✶𓏲ּ꩜ .ᐟ

chapter 1: killshot chapter 2: stem the flow + spiders chapter 3: white feather hawk tail deer hunter chapter 4: doubt chapter 5: reflections chapter 6: r u mine? (e) chapter 7: dangerous (e) chapter 8: pixelated kisses chapter 9: jaws (e) chapter 10: exit music (for a film) chapter 11: the red chapter 12: in my room chapter 13: what kind of man chapter 14

You reread the headline with a sense of detachment, only really noting that the caption says he used his teeth as projectiles to escape. You almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of it, but the reality of the situation stifled any real amusement.

You put your phone away, rubbing your temples before attempting to move on with your day.

The keyword being “attempting.”

It feels as though it had been ages since you last saw him, mostly because it has been. While it was true that it had been years, and you should’ve moved on long ago, the reality was more complicated.

No matter how much you tried to differentiate them, Dex and Bullseye, you could never entirely let go of him, any version of him. You didn’t dare to scroll back too far in your photos, and you couldn’t bring yourself to delete them. It was a twisted longing you held for a time that was long gone.

So maybe saying you’ve “moved on” is a bit of a stretch, but you haven’t actively sought him out. Part of you fears that he may look at you like a stranger, and you don’t know if your heart can take that.

So, as a result, you've kept your distance.

You didn’t try to visit him, but you thought about it. After hearing of the incident with Fisk and Daredevil, the real Daredevil, you wanted to.

You wanted to check on him the second it happened. You wanted to ask him what he had been thinking.

However, you never got the opportunity.

Sure, you had loved him. You had loved him so much that somehow his name still lingers on your tongue despite the fact he no longer knows yours.

But he killed so many people, so many good people. You did not know all of the intricate details of his life; you still don’t. Sometimes you wonder if carries guilt for those he wronged, or if he can even remember them. You certainly did. You could barely bring yourself to look Seema in the eye after he killed Ray.

You mourned Dex, yes, but you felt awful about it. The people who knew your history with him never directly asked, but you could see the question in their eyes. How? How did you love somebody like that?

It was so easy back then, back when he loved you. You wanted to believe it wasn’t all fake. You aren’t sure if it’s possible for somebody to pretend to love a person the way he loved you.

Being realistic though? You have no idea. You never got that closure, and it’s too late to get it. You can’t delude yourself into thinking that Dex loved you without faults or even understand the true scope of his adoration.

It was painful, so, so painful. It was an agonizing ache that you could never find a remedy for. The only remedy was him, but he couldn’t be both the solution and the problem.

Years have gone by and you still haven’t seen him in person. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at the blurry photos that you so rarely get to see. Now, they’re more common, courtesy of his time as Bullseye. However back then, he wasn’t making headlines inside a prison cell.

You exhale, grabbing your keys before exiting your apartment. You lock the door behind you apathetically, staring blankly through the door knob.

Ever since he killed Foggy Nelson, he had been haunting you, metaphorically speaking, of course. You went from not hearing a peep from him (not that he’d contact you anyway) to hearing him kill at least a dozen people in a single night.

You miss the peace his silence brought.

Him killing Foggy reminded you of that pain his presence brings, and after his recent failed attempt on Fisk?

You might have to block the word “Bullseye” from your phone.

Sad thing is, for a split second you found yourself rooting for him. You loathe him for what he’s done, but if he had succeeded in killing Fisk?

Well, that death certainly wouldn’t be on your conscience.

You're thrown out of your thoughts by your phone vibrating. Checking the caller ID, you frown at the unfamiliar number. Clearing your throat, you answer the call.

“Hello?” You greet cautiously.

“Hi.” A woman responds, her voice is unfamiliar. She confirms your identity, simply asking your name.

Hesitantly you nod, “Yes.” You sound more confident than you feel, “May I ask who this is?”

She releases an exhale, “I… We haven’t met. I believe you met Matt recently, right?”

You nod slowly, “That's correct.” You shift uncomfortably. You weren’t sure if it was a good sign that one of Matt’s friends is calling you.

After all, the circumstances you met him were… less than ideal.

“I’m Karen. I’m a friend of his.” She introduces. You nod slowly, and the name sounds familiar. Matt talked about her briefly, back when explaining his history with Nelson, Murdock, and Page.

“He has mentioned you.” You stop walking. “Is everything okay?” You frown.

Karen is silent for a moment. “You see the news last night?”

You inhale sharply, not caring if it was audible. Would Matt tell her about your past relation with Bullseye? You don’t think he would with strangers, but you aren’t sure with Karen. “With Fisk?” Your mouth feels dry.

“Yeah,” she whispers, “yeah, did you hear about Matt?”

You get the sense that something is wrong. “No… I didn’t—” you swallow, “I never read the article. I just saw the headlines.” You grimace.

“Oh,” Karen doesn’t sound surprised, only fueling your theory that Matt told her your history with Bullseye. “Well, he was there that night, at the gala.” She begins, and you feel your stomach churn in anticipation.

“Shit, is he okay?” Just your luck for Matt and Bullseye to both be trouble.

“He’s alright now.” Karen reassured you, “But last night he was the one who took the bullet meant for Fisk.” She sounds (reasonably) upset about this.

Your jaw drops slightly, and you take a moment to recompose yourself before speaking again. You had assumed that something must have happened for Bullseye to miss his target. “He what? Why would he do that?”

There’s a few things you know about Matt. One of which is his longstanding history with Fisk, not to mention, his hatred of Bullseye. You two are similar in that regard. Thus, it begs the question of why the hell he’d not only let Bullseye shoot him, but save Fisk.

“I…” Karen seems to be thinking about the right thing to say. “You’d have to ask him that yourself. Part of me wants to ask him too.” She huffs softly.

You hum, “Yeah,” you reply lamely, “I can’t imagine why he’d do something like that.”

“It’s Matt.” She replies, as if that’s enough of an explanation.

The two of you are silent for a moment, and you wait for the inevitable change in topic. You know where this is going. You know Karen was friends with Foggy, so it makes sense she has questions about you.

“I was wondering if we could meet, later tonight maybe? If you’re available.” She asks, and she sounds friendly enough. You imagine the invasive questions will come later.

“Sure.” You reply dryly, “You have a place in mind?”

“Yeah, I can text you the address.” She sounds just as enthusiastic as you do. “I…” She starts slowly, “I’m sorry about all of this.”

You shake your head, offering a small smile she cannot see, “It isn’t your fault.”

She remains silent for a beat, “Well, I’ll see you later then,” she says your name. You bid her goodbye before hanging up. You slowly put your phone away, taking a deep breath.

Matt has always had an interest in your history with Bullseye. He never pushed you, but you could see that he wanted to. You don’t blame him, after all, Bullseye killed his best friend.

It only makes sense that Karen would share that curiosity. You don’t blame her either, but you are so tired of being tied to him.

You walk into the diner just across the street from your building. You weren’t planning on getting breakfast, but after the sequence of events of the past hour?

It’s probably a good idea to prepare for the day.

You frown, looking at the boarded up windows of the address Karen gave you. It reads "Josie’s" in bolded letters. You haven’t been there yourself, but you knew of it. It’s where Foggy died.

You never really knew much about Foggy. Matt doesn't like to talk about him much. The only time he ever talked about him, he told you that Foggy would've liked you. He didn't elaborate as to why, and you didn't want to push him. He never mentioned it again.

You look around the building to see if anybody is nearby, and jump slightly when the door swings open. You stare at the woman for a moment, and you recognize her. You look each other up and down appraisingly. Her stare is less judgmental, and more asserting, as if trying to see whether you’re a threat.

“Hello,” you smile disarmingly, “Karen, was it?”

She attempts to mirror your smile, “Yeah,” she steps aside for you to enter. You watch as she closes and locks the door behind you.

She goes to take a seat at the bar. You follow slowly, still standing. The two of you don’t talk for a moment. “I’m assuming you’ve talked with Matt?” You begin the conversation. You won’t be the one to bring him up.

She huffs, “Not as much.” She sounds bitter about it. You nod slowly, taking the seat next to her. You both stare blankly ahead. “I… I had a couple questions I was hoping you could answer.” She begins.

You look to her, and she seems apologetic, but not enough to stop. You nod slowly, “I figured.” You tap your fingers idly. “If it’s about Bullseye. I really don't know anything.”

She furrows her brows in disbelief, “Nothing?” She turns to face you, “Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe.” Her words weren’t unkind, just honest.

You look at her for a moment before taking a deep breath. “I haven’t known him for years.” You tell her. “Sometimes I wonder if I knew him at all.”

She is silent at that, and it almost feels pitiful. She waits a minute before asking her next question, “When was the last time you saw him?”

You scoff, “I… I don’t know. That night Fisk got married maybe?” You look to her, “I haven’t exactly wanted to see him.”

She seems to understand that, nodding slowly, “Well, I can’t say I blame you.”

You smile wryly, not having a response for that.

“Has he attempted to contact you in the past? After he went to prison?” She asks, leaning closer to you.

You chuckle, “No,” you shake your head, “he won’t.”

She narrows her eyes, frowning, “How can you be so sure?”

You blink at her, and her intrigue is obvious. You haven’t even told Matt why Bullseye will never contact you. He just knows that you are oddly certain that he never will. It’s not that you like hiding it. It’s simply not something you bring up or find joy in discussing. It hurts less that way.

“He doesn’t know who I am.” You reveal. Karen stares at you, silently prompting you to continue. “After that night, I think during their fight Fisk slammed his head into a wall… or something like that.” You shrug, crossing your arms.

“I was informed he had some type of amnesia. He doesn’t know who I am.” You lean against the counter, a spark of wry amusement shoots through you seeing Karen’s astonished expression. “It’s not the worst ending I could’ve gotten, I suppose. I could be dead.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Karen holds her hands up, “he forgot you? Everything about you?”

You purse your lips, “I guess. I think he forgot some others too. I’m not sure who. They didn’t really let me ask too many questions.” You clench your jaw.

“Do you think there’s a possibility he does remember you?” She asks hesitantly.

You chuckle, “I… I really don’t know. They said there was a possibility that he’d remember over time, but not to count on it. He hasn’t ever looked for me, so I’d say that the chances are pretty slim at this point.”

Karen takes time to process your answer, and you prop your elbow on the table to lean on. “I am sorry you went through that.” Her words are spoken carefully.

You give her a small smile, “It is what it is. It’s probably for the best. I’m not exactly his biggest fan, and I know you aren’t either.”

She lets out a humorless huff at your comment, “That’s one way to put it.”

Your smile falls, “I’m sorry too. I know he has caused… irreparable damage.”

She nods slowly, “It’s not your fault.” She gives you a grateful yet resolute smile.

You aren’t sure how to respond to that, so you settle for a nod. Neither of you are “okay” with anything that has occurred, but you have each learned to accept the circumstances.

“Did Matt tell you?” You ask.

She tilts her head slightly, “Which part?”

“My…” you nod to her slightly, “My history with...” You trail off. The words are barely audible, but you know she heard them.

She purses her lips, something akin to guilt filling her eyes, “Something like that…” She says, and she doesn’t elaborate.

You hum noncommittally, “I figured. I don’t blame him for that.” You swallow, “You think that he’d tell anybody else?” You look towards her dubiously.

She sits up straighter, “No, no. Matt wouldn’t do that.” She vehemently shakes her head. “I may not always understand the choices he makes, but I know he wouldn’t reveal something that personal with other people.”

You nod slowly.

As if sensing your disbelief, she tacks on another statement: “He wouldn’t reveal anything that could put you in danger.”

You give her a weak smile. “You talk to him yet?”

She shakes her head, “Not yet.” She pauses for a moment, “Probably later though. There’s a lot we need to discuss.”

You chuckle, “You and me both.”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, and it’s less awkward than the initial introduction. You find yourself relaxing a bit. “Do you think he could remember?”

Karen frowns contemplatively at the question, “Maybe." She doesn’t sound hopeful at the prospect. “Do you want him to?”

You chuckle, “Maybe once.”

“But not anymore?” She prompts softly.

You shake your head, “No,” you match her softness, “not anymore.”

You felt lighter after talking with Karen.

It was… nice. Something about the way that she handled the whole ordeal made you think that, on some level, she understood. She didn’t hate Bullseye any less, but she understood your pain.

The two of you agreed to meet more often, and not due to your mutual friend getting shot by your ex-boyfriend.

The weeks continued on as expected, and slowly dragged into months. As time went on, Fisk began to take more drastic action to “help make New York safer.” You scoffed each time that man made a new headline.

The ones that truly interested you were the vigilante headlines. The Anti Vigilante Task Force continued to see a lot of push back from heroes like Daredevil. Occasionally, you saw that even the Punisher and Spider-Man would aid in the fight against them.

The vigilantes were a strange topic for you.

Working in Hell’s Kitchen for as long as you have, you’ve developed a fondness for its resident hero. You haven’t encountered him before, but Karen has told you about him.

You harbor substantial respect for him. You had followed him briefly in his earlier days, and held a passing interest. However, you never researched him thoroughly.

Not until Dex, at least.

You had only found out after the whole ordeal that he had been masquerading as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself.

Somebody who had followed more closely might’ve realized that something was wrong when “Daredevil” started murdering people. You thought your lifestyle to be so distant from the chaos back then that you hadn’t truly thought about it.

After all, it’s not like your (at the time) boyfriend going around killing people in Daredevil’s suit sounds like a reasonable conclusion. Absurd didn’t even begin to describe it.

After the whole Dex situation, you had done more research. Now, you’d even dare to say that you’re a fan of Daredevil, the real one.

So meeting him in person is both exciting and terrifying.

“Hi.” You greet lamely, frozen in your spot staring at Daredevil himself standing in your apartment. “Is… there something you need?” You feel your heart sink at the idea that he may think you are still connected to Dex. You desperately hope that’s not why he’s here.

“No,” his voice sounds rough, and you can’t tell if it’s intentional for his identity, or if he normally sounds like that. “I came to check on you.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “On… me.” You slowly point to yourself.

“Yeah,” Daredevil sounds vaguely amused, like he’s in on a joke you’re not. He doesn’t smile though.

“Is this something I should be worried about?” You sigh.

“Just keep an eye out.” Daredevil continues, not helping you at all.

“Are we talking police? Task force? General criminals?” You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at Daredevil. You feel your heart start to speed up.

“The first two most likely.” He responds.

Your lips part, surprised, “I haven’t committed any crimes, and I’m not doing anything vigilante-like.”

“They don’t care about that.” Daredevil shakes his head.

“Then what about me do they care about?” You ask incredulously.

Daredevil is silent for a moment, “You know Murdock?”

Your blink, surprised, “I… Yeah, but I haven’t seen much of him recently.”

Daredevils looks at you expectantly, “They might come for you to get to him.”

“I don't know where he is though.”

“That doesn’t matter to them.”

You both stare at each other for a long moment, “Do you know where he is?” You ask, and you can tell Daredevil didn’t expect that question. “You— I don’t know if it would be better for me to know where he is, but if you know, could you tell me whether he is okay?”

Daredevil stares at you, and you see his sharp posture soften ever so slightly. “He’s alright.”

You give Daredevil a small smile, “That’s good… What about Karen too? I imagine you paid her a visit as well.”

Daredevil lips twitch minutely as if you said something humorous, “She’s doing well.”

“Good.” You nod, “If you see them again, could you tell them I’m available if they need help and wish them well?”

Daredevil nods slowly, pacing around your apartment. “I can’t be everywhere at once,” he stops before your window, “but if you ever feel that something is off, call Murdock, he can contact me.”

Good to know that Matt has Daredevil on speed dial, as crazy as that sounds.

“I will, thanks Daredevil.” You smile at the vigilante. He offers another nod to you.

“And for the future,” he grabs the sill, “you might want to lock your windows.” He smirks, lightly tapping the glass, and leaping out before you get the chance to respond.

You are left standing in your apartment excited, terrified, and confused in that order. It’s not every day a vigilante pays you a visit in your home, so the rush of excitement is expected.

Then comes the dread.

As cool as Daredevil is, him paying your apartment is a bad omen. What could you possibly do against the police? Call Daredevil and pray that he finds you before you get stuffed into one of their tanks and “vanish under mysterious circumstances?”

The confusion is more akin to general shock than anything. How does Daredevil know where you live? How does Matt know Daredevil? Did Matt tell Daredevil to go look for you?

All of these are questions won’t get answered, at least not anytime soon.

You debated contacting Matt to ask what just happened, but ultimately settled for a single text.

Please don’t die.

He doesn't instantly respond, but you don’t expect that from him. You walk over to the window Daredevil exited through, locking it.

Perhaps it’s best to listen to the vigilantes advice.

Outside of locking your window (thanks to Daredevil), your routine didn’t change. Sure, your paranoia may have spiked through the roof, but you’d rather be paranoid than dead.

It was only a few days later when you almost called Matt for the first time. In fact, you had half-hysterically wondered if Daredevil truly was a bad omen and you were cursed.

You had gone to your normal coffee shop before heading off to work. The same coffee shop you’ve gone to for nearly a decade now. You had changed nothing in that routine. Stepping inside, you smile at the barista who greeted you by name and confirmed your regular order.

It was, by all accounts, an average morning.

And right now with New York’s current condition? Average was perfect. You had stepped aside to wait for your order, scrolling to see the recent news. A few task force busts, nothing to write home about. When they called your name, you walked up, thanking the barista before turning around to leave, taking a slow sip of your drink.

Then you froze.

You wish time had frozen or slowed down like in the movies because you needed at least one minute to process what you are seeing. Your drink went forgotten in your hand as you openly stare at Bullseye walking into the coffee shop.

Against your will, you note his appearance. He looks good, something you begrudgingly admit. He isn’t in his suit, but you can practically see a danger warning over his head. Noting the scar on his face, you find yourself unable to look away for what feels like an eternity but what is realistically less than ten seconds.

Dex had always been observant though.

As if sensing your gaze, his eyes meets yours.

You think your heart may combust from the sheer speed it pounds against your ribcage. He doesn’t outwardly react when he looks at you. There’s no softening in his eyes. His posture remains casual, but not in a friendly way. His face remains unchanged.

In his eyes, you’re just another stranger who might’ve recognized him as Bullseye.

It’s that realization that allows you to tear your eyes away from him; the action feels long and laborious.

You don’t immediately fumble for your phone. Part of you wants the reassurance that somebody could protect you if Bullseye decided that you looked at him the wrong way. You can only imagine how he interpreted your stare.

With measured steps, you make your way to exit the shop. The glaring issue being that you need to pass him to do so. You make a deliberate point to not make eye contact.

As you get closer, you realize with a horrifying twist in your gut that he is still looking at you. Not directly, but in the same way you’re still looking at him. It’s more of an awareness of his surroundings rather than blatantly staring. He looks straight ahead, but you can tell his focus is on you.

You try not to relish the fact you can somewhat read him. You shouldn’t be surprised that his mannerisms never changed.

His awareness doesn’t necessarily feel dangerous in nature, but you aren’t willing to try and deduce exactly what he is thinking about.

As you get closer to him, your heart begin to thump in your ears, quick and frantic. You try not to seem too hasty to escape him, for the last thing you want is his attention. The chances he’d take notice of you in more than a passing interest are low, but you aren’t willing to give him material to work with.

You open the door, and it chimes on your way out. The sound doesn’t seem as friendly as it usually does. When it closes behind you, you let out a shaky exhale before walking to your job.

On the way there, you debate whether you should contact Daredevil via Matt. Is this beneath Daredevil’s focus? He has bigger things to focus on, not you panicking over seeing your killer ex-boyfriend who doesn’t remember you.

Additionally, Bullseye didn’t even do anything. Sure, he stared at you, but you had technically been staring first—not that you're defending him. He is certainly dangerous, that you would not dispute, but his eyes didn’t light up with recognition upon seeing you.

You still weren’t sure how to feel about that, but you won’t deny that it feels safer that way. As the day continued, you didn’t hear about Bullseye killing anybody in a coffee shop and took that as a good sign.

In the end, you don’t contact Matt.

Part of it is, ironically, fear. You don’t want to risk Matt being put in more danger by making him contact Daredevil, and you don’t want to contact Daredevil over you overthinking.

Besides, he’s bound to run into Bullseye eventually. They certainly know one another. You doubt asking Daredevil to harass Bullseye over coffee is a productive use of anybody’s time, so you don't.

You avoid your normal coffee shop for a few days after your anticlimactic reunion. However, you eventually cave and go back because you miss the coffee, and you tell yourself that’s definitely the only reason.

The first day you return there, you swing your head over your shoulder every five seconds. The barista making your drink gives you a mildly concerned glance when they hand it to you.

You attempt to reassure them with a smile, but it feels more similar to a grimace.

The following days start out similar, but you eventually settle back into your normal routine. It becomes evident about a week later that your chance encounter with Bullseye was simply that: a chance encounter.

Of course, after settling down, fate throws a curveball at you and sends you into a panic. That curveball is him showing up to the coffee shop again.

You’re caught off guard, but much more prepared than you were the intial encounter (if you could even call it that). You don’t stare at him, for one. In fact, you don’t dare to breath in his direction. And what do you do in order to avoid looking at the man who you once loved, the man who is now a killer, served time in prison, and no longer remembers your face?

You stare blankly at the barista making your drink, or more accurately, through them.

“Could I have a black coffee?” You pretend you don’t hear his words. He doesn’t sound different. He sounds relaxed—well, maybe relaxed isn’t the word, self-assured would be more accurate.

You don’t entirely listen to the rest of his order. You try not to feel bothered by additional evidence that parts of him haven’t changed. First the mannerisms, now his taste.

You kind of hate it.

You only start giving your attention to him again when he begins to head in your direction. You cross your arms and avoid his eyes, hoping your closed-off body languages discourages conversation. You pray that maybe he’d sit down and wait for his name to be called. Instead, he decides to wait for his coffee while standing, just like you.

Great.

You tell yourself not to make any sudden movements, and then toss the irrational thought aside. Just act normal. It shouldn’t be difficult, it’s not like he should mean anything to you anymore.

You notice him shift offhandedly in your peripherals. He changes his stance, taking his hands out of his pockets. You wait to see if he does anything else. He doesn’t.

It’s odd.

You don’t feel the weight of his stare on you, but you are feel the prickling sensation of being judged.

A minute of silence passes by before you can’t take it anymore. You pull out your phone, not to use, but to appear distracted. You debate opening Matt’s contact. Once was a coincidence, twice could be the start of a patten. You shift apprehensively on your feet.

Then you make the mistake of looking up.

Your eyes find him, and you take in how normal he looks for a moment. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was another stranger starting his day with a cup of coffee.

Of course, since he’s not a normal stranger, he turns his attention to meet your eyes. Instead of being across a room, this time you two are less ten feet apart.

Part of you wonders if he was waiting for you to make eye contact.

Once again, neither of you saying anything. However, unlike last time, you see his face shift minutely. Last time, he was indifferent.

This time, he is contemplative.

You don’t have to think about what he is pondering. Most likely, he’s trying to figure out how (or if) he recognizes you. You don’t expect him to remember you from all those years ago, but he could remember you from that initial encounter getting coffee.

The exchange could barely be called an exchange, but Dex had always been observant like that.

Then, as if finishing his assessment of you, he reacts. His head dips down slightly. It could be a nod of acknowledgement to test the waters, but it could simply be a shift in posture.

For your sanity, you choose to believe it’s the latter.

Also for your sanity, you pretend you don’t see the gesture.

Hearing your name called for your drink could truly be considered a blessing. You immediately break eye contact with him before grabbing your drink and leaving. You’re offhandedly note that you were moving fast, almost suspiciously so, but you can’t bring yourself to care too much.

Your encounter with him felt noticeably worse the second time around, and not just because he was physically closer.

You left with a sense of forboding that something about that second encounter was what sealed your fate. Why?

Because third time around, he spoke to you.

You had been more prepared the third time, but hearing his voice directed at you?

You wanted to yell at him for forgetting everything you went through. You wanted to stare so intensely at his face that he would be incapable of forgetting you ever again. You wanted to burden him with the same pain you endured for far too long. You wanted to discover every difference between him and the man you knew. You wanted to ignore him and pretend that you’ve never heard the name “Bullseye.”

“The coffee is good, isn’t it?”

You slowly turn to face him, only to find he is already looking at you. Once your eyes narrow on him, he turns his head to face you.

“Yep.” You keep your reply short, detached.

He nods, his lips twitching microscopically as if he found your monosyllabic response amusing. You frown slightly, and you find yourself theorizing what he could possibly be thinking about. He probably thinks that you know that he’s Bullseye and is enjoying tormenting you.

Technically, not wrong.

“Have you tried their pastries here?” He continues, and you take a deep breath.

“Once or twice.” With him.

He turns his body to face you, rather than just his head. “And? Find them any good?”

It’s nigh impossible to avoid looking at him now, “Yeah, passable.”

His smirk widens, “Such high praise.” He drawls sarcastically.

You give him an unimpressed look, not deigning to respond.

You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out if you’re usually this standoffish or if you just really hate him.

Thankfully, before he could come to a conclusion, your name was called. Grabbing your drink, you turn around and face him. His face is frustratingly blank. You see his eyes flicker to the coffee cup in your hands before meeting your eyes again.

You’re the first one to break eye contact, not bothering with goodbyes. You suppress the desire to look at him when you exit.

At this point, you should’ve said something to Matt, even Karen. You also should’ve stopped going to that coffee shop. It’d solve all of your issues. Plus, you got what you wanted. You now have confirmation that Dex no longer remembers you. You know that he just sees you as an apprehensive stranger at the coffee shop you both frequent in early mornings. You have your answers.

But you don’t stop going to the coffee shop.

You justified it by telling yourself if he wanted to hurt you or anybody in that shop by now, he would’ve done so already. Bullseye showing up to the same coffee shop, while terrifying, changes nothing. It’s something normal, and you remember how much Dex craved normalcy.

Part of you wonders if he still unconsciously wants that, even after his life has gone to shit.

“Hello,” you smile at the barista. Usually you follow a script when it comes to this shop: greet each other, confirm your usual order, you pay, and you thank the barista. Occasionally there is some small talk thrown in there, but aside from that, there is little deviation.

“Oh, hey, your friend already ordered for you.” She smiles at you, and you can see a teasing glint in her eyes.

You blink, “What?”

She turns her head over to the pickup counter, and you follow her gaze.

You sigh, of course.

“We aren’t friends. I barely know the guy.” You tell the barista, pulling your card out.

She purses her lips, “Uh,” she looks between the two of you, “he already paid for you.”

“I don’t want anything from him.”

She nods slowly, “I can ‘forget his order’ if you want.” She winks at you, and you have never felt more grateful.

You smile at her, “That’d be great.” Your smile grows as an idea pops into your head, “Actually, today can I get the vanilla latte?”

She smiles, “Something different?”

You chuckle, “Yeah,” you pay for the drink, apologizing for your “friend” inconveniencing her, but she waves it off casually.

Standing in your normal spot, you can tell he is watching you. You can also tell that he is attempting to hide that fact.

“Was the order wrong?”

You look at him in the corner of your eye, “Yeah,” you lie, he got your order right, but telling him that would not help you.

He tilts his head slightly, as if trying to understand how he got it wrong. He releases a quiet huff, offering a fake smile. “I’ll remember for next time then.”

You give him a placating smile, “Don’t worry about it. I order differently based on how I’m feeling.”

He hums in understanding, slowly nodding. “Do you?”

“Yep.”

“So what mood is the vanilla latte?”

“My current one.” You reply dryly.

His eyes light up intrigued and mildly amused by your answer, and you get the distinct impression that your attempts at being aloof have had the opposite effect you desired. For a moment, you think he gets the hint and stops talking. It makes you wonder, was he always this talkative with new people?

When you met, he wasn’t exactly forward. There was never really one instance where either of you had to explicitly start conversations like this. It was continued exposure over time, and so it didn’t feel as forced when your relationship had progressed.

“Black coffee and a blueberry muffin for Tony.” The barista calls out.

You furrow your eyebrows as he walks to the counter to pick up the coffee. Who the hell is Tony?

When he turns around, he blinks twice at you, “Something wrong?” He feigns innocence.

“No.” You grumble, and he goes to grab a few napkins. It was wishful thinking for that to be the end of the conversation.

“If you say so,” he sounds way too pleased for your liking. He breaks a piece off the muffin, taking a bite. You see his eyebrows shoot up slightly, “You were right, their pastries are passable.” He mocks your words from your last encounter.

You nod slowly, watching cautiously as he breaks off another piece. Neither of you say anything, and you find yourself wishing, once again, that he’d leave.

He breaks a bigger chunk off the muffin, and you cross your arms, avoiding his eyes.

“Want some?” He offers.

Why? Why does this happen to you? You turn to him, and his hand is holding the piece of the muffin. It’s a good chunk of it too.

He must sense your hesitation because he gives you what he must interpret as an appeasing smile, “It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re worried about.” He doesn’t move, still offering the piece to you.

“It’s not.” You reply honestly. Poison doesn’t seem to be Bullseye’s style. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

He doesn’t immediately retract the offer, “Hm, breakfast already?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

The two of you stare at each other, and you have a hunch that you each know the other is full of shit.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, and you watch as he opens the napkin and places the piece onto it. His eyes flicker up to you, and you raise an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?” You find yourself asking before considering whether it’s actually a good idea.

“If breakfast wasn’t enough.” He takes a slow sip of his coffee, tapping the counter the napkin rested on, pushing it closer to you. You furrow your eyebrows, watching as he simply leaves. You don’t hold back your dumbfounded stare as he exits the shop, and you catch the smug vestige of a smirk on his face.

What the hell?

It took three more visits before you caved and accepted his offerings. You still eyed it as if it would explode in your hands, but he didn’t seem to take offense to it.

The next time after that, he orders two muffins.

You aren’t fazed anymore, and that’s how you know you’re past the point of no return. Upon entering the shop, he offers the muffin to you like it’s routine. You raise an eyebrow, walking over and taking the proffered bag, looking inside, “Coffee cake?” You’re surprised he chose something different.

He shrugs, “It looked good.” You had to agree with him, it looked divine.

You pick off a small piece, and your eyebrows shoot up. It was good. You turn to him, not shocked to see him staring intently at your reaction. “Good pick.”

You can see him carry himself lighter at your comment, as if being told that he made a good pick satisfied him.

“Figured you would like it.” He comments casually.

You raise an eyebrow, “Why is that?”

He smiles conspiratorially, shrugging, “Just a hunch.”

Frowning at the vague answer, you take another piece of the muffin. You notice him staring at it. “Want a piece?” The words leave your mouth before you have a chance to reevaluate how smart of an idea they are.

His eyes crinkle in a way that makes you feel like he somehow planned this moment. Which is kind of insane, but it’s too late to rescind the offer.

It’s not like he could plan for you to specifically offer him food anyway.

“Sure,” He replies, and you break of a piece before looking for napkins. You frown when you notice that they’re out. Dex watches your eyes scan the shop for a minute before he interrupts, “I’ll survive without the napkin.” You can hear the smile in his tone.

You blink at him before looking down at his hand. Then, you reach over to place the piece onto it. Your hands inevitably meet with your fingers lightly grazing his palm, attempting to keep the crumbs from spilling all over the table.

When he takes a bite, he hums contently. “It’s good,” he declares, “just like you said.”

Your heart speeds up, “Right,” you reply, attempting to mask your breathlessness.

In order to escape the awkward silence, you tell him you’re going to order your coffee. He nods, and you make your way to the front, ordering your regular drink.

It was surprisingly empty this morning, so your drink was ready by the time you finished your quick conversation with the barista.

When you return to him, you grab the leftover muffin you didn’t finish. “Thanks for the muffin.” You don’t offer to pay him back, and you internally berate yourself for feeling slightly bad about that.

He smiles at you, and it looks like the most genuine smile he has given you in a long time. “Of course.”

You offer a tentative smile before walking out the shop. You don’t turn around, but you know he is watching you because despite everything it’s still him.

The routine becomes concerningly normal.

He would wait for you at the coffee shop, and would buy you some pastry because “he insists.”

You stopped declining that long ago, and you were beginning to appreciate having a meal before going to work, not that you would admit this to him.

You didn’t contact Matt or Karen, and at this point you can’t really make an excuse for not doing so. Bullseye is dangerous. Bullseye killed Foggy. These are all simply facts.

