swallowing the color of your irises. The way your lips are slightly parted, contemplating whether you’re going to speak—or you’re waiting for something.

“Tony,” you whispered, and he almost corrected you. Almost tells you his real name because he’ll do anything to hear the name Dex fall on your lips. 

“Yeah?” his voice comes out rough. 

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you lift yourself onto your tiptoes and lean in, reaching for his mouth. 

Your lips press against his, and Dex goes very still, his hands frozen at his sides because he doesn’t know what to do with them. He hasn’t been kissed in years. Hasn’t let anyone close enough to try but your mouth felt warm and sticky from the wine, your scent filling his nose. 

He doesn’t want to scare you, so his hand rises slowly, carefully and settles on your waist instead, fingers curling against the fabric of your dress. You make a small sound against his mouth, surprised and pleased, and Dex takes it as an opportunity to finally move his lips along with yours.

It’s gentle. Dex makes it gentle. But beneath the gentleness is something hungry, desperate, an urge that wants to pull you closer and press you against his firm chest, taste every inch of your mouth until he’s satisfied from it. He doesn’t do any of that. Dex keeps his hand on your waist, his lips soft and his breathing steady, he lets you set the pace. 

His tongue swept past your lips, tasting the faint salt on your skin. One of his large hands came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with a reverence that made your thighs squeezed together. The other hand pressed flat against the small of your back, pulling you just a fraction closer.

The kiss deepened in waves. Every time you thought you’d caught your rhythm, Dex shifted—tilting his head the other way, angling deeper, his tongue finding new ways to explore the inside of your mouth. His tongue moved against yours in slow strokes, coaxing rather than claiming. You could feel the slight tremble in his fingers where they held your face, his breathing had gone shallow and ragged. 

This was the part Dex couldn’t have planned for; the actual taste of you, the way you whimpered into his mouth, the small sound you made when his teeth grazed your lower lip, nibbling them.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours. Dex’s eyes were still closed. Your lips were parted, glossy and swollen. And for a long moment, neither of you knew what to say, it seemed, but he was holding you close to him that you felt utterly comfortable in his muscular arms. You could feel the heat radiating off from his body alone.

“Goodnight, Tony,” you breathe, gaze averted away to try to hide your already apparent blush. 

Nothing feels like always right now. Living on the honey of hope. 

Your back hits the door as it swings shut, and you stand there for a moment, pressed against the door, your fingers tracing your lower lip, reminiscing; the ghost of his mouth. It keeps replaying inside your head. 

You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, black dress pooling around your thighs, and a laugh escapes your lips. You press the heels of your palms against your eyes and smile so hard your cheeks ache. You feel like a fucking teenager. Sort of like every movie you have ever watched and rolled your eyes at, the cliché you’ve dismissed as overwrought or simply not meant for someone like you.

Finally pushing yourself off the floor after a few moments, yet still smiling, floating somewhere above your own body. You kick off your heels and leave them by the door, then wander to the bathroom. You saw a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror, you look ridiculous, but you’ve never looked blissful in years.

Happy. When was the last time you applied it to yourself without irony? You can’t recall. So much of you has been surviving for so long that you forgot people did more than that. They went on dates, held hands, and kissed while the city slept around them. They felt giddy, hopeful.

You deserve it, don’t you? Yes. This is somewhere to be, for this is all you have, but it’s something. Streets and sodium lights. The sky, the world. You’re still alive, still capable of loving. You’re still human, after all. Tony made you feel one tonight.

You can forget that the world will turn away from you someday, and leave you behind. For now, you’ll settle with this small dream filled exuberance. You cannot wait to prove Lane wrong, you thought as you washed your face, then brushed your teeth, pulled on an oversized shirt that used to belong to someone you don’t talk to anymore.

Your limbs feel heavy and light at the same time, weighted down by wine and lifted by something sweeter. You fall into bed, pulling the blankets up to your chin. Has this always been so cold? It didn’t matter, you couldn’t stop smiling. 

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You ignore it at first. It’s late, you’re still reeling, and you don’t want to come back down. But it buzzes again. And again. Three messages in quick succession, then a fourth. A sigh elicits from your lips, hands reaching for the phone, the screen lighting up your face in the dark.

Aa Lane (12:01 AM): hey i know it’s late but i was scrolling through some old news articles and i swear i’ve seen your coffee guy before Aa Lane (12:01 AM): like not in person but somewhere. Aa Lane (12:02 AM): tony right?? that’s what the fucker told you?? Aa Lane (12:02 AM): look at this and tell me i’m the one being paranoid

Something in your guts tells you to not click the link Lane sent you. It’s the same feeling you used to get as a child walking past a dark room—the instinct that something was waiting for you in the shadows, something that would change you if you looked at it too long. Don’t, don’t, don’t.

But you do. You click the link.

The article loads slowly, cluttered with ads and pop-ups and slow spinning wheels. Yet the headline loads first, bold and black, and your eyes catch on the words before your brain can catch up.

BENJAMIN POINDEXTER SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR MURDER OF PROMINENT ATTORNEY FOGGY NELSON

Oh, fuck.

You scroll down before you can stop yourself, and there it is—a photo. It was a mugshot. His face—Tony’s face. Same sharp jaw, same piercing eyes, same mouth that had been pressed against yours not too long ago. But different, too. Colder. Much emptier. The eyes in the photo don’t look like they’ve ever held anyone gently. You read the words again, former FBI agent, sentenced to life, murder, escaped custody, and they don’t feel real. None of this feels real at all. 

Do not approach. Do not engage. If seen, contact authorities immediately.

You could feel the way your hands started shaking, then comes your whole body; rigid and blood runs cold. You’re frozen and on fire simultaneously. Your hands drop the phone, and it lands on your chest, the screen still glowing, his face still staring up at you with those eyes. Then, a notification popped up once more on your screen. 

Aa Lane (12:10 AM): fuck, i hope you’re safe and home. call me pls 

You stare at Lane’s message, the words blur and sharpen as if your eyes can’t decide what to focus on. And yet, the numbness spreads. Starts in your fingers, those tingling extremities that had been warm against his skin just an hour ago. Then, it travels up your arms, settles in your shoulders, crawls across your chest, your heart is still beating—you can feel it, distant. 

You think the panic has receded, that the fear has gone quiet. Suddenly, your stomach lurches.

It comes out of nowhere; a violent, involuntary spasm that doubles you over on the bed. You press your hand hard over your mouth, and for a terrible moment you think you’re going to throw up. Swallowing hard, once, twice, as your throat works against the rising tide, and eventually, the nausea subsides, residing somewhere low in your belly.

But the sickness doesn’t go away, simply moves. Finding its way into your veins, your bones, you feel poisoned, like an insect has crawled inside you and died. Truly rotten.

Another message.

Aa Lane (12:21 AM): please answer me i’m getting really fucking worried

Your vision becomes blurry—tears, you realize, when did you start crying? Forcing yourself to type back, one word, because it’s all you can manage.

You (12:22 AM): Here. 

The response comes almost instantly. 

Aa Lane (12:22 AM): i’m coming over, wait for me

Tony isn’t real, it was a mantra that repeats inside your head as you wait for Lane. There is no Tony. There’s only ever Benjamin Poindexter—convicted murderer, a man who has killed and will kill again. And somehow, absurdly, you find yourself on the verge of laughter. Because this is your life, isn’t it? This is what you get for daring to hope.

Tonight, you let yourself believe that perhaps, the universe had something good in store for you, and instead, what you were getting was the universe reminding you, yet again, that you don’t get to have nice things—you never did and you never will. The world has a sick sense of humor, you’d almost admire it, if only you weren’t busy falling apart.