Yet you don’t contact Matt. You don’t tell Bullseye that you are aware of who he is. You don’t tell him to leave you alone either. At this point, you’re digging your own grave, and part of you wonders if it’s only a matter of time before you must lie in it.

Morbidly, you wonder who will the honor of putting you out of your misery: Bullseye or Fisk?

It’s a few weeks after this odd routine has begun where you start to realize just how much you fucked up by interacting with him again.

Your favorite diner was supposed to be something that was exclusively yours. You may have introduced it to Dex a few times in the past, but it was your favorite before him and your favorite after him. You weren’t going to let your abysmal relationship tarnish the sanctity of this place for you.

It wasn’t truly anything that special, another diner in New York. The food was satisfactory. Sometimes you convinced yourself that it was even good, but you suspected that was due to nostalgia more than anything. The prices were reasonable. The ambiance had nothing unique that made it shine above the rest.

So, just like the coffee shop, you’re left wondering why the hell Benjamin Poindexter was walking in here like it was a routine of his. You were sitting in one of the booths, and you held the menu up to your face to cover the fact that you were blatantly staring because what the fuck?

Either you have the worst luck in the universe and he keeps showing up in places that are supposed to be safe for you... or he is stalking you.

Both options are a nightmare for you.

You don’t hear what he orders, but you find yourself attempting to listen anyway. Usually, he has a sixth-sense for when you’re in the area. He would always find you first whenever you arrive at the coffee shop every morning.

The fact that he hasn’t turned once to see you leads you to believe that you might just have the worst luck in New York, and that’s saying a lot.

You watch him pull out a phone before bringing it up to his ear. You can barely hear the conversation, but you do catch two details.

One: he said the name “Frank Castle.”

Two: he said, in the most apathetic tone imaginable, that he “has a gun.”

This becomes an issue when you scan the restaurant and don’t see Frank Castle or a gun in sight.

Now, perhaps at this point you should’ve approached him. Maybe even left because perhaps Frank Castle is on his way, and while Karen has spoken somewhat fondly of him, you aren’t exactly frothing at the mouth to meet him.

You do none of that, and simply watch as Bullseye chugs a milkshake in a display that leaves you equally impressed and mortified. That’s when the sirens start to ring across the street. It appears he notices this too because you see him put his gloves on.

Yep, that is your sign to get out of here.

You didn’t get your finish your meal, but you also don’t want to get involved with any task force activity. You grab all your personal belongings before heading towards the door.

“Get back inside now!”

You narrow your eyes as the agent points his rifle at you, forcing you back into the building. You didn’t even step outside the doorframe yet.

You hold your hands up in surrender, but you don’t feel scared so much as frustrated.

You watch as one of the agents continues to point their rifle at you as the others search the building. Do they seriously think you’re part of the problem here?

“Clear…” The last agent echoes the sentiment the last five have said.

Then they make a mistake.

“Hey, Milkshake.” That agent calls Bullseye out. He doesn’t immediately turn to him, but when he does, his hands are held up, straw in mouth.

You didn’t even see him load the straw with anything, and you were watching him for a while. You watch in horror as he shoots a toothpick into the agent’s eye. He whips around, pulling his mask on, and grabs the utensils next to him and launching them to the three agents near you. For a split second—after the forks find their target—his eyes land on you.

Somehow, despite the fact that he is about to be shot at, his stare lingers on you. However, it’s not for long, and he takes two more forks before launching it toward a booth. The utensils (somehow) avoid the innocent bystander before situating themselves into the eye of one agent and the neck of another.

At this point, the task force agents recompose themself before shooting towards Bullseye. You wince at the sound of gunfire, ducking behind one of the booths as bullets fly over the counter he was at.

You don’t have a clear view of Bullseye anymore, but you hear the distant cry of another agent. You can hazard a guess as to what that means.

Eventually, the gunfire slows to a stop, but you don’t dare to stand up. You hear Bullseye talk to one of the customers, something about bringing his dog into the restaurant and how that is unsanitary.

You take this opportunity to open your phone, and you pull up Matt’s contact. Just as you are about to send a message to him telling him that Bullseye is at Bel Aire Diner, you realize the light above you becomes obscured. You look up, noting that he isn’t wearing his mask anymore.

“What are you doing?” He looms over you, raising an eyebrow. He seems genuinely confused.

“Trying not to get shot.” You retort, gradually standing up.

“I meant before that.” He grabs a ketchup bottle off the booth you hid behind.

“Eating?”

“Oh.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment.

“Did I ruin the meal?”

“What do you think?”

He has the decency to look chastised. It doesn’t last long, “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He sounds genuinely surprised, “Do you come here often?”

You cross your arms, “That's your first question?” You ask incredulously. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

He doesn’t appear deterred by your words, “I’ve never…” He muses to himself, and you can see him attempting to figure out how you managed to get here.

He frowns, furrowing his eyebrows at you, “You…” The emotion behind the words is indecipherable. He pauses for a long moment before abruptly turning to stare at the fallen agents he killed less than a minute ago. The bewilderment on his face is evident, and you doubt it's from the task force. You wait for him to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t, not immediately. He stares at the agents, the floor, the booth, and then you.

“What were you thinking?”

What?

He sounds upset, genuinely upset. The shift from from mild exasperation to fury has your head spinning. “What?” You say your question out loud.

“You— Why would—” He looks at your befuddled expression, and it's like he has so many questions that he can't figure out which one to ask first.

You raise an eyebrow, “Why what?” You ask nonplussed.

The sound of sirens catch both of your attention. You both look at each other, and you open your mouth to speak, but he bolts out on you.

Eyes wide, you turn to survey the scene before feeling sick at the sight of dead bodies and looking away. For once, you weren’t the only trying to avoid him. Bullseye walked out on you.

As if this day couldn't get any weirder.

I think I messed up.

You tap your finger idly against your phone, staring at the message before pressing the send button.

It has been a few days since Bullseye killed the task force agents at the diner. You hadn’t seen him since, and that in itself was unsettling. When you entered the coffee shop the day after the incident, he wasn’t there. Even the barista commented on it. You scoffed, as if you knew where he was.

Your phone starts ringing, startling you. You sit up straighter on your couch, answering it. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Matt greets, and you can hear the tension in his voice, “are you okay?”

You let out a huff of air, “I’m fine right now.”

“Good,” he pauses, “good… Did something happen?”

You hesitate, but it’s too late to tell Matt to ignore you. You swallow, “You know that diner? The one that Bullseye killed those task force guys in?”

Matt is silent for a moment, “Yes.” He sounds even more tense. “Did he recognize you?”

You smack your lips, “About that…”

Matt says your name, disgruntled.

“He doesn’t recognize me from then.” You assure him. “I— He recognizes me from somewhere else.”

Matt curses and you grimace, “Damn it. Why— Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

You shake your head, “I don’t know. I thought that—” you swallowed, “I didn’t think he’d notice me.”

“How’d you meet him?” Matt asks, ignoring your excuses.

You blink, “He began going to the coffee shop I go to every morning.”

Matt curses again, “This is the kind of stuff you tell me. You should’ve told me the second you saw him the first time.”

You know. “I know.” You whisper.

“He didn’t hurt you?”

“No.”

“Did he talk to you?”

You hesitate. Matt says your name again.

“Yes,” you shut your eyes.

“What did he say?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. We talked about coffee.”

“Coffee.” Matt scoffs. “You two talk about the weather too?” He comments sarcastically.

You narrow your eyes, “Want me to ask him next time?”

Matt says your name again, a warning. “Don’t. Don’t go back there to the diner or coffee shop or wherever you saw him for the first time.”

You pause, contemplative, “Okay…”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I won’t.”

Matt is silent for a moment, deciding whether or not to believe you. “If you see him, let me know immediately.” He exhales. “I find it difficult to believe you seeing him is a coincidence.”

“Me too.” You reply honestly.

“I need your word that you’ll call me.”

You sigh, “Fine. I promise I won’t go looking for him, and if I see him I’ll call you.”

Matt exhales, “Thank you.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, merely weary. “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this.”

You sigh, “It’s not your fault.” You reply sincerely, albeit slightly bitter. He doesn’t respond to that, so you continue. “Have a good night, Matt.”

“You too.” He says, and you hang up.

Groaning, you flop onto the armrest of your couch, flattening your face against the cushions. You try and ignore the emotion in your chest, the one you refuse to label as disappointment because you should be relieved. Matt knows your dilemma now, and Daredevil will know soon enough. You shouldn’t have to worry about a diner incident ever occurring again.

It apears that you’ll have to go back to your breakfast-less lifestyle once again it seems.

The following morning you forced yourself to walk past the coffee shop, and look away from their windows. He hadn’t been showing up at the shop either way, so no point in trying to search for someone who isn’t there.

Your life returned to something that that resembled a routine. You would wake up, go get coffee, go to work, eat, and come home. The routine should’ve been sufficient. However, something had undeniably shifted. No matter how resentful you were over Dex, seeing him—a version of him at least—stirred up feelings that you hadn’t had in years.

Part of you was angry at him because now those wounds feel fresh. All the progress you thought you made getting over him turned to dust in a couple weeks, regressing to a state of longing for something that you know you’ll never have again.

You grab your keys, giving your apartment one last look over before opening the door. Your eyes widen at the sight of a delivery guy at your doorstep.

He says your name and you furrow your brows.

“I didn’t order anything.” You look at the bag in his hands, it’s from a bagel place down the street that you used to go to for breakfast.

The guy shrugs, “Well, it has your name on it.” He turns the label for you to read.

You eye the bag dubiously, “I don’t have any cash.”

“Tipped through the app,” he responds, “so do you want it or not?”

Tentatively, you reach your hand out to grab the bag. You look inside, and it’s fresh. Your stomach rumbles at the sight. “Thanks?” You thank the man, but he doesn’t appear to care about your gratitude, seeing as he left the second you grabbed the bag.

You smell the bagels, and you have a suspicion who sent them.

It’s not like you have a way you have to contact Bullseye. What would you even say? “Sorry if I offended you at the diner after you killed a bunch of people, no idea what I did. Thanks for the bagel!”

You take the bag with you, exiting your building as you pull out your phone.

I think he sent me food.

You take a bite of the bagel, waiting for Matt’s response.

Matt calls you again.

“What did you do?” He sounds drained.

You make an offended noise, “What makes you think this is my fault?”

“Have you been in contact with him recently?” Matt wastes no time asking questions.

“No,” you scoff, “I told you I’d contact you if I saw him.”

“Right,” Matt replies, evidently skeptical. “Did you toss out the food?”

You look at the half-eaten bagel in your hands, “Yeah,” you lie. Now probably isn’t a good time to tell him about the muffins you’ve shared with Bullseye.

Matt sighs, “He might’ve tampered with it.”

“I figured if he wanted me dead he’d shoot me.” You respond wryly.

Matt huffs sardonically, “You’ll only encourage him.”

“Has Daredevil talked to him recently?”

Matt pauses, “Maybe, why?”

“Then can you tell Daredevil to tell Bullseye that while I appreciate the food, he has to knock it off. I can't exactly contact him and tell him to stop.”

Matt goes silent, not finding your request as humorous as you do. “Next time, toss out the food.” He pauses, and you hear some distant rustling on his side of the call. “You aren’t actively in danger right? I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“I’m alright. Go do what you need to do.” You smile, finishing the bagel.

You bid each other goodbye before hanging up, and you go to work as if nothing happened. Part of you wonders if Matt took you serious and will actually tell Daredevil to pass your message along. Matt was right telling you that you shouldn't accept the food Bullseye was “anonymously” ordering for you. You are aware that it’s a bad idea.

But it was nice to have someone who cared like that.

You hadn’t had that in a long time, and perhaps Bullseye was using that to his advantage to manipulate you. Because at the end of the day, you know he isn’t doing it out of the kindness of his heart. You aren’t that blind.

On your walk home, you pick up takeout from whatever is nearby, too tired to cook. You grimace at the sight of the task force across the street. Rushing into your building, you take the elevator up. You fumble for your keys, frustrated at the low lighting in the hallway. It’s been broken for years, and it makes it difficult to see where you’re looking at night with the constant flickering.

Entering your apartment, you take your shoes off before closing the door and locking it. You take a few steps into your apartment before releasing an undignified gasp and jolting.

“Shit,” you gasp, “what are you doing here?” You place the takeout onto the kitchen counter, never taking your eyes off of Bullseye. He has the mask off, but he is still wearing the costume. He is sitting on the corner of your couch as if this is normal.

“I wanted to see you.” His voice isn’t loud, yet it carries across the room.

“So you broke into my apartment?” You scoff, subtly reaching for your phone behind the counter.

“Yeah,” he replies, tone low and unbothered. Then, as if he knows what you're attempting to do, continues, “Without Daredevil, preferably.”

You pause, grip tightening around your phone, “Why would Daredevil be here?”

He turns to face you, “I don’t know. You tell me.”

You go silent at that, placing your phone atop of the counter for him to see, pushing it away. His eyes never leave your face. “What do you want then?”

He imperceptibly shakes his head, “I said I wanted to see you—”

“Bullshit.” You cut him off scathingly, “You’ve been seeing me at the coffee shop for weeks. You show up at the diner I go to. You have breakfast delivered—”

He raises an eyebrow, “—I thought you liked that place?”

“That’s not the point, Dex.” You raise your hands up wildly.

He readjusts in his seat, going silent at your words. “I wasn’t sure I was ever going to hear you say my name.” He says hoarsely.

You blink, taken aback. “How did you know I knew your name?” You narrow your eyes at him defensively.

“You made eye contact with me that… first time we met.” He rolls a coin over his knuckles casually.

You scowl at him, “Okay? Doesn’t mean I know your name.”

“You made a face when the barista said my name was ‘Tony.’” Dex tilts his head at you.

You shrug, “You don’t look like a ‘Tony.’ None of this is actual evidence.”

“You weren’t surprised to see me in the suit.” He looks down, a small smirk on his face.

You click your tongue, “Okay,” you admit, “fine. Maybe I recognized you online.”

He chuckles, “Online, huh?” He asks distantly.

You roll your eyes, “If this is what you came to talk to me about, then I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.” You cross your arms.

Dex blinks, setting the coin down, “Come back to the coffee shop.”

You snort, “Absolutely not.”

“Please,” he doesn’t quite yell, but the volume startles you.

“Please,” he swallows, and you watch him attempt to get his breathing under control, “we can pretend this never happened. I’ll pretend that you don’t know who I am.” He clenches his jaw. “Just please come back there. I need—” he falters, “I want to see you again… in the mornings.” His eyes train on you, “Every morning.”

Oh, this is not healthy.

“Dex…” You shakily inhale. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He inhales sharply, eyes going towards you. “Did Daredevil tell you that too?”

You furrow your brows, “What does Daredevil have to do with this?”

His eyes narrow, “He did, didn’t he?” He laughs lowly, and you aren’t sure whether you’re supposed to answer that.

You grit your teeth, “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.” you shrug. Matt did tell you, multiple times, that this was a terrible idea, but that is not Dex’s business or problem. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you’re about to do. It’s best that you end… whatever this is with Dex anyway. You’re getting too emotionally invested in something you shouldn’t, and you know you will get burned if you allow this to persist.

“And you’re just going to do what he says?” He scoffs.

“Again, I don’t see why that should matter to you.” You narrow your eyes, loosely gesturing to him.

“It shouldn’t, should it?”

“No, it shouldn’t.”

Dex’s jaw ticks, and for a moment you remember who you’re talking to. You take a step back, and he inhales deeply.

“Don’t— Don’t do that.” He sounds pained and aggravated.

“Do what?” You hold your hands up in mock surrender.

“Act like you’re afraid.” He spits out the word as if it disgusts him.

“You come into my apartment at night telling me to meet with you against my will all while wearing your suit.” You spit out the final word disdainfully.

He shakes his head, standing up, “I would never hurt you. You know this.”

“No,” you raise your hands up, “I don’t. Not anymore at least.”

He doesn’t have a response for that. He says your name quietly.

“You should leave, Dex. I’m going to call Daredevil.” You warn him, turning to face him.

He clasps his hands, his leg bouncing lightly as he turns to face the ground. You wait for him to make eye contact. When he does, he looks distraught.

He doesn’t say anything as he makes his way to the window Daredevil used. He stops before leisurely turning around, “You might want to lock your windows next time.”

“Don’t pretend like you weren’t happy that you could climb in.” You retort disapprovingly.

He tilts his head slightly, a wry expression on his face. He pulls the mask back on, and you turn around.

“I wouldn’t want other people climbing up to meet you too.” He replies, and when you turn to look at him, he is gone.

You rub your temples, unsure whether to cry or scream.

Your eyes burn, the low lighting combined with the vivid colors straining them. You aren’t even sure what’s happening on the TV anymore. You had played a series to distract yourself, but now your eyes hurt and you were stressed.

You weren’t bluffing when you warned Dex. You did call Daredevil—well, you called Matt who called Daredevil who…

Point is, Matt told you to expect Daredevil to check on you. Perhaps if you felt better, you’d make yourself look more presentable for the elusive vigilante. However, you couldn’t really bring yourself to care at this point. Matt hadn’t really given you a time, so you had settled yourself onto your couch with the intention of waiting until he popped in.

Half an hour passed, then an hour, then two hours, then three, and now it was two in the morning.

If this happens again, you’re asking Matt for a better time estimate.

You’re resting your eyes when you hear the faint knocking on your window. Blinking the sleepiness away, you watch as Daredevil lets himself in.

“Hey,” he greets, and you frown at him.

“It’s late.”

“I know.” He holds his hands up placatingly “I’m sorry.” He does sound apologetic.

You prop yourself onto the armrest, “How much did Matt tell you?”

“All of it.”

“All of it?” You repeat incredulously.

“The more I know, the better I can help you.” He justifies.

“So you know about…” You mimic a throwing motion with an airy whistle and eyebrows raised.

He doesn’t immediately respond, “Yeah,” he responds dryly, “I know about him.”

What the hell, Matt? First Karen, now Daredevil?

“Great.” You respond sarcastically.

Daredevil ignores you comment, looking you up and down, “You said Bullseye visited you?”

“Yeah,” you nod, crossing your arms, “climbed in through the window.” You gesture to the window he entered through

Daredevil frowns slightly, “He know I’m here?”

You shrug, rubbing your eyes, “I don’t know.”

Daredevil nods slowly, “Then it might be for the best that you don’t stay here, at least until the city is safer.”

That wakes you up, “What? Where would I go?”

Daredevil is silent for a moment, “You could stay with Murdock and Page.”

You frown, “Have you even asked them?”

“Yes, they’re alright with you staying.”

Your expression doesn’t change, and Daredevil notices this. “If you don’t leave, Bullseye will keep coming back.”

“What if he finds me and puts Karen and Matt in danger?” You rub your temples, shaking your head at the idea.

“He won’t—”

“How can you be certain?” You whisper, placing your hands on your lap and examining them.

Daredevil doesn’t say anything, and you feel uneasy by his silence. Then you hear his suit rustle lightly, and you look up to see what he is doing.

“You have to be kidding me…” You rub your eyes more intensely, maybe you’re still asleep?

“I’m afraid not.” He offers a remorseful smile, “And before you ask, yes, I am actually blind. I have a method that helps me see.”

Your wide eyes look him up and down, “This whole time…” You trail off, speechless.

He purses his lips, “I’m sorry about lying. I just need you to trust me when I say Bullseye is dangerous, and the safest thing you can do is stay somewhere else right now.”

You barely even process his words, still trying to connect the dots of Matt being Daredevil. Then you reach a sinking realization. “Wait,” you whip your head towards him.

“When we met… You bumped into me.” You recount the events, “This was after Foggy’s death…” You furrow your eyebrows, and now you don’t even know if he can see the action. “You did that intentionally, didn’t you?” You whisper.

Matt doesn’t interrupt.

“You… You befriended me because I knew Dex.” You narrow your eyes at Matt, betrayed. “How did you find out?” When Matt doesn’t immediately respond, you steel your tone, “How, Matt?”

He swallows, “Karen found out when we were… digging into his history.”

You scoff, “Unbelievable,” you mutter, standing up and pacing around your couch. “So all of this… Was this just a way to try and get me to talk about Dex?”

“No, God, no.” Matt interjects, holding his hands up as if the idea is preposterous. “At first, maybe we wanted information, but… but it became clear you were kept in the dark.”

You fight down the tears, “So it was pity?”

Matt places his hands on his hips, turning his gaze to face the ground, “It was understanding. We know what loss like that feels like.” He sighs. “I… I’m sorry for never telling you, but Karen and I, we didn’t befriend because of Dex. If that was the sole reason, then it wouldn’t have lasted. We befriended you because we liked you and thought you would like to know people who could understand what you were going through.” Matt gestures to himself.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you bite your tongue to keep the tears from falling. “I… That doesn’t—” Matt suddenly tilts his head toward your window, “You lied to me—”

“Get down!”

Matt tackles you, and you both fall limply on the ground. You cover your head instinctively before looking up and seeing a knife where Matt’s shoulder would’ve been.

You and Matt, who already put his helmet back on, turn to your window. Bullseye narrows his eyes at the two of you on the ground. He lazily uses the window to hold his weight, one hand hidden from view and the other holding the bottom jamb to keep it open.

“Was I interrupting something?” Bullseye asks, looks between the two of you, eyes narrowing on Matt.

“Why are you here?” You mutter to yourself, using your couch as cover as Matt stands up, ready to fight. You take a peek to see where he is.

“Just needed to confirm something, that’s all.” He ignores Matt, focusing on you.

“Confirm what?” You ask, and Matt looms over you. Trying to shield you from Bullseye’s view.

“That you were talking to Daredevil.”

You straighten your posture against the back of the couch, “You’re attacking him because I’m talking to him?” You ask, befuddled.

“That among plenty of other reasons he has given.”

You look to Matt, who looks unfazed by this. He isn’t jumping to brawl with Bullseye, and you can see the uneasy combination of caution and restlessness in his stance.

“So why attack me too? Thought you said you wouldn't hurt me—” You scoff.

“—I wouldn’t.” Dex interrupts before you can finish the sentence.

“Then why are you throwing knives in my apartment?”

“They would never hit you.” He sounds offended that you even asked.

“How can you be sure?”

You sneak a glance, noting Dex’s bewildered expression. “I’m sure—”

“Are you two done yet?” Matt interrupts. You both turn your focuses to Daredevil.

Dex grimaces, disgruntled, as if only now remembering that Daredevil was witnessing this.

“No.” Both you and Dex chorus. You stand up, using the couch to push yourself off the ground. Matt moves to try and hide you again, and you glare at him. “I’m still mad at you.” You point a finger to his chest.

He tilts his head as if to say “Really, we’re doing this now?”

You rub your face, exasperated. “Fuck", you curse to yourself, but you know Dex and Matt heard you, “could you both just leave?” You gesture to the door, knowing full well that neither of them have ever used it.

Neither of them move. Matt vaguely looks in Dex’s direction, and Dex furrows his eyebrows, eyes flitting between Matt and you. The sentiment seems obvious on both ends: There’s no way I’m leaving you with that guy.

When it becomes clear that no progress will be made, you grab one of your jackets laying around, snatching your keys off the counter. Neither of them say anything, so you break the tense silence. “I would ask you don’t fight in here, but if you insist, then you both are paying for repairs and anything you break.” You slip your shoes on. “I’m heading out.”

“At this time?” Dex looks like he is about to follow, and he tilts his head slightly.

“Well, I’m clearly not sleeping tonight.” You pointedly glare at them both.

Matt calls your name, a final attempt to get you to return to him. Dex’s eyes don’t leave your own. You both stare at each other for a moment. You swallow, attempting to calm your racing heart. He doesn’t react, and you’re unable to read the expression in his eyes. Turning back to the door, you open it before slamming it shut.

You don’t break your stride as you make your way to the elevator. Once inside, you lean against the walls, closing your eyes and running a hand over your face.

You’re so tired of this. You should’ve just ignored Dex and never looked back. Now, Daredevil… Matt is involved.

Of course, Matt and Karen are a whole other issue.

You decide to make your way to the twenty-four hour diner across the street. You see a group people yelling at each other and try ignore them as you pass by. Thankfully, they don’t pay you any mind.

“Rough night?” The waitress at the counter asks as you sit down on one of the stools. You prop your elbow onto the table, resting your chin on your hand.

“You have no idea.” She snorts softly, sliding a menu to you. You take a moment to shut your eyes, the bright artificial light exacerbating the exhaustion you already feel.

You don’t feel hungry. You can’t feel hungry after everything that just happened, so you order some tea in an attempt to decompress.

You tap your finger idly against the counter, turning to the window. You frown, watching as a man is shoved against the glass, his hands pinned against it. Their yells are muffled from outside, and you turn away from them. The waitress brings the tea and you thank her.

You pull your phone out, and are slightly surprised to see zero notifications. Taking a slow sip of your tea, you search up the Bulletin’s recent headlines.

Unsurprisingly, a lot of them are about Fisk.

The remaining ones are about the task force or the vigilantes of New York. You scroll past them, and your thumb pauses when you see Bullseye mentioned.

You cannot escape him. You sigh, shutting your phone off and placing it on the counter.

“Everybody out.”

You whip your head around to see a line of task force agents entering the diner. You toss an alarmed look to the waitress, who looks just as confused as you do.

“We heard reports of vigilante activity in the area, so we're going door to door to see where they may be hiding.” He walks over to the waitress. Her eye twitches, but she doesn’t say anything.

Two other agents strut around the diner as if they own the place, and you bite your tongue to keep yourself from saying anything stupid. They make a couple rounds and just as you think they’re about to leave, the main one stops next to you. You make a point to sip your tea and avoid his eye.

“Do I recognize you from somewhere, ma’am?” He rests his hand on his pistol. You look at him from the corner of your eye.

“Don’t believe so.” You reply curtly, taking another sip.

He situates himself on the stool next to you to get a clearer view, “No… No I think I recognize ya from somewhere.”

Your hands clench around your mug, “You must be mistaken.” Your eyes flicker to your phone.

“Erickson!” The agent calls out without turning away from you. “Come take a look, doesn’t she look like one of the people we were informed Murdock runs with?”

Another agent walks over, Erickson you presume, narrowing his eyes at you. You casually rest your hand on your phone. “She does,” he notes thoughtfully. Your hands clench the mug so tightly that they shake.

Unceremoniously, you’re slammed onto the counter, and you gasp in pain. “Ma’am you’re under arrest for aiding a vigilante.” You stare at your phone on the counter as they cuff your hands behind your back.

They don’t read your rights as they grab your shirt, forcing you to stand up. One of the agents points their gun at you as the other two escort you to the truck outside.

Just as they’re about to shove you into the truck, they grab some goggles before roughly placing them on your head.

“I’d try catching some sleep on the ride there.” One of the agents whispers into your ear, you shiver in disgust. “The… others can get very noisy.”

You turn roughly towards where his voice was, glaring at him through the mask. “You guys won’t keep getting way with this.” You whisper back to him.

He chuckles lowly, pushing you into the back of the truck and slamming the door closed. You lurch forward as the armored tank starts to move.

Any attempts to figure out where you are going are lost. You are slammed against the walls of the tank more times than you’d prefer. You eventually find a corner, crouching down and remaining there for the rest of the ride.

Your only hope is that Matt finds you.

Your phone was left in the diner, and you don’t know if he’d ever track it—if he can track it. Hell, you don’t even know if the agents took it.

So you must have faith that Matt will realize something happened to you, and will come searching for you.

As the tank slows to a stop, you wobble slightly. You hear the back doors open, and blotches of color fill your vision.

“Out, let’s go.” A stern voice commands you, and you can’t tell if it’s the same guy who stuffed you in here. When you stand up, he clicks his tongue impatiently.

Firmly, he grabs your shoulder, squeezing it as he guides you. You remain quiet, attempting to focus on what little you can see. Distantly, you can hear the soft patter of rain outside.

He takes you through multiple twists and turns, giving no warning before roughly shoving you. Eventually, you slow to a stop and you feel the agent let up on your shoulder a little. You hear him search for something before a confirmation sound rings, and he squeezes your arm once again.

You hear sniffling, sobs, and yells echo across the new room you enter. Must be spacious. The agent guides you and you hear some people yell at him as you pass by. He stops, removing the goggles from your head. You wince at the bright light, and he shoves you into a cell.

Upon further examination, “cage” would be accurate.

“Don’t bother calling for help. Nobody can help you here.” He slams the gate closed and gestures for your hands. Begrudgingly, you stand up, turning your back to the gate. He grabs your wrist before removing the cuffs.

You grab the bars, pressing yourself against the cage to try and get a better view of your surroundings. There’s dozens of other cages identical to your own. Some are lined up in your row while others are on the opposite side.

You let out a long breath, slowly falling to the ground. Some of the other prisoners yell and attempt to spit at the task force agents, but they get ignored.

Judging by the states of some of them, they’ve been kept here for a while. You can only imagine how long you could be here for.

In fact, you realize morbidly, you could die here. Death seemed like such a distant concept mere hours ago, but now you aren’t so sure.

As hours passed, you didn’t see any new additions to the empty cell on your left, nor did you see any task force agents return after sticking you in your cell. Your hands clench around the cool metal of the bars.

Slowly, the other prisoners begin to fall asleep for the night. By this point, it's probably morning, but their sense of time is likely screwed up. The yells become less frequent, and the people pacing their cages began to settle down.

You examine the floor beneath you, leaning your head against the bars of the cage. It’s uncomfortable at best. For a while, you stare blankly at the floor beneath you. You aren’t sure how much time passed exactly, but it felt like hours before you fell asleep despite your prior exhaustion.

You jolted awake the next morning. Blinking rapidly as one of the agents banged his rifle against the bars of your cage.

“We have a few questions for you.” He holds up the goggles tauntingly.

Do you? You want to ask, but you settle for glaring at them instead. They gesture for you to put slot your hands through the bars, and you slowly comply.

When they unlock your cell, they situate the goggles over your face. You blink, adjusting to the disorienting view. “Move it,” one grunts, shoving you forward. One of the guards keeps an arm on you, guiding you around the vicinity.

The walk is shorter than yesterdays. Upon reaching your new destination, they open a door and push you in. You hear it close behind you, and they remove your blindfold.

Two of the agents make their way behind you, and you turn to watch them leave. If you had to guess, they’re standing watch in case you could escape.

“Sit.” A man across the table orders you. You turn to face him for the first time. You blink, looking him up and down. He is dressed professionally with a suit and tie, nothing like the task force guys. You narrow your eyes at him, and he looks unimpressed. “I won’t ask again.”

Hesitantly, you take a seat across him. “What do you want?” You ask, voice rough from disuse.

“I have been informed of your prior exposure to vigilantes.” He opens a manila folder, and you can see a file of yourself inside. He shifts, holding it out of your view. “Namely Daredevil.” He taps the pages lightly, “However, I did some more digging.”

He takes a photo out of the folder, “That’s you, isn’t it?” He slides it across the table. You don’t have to look at it to know what it is.

You clench your jaw, “How did you get this?”

The man shrugs, “It was easy enough.” He replies mildly, “Answer my question.”

You glare at him, refusing to look down at the photo of you and Dex. It was one of the first ones you had posted on social media long ago. You’d taken them down the night Dex went to prison the first time.

The man doesn’t appear deterred by your defiance, “That,” he points to a photo, “That is Benjamin Poindexter, otherwise known as 'Bullseye,' correct?”

You follow his hand to the photo before looking to him. What do you think? You don’t say anything.

“Your relations with Matthew Murdock and Benjamin Poindexter are well known by this point.” He continues. “When did you meet Poindexter?”

You glare at the man, not saying anything. He waits for an answer, hands folded on the table.

Then he slaps you.

He did not hold back, and you gasp at how it makes your head spin. You look towards him, aghast. “I will not ask again.”

You readjust yourself, “Go to hell.”

His eyes narrow slightly before slapping you again, even harder than last time. This time you can taste blood fill your mouth. You raised your cuffed hands to wipe it.

He adjusts his tie, waiting patiently, “I am not here to play games. Nobody will find you here, that is, if they’re even looking for you.” He sighs, “Answer my questions, it will make our lives easier.” He taps the photo again, “When did you meet?”

“… A few years ago.” You wipe the blood escaping your mouth, holding back a wince.

“How many exactly?”

“I don’t know.” You huff, “Like nine?”

He hums, “What was your relationship with Poindexter?”

“We were friends.” You lie.

The man pauses, giving you a long look. “And when did you meet Murdock?”

“A little over a year ago.” You still feel the sting of his hand against your skin.

“Did you aid Benjamin Poindexter in any of his crimes?” He leans forward, putting his weight on the table.

“No.” You reply truthfully.

He tilts his head, “When was the last time you two had communication?”

Yesterday. “Haven’t seen him since he went to prison after impersonating Daredevil.”

“So you knew him before that.” He muses. It’s not a question, so you don’t respond. “Tell me, did you suspect that he’d go down a path like this?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “How would I know? I’m not his psychiatrist.”

“Don’t get smart with me.” He shakes his head, unamused. “Now, about Murdock, did you ever aid his crimes?”

“What crimes?” You play dumb.

His lips twitch, and he leans back. “Don’t play dumb. We both know who he is.”

You place your hands onto the table, “I don’t, actually.”

The man narrows his eyes at you in disbelief, “Do you know where he or Daredevil is now?”

“No.” You wince.

“What about Bullseye?”

You scoff, “I said I haven’t seen him in years. How would I know where he is?”

“If you two were ‘friends,’” he does air quotes, “why had he never attempted to reestablish contact?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. He’s probably too busy being Bullseye to care.”

He narrows his eyes, “You see, I don’t believe you.”

Your mouth dries, “Well, then I don’t know what to tell you.” You shrug. “You’re better off asking him yourself.”

He looks at you before letting out a long sigh. “Let me be clear here when I say that you’re merely a piece in this puzzle. I truly do not care about your past relationship with Bullseye or Murdock.” He stands up, “All I care about is getting answers to their whereabouts.” You glare at him as he maneuvers himself around the table before grabbing your head and slamming it down onto the metal table.

You can’t hold back the cry of pain your release. He continues to pin your head down to the table, “With how many connections you have, you’re lucky that I want answers from you and not your death.” He releases your head, and you watch him knock on the door behind you out of the corner of your eye.

“Take her back. We got what we needed.” He tells the agent. He looks unmoved by your state, abruptly blindfolding you again and dragging you out.

When you make it back to your cell, you glare at him through the mask. His grip was so tight that you wouldn’t be surprised if he bruised your arm. Before he leaves, you meet his eyes. He seems amused by your suffering. “This is funny to you?” You whisper, sneering at him.

He sneers at your question, and you take a moment to memorize his face. He raises the keys in front of your face, outside the bars, jingling them. You keep your face purposefully blank, unwilling to give him the reaction he desires. When he leaves, you can hear his quiet chuckles.

Once alone, you slowly lay yourself on the ground, using your arm as a pillow. You attempt to keep your breathing steady as tears well up against your will. Your soft sobs go unheard, the cacophony of the other prisoners drowning out your sorrow.

You don’t think it would matter anyway. You wipe the tears, attempting to close your eyes once more.

Your lip trembles as you rub your eyes. It is freezing here. The sound of distant gunshots make you flinch, yet you aren’t surprised to hear them. The sounds of chaos had become normal in the past couple days.

At least you think it has been a couple days. It’s hard to gauge time without a clock or the sun.

You hadn’t been pulled out to be interrogated since the first morning. It was a small mercy, but one you were grateful for, nonetheless. Not that these monsters deserved your gratitude. However, the lack of action does make you a bit antsy.

Part of you hopes something… someone worse will come for them. You think if Frank Castle were to walk in you might just start cheering. After all, who knows how many victims the task force has unreasonably taken and killed?

You sigh, finishing the last of the water they provided. The gunshots haven’t quieted down yet, and you can only hope they aren't murdering an innocent prisoner.

Then, you realize with growing despair, that they are getting closer.

You turn to face the exit of this nightmare, expecting some task force guy to storm through angrily. Perhaps he would be yelling, dragging out some of the other prisoners, hopefully not you again. You move towards the back of your cell.

Then the door slams open, and every single prisoner, including you, turns their attention as a task force agent stumbles over himself. He raises his rifle to shoot the perpetrator, but before he can get a shot off he crumples to the ground, blood splattering from the wound directly on his forehead.

Well, that's not Matt.

You hear some prisoners cry out for help, and you move toward the front of your cell. Gripping the bars, you watch as the killer steps into view.

Your mouth parts in surprise, what is he doing here?

Bullseye looks to the cells on the left side first, evidently searching for something or someone. He ignores their pleas, and you see one of the prisoners reach out to him, begging him to set them free. He doesn’t linger on them. He strolls over to the right side, your side. He passes each cage leisurely, scanning left and right.

Then his gaze lands on you. You two stare at each other for a long moment before he approaches your cell.

“What are you doing here?” You rasp, narrowing your eyes at him. You clear your throat after speaking.

He tilts his head, “Helping you?”

You’re too tired to hide your startled expression, “I thought you were mad at me.” The words feel ridiculous the second they leave your mouth.

Despite the fact the mask covers most of his face, you can see the genuine befuddlement on his face. “And so you… you thought I’d leave you here?” His words are quieter.

You swallow, watching as he grabs the bars of your cell, testing their strength, “You seemed pretty upset when you saw me talking with Daredevil.”

He laughs, dumbfounded, never looking away from you. “So you thought I’d leave you to die?” His eyes are narrowed on you as if trying to figure out how you possibly conceived such an outrageous concept.

“I don’t know!” You whisper-yell, and the cell door swings open. “And I’m not dead yet.” You use the bars to help push yourself off the ground.

Bullseye watches as you slowly walk out of the cell. In the corner of your eye, you see the familiar task force vest. You open your mouth to warn him, “Dex—”

He throws a knife behind him without looking, and it bounces off another prisoner’s cell causing them to let out a scream before hitting the task force guard in the eye, knocking him to the ground. Your eyes widen, looking to Bullseye, lips parted in surprise.

“Is he even alive?” You ask, dismayed, looking toward the fallen guard.

“Does it really matter?” Bullseye responds, unperturbed.

You whip your head towards him, appalled. You hate the task force, but you aren’t sure if you can condone murder. Perhaps you were bluffing slightly earlier when you hoped for Frank Castle's appearance.

He crumbles under your stare slightly, “He’ll live.”

“You hit him in the eye.”

“Yeah?” He straightens himself, “He’ll live.” He loosely waves a hand in the guards direction.

You scoff, “What about the guy you shot when entering?”

Bullseye shrugs.

“Oh, so it’s like that?” You mock his shrug, pushing past him. He slowly trails behind you.

Dex chuckles lowly, “I can see why you and Daredevil get along.”

“Ah, you are still mad about that.” You can hear the strain in your voice.

“Hm,” he hums, not exactly disagreeing, “but I wasn’t going to leave you to die.” His voice turns more severe, catching your attention. You pause your stride.

Turning to face him, the retort dies on your tongue, not because of the words themself, but because of his delivery.

Despite the blood covering his suit, the countless weapons strewn across his body, and the many years that have passed, he still looks at you like Dex used to.

He looks like Dex. The words loop in your head. You stare at him, dazed. He looks like the Dex you once loved with all your heart. He is still looking at you like he holds the weight of the memories that you’ve solely beared for years.

“I…” You trail off, before shaking your head and dismissing the thoughts. “Thank you.” Your voice comes out smaller than intended. He continues to stare at you for a long moment before walking past you. “Where are you gonna go now?” You ask.

He pauses, looking towards you, then the exit, then back at you. “I thought we were leaving?” Dex sounds confused. You look towards the cells of the other prisoners, and you can see the imprint of a frown against his mask.

“We can’t just leave them here.” You gesture to them, and you hear a prisoner behind you frantically agree.

“I came here for you.” At your disapproving face, he hesitates. Neither of you seem to budge. Then, his shoulder fall slightly, and you know you’ve won.

You make your way over to him, and you grab his arm, catching him by surprise judging by the way his eyes widen faintly. “Come on, faster we do it, faster we leave.”

Dex looks between your hand and your face. Then, resigned, he allows you to pull him back to the cells. The two of you make your way around the room, breaking the locks off each cage. When you break the last one off, you turn to face him. You're unsurprised when you notice he’s already looking at you.

“We’re leaving.” He decides, grabbing your arm similar to the way you grabbed his earlier. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm in a way that told you he wasn’t going to be swayed anymore.

“How are they gonna escape?” You ask as he pulls you past the now empty cages. You note that some of the prisoners give him a wary look, and you don’t necessarily blame them.

Dex looks exasperated, but you can hear the hint of fondness in his voice. “We just broke them out. They can figure out the rest. I told you, I didn’t come here for them.”

“Yeah, but—”

You yelp in surprise as a billy club hits Dex in the chest, causing him to stumble and reach for his knives. Your eyes widen in recognition, “Daredevil?” You call out, watching as Matt emerges from the darkness shrouding the exit.

“Let her go.” Matt demands evenly.

Dex narrows his eyes at Matt, and you look between the two of them. “I didn’t take her.” He straightens himself, attempting to put himself between you and Matt, “I imagine the blame for that falls to you.” Dex grits out.

Matt scoffs, “Don’t try and act like you’re innocent.”

Dex clenches his fist, reaching into his belt, and you look between him and Matt. This was just what was needed. “Can we not do this here? There’s over a dozen hostages that don’t have a way out.” Matt doesn’t ease up, and Dex doesn’t either. “Do you have a way to help them?” You ask Matt.

He is silent for a moment, “We can figure a way out.”

“Alright,” you turn to Dex, “you said you came here for me. Does that mean you figured a way out?”

“Yeah,” he sneers, “for us.” He says slowly.

The conversation is interrupted as another guard comes running out, gun in hand. The three of you turn to face him. Instantly recognizing his face, you grimace, catching Dex’s attention.

“You know him?”

“Regrettably.” You absentmindedly rub the bruises he left behind, Dex’s eyes narrow on your arms before snapping towards the agent.

Matt, as if somehow sensing where this was about to go, extends his billy club, intercepting directly with one of Dex’s knives. You watch as it clatters to the ground, frowning. Then, you turn your attention back towards the agent.

Oh.

The agent collapses on the ground, one of Dex’s knives lodged into his temple. When you turn to Dex, there is not a single bit of remorse in his eyes. In fact, he turns to you as if waiting for approval. Matt curses on your left, and Dex’s posture loosens with a smugness that makes you wonder if he killed that agent for you, to aggravate Matt, or because he enjoyed it.

Probably all three.

“Back up is arriving.” Matt tilts his head slightly towards the door, and you wonder how he could possibly know that. He goes quiet for a moment, “We have to leave now if we want a chance.” He pointedly ignores Dex.

“Alright.” You nod, turning to Dex. He looks suspiciously apathetic to the development that has occurred. “Thanks for breaking me out.” You offer him a grateful smile. For once, it's genuine.

He stares at you for a moment, not giving a response before looking towards Daredevil. “Go.” Matt commands. Dex narrows his eyes at him.

“I’ll see you soon.” He mutters. He doesn’t move to leave, and you give him a confused look.

“C’mon,” Matt’s voice softens ever so slightly, grabbing your shoulder and turning you away from Dex. You give Dex one last look over your shoulder, and to your surprise he winks at you, a small smirk on his face.

You get a sinking feeling he is planning something, and not anything good.

Matt guides you to the rest of the prisoners, “Move!” He points to the exit, and the group scurries to follow his instructions. You turn to Matt before falling in line behind the last prisoner. They whisper to each other, and you can hear some people sobbing in relief that Daredevil has arrived.

Matt escorts them through the hallway, and you stay close to him the whole time. You turn around, frowning when you see an agent moving to get up, their radio seems to be on the fritz. You nudge Matt slightly, and he turns to face you. You nod your head over to the agent, and he returns the nod before making his way over to the floored man. He grabs the two-way radio, holding it up to speak.

“Fisk has people in here,” he puffs, “not just vigilantes. I’m bringing them out now.” He tells the radio before putting it down and raising his hand. “Follow me.” He orders. Matt guides you through another hallway before reaching a wooden door, he slides it open.

“Go,” he huffs repeatedly, and you can see that the door leads outside. He ushers them through, and you hear the familiar wail of sirens. Then, without warning, he freezes, “Down! Everybody, down!” He yells out, and all of you hit the deck.

You gasp as bullets rain over your head. You attempt to locate Matt, but between the low lighting and crowd of people, it’s a lost cause. You press your body against one of the crates that are shielding you from the bullets, heart pounding.

You hear Matt yell something inaudible before a knife lodges itself near your hand. You jolt, about to scream for Daredevil when you get a closer look at the knife. It reads the words: “OVER HERE.”

You try and retrace the trajectory of where it came from, and look up to see Bullseye waiting just inside the doorframe you exited. The way he has positioned himself makes it impossible for any of the task force agents to see him, or really, anybody who isn’t you. He tilts his head, giving a casual nod.

You scowl at him, grabbing the knife, and scanning the area. When you find a break in the gunfire, you crouch and run back inside. Upon reentering, you straighten yourself. “What are you doing? When you said ‘see you soon’ I didn’t think this is what you meant.”

He looks you up and down, “I did tell you that I was only here for you.” He shrugs, “Your fault you thought I’d actually leave.”

“Daredevil has it handled, I would’ve been fine.” You cross your arms, pushing him more in the building, paranoid that the task force or Matt would spot you two.

Dex nods slowly, “Yeah, being shot at sounds like he has it ‘handled’ to me.” You see his eyes narrow slightly. “We should go before he can stop us.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do you want to go back out there?”

You don’t have an answer for that, and he nods as if he knew you wouldn’t. “He’ll be fine.”

“He’s going to think I went missing.” You snap at him.

Dex says your name and you pause, “He probably already knows I’m here. If he wanted to stop us from leaving, he would try to.” His voice goes quieter, “I had to— I wanted to make sure you’re okay. All of the task force is focused on him right now. There are other exits we can take while they’re distracted.”

You cross your arms, feeling the exhaustion of the past two days catch up to you. “Fine,” you acquiesce, “but if anything goes wrong, you get to be the one to explain it to him.”

Dex huffs, but doesn’t disagree, “Yeah, I’ll be sure to mention it the next time we meet.” He starts walking down the hallway you came from, you follow him side-by-side.

Neither of you speak for a few minutes, but he, surprisingly, breaks the silence. “About the other night,” he begins, catching your attention, “I didn’t mean for it to go down like that.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Then how did you intend for it to go down?”

Dex doesn’t respond immediately, and you follow him up a set of stairs. “I… don’t know.” He replies measuredly. “I just…” he grunts, “I couldn’t stand seeing you with him.” He replies honestly, shaking his head. The two of you make it through another set of doors.

You process the information, grabbing the railing of another staircase. You descend downward, and when you reach the bottom you turn to him “You knew Daredevil was gonna show, didn’t you?” You ask, walking side-by-side with Dex.

He turns to face you, removing the mask off his face, and you catch yourself staring. “I suspected.” He shrugs.

You hum, “Is that why—”

“If you still want to talk about Daredevil, we can turn around.” Dex interjects sarcastically, tossing a glance behind you both.

Your eyebrows raise, and you let out a startled breath. “Huh,” you muse, pausing to turn around, causing Dex to stop too, “alright, well seeing as that was the original plan. I’ll see you later then, and not later as in five minutes—” You ramble, bluffing. You don’t get very far before Dex stops you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you closer. You stagger over yourself, your hands falling to his shoulders.

You look at his eyes, scanning his face. Dex mimics the action, looking over your face. You can’t tell if he is examining you for injuries, or if he is trying to commit this moment to memory. Perhaps both. Your breath hitches at his intense gaze.

“I’m filthy.” You whisper, shivering as his hands come up hesitantly to touch your cheek, as if he is waiting for you to deny him the pleasure. Perhaps the nights spent caged made you delusional because you physically lean in, and he follows the motion.

He chuckles quietly, the sound for your ears alone, “And you think I’d care?” He whispers back.

You smirk softly, “Fair enough.” You laugh, and he leans closer to you, as if drawn in by the sound of your joy. Neither of you say anything before meeting each other halfway.

His shoulders drop instantly, and his hands pull you closer as if he physically cannot let go of you. You smile through the kiss, and you feel him mirror the action. His lips move with yours as if they can predict your every action and match it perfectly, as if he has done it a million times before. He kisses you with a desire that you haven’t felt in years. It is both the most heavenly and agonizing experience all at once, to be readily given what you’ve wanted for all this time. Slowly, you pull away to catch your breath. Dex doesn’t move, and when you open your eyes, his are still closed.

You let the moment linger before breaking the silence, it felt too familiar to not say anything. “You know who I am, don’t you?” You croak.

His eyes flutter open, flickering down to his lips before meeting your eyes again. “Hm?” He hums blissfully.

You chuckle softly to hide how exposed you feel at the question, lightly tapping your fingers across his chest, “You do, right?” You ask again.

He swallows, and you can see his throat move with the action. Then he says your name tenderly, reverently. “I’ve remembered for a while now.”

That surprises you, “Have you?” You ask, raising a hand up to his chin, gently brushing your fingers against the scarred skin.

He nods slowly, leaning into the touch. “Back at the diner.” Your lips part, and he blinks, patiently waiting your response.

“That’s when you remembered me?” You raise an eyebrow, and his hand idly rubs circles against your skin.

“You sound surprised.” He notes, clearly attempting (and failing) to bite back a smile.

“Forgive me, but you had walked into the diner, killed like ten task force agents, then asked if my meal was ruined.”

“Was it?” He sounds way more proud about murder than he has any right to. “You never did give a clear answer to my question.” He muses, thoughtful.

“Yeah,” you huff, “because I was upset at the crime scene I was witnessing.” You emphasize your point by pushing your index finger against his chest.

“Well, I gathered that.” Dex responds dryly. “I didn’t actually know you were there until it was too late.”

You raise an eyebrow, “I find that hard to believe. You just coincidentally visited the same diner I frequented?”

“I don’t know ‘bout a coincidence.” Dex shakes his head, “I… I think some part of me knew you liked that place.” His voice wavers a bit.

“So you visited it often because it reminded you of the life you couldn’t remember?” Your voice is solemn.

“…Yeah.” He whispers, almost vulnerable.

You frown, lip trembling, and your next question is filled years of pent up sorrow and fury, “You remember me, truly?” Your voice trembles, unable to meet his eyes as you ask him to reconfirm everything he just told you. “I don’t mean the coffee shop, the diner, or even the nights you visited me.” You feel the tears begin to well up in your eyes. Dex freezes the moment he notices them. “I mean before all of that.”

Dex waits for you to look up, and you blink the tears away. “I remember,” he begins slowly, “you told me that you didn’t like it when I vanished on those nights. You told me you were afraid that, with how Daredevil—how I—was acting back then, that I’d get killed.” He takes a deep breath, “I remember I told you that I’d make sure that you knew I was alive.” He smiles wistfully.

“If you forgot to eat dinner, I’d order Italian from that one place you liked down the street of our apartment.” You let out a quiet sob, “I remember that one time, you had a bad day coming home from work.” He inhales, “Fisk told me to go…” he shakes his head, “That part isn’t important, but all I remember is you telling me that you wanted me to come home that night.” He shakes his head slowly, “I remember you saying that so… so vividly. When I came home, you greeted me with the biggest smile, and for a moment I could forget everything else that wasn’t you.” Tears are openly running down your face, yet Dex doesn’t stop.

“I remember during the confrontation, before I forgot,” his eyes look from the ground up to yours, “before Fisk broke my spine, I thought back to what you said. That you wanted me to come home.” He blinks a few times, “All— All I could think about was the fact that I wouldn’t be coming home that night, and you wouldn’t know why. I would never be able to tell you myself.” You don’t bother holding back the sobs that wrack your body. “And I… I couldn’t help but hate myself in that moment. I hated him too. I was so upset that Fisk stole my chance to explain myself.”

You take in a deep breath, your chest shuddering, “And when I woke up, something was missing. I couldn’t remember you, but you haunted my life for years.” He admits, chuckling softly, but the sound is more troubled than anything. “Sometimes I could remember bits of what it felt like to be loved by you, but I could never remember your face. Not— Not until much later.”

“Dex…” You warble.

“Do you believe me?” You don’t get a chance to respond, “Please believe me. I…” His breathing begins to quicken, “I don’t know how else to…” he trails off, and you take the opportunity to pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He falls into your chest, and you can feel his heartbeat fluttering underneath your fingertips. “I believe you, Dex.” You sniffle.

His glassy eyes meet your own, swollen and red from tears. “I never wanted to leave you. I never wanted—needed anybody as much as I need you.” He admits, and the words spill out. He licks his lips, meeting your eyes, desperation evident. “Finding you again was like taking a breath of air after drowning for so long.” He takes a deep breath, “I love you. I need you.”

You melt onto him, and Dex basks in your presence. Perhaps his words may be concerning, but part of you resonates with him. “I missed you so much.” You whisper. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” You ask. He blinks, and you continue: “All these years, I... hated that you left me with this burden where I remembered everything, but you lived on as if I didn’t exist.” Dex's eye twitches, but he doesn’t interrupt you.

“I was hoping that if I pretended you weren’t apart of my life, I could eventually convince myself that it was true.” You trace your fingers along his shoulders, and you watch him look down. “All these years, despite the fact that you had forgotten me, I could not erase my memory of you.” You laugh, wiping a few stray tears. “Life is cruel, isn't it?”

“Do you still wish you could forget?” He asks, meeting your eyes. His hands shake slightly in anticipation, and his breathing is unnaturally still.

“No,” you admit truthfully. “Not anymore, at least.” Dex exhales in relief at your words.

“I’m… I’m really sorry that you went through that.” The apology is clunky and pathetic—laughable even. You let out a tearful snort at it.

But it’s Dex, it’s so purely Dex that it hurts because you know he means it. He recounted memories of you as if they happened yesterday and told you he needs you.

He must see how unimpressed you are, “I know that doesn’t sound like much…”

“It doesn’t.” You quip coolly, and he winces slightly. “But I know you mean it.” You whisper softly. He exhales, and you feel his chest rise and fall. “I missed you.” You repeat the words, quiet, vulnerable, a confession in their own right.

He doesn’t say anything this time, as if afraid of saying something would mess everything up. Instead, he holds you tighter.

Neither of you let go and when you part, his eyes dilate upon looking at your face again, and no more words needed to be said.

A few days later, you were resting on the couch, his arm around you. You are scrolling through some articles before pausing and turning to Dex. He watches as you furrow your eyebrows at him.

“Did you ever tell Daredevil I was okay?” You ask.

He blinks once, “No,” he shakes his head slightly, “we don’t exactly talk if it can be helped.”

You frown, “So… You think he thinks I’m missing?”

Dex adjusts slightly as you lean closer to him, “I think he knows you left with me.”

You raise an eyebrow at Dex, “How could you possibly know that if you haven’t talked with him?”

“Call it intuition.” He smiles.

“Alright...” You blink at his cryptic response, “I’ll text him.”

Hey, just checking in, hope everyone is doing well. Wanted to let you know I got out of the whole Red Hook situation and am not missing.

“You think he’ll be mad?” You muse aloud. “Actually, he can’t be too mad at me. I’m still upset about how he went about meeting me.”

“If it was me, I would’ve just cut him off.” Dex comments helpfully.

“Of course you’d say that.” You deadpan before standing up, “You think he’ll be upset that we’re…” you gesture between you both.

Dex shrugs, frustratingly indifferent to the whole situation. “Probably.”

You hold your hand up to your mouth, contemplative. “How do I even tell him that?”

Dex is about to say something when your phone vibrates. Usually Matt prefers to talk on the phone rather than texting, so the fact that he texted you says a lot.

“What’d he say?” Dex asks, not bothering to hide his curiosity.

“Uh…” You trail off as you read his response.

Matt: I’m aware you left with Dex.

I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.

Matt: It’s fine. However, for future reference, you might want to wait until you’re home for conversations like that.

Like what?

Matt: Ask him.

“I think he’s mad.” You conclude. “He told me that I might ‘want to wait until I’m home for conversations like that.’” You turn to Dex, “He neglects to mention what ‘that’ is referring to.”

Dex slowly nods, his lips twitching in amusement, “Anything else?”

“He told me to ask you about it.” You put the phone down, “Do you know what he is talking about?”

Dex clicks his tongue, “He probably heard us.”

You blink slowly, “What do you mean?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Did he not tell you?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “Tell me what..?”

“He has super-hearing.” Dex explains slowly.

“What?” You stare at him blankly.

“He really didn’t tell you?”

“Clearly not.” You laugh, dazed. “…So you’re saying he heard our entire conversation?”

“Probably.” Dex doesn’t sound surprised by this world-shattering realization for you.

You stare at him for a long moment, and he watches as you silently settle yourself next to him. “I don’t think I can ever speak to him again.” You declare, appalled by this new information.

Dex’s eyes crinkle in amusement, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

You chuckle, “Yep, it’s only us now.” You joke.

Dex nods solemnly, “Only us.”

You smile, snickering softly, and he smiles back at you. When you stop, you raise an eyebrow, “You aren’t joking, are you?” You ask astutely.

Dex’s smile grows in response.

: ̗̀➛ A/N: Matt being forced to listen when you and Dex finally reunite for real: “Please, God, make it stop.” Yayyy I finished a fic!!! Anywayyyy, "I’m back" is a bit of a stretch but guess who just finished DDBA? Seeing Dex on screen sparked some motivation for me. Yes, you can expect more of him from me in the future, so lmk if you’d want to be on a taglist for him/fill out the taglist form. In fact, I’d also be willing to write for Matt too… so there’s that. Also, don't mistake Matt and Karen's inital treatment/intentions toward us in this fic being me hating on them, I love them both dearly. Anyway, yes I will be actually answering asks again. I know I said on like four separate occasions I’d do that, but I MEAN it this time, look I even posted a fic :D! I’ll be trying to catch up on old asks for the next few days, but feel free to leave stuff in my inbox! I'd love to hear any of your thoughts on this :) I also know I said “here’s some fics I have planned or whatever” and this was NOT one of them. I am still going to write those fics, but uh… just accept that whatever gets posted is purely based on motivation lmao. So I guess shoutout to Dex for getting me through a couple month long fic slump and making me write for Marvel for the first time in ages? I hope he wasn’t too ooc. I know I wrote him to be pretty tame in comparison to some of the stuff I’ve seen, and I say that knowing he stalked us and killed people for us in this fic lol. I’ll try to crank some more fics out soon. They’ll probably be a mix of Dex and Batfam characters idk, maybe even a Bucky fic if I’m feeling it. Okay this is getting WAY too long, I hope you all enjoyed the fic :D, lmk if you guys liked it cause I am absolutely willing to write for Dex if that’s what the people want!

It was entirely normal for people your age to break into the house of their older neighbor and crawl into bed with him. Your eyes greedily taking in the sight of his bare chest rising and falling, his nipples pebbled in the cool air as you slowly drew the covers back to reveal his whole body. Luckily, Mr. Poindexter was a deep sleeper and only stirred slightly as you pulled down your underwear and laid beside him. You drew close until you could catch a whiff of his lingering aftershave and parted your puffy lips to find the sweet spot towards the top. The pads of your fingers pressed until you couldn't go any further without moaning, and rubbed in harsh circles until you whimpered as you came.

It was entirely and completely normal for someone your age to break into their older neighbor’s house every night, growing more and more emboldened with each visit. It started with you touching yourself and progressively made its way to you taking his hand and making his thick fingers rub your pussy until you came. You hoped that he woke up and smelled you on his fingers.

That grew to you touching him, pulling his half-hard cock out of his pajama pants and stroking him until he unwittingly came. You watched, mesmerized by the way his seed oozed from the pretty tip and tenderly licked it until he came again, grunting in his sleep the way a dog whines in theirs.

Where you made your mistake however, was when you would lay next to him after, hand on his chest. You were just so sleepy and before you knew it you had curled up beside Mr. Poindexter and fell away into slumber.

You only woke up when he jerked away from you, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands as he staggered away from the bed. “What the hell are you doing in here?” He looked so sexy like that, hair tousled, chest heaving, brows furrowed with anger. You sat up in his bed with your mouth agape trying to find some good reason why you were sleeping with him in his bed. There weren't any that wouldn't get the police called on you, so you whimpered as sad and pathetic as you could sound, “I’m sorry, Mr. Poindexter.”

That seemed to get him. His eyes softened a tad, tense muscles releasing as he rubbed his forehead. “Sweetheart, you can't be breaking into my house at night, alright?”

You wanted to tell him that if he didn't want you coming in, he should lock his windows at night. Instead, you nodded softly and crawled out of his bed. “Sorry, Mr. Poindexter. I just really like it here.” Big eyes stared up at him through your lashes as you placed yourself in front of him. Satisfaction like heat crawled into your chest as you watched his face go slightly red. You wanted to lick his winkles, to have him spit on your nasty little cunt and fuck you senseless.

“Please, just go.” He let out in some kind of defeated sigh, turning away from you and pointing to the bedroom door. You left quickly, a little flustered that you had been caught but all-in-all relieved that you didn't end up arrested. You told yourself you wouldn't go back, wouldn't play with your luck.

That didn't last very long.

You were aching within a week, no amount of rubbing yourself would get you off. Your body, like a drug, craved Mr. Poindexter. And poor you, fighting it for so long I til you simply couldn't take it anymore. The risk was worth the reward. But the next week, you were already climbing through his kitchen window and creeping up to his bedroom once again. Each step you took made you painfully aware of how wet your panties were until you reached his room and saw him there in bed, snoring softly as if nothing ever happened. Surely, if he didn't want this happening again he would have taken better precautions.

Like a ritual, you pulled your panties down your quivering thighs and let them drop to the floor, sticky and wet from your arousal. You knew that this time you’d have to go big or go home. So you climbed into his bed and slowly, gently, pulled his length from his pants. Of course he didn't have underwear on. He wanted this, to make it easy for you to take advantage of him. He was soft in your hands but that didn't last long as you stroked him and layered sloppy kisses on his rose pink tip. Soon, he was stiff, jumping as the blood rushed to his cock.

You climbed on top of him, straddled his hips, and stilled when he grunted and shifted in his sleep. The adrenaline was intoxicating, blood rushing to your sensitive cunt as he settled back down. You raised yourself slowly and aimed his thick cock against your clit, rubbing his weeping tip against your puffy parts. A strangled sound escaped him, his brows pinching as you rubbed him against you, teasing at your own entrance with him like he was just a toy.

You were so caught up in it that you didn't notice that his eyes were opening. He looked confused and first, a little scared. “___?” Nether lip trapped between your teeth as you reveled in the grittiness of his sleepy voice, you giggled softly. “Don't worry, Mr. Poindexter. I’m gonna take care of you.” You pressed yourself down a little, greedy, wanting hole swallowing up his head with a little pop. You liked the way he moaned without wanting to, the way his adams apple bobbled in his throat as he shook his head. “This isn't right.”

You sank down further, whimpering when you felt the thickest part of him stretch your walls to the limit. A smile teased at your lips. “It doesn't have to be right. No one needs to know but us, Mr. Poindexter.” A delicious little moan left your lips when you sank all the way down until his hairy base tickled your bundle of nerves.

He looked so pathetic then, a subtle mixture of distress and pleasure mingling on his face. You told yourself that if he didn't want this, he was certainly strong enough to toss you off of him. But your neighbor didn't. He lied there, pathetic and helpless and you bounced on his cock, splitting yourself open, letting him tease at your womb opening.

The steady slapping of your ass against his thighs, the creamy sound of your cunt drooling down the length of his cock, you watched him whimper beneath you with glassy eyes and hands pawing at you to get you off of him. You held his thick wrists, pinned them down, rode harder until you felt his cock begin to twitch inside of you.

“No, wait.” He choked out, hands pressing harder to get you away from him. “Stop, I’m gonna cum.” Tears swelled in the lines of his eyes, face red, lips trembling. You pressed your hips down harder, squeezed your walls tight around him and felt his girth hold you open. “Stop.” You cooed when he began to sob, reaching to caress his jaw with your fingers.

In your daze, teary eyes squeezed shut, you vaguely feel the pressure of his arm as he curls it under and around your neck. The unwavering punch of his tip against the spot you like nearly makes you miss the way he begins to squeeze the air out of your throat—as if you already didn’t have a hard time breathing as is. But even as angry as he must be, Shane is mindful about his strength, keeping his grip on you just loose enough to where you won’t pass out. Without realizing it, your hands have clung onto his wide biceps as he fucks you further into your soft, squeaky mattress.