Little serpentine slithers its way into your thoughts, mind boggling, what you had never realized earlier, you do now. Fully sobered up.

You never told Tony where you lived.

He drove you home tonight but he’d known where to go. Never asked for directions, nor plugged anything into his phone either. Not a moment of uncertainty, he’d just driven. Like he had done it before—as if he’d been here before. 

Stupid girl, where is your mind now?

Dex watched it happen in real time. 

He saw the way your smile falters, then fades. Watched your hand over your mouth, repulsed by him, swallowed something rotten and now was crawling back up your throat. He knew that look. He had put that look on a hundred faces before yours. But never yours—never yours.

Dex was so careful, so patient with you. He had done everything right, he thinks. He had to have known, on some level, that you couldn’t stay ignorant forever, and still, he let himself believe otherwise. A mere fantasy, was it ever was. Dex wanted it so badly that he convinced himself it could be real.

That somehow your parallel paths converge, and found himself in the arms of your warmth. This emptiness, this nothing inside him consumes the entirety of you, and the promise of normalcy. He wanted to think he would be sated for a lifetime with you, and in all the deaths that exist after. Dex could only blame himself for thinking he could ever be anything else.

And now you know.

His skin starts to burn, an itch to his soul. Dex stands over the body, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths. The alley is darker than the place where Lane’s car still idles, engine humming, door hanging open like a wound. 

There’s this satisfied curl of Dex’s lips beneath the mask, seeing Lane on his knees. 

The boy didn’t beg, Dex will give him that much. Didn’t plead for a life he clearly valued, despite all evidence to the contrary. He just looked up at Dex with those wide, stupid eyes.

“I fucking knew it, you piece of shit!” 

The first impact doesn’t satisfy Dex, so he does it again—pulls Lane’s head back and slams it forward, a second crack, this one weaker than the first. Lane’s eyes seemed unfocused now, with his body limp in Dex’s grip. But he doesn’t stop, can’t help himself. He holds Lane against the wall, feeling the boy’s pulse flutter beneath his fingers, and leans in close. 

“You had to run your god damn mouth, didn’t you?” his voice barely a whisper, seething. Meant only for Lane, to be the last thing he hears before life fades from his eyes. “You had to take her away from me, make her afraid. You just couldn’t help yourself to be the savior, hm?” Dex pauses. “She’s not gonna fuck you, Lane—she wants me. And I’m going to take something from you, too.”

“She should be terrified of you,” Lane had spat back, words almost slurred, blood already dripping from his split lip. “You’re a fucking killer.” 

“Yes,” Dex’s toothy grin shows. “I am. I’ll show you.”

He had half a mind to leave Lane bleeding out here.

The boy was done for anyway; cracked skull, blood seeping from his hairline, eyes struggling to focus on a world that was already slipping away. He wouldn’t last an hour, maybe not even the half. He can walk away now, because all he ever wanted to do, what burned in his chest was to come over to your apartment and apologize.

Never mind the bloodied mess he made on his suit, he’d fall to his knees and make you understand. He’ll tell you everything, the truth, the ugly, this impossible truth of what you’d become to him. You had reached something inside him he thought had died years ago, scraped out, buried, and mourned by no one.

You have me, Dex would say. You have all of me. The good parts, the bad parts, the parts that have done terrible things. They’re yours. They’ve been yours since the first time you met me. Dex needed to believe he could make you understand, because the alternative was unbearable. It would crack him open, spill whatever was left of his humanity onto the floor, and there would be no putting it back together.

Deciding he’s running out of time before you could be out of his reach, Dex turned away from Lane’s crumpled body, already calculating the fastest route to your building, and then this fucker just had to speak once more. 

“She’ll know.”

He halted in his steps. Listening.

“She’ll know,” Lane repeated, stronger now, forced through lips that were swelling. “She’ll hate you for the rest of her fucking life, for what you did to me—for what you are. That’s the best damn thing I’ll ever do,” Lane laughed. It was a terrible sound, wet and gurgling, half-choked on his own blood. “Make sure she knows exactly what you are. A monster. A fucking monster in a mask who thought he could pretend to be normal. Creepy fuckin asshole.” 

The rage that flooded through Dex was cold, then his hand moved before he consciously decided. With the knife in his palm, flying through the air, spinning end over end, simply knowing where it would land—his blade buried itself in Lane’s throat.

Lane’s eyes went wide, his hands flew to his throat, grasping at the hilt, to the blood that was already pouring between his fingers. He let out an inhumane sound, gasping for air, clawing his way to escape death. That’s what Dex loves about this, when severe pain has caused men to lose their air of arrogance, and only then, realizing that life was already out of their grasp.

Dex walked toward him slowly, then crouched down in front of Lane, bringing his masked face level with the boy’s. Real fear painted across irises, and Dex reveled in this moment of clarity between them. 

“Shh, it’s easier if you don’t fight it.” Dex mocks him, pressing a gloved finger to his own lips, though Lane couldn’t see beneath the mask. Lane’s eyes were wet with tears or blood—Dex couldn’t tell, didn’t care. He then gripped his chin, forcing Lane to look up. “I’ll make sure she won’t ever think about you again. You hear me? I’ll make sure of it. You’re nothing, Lane.”

Dex watched until the boy’s eyes went still, his hands fell away from his throat, body slumped sideways, collapsing onto the wet pavement, the knife still buried in his throat. Then Dex stood up, wiping his gloves on his thighs like he had touched something dirty, removed the mask to give himself a moment to breathe.

“Good bye, white knight.”

He had to come find you now. Dex would make sure you didn’t wait long.

You had a knife in your hand, it seemed. 

It’s not a good knife, not like his. This is a kitchen knife, the kind that comes in a set, and the blade is short, its handle plastic, and your grip is wrong—too tight, your thumb wrapped over the top instead of resting along the side. You could hurt yourself, Dex worries. You’re going to cut your palm open if you decide to finally swing at him.

Dex stands in the shadows of your living room, watching you through the archway that separates your kitchen from the rest of your life. You haven’t seen him yet, because your back is half turned, shoulders hunched, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps that he can hear from here. You were shaking, he could see it from his standpoint. 

You turn suddenly, and you see him.

The knife comes up—not toward him, not exactly, just up between you, a semblance of barrier made of cheap steel and trembling fingers. His suit is still on, never bothered to change, didn’t see the point of it if you know who he is now. But Dex had taken off the mask, as he wants you to see his face.

“Don’t,” your voice cracks on the word, the knife wobbles in your grip. “Don’t come any fucking closer.” 

Dex slowly raises his both hands, making himself appear harmless. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

An incredulous laugh escapes your throat. “Won’t hurt me? Right, because you’re not a killer—fucking right. Just how stupid do you think I am to believe you?”

It pains him to see you this way, so broken yet admirably brave. Your expression is the most beautiful thing Dex has ever seen, and he would let you use that knife. He would stand still and let you sink it into his chest, if that’s what you needed—if that would make you feel safe. He’ll let you. 

Look at him, if you would be so kind, and find whatever it is you’re looking for, even if it’s not what you wanted to find.

“You matter to me,” it’s the way Dex says your name with such raw, convoluted emotion. “I said I would take care of you, and I meant it. I’m not going to hurt you—I know it won’t ever be enough to believe but I won’t.”

“You’re a liar, you fucking lied to me.”

“I’m not lying—please, if you could just—”

“Everything about you is a lie,” there were tears sliding down your cheeks as you cut him off, and Dex wanted to reach out to wipe them away. “Your name. Your whole life. I don’t even know you. Tony? What the fuck? Who even are you?”

“I was a lot of things.” Dex takes a single step forward, and you stumble backward, your hip catching the kitchen counter, and your knife clatters against the marble, you snatch it up again quickly. “I'm still a lot of things. But I need you to know that I would die before I let anyone hurt you. I would kill anyone who tried—and I know that doesn’t sound like comfort. I know it sounds like the opposite of comfort, but fuck, it’s the truth.”