In your daze, teary eyes squeezed shut, you vaguely feel the pressure of his arm as he curls it under and around your neck. The unwavering punch of his tip against the spot you like nearly makes you miss the way he begins to squeeze the air out of your throat—as if you already didn’t have a hard time breathing as is. But even as angry as he must be, Shane is mindful about his strength, keeping his grip on you just loose enough to where you won’t pass out. Without realizing it, your hands have clung onto his wide biceps as he fucks you further into your soft, squeaky mattress.

You have a tear-stained cheek pressed against one bicep, the hairs on his skin collecting a few of the escaping droplets. Your nose is buried into the crook of Shane’s elbow, where you can smell the musk of his sweat, along with the remnants of dirt, grime, and the woodsy outdoors that have clung onto him throughout the day. On any other man, it would have been gross and unpleasant. On Shane, it’s unfortunately intoxicating.

You don’t remember coming the first time.

The entirely obscene squelch of your slick combined with Shane’s precum, you can barely hear over the rush of blood in your ears and Shane’s labored breaths. You’re not even sure if the sharp-sounding “fuck” you heard from him was real, or if it’s just your mind filling in a void with things you’re used to hearing during these moonlit trysts.

The warm, familiar wave of your next orgasm starts to take over, Shane’s thick cock and fingers guiding you through the curve of pleasure, continuing their work beyond its peak. Your entire body squirms in his hold, tensing at the overload of sensation as his thrusts lose their tight rhythm. Despite that, Shane still manages to quicken his pace even more until he lets out a final groan into your ear. His seed floods your walls, fluttering muscles sucking him dry like they know the routine by now.

You suck in a sharp gasp of air into your lungs as his headlock finally loosens around you, becoming something more gentle as he turns you both onto your sides. You don’t make a sound of protest even though you already miss the weight of his chest on your back.

“So proud of ya, baby.” Shane groans softly into the back of your neck. “Tight cunt’s always so good to me.”

And just like clockwork, you keen.

Still high off your climax, you slip into a half-conscious, post-coital fog where you’re vaguely aware that Shane’s dick is still sitting inside you. You’re also aware enough to be a little surprised by it because he doesn’t usually stay past quickly but efficiently wiping his cum and sweat off of you with a damp washcloth he finds in your bathroom. But maybe you aren’t aware enough to tell the difference between sixty seconds and ten minutes.

Either way, Shane slips out of you, and the dip in the bed becomes shallower. A few moments later, a damp washcloth is between your legs, gently cleaning the mess that he made.

There’s a faint tap at your bare hip. “You should go piss.”

You make a muffled sound at that that most cannot discern as agreement, acknowledgment, or refusal.

Regardless of your friends with benefits status, you and Shane have upheld the “friends” end that many seem to forget altogether because of the way these arrangements tend to get ugly fast at the first sign of feelings. Over the course of your friendship, he has learned the language of your indiscriminate sounds. This one meant I’ll go later, but later is actually never because I’m falling asleep.

You don’t think about how caring it is that he helps you to the toilet before the Sandman sends you off, not until the next morning and he’s already long gone.

You don’t expect anything from Shane.

It’s why you don’t mind when you watch him shamelessly flirt with the most gorgeous person you’ve ever laid your eyes on across the bar; a tall, dark-skinned woman who looks unbelievably soft underneath her minidress, which is likely worth more than your monthly salary. It’s the kind of dress that doesn’t belong in a bar on the kind of woman who belongs on a runway in Paris, walking for Chanel.

“Ten bucks, he strikes out.”

You turn around to see Ryan Fielding getting settled onto the stool beside yours, his broad frame dwarfing the tiny seat. “Should you be betting on customers?” you ask, expression entirely unimpressed by the prospect.

He offers you a simple shrug. “I’m on my fifteen.”

“Well, then, I’m not making a bet with you I’m sure to lose.”

“Ouch.” He mock winces at you. “No faith at all? Thought you two were friends.”

“It’s because we’re friends that I know he’ll strike out.” You snort, taking a small sip of your cheap beer. “That woman looks like Anok Yai, and both are way out of his league. Big time.”

“I’m gonna pretend like I know who that is and agree.”

You let out a gasp, twisting your torso around to face him, totally appalled. “You don’t know who Anok Yai is? The model? God, I forget you guys live under a rock here.”

Ryan holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, I got enough on my plate, tending to lovesick fools, shit flirts, and drunk assholes. I don’t have the time to be keeping up with fashion or whatever.”

Before you can inquire further about who the “lovesick fools” in question are, Shane approaches from the other end of the bar—beautiful woman now notably absent—a dripping beer bottle clutched in his fingers. He doesn’t say a word when he takes a seat next to you, tipping the lip of the bottle to his mouth.

Your head tilts to the side. “I take it, no home run?”

“I was just giving her directions.”

You can’t resist a snicker. “That’s what men say when they’re fishing for a number.”

“That’s true.” On your right, Ryan nods adamantly.

Shane only smirks, shaking his head with amusement. “She was just looking for directions to the nearest hotel.”

“You direct her to your tent?” You chuckle, flagging the bartender down for another beer.

An unladylike snort leaves Ryan’s mouth behind you while Shane holds onto his easy smile. “No. Only if she asked, but I doubt that kinda woman would be able to fully appreciate it anyway.”

You hate that you want to ask what kind would.

The thought plagues you even as Shane pushes you down on your knees by your shoulders in the cramped bathroom stall, forcing his flushed cock through the seam of your wet lips. You try to ignore the hard press of dirty tile against your knees, hoping you could magically will away bruises. It’s a miracle you both even manage to fit in the tiny amount of space there is in front of the toilet. It’s a good time to not be claustrophobic.

“Breathe, baby,” he reminds you quietly, bringing you out of your thoughts, a large palm supporting the back of your head.

Your eyes flutter, lashes already coated with tears as you try to inhale through your nose. It’s been a minute since you’ve blown Shane, since you’ve felt the tip of his dick sit uncomfortably at the back of your throat. He curses lowly when the warm muscles involuntarily close up around the girth of him.

“Gonna make me blow my load early if you keep doin’ that.” He holds your head still, hips beginning to thrust steadily into the warm of your mouth. “Shit, that’s it.”

Your hands rest at the back of his calves, holding tightly onto the rough denim of his dark-wash jeans. Your eyes close as you lose yourself in overwhelming sensation of him fucking your mouth.

The hand not on your head taps your puffed out cheek, trying to guide your attention back. “Eyes on me, baby.”

Shane comes down your throat the second you finally meet his dark brown gaze with tear-glazed eyes.

“Take my cock so well,” he murmurs, pulling your mouth off of him. Shane wipes up the drool and cum that’s accumulated around your mouth and chin with one hand, the other brushing away stray tears. “So proud of you.”

Rarely do you get to spend your mornings waking up to the woods surrounding Shane’s tent. Even before you started sleeping with the wilderness management officer, you’ve stayed over in his beloved, quaint shelter a number of times. It’s nice to be able to get away once in awhile, to be reminded that things outside of the Internet and giant skyscrapers exist. That not all things are manmade, but some are just born, especially the most beautiful of things.

Like the war raging on in the early morning sky, bleeding reds and oranges washing away into the deep blue ocean. Shane was an early riser through and through, something the Army and rangers beat into him, but you managed to sneak off and snag the view all to yourself this morning.

Though that’s partly due to being unable to sleep well on Shane’s stiff cot. No matter how you twisted and turned that night, the damned thing dug into your shoulders, sides, your back, and your patience. At some point, you pulled your phone out of its charger and began scrolling through an ebook you had downloaded months ago. When that lost its novelty, you began cleaning out your camera roll because that was a task long overdue. And when you quickly grew bored of that, you eventually managed to get a few moments of shuteye while Shane snored the whole night away next to you. It was maddening. You were jealous.

But now, you get to see a dawn worth thousands of LA mornings. The city’s skyline wasn’t anything to write home about, wouldn’t steal your breath away like an early morning in Yosemite could. It could never be so quiet either. Not just literally, but rather, in the way a soul could be; settled, without a voice pulling you in every which direction, demanding everything of you. A life out here feels simple, unburdened, and it makes you understand more what Shane preaches on to you about.

“Didn’t I tell you not to go wanderin’ off without me?”

Shane always sounds grumpy in the morning. You think it might be a side effect of being a chronic asshole. There’s a hint of worry underlining his tone that amuses you.

“Didn’t go that far.” You don’t bother to turn your head around, revealing to him a can of bear spray and one of his pistols waiting patiently at your side. “And you looked so cozy, sleeping like a pretty princess. Snored like one too.”

“You even know how to use that thing?” he asks with a quiet grunt, taking a seat next to you on the picnic blanket you have laid out on the hill.

“Learned from the best, didn’t I?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Sure did.”

You watch the sunrise together in silence, the night blues growing lighter by the minute. Birds chirp all around, high up in the trees. While you’d find it incredibly bothersome in the city, here the high-pitched calls sound like they belong. Much like Shane’s soft, relaxed breaths.

Another ten minutes and the night will be fully settled in its bed for the day.

“Does it ever get old?” you murmur, staring into the burning sun ahead, fluffy clouds shielding it like armor.

“Not for me, it doesn’t.”

Only then do you glance at him, rotating your head just enough to make out his profile. He’s still looking where you just were, brown velvet eyes appearing as soft as you’ve ever seen them. Shane always get that look when he talks about the great outdoors, like nature can soften out all the rough of edges of man instead of sharpening them more.

“I wish I could agree.”

You don’t blink twice when a cute guy offers you his number, scrawled out pretty on a small cafe napkin.

Granted, it’s a little old-school, but maybe that’s why you’re even considering dialing it—or maybe you should text first? God, you don’t go on a date in a few years, and it already feels like you forgot protocol. You stare at the napkin square sitting on the table in front of you like some kind of omen.

Shane plops down onto the seat across from yours, startling you. He takes one sip of his black coffee, glancing down. “What’s that?”

You shrug, fingertips brushing the soft napkin. “Some guy slipped me his number.”

He hums. “You gonna use it?”

“Jury’s still out on that one. He was cute. It might be fun.”

“Your hesitance seems like enough of an answer.”

“What, like you just jump at the prospect of a date with every girl that shows interest?” You scoff, stirring your drink around in its cup. “I’m just keeping an open-mind before I go back. Maybe he’s not interested in something long-term either. Huh, I wonder if the dating scene here is anything like it is in LA.”

“I wouldn’t know.” The chair under him creaks as he leans back, mouth pressing into a fine line.

“Can you believe summer is almost over already? Jeez, it feels like every time I come back, it gets shorter. Wasn’t like that when I lived here. Summers used to feel like a million years.”

Shane huffs. “I remember your complaining.”

Your face splits into a teasing, toothy grin. “Hey, I know you miss me now that I’ve moved away. You somehow still barely have any friends besides me.”

He just shrugs, despite your insult. “I don’t need other friends.”

“Well, that’s nice, but I—ugh, Jesus, what’s he doing here?”

Kyle Turner steps through the cafe’s door, heading to the counter to order a coffee.

While you don’t have any reason to be bothered by the ISB agent’s presence, he’s harassed Shane enough to make it your problem. Sure, your friend isn’t the nicest guy around town, but Turner’s issue with him runs deeper than legal. And as much of a shithead Shane is, you were livid when Kyle stuck a gun to his chin for no better reason than his own anger and pride. You had quickly shoved Kyle away from Shane with all your strength, nearly screaming your head off at the older man while Shane tugged you away, his bloody, shit-eating grin softening out at your worry.

If Shane was good at anything, it was stoking a flame into a wildfire. But beneath all that sarcasm and arrogance is a good man, as jaded as he may be. That’s a fact you know as well as breathing. Ryan had been wrong when he said you had no faith in Shane. You might’ve had too much.

“Maybe we should head out,” you suggest, trying to finish your drink in a single swig.

He pays Kyle no mind, still settled into his chair like he belongs there. “Why? I haven’t done anything.”

Your lips curl into a frown, your free hand clenched on your knee. “I don’t need him blowing your head off, Shane.”

“You worried about me, baby?” His mouth forms a smirk, and the sight makes your stomach flip annoyingly.

“With how seriously you take your life?” You scoff and glare at the back of Kyle Turner’s head. “Yeah, fuckin’ obviously.”

You stand abruptly, fingers tugging the hem of Shane’s flannel sleeve, dragging him out of the cafe. The napkin with the cute guy’s number goes forgotten at the table.

You remember the first time you felt the weight of a gun in your hands.

Deceptively heavier than it appears, holding a pistol feels like carrying the weight of the world between your fingers. And for some, that’s what it meant. Life or death. The world or the unknown. Everything or nothing. It’s a side you choose: to be on one end of the barrel or the other. And you should pray to not be the one staring it down.

Being ex-military means Shane has had much practice with that. Means he always knows which side he’s on.

Shane had pressed the small firearm into your hands with thinly-veiled amusement before adjusting his camouflage hat and perching a hand on his hip. He pointed to a set of beer cans he set up across the field. “Now, all you gotta do is hit those targets over there.”

You glanced between him and the empty beer cans that stood mockingly with an unimpressed look. “Shane, this feels like a humiliation ritual.”

He tsked, shaking his head. “It’s easy.” He took the pistol from you, quickly firing a clean shot into one of the metal cans, making it explode into bits.

The sudden, loud sound of the bullet piercing through the quiet, woody air made you cringe. He pushed the gun back into your grasp, staring at you expectantly.

“That was a terrible demonstration,” you said, holding the gun uselessly at your side. “You just wanna laugh at my expense.”

“Sweetheart, I already do that every day.” He smirked, stepping behind you.

You rolled your eyes at him, opening your mouth to spit out a retort, only for it to die right on your tongue when Shane all but presses his chest to your back, wrapping his arms around you to help you grip the pistol properly, lining up your shot for you. It felt like cheating, but you could hardly find the will to care when his hot breath blew on the back of your ear as he guided you through the steps. Only Shane could make his charity sound so patronizing.

“You breathin’?”

“Yes,” you said quickly, very indignantly despite the obvious sharp intake of breath that you do.

You deserved praise for how steady you kept your hands when your teacher was being much more of a distraction than anything remotely helpful.

Shane let go, taking a step back. “Take the shot.”

The beer can fell before you even realized you had pulled the trigger.

You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, eyes hurriedly darting to Shane’s for approval.

“See? Easy.”

Although you only end up making the rest of your shots with varying degrees of success, the faint traces of a proud look on Shane’s face were worth all the humiliation.

You’d like to think you know which side of the barrel you’d be on, too.

The California sun beats down even through all the natural shade the trees in the park provide, the temperature going on near unbearable with this week’s forecasted heatwave.

It’s days like these that role of Shane and the other park rangers becomes even more crucial. Because people are stupid. Little kids don’t know better when they see a cute bug crawling across a log a couple steps from the path. Animals get just as agitated from the heat as humans do.

It’s not unusual for Shane to let you shadow him while he takes care of some of his lighter ranger duties, things the average civilian can handle tagging along for. Now, is he technically allowed to do this? The answer happens to not be yes. But lucky for you, you know when to shut up and let him do his job. You know when and when not to be a distracting friend.

But today isn’t a usual day, and you decided that rather than lounge around at your parents’ house all day, you would try to be a bona fide adult and do the recommended hour of physical activity. Which is how you ended up following Shane around for the last fifteen minutes, already sweating up a storm in spite of the early hour.

When there is a heatwave, it is often recommended to not stay outside for too long because of how fast it could get dangerous. Heatstrokes are no joke. But you don’t intend to stay for more than an hour, not including the walk back to civilization, which you’ve learned to recognize like the back of your hand over the years of being Shane’s friend. You do actually listen whenever he drops his unsolicited survival tips the same way your aunt says you’d get a boyfriend if only you worked on your looks more.

The only way you got Shane to agree to let you join him this morning is on the condition that if anything serious is called in, he’ll leave to deal with it while you head back around the way you came.

“Anything interesting happen before I got here?” you ask Shane, gravel crunching under your hiking shoes.

He stays in step beside you, twisting his cap backwards, tufts of greying dark blond sticking out the hole in a rather attractive way. “Nah, just had a couple of German tourists looking for a bathroom. And I had to shoo off some deer away from a group of hikers.”

“Exhilarating.”

“Better that than a missing person,” he says, shrugging.

You hum a form of agreement, taking in your surroundings. The wind has started to pick up a bit, allowing you a little bit of reprieve with some airflow that feels like a luxury on your heated skin. Pulling a water bottle from your backpack, you take a long drink to cool your insides before tipping it in Shane’s direction. He accepts the offer, fingers brushing against yours when they wrap around the bottle. He takes a short sip of water, slipping it back into your bag’s side pocket for you.

The vastness of Yosemite National Park never fails to steal your breath from you. It’s mostly just a bunch of green in front of you as far as the eye can see, but you know that there are mountains in the distance somewhere. The air is grossly hot but still fresher than the air in most of the zip codes that make up LA County. But Yosemite is much like its own universe, yet to be fully explored because of just how expansive its territory spreads. That’s why it’s so easy to get lost in its unforgiving depths. It continues to amaze you that Shane doesn’t find any bit of it frightening, managing to live all by his lonesome in the middle of it. Few things seem to scare him, you think.

“You ever think about moving back to real human civilization?”

“Nope.”

Your mouth forms a tiny smile, gently knocking your shoulder against his. “Just you and the trees then?”

“You’re there sometimes, too.”

“Yeah, for like four out of the fifty-two weeks in a year. What about the other forty-eight? I can’t grace you with my presence all the time, especially not if you ever wanna find a partner.”

“A partner?”

“A significant other, your other half,” you clarify teasingly.

He frowns like the thought of finding someone has never once crossed his mind. “What for?”

You scoff, the toe of your shoe kicking some pebbles forward. “What do you mean ‘what for’? Is your plan to really die alone out here drinking shitty canned beer?”

“I ain’t really got a plan,” Shane admits, scratching his stubbled jaw. “But it wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

Even though you’re the one who started digging this hole in the first place, you’re not sure you want to press any further, fearing that the answer to your question is one you won’t enjoy the taste of. Maybe he won’t ever settle down. It’s not his style. Maybe he will, just doesn’t want to with you. You’re not the type worth changing his style. Truth has always been the most bitter pill to swallow.

“What’s the look for?”

“What look?”

“That look.”

“That’s my face.”

“It’s not,” he insists. “You look like a constipated raccoon.”

You stare at him incredulously. “Have you actually ever seen that?”

“No, but I’m imaginin’ it’s pretty similar to the look on your face right now.”

“You ass.” You scoff with indignation, shoving him to the side as you try to restrain the smile.

Shane grins, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just tellin’ it like it is.”

“Well, tell yourself to shut up.”

He slings his arm around you, pulling you in closer. “Only if you say ‘pretty please.’”

“I’m not begging for a damn thing.”

“Oh, but you do it real good,” he whispers lowly, his warm breath ghosting your ear.

With as much will as you can muster, you hold back a shiver, knowing you wouldn’t be able to blame the cold. As you continue down the trail together, your brain runs a million miles a second trying to stitch together a response that’ll embarrass you the least.

Lucky for you that you both spot a little kid just ahead, looking incredibly lost and like a great distraction from your inability to take some of Shane’s teasing in this cursed heat.

The boy looks no older than six, teary eyes darting around the woods, unable to recognize anything resembling his parents anywhere in the brush. Shane immediately goes into responsible ranger mode, peeling himself from your side to crouch in front of the distraught child in less than an instant.

“Hey, buddy,” Shane says as softly as his gruff voice allows. “Where are your parents?”

The boy sniffles with his entire little body, tears mixing with his snot. “I dunno. I want my daddy.”

You stop in front of him, crouching down to his level like Shane with a gentle, comforting smile. It’s then that you notice a scrape along his left knee, the small injury still bleeding a little. “We’ll help you find your daddy then. What’s your name?”

“Ben,” the kid chokes.

Shane asks with a small smile, “How old are you, Ben?”

“Almost s-six.” Ben holds up six small fingers as a visual aid.

You laugh, voice coated in a tone of disbelief. “Six? Wow, I thought you must’ve been ten! You’re so big!”

The brunet boy smiles wide, shaking his head. “Not yet!”

On your left, Shane calls in the lost kid you’ve found on his radio, trying to see if the boy had already been reported missing. He has not, which hopefully means his dad has only just lost him and is still within the area.

While he’s still on walkie with another ranger, you lead Ben over to a wooden log a few feet away, getting him to sit down while you fish out your first-aid kit.

“What happened here?” you ask, pointing to his knee.

“I fell.” He points in the direction you came from.

“Did it hurt?”

He nods. “It hurt a lot.”

You hum, trying to carefully brush away the rest of the dirt and rock still stuck to his tanned skin. “Well, I’m gonna clean it up and make it better for you, okay? But it might sting a bit.”

You reach into the kit for some disinfectant and wipes, giving Ben another warning right before you start to thoroughly clean his wound. He winces at the burning sensation, hands braced on the log, but takes it better than expected for a kid his age.

“You remember what you saw earlier when you were with your daddy?” asks Shane behind you, perhaps trying to distract him from the pain.

“Uh… we saw water.” Ben throws his arms out suddenly, nearly startling you. “Lots of water! Up in the mountain. It went woosh.” Another visual reference: his hands fly down fast, presumably mimicking the movement of the water.

Shane tilts his head curiously. “Like a waterfall?”

“Yeah, waterfall!”

“Almost done.” You smile, rubbing some antibiotic ointment over the scrapes before tearing open a large bandaid to cover his knee. Carefully, you adhere it to his skin. “Feel better?”

Ben nods enthusiastically. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, buddy.” You chuckle, packing away your kit. “If your dad is okay with it, I’ll buy you an ice cream cone later for being so strong. You like ice cream?”

“Uh-huh!”

Shane lets out a short, amused sound behind your shoulder. “Nobody’s called anything in yet, but I think I know the waterfall he was talkin’ about. Ain’t too far from here. We can walk over and see if the father’s retraced his steps.”

“Sounds like a plan, Ranger Rick,” you say, coming to stand at your full height. You hold your hand out to the boy, clasping it with his when he accepts it. “C’mon, let’s go find your dad.”

After ten minutes of walking, the three of you hear the roaring rush of water before you see it. Through a couple of thick trees, you find a small, breathtaking lake at the bottom of the waterfall. But unfortunately, Ben doesn’t recognize any of the sightseers wandering around.

After twenty minutes of walking, you hear a soft little yawn escape past the little boy’s mouth next to you, making you chuckle. “You sleepy?”

Ben rubs his eye with his other hand, nodding. He lets out another longer yawn.

Shane hands you his pack and crouches down suddenly, gesturing with a nod of his head for the boy to climb onto his back. “Hop on, kid. I’ll carry you back ‘til we can locate your dad.”

You watch the park ranger hoist up the child on his back, Shane’s large forearms supporting the back of Ben’s knees. The sight is almost cruelly domestic, reminding you of an impossible fantasy that lives quietly in the back of your head, accosting you with its pathetic presence once in a blue moon.

The gesture is surprisingly sweet for a guy like Shane, who you sometimes think forgets how to interact with actual human people after living such a secluded lifestyle. But more likely, his selective bedside manners is a choice, one of the reasons he prefers his way of living in the first place.

Bears are easier than people, he once told you.

Everything is easier than people, you retorted then. And you’re impossible.

It’s not even half past eight yet when you return to the entrance of the hiking trail, even with the amount of stalling that happened because Ben kept pointing his finger around and asking Shane questions about the wildlife.

You know deer can jump up to ten feet in the air? People can only jump about a foot.

If you ever spot a bear ‘round here, it’s gonna be a black bear. All the grizzlies died out about a hundred years ago, and the brown bears haven’t adapted to Yosemite as well as the black bears did.

Most of the park’s black bears are actually brown.

You had also been a little surprised by Shane’s willingness to entertain the kid until he fell asleep about ten minutes back, leaving the two of you in silence. Shane had not much patience when it came to people. (Ironic for a man in a customer service adjacent profession.) And he never seemed very chirpy around little children either, as far as you knew. He had a couple of younger cousins he’d complain to you about whenever he was forced to attend a family reunion, deeming them nuisances despite being totally glued to their devices.

Neither of you dared to speak until the radio strapped to his hip hissed to life, a crackly woman’s voice requesting for him. Since his hands were busy, you unclipped the walkie-talkie from his side, holding it up to his mouth for him to reply. It had been good news: the father wasn’t that far from your position and would reach you any minute now.

“You look so… fatherly,” you muse aloud, looking at the way Ben’s little cheek is propped against Shane’s shoulder.

Shane huffs, giving you the look of a man unamused.

You shrug. “What? It’s cute. The people love a single dad.”

“Well, I ain’t a single dad.”

“I mean, I could get a picture right now for your Tinder profile,” you tease, pulling out your phone camera.

You snap a few pictures of the tall ranger giving the boy a piggyback ride, wearing the most unenthused expression one could possibly come up with. How utterly lame, you pout. You don’t think Ben’s dad will mind. At least, you hope not. Ben’s face is hidden in the crook of Shane’s neck anyways, and it’s not like you intend for the photos to live anywhere but in your camera roll.

“Oh, thank God!”

You turn around to see one of the hottest men to ever grace the earth heading your direction. That’s Ben’s dad?

His salt and pepper hair is tousled rather fashionably, like despite the number of times he’s worried his tanned fingers through the waves, it stubbornly couldn’t look anything shy of perfect.

His cries make Ben blink awake, who lights up at the sight of his father. “Daddy!” he exclaims, moving off Shane’s back and into the man’s arms where he belongs.

“You can’t just wander off like that, Benny. How many times have I told you?” He hugs his kid tighter, pulling Ben’s face into his shoulder with a ringless left hand. (Ugh, what the hell’s wrong with you?) “Oh, God, I’m just glad you’re safe.”

After a few moments, Mr. Single Dad finally acknowledges you and Shane, thanking you both profusely.

The dirty blond park ranger only smiles politely, lifting his camouflage hat to smooth down his sweat-soaked hair. “Just doin’ my job, sir. It happens more than you’d think, but make sure you keep a better eye on ‘em next time.”

“And I was just trying to be a good Samaritan,” you say, waving off his kind words. “He seems like a good kid. Oh, and make sure to put something on that scrape on his knee. It wasn’t too nasty, but I put some cream on it, so hopefully it heals over faster.”

“That’s very kind of you. I can’t thank either of you enough for taking care of my boy.”

“Um, I promised Ben an ice cream cone after I patched up his knee.” You fish out a five dollar bill from your wallet, adding quickly as you offer it to the man, “If that’s alright! He took the disinfectant like a champ, so I just wanted to treat him a little.”

“Yay, ice cream!” Ben swipes the money from your fingers and cheers.

The older man flashes you a swoon-worthy smile, making a soft suggestion, “How about I treat you to dinner tonight? To say thanks.”

You think you and Shane both make the same strangled noise at the proposition and its glaring innuendo.

“Oh! Um, sorry, that was… unexpected,” you stammer, itching the back of your neck. “I—“

“I hope you don’t mind my being forward.”

You suck in a breath, pulling out an awkward smile. “No, no, not at all.”

Shane makes some kind of disgruntled huff next to you.

Hot Dad’s (You don’t even know his name!) attention returns to Shane, bouncing between the two of you with a flicker of realization. “Oh, sorry, are you two…?”

You shake your head adamantly, feeling your insides shake as well. “No, we’re not… But um, I appreciate the offer, it’s just—I’m not really looking to…”

“Oh, well that’s a shame.” He gives you a dejected (but still awfully sexy) smile, nodding his head in understanding. “You’re very beautiful.”

“Th-thanks, you too.”

Oh, my God, you need to die.

‘Thanks, you too’?

‘You too’?!

You can feel the mortification burst into flames up your back, through your neck, and to the rest of your body.

He chuckles more kindly than you’d expect, and Ben and his hot dad are gone the next time you blink.

You swallow thickly, turning your head to look at Shane, who you can tell is doing his real best to not howl. “Oh, my God, I need to die.”

Mercifully, he snorts instead, crossing his arms over his chest. “Seems like the cute kid didn’t help after all.”

“I’m… different.”

“That’s for sure.”

You wake up with a lingering hangover and a heavy heart.

Another summer in Yosemite is quickly coming to a close. And while you should be expecting it each year with the way it lives on your calendar, it still only hits you when you’ve got less than a couple days before you’re hopping on a plane back home to Los Angeles. Back to a criminally expensive apartment with a great roommate but who’s unfortunately not Shane-shaped.

Truthfully, you never miss all that much about Yosemite. Sure, the air quality is astronomically better up north, but you’ve still got air back home. You will miss the clear skies, where the twinkling stars aren’t hidden away behind smog and pollution. You won’t miss the millions of bugs, the hundreds of mosquito bites you accumulate like a loyalty stamp card without any of the benefits. You will miss the ex-Army ranger you call a best friend, whose dark blond hair is greying beautifully when you’re back in the city.

Is it bad to say you sometimes miss him more than your own parents? It’s just, with Shane’s more isolated way of living, he rarely has the signal to text, let alone call you. He tries when he’s in town, but even then, he’s busy managing the giant park he calls home; searching for idiot tourists who stray off the trails (which are marked for a reason!), helping crying, snotty kids find their parents after they wander off alone, scaring off snacky bears and thieving raccoons—the list goes on.

So yeah, you do miss Shane more than your parents who are always at the touch of the call icon.

You barely manage a few hookups whenever you’re back home, too busy to be seriously pursuing anyone and nearly too busy to even be horny. Your hand, ironically, becomes your best friend, but your touch is still nothing compared to Shane’s. His fingers are longer and thicker than yours, almost enough to match the girth of his cock, always enough to make you come in record time.

And you will miss the rare days in which you get to wake up next him, curled up into his warmth like the rest of the world no longer exists, even if that stupid cot of his is your back’s sworn enemy. But in those short moments, your mind can pretend something it’s never openly voiced. You can pretend to be his—in every sense of the word—not just quietly, not his wrapped up in the intense moans of your pleasure, or his split by his merciless, fat cock. It’s a fantasy you allow yourself to indulge in in those early morning hours, tucked away from the rest of humanity by the wilderness. The one place people where don’t have to hide, or maybe, the only place they do.

It’s not a fantasy you think he shares.

Shane Maguire has never struck you as the type of guy who settles down, even if he ever meets the girl of his dreams. That is, if he even had one in mind. Hell, it’s a miracle the guy even finds the time to piss during the summer months, when tourist traffic and stupidity are at an all-time high and his best friend/seasonal hookup is in town. The two of you are steadily, rapidly, pushing forty, and although you aren’t in any rush to settle down either, the thought definitely keeps you up some nights.

It doesn’t help either that you subconsciously compare every guy you’ve dated or shown interest in to Shane in some way. You tell yourself it’s the thrill of sneaking around that keeps you coming back to him, not the ranger himself and his stupid wilderness facts and his taste for canned beer that tastes like motor oil and despair. It’s just insanely attractive that he knows how to fire a gun with incredible accuracy, stealthily track the park’s wildlife (and people), and survive off of just a couple of items in a tiny pack.

You feel the short buzz of your phone, which is currently laying MIA somewhere in your tangled sheets. You paw around for a minute, finding it hiding under one of your many pillows.

Ranger Rick sent you a message:

Your folks still home? Got any eggs?

You tap the text notification, typing quickly:

idk, just woke up. prob not. yes

Ranger Rick: It’s 10

You: u say that like it’s supposed to mean smth to me

Ranger Rick: Be there in 15

Just like he said, Shane shows up at your door exactly fifteen minutes later (You suspect he was already on his way long before he bothered to text.), dressed in his usual casual attire: a tight, dark blue t-shirt and cargo pants.

He makes you eggs in your own house, navigating the kitchen with the kind of familiarity one has in their own home. It’s a quiet morning, much like the ones you spend together in his tent. To not be completely useless, you pour two glasses of orange juice, but not without a long yawn that makes him glance at you.

“You sleep enough last night?”

A quiet, grunt-like hum leaves you as you pull out the silverware drawer and grab two sets of forks and spoons.

No, but will have to make do.

Shane sets the plates of bacon and eggs down on the dining table while you very carefully pinch the two slices of toast from the toaster like you’re the surgeon in the very delicate game of Operation. Your impatience leads you to burn the tips of your fingers anyway, making you wish you actually had a pair of Operation tweezers.

He rolls his eyes at your wince, grabbing your wrist to guide your stinging fingers into his warm mouth, sucking gently. The sight is far more erotic than you can possibly handle on a Thursday morning, but you can’t get yourself to look away either.

“Shane,” you murmur warningly.

He pulls your thumb and finger from between his wet lips, smiling innocently at you like he ain’t got a clue what he’s doing. “Yeah?”

Your best friend crooks a finger around the thin strap of your tank top, teasing it over your bare shoulder enough to bare your breast. Hungry, brown eyes flicker down and soak in the sight of your hardening nipple. He licks his thumb, rolling the sensitive peak under the pad of his thumb, drawing quiet whines from your mouth.

He grins like a fox, wetting his lips. “Look at you, makin’ all these pretty noises for me.”

You keen like it’s a command.

Because he’s evil, Shane pinches the strap of the top between his fingertips, leisurely lifting the fabric back up your arm right where it belongs, as if it never left. You shuffle away with what little is left of your dignity, sitting down at the table to discover two small painkillers sitting next to your orange juice. You nearly forgot the headache you’d had since waking up after his little display.

The rest of breakfast is not so erotic.

When you both finish your meal, you’re quick to climb into Shane’s lap like a cat, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses from his collarbone up to his sharp jawline. He wraps one arm around your back, hand supporting your side. The other dances along your thigh, fingers mindlessly rubbing across the smooth expanse of skin, just below the hem of your flimsy cotton shorts. You practically purr when they ghost teasingly over the fabric covering your slick heat, the tip of your nose brushing the column of his throat.

Without looking, Shane’s mouth finds yours with incredible assured ease, the kind that is born out of the same familiarity that guides him through your kitchen like it’s his. You feel his demanding tongue prod your soft, sealed lips, parting them open to taste you. His kisses are light-headed, stupefying, and orange-flavored.

Few things top a lazy morning make out.

Calloused fingertips circle your clit through your shorts, the movements devastatingly unhurried. Despite the relaxed pace in which Shane works, you can already feel the growing wet spot seeping through the thin cotton. And so can he. He doesn’t spare you the knowing smirk, the expression obvious against your mouth. He does spare you the teasing comment, likely too focused on kissing you as thoroughly as possible.

“Want me to make you come like this?” he breathes against your kiss-swollen lips. “Or does my pretty thing want more?”

Or not.

“More,” you decide.

Granting your soft-spoken request, Shane crooks two fingers under the fabric of your shorts and tugs it to the side to reveal your aching cunt. “Barely done a thing, and it’s already weepin’. All this for me, baby?”

Again, you purr.

Skilled fingers work you open, your folds parting easily for the thick digits. Your hips rock against them, and a long moan escapes your lips when they’re finally seated fully inside you, curling against spots you can somehow never find with your own hands.

“Being so good right now,” he praises you, quickening his ministrations. He even rewards you by rubbing your swelling clit faster. “Proud of you, baby. So proud.”

Shane spends the whole morning finger fucking you until all your earlier sadness disappears out though your pleasured cries.

On your last day in town, you end up back at the bar for one last drink. The place is unusually slow at the moment, quiet even for a Monday evening. An R&B song plays in the background, too low for you to make out the words, but you know it sits somewhere in the back of your mind.

You’ve been sipping on a cocktail for the better part of an hour, some sugary concoction Ryan made on the house since you’re going back home. Although, you were going to treat yourself anyway after only consuming grossly cheap beer all summer because it had only mattered that you got to the point of a warm belly and loose limbs, not how. (And also because it’s all Shane drinks, wielding a similar depressing philosophy.)

Right now, you’re at the point where you’re unable to contain the bright giggles that keep escaping your lungs at whatever gossip Ryan is dropping to you. Slow nights are good for that. With all the downtime between customers, he can pretend he’s wiping down the bar when he’s really shit talking the regular sitting four seats over who never tips well, despite smelling like a brewery by the time he closes his tab.

Ryan stops right in the middle of his sentence, blue eyes scanning the establishment and then twice at the clock on the wall. “Where’s your ranger?”

“I came here by myself.”

“Well, I can see that,”—the bartender rolls his eyes—“but I figured he’d stop in to see you by now.”

You stir the ice in your drink around with your thin straw, mumbling, “Why? It’s not like we’re attached at the hip.”

“Oh, but you so are.” Ryan wipes a stubborn spot of dirt on the brown countertop with his damp rag until it’s shiny.

“Well, we’re friends. It’s not crazy that we spend so much time together.”

He tsks, muttering under his breath, “‘Friends’, my ass.”

“Not this again,” you complain into your drink.

Pointing his dirty rag at you, he accuses, “Either you two are great liars, or you’re both fuckin’ clueless idiots. I mean that lovingly, babe. But there’s something going on in whatever that is you’re calling a friendship. ‘Cause you’re hot, but I don’t eye fuck my friends.”

“That’s absurd…”

You’ve never told anyone before that you and Shane fuck sometimes—a lot of sometimes. You’re not sure whether coming clean to Ryan will help your case or not, not when he’s sticking his finger around in a mess you’d much rather drink in a bottle. Your intention tonight wasn’t to get shitfaced, but four drinks in, and that might change.

“Why do you think you keep coming back?”

You frown at that, answering sarcastically, “What, can’t I see my family?”

Ryan scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “People see their families during the holidays. You’re here during the holidays and every summer, despite how inconvenient it is. Despite the fact that there’s nothing here for you.”

“Okay, ouch.”

“Except Shane,” he finishes pointedly. “You may have grown up around Yosemite, but you’ve also grown out of it. Grown out of everything here but Shane.”

You worry the meat of your cheek with your teeth, trying hard not to swallow the truth you’ve never heard spoken out loud to you before. “C’mon, it’s my last night. Must you be so harsh?”

“But it’s not your last night. You already moved away. You’re the one who keeps coming back. Are you really happy just waiting around for him?”

“There’s nothing to be waiting for.”

“You’d be settled down now if you really believed that.”

The words cut through the alcohol in your system, quickly sobering you up as well as a cold shower. You dig through your pocket, dropping a nice tip on the bar counter.

“Screw you,” you mutter, pushing yourself off the seat. Clearly not sober enough, however, because you’re stumbling off the barstool when a strong hand steadies you, grip warm and firm.

Speak of the Devil, and he appears.

Shane looks at you, his thick eyebrows furrowed with traces of worry. He glances at Ryan, who’s already disappeared to the other side of the bar to take care of another customer. “You okay? What’d that shithead say?”

He only seems to have caught the tailwind of your conversation, thankfully. The rising panic that began bubbling settles in your throat.

“Nothing,” you say quietly, swallowing thickly.

His grasp on your arm grows a bit tighter, igniting fire on your skin. “What’d that shithead say?”

“Nothing,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Really, Shane.”

The look on his face tells you that he doesn’t believe your words at all, but your own expression makes him drop it. For now. You don’t need Shane getting into another bar fight, especially not over truths you’re afraid of, tucked away in your rib cage and holding your heart hostage.

Not on your last night in Yosemite.

And because you’re drunk, sad, and greedy, you let him touch you in the backseat of his truck, parked right in your parents’ driveway. The lights of your childhood home are out at this hour, but the walls are too thin and your want too urgent. You get to moan a little louder for him out here as he drives the hard length of his cock up into you like he wants you to miss it while you’re gone. He doesn’t have to. You’ll miss it anyway.

Not long after you both come and with your cheek laying on his breathless chest, you voice something like it’s an afterthought and not with all the weight it’s worth, “I think I’m gonna stay in LA next summer.”

Nature had become a part of you. The wilderness lived twisted in vines through your skeleton, ran deep like water in your blood, settled in like soil in your skin. You breathed with the breeze, moved with the leaves. You were apart of the landscape of vast forests and underbrush and tributaries.

People agreed Yosemite could never be fully uncovered. There was too much land and mountains. Too much uncharted territory and trees that seemed to wrap their limbs around people, dragging them deeper and deeper until they became ghosts to the world.

Lost.

A simple word that held so much weight.

Some people said you were lost. That you had taken a wrong turn, stepped off the trail.

You didn’t need a trail. Just the map in your head and the untouched vastness of the forest.

Others believed you were some type of mythical creature or a monster. They made up stories about the Forest Girl, or worse, the Forest Creature. Parents told their children to stay close on hikes for fear of the Forest Girl leading them astray in the unforgiving wilderness. Every missing case filed somehow led to a possibility of Yosemite’s creature with pointy teeth and sharp claws luring innocent tourists to their demise.

To you, there was no need in telling them any different. That really, you were just a girl who’d been abandoned and somehow found her footing in a park of wild animals and flowering growth.

Deep within the tall trees was a shack. Long ago in a memory you’d rather forget you’d come across it, not caring what it was or what it used to be. Those simple four walls became your sanctuary of safety from the elements. But your true home was the natural woods and open meadows. A place you knew by heart. One where there was always something more to discover.

The park rangers knew you existed. To your surprise they didn’t put it in their little pamphlets as a tourist attraction of a girl who somehow survived out there all by herself. Come get a glimpse of our wild girl you sometimes expected the brochure to read.

But just because they knew you were out there didn’t mean they felt the need to drive you away.

Maybe some believed the crazy stories people came up with about you but even if they ever did come to take you away from your home, you made sure they’d never be able to catch you.

You were a deer, prancing through a forest that provided food, water, and shelter.

But that meant you were also a prime target for those who wanted to kill innocence and butcher your peace for no good reason.

Living in fear kept you alive. Trusting another human was something you never dared to touch.

Until one day running turned into a chase.

Trees whizzed past your face, branches scraping your skin. Your palms were scraped up from using the bark to pull yourself through the forest, hoping it’d make you go faster. The limp in your gait was very noticeable, pain searing up your leg every time you stepped.

Some steel, man-made trap had sunk deep into the flesh of your left leg. You weren’t sure how you’d missed it. Usually you found the signs of hunters. Even if people called you an animal, you were much more keen on knowing the whereabouts of humans in your vicinity. Staying clear of camp grounds and trails was easy enough. Spotting bear traps was even easier.

But whatever strange contraption that had caught you had been a blind spot.

Stubborn tears stung at your eyes as you pushed open the door to the shack. It was a small wooden building deep within low hanging branches, nearly invisible to the ordinary eye.

In one corner lay a messy heap of old quilts on a dingy mattress that smelled of mildew. There was a tiny table, one of the legs broken and being held up with a book. On it was a candlestick, a box of matches, and a med kit you’d stolen from one of the less attentive park rangers. Tattered clothes were draped over a ripped cushion and a wooden figurine of a fox stood on a rusty stool.

It wasn’t much but you got by.

Blood dripped onto the rickety floorboards as you sank to the ground, biting your lip to keep from alerting any nearby predators. Although, you were pretty sure the blood trail you left was more incriminating than any escaped whimper.

Carefully, you began to unwind the wire that was cut deep into your skin. The pain was enough to make your vision go black at the edges.

Somehow you managed to remove it and moved onto soaking up the blood with one of your shirts. It came away sopping but unfortunately it would have to work. It staunched the flow as best it could and you went to wrapping it in leaves, securing it with a bandage from the kit.

It did little to help the pain but you were sure it would subside at some point.

For a moment you just sat against the mattress, breathing hard.

You listened for an animal to come scratching at your door, pawing to use you as it’s next meal. In your reckless attempt to fix your leg, you had given just about every creature out there your location.

That simply wouldn’t do.

At least an hour had passed before you reached for a pail of water tucked beside the table. You carefully poured it over the wound before splashing some onto your face.

Today was a close call.

One you couldn’t let happen again.

With caution, you slowly pushed open the door and listened. Out there deep in the wilderness, it was never as quiet as people made it seem. There was always a bug buzzing, a bird chirping, a squirrel chittering. They were sounds that lulled you to sleep every night, along with the trickling of a nearby stream.

But right now, you listened closely for a predator stalking through the tall grass or the tell-tale growl of one with a need to sate their hunger.

You knew a thing or two about starvation. It took a while but at some point you’d gotten used to the feeling of an empty stomach most days. Normally you got by on berries and nuts paired with a roasted rodent or reptile. Only a few times had you been fortunate enough to catch a slippery fish or a juicy bird or deer.

Everything when pushed so far into hunger would eventually become a predator.

Time passed quickly but you could’ve easily been sitting in the doorway for hours waiting for something to come and snatch you up.

Soon enough you deemed it safe enough to venture out. You winced as you limped, following the darkened trail you’d left and covering up your tracks with leaves. You scrambled the dirt, doing your best to flip over bloody leaves and trying to wipe any off of nearby rocks.

You were mad at yourself for being so careless about leaving such an easy way for someone to find you.

It didn’t happen often but when it did, you wouldn’t sleep until it was covered up.

Coming across a small stream, you sat down by it and sighed in relief as you dipped your hurt leg in. Crimson bloomed in the current before washing away.

How easy it was to rid yourself of evidence. It was a wonder how nobody managed to track you down.

Glancing up at the canopy, you took note of the way the sun rays streamed through. At the slant they were at, it was nearing mid-day. Time seemed to have gotten away from you with your earlier injury.

Around you, the forest was alive. The sweet smell of Aspen filled your nose as you walked, leaves and twigs crunching softly under your bare feet.

The forest seemed to welcome you as one of its own. A family made of ancient trees and soil. Sometimes you’d whisper just to hear your voice carry with the breeze, wondering if maybe one day your words would reach some other lonesome forest dweller.

Your feet carried you through to a clearing. The meadow was covered in swaying yellow grass, a few wildflowers sprouted over the land. Bugs danced in the warm afternoon light, filling you with a sense of comfort.

They were living. Minding their business just like you were.

Yet it was so juxtaposing how such an undisturbed scene could just as easily be ruined.

You flinched at the sound of a whinnying horse, ducking behind a tree before you could spot it or they could spot you.

The park was so big that sometimes you just took your chances of finding somewhere that looked too far away for an outsider to find. But you never got close enough to know when they would go off-roading.

Carefully, you peeked just a single eye around the tree. In the distance was a horse with a brown coat and a man sitting comfortably on top. You knew who he was. Everyone in Yosemite knew Kyle Turner.

But he didn’t need to know you.

Even with your bad leg you managed to scurry off quick enough that the leaves would settle before they could give you away.

You slowed down once you felt far enough and your leg was burning again. Maybe exploring would have to wait for a day when you weren’t struggling to walk.

As you began your trek back to the shack, you stopped in your tracks when you heard the sound of a motor racing down the trail.

You hadn’t even noticed you’d stumbled upon a trail until you looked down and saw your toes crossing the line where grass met packed dirt.

As the ATV grew closer, you backed up and went to flatten yourself against the ground.

But he’d already seen you.

You felt frozen, blinking at him like a deer in headlights. The breeze snagged on your tattered white dress suddenly a lot more roughly, the air shifting as another presence entered your orbit. Gravity shifted, throwing you off your axis.

You’d seen him before. Shane something? He was a deer hunter for the most part, you knew, but you were also aware of the shady business he sometimes got himself involved in. You’d come across his camp a few times, picking through his belongings and then making it sure it looked just as it did before.

He was a dangerous man. An excellent hunter with that rifle that always sent alarm bells ringing through your head.

So you turned and bolted like a startled rabbit.

You didn’t know if he’d make chase but you weren’t going to stick around and find out either.

Adrenaline made it possible for you to run and not feel the way your leg screamed in agony, the wrap tearing on brambles as you dashed through the thicket.

“Hey!” His deep voice boomed, practically resounding off the trees. His boots pounded against the forest floor, breaking sticks and smashing pine cones. Fear zigzagged through your spine, listening to the way that rifle clinked against his body with every footfall.

Despite the heat of the chase, you gave him credit for being brave enough to stray from the path. To most people, that was a lifeline. No one seemed stupid enough to venture off the path that meant being found.

Except for Shane.

You ran like your life depended on it because out there, it did. Anything willing to give chase was a threat. Especially if you’d given no reason for him to be provoked. You were the uncivilized one but the fear of being caught in a hunters net was what kept your feet moving.

Knowing leading him right to your shack would be a death wish, you snatched a stone and dipped behind a thick tree.

Your chest heaved as you clutched the stone tight to your chest. It was your only weapon against the man with a gun strapped to him.

Shane eventually broke through the branches. You couldn’t see him and you wouldn’t dare to either. Hiding was what you were good at. You didn’t have claws and sharp teeth like people said you did.

You were just a girl who learned how prey stayed clear of the predator.

He was breathing somewhat regularly even after all that running, his rustling giving away his position.

He was close. Too close.

Maybe he wasn’t hunting you or maybe he was. Maybe he just wanted to know more about the tall tale of the Forest Girl up close and personal.

But you’d rather let the vultures pick your carcass clean before you ever let someone get close to you.

Your fingers tightened around the stone as the snap of a twig sounded close to your right.

“I know you’re there,” Shane called, making birds scatter into the sky and you to flinch. “You’re not the only one who knows this forest.”

Trying hard not to breathe too heavily, you matched it to the breeze, becoming one with the air to throw him off track.

But he was a hunter. A really good one at that.

“I know about you,” he continued, his voice nearly taunting. Like he was playing with his next meal. “Our little Forest Girl, ain’t that right?”

Slowly, so slowly, you began to crouch down into the grass. Running wasn’t an option anymore. Hiding only worked so well until you were found.

So, like a katydid, you blended into your surroundings. The grass obscured you as you got low, belly pressing into the ground.

“I ain’t gonna hurt ya,” Shane spoke like he meant it but you didn’t believe him. Not by a long shot. You once watched him shoot a deer from miles away without any hesitation. For all you knew you were just some doe he was looking to hang on his wall.

He turned his attention to behind the tree. You were already long gone, only leaving behind a mark of blood now soaking into the earth.

To anyone who’d even caught a whisper of the Forest Girl stories always seemed to ask more questions about her. Where did she come from? Was she a girl at all? How did she survive in those conditions for so long? The list went on. Some believed she was just a myth. Others thought she was a monster. The park rangers thought she was just a girl who wanted to be left alone.

But Shane Maguire needed her to understand that she didn’t own the forest.

Ever since he heard about her, he’d been fascinated. How could a frail thing like that make it on her own? There were so many things to worry about alone in the wilderness. Diseases were one thing, not to mention hypothermia and heat stroke in certain climates, parasites, venomous reptiles, bloodthirsty wolves and bears, and that was only scratching the surface.

Yet, the more he watched her, the more he started to understand how the wild could raise a person.

Shane was an excellent tracker and hunter, he knew that. Everyone knew that. But catching up to that girl was damn near impossible.

There was no getting close to you. No way to ambush you or trap you. It was like you used the trees and bushes as your eyes and ears.

The closest any ranger had gotten to you was Kyle.

And Shane was more jealous than he should’ve been.

When he wasn’t hunting deer, he was watching you. If and when he could find you. Sometimes he found footprints in the mud, no shoes. Other times he could feel another presence lingering. Almost like you were watching him too.

Usually, he watched you through the scope of his rifle. It was easier that way. It meant you wouldn’t flee, becoming a precious little fawn under his observation.

A sight for him and for him alone.

He was so taken by you. You were as free as a bird, running around in a dirty, tattered dress with wild hair that clearly hadn’t been cut in a while. He observed how wary you were when there was a sudden noise or shift in the air.

But what got him the most was how serene you were when it was just you and the forest. You were so untouched by the world, so pure and untamed.

And no one but him got to witness it.

A part of him wondered what people would say about him if he caught you. If everyone knew that Shane Maguire was the one to get close to the Forest Girl.

But the other, stronger part of him wanted to keep you as his secret. Clearly that’s what you wanted—to remain unseen, hidden in the underbrush or high up in the trees. And he was willing to give you that if only he could be apart of it.

Chasing after you wasn’t the best idea he’d had. You ran like a crazed animal, just like he knew you would.

Then he’d found out you were bleeding. And somehow, you managed to cover your trail this time.

When he got back to his camp, he decided he’d use a different strategy than his previous approaches to get you close. This time, he’d lure you out of hiding instead of chasing you into it.

Shane found a tin of salve in his camp, one he kept on standby just in case of an emergency. But you needed it more than he did.

There was no telling when you’d come back around, especially after what he pulled. And if you did, chances were that you’d stay far, far away from him.

But he knew desperate creatures. How somehow, someway they would be drawn to a safety net.

So he left it a few feet away from his camp, lid unscrewed and left open for the taking.

Patience was something he’d mastered in the army. Waiting was easy for him, having the forest to keep him company. When he thought about it, he came to the conclusion that it was the same way for you.

The day bled into night and back to morning. The adrenaline had long since worn off, leaving your leg throbbing in pain. You barely had gotten any sleep, the mixture of pain and fear of Shane finding your shack being the leading cause.

But it was a new day and you had to fix your leg and fast before infection could finally catch up to you.

On your adventure to find a way to heal your wounds, you came across shed antlers and a bees nest. Usually you’d stop and examine both of them but not today.

Eventually, you could barely walk. Your entire body ached, unusual for you since all you did was move. But the wound was making your muscles and joints tighten, which made everything more difficult.

Just when you thought you had to find a ranger and steal from them, you found a tin with some sort of thick substance inside.

Hesitantly, you took it. It felt like a trap, like it’d been left out for you. But the second you smeared it onto your leg, your defenses dropped a little bit. The relief felt like plunging into a cold river after a long, hot day in the sun. You sighed, leaning back against a tree as the pain slowly but surely eased.

That’s when you felt his gaze.

Like before, you dropped to your stomach, the grass tickling your exposed sun-kissed skin as you watched through the tufts.

Not too far away, you saw Shane. Knowing running would cost you the relief, you didn’t move. You just stayed hunkered down in the foliage, keeping your sharp eyes trained on him like a bird of prey.

He didn’t seem to be doing much. Just sitting there, sipping on a beer. The sun caught the blonde stubble on his chin and jaw, the breeze ruffling his hair.

From afar, he didn’t look like the man who’d chased you through the woods yesterday. He looked calm. Just a man enjoying beautiful Yosemite.

But you weren’t that trusting. Never had you put your trust in a person. You had learned they were unreliable, changing so suddenly that any solid ground would break open at any given moment.

Natures change was constant. The weather, the migration patterns, the seasons. You couldn’t control them, but you knew when they would happen. That’s what made living wild second nature to you.

A few days passed and you steered clear of Shane as best you could. It got easier as your leg started to heal properly thanks to that salve he so generously left out for you. You were wary about it. No person would just do that if they didn’t want something in return.

Which was why you crept around his camp more often now.

You still kept your distance, making sure you were concealed just in case he came wandering back. Sometimes it kept you up at night, thinking about what he’d do if he ever managed to catch you.

As far as you knew, people would pay good money to see the Forest Girl become a tourist attraction. Putting a wild animal in a cage already caught people’s interest so you wondered how much they’d pay to see a wild girl be put in its place.

Shane was rarely at his camp, you noticed. All he did there was eat, drink, and sleep. But when he wasn’t there, he was out hunting deer or you.

On a particularly sunny day, you found a berry bush. You needed to stock up on your food supply and picked a bunch, putting them into the bucket that was usually for water. The forest seemed calm today, like maybe all the predators had taken a break for once.

The suns rays warmed your skin as you walked through the trees, snacking on a few berries. Delicious flavors burst onto your tongue. The juice stained your fingers and you wiped them on your dress, leaving behind dark blue prints.

Finally, for the first time in weeks, you felt like you didn’t have to keep looking over your shoulder.

But it was what was right in front of you that made you freeze.

You darted behind low branches, hiding in the leaves as you watched two park rangers hover by the door to your shack.

Kyle and Naya, dressed in uniform, stood around your slice of safety. They were talking but you weren’t sure what was coming out of their mouths.

You knew they were the only two rangers who knew where you lived. But you never got close enough to know what they wanted from you.

It wasn’t long before Kyle started back towards his horse, Naya looking around before following.

You stayed hidden for long after they were gone before slowly creeping out and approaching the shack with hastened steps.

Before you could open the door, you felt the air shift. Not a bear, not a mountain lion. A person.

Did they come back? Did they somehow see you?

You quickly rushed inside, pushing the small table in front of the door before crouching below the tiny window and looking out at the tree line.

No one stepped out. There was no movement, no noise. Yet, you didn’t stop looking until you couldn’t fight sleep anymore.

For some unknown reason, you began to hang around Shane’s camp more often now. You even started to inch closer just because you wanted to know more. Until one day he wasn’t there anymore. You assumed he’d just moved his camp somewhere else and after days of tracking him through the forest, it led you right to his cabin. You felt better knowing you had eyes on him instead of the other way around.

He was a creature of habit, you noticed, as most people are. He was gone for long periods of time and when he got back he just went through the motions.

You hated living in fear. Paranoia had settled into your bones like an unwanted visitor. But Shane was unpredictable and coexisting with him seemed too hard for both of you.

One night, you sat under the glow of the flickering candle in your shack. Sitting on your bed with a book you couldn’t read, you snacked on some berries and ate parts of a cooked bird you managed to catch.

Outside the tiny four walls, an owl let out a long hoot and the crickets chirped loudly. Wax dripped in a rhythmic pattern against the table, the only sign of human life so deep in the forest.

You skimmed through the pages of a picture book, taking in the pretty drawings of whales and dolphins and sea turtles. Whoever left it rotting on that bench deserved a thank you for giving you such entertainment.

It was hard to focus, though. Your eyes kept darting to the door, to the small window, expecting to see a passing shadow. You stared holes into the broken latch of the door, barely keeping you tucked away from the dangers that lurked in the dark.

But you were prepared.

Next to you was a pile of rocks for throwing and a large bucks antler for wielding. Just a precaution.

And it seemed like you were going to need them.

With the moon high in the starry sky, you were fighting sleep when you heard it. Soft footsteps were coming from the surrounding woods, but there was no clink of metal. A sign of a hunter who knew what they were doing.

You leapt to your feet, rock in hand as you yanked the door open. Frantically, your eyes scanned the darkened woods, expecting anything to jump out at you.

Then the moonlight caught his eye.

Shane emerged from the trees, stepping into the small clearing with his hands raised. You immediately reared the rock back.

“Woah there,” he said lowly but you couldn’t stop staring at the rifle slung over his shoulder. “I ain’t here to hurt ya.”

Your nostrils flared and you launched the rock. “Get away from me!”

Shane barely flinched, just moving enough to dodge the projectile. He watched as you quickly grabbed another rock and secured the antler into your other hand before coming right back out.

“This isn’t your land!” Shane called.

“I still live here!” You shouted back. “I ain’t causing no trouble.”

He let out a deep chuckle, one that sent chills spiraling up your arms. “You scare off the tourists. But I guess you do keep most of them from going off the trails.”

You breathed heavily and threw another rock. “I know what they say ‘bout me. But I did nothin’ to anyone!”

Shane knew you were telling the truth. You were skilled to be able to live out there alone and clearly you could hunt with your bare hands. As much as fables and stories were spread around, none of them came up with a lie about the Forest Girl attacking campers and hikers.

“Now go!” You nearly screamed, flinging yet another rock at him.

This one grazed his arm but he wasn’t bothered by it. He just stared at you, eyes feral and hair unruly. You really did belong in the wilderness.

But he wasn’t giving up that easily.

Slowly, he slipped a thumb under the strap of his rifle. You watched intently, heart beating like a drum. All he did was slip it off his shoulder and toss it into the grass.

“You really are a wild one, huh?” He asked rhetorically, his lips curving into an amused smile.

You knew you’d lose in a fight against him. He was big and broad, strong from carrying around deer carcasses and heavy equipment. You had some height to you but you didn’t have the muscle strength like he did.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What do you want from me?”

His brows raised, not expecting such a candid question. “Let’s start off simple; what’s your name?”

It was so simple. Didn’t everyone ask for a name the first time they met someone? For your whole life no one had ever cared about your real name. The one that gave you an identity.

Despite it all, your fear and anger, you found yourself wanting to tell him. To be something other than Forest Girl to someone. So you did.

Shane repeated the name, tasting it on his tongue and it felt strange and almost… nice. You hadn’t heard your name in years. You were surprised you even still remembered it.

“Pretty name,” he said before slipping his hand into his pocket.

You tightened your grip on the antler.

“Easy now.” Shane pulled out a few items, crinkling them in his hands. He held them up, showing that they were just snacks—a beef jerky stick, a pack of cheese slices, and a granola bar.

Was this some type of peace offering? You assumed it was considering how he knew you wouldn’t take them and instead tossed them towards you.

They landed in the grass at your feet with a muted thud.

“I’m not asking you to trust me,” Shane said, staying rooted to his spot. “But wouldn’t it be nice to have someone out here looking out for you?” Even though I already do.

“I don’t need anything from you,” you replied, voice clipped and cold. “Or—or anyone.”

Yet, somewhere deep down, you were open to this idea of not being completely alone in the world. It was a desire you’d pushed deep down under moss and roots, but somehow it still kept sprouting when watered upon.

And Shane Maguire was giving it back to you.

“Suit yourself.” Was all he said before picking up his rifle and turning back from where he came. Before he disappeared, he gave you one last glance. “See you around, sweetheart.” Then he left, whistling without a care.

For a moment you didn’t move. You stared at the rustling leaves he’d just disturbed until you could no longer hear his whistles or footsteps.

Eventually you looked down at the food he left. The stubborn part of you didn’t want to take it but you knew that would be a foolish thing to do.

Without a word, you gathered them and went back inside. You ate the granola bar quickly, quietly, like some scavenger would come and take it away. Once your stomach felt satisfied, you laid on your springy mattress and pulled the scratchy quilts over your body.

You counted the lines in the floor as you drifted to sleep. When you finally closed your eyes, Shane was there and this time? You didn’t feel afraid.

A storm had settled over Yosemite, bringing the heavy scent of rain and covering the pines with a thick mist. Rivers and streams were rushing with the downpour and you could hear it even from the shack. Tiny cracks in the ceiling exposed you to the elements, causing a rhythmic drip drip drip as it hit the floor.

At some point you’d gotten annoyed and headed out into the storm.

The smell of damp earth and rain refreshed your system, your feet sinking into the soft soil. The cool air was a nice change from the heat that had swept through the valley.

As you walked, you realized you hadn’t been looking over your shoulder as much. You kept thinking about Shanes words: wouldn’t it be nice to have someone out here looking out for you?

For years you’d made it on your own. But now that someone was offering? It almost hurt how much you wanted to accept it.

You came across a small pond teeming with life. Dragonflies zipped across the surface, fish swam beneath, frogs croaked on lily pads. You sat on the lip above the water where a branch had fallen, letting your toes skim the top. Ripples spread over the water, disorienting your reflection.

You knew what you looked like but out where no one could see you, you didn’t care.

“Hello there,” you said in a soft voice, smiling as a salamander sidled up next to you. You held out a hand, letting it crawl into your palm before stroking its slimy head with a single finger.

“Well would you look at that.”

Your head snapped to the direction of his voice, watching as Shane approached from the other side of the pond. Still, you felt a need to run but you didn’t. Not yet.

“Like a real life Snow White,” Shane said, crouching down to examine the lively pond.

You tracked his every move carefully. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Not surprised.” He breathed out gruffly before looking at you sitting on that branch like some sort of nature princess.

Surprisingly neither of you said much. Just enjoyed the moist atmosphere and the little ecosystem in front of you. You noticed that he didn’t have his rifle on him today. Just a small hand gun tucked into a holster at his belt.

And they consider me as the barbarian you thought to yourself.

Shane, on the other hand, was not thinking about his weapon or even the peaceful forest. He couldn’t take his eyes off of your smooth, untouched skin and how the rain made your thin white dress cling to your curves. It became clear to him that you weren’t wearing a bra, being able to see the faint pink of your breasts and how your nipples perked up in the cold air.

He felt like a dirty man and tried averting his eyes to your hair, frizzy in the humidity and how your lashes caught raindrops. You were so beautiful, he thought. How had no one noticed before?

And right here, right now, he had you all to himself.

He stood up, keeping his hand away from his pistol. “I came out to tell you the storms gonna get worse. Thought I’d give you a heads up.”

You took a brief glance up at the sky. The dark clouds were gathering quickly. They were most likely going to result in a thunderstorm and you definitely didn’t want to be around when the lightning struck.

Gently, you set the salamander down and got to your feet. You didn’t wait for Shane as you turned in the direction of your shack but halfway there a loud crack of thunder rattled through the forest, scattering birds on their perches.