“Stop,” you shook your head, gaze averted away from him. “Stop talking. You’re sick in the head. You’re—”

“I’m yours,” Another step. Your back meets the refrigerator, and there’s nowhere left to go. “I have been since the first time you said my name.”

“Your fake name.”

“Dex,” he finally says, a thorn being pulled out from his chest. “You already know my name, but everyone calls me Dex.” He reaches up, slowly, giving you time to scream or stab him, yet you do none of those things. Ever so softly, his fingers brush your cheek, wiping away a tear, he felt you shiver beneath his touch. “You can call me whatever you want. Anything. I don’t care—just… don’t turn away from me, please. I need—I need you.”

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, something stirred inside your chest. “I’m not built for this, Dex. Whatever it is you’ve pictured in your head.”

“I know, sweetheart.” he coos amorously, his large hand cupping your jaw fully, thumb resting at the corner of your mouth, your breath hitches but you don’t pull away, he gently takes the knife from your hand. “I’ll make you. Going to make you understand, hm? I’m right here.”

“My legs won’t—” a sob catches in your throat. “Why can’t I run?”

Dex inhaled a sharp breath, and carefully, so tenderly, he leaned in closer to your face, your eyes fluttering closed when his forehead had rested against yours, your breath mingling with his, hot and shaking.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “You don’t believe me yet, I know you’re terrified. But you will. You’ll see.”

“Please,” you whisper again, though you’re not saying it to the knife anymore. You’re not quite certain who you’re saying it to. If your entire life came crashing down and the whole world descended on you, Dex would hurl himself in death’s way to save you, you’re sure of this, but why? 

Why you? Though your uneasiness had been swept away when you felt Dex’s lips pressing against yours, not like the first time, no. This time it had felt desperate, almost painful, his hand sliding into your hair and tilting your head back while his mouth claimed yours. You make a sound against his lips, something needier, your hands coming up to fist in the bloodstained fabric of his suit.

You’re not pushing him away, Dex realizes. You were holding onto him. His heart is hammering so hard he’s certain you can feel it through all the layers between you.

“I’m sorry,” he says in between kisses. “I’m really sorry.”

As he pulled away, Dex shifted his weight, his massive frame looming over you, effectively pinning you between the cold metal of the refrigerator and the heat of his body. He was a wall of muscle, a shadow that had finally swallowed you whole. His other hand came up, settling heavily on your waist, his fingers splaying wide over the curve of your hip, claiming the space you occupied as if it were his birthright.

He didn’t wait for you to find your voice. Dex couldn’t. If he gave you the chance to speak, you might find the strength to push him away once again—re-establishing the boundary of your own soul, and Dex was far too desperate to let that happen. 

What he did was to crash his mouth against yours again, although the dread was long gone, replaced by this starving need. It was a messy, uncoordinated collision of lips and teeth, a silent plea for you to accept the madness he offered. Dex tasted the salt of your tears and the heat of your desperation, it drove him into a fever.

“Please just let me in—let me be the only thing you feel.”

Dropping to his knees with a heavy thud, his eyes never leaving yours until the very last second when he moved to settle between your legs. He worked with such ferocity, his large hands fumbling with the hem of your clothes, his breath warm and hitching against your skin as he bared you to the dim light of the kitchen, naked from the bottom down in front of him. 

How beautiful you looked, only for him. And when Dex finally pressed his face into the damp, sweet heat of your cunt, a broken sound escaped him, a pathetic whine that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against you, his voice muffled by your skin, thick with a desperate, weeping sort of devotion. “I’m so sorry for scaring you… mm, so sorry.”

The only thing you could discern was the silhouette of Dex’s broad shoulders as his head dips between your thighs. Dex begins gently, filling his lungs with the scent of your arousal, dragging his tongue against your slick folds, making your chest heave with every whimper.

And the sweet taste of your wetness coats his tongue, pulling a low groan from his chest. Dex needed this as much as you do, he had been longing to devour your pussy, to hear your breathy cries and soft moans while his tongue delved into your pulsing heat, your shivering body held steady under his selfish touch.

“Dex, please…” you whine and beg but don’t know what for, attempting to squeeze your thighs together but his hands had been a lot stronger gripping them, certain he’d leave bruises along. “Fuck…”

When Dex hears your voice break like that, it unlocks something feral within him—to eat you in his earnestness. He switches between flicking your swollen clit with his tongue, then dragging the broad flat of his tongue through your folds. His grip is unyielding, keeping you exactly where he wants you as he fastens his mouth to your pussy and begins to suck the inner lips. Your desperate, high pitched moans bounce off the kitchen walls, and to Dex, they’re pure music.

There’s something holy in the softness of his mouth, driving you into an immaculate euphoria with each unhurried stroke of his tongue. Dex drinks you in, pushing his tongue inside you as his arms lock around your thighs, tugging you nearer so he can taste deeper—consuming you from the inside.

“That’s it, my sweet girl,” he rasped, pulling out his tongue with your name woven into his breath. “Let me make you feel good. So perfect for me.”

Dex’s nose nudges your clit, and you roll your hips against his face, smearing your wetness across his lips. He hums in approval, the vibration running straight through your core. 

A sudden flare of heat surges through you, your legs wobbling as your pussy clenches around his tongue and releases, pleasure like white fire racing through your veins. Knees nearly give out. Dex’s tongue gathers the aftermath of your climax, lapping it up to savor the essence of you. It tasted sweet. When your body finally drifts into that state of trance post orgasm, Dex doesn’t move his mouth away—he just keeps going, gliding from your entrance up to circle your clit, over and over in a soothing, endless rhythm.

You couldn’t remember how long he had been down there, simply tasting your cunt. It must have gone on for hours, yet it didn’t matter. Poor you, so overwhelmed with the sensation Dex had been giving to you, you must have forgotten all the worse things he’d done, and what he will continue to do with the way you kept chanting his name like a prayer. 

Shame bubbles up inside you, suffocating, and unable to contain the amount of pleasure overstimulating you. The things you let Dex do to you—what you won’t admit. What does it say about you, that the fear and the pleasure have somehow entwined together into something you can’t unravel? Maybe you’d scrub your cunt raw afterwards, tremble at what you couldn’t prevent, wondering how you became someone who could be complicit in one’s own destruction.

But Dex has his purpose now. You. 

With him, he made you his salvation, cleansing him from all his unrighteousness. Dex was your man, the worst man to ever exist. He’ll apologize if he finds paradise in indulging himself within you, a selfish consumption of the one thing Dex holds dear. His hands are scarred from killing, and yet you would trust him completely because you will only ever need him.

your face shifted before you could control it. eyebrows pulling together, mouth parting slightly in disbelief at your own thoughts. you snapped your mouth shut, heat creeping up your neck as you reminded yourself you were in public. it was far too early in the morning to be this flustered.

still, your eyes followed him as he got further away, convincing yourself you were being subtle when you were far from it. because he glanced back again while still running, and this time, when he caught you looking, you turned away a little too quickly.

oops.

you had told yourself you were coming to the park for the fresh air, clear your head, all that self improvement bullshit people swear by. but now? now you were coming for him. well you wanted to be.

the silver fox who had somehow slipped into your routine. the day after you first saw him, you found yourself praying. not properly, not seriously, just an embarrassed thought thrown out into the universe as you got ready that morning. that you’d been good enough, done enough decent things, that maybe you’d get lucky. that maybe you’d see him again.

and when you got there, sitting on that same bench, your eyes kept flicking up every few seconds, scanning the path, trying to act like you weren’t waiting. like you weren’t listening for the sound of the same steady footsteps approaching.

it felt stupid. a little desperate, even. five minutes passed. then ten, you told yourself you’d give it fifteen before you left. at twelve, you spotted him.

same path, same pace as last time. your chest tightened instantly, that same rush hitting you all over again, stronger this time because now you knew what to expect. you didn’t realise how hard it was to look nonchalant until you found yourself staring a little too intently at the trees in front of you, pretending they were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

he hadn’t seen you yet, too focused on his run, but he was getting closer. close enough that you could pick out the details again, the way his shoulders moved with each step, the controlled rhythm of his breathing, 

your fingers curled slightly against the bench. trying to grasp onto some sort of courage to call out for him to stop, to actually try and talk to him. and then, like before, his eyes shifted right over to where you were sitting.

was he looking for you? the thought hits before you can stop it, and suddenly you’re overthinking everything, what you’d even say if he stopped, if he spoke, if he did anything other than run past like he had been.

it doesn’t matter because when he passes you this time, he looks right at you and smirks and just like that, he’s already moving past you. too late. again.

you hesitate for half a second too long, your body catching up to your brain just a moment after the opportunity has already slipped by. your mouth opens, like maybe you could still call out, say something, anything, but it’s pointless now.

he’s gone.

you huff out a quiet sigh, your head dropping slightly as frustration settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. you sit there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the path he disappeared down, hoping there’s any chance he might come back.

he doesn’t.

eventually, you force yourself to stand, brushing your hands over your clothes, trying to shake it off as you start the walk home. it’s quiet other than the sound of birds, your footsteps steady, but your mind won’t leave it alone. it keeps circling back, what you could’ve said, how easily you could’ve just called out.

by the time you get home, you’re already tired of your own thoughts.

you try to get on with your day properly. you start with small things, chores you’d been putting off, tidying up your bedroom, putting things away, keeping your hands busy so your brain has something else to focus on. it works for a few minutes at a time, until it doesn’t. you’ll pause, standing still in the middle of a task, your mind drifting straight back to him.

it’s irritating more than anything else. you don’t know him. you’ve never spoken to him. and yet somehow, he’s there, so stuck in your head.

even when you go out later to get groceries, it doesn’t stop. you walk through the aisles, picking things up automatically, barely paying attention to what you’re actually there for. half aware of people passing by, a small, ridiculous part of you wondering if you’ll just happen to see him again.

you don’t. you get what you need and leave, a little more annoyed at yourself than before.

back home, you try to reset. a shower usually helps. you stand under the water longer than you meant to, letting it run over your face, your hair, your shoulders, hoping it’ll clear your head.

you lean your head back against the cold wall, eyes closed, and there he is, clear as anything. the way he looked at you, his pretty smile. you exhale, an annoyed sound escaping you, scrubbing your hands over your face.

it’s stupid. he's a goddamned stranger.

by the time you’re done and get into bed, the day has worn you out, but your mind hasn’t caught up. you shift under the covers, trying to get comfortable, turning onto your side, then your back, then your other side, but it doesn’t make much difference.

every time you close your eyes, you’re having the same problem. you open your eyes again, staring at the ceiling for a moment before letting them fall shut once more, trying to just let sleep come.

and just as you’re about to drift off, right on the edge of it. you think about tomorrow. excited for it.

little did you know, the stranger you had been fawning over had been thinking about you just as much. the difference was, he didn’t have to wonder. dex already knew your name.

he’d known it just after you smiled at him the first time. before you started showing up at the park at the same time every morning, settling into that same bench just off the path, it wasn't a coincidence to him. nothing ever was.

at first, you were just another face. someone who noticed him. that alone had been enough to make him look twice, because most people didn’t. he made sure of that. early runs, controlled routes, minimal interaction, pretty much invisible. but you noticed.

and then you kept noticing, that’s what made him curious. so he looked into you to make sure you weren't a threat. it hadn’t taken long. it never did. a name turned into a profile, a profile into patterns, then into something more solid. 

where you worked, where you lived, the places you frequented, the small habits you probably didn’t even realise you had. he didn’t need to speak to you to know you, but knowing wasn’t enough.

not anymore, because the deeper he looked, the more he longed, the more he needed you. he wanted to know what made you tick. what you loved. what disgusted you. what made your expression change, what made you smile and cry.

what you thought about him.

that’s the one that lingered the most. he’d taken the same route every morning on purpose. timed it. adjusted it, early enough that there wouldn’t be many people around, less distractions, less unnecessary onlookers.

just you. you, on that bench, you, pretending not to watch him. you, looking anyway.

and every time he passed, he let himself look back just enough to catch you in the act. measuring your reactions. the way you’d tense, the way your gaze would snap away too late to pretend you hadn’t been staring.

you were subtle, but not subtle enough. by the second day, he was certain. you were waiting for him. and by the third? he didn’t show up. not because he didn’t want to, but because he wanted to see what you’d do when he didn’t.

the next day, you go back.

you tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything, that you’d be here anyway and if he was too then it’d be a bonus but there’s hope sitting in your stomach that says otherwise. it lingers there as you sit down, smoothing your hands over your clothes, eyes already drifting toward the path before you can stop yourself.

expecting him, like he might just appear if you look long enough. at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s just later than usual. maybe you got here earlier. maybe you just missed him somehow, so you waited.

your eyes keep flicking back to the same spot, tracking every movement, every person that passes by, only to look away again when it isn’t him. you try to act normal about it, five minutes pass, then ten.

you shift slightly on the bench, adjusting your position, glancing down at your hands, at the ground, at your phone, at anything that isn’t the path, before your eyes betray you again, lifting back up in anticipation.

he still doesn’t show.

you stay longer than you mean to. longer than you’d ever usually sit here doing nothing. long enough that it starts to feel a little embarrassing that you’re waiting around for a guy.

“fuck,” you mutter under your breath, leaning back against the bench, your head tipping up as you stare at the sky through the gaps in the trees. the air feels cooler today, or maybe that’s just the way the disappointment settles back into your chest.

if you’d just done something yesterday, anything, you could’ve maybe, possibly had his number by now. you could’ve said something, even something stupid, something small, just enough to start something.

at the very least, you’d know his name.

instead, you’re stuck here, feeling a little pathetic over a man you’ve never spoken to, clinging to a few shared glances as if they meant more than they probably did. “maybe it's for the better.” you think to yourself.

you let out a exaggerated breath through your nose, eyes falling shut for a second before you push yourself up from the bench. your hands brush over your clothes, a pointless attempt to shake the feeling off.

it doesn’t work, so you leave. your steps are slower than usual at first, your mind still lingering behind you, eventually your body takes over, guiding you somewhere familiar without much thought. your favourite café.

the bell above the door chimes softly as you step inside, warmth wraps around you instantly, chasing away the chill that had settled under your clothes, the smell of coffee hits you just as quickly, it’s almost comforting. something sweet is baking somewhere behind the counter, the scent of it lingering in the air.

it’s quieter than usual. a few people sit scattered around, heads down, wrapped up in their own mornings, their own routines, untouched by the strange weight sitting in your chest. you exhale slowly, feeling some of the tension leave your shoulders as you step further inside, the normalcy of it all settling around you.

your hands slide into your bag to grab your purse out as you approach the counter, already knowing what you wanted, something you wouldn't normally order on a colder day ‘cause of the ice but you needed something to cheer you up.

you step up to the counter, offering the barista a small smile as you give your order, your voice coming out steadier than you feel. she nods as she listens, repeating it back to you as she scribbles it down on the cup, the scratch of the pen quick and familiar.

you pay, fingers brushing briefly against the counter as you use you pull out your card, swiping it, and she gives you an easy smile in return before turning away, already moving toward the machine to start your drink.