You quickened your pace but the downpour was already there, drenching you.

“Hey!” Shane called over the heavy rain a few steps behind you. You turned around, squinting. He gestured aimlessly. “My cabin is dryer. Plus, sleeping on a mildew infested mattress isn’t healthy.”

You blinked. “How did you know—”

He was already walking in the opposite direction. You stood there for a moment, hesitant. You’d followed people before but not because they wanted you to. This sort of felt like walking into another trap but as another thunderclap hit, you headed off after him.

His cabin wasn’t too far but once you were there, you stopped in the doorway.

Shane ran a hand through his wet hair, his dark shirt clinging to his broad shoulders and thick biceps. He glanced over his shoulder at you, looking like a lost puppy. “Come on. It’s cold out there.”

You still didn’t move.

With a heavy sigh, he disarmed himself and put more distance between the two of you.

With all your courage, you stepped inside. The sleek boards under your feet felt different as you tracked in mud, leaving prints behind. Inside was warm, the walls made of mahogany wood boards and there was a small, stone fireplace on one side. There was a practical kitchen, a table, and two sofas in the main room before a narrow hallway extended into the rest of the rooms.

You tried your best to keep your jaw from falling off as you took it all in. This was how people lived?

You let out a startled gasp as you turned your head only to be met face to face with a taxidermy elk head mounted on the wall. You took a step back, losing your footing on the slippery floor and crashed into the ground.

Shane quickly went to help but you were already up, still locked on that elk head.

He didn’t say anything. You were observing his home, just like he’d done with yours. It wasn’t much but it was exactly what he wanted.

He watched as you reached out to touch the dead elk, a sly smirk making his lips curve. He found it rather endearing, your curiosity. Then he saw how you shivered, goosebumps speckling your arms. You were dirty and probably bathed in the rivers or lakes. And Shane wanted to be the one to give you your first, real, warm bath.

While you observed the decorations, he went down the hallway to the small bathroom and ran the tub.

You listened carefully to the flow of water and wondered where it was coming from. You tip toed after him, peeking around the doorframe as he bent over the bathtub.

Sensing your presence, Shane glanced over at you with a slight smile. “You ever had a bath before?”

You kept your hands braced on the frame as you answered, “couple times. A really long time ago.”

Shane’s mind began to spiral with questions about what truly happened to you. He dipped a hand into the water, making sure it wasn’t too hot before stepping back. “Should be a nice experience then.”

You took a steadying breath before stepping into the bathroom and before Shane could leave, you already had your dress over your head.

A thousand emotions fired through his head as he watched you undress. That was the last thing he was expecting. But it really put it into perspective of how wild you were deep down.

Carefully, you stepped into the warmth and gasped at the temperature. It wasn’t too hot. It felt amazing against your cold skin as you began to sink down into it.

Shane knew it was wrong but he couldn’t stop staring. Every soft curve looked so inviting, and the bliss on your face made his heart do something it hadn’t in a while. He got the sudden urge to take care of you. To treat you how you should’ve been treated long, long ago.

He knelt back down by the side of the tub, almost as if he were approaching a skittish animal. “Do you need help?”

You opened your mouth to tell him no but the warm water had made your limbs go slack. In the small room, you didn’t have to watch your back. It was just Shane and he wanted to help you. No one had ever wanted to do that before.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Okay.”

He scooped some water into his large hands, bringing it up to your shoulder. You flinched at the prospect of being touched. He caught on and let the water fall back. “It’s alright. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

His words made your eyes widen a fraction. He was being patient, respectful.

Putting on a brave face, you said, “You can.”

Taken slightly aback by your permission, he nodded and brought the water to your shoulders again. He let it wash over your skin, his fingers just barely grazing you.

But all it took was that one little brush to wake up all of your nerve endings.

Your body felt a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the water, the contact of another persons skin on yours making it feel like you had been struck by lightning. It was like coming alive from being trapped in your own head for far too long.

Shane noticed this but said nothing. Just kept washing you with gentle hands. Using his soap, he started to carefully detangle your hair and wash it thoroughly. The sensation felt so good that you closed your eyes and sighed.

Thunder boomed outside, breaking whatever trance you’d fallen into but he pressed a heavy hand on your back.

“Hey,” he said, making you look at him. “You’re safe in here, you got that?”

You slowly nodded before he began to wash the suds out of your hair.

After your bath came to an end, he wrapped a towel around you before going off to find you clean clothes and not the tatters of your dress.

While you waited, you stared at yourself in the mirror. It was different than seeing yourself in the ripples of the water. You brought your fingers to your face, touching the shape of it.

Maybe the days of you fending for yourself were over.

Maybe this was the start of something new for your life.

Shane came back with a grey flannel and sweatpants, handing them to you. “You know how to dress yourself, right?”

You took the clothes, the fabric soft from multiple wears. “Yes.”

He nodded. “Good. I’ll go… make you something.”

Once he was gone, finally giving you privacy, you changed into his clothes. They swallowed you whole. It made you look like a trout caught in the mouth of a shark. You gawked at yourself in the mirror, tugging at the sleeves and the sweatpants that wouldn’t stay around your hips. It wasn’t like you were super small, he was just really big.

Deciding you didn’t like the pants, you left them on the floor and padded back into the main space.

A fire had been lit in the hearth and instantly you were drawn to its heat. You sat down on the floor, wondering at the flames contained in the cave-like stone structure.

Shane walked over, crouching down and handing you a piece of toast on a napkin.

You took it with a hesitant hand.

He sat down beside you with a heavy breath.

You nibbled on the bread, too afraid it wouldn’t stave off the hunger if you ate it too quickly. A long silence passed before you decided to speak.

“Did you tell anyone about me?”

Shane looked over at you. Your hair seemed to glow in the firelight, catching on the faint, fading scars on your knees.

“Now just why would I do that?”

“Because any of your ranger friends would throw me in a net if they found me.”

“They ain’t my friends,” Shane replied, unbothered. “But I don’t doubt they would. That’s why I wanted to find you first.”

You looked at him, brows furrowed. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You were following me.”

“I wasn’t following you.”

“You just said you did.”

“Those weren’t my words.”

You gave a huff. “But you were still watching me.”

Shane smirked, showing his teeth. “Don’t act like you weren’t doin’ the same thing.”

Surprised by his knowledge, you turned your attention to the fire and shoved a bite of bread into your mouth.

It almost bothered you how satisfied he was with himself for rendering you speechless. His grin widened but shockingly enough he let it go for now.

“So, how long you been out there?”

Anticipating the question, you shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not good with time.”

Shane shifted, resting his arms on his knees. “Do you at least know how you got out there?”

The answer to that question was something you hadn’t thought of in a very long time. You chose not to think about what had happened, why you had been thrown into the forest to fend for yourself. But it didn’t bother you as much anymore.

It was the first chapter in a story that was lost to people who thought they knew the whole book.

“Forever ago,” you began solemnly. “Car accident. I… lived, they died. Like a normal child I was terrified, lost in the great unknown by myself. But my dad, I think, had taught me how to handle being lost, how to navigate the woods. That’s what kept me alive.”

Shane watched you, hard eyes softening as much as they could for a man like him. Car crashes weren’t rare for the park but a missing girl as a result of one definitely was.

As he thought back, it suddenly started to click. That case from years ago, the one where they had found out the parents had a daughter but they never did find her body.

Most came to the conclusion that she had been dragged away by some hungry wolves, maybe a mountain lion. But the idea of a girl running into the forest by herself and surviving seemed way too ludicrous for anyone to really believe that theory.

Shane was struck with the fact he had just uncovered the truth to a case that’d been laid to rest so long ago.

“You’re her.”

You sighed, shoulders slumping. “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? However you know me, I don’t care. I adapted and I endured. I was—I am—happy out there and that’s it.”

“Hey,” Shane said sternly, resting a heavy hand on your knee. Again, his touch felt like electricity shooting up through your leg. It stirred something low in your stomach. Something hot and intimidating.

His eyes bore into yours, the intensity of his gaze enough to start a wildfire. “Stop that. You want to be a secret than you’re going to be a secret. You hear me?”

Too taken aback by the determination in his voice, you just stared at him like he was speaking another language.

His grip tightened. “Look at me and tell me you understand.”

You swallowed hard before nodding. “I understand.”

Every day after that, it wasn’t just the forest anymore. It was the forest and Shane.

There was an understanding between the two of you now—he was still the hunter but never again would you be the one with a target on your back.

After finding the wreckage of what the storm did to your shack, you cried. It was the only piece of you you’d ever had truly to yourself. But instead of having no where to go, Shane let you stay in his cabin.

For months you treated the cabin as just somewhere to stay out of the extreme weather and a place to rest your head.

During the day, you never went there, afraid some ranger would come knocking on his door. So you stayed within the only home that had never collapsed on you—the forest.

Shane got used to taking care of you. He fed you, let you sleep on the floor of his room because you were too scared to sleep elsewhere, bathed you just because he wanted to.

It was easy. You never asked for much, only taking what he gave you.

When he started spending money on you, that’s when Shane knew you were more than just a girl seeking solace in his company.

At first it was just the basics—food, water, feminine and hygiene products. Then it became him buying you clothes, only picking out dresses or loose fitting shorts and shirts because he noticed you hated feeling restricted. Your toothbrush sat on the counter next to his, your floral soap always filling his senses because he found you took interest in scented things. He bought you a pair of shoes that you never wore because again, they felt like they were squeezing your feet even though they were the right size.

You appreciated it more than you could ever express. But it was the moments where it was just the two of you and the quiet of the cabin that spoke louder than any material item.

Most nights you two sat on the floor with dinner, feeling the warmth of the fire on colder days. Around the cabin you liked staying bundled in one of his flannels because it felt like being embraced without actually being touched.

Shane did good keeping his hands to himself since he noted how petrified you looked every time his skin did as much as just graze yours.

But you were not petrified.

Human touch was something you’d gone so long without that it felt overwhelming. Every time his fingers brushed against you, you felt as if you were on a tiny boat in the ocean and it capsized.

But he was also the one who flipped it right side up again.

Being afraid of it became a heady, consuming yearning to be closer. To feel his hands on your unmapped skin. To understand those feelings shoved so far down.

He made you laugh, made you smile, made your heart feel a sort of happiness that you never felt before.

You knew he wasn’t the best man but he was the only one who had ever actually cared.

That was all that mattered to you.

It was a cold November night, Shane just having finished the dishes he’d been putting off for too long. You, of course, were sitting by the fire, curled up in one of the arm chairs instead of the ground for once.

Your fingers ran over the pretty pictures in one of the books Shane had given you. You had a collection piling up of books and magazines just because you liked observing more than reading. He always bought you a new one every time he went by the general store.

“Gray wolf,” you sounded out slowly, fingertips tracing the watercolor lines of the wolf on paper.

Shane glanced over at you, drying his hands on a rag. “Fun fact, gray wolves mate for life.”

You didn’t take your eyes off the page, just nodding along. “Yeah. And once one dies, they typically stay alone for the rest of their life. True love.”

He smothered his smile, finding it almost adorable at you calling animal romance true love.

You glanced over at him. “Are you laughing at me?”

Shane shook his head, raising his hands. “I would never do such a thing.”

You gave a bored look, tilting your head. “You’re laughing at me.”

He couldn’t help it, finding your strict face too cute to stand. He smiled. “Fine. Maybe just a little bit but not because I’m making fun of you.”

“Hmph.” You turned back to your book, flipping the page to a section about birds of prey.

After a while, you spoke up, “did you know sparrowhawks eat smaller males?”

He raised his brows. “Do they now?”

“Yep. It says it right here in my book.”

Shane crossed the room in a few long strides, leaning over you as he scanned the page for where it talked about sparrowhawks. But there wasn’t anything about that type of bird.

His eyes slowly turned to you but you were already smiling. It lit up your eyes, crinkling the corners of them and he couldn’t stop looking. “I think you’re just nature’s greatest observer.”

You laughed softly, closing the book. “I think I can agree with you on that.”

Shane was about to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear before there was a knock. Who could possibly be here at this hour?

You had already leapt to your feet, steering clear of the windows as you made a beeline for his bedroom.

“Open up, Maguire! It’s Kyle!”

A sliver of relief passed through you knowing it was just Kyle but you didn’t trust him. Not like you had found yourself trusting Shane.

You hunkered in his closet, keeping an eye on the window just in case you needed to make an escape.

Moments passed. You couldn’t make out their conversation, only listening to their muffled voices but they both sounded aggravated. Then when Kyle finally left, Shane’s heavy footsteps came down the hallway.

You didn’t emerge until you saw him enter. Once you came out of your hiding spot, he nearly looked relieved.

“What was that about?” You asked quietly, almost afraid you might set off a land mine.

His jaw was tense and his eyes were dark with frustration but it bordered on something more feral. “He saw your shack. Wanted to know if I had anything to do with it.”

It didn’t seem that bad so you just left it be. You hadn’t been in enough arguments to feel confident starting one.

Silently, you stepped closer to the window. You peered into the dark wilderness, still feeling like apart of it even from inside four walls. It was peaceful and you hadn’t realized how scared you were of Kyle ruining that. You liked this slice of tranquil space with Shane, not wanting anyone to intervene.

Shane was frustrated Kyle had almost intruded on it. His anger simmered low in his blood, waiting for a fuse to spark but it never did.

Not when he saw you.

Your hair caught the silver moon, bathing you in liquid steel. His flannel draped over your frame—one he had seen too many times and yet barely got to appreciate.

He wanted to change that.

Shane took a few steps toward you, careful not to crowd but enough for you to feel his warmth.

You felt the shift in the air before you even saw him. Something about it made your heart leap, kickstarting it into a gallop.

Without a word, he brushed his calloused fingers against yours, instantly making your breath hitch.

“Shh,” he shushed quietly, like talking to a startled animal. “It’s alright. Just me.”

You let his fingers curl around yours, the contact making you feel dizzy. He noticed the way you seemed to stop breathing and brought a thumb to your lip. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

His touch was searing. Your brain was sending so many signals to so many different parts of your body, making you nearly malfunction.

Outside you were still a wild one, but in here, you were finally tamed if only for a moment.

One more small step and his body was almost pressing against yours. Your chest started to rise and fall rapidly, your pulse racing under your skin.

He lowered his head slightly, so close you could feel his breath against yours lips which had already started to tingle. “You trust me, right?”

A moment passed as you tried to gather what he was asking you. “Mhm,” you managed to hum. “I do.”

Those two little words were something you never thought you’d ever say to trusting anyone, let alone the man who used to hunt you.

“Good.”

You didn’t have time to grasp what was happening when his lips sealed against yours. You gasped, body freezing up at the foreign feeling.

You couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

All you could feel was his warmth and the scratch of his stubble against your chin and gosh, it felt so amazing.

Shane sensed your shock and pulled away slightly but, feeling brave enough, you put your lips right back to his.

He released a low sound, almost like a growl, as he felt you return what he’d been waiting so long for.

His strong hands settled carefully on your waist but the sensation sent a hot zip of pleasure up your spine. It was a feeling so overwhelmingly and yet you couldn’t get enough.

Despite his best efforts to keep it slow, he deepened it. His tongue pressed against yours lips and you clearly didn’t get the hint so he just pushed right past the barrier. Instantly he groaned at the hot wetness of your mouth, licking into it like he needed to show you what his burning feelings felt like.

He was wary of your reactions, to make sure to pull back if it was too much but it was quite the opposite.

You gasped yet again, only allowing him deeper access. One hand slid up to your nape, fingers tangling in your hair and tilting your head up so he could reach you better.

You both were intoxicating each other. He smelled of pine, rain, cedar, and something distinctly manly. It clogged your senses while he inhaled the scent of your floral shampoo and the way the forest still clung to your skin.

For someone with no experience, he knew you were a fast learner and the way you finally got your hands to grip the fabric of his shirt was proof enough.

He didn’t know how long the two of you stood like that for but when you finally pulled away for air, the sight of you was like a match to gasoline. Your hair was messy from his hand, your pretty lips swollen and wet from his kiss.

“Baby,” he rasped out the nickname like it hurt, pressing his forehead hard against yours.

“Shane.” You whispered shakily, breathily, feeling completely bereft of oxygen.

Somewhere deep in your mind you knew that topped any first kiss ever.

When your knees felt like they were going to buckle, he quickly slipped an arm around your waist, keeping you upright. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You blinked up at him, wide eyed but something sparkled within those depths. Something new. Something unfamiliar.

And he knew exactly what it was.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Shane asked, smoothing a hand over your hair before pressing a lighter kiss on your lips this time. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

His restraint was fraying and you were not helping at all.

You panted, a new type of high that didn’t come from gallivanting through the forest. “Um… I… my heart’s beating really fast.”

His lips twitched with a smile. “Yeah? So is mine.”

You could feel it beating hard under his chest. It told you that he was feeling very similar to you.

“And… I feel like I can’t get enough air. And I’m uncomfortable because there’s something wet between my legs.”

Shane felt heat lick at his neck and spread far down south. His grip tightened at the implication of your words and had to force himself not to react the way he wanted to.

“Yeah, baby? It’s uncomfortable down there?”

You nodded with a slight pout on your lips. “What is it, Shane?”

Just like before, he found your cluelessness adorable but this time, he felt a possessive urge to help you understand your body and how it was reacting because of him.

“It’s normal,” he said, forcing his voice to be steady. “It’s your body letting you know it wants something.”

Your brows furrowed. “Wants what?”

Shane cupped your face, rough palms catching on soft skin. “Me.”

It clicked to you then, what he was talking about. You read it in books, witnessed it in the wild. How humans and animals weren’t so different in that sense.

He saw when it dawned on you and he saw how panic immediately threatened to seize you.

“We don’t have to do anything, okay?” He whispered. “It’s up to you. But I want you to know that even if you don’t want it, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You considered his words, eyes searching his face and you saw the sincerity mixed with his desire. You believed him. You trusted he wouldn’t get mad.

But the ache was getting worse and you whimpered softly. “Can you at least make it go away?”

Shane just about lit up at the request but he nodded, brushing a kiss to your forehead and then your nose and then your cheeks. “Of course I can, baby.”

That night, you felt all your loneliness dissipate. It vanished into the cold night air, going back to cling to the trees the way it had before it clung to you. His hands mapped you like you were a new landscape he had always wanted to explore, tracing every valley and dip of your body.

When he found that wet heat of your need, he dove in without ever thinking about breathing again.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you like being caught in the rapids, being thrown every which way and gasping for air every time you surfaced.

Sweat rolled down your chest like snow melt in early spring, your back arching like one of the bridges you stood on to feel like you were flying.

Now? Now you didn’t feel like flying.

As Shane lapped and sucked and licked, you felt like you had slipped off the edge. You barreled towards the ground hard and fast, light rippling behind your eyelids as you crashed into the canopy.

Once you landed, everything felt wet and sticky, tumbling in a lake before crawling onto a ground covered in tacky sap.

And after it was all over? You laid down in a calm meadow where you caught your breath, racing heart slowing down from a high you’d been chasing your entire life.

But you weren’t alone this time.

Shane crawled over you, hands pressing against the mattress and tracing your cheek with a reverence that made you feel warm and wanted.

“You okay?” He whispered, his mouth and chin glistening with your sweetness. He watched how the afterglow set in, your eyes and face relaxed in a way he’d never seen before.

You nodded slowly, a blissed out smile gracing your lips. “Thank you.”

His heart gave a thud before he kissed you, letting you taste your nectar on your tongue. “Don’t needa thank me. Just a man showing his woman what it’s like to not be alone.”

His woman.

You weren’t the Forest Girl anymore. That felt like a distant dream now. You were just a woman who had been by herself her entire life who finally found someone who wanted to show her love.

That night you slept in his bed, his arm draped loosely around your waist. He listened to your heartbeat and traced slow circles on your stomach.

Everyone treated you like you were a monster or a myth or something to be afraid of.

But here in the quiet of his room, Shane Maguire knew he’d follow you blindly through the forest any day if only it meant getting to see his wild girl happy.

He brought his mouth to your ear, hoping you were still awake enough to hear him.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

hi!! i enjoyed writing this so much and i want to share some songs i listened to while writing it…

— white feather hawktail deer hunter | lana del rey

— can’t catch me now | olivia rodrigo

— carolina | taylor swift

— nettles | ethel cain

— out of the woods | taylor swift

He isn’t sure why. He can’t exactly place it, but it’s just…there you are. Running right into him like that. Asking if he’s okay when you look like his shoulder bone might have fucking concussed you.

He reaches down, picks up your phone, and offers it to you.

“I’m fine.” He says, softer than he means to, and you open your other eye.

“Are you made of concrete or something?” You huff a laugh, accept your phone, and slide it into your pocket. He’s staring too hard. He needs to break the gaze but it feels impossible and wrong to even try.

“Not that I know of.”

A feeling like desperate need claws its way up his throat when you smile again. When you laugh at his words like you really hear them. He doesn’t know exactly what it is he needs, but it’s overwhelming to the point of near-pain.

“I’m sorry about that.” You say again, and you mean it. “If I left a bruise, don’t sue me.” You glance down, notice the badge clipped to his belt. “Or…arrest me.”

He can’t remember how to speak. How to breathe right. But he needs to act…normal. He can’t just yank you to him in the middle of the street, bury his nose in your neck and inhale your perfume. Not like he wants to.

The world is narrowed down to a pinpoint. The crowded, chaotic streets of the city are gone. The honking of taxis, the bustle of people trying to get to their destinations, the towering buildings, it’s all gone. It’s just you, and your smile, and your eyes looking up at him.

His smile twitches a little before it finally forms on his lips, lopsided and genuine. You relax at the sight of it.

“Don’t have my cuffs on me, so I guess you’re safe.” And you smile at the joke, and it’s perfect.

He’ll buy you coffee. He’ll talk to you. He’ll make you smile more.

Your phone dings, and you curse as you glance down at it. “Shit. I gotta go.” You murmur, shooting one more apologetic glance up at him. “Sorry again. Really.”

“It’s…okay.” But it’s not. You can’t leave. You can’t walk away from him he just found you he’s not done-

But you’re gone, and your sudden absence shudders his breath and makes his chest feel too tight. No. No, you need to be here. With him. He just found you. You can’t leave.

He doesn’t move for a good few seconds, frozen in place as the noise and chaos crashes back in, crippling and horrible.

The bell to the coffee shop dings. There. That’s where you are. Where you’re going. Not gone. Not too far for him to find again.

He waits sixty seconds, counts his breaths, and follows.

-

“Yikes, what happened to you?”

You’re rubbing your forehead. You’re hurt. His shoulder hurt you. The dull ache in the spot where you slammed against him feels like a connection. A tether holding you to him.

“Too embarrassing.” You grumble, but he can hear a hint of humor and familiarity in your voice. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Well now I have to know.” You smile at the blond man. Nelson. The lawyer. Dex knows about him. Are you with him, somehow? Is Nelson trying to take you away from him?

You huff a laugh, and plop down unceremoniously into the opposite chair, still rubbing your forehead. “I was trying to respond to your millionth text, and I just absolutely slammed into this smoking hot FBI guy.”

“FBI?” Nelson repeats, but you said hot. You called him hot. He’s so distracted by that that he barely hears your next words, dripping with sarcasm as you pull one foot up onto the chair and wrap your arms around your knee.

“Yeah, and then I told him all about my extra curricular activities, and my home address.”

“Your jokes aren’t as funny as you think they are, you know.”

“Neither are yours, and we’re still friends.” You accept the cup of coffee Nelson slides your way, and Dex’s heart stutters again as you smile over the rim of the mug.

“So, speaking of which…”

“I knew it. I knew it. You never just wanna hang out and get coffee.”

“We hang out and get coffee all the time.”

“The ratio is off, lately. You ask for favors more since you went into that corporate law job. Now your pro-bono work always goes through me and all my incredible skills like some dirty little secret.”

Pro-bono work. Secrets. What do you do? You’re kind. You’re good. He can feel it. Sense it like second nature. But the questions and lack of answers are making him grip his own mug a little tighter, making it difficult for him to lean back in the shadows and hide like he’s supposed to.

Nelson looks sheepish, but you give a good natured wave of your hand. A silent ‘go on’ gesture that Dex can’t help but find painfully charming.

“I have a case. This guy…” Nelson slides a file towards you, “didn’t do it. Works for a big company, going down for financial crimes that he didn’t commit. They’re trying to cover their tracks, and a little bit of proof might keep him from missing his kids’ elementary school graduation.” You raise an eyebrow, and Nelson smiles a little. “And middle school. And high school. And…college. The point is they’re gonna try to put him away for a long time, and he didn’t do it.”

You squint, and slide the file closer to yourself. “Financial crimes?”

“Just saying, a little bit of…evidence towards his innocence will really help.”

“Hm.”

“And it shouldn’t be a problem for the best hacker in New York.”

You raise an eyebrow again.

“Okay, the east coast.”

Your eyebrow climbs higher.

“America?”

You grin, and Dex twitches with the need to be closer to you. To see that grin directed at him.

“You’re gonna have to start paying me soon.”

“And if I do, it becomes illegal.”

You tilt your head back again, puff out a dramatic sigh, and curl your fingers around the file.

“I want one of your mom’s sandwiches, at two am. The one with the provolone that I like.”

Nelson grins, wide. “Done and done.”

And then, you tilt your head back towards Nelson. “Does this have anything to do with Fisk?”

Fisk. Fisk? That asshole? That annoying detail he’s about to be stuck on?

“Wilson Fisk?”

“No, the other one. The other crime boss who just got out of prison and has a bone to pick with you.”

Nelson rolls his eyes. “Still not funny.”

“Foggy.”

He hesitates, and frowns. “No. But don’t…just stay away from that, okay? We’ll figure it out. You getting involved, especially with your tendency to…piss people like that off…”

“I haven’t been caught.”

“You will be, if you keep up that little Robin Hood act you have going on. There’s only so much legal counsel I can give you. This is extra legal council. I should be charging you for this.”

“Those companies don’t notice any money missing. You know who does? Mr. Stevenson next door, who can pay off his damn bills and not have to work an extra six hours a day to afford medication for his bad leg.” Your tone is sharp. Defensive.

So you’re a criminal. A good one. Because stealing from the rich and giving to people who need it… that’s good. His own moral compass might be a little off-kilter, but he knows that much.

Then again, you could be a serial killer and he would probably still feel this way, but oh well.

Foggy frowns, like this is a conversation you’ve had many times before, and gives you a familiar little nod, like he knows arguing won’t get him too far. “Just…don’t get involved, okay? Stay away from it. This is more dangerous than you think.”

“Vague.” You grumble, but you’re sliding the file into your bag. “Sandwich with the provolone, three am.”

“You said two.”

You stand, finish your coffee, and smile. “This one’s gonna take a while.”

-

Watching you work is…fascinating.

It’s a slow process, Dex realizes quickly. You don’t click at your keyboard and bust through firewalls like in movies. You lay on your couch, bite your nails, and seem to work through problems one by one. It takes a while. It frustrates you. It makes you smile to yourself when you solve one of those problems.

You get your sandwich. You talk to Nelson for a while. Update him. Get back to work.

The sun is going to rise, soon. You’re still working. His eyes are starting to hurt from watching you through this telescope, but he can’t make himself look away.

When you move to the kitchen, you slide on the hardwood in your socks. You play music. You tap your fingers on your keyboard to the beat.

He watches every second. Every single twitch of your eye. Every frown when you can’t figure something out. Every bright little spark when you do figure it out.

Perfect. You’re perfect. And when you finally do fall asleep, computer resting on your stomach and eyes dropping closed like they’re weighed down by anvils, he wants more than anything to make his way into that dingy little apartment and carry you to your bed in the adjacent room. To slide his fingers through your hair, feel you smile, and listen to your heartbeat until he’s positive that nothing will ever be able to take you away from him.

But for now, he watches. He stays, long after you’ve fallen asleep, and he watches.

-

It takes planning. It takes hours of working himself up to it. Of watching you from afar, plotting every scenario out bit by bit and talking himself out of it a thousand times.

You consume his thoughts like a poison. He follows you to your work. Back to your apartment. Watches every interaction you have with everyone else and wishes it was him you were looking at until he stops fucking sleeping with the need to have you near him.

So, when the torture becomes too much, he follows you to a bar, and he sits in the corner, and he watches you laugh with your friends. Watches and watches and craves to be closer to the light that seems to emanate from your very being.

And he gets up at just the right time, and allows you to bump into him as you start walking back towards the group you came with.

Not a single drop of his drink spills on him - he’s still a little too organized to allow that to happen if he can help it - but he makes it look like it does. He catches your waist as you stumble with an ‘oomph’, and just like that you’re close to him. You’re touching him. He’s touching you. You’re here. With him.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry. Sorry.” You’re not drunk, barely even buzzed, but he knows you well enough now to know that you’re just a little clumsy, and this place is just loud enough for this to work.

Your eyes turn up to his, and you nearly stumble back.

Practiced smile. Fingers curling against your back a little because he just can’t help it. “We’ve gotta stop bumping into each other like this.” He’s practiced that line in the mirror, and it works. You laugh.

You laugh. At his joke. At his line that he’s practiced for this specific scenario. It worked.

“I know you.” You grin, wide, and then flinch a little, but you’re still laughing. “Have I said I’m sorry yet?”

“You did.” He has to let you go. He would rather die, but he can’t be holding you like this. You don’t know him yet. Not yet. “Never got your name, though.”

“I never got yours. Figured you hated me for dislocating your shoulder.”

“Dex.”

“Dex.” You repeat, and his blood hums in his veins at the sound. “Nice to meet you, Dex.”

“Nice to meet you…public hazard.” Lame joke. Bad joke. He just can’t string a fucking thought together when you’re near him and-

You snort. His heart bursts into flames.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Fuck. It’s too soon. Way too soon. You’re gonna say no, and leave, and he’s-

“Yeah.” You set your drink down. “Yeah, I do.”

-

“So…hobbies?” You take a bite of your pizza, heels clicking against the pavement, and he can’t stop looking at you.

“Not really.”

“Hm.” You don’t seem bothered by it. By his lack of interesting traits. He’s not lying to you. He doesn’t have to. You’re meant to be together, after all. He doesn’t have to lie about himself. Right? “Okay. Any special skills then, Special Agent?”

Actually, yeah. “I have one.”

You perk up, raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

He grins, real and genuine, and pulls a quarter out of his back pocket. “Think you’re ready for it?”

“More than.” You’re excited. Really, truly excited. It’s fucking adorable.

“Nah.” He flips the coin over his fingers, feigns pocketing it again. “Don’t think you are.”

“Aw, come on. Please?”

Butterflies swarm in his chest. A smile curls on his lips. He nods towards the darkened street before you. “Pick somethin’.”

You frown, cock your head to the side, and purse your lips when he doesn’t budge to give you any more information. “Okay….street sign. That one right there.”

“Letter.”

“What?”

“Pick a letter.”

Your brow furrows a little more, and your lips twitch in a smile. “T.”

The throws the quarter out, and the sound of metal on metal sings through the air.

There’s a dent in the T. It’s so small, so subtle, that you have to move over to the sign to inspect it.

“Holy shit.”

Do you like it? Are you impressed? He has to stop himself from grabbing your shoulder and demanding to know.

“Can you do it again?”

Yes. Yes of course he can. He’ll do anything. Anything to make you look at him with those wide eyes and that big grin.

You name five more things, he hits them all perfectly, and he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to keep impressing you. Keep hearing your startled noises of approval.

But you make it back to your apartment, and he has to force himself to let you leave. To not follow you upstairs and learn every inch of your skin until it’s locked into his memory forever.

Instead, he asks you to dinner, and you agree. You smile, and you agree.

-

He kisses you for the first time on your second date. Dinner and ice cream.

He’s walked you to your door, like he did the last time, and you’re standing there in your dress with that smile of yours and your eyes looking expectantly into his and he doesn’t know how to do this right. Sure, there have been women in the past. He’s kissed girls. Slept with them when the time was right, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and never really…felt anything. Never wanted anything like this. Fuck, he feels more excitement just looking at you than he did with every hookup he’s ever had.

He has to do it. Make it romantic. Make it perfect. He’s looked up the right way to do this. Studied romantic movies like it was some kind of assignment with life-or-death consequences.

Reach up, brush your hair behind your ear, drink in your shy smile, lean closer so his breath ghosts over your lips-

“You have ice cream on your nose.”

He freezes, fingers still cupping your jaw, and pulls back.

“What?”

You giggle, oblivious to how much his mind is spinning, and reach up to swipe it off with your thumb.

“Shit.” He mumbles, shaking his head and stepping back. “Shit. I’m sorry. I-“

You tilt your head to the side, curious and confused and beautiful as you seem to realize that he’s actually freaking out a little. Because it’s not perfect. It was supposed to be perfect because that’s the only way he gets to keep good things. Order. Focus. But he fucked it up and now you’re-

“Woah, hey. Hey.” You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it was cute. Just…try again.”

Try again. Yeah, he…he can try again. It can still be good. Still be perfect.

So he does. He leans down, and when his lips brush yours his breath comes out as a shaky exhale.

And then your mouth is on his, warm and soft and everything he’s ever wanted. Electricity shoots down his spine, through his blood, and some tether of control within him snaps. He presses closer, the hand on your cheek moving to the back of your head to keep you in place, and kisses you like he’s trying to devour you with a passion he didn’t know he possessed.

You gasp against his lips, arms coming up to wrap around his neck as you meet him with just as much enthusiasm. Just as much hunger. And this…this is perfect. This is rough and desperate and perfect. This didn’t need to go according to plan. This is so much better than the plan.

When you finally break apart, he’s out of breath and more than a little pleased to see that you are, too.

“Wow.” You whisper, and he grins as his nose ducks back down to brush against yours.

“Yeah.” He breathes, unable to think of another response. Any other word to describe this feeling. “Wow.”

-

When you see the caller id, you can’t help but smile at the screen.

“Geez, you look so weird with the cartoon heart eyes.” Foggy’s voice breaks you out of your little trance, and you snort as you answer the phone, confirming that Dex is off work and headed back to his apartment. You feel a twinge of excitement, cheesy as it is, at the idea of seeing him soon. You try not to flag down the bartender too quickly, lest the mockery get any worse.

“FBI guy?” Foggy raises an eyebrow, and you smile again.

“His name is Dex.” Foggy’s eyebrows rise even higher. You flush. “I dunno, I like him. A lot, actually.”

“He’s in the FBI. You’re a pretty notorious hacker.”

“So we don’t talk about work.” You take a sip of your drink. “Plus, he’s not gonna turn me in. I’m too good in bed.”

“But he knows?”

“Of course he knows.” You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward like you’re explaining something imperative. “One you start having sex with someone, it’s important that you confess all of your crimes to each other.”

Foggy laughs, and shakes his head. “You’re insane.” And then, curious and caring as ever, “so what’s he like, if he’s got you risking federal prison?”

Your smile returns, cheeks heating a little, and you shrug. “Cute. Nice. A little weird. Well, actually a lot weird, but…I like it.” You think about the precise way Dex loads the dishwasher. How he carefully makes the bed every morning. How he makes an odd joke every now and then, and then looks absolutely panicked until you laugh, and that panic will always melt into an expression of relief and adoration.

Sometimes his emotions are a little…intense. He can get frustrated, and sometimes he doesn’t seem like he knows how to handle it. But you help. You always do. You tell him to breathe and help him work through whatever’s bothering him, and it works. He always listens. Always tries, even if it takes a moment.

You just…work. Something about you, and something about him, and all the weirdness in between…it works.

When you get back to his place tonight, he’s holding a bouquet of flowers and looking genuinely nervous.

“I don’t get this.” He admits before you even drop your keys onto the counter, frowning down at the colorful petals. “They’re just gonna die in a couple of days.”

“Then why did you get them?”

He cocks his head to the side, but you can see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “They did it in the movie we watched last night. You smiled.”

You smile now. Wide. “You know, you’re kinda cute, Poindexter.”

Something like vulnerability sparks in his eyes. “Do you not like the flowers?”

You snort, and move forward to slide your hands up over his shoulders, feeling the crisp fabric of his white button-down against your palms. “I like them. You did good. Really good.”

He smiles at that, like those words are the best thing he’s ever heard, and you pull him down to kiss you.

Your conversation with Foggy flashes through your mind. You forgot to tell him that one thing. That one major reason why you like Dex. Why you’re with him.

You get him. And he gets you.

You just…work.

-

The newspaper sits on the counter, Dex’s picture stamped right on the front page. FBI investigates one of their own.

You try not to talk about work with him. After all, you’re technically a criminal and he’s in law enforcement. But you knew about the investigation. It’s unjust, Dex says, and you believe him because…well, of course you do. It’s Dex. He saved lives that night, and the few coworkers of his that you’ve met since you’ve been dating have confirmed it.

And then the suspension came.

“It’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit.” In what feels like only a few words, his voice morphs from a frustrated growl into something as sharp and loud as the crack of a whip. His hand moves faster than you can even register, and in a split second there’s a kitchen knife sticking out of a photo on the wall. Right in the forehead of the person you recognize as his boss.

“Shit, I keep forgetting how spooky that is.” You breathe, and Dex’s eyes whip back to yours.

“Breathe, Poindexter.” You raise your hands in surrender, and step ever-so-carefully forward, like one wrong move might frighten him off.

“Don’t.” He snaps, fingers curling on the counter, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s breathing too heavily. Too raggedly.

You reach up, and turn his face down to yours. Gentle, but firm. “You gotta breathe. Tell me three things you can see.”

He freezes, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to tell if you’re kidding or not, before he speaks. “Your eyes.” He finally says, voice softening a little with each word. “Your nose…your mouth.”

Okay, it’s usually supposed to be things around the room, but this works too.

“Three things you can feel?”

He blinks, eyes still fixed on you, and raises one hand to your cheek. “Your skin.” He leans closer, helplessly. His hand moves up to your hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. “Your hair…” his free hand drops to your waist, bunching in the fabric of your borrowed t-shirt. “Your shirt.”

“Your shirt, technically.”

He grunts, and buries his nose in your temple.

“Three things you can hear.”

“Your voice.” You hum in response, and he presses closer. “Your heartbeat. Your breathing.”

You nod, and reach up to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He holds you a little more tightly. “Your breathing is better, see?”

He nods, and pulls back to kiss you. It’s slow, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. You pull him closer, and he makes a soft noise against your lips before he lifts you up and carries you over to the counter.

“Do you feel better?” You ask against his lips, feeling his fingers push the hem of your shirt up so he can trace them over your skin.

“I’m still being framed.” He murmurs, pulling back to trail his lips over the line of your jaw. “It’s still bullshit.”

“I know.”

“You make it better.” His hands move up, higher, warming the bare skin of your back. “You make everything better.”

“Hell of a compliment.”

“I mean it.”

“Me too.”

You kiss him again, feel him press his body closer to yours until your fingers are moving up to fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt and his are sliding your t-shirt up over your head. Moving down to skate over the hem of your underwear.

“Bedroom?” You breathe, and he shakes his head, lips never leaving your body for a second as he lowers himself to his knees right there before the counter.

“Here.” He rasps, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and pulls you to the edge of the counter in one sharp movement that has you locking your fingers in his cropped hair. “Please.”

“That’s my line, I think.” You’re breathless, his lips are trailing higher.

“No, it’s not.” His blue eyes are on yours, filled with something so much like worship that it halts your breath in your lungs. “It’s mine.”

-

“One more.”

The word is warm and sweet in your ear, a low hum paired with wandering hands and a soft, languid kiss to your jaw.

You snort, and you can feel him grin against your ear.

“I think one more will kill me.” You murmur, feigning misery, and his hand slides down over your hip, teasing. “Seriously, how do you have so much stamina?”

“Mm, it’s just you.” He murmurs, and trails his fingers over your stomach. “I can go all night.”

“We have gone all night.”

It’s been hours since he snapped in the kitchen, and your brain has become too mushy to even remember when the two of you migrated into his room. The problem with Dex’s…ability, is that he really never misses. He can take you apart almost embarrassingly quickly, immediately finding every spot and movement that has you seeing stars. And, with his obsessive personality, he has a tendency to try to one up himself. A lot. To see how many times he can make you fall apart until your legs are shaking and you’re spending the next day aching in all the best ways.

Which is why you’re pretty sure, even as his fingers find the apex of your thighs once more and he swallows your gasp with a smile against your lips, that he’s going to kill you. Death by too-many-orgasms has to be a thing, right?

“Dex…” you breathe, arching beneath him as your hands fly up to grasp at his muscled biceps.

“One more.” He repeats, the words a quiet rasp. “You can do it. Just give me one more. Please.”

How the fuck are you ever supposed to say no to him?

You kiss him, and he groans as he presses his body closer to yours.

One more turns into three more.

-

You can’t get a hold of Foggy. Or Karen.

Their names aren’t on the list of people who died at the Bulletin, so that’s something. Still, the chances of either of them being in the building during the attack are pretty damn high. And you don’t blame them for not answering. If they really were there, they must be fucking traumatized.

You would absolutely love it if one of them could pick up the damn phone, though.

Dex shows up around midnight, and you’ve already pulled on your jeans. Already grabbed your keys in preparation to run out the door and start banging on apartment doors. Hell, you might even go to the church Matt’s been hiding out in since he got back. Self-appointed recluse or not, you want answers. Before the news makes the information public, this time. There’s only so much information that hacking can give you, and if the cops and news outlets are currently scanning through the cameras for information of their own, it’s going to take a lot longer for you to find anything out than it will if your friends would just fucking talk to you.

“Hey, where are you going? What’s wrong?” Hands are on your shoulders, moving up to your cheeks, and you wonder if you look fucking insane with worry and confusion right now.

What the hell are you supposed to tell him? Oh yeah, Daredevil is my friend Matt. You know the one who died and kinda sorta came back? Have I mentioned him? Well apparently he’s gone fucking berserk and tried to kill Karen, but I’m absolutely fucking positive that it wasn’t him, which means that someone is out there murdering people in his old suit-

“I’ve…gotta go.” You say weakly, lamely, and start to pull back.

His hands tighten on you. Fast.

“Where? Where do you have to go?” He’s holding you surprisingly firmly, large arms locked around your body and making a frown curl your lips.

“Dex, let me go.” You can’t tell him. Of course you can’t. You have to figure this out on your own.

He doesn’t. In fact, he holds you even more tightly. “You can’t leave. You can’t leave me.”

“I’m-huh?” You turn to him, now, and blink in surprise at what you find. His eyes are dark. He looks like he’s sweating. Shit, he might be shaking. “Dex, what’s going on?”

“I need you here, okay?” He’s breathing a little strangely, hand smoothing up over your back with something like desperation. “I…you need to be here.”

You frown, and reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek. He closes his eyes, and leans into your touch.

“Okay. Hey, it’s okay.” He wasn’t able to help tonight. That’s it. He’s just been suspended. All of the order and structure he relies so heavily on is gone. You didn’t realize just how much it must be affecting him, and you feel like a shitty girlfriend for not immediately seeing just how off he is. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

He ducks down, fingers curling against your cheek and lips hovering over your own. “Tell me you need me.”

“Dex-“ you start, but his fingers slide into your hair and he backs you against the wall. It’s not aggressive, not quite, but it’s firm. Determined. Almost overwhelming in its desperation.

“Say it. Please.”

You frown, but reach up to wrap your arms around his neck. “I need you.”

He groans, and kisses you so hard your knees give out. He catches you, all-but scooping you into his arms as he traces his tongue over your lip and slides his arms around your waist.

You have to go find Foggy and Karen and Matt. You have to make sure they’re okay, and the four of you need to come up with some kind of game plan. Or, they do, and they’ll probably need your help because you just had to learn Matt’s secret. Just had to get mugged that night and recognize his voice. Just had to check security cameras and figure everything out and confront him about it.

So, with your particular skill set, and the information you have, they’ll probably need you, as outside of all this as you like to keep yourself. But Dex needs you more right now, and that matters more. You’ll get to the bottom of this mystery another time, when your boyfriend’s trembling hands aren’t pulling at your clothes and his lips aren’t trailing over your throat as he whispers your name like a prayer over and over again.

“What’s wrong?” You ask again, breathless and worried as he lifts you against the wall, as he wraps your thighs around his waist and curls his fingers against your skin hard enough that you worry it might bruise. You hope it does.

“You make it quiet.” He murmurs between kisses, tugging at your clothes until your shirt slides up over your head, discarded on the floor in a second. Messy. Disordered in a way that isn’t like him. “You make it all quiet. I need it to be quiet. Please.” His voice is shaking. Desperate.

You’re not quite sure what he means, but you nod anyway.

The moment you do, his body is pressing impossibly closer to yours. His lips are moving down your neck, kisses so rough and starved that you can feel his teeth scraping over your skin. His hands are tight on your body, hips rocking forward and making you gasp, and you can still hear the shakiness in his quickened breaths as he moves back up to kiss you so hard your head knocks lightly against the wall.

Your fingers move to the buttons of his shirt. His breaths are getting quicker. His grip is getting tighter.

“D-Dex.” You’re so breathless yourself that you can barely get his name out, but he doesn’t stop kissing you. Doesn’t slow his desperate movements until you finally reach up to pull his face away from yours.

His pupils are blown. His gaze is starved. He’s still shaking.

“Hey, stay with me.” You card your fingers through his hair, and kiss him slowly. Warmly. He doesn’t need rough and desperate right now. He needs reassurance. Grounding. Love.

He releases a shuddering breath, kisses you back, and nods as he rests his forehead against yours. “I’m here. I’m good.”

You nod, and as he carries you into the bedroom and lies you back on the mattress, you can see in his eyes that he’s telling the truth. He’s here. He’s with you.

He peels the rest of your clothing off slowly, trailing his mouth over newly exposed skin, and you do the same for him, barely able to keep your lips and hands off of him for a second.

It’s slow, and loving, and painfully intimate. He murmurs your name against your ear as he moves with you, and you drag your nails over his muscled back as you tell him how good it feels until he falls apart with a groan that almost sounds like a sob.

He holds you after, presses his lips to your forehead and trails his fingers over your body like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

“Do you think I’m a good man?” His voice is low, quiet and vulnerable as he slides calloused fingers through your hair.

You look up, surprised by the question, and he holds you a little more tightly like he’s worried you’ll bolt.

“Of course.” You frown, reaching up to brush your own fingers over his cheek. He turns his face into your palm, kissing it once, and you turn his eyes back to yours. “You’re a good man, Benjamin Poindexter.”

He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, something raw and pained and full of hope, and tucks you closer to him like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You kiss his shoulder, and let your eyes fall closed. “You’re gonna be okay.”

And for a moment, as he breathes something like a sigh of relief into your hair, you think he believes you.

-

“I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully.”

“Oh, now the zombie hiding in the basement is making demands. It’s good to see you too, Matt. I’ve been great, how about-“

“The man in the daredevil suit is Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter.”

That shuts you up, right the fuck away. “Very funny.”

“I’m not joking. He’s working for Fisk. He’s killing for him, and framing me.”

You feel cold. “No, he’s not. He wouldn’t do that.”

Matt’s expression is intense, his words are low and pointed. Urgent. This is his stupid fucking Daredevil voice. “He would. And he is. Fisk has him convinced that doing this will keep you with him. You have the means and the skill to prove me right. I need you to do that, as soon as possible. You need to get as far away from him as you-“

“Stop.” You snap, holding up a hand you know he won’t see. He’ll feel it though, or whatever. “Stop, Matt. You have the wrong guy.”

“You know that’s not true, and we don’t have time for you to come to terms with it. You are in danger, and you need to-“

“It’s not him.” Your ears are ringing. Your voice sounds desperate. Angry, even. “He’s…he’s a little intense. He’s a little weird, sure. But he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t do that.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. He shakes his head.

“You look into it the way you know how. You know. You’ll see it.” Matt reaches to grab your shoulder, and you flinch back. He looks pained, like he’s genuinely worried and didn’t call you here after all this time to falsely accuse the man you love of mass fucking murder. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been here for you enough. For Foggy and Karen. But I’m here now. I can protect you now. And you need to stay away from him.”

You pull back, and shake your head again. “I…no. You have the wrong guy, Matt. He’s…you’re wrong. We’ll find who’s doing this, but it’s not Dex.”

“We can keep you safe. You can hide-“

“No.”

“Please. He’s unpredictable. He’s dangerous. He could kill you if he knows you know.”

“I don’t know. I know you’re…you’re wrong.” He is wrong. He has to be wrong. “I’ll find out who it is, okay? But it’s not Dex. Just…it’s not Dex.”

And yet…

No. No. It’s not possible. There’s no way.

Matt spends the next ten minutes trying to convince you, and you block all of it out. You refuse to listen. You tell him you’ll go home, and you’ll avoid Dex until you can find the proper evidence.

You lie. And as you walk out of the church into the suddenly too-bright, too-loud city, you wonder if… if he could…

Fuck. You need to get to your computer. You need to prove him wrong.

-

He killed Ray tonight.

It doesn’t bother him. That kind of thing never has. What bothered him was Nadeem talking about you.

“He’s lying. He’s using you. He’s using her.” Dex’s hands had tightened reflexively on his gun. “You think he’s gonna keep her safe? You think this is how she stays in your life? Whatever he told you, he’ll hurt her the second it’s convenient for him, and he’ll take you out too.”

“You need to stop talking about her, Ray.” Dex’s voice is low. Quiet.

“When she finds out, you think she’s gonna stay with you? You think Fisk is gonna make her stay with you? How does this plan of yours work, exactly?”

Yes. Of course. Whether Fisk needs to make it happen or not, you’ll stay with him. And it will be okay, because you love him. Sure, you’ll be upset, but he can make that better. He will make it better. All of it. Everything he does is to keep you happy. Keep you by his side. But for now, you don’t have to know anything. You can just be with him, and love him.

If you learn a little too much, learn about the darkness that lives inside of him, about the things he’s done, Fisk will do what he needs to do, what he promised, and make sure you stay. Simple as that.

And you’ll still love him, right? Right. You’re meant to be together.

The shot lands perfectly between his former friend’s eyes. And, once it’s all said and done, he goes home to you.

-

You’re on the couch when he walks through the door. You’re chewing on your nails. You’re staring at your computer screen.

So perfect. So beautiful. All his. Just like he’s all yours.

Like he has a hundred times before, he moves over to gently move the laptop out of your hands, leaning you back against the cushions with a smile that surely holds all of the affection that feels like it’s about to overwhelm him.

“What’re you doing?” He presses his lips to your nose, your cheek, your jaw.

You’re tense. Something’s bothering you. He can fix that.

“Looking something up.” You murmur, soft and hesitant. “Or…I should be. I can’t…make myself do it.”

He can see in his peripheral that your screen is blank. You’re still tense, and when he kisses you he can taste the faintest tinge of iron from where you were biting your lip.

You’re wearing his t-shirt. He moves to slide his hands under it, reveling in the softness of your skin, and presses another kiss to the shell of your ear. You relax, like you just can’t help yourself, and he smiles as he settles a little more comfortably atop you.

“Hm, you know you’re not supposed to tell me about any of your hacking stuff.” He jokes, but you don’t smile like you usually would. Don’t tease him back. “Might incriminate yourself a little too much. And you know there’s only one way I wanna see you in cuffs.”

You do smile now, though there’s something in your eyes that he can’t place. He wants to ask, but you kiss him and he forgets everything that isn’t you.

“Or, you know. Put me in cuffs.” And you hum, and smile a little more.

He peels your clothing off nice and slow, trailing his lips down to follow every movement. It’s warm, and safe, and soft and gentle in all the ways the rest of the world is not. You gasp his name, look into his eyes even as yours threaten to flutter closed, and he loves you so much it hurts. So intensely that he worries it might swallow him whole. He wants it to.

When it’s over, and he’s pressing his lips over your cheeks and nose again, heavy breaths matching your own, he tastes the saltiness of tears on your skin and pauses.

His brow furrows, and he pulls back.

You reach up, and smooth your thumb over his cheek. “You’re a good man.” You whisper, and you sound like you’re talking to yourself, but he melts anyway.

“I love you.” He breathes, and drags you closer so he can kiss you again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You murmur, and there’s never been so much of this strange emotion in your voice before. He can’t quite place it.

But you’re overwhelmed by your love for him, too. That’s all.

That’s all.

-

The worst part of it all is that you know you’re going to find it before you even bring yourself to open your computer.

And yet, it still feels like a punch to the fucking gut.

“Hello, Karen. It’s nice to see you again.”

You would recognize that voice anywhere.

It took you five minutes to get into the security cameras. Of the Bulletin. Of the church.

It took five more minutes for you to find all of the other evidence. The therapy sessions. The people he’s killed. The people he’s manipulated. Threatened. His lack of empathy. His obsessive behavior. His enjoyment of killing. Fuck, you even figure out that he was stalking you before you ever ran into him at that bar. You like to say, in your cockiest moments, that everything can be found online. Everything is documented even when people think it isn’t. You just have to look.

You didn’t look. In ten minutes, you found it all. In an hour, you’ve found too much for any excuse to ever work. For anything other than the truth to make sense.

And then, with perfect timing like the universe is making some sort of sick joke, Foggy Nelson tells you to come down to the old gym. He shows you Nadeem’s video, and you have to drag a trash can over so you can puke your guts up as the world drops from beneath your feet.

You cry silently. Curl in on yourself against the boxing ring while Foggy and Karen watch you, expressions filled with sympathy and guilt. Because they weren’t here. They didn’t check in on you. They let this get this far and it blindsided you because you were too wrapped up in stupid domestic bliss to even hang out with your friends like you should have.

Foggy’s hand comes down on your shoulder, comforting and kind. “Can you do it?”

You don’t look up from the phone screen even as you take it from his hand.

You nod.

-

“What are you-“

You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t-

Matt is gonna kill you, if Dex doesn’t do it first. And yet, you know without a shadow of a doubt that he won’t hurt you. Everyone else, maybe, but not you.

That doesn’t make him any less dangerous.

You grab his arm, and pull him outside with you, into the alley. It will be on camera. It will be obvious that you know, when Fisk sees it. But it doesn’t matter. None of that will matter soon, anyway.

His brow is furrowed, that look of frustration when he doesn’t have control of the situation tightening his features. After all, you did just show up to his work unannounced and drag him outside.

He reaches for you, and you step back.

“What the hell are you doing?” He asks, something in his face cracking a little. “Come here. Please.”

“Tell me it’s not true. Please, tell me it’s not true.”

Panic. Immediate, sharp panic. He knows. He knows you know. “Come here.”

“Dex.”

“It’s not true.” He says immediately, lies immediately, and reaches for you again. You back up again. “It’s not true. None of it’s true. Just-“

You pull out your phone, and play the video. Ray Nadeem’s confession. His eyes widen, and you already knew but the confirmation from him is fucking shattering.

“In three hours, it’s going out to every phone in the immediate area. To the cops. To the public. Everywhere. And if you kill me, it still goes out.” Your voice is tight, shaking. “You’re not gonna stop it.”

Dex tries to grab you now, not the phone, you, desperate. You jump back into the street. Into the public. Away from the dark alley and into the light of day.

“Don’t touch me. Do not fucking touch me.”

“Don’t do this.” He sounds dangerous now. You should probably be afraid of him. You’re going to fucking cry again and it hurts so bad you can’t think. You’ve never felt more stupid in your life. “Don’t you dare do this. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You promised.” His hand catches your sleeve, and you rip it back.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t leave me. Baby, don’t do this. You love me. I love you. We can-“

“What is this, fucking Barney?!” You snap, horror and shock making your voice shaky and shrill. “You’ve been murdering people.”

You’re fully in the street, now. You’re still shaking. He’s still approaching.

“If you come any closer, I’ll scream.” You mean it. He looks like he’s about to risk it. Like he’s moments away from covering your mouth and dragging you back into the alley. Into the shadows with him.

You turn, and walk away.

You hear him scream from a block away. It’s loud. Primal, even. It turns heads.

You keep walking.

-

He goes to prison that night. Matt defeats Fisk. You see it all on the news, from where you’re curled on the couch with tears drying on your cheeks.

He tried to kill Fisk at his wedding. Broke into the party in Matt’s Daredevil costume. It’s on the news. It’s on film.

He says your name before he starts killing people. Tells Fisk and Vanessa that the two of you wish them a world of happiness. You watch the clip. Newspapers call. You watch the clip again. You shut out the world.

It takes some time for you to leave your couch. Even longer to leave your apartment.

But time heals all wounds, even if they have to scab over and reopen a few too many times.

You meet Matt, Foggy and Karen at Josie’s on a Tuesday. They don’t mention it. You do. You apologize, and Foggy hugs you so tightly that your ribs creak.

And you heal. Slowly, surely, you heal.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

-

It’s a nice, normal Friday night.

Cherry’s retirement party is fun. You’re having fun. You’re laughing with Matt and Karen, listening to the laughter and jokes around you, teasing each other about Foggy’s attempts at hitting on Keirsten, and not thinking about Dex. Because you never think about Dex.

You don’t think about the way he made breakfast in the morning. Always so careful and precise. Always plating it perfectly like the act was a science, watching you when you ate it like he was either trying to figure out just how much you liked it or just…watching you. So much of him looking at you felt like he was basking in your mere presence.

Or the way he would leave on his way to work. Always the same pattern. The same habits. Wake you up with a kiss, get dressed, make breakfast, kiss you again on the way out the door.

The way he would smile at you like you hung the moon in the sky. The way he would hold you when you watched a movie on the couch. The way…

Warm lips against your temple. Your forehead. Your cheeks.

You hum, and feel Dex smile as his arm slides more tightly around you. “Morning.”

“S’the middle of the night.” You complain weakly, turning in his arms to hide your face in the warm skin of his chest.

“Five forty-five.” He murmurs, hand already coming up to slide through your hair. “Gotta get ready for work.”

“Play hooky.” You mumble, nuzzling closer, dreading the moment his warmth leaves the bed.

“Would if I could.” He means it, and you can tell, so you keep trying.

“You’re reinstated and promoted now…” you press a kiss to his collarbone, warm and slow and as tempting as you can make it. “Their apology should come in the form of as many days off as you want. Or going into work after dawn.”

His body relaxes a little. His hold on you tightens, like he’s thinking about it.

And then he sighs, and pulls back to press his lips against your forehead.

“I can’t.” He sounds so genuinely remorseful that you just might be falling in love with him all over again. Still, you plaster an exaggerated little pout on your face as you sit up.

“Goody two shoes.” You accuse, and if you were more awake you might think his laugh sounds a little…different. But he sits up with you, and kisses your neck, and wraps his arms around you again and any doubt or confusion flutters out of your mind as you melt into-

“Hey, you okay?”

Your eyes whip up, reflected in Matt’s glasses. You swallow. Smile. “Hm?”

“Your…” he lowers his voice, leans a little closer, “your heart is racing.”

Karen is looking at you, too closely, too kindly. You smile wider.

“I’m fine.” And you are. You’re fine. You’re absolutely, totally fine.

Ten minutes later, everything goes to shit.

Foggy goes outside. Matt hears something wrong. Karen follows You stay in the bar.

A gunshot outside. The bang of a flash grenade. The screams of panicked patrons.

You’re frozen for a moment, smoke and shock filling your lungs and fogging your mind. Gunshots. Screaming. The heavy sound of footsteps and-

“Hey, baby.”

A low, familiar growl of a voice, barely raised enough to be heard over the commotion but cutting through it all like a knife and zeroing your attention on the approaching figure.

Speaking of knives, you hear one whir through the air just before your wrist is slammed back against the wall, a blade attaching your sleeve to the surface with perfect precision. You reach up in a panic to remove it, only for another knife to slam your other arm back against the same wall. Neither blade comes close enough to even nick your skin, but you’re still completely trapped against the old wooden surface, eyes wide as Benjamin Poindexter stalks over to you like he has all the time in the world.

He’s wearing a mask, but you’d recognize his eyes anywhere. You’ve never seen them so fucking crazed.

“I missed you.” His hand is on your waist, large and gloved and firm even as you try to kick him away from you. He grunts, and halts your movements with a knee pressed between yours.

And then he rips off his mask, and kisses you. Hard. Rough. Tongue forcing its way past your lips and arm locking tight around your hip as his body presses against yours like it’s drawn there by a gravitational pull. It’s been so long, and you are most certainly in shock, but you can’t help the soft noise that pulls its way from your throat at the feeling. The way your toes curl a little at the rough sound he makes in response.

He reaches up, and pulls one of the knives out of your sleeve before throwing it towards Daredevil so quickly you almost miss it. He doesn’t even look. He keeps his gaze right on you.

The knife is deflected. Of course it is, because it’s fucking Matt, but Dex looks down at you, grins, and presses his lips to your cheek before pulling his mask back down just in time to be knocked to the ground.

The battle happens all around you, too quick for you to keep track of, and it takes you a good fifteen seconds to register that you need to get the fuck out of here.

The knife attaching your sleeve to the wall is in the wood so deep that you can’t get it out. You grunt in frustration, and finally rip your sleeve to free yourself. You think, vaguely, that you liked this jacket, before the sound of glass shattering makes you flinch and stumble back towards the door.

Your ears are ringing. You can’t think. You make it out into the street just in time to fall to your knees beside the body of your friend, nearly get trampled by people screaming and running and Karen is crying and you can’t think.

And Foggy Nelson dies on the sidewalk.

And, a few horrible moments of silence later, you hear a thud behind you.

And you don’t scream. You don’t cry. You still don’t even speak. Your clothes are stained with blood, and you can still taste the mint of Dex’s toothpaste on your tongue. Foggy dies, and Dex’s body just hit the pavement behind you.

You crawl to him in a haze of screams and the ringing of a thousand bells in your ears, and you can hear Karen sobbing behind you.

You think you might throw up. Or pass out. Or die right here next to Foggy Nelson and Benjamin Poindexter.

Dead. He’s dead. Oh God, Foggy isn’t breathing and now…and now Dex…he’s-

Blue eyes shoot open, wide and pained and crazed, and a gloved hand grabs your wrist. You didn’t even realize that you were touching him, hands shaking as they move over his body like you can fix it. Like you should even want to. Your palms sting. Knees, too. You think you scraped them on the pavement when you crawled over here.

“What did you do?” You ask, numb and confused and horrified, and Dex groans and presses his injured face into the pavement like the sound of your voice is the sweetest relief. His hand tightens on your wrist, relaxes, doesn’t let you go. “Dex, what did you do?”

-

ONE YEAR LATER

There is a deep, prominent scar on his cheek. He’s even larger than you remember. His eyes are different, like he’s allowed the illusion of control and sanity to shatter.

You’re here for Foggy. You haven’t seen Matt or Karen in almost a year. You are not here for Benjamin Poindexter.

But you’re here. Maybe you shouldn’t be, but you owe it to Foggy. To the other people this man has killed.

So many people. So many deaths. So many, because of you. And now Foggy, for reasons you still can’t understand.

The sentencing comes. The gavel is banged. You can’t hide your flinch at the sound. Dex’s eyes move right over to you, and lock in.

He smiles, eyes filled with a sick sort of love, and your fingers dig into your palms until your nails bite into the skin hard enough to draw blood.

They take him away, and he doesn’t stop smiling at you.

-

“He refuses to speak unless you’re in the room.”

Your fingers curl painfully tightly against your coffee cup. Your eyes fly up to Matt’s face.

“No.”

“I need information. We need information. He’ll be cuffed the entire time. He won’t touch you.”

“I’m not worried about that. I don’t want to speak to him.”

“They moved him to gen pop.”

You try to hide the way your heart pounds at the implication. You fail. And it’s Matt, so there’s no use pretending.

“Is…did they…” Gen pop. They’ll fucking kill him in there. Good, right? Someone like that shouldn’t be walking the Earth. He killed Foggy. He killed so many people.

“They will. He won’t last a week. Which means Fisk wants him dead.” Matt’s hand rests on the table before you, and he leans closer, adamant. “We need to know why. And then he can rot in prison until-“

“I want him out of gen pop.” You hate yourself so, so much for saying it that you feel like you’re going to be sick. “I want you to get him back in protective custody.”

Matt looks like you just slapped him across the face. You don’t blame him.

But he agrees. So you go. God help you, you go.

-

“Hi, baby.” His grin is fucking manic. His eyes are starved as they rake over you like he’s filing away every inch.

You glare, and sit down across from him. He leans forward, almost jerking in your direction, like he momentarily forgot about the cuffs in his desperation to touch you. Well, he’s not going to get to. Never again.

“You killed Foggy Nelson.”

“Your hair is longer.”