“won’t be long,” she calls, almost over her shoulder.

you nod, murmuring a quiet thanks before stepping off to the side, out of the way of the next person in line and then you wait. it’s different from the park, but not by much.

your weight shifts slightly from one foot to the other as you stand there, hands loosely clasped, your gaze drifting around the shop, just passing the time. you take in the small details, the low hum of conversation, the soft clatter of cups, the steady hiss of the coffee machine as it works.

you try to focus on it. on anything, but your mind wanders.

it wanders, uninvited, pulling you right back to him. to the way you’d waited longer than you should have, you shake your head pulling you back to reality. your jaw tightens slightly, and you look away, eyes landing on nothing in particular as you exhale through your nose.

your drink gets slid across the counter toward you, the cup cold against your fingers as you pick it up. you thank her again, offering a small smile before turning toward the exit.

your attention drifts as you walk, one hand adjusting the strap of your handbag as it slips down your shoulder for what feels like the hundredth time today. you fumble with it absentmindedly, not really watching where you’re going, your focus split between not dropping your drink and fixing the strap.

which is exactly why you nearly walk straight into someone, but they’re quicker. hands catch your upper arms, firm and steady, stopping you in place before you can collide fully, before your drink can tip and spill all over both of you.

you gasp softly at the sudden contact, your body going still for a second before your eyes finally lift and it’s him. oh my god. it’s him.

up close, he’s taller than you expected, broader too, close enough now that he's impossible to ignore. for a second, your brain just… stalls.

you let out a nervous laugh, your grip tightening slightly around your cup. “i’m so sorry,” you blurt out, words tripping over themselves just a little. “you really saved the both of us there.”

he laughs too, softer but just as easy, and it does nothing to help the way your minds running wild. his hands slide off your arms as he takes a small step back, giving you space again. you try not to notice the absence of them.

“no worries,” he brushes it off, voice calm, “you’re good.” there’s a brief pause after that.

one of those moments that stretches just a second too long, where neither of you move, neither of you speak, just looking at each other. the longer it goes on, the more aware you become of everything. of how close he still is. of the way he’s looking at you. of how he almost blocks out the light behind him, almost like he’s unintentionally crowding your space without being in it.

it makes something in your stomach twist. “hey… have we met before?” he asks, breaking the silence, his head tilting slightly as he looks down at you. “you look really familiar.” you can’t tell if he’s joking.

there’s something in his tone that sounds genuine, but then again, you’ve caught him looking at you enough times that it doesn’t feel like he wouldn’t know it's you. still, you answer honestly.

“not officially,” you reply, a smile pulling at your lips as you glance at his before looking back into his eyes, “but i’ve seen you at the park a couple of times.”

you say it casually, like he hasn’t been on your mind, like you didn’t sit there this morning waiting for him to show up and then it clicks. the shift in his expression, the slight lift of his brows, the quiet recognition settling in as a low, drawn out “ohh” leaves him.

“right,” he says, almost to himself, his focus lingers on you for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable sitting behind it now. “yeah. that makes sense.” 

the silence is back again, his mouth curves, just slightly, not quite a smile, not quite that same smirk from before, but something in between.

“so you’re the one who sits on the bench,” he adds, a little more certain now. your stomach flips. there’s no teasing in his voice. just… observation. like he’s been paying attention too. “guess i am,” you reply, trying to keep your voice light, trying to play it cool as you shift your weight onto your other foot.

his eyes flick briefly to your cup, then back to you, “i didn’t see you this morning,” he noticed. the thought rings loud in your mind, catching you off guard as you scramble to respond, “yeah, um, you must’ve just missed me,” you reply quickly, the words coming out a little too fast.

the eye contact doesn’t waver. “definitely,” and there’s something in the way he says it makes you question if he believes you at all. you can’t tell if he’s flirting or if he’s just being polite, or if you’re reading too much into all of this again.

but either way, you can feel the moment slipping if you don’t do something. you’ve already spent the last couple of days replaying missed chances in your head, you’re not doing that again.

so you take a breath. “hey,” you start, your nails digging into your free palm, “i know this is completely random and you can totally shut me down if you want, but…”

your heart is pounding now, loud enough you’re convinced he can hear it. “could i get your number?” you manage, your voice a little unsteady but still there. “i think you’re really cute, and i kinda… want to go out with you sometime.”

your words hanging there between you. you brace for it, for the awkward smile. the apology. the sorry, i’ve got a partner that’ll make you wish the ground would just open up beneath you.

it doesn’t come. instead, his entire expression shifts, his face lighting up in a way that catches you off guard completely.

“yeah,” he agrees immediately, shyly smiling down at the ground, already reaching into his pocket, pulling his phone out. “yeah, i’d love that.”

your eyes widen slightly, relief hitting you all at once, followed by a shaky breath you didn’t realise you were holding. “oh, okay,” you let out, a disbelieving laugh slipping through.

“here,” stepping a little closer again, angling his screen toward you. “put your number in instead.”

you hesitate for half a second, not because you don’t want to, but because this suddenly feels very real, before stepping into his space and taking his phone. your fingers brush his as you do, and you feel it more than you probably should.

you type your name and your number. for a moment, you consider just leaving it at that, but then you add a small note next to your name, something to make him remember.

you hand his phone back, the smile on your lips starting to make your cheeks ache from how long it’s been there. “so you don’t forget.” his eyes flick down to the screen, and you catch the way his mouth curves again. “i wouldn’t,” so sure of it that it doesn’t even sound like a possibility worth considering. 

something about the way he says it makes your stomach flip again, the certainty of it settling somewhere deeper. he taps at his phone for a second, and then your own buzzes in your pocket almost immediately. “there,” he smirks, glancing back up at you, “now you’ve got mine too.”

you pull your phone out, your eyes dropping to the notification lighting up your screen before you look back up at him, some of your nerves finally easing now that this is actually happening. “i guess i’ll text you then,” you get out, trying not to sound disappointed that you have to go.

“yeah,” he replies, holding your eyes just a second longer than necessary, as if he’s making sure you mean it. “do that.” there’s a pause before he adds, “i’m glad you asked.” you look away shyly, the weight of his attention suddenly a little too much, before you glance back up at him.

“yeah… me too.” your eyes flick over him in a way that’s not even close to subtle, a quick up down that you don’t bother to hide as you shift your weight and start to move past him. you can feel his eyes on you as you go, and when you push the door open and step out, it doesn’t leave. he turns slightly, watching you walk away, only looking away when you disappear out of sight.

I just can’t stop thinking about DEX becoming absolutely obsessed with the pretty waitress that has just started working at his usual diner. 

He noticed you right from the start. Beautiful thing like you, with your pretty little skirt, taking an order just two tables away from him? How could he not? He is always alert, always vigilant, but even if he wasn’t, there was just no way he could have ever not noticed.

His foundations shifted and his stars were redrawn the first time you asked for his name. And he laid his claim, quiet and fervent, when he gave you it.

It seemed like a coincidence at first, at least to you, how he would always be seated somewhere along the section you were waiting for on any particular day. And along the way, it was easy to see just how he had become your favorite client just after weeks of starting at your new job.

He would always greet you with a smile, and he would always be kind, and he would always be respectful. He never tried to peek under your skirt, or talk to you like you were less than him only because you were re-filling his coffee cup, and he always left a good tip on his way out.

He was so unlike all other men that came into the diner, that it was just natural for your smile to always be a little brighter whenever you looked his way, and DEX reveled in your attention the same way an apex predator would on easy prey: never getting his fill, licking his whiskers, readying his beak, hunger rising from his stomach at the mere thought of having more. 

He did not want to scare you away.

He wanted your attention to remain on him because you wanted to keep it there, and did not mind waiting for that to translate to being the holder of your affection as well. he was patient. He did not believe in second chances, and he did not believe in salvation; he believed that good things took time, and you, with your sweet smiles and your pretty little laugh, would be the best of them all. 

And that was how, a couple months after your friendship started, he offered to help you carry in the produce boxes your boss was so adamant you hauled into the kitchen. 

Because, well, DEX was your friend by now. 

Somewhere along the way, he began staying for a little longer after eating so you could join him for a cup of coffee during your break. He started walking you home whenever he arrived to the diner later during the day and finished eating just at the same time you were finishing your shift. After all, it was just such a coincidence, but it was still the right thing to do. 

And DEX, because he was such a good friend, was not about to let you hurt yourself only because your boss was too much of a bum to get off his ass and haul the boxes inside himself. And if that had somehow translated into him finally being able to feel your lips against his skin as he pressed you back against the wall of the deserted alleyway at the back of the diner? 

Well, that was just a reward for his patience.

Because, God, it had been worth it.

Months of aligning his schedule to yours so he could come in just when you were free, and months of watching you from a distance to make sure you were still just his, and months of beating other patrons up in the very same alley whenever they smiled at you for a little too long.

Yeah, it had all been worth it. 

Because now he's on his knees, with his head buried under your pretty little work skirt, as he pulls your panties to the side and licks a stripe down the expanse of your sopping pussy. 

God, you're dripping for him.

Your tight hole is clenching around nothing as he sucks on your clit, moaning against your mound when he realizes you taste just as sweet as he had imagined.

He has his hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling you closer against his face, his fingers pressing deliciously against your soft, supple skin, and he wonders if they will leave a mark. He wonders if that will have you thinking of him when you're by yourself tonight. And he wonders if you will look at them when you’re touching yourself, thinking of him. 

He knows he will. 

So DEX lays his tongue flat against the bud, pressing against it, and then leans back just a little until he can spell his name with it on your clit. 

He does it once, twice, and your thighs are shaking around his head, and your slick is dripping down his chin. He's marking you as his, laying his claim, moving his hands up your legs until he's squeezing your ass under your panties, and spelling his name over and over until you're panting and writhing and moving your hips against his face, matching the rhythm of his tongue.

He realizes his dreams have never compared. 

"Oh, my sweet girl," he mumbles, words slurred and sloppy when he speaks them directly against your cunt. "You taste just as good as I had imagined. made me work so hard for it, mhm? Such a sweet, sweet prize for me.”

He presses his face further in-between your legs, moving down so he can use use tongue, oh so long, oh so warm, inside your pretty little hole. 

His nose brushes against your clit every time he moves his tongue against your walls, and moans, and pants, and has to restrain himself from beginning to hump your leg when they begin to flutter around him. He wants to fuck you. Oh, how he wants to take you back to his place and lay you back on his bed, spread your legs wide, and split your cunt open with his cock. He wants it so, so badly, and he merely figures he will have to work a little harder for it. 

“You like it when I eat you out like this?" he grunts, hot and wet, and a lick points out every word. “Mhm, can tell. Droolin’ so much for me, aren’t you? Drippin’ down my chin, sweet thing.”

He lands a slap against your ass, kneading at the skin after the contact, and returns his other hand back down to rest on your thigh. He spanks your ass again, harder, and his other hand caresses the skin of your thigh, softer. 

God, you're so perfect. You're so, so perfect, and you're his, you're just his.

"Dex, 'm gonna—"

“Gonna cum, mhm? Gonna soak me? Let me taste this perfect cunt properly?" he breathes out, and moves back up so he can spell his name against your clit again, just one more time. Please, just one more time before you cum, just—

Your eyes are squeezed shut as your orgasm has your cunt gushing into his mouth, and he takes it all because this, after all, is his prize. A broken, breathless moan breaks past your lips, and you move your hips harder, faster against his face, and he lets you take, and take, and take as much as you need.

It’s his honor. This moment—This earthly bliss is just his to revel in.

And so DEX smiles and uses his fingers, long and lithe and rough, to lower your panties down your beautiful, shaking legs until they pool around your ankles. He's grinning with all of his teeth, content, satisfied, when he straightens and smoothes your skirt back into place, pressing a kiss to your forehead and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

And then he pockets the lace while holding your gaze, and knows, just knows, that he will always be the only one you smile so, so beautifully for.

 ☰     Outlook ☰     File     Home (No subject) 04/06/2027 (S.I)     Scopum Impetum To:    × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle [TF-009.mp4             ▼]

Like the last eight messages, the subject line of this email is blank. The video attachment is labeled simply: you’ve guessed in your infinite wisdom that TF stood for Task Force, and the number corresponds to the day’s planned assassination in this ongoing series. The sender’s email is a scrambled string of characters you can’t find significance in. The domain is archaic, an actual @netscape.net address.

You didn’t bother continuing a trace on the address after your first attempt. The tech lady at The Bugle said that she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) sink her teeth into it before booting you out of her office. You then ran Scopum Impetum through a Latin to English translator and got something like “Hit Target” or “Hitting Target.”

Bullseye.

Rather on the nose with his intimidation. One of three things you’ve learned about him the past month, the other two being that he likes to pick off AVTF squads on their patrol routes or house calls. Massive, bloody, nightmarish killings that always made the news because it was impossible to mask them  as typical New York violence.

You also learned that while the patrol killings were random, the videos were special. All videoed victims were elite officers with significant power, or members who had amassed large red-pilled followings online.

All ironic kills. All final laughs in Fisk’s face. 

You open TF-009.mp4. There’s no thumbnail, but the video outline is vertical in cell phone dimensions. 

You hit play. The framing is steady. Bullseye either uses a tripod, or has very solid hands. 

You watch a man in AVTF tactical gear—you think his badge reads 4091, you’ll look him up later—crawl backward across a warehouse floor. His leg is bent at an angle that suggests his femur bone has been turned into several smaller bones. Pieces of it stick out, shards of white in crests that burst through skin. It reminds you of the Sydney Opera House.

He’s begging. You can’t really make out the words over the wet rasps of his uneven breathing, but it’s easy to guess what he’s saying. Please. Please.

The camera doesn’t move. There’s no voice here, and the video’s ambient noise doesn’t sound like it’s been scrubbed over by an A.I to remove speech. You make a mental note of that. Bullseye’s always been quiet with killing. No video reveals a voice.

Then a long, thin, yellow projectile sinks into the man’s left eye socket with a sound like a melon splitting.

The video ends.

Before you can think about it, you click the replay button. Bone shards, the wet choke-gasps. You skip over some of the tense anticipation until Bullseye throws. The projectile flies, and you see in this second viewing that it was a pencil that killed this officer. A pencil splintered in his skull and separated the soft flesh of his eyeball. You see the white orb deflate like a sad birthday balloon. It leaks red and small fleshy chunks over the officer’s face until he stops screaming. 

You close the player. You open Word.

task force victim no. 9 badge #4091? pencil through eye location tbd. warehouse district? low lighting. probably killed at night still no visual proof of attacker being bullseye

You don’t write: victim begged for his life

You don’t write: bullseye did us a favor.

 ☰     Outlook ☰     File     Home No new mail

Three weeks ago, Adriana called you into her office. The glass walls around her desk made you feel like you were entering a snake terrarium at the back of the Bugle’s newsroom, and you were the next mouse to be swallowed alive.

“Morning,” you’d said. You didn’t sit down because people never sat unless Adriana told them to. 

Adriana slid a folded letter across her desk. The paper had the mayor’s emblem stamped over it. “This came in for you. Give it a look-see.” 

You pick up the creamy paper. Officially, it was an acknowledgment of your “balanced coverage” of city affairs, and it urged you to cover things “closer to the heart of the administration.” Unofficially, it was a target drawn on stationery being pinned to your back.

“Mayor Fisk read your piece on the Task Force’s budget allocation,” Adriana said, folding her hands. “The one where you pointed out the civilian engagement metrics.”

You said nothing. You put the letter back on Adriana’s desk. 

“He hated it,” she continued. “And because he hates it, everyone who works for him hates it. And because everyone who works for him hates it, you’re going radioactive here.”

You said nothing.

“Because I like you, I’m giving you a lifeline.” Adriana tapped the letter. “Bullseye. The Task Force killer. You’re going to cover him, and you’re going to humanize the victims. Make everyone cry. No ifs, ands, or buts. Show the city that you care about justice.”

“The Task Force,” you began, “is a fascist death squad.”

“The Task Force is the law,” Adriana clears her throat. “And you’re going to write about the people dying to uphold it. Or, you can clean out your desk and see how long your freelance career lasts when every editor in town knows Wilson Fisk has a personal grudge against you. You know he doesn’t forgive easily.”

That was the final nail in the coffin. 

You took the assignment. 

At first, Bullseye performed for the masses. He posted six kills publicly. They were grainy the way a phone camera got when zoomed a little too far, then uploaded to fringe forums. Every video had a time stamp and was geo-tagged like he was building an archive. The Task Force would always arrive too late to the scenes, find the bodies, and hold press conferences where they promised to find the “cowardly terrorist.”

You attended one of those press conferences when you were writing about the third victim. The commissioner stood behind a podium and called Bullseye “a disturbed vigilante threat to civilized society.” You watched the officers lined up behind him—people who had, in the last six days alone, fractured an unarmed Latino protester’s skull and shoved his sister down a flight of stairs.

You felt nothing for the Task Force.

You wrote the introductory article your editor wanted. You listed the victims’ names, described their service records, quoted grieving families. The ache in the hollows of your ribs had nothing to do with sympathy for the dead.

Then Bullseye stopped posting.

You assumed he’d been caught and killed before trial. On the other end, maybe he’d finally grown bored of killing. You felt a brief, shameful flicker of relief—not because the killings had stopped, but because you wouldn’t have to watch the forum videos.

Then the first video came.

 ☰     Outlook ☰     File     Home (No subject) 03/29/2027 (S.I)     Scopum Impetum To:    × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle [TF-001.mp4             ▼]

The subject line was blank. The sender’s email is a scrambled string of characters on an @netscape.net address.

You almost deleted it instinctively. Spam mail. A virus showing you a video of the hot babes in your area. But the sender’s name was something Latin, and that raised a flag of curiosity. After running the file through a virus scanner, you opened it.

You truly wish you hadn’t. 

On the forums, people usually tagged warnings. You went in with no idea that you were about to watch a woman in a Task Force windbreaker take a staple gun to the side of her neck. It clicked as it hit her, a staple injecting itself into a fold of skin. The camera didn’t shake. The video ended with a slow zoom on her face as her eyes grew unfocused. 

You slammed your laptop shut. 

Then, you opened it a crack. With the screen pointing down and the laptop’s volume cranked to the max, you tried to listen for any targeted messages. You found nothing. You checked the forums, the sphere of Twitter that had a dedicated group of followers reposting the kills, other news sites, and it seemed that this specific video was sent only to you.

You told yourself it was a coincidence. You told yourself the killer had simply chosen a journalist at random.

You didn’t believe it.

[TF-004.mp4            ▼]

A man in tactical gear. A rolled-up magazine. The carotid artery spurted out in pumps that arc like sticky, red fountain water. Same steady camera. A zoom on the dying eye.

You have a working theory: Bullseye isn’t sending you these videos because he wants you to stop him. Maybe it's because you were the only city journalist at an outlet who wrote the truth about the Task Force, and this was him sliding into alignment with you. A weird Snapchat streak he held on his own.

It's the nicest theory you could come up. The others lead you down a path where you're the next person he’d videotape, and the videos are the road signs on the way.

[TF-005.mp4             ▼]

You have a system. You scan the file before downloading it, as anyone should. You let the audio play first to listen for cues. You watch the video after to make notes for the articles. You log the victim’s badge number if you can see it, estimated the time of day, and the weapon used. You waited until an hour after your source at the NYPD would contact you before sending a draft to your editor. You transfer the videos to a USB you’re too paranoid to let go of, so it now lives under the insole of your left shoe.

[TF-006.mp4             ▼]

You stop pretending everything is normal. 

The videos are inside you. They live behind your eyes. You’ll be walking to the coffee shop and suddenly remember the way a man’s throat opens like a zipper, thyroid cartilage visible as he chokes on blood. You’ll have to sit down on the curb to breathe until the world stops spinning. You wake up gasping, your hand pressed flat against your heart as if checking for wounds. Every creak of the radiator makes you think of footsteps, every gust of wind moving the creaky fire escape sounds like a throaty voice outside. 

[TF-007.mp4             ▼]

You don’t mourn them. They weren’t good people. They signed up to wield violence against civilians with the explicit blessing of a man who, not long ago, was in the F.B.I’s custody. They had chosen power without accountability. They had chosen to become the fists of a fascist.

You do mourn the part of yourself that couldn’t watch a man die. Now you know many ways people die: a pencil through the eye, a staple gun to the throat, a domino splitting a skull and macerating the brain stem.

[TF-009.mp4             ▼]

Your phone buzzes with text from Adriana.

I need your draft on victim 8. We need the human angle. Make me cry!!!

You rub your face with your hands before opening a new Word document.

The eighth member of the Anti-Vigilante Task Force was found dead yesterday morning in an alleyway behind Josie’s Bar. His name was Marcus Webb. He leaves behind two children and a wife.           He leaves behind an impressive legacy of violence. His record in the NYPD included various excessive force complaints and two internal investigations. The AVTF had to pay a settlement to a family whose son that Webb had permanently disabled.

You wish you could publish this. Reluctantly, you hit the backspace button until you’re behind the word wife. You rub your face again, you save the document, close your laptop, and sit in the dark. You’ll deal with this tomorrow.

Your laptop flashes a notification at you.

(No subject) 04/07/2027 (S.I)     Scopum Impetum To:    × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle [TF-010.mp4             ▼]

You wonder if Bullseye knows that you don’t need the videos anymore. The question you’re afraid to ask, the one that lives in the space between each wet tear of flesh in your dreams, is whether he knows what you are becoming. He must. He’s a serial killer sending out snuff films to a civilian. There’s no reasonable reaction he can guess on your behalf besides terror.

You close your eyes that night in bed, and you see a pencil falling.

[TF-010.mp4             ▼]

The tenth video sits in your inbox for six more hours before you open it.

You tell yourself it was the exhaustion that made you hesitate. You’re busy and tired. You tell yourself that your notes are now stagnant and boring. You need to think about other things to come back fresher.

But the truth’s simpler: you’re scared.

This isn’t a horror movie with jumpscares. You’re the victim of a cyber-stalker, but you don’t feel like one. You haven’t tried contacting him to tell him to stop, blocking him, or making someone else trace the address. You let it happen and you’re saving the videos on a fucking USB drive like that hides any involvement you have.

You open TF-010.mp4.

The frame is different this time. Not a warehouse or an alley. An office. Fluorescent lights. A desk with a nameplate: Lt. Patricia Voss, Internal Affairs.

You know her. You quoted her once, in a piece about police accountability. She called the Task Force “a necessary tool in a broken system.” She smiled when she said it.

Now the camera holds steady. No voice. No face. Just her, trembling, her hands bound behind her back with what looks like a zip tie.

You watch a single playing card—the ace of spades—slice through the air and bury itself in her throat.

She didn’t beg. She only stared at the camera with wide, confused eyes, as if she couldn't understand why this was happening to someone who had played by the rules.

The video ends.

You close the player. You open your notes. 

task force victim no. 10 lt. patricia voss, internal affairs weapon was playing card

Your phone buzzes. You flip it so the screen faces up, primed for annoyance with a test from Adriana.

Instead, it’s a text message from a number you don’t recognize.

You finally watched it.

Another one follows shortly:

I was wondering when you’d open it.

You stare at the screen. Your heart doesn't race. Your hands don’t shake. You feel a strange, almost clinical curiosity.

who is this?

The response comes in less than three seconds.

You know who. :)

Bullseye.

You can’t do anything but watch as three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Your stomach rolls slowly.

You’re the only one who sees them for what they are. I like to think that you think I'm doing something right. I've read everything you wrote before the editor started making you bootlick. You said the citizens deserve better than this.

You remember those pieces. They had been killed by Adriana, buried under a mountain of “libel concerns” and “advertiser pressure.” You thought no one read them.

You were right. They deserve better and the people who hurt them deserve punishment. They were bad people. *are bad people. They’re still everywhere.

You should stop. You should block Bullseye. You should go to the police—not that they would help you.

Instead, you type back. It’s not an active choice, you more so watch your fingers press the smooth glass of your phone screen.

why are you sending these to me?

You understand me. You always watch them so intently.

You set the phone down. A cold, slow thread unwinds in your stomach. He knows where you live. He’s read virtually everything you’ve put online, since he has your name. He can see you right now, and apparently he’s been seeing you since he sent the first TF video. 

Your breath catches as your fingers go numb. For the first time on this case, you feel it: panic. The real kind of prey animal fear, sharp and deep, like a knife sliding between your ribs.

You pick it up again.

i'm not doing anything i just watch what you send me and that’s for my job

That's enough. That's more than any civilian. Don't be scared, Cronkite. I'm not going to hurt you.

☆☆☆☆☆

The texts continue over the following days. Never many. Never at the same time. He sends a single message after each video—sometimes hours later, sometimes days.

Did you see the way he moved? He thought he could run.

She had a photo of her husband on her desk. A cop. Of course.

The commissioner is next. You'll want to read about him before tomorrow to prep your article.

You never ask him to stop. You never ask him to explain. You only respond with questions of your own—small, careful questions that he sometimes answers and sometimes ignores.

why the pencils It's funny. They're also widely available. People can buy them in packs of 100. :)

how do you choose them They choose themselves. Every time they put on that badge, they volunteer. The uniforms make it really easy to single them out.

do uou even feel anything

That question goes unanswered for two days. You assume he’s done with you. You assume you crossed the invisible line, not being polite and cowering slightly.

Then, at 3:17 AM, your phone lights up.

It's really hard. I'm not a mindless killer. I have emotions. I feel the same things everyone else feels, all at once.

You read the message seven times. You do not respond.

That night, you dream of the teenager who was put in a coma by the AVTF. Young and bruised, his eyelashes two small fans over his cheeks. And standing beside his bed is a shadow. No face. No voice. Just a shape that holds a pencil.

You wake up gasping.

Your phone is on the pillow beside you. A new message.

Bad dream?

You sit up. You look around your dark apartment. The windows are locked, and the blinds are drawn. The door is bolted shut and locked. But neither of those things feels like barriers.

They feel like inviting little challenges.

how thefuck do you know that I'm closer than you think, Cronkite.

The sun rises over the city. Your phone buzzes one last time.

Video 011 comes tonight. Be ready.

☆☆☆☆☆

You stare at the message through the day. You fuck up your bodega order and eat the wrong thing numbly. Your phone is a brick in your pocket.

You should ask what he means by ready. Ready to watch? Ready to take notes? Ready to feel nothing while another human being stops breathing?

whens it happening

The response is immediate.

Around 9:20. The commissioner’s speech ends at 9:15. He’ll be walking or in his car.  His license plate is custom. It’s ridiculous.

It's 7:43 PM. You have less than two hours to mentally prepare yourself for this.

how do you know that I pay attention. It's amazing what people post on social media.  His wife tagged him in a Father’s Day post with their new car.  And the event schedule is posted on Fisk’s campaign Instagram.

You open Instagram to find the accounts. The offending posts are pinned on both profiles—Fisk’s campaign account has a listing of the gala's entire timeline with the commissioner’s keynote speech slotted at 8:45-9:15 with some celebrity guest you don’t recognize to follow. The commissioner’s wife’s account has a Father's Day post pinned. A cute, crisp image of the whole family in front of a shiny black SUV. The license plate reads: N4SPEED. Probably the tackiest thing you’ve ever seen.

You close the app.

thats probably the easiest stalking i’ve ever seen See? I'm not that creepy.

The three dots appear. You wait.

Most people don't notice things. They walk through the world with their eyes half-closed.  But not you. You see the gaps, and where the story doesn't match the truth. and you’re pencilling in those gaps?

A longer pause this time. You wonder if you've offended him. If he'll stop texting, stop sending videos, leave you alone with nothing but the echoes of nine dead officers and the tenth on its way.

Something in you recoils from that possibility.

That made me laugh. Out loud. You’re always witty :) That’s why I like your work.

You don't feel witty. You feel hollow. But something in your chest loosens anyway.

do you ever miss Nope.  ever? No, lol. I have to go now. Be ready.

You read the message three times.

You lock your phone and set it face-down on the nightstand. The screen still glows through the glass, an accusing light that says you saw this. You aren’t stopping it. You won’t stop it anyway.

Then you think about Lt. Voss. The way she stared at the camera. The way the ace of spades sat in her throat like a second badge.

You don’t feel sick anymore. Just something heavy, like lead filling the hollow spots in your bones.

[TF-011.mp4             ▼]

Did you see his face? no he immediatly hit the pavement Exactly. They walk around like the badge makes them bulletproof. dont say something cheesy like but im a bomb or something No. I'm just better. :) You live close to that intersection.

You go cold. Not the dramatic cold of fear like earlier—the slow, sinking cold of confirmation. You knew that he knew, but reading him admit it so casually?

how the fuck do you know where i live I watch. You know I pay attention. You’re very careful. I respect that. thats not a fucking answet It’s the only one you're getting.

You set the phone down before walking to your front door. You check the locks. It's secure. You check the window. It's closed with your curtains drawn over it. You check the locks again.

Your phone buzzes.

Relax. I told you that I’m not going to hurt you. You’re the only one who understands me.

You pick up the phone. Your fingers are shaking now—just a little, just enough to notice.

and what the fuck do i understand Some people need to die. Not because I want to kill them. Because they've earned it. You can call it karmic debt finally being cashed in, if you believe in that. You have to crack eggs to make an omelet. You just don’t want to say it out loud.

You read the message seven times. You think about the Black teenagers who have been harassed by the AVTF. The woman who was taken off her street and reported missing by her friends. The protester and his sister. You think about the videos—the pencil, the staple gun, the spectacle, the show.

You think about the way you felt when Lieutenant Voss died. That small, ugly sense of satisfaction.

is that so bad you’re fucking killing people thats not exactlu a thing that normal people do That’s what I like about you. You’re still a moral person after all this. That's why people like me do the work for you.

You don’t say anything.

You’re still awake. I know you’re still reading these. what do you want from me I don't know yet. But I don't want to hurt you.

Another pause. Longer this time.

When I send you the videos, I'm not alone anymore. And neither are you.

You don't respond. You can't. Your throat is tight, and your eyes are dry, and you're not sure if you want to scream or sleep or laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Your phone buzzes two more times.

Goodnight, Cronkite. Sweet dreams.