“You killed Foggy.”

“Do you think about it? The way it felt when I touched you again?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ve thought about it every minute. You tasted just like I remember.” His tongue darts out, smile lopsided as he traces it over his lip, eyes raking over you again so intensely that ice trickles down your spine in a way you really wish was unpleasant. “I wonder what else tastes just like I remember.”

You slap him, the sound cracking through the room, and his head whips to the side. His smile doesn’t fall.

“Do it again.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get me out of these cuffs, baby, and I will.”

“If you think I’ll ever, ever let you touch me again, you’re more fucked in the head than I thought.”

His smile cracks. Falls a little. His eyes darken. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why did you kill Foggy Nelson?”

“You still love me.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You’re lying.” He’s still looking at you, intensely enough that you have to fight the urge to squirm. “Say it.”

“Fuck. You.”

His head rolls back, like those two words were a confession on their own. “Fuck, I missed your voice.”

“You said you’d speak if I came here. Answer me.”

“Do you remember our three month anniversary?” He asks, unbothered, and you want to throw something at him. Cuffs or not, the asshole would probably catch it. “Chinese food on the couch. The first time I told you I loved you.” Pain twists in your chest at the memory, and Dex leans forward when he sees it, another horrible smile curling on his lips. “I took my time with you that night. I had you making these noises, do you remember? These high pitched, sweet little begging sounds.” His fingers tap absentmindedly against the arms of his metal chair, and your face bursts into flames. “Think about them every night, but you know it doesn’t compare to the real thing.”

“You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m already in your head. Just like you’re in mine. We’re connected, forever.”

“Did you kill Foggy to punish me?”

He frowns, eye twitching a little when you refuse to give in. “No. But you shouldn’t have left me.”

“So what? Are you gonna kill me if you get out? Are you gonna kill me now?”

He looks genuinely pissed that you would even suggest something like that, jaw clenched and fingers flexing on the metal table again. “When I get out of here, I’m not going to hurt you.” The intensity of his gaze makes your blood feel cold. “But you’re not leaving me again. Ever.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do. I already have.”

“Fuck this.” You push yourself to your feet, the metal chair scraping against the floor like a gunshot. Like the shot that killed Foggy. Fired by the man in front of you. “Fuck you.”

That gets to him. “You’re not leaving. We’re not done.”

“We’re done.” You lean over the table, eyes hard as they look into his. His hands are already struggling against the cuffs locking him to the chair. “We’re done, Dex.”

“I haven’t seen you in a year. You can’t walk out like this.”

“And you’re not gonna see me for another eleven life sentences.”

His voice is a low, violent growl. “Don’t say that.”

And, because you’re a fucking idiot, you do exactly what you told yourself you wouldn’t do.

They confiscated your phone when you came in here. They didn’t confiscate your watch.

One button. One stupid thing you set up in anticipation for this meeting. That you promised you wouldn’t use. And yet, reckless fool that you are, you knew you would.

The security camera light flickers off.

Dex notices immediately, and the hunger that burns in his eyes and curls on his lips lights something aflame in your stomach that you don’t want to think about. Not right now.

You lean both arms on either armrest of his chair. His hands jerk against the cuffs, still trying to reach for you.

You lean closer. You don’t break eye contact. His mouth moves up to chase yours, and you pull back just enough to pull a frustrated grunt from his throat.

“If you ever, come anywhere even close to the people I love again…” you whisper, leaning in so your lips are close enough to his ear that he moans and tilts his head to the side, like he’s silently begging you to rip his throat out with your teeth. “I will kill you myself. Do you understand me, baby?”

For a moment, the thrill of it all makes you forget just how stupid you were for this. Just how dangerous this man is.

And then, as if to remind you himself, you hear a pop. A sharp, pained intake of breath.

Your eyes drop down to Dex’s right hand, just in time to see him slide it out of the cuff.

The crazy motherfucker dislocated his own thumb.

You jerk back, but Dex is faster. Of course he’s fucking faster. His arm locks around your middle, yanking you down onto his lap hard enough to pull an ‘oomph’ from your chest, and his breath is hot on your neck as you squirm against him.

“Shhh, shh.” His rough voice is too soft. You turned off the cameras. You’re a fucking idiot. Something hotter and more intense than panic shoots through your veins, and your breath catches in your throat. “I’ve got you.”

“That’s the problem.” You gasp, but his hand comes up to the back of your head, fisting in your hair and pulling you back so he can look at you.

“I did it for you.” He whispers, reverent. “I bought my freedom with it. For you.”

And then he kisses you, rough and hard, and your attempts to shove him off are met with nothing but a low and hungry growl.

There’s a moment, brief but painfully there, where the feeling of sparks lighting down through your blood is too overwhelming. Where his lips moving against yours is too familiar. Where you kiss him back, and his groan is nothing short of victorious as he wraps his arm more tightly around you.

And then the door opens, and he doesn’t let go. You sink your teeth into his lip, and bite down hard enough to draw blood. He moans shamelessly, but holds you tighter.

It takes two guards to get you out of his vice-like grip. His lip is bleeding. You can taste the iron of his blood. He’s smiling. Wide.

It’s only when the guards start pulling you toward the door that his smile falls, like he hadn’t expected that. Like he hadn’t even considered that you would be leaving again.

“No. Don’t take her. Stop it.” He snaps, as two more guards force his hand back into the cuff. “Don’t take her from me again. Stop it!”

They close the door behind you, and you wipe his blood from your lip with the back of your shaking hand as his scream echoes through the prison.

-

“You didn’t do it. You didn’t help him.”

Matt turns to you, and you can feel the surprise emanating from his very being at the sound of your voice. Here. At this fancy gala to celebrate the esteemed mayor.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. Deflection. And then, concern. “Have you slept?”

No. No, you haven’t. But you’re not going to tell him that. That ever since you went to that prison your thoughts have been more consumed by him than ever. That every beat of your heart has been chanting Dex, Dex, Dex and it’s getting more and more difficult to tell yourself that it’s because you want answers.

And you have them, now. Because you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“I did it for you.”

“It’s not exactly an invitation you can refuse.” Your dress is uncomfortable. Your heels hurt your feet. You can feel eyes on you from all around the fucking room and you’re going to crawl out of your skin. “And yes. I’ve slept.” You don’t care that he knows that you’re lying.

“I-“ he’s going to come up with an excuse, an apology, but Dex is probably already dead. You’ll probably be dead soon, too. So what’s the fucking point? What’s the point of being subtle? Of trying to be careful, anymore? You weren’t careful when you looked into all of this. You didn’t cover your tracks, and you know. You know it all. And they know you know. You’ll be in the ground in a week at best.

“It was Vanessa. She was in charge of his businesses. She did it.” You don’t even lower your voice. You’re exhausted, and you’re hurting, and you’re angry, and who fucking cares anymore?

Matt grabs for your arm, already beginning to steer you away from watching eyes and listening ears. You pull back, whirl to face him. “Stop. They know I know. They know what I do. That’s why I’m here. They’re probably gonna kill me too, tonight.”

For a moment, you think Matt Murdock might actually be speechless. You just keep talking.

“It’s fine. It’s a long time coming, right?” You run a hand through your hair, and your smile is a pained and humorless thing. “Do you know how many people have been killed, just from me loving him? Because he loved me too, and they used it to manipulate him?”

And Matt is still looking worried, still bothered that people might hear you. But who fucking cares?

“But it’s fine, right? At least the ‘weapon of mass destruction’ who did it is rotting in a prison morgue now. He didn’t deserve help. I didn’t deserve to ask for it. Not for him.”

Matt’s hand is on your arm. You want to cry, but you’ve cried all night and the tears won’t come anymore. You’ve cried so many tears for him. Maybe that makes you a monster, too.

“Keep it down.” Matt says, hand tightening on your arm, but you ignore him.

“I know everything, too. Do you know how many pills he was on in that prison, when she got to him? The inside of his body was a fucking pharmacy. I saw the signature. He couldn’t even hold the pen right.”

Matt Murdock’s jaw twitches. He looks right at you, through his glasses, and you can feel his unseeing gaze on your face. “He still did it.”

He’s right. He did. But-

“You don’t know him. He…he doesn’t think like other people. They got to him. They did this.” Matt opens his mouth, and you raise a hand. “I’m not an idiot. He did it too, okay? He did it. But…” and your exhausted eyes rise to the dance floor, and it all makes sense.

Fisk took everything from you. From so many people. Foggy is dead. Dex is dead. And they’re dancing and smiling like this is the happiest day of their fucking lives. They don’t care. Sure, you don’t care. You’re numb. You’re hurting and confused enough that you don’t care what happens to you, but them… these people did all of this, and they’re happy about it.

“They did this.” You murmur, just to yourself, and start to move forward.

Matt catches you, hard. Fast. In one smooth move, he twirls you onto the dance floor, deflecting your momentum and still trying to fucking cover for you.

“You’re delirious.” He says, voice low and grip tight. “You’re acting irrationally. Don’t-“

But you’ve made it close enough. Just close enough to hear what Buck says to Fisk, quiet and serious but very much audible over the din.

“Benjamin Poindexter killed three guards and escaped prison.”

The world narrows. The floor tilts beneath your feet. Matt holds you upright, and you barely register what he’s saying over the rapid beat of your heart.

Dex. Dex. DexDexDex-

“We have to get you out of here.” Matt’s voice by your ear, his feet already beginning to move you away. You blink, too shocked and…relieved to even force your own feet to move. “He’ll be coming for you.”

Alive. Alive. DexDexDexDex-

You may not have Matt’s senses, but you swear you hear the click of the gun at the same time his head whips up to face the balcony.

“Not me.” You whisper, eyes on the dark shape above you. The dark, achingly familiar shape of a man who should be dead.

And the gunshot launches the party into chaos.

Matt. Matt just jumped in front of the fucking bullet and you’re trying to get to him but you’re being dragged away by the crowd, nearly carried off in the commotion and panic as people rush to the door. You almost fall at one point, stumbling in your heels and nearly getting trampled before you’re saved by the arm of some kind civilian, and by the time you make it back into the ballroom to where the paramedics are crowding around your friend you can’t see the shape on the balcony anymore.

You reach towards Matt, and something on your wrist catches your eye. A small etching of marker on your skin that definitely wasn’t there before.

A bullseye.

-

Hours later, you climb the stairs to your apartment, aching and tired and knowing damn well what you’re going to find.

You spent every free minute tracing the bullseye on your skin with the tip of your finger, sitting in the hospital waiting room and listening to the beat of your own heart.

Alive. Alive. Dex. Alive. Dex. Dex. Dex.

The power is still out. You’re exhausted. There’s still blood on your dress.

Matt begged you not to go home, but he would find you anyway. Anywhere.

There’s a bullseye painted on the door of your apartment. Small, but noticeable. Right above the handle.

You drop your keys on the counter. Loud. No use in trying to hide.

“You moved.”

“Yeah.” You say, voice steadier than it should be. “My boyfriend ended up being a serial killer.”

“I don’t really fall under that definition.”

You hum, casual, and move to the dingy fridge in the open kitchen. Pull out a bottle of wine.

“You look tired.”

“You’re missing a tooth.” You pop the cork with your teeth. Take a swig right from the bottle. “You gonna kill me now?”

“Stop saying that.” It’s still dark, you still can’t see much more than his silhouette, but the words sound like they’re gritted out through his teeth. “I love you.”

“I trusted you.” You grit your own words out, fingers tightening on the bottle.

“You still can.”

You take another swig, and lean against the counter. “Now that’s funny. Didn’t know they taught comedy classes in prison.”

“I thought about you every day. Every minute.” His boots thud against the hardwood, and you turn before he can reach you.

“Funny. I thought about Foggy.”

“That sounds hard. Really-“

“Shut the fuck up.” And now, you have to stall. You have to find your phone, and dial Matt’s number. Or reach one of the panic buttons you installed that will call him. With the power out, there’s a pretty good chance neither of those things will work anyway. “Get out.”

“You don’t really want me to.” It sounds like a plea, beneath the roughness of his words. “You still love me.”

You pull out your phone. It flies out of your hand in a second. Shatters against the wall. You jump back.

“Was that a fucking knife?”

“Bottle cap. I don’t wanna cut you.”

“But you’ll shoot at me.” Well, not at you, but you know mentioning it will bother him.

“I would never in a million fucking years-“

“You. Killed. Foggy.”

“And we’ll work past it, baby. We can work past it.” And there he is, turning you in his arms and walking you back until your lower back hits the counter. His breath is warm, ghosting over your lips, and you hate how your body responds to it.

“You’re delusional.”

“You want me. Say it. Please.” Too close. Too close. His hand is wrapping around the wine bottle, pulling it from your grasp and raising it to his own lips. The moonlight spilling in through the window illuminates the lines of his face, so agonizingly familiar. So beautiful.

You reach up like a woman possessed, and brush your fingers over the scar on his cheek. He groans, and leans into your touch.

In a blink, your other hand whips up, and you press the blade of a kitchen knife to his throat.

He smiles, and you wonder if he’s always been this crazy. He leans forward, letting the blade dig into his skin to brush his lips over yours again, and now you genuinely wonder if he would let you do it.

“I should kill you.”

“I’d let you.” He murmurs, a truly sick confirmation, and your hand is trembling and you hate yourself for it. “But you won’t.”

“I don’t have Daredevil’s moral code.”

“No.” His mouth closes over yours, just enough to feel his teeth scrape against your bottom lip. “You love me.”

“I don’t.” But your voice catches on the word, and your hand shakes more, and he’s bleeding and he doesn’t seem to care.

You pull the knife away, and his fingers curl around yours on the handle, guiding your hand to lower it onto the counter beside you.

“You asked Murdock to get me out of gen pop.” He hums, still so close that you can feel his heartbeat against your own. “Didn’t work, but I appreciate the thought.” The confirmation. “Helped me get back to you.”

“I didn’t want you to get back to me.”

“Liar, liar.” He murmurs, teasing and soft, and kisses you again. These kisses are nothing like the last couple of times, so rough and nearly violent with their desperation. No, these kisses are brief and soft, gentle presses of his lips against yours between words like he can’t help himself.

“I thought you were dead.” You don’t mean to say it. You don’t mean to acknowledge it. “Matt left you to die.”

“And you mourned me.” Another kiss. Slower this time. More lingering. You need to pull away from him. You need to shove him the fuck off of you. This is so wrong. So fucked up. He has killed so many people. Lied so many times. He’s fucking batshit insane. “I saw you. You were about to confront Fisk. For me.”

“I don’t know what I was gonna do.” You breathe, and your eyes are already falling closed. Your body is giving in to him like it doesn’t belong to you. Your heart is still beating heavy in your throat.

Dex. Dex. Dex. Dex.

This time, you lean up and press your lips to his. Wrap your arms around his neck. Tangle your fingers in his hair and devour him. He makes a noise that’s almost akin to a whimper against your mouth, his own hands flying up to your face to angle your head so he can kiss you fucking breathless.

You bite at his lip. Pull at his hair like you’re trying to punish him for how much you want this. How much you missed him. How fucking good this feels.

He moans, lifts you onto the counter and presses his body up against yours like he can’t get close enough. Cradles the back of your head and all but sobs into your mouth when you whimper and kiss him hard enough that his teeth click against yours.

You hear a soft, metallic noise, and feel cool metal on your thigh as Dex slices through the fabric of your bloodstained dress to allow himself more room to press his large body between your legs, the prison guard uniform digging into your burning skin and making you arch against him.

You slide your hand over his neck, thumb digging into the thin cut beneath his chin. His moan vibrates through your entire body, and you smear the blood over his throat as you angle his head to pull him closer to you.

His hand slams into the cupboard by your head like he’s trying to brace himself, the fingers of his free hand gripping your hair so tightly you see stars, blunt teeth digging into your lip like a silent and desperate plea for more.

“Say my name.” He whispers, rough, and you don’t. You fucking moan his name, a sound you’ve never heard from yourself before ripping its way from your chest and making him shake as he releases you to rip his gloves off like separation between your skin is physically burning him.

He doesn’t leave you for long, warm fingers sliding up your thigh and trailing sparks in their wake until you’re trembling against him. Until you’re gripping the back of his head and yanking him down to kiss you again. His fingers slide higher. Higher. Until they’re curling in the waistband of your underwear and every kiss comes on a swallowed and ragged breath.

You nod your consent, fingers curling even more tightly against his scalp, and he kisses you again. You hear the click of the knife, feel the flat end of the blade slide up your thigh again, and can’t find the words to complain as he slices your underwear from your body.

When his long, skilled fingers reach the apex of your thighs, and he feels just how desperate you are for him, the noise that rips from his throat sounds like the most fucked up prayer that’s ever been uttered.

“Fuck.” He pulls back, presses his nose against your temple, and when his fingers immediately find the spot that has you fucking whining you hear a breathless chuckle against your ear.

“Never miss.” He whispers, cocky and infuriating and agonizingly intimate in the dark apartment, and you’re going to fucking kill him.

Kill. Kill.

All those people. Father Lantom. Nadeem. Foggy.

Clarity rips back into you like a fucking car crash. Like a bolt of lightning. It freezes your burning blood, rises to your throat, and makes you shove him so hard his back hits the wall across from you with a dull thud.

You’re just as breathless as him, and his eyes are on fire as they look into yours. As they rake over you, slow and hungry, and he doesn’t even try to catch his breath even as he realizes why you pushed him away.

“Why?” He asks, but he knows. He knows and he’s goading you and you need to make yourself-

“I hate you.” It is the least convincing sentence you have ever uttered. You’re still breathless, still flushed with need, still spread out on your kitchen counter with his name lingering on your kiss-swollen lips.

Slowly, without looking away from you, he raises his fingers to his mouth, and your next breath catches on a whimper at the sight.

He moves forward at the sound, and your foot flies up to stop him, heel digging into his chest.

Something flashes in his eyes. Something you can’t place. You don’t know what’s in your own expression, but you see him scan it. Watch the breath shudder out of his chest as his hand rises up to trail lovingly over your calf.

And then, scarred and beautiful and illuminated by moonlight, he drops to his knees.

Benjamin Poindexter looks up at you like he’s worshipping at your fucking altar, and refuses to look away from you as his lips press against the skin below your knee.

“Stop it.” You try. You really do.

He shakes his head, and blunt nails drag down over your thigh as he moves closer. Kisses higher. Keeps his eyes locked on yours as he guides your heel over his shoulder.

“Dex.” It’s supposed to be a warning. It comes out as a plea.

And then he’s right where you need him, on his knees before you with your hands gripping at his hair and his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you in place, and it feels so good that your eyes are watering with something between pleasure and emotion so intense it’s going to drown you.

Your hand leaves his hair, flying up to scramble for purchase on the creaky old cupboard behind your head as Dex doubles his efforts like he’s desperate to pull more noises from you. He moans into you, gripping you more tightly as your heel digs into his back, and your hand leaves the cupboard to slap over your mouth as a near-wail of pleasure echoes off the walls. It doesn’t do much. Doesn’t muffle your helpless noises nearly enough, and before long Dex is sliding his large hand up your body to pull your palm away from your mouth, fingers tangling with yours as his too-skilled tongue turns your blood to lava in your veins.

You fall apart in minutes, shattering with a sharp gasp of his name as your thighs tremble and your nails dig into his scalp. He pulls back like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, resting his head against your thigh and staring up at you with a breathless smile on his lips and you want to hate him so badly it hurts.

But you pull yourself off of the counter, slide onto his lap and kiss him hard as you fumble blindly with the belt of his stupid fucking prison guard uniform, and before you know it he’s rolled you onto your back and you’re ripping his shirt open as he hikes your ruined dress up over your hips and-

“Tell me you want this.” He rasps, low against your ear, and when you nod emphatically he grabs your chin and turns your face towards his. “Tell me.”

“I want this.” It’s a sick, horrible confession, but it’s true. “I want you.”

He groans, like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard, and his first thrust hits home and your moan is loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“I love you.” He breathes against your lips, as you scramble at him like a wild fucking animal, desperate for more. “I love you.”

You won’t say it back. You can’t say it back. This is already fucked up beyond belief.

He holds you like he’s trying to touch every inch of you at once, lips trailing down your jaw until every near-whimper is vibrating against your ear. You can’t stop touching him, either. You yank at his open button-up shirt so hard you hear it rip, until he moves to help you pull it the rest of the way off of him, bracing himself against the floor beside your head and rolling his hips into yours until you’re sobbing his name on every breath.

When you break for a second time, your nails are dragging thin red marks down the skin of his back. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps relentlessly hitting that spot inside you until the pleasure builds up all over again and it is fucking unbearable.

“Dex.” You manage to gasp, mindless, head rolling back against the floor as he bites at your shoulder and speeds up his movements until you’re practically sobbing.

“One more.” He growls, low and rough and just as wrecked as you are. “Give me one more.”

The third time, he’s right there with you, pressing his nose into the hollow of your throat with a groan of your name that burrows its way into your very bloodstream. Locks itself in your soul and becomes just as much a part of you as the color of your eyes and the bones beneath your skin.

It takes a long time for you to come back to earth. Longer for Dex to pull himself away from you, just enough to roll onto his back and tug you into his side.

“I love you.” You whisper, like a shameful confession, and he shudders like the sound of it is a drug and he’s more than happy to relapse.

He pulls you closer. You rest your cheek against the sweat-damp skin of his chest. Try to even out your breathing as he cards his fingers through your hair.

You have to go. You have to get out of here. Fisk is gonna be coming for you soon.

He grunts, and you make a soft noise as he sits up and gathers you into his arms, drags himself to his feet and carries you into your bedroom.

Everything is so different, now. Dex is a killer. A monster. Your life has been flipped upside down and shaken like a damn snowglobe. You’re probably going to be assassinated soon.

And yet, as Dex helps you out of your ruined dress, skating his fingers and lips over the newly exposed skin, and reaches into your dresser drawer, it’s all so familiar that you ache.

He digs to the bottom, and his grin is triumphant as he pulls an old FBI t-shirt out. His T-shirt. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.

He slides it over your head, presses a kiss to your cheek, and smiles a little wider when you relax.

And then, when he’s cleaned you up and pulled you into the rest of your pajamas, he smooths out the sheets behind you like a ritual before he lays you down atop them, sliding his body over yours and kissing you until you melt into your cheap comforter.

You make love again. You don’t think either of you even mean to. It isn’t as desperate as the first time, not nearly as mindless and rough, but his kisses deepen and he slides his scarred hand down your back until he’s shifting you beneath him, murmuring a quiet plea against your throat as his fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts that you respond to with another emphatic nod. And then he’s sliding them off, and you’re unbuttoning his pants again, and his tongue is tracing silent sonnets over your skin until you’re writhing against him.

He doesn’t tease, but he still seems to savor every second. He nudges your knees apart with his own, and pushes into you with a groan of your name. He moves with you like the tide, builds you until the wave crests and whispers praises against your ear as it crashes through you. You kiss him, tell him how good it all feels, and he tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it.

When it’s over, and you’re lying together in the rumpled sheets and he’s breathing shakily against your forehead and holding you like you might vanish at any moment, you finally speak again.

“We’re not back together.” You mumble, and he hums like you just told him the sky is purple but he couldn’t care less. Like it’s such a ridiculous lie that he may as well indulge it for now.

You frown, but you don’t double down. There’s no point, really. You know him. You know he’s not letting you go anywhere.

“How do I fix it?” He finally asks, and your brow furrows as you sit up a little to look at him.

“What?”

“How do I make you forgive me? For Fog-“

Your hand flies up to cover his mouth as if of its own accord. The movement surprises even you.

“Don’t say his name.” You snap, pain curling in your stomach. Guilt, too. But not enough. You’re lying naked in bed with the man who killed one of your best friends, and you don’t feel guilty enough, and you hate yourself for it. “You still don’t get to say his name.”

He looks at you. Nods. You pull your hand back, and he chases your lips with his own.

He kisses you. You kiss him back. You keep trying to hate yourself for it.

“What do I do?” He asks again, and he looks so earnest that you want to die.

You don’t know what crosses your face. What expression is in your eyes, but his own melt into a look of pure desperation.

It takes you a while to speak, and even when you do, the words spill unpracticed and quiet from your lips.

“He was good.” You whisper, and grief tugs at your stomach with enough force to nearly cripple you. “Foggy was so…good.”

“You said I was good, once.” Dex murmurs, brow twitching a little in that way it does when he’s trying to understand something.

“I did.” You reach up, hesitate, and give in. Your fingers trace over the scar on his cheek. “I think…I think you can be. You can be good.”

He melts. He turns his cheek into your palm, looks at you like you are both heaven and earth and everything in between. “I’ll be anything you want. I’ll do anything for you.”

Your heart crumples, and you see it. You shouldn’t, and you’re fucked up for it, but you see it. You see how he thinks. How he is. How he’s been manipulated and hurt and how he’s hurt others and you still fucking love him.

“I want to kill Fisk.” You whisper, like it hurts, and he reaches up to curl a lock of your hair around his finger like you just admitted nothing more intense than liking sugar in your coffee. “I want them both dead. And I don’t want it…I don’t want it for the right reasons, I think.”

“Why do you want it?”

“Revenge.” You whisper. “The greater good, yeah, but revenge. They killed Foggy. They hurt you. I want them to die for it.”

“Hm.” He slides his hand up your back, palm flat and warm, and turns his nose into your cheek. “If I help you kill them…it balances the scales.”

You frown. “It-“

“A good deed, to make up for the bad. Right?” He presses a kiss to your ear, and your eyes fall closed. “It balances out. You’ll forgive me.”

“I can’t forgive you.” You can’t. You shouldn’t. You won’t.

Even if you understand how his mind works. How he was tricked and manipulated and taken advantage of. Even if you understand him.

You pull back, look into his eyes, and the look on his face breaks something inside of you. The desperate hope. The need.

“We’re probably gonna have to move tomorrow. Fisk definitely wants me dead.” You murmur, and brush your lips over his.

He smiles. “We’ll move.” We. You and him.

“If we do this, you don’t do it for me. I’m not making you do anything.”

“I do everything for you.” He says, matter-of-fact, and closes the distance enough to peck you on the lips. “But okay. Let’s kill ‘em all.”

-

“Such a sweet boy.” The old woman across the hall is absolutely enamored with Dex, or should you say ‘Tony’. Sometimes you think he’s enjoying it a little too much. Especially now, as he crouches down to slide a fried egg into her cat’s bowl. “And what are you two up to?”

“Takin’ the missus to lunch.” He answers smoothly, sliding his arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You smile brightly, and endure a few more minutes of cooing and fawning before making your way down the hall. He keeps his arm around you the whole time, humming absentmindedly as you make your way out into the street.

“You have got to stop telling her we’re married.” You chastise, and he doesn’t let you go even as he flips a coin behind him into a homeless man’s cup.

“I didn’t.”

“You just called me ‘the missus’.”

He’s smiling, a little too proud of himself. “Could mean anything.”

You still insist that you’re not back together. He still allows you to, but he seems to find it more amusing than bothersome. Which, you suppose, is understandable. After all, you woke up in his arms just this morning, like you do every morning. And, like you do most nights, you spent the majority of the evening moaning his name.

But fuck, he’s like a drug to you. You tried so, so hard to hate him. To pretend like he was a monster. Maybe he is, but maybe you are too.

Because whatever Benjamin Poindexter is made of, it calls out to something intrinsic within you. He knows it, and he’s just waiting for you to admit it.

You don’t know if the spring in his step and the smile on his face is from your activities last night or anticipation of what’s about to happen, but you would say it’s safe to blame both as he holds the door of the diner open for you with an exaggerated chivalry. And, because it’s him and he’s an asshole, he makes you yelp as you walk ahead of him with a playful swat to your ass.

You glare. He smiles, and leads you to the counter.

“You two ready to order?”

The woman behind the counter looks tired. Dex smiles like he’s been practicing how to, sweet and with his eyes crinkled in the corners. Sometimes, when you look at him, scarred and huge and absolutely fucking bonkers, you wonder how much he’s changed since you bumped into him on the street all that time ago. How much you’ve changed.

“My wife and I will have a…banana milkshake, then.” He grins at you, and it is so annoyingly hard not to smile back. “Does that sound good, sweetheart?”

You snort. “Sounds perfect, darling.”

His fingers come up, catching your chin and turning your head to him so he can press a soft, smiling kiss to your lips.

“Cute. I’ll be right back with that.” The woman says blandly, disappearing behind the counter as Dex pulls back.

“Menace.” You accuse, and he pats your cheek before he pulls out his phone.

He makes the worst, least convincing phone call you’ve ever heard. So unconvincing, in fact, that you almost giggle as he says “oh shit, he’s got a gun” in the most monotone voice you’ve ever heard. His eyes don’t leave you for a second. They rarely do. Like when you’re near, he’s locked in on a target.

Then again, hasn’t it always been that way?

You did the research. You did the tracking. All you have to do now is wait.

Dex unwraps two straws, carefully places them both in the milkshake, and leans down to take a sip.

You smile at him, roll your eyes, and lean down to the other straw.

You swear, in moments like this, that his eyes could be little cartoon hearts. He doesn’t stop smiling. Doesn’t look away. And shit, if you don’t feel like baby bluebirds could be tweeting around your own head. Like you’re the only two people in the whole world. Cue the cheesy, romantic music. Cue the world vanishing around you until it’s just you and him in this diner, smiling like idiots and sharing a milkshake.

You glance down at your phone. Watch him finish the milkshake. “Forty five seconds.”

He grunts, calm and relaxed, and starts pulling on his gloves. Pulls a toothpick out of the cup beside you.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me to take cover?” You hum, and the corner of his mouth rises even higher.

“No one’s gonna touch you.” You believe him, and you like that he acknowledges that you know what you’re doing.

“Everybody get on the ground!”

You throw your hands in the air, view blocked by Dex’s large frame, and shriek like a dramatic damsel in a movie.

His shoulders shake once. A silent laugh.

“Too much?” You ask, just as they shout again and come closer.

A toothpick finds its home in the ATVF officer’s eye, and all hell breaks loose.

You climb onto your chair, just in time for Dex to push you over the counter. You land with a roll, and in a second he’s on top of you, hands over your head and body covering yours.

“That was a really great milkshake.” He mumbles almost conversationally as the bullets slow, and you reach up to pull his mask the rest of the way down for him before he climbs off of you and snatches up a handful of silverware.

You manage to get to your feet just in time to watch three officers fall with forks sticking out of their eyes. Unfortunately, it’s also just in time for another man to grab you and press the barrel of a gun to your temple.

“Stand down!” He shouts, right by your ear, and digs the barrel in harder. Deeper.

Dex turns, and tilts his head.

“Ow.” You pat the arm wrapped around your throat. “Wrong move, dude.”

He screams as a fork impales the back of his hand, and you feel two more whir past you before they find their homes in his face. Not kill shots. Not yet. When you turn, he’s moaning on the ground with cutlery sticking out of his cheek and eye.

You tuck yourself into a booth as the rest of the men go down, bullets and weapons finally coming to a stop. Heavy bootsteps land beside you, and Dex pulls his mask off as the man in front of you trembles and clings to a tiny dog in his lap.

“Dogs in restaurants are unsanitary.” He says, genuinely perplexed but not quite annoyed.

“P-Please don’t kill me.” The man whimpers. Dex smiles in that unnerving way he has, and you smile too as you grab a bottle of ketchup off of the table.

“Don’t worry.” He takes your hand, stands you up with him, and throws a final pair of forks behind him to slam home into the retreating form of the man who just held the gun to your head. “We’re the good guys.”

You draw a bullseye on the door. He kisses the side of your head as you make your way out of the diner, stepping carefully over shattered glass with the sound of sirens wailing down the street.

-

ONE YEAR EARLIER

“This is no way to live, Benjamin.”

Vanessa Fisk sits across from him. He tries to focus on her. On anything. His mind has been scrambled since he was checked into this place. The cocktail of pills they have him taking every day makes it hard to think.

But you’re still there. You. You. You.

He lies in his bed at night, stares at the ceiling and blinks like his eyes are weighed down by anvils, and if he focuses hard enough he can almost feel your head on his chest. Almost feel your soft hair against his nose. Maybe your fingers tracing over his skin, soothing and warm.

Your voice, lips barely brushing his own. “You’re a good man, Dex…”

And he’ll reach up, searching for you, wanting to pull you to him and feel your body against his. Wanting you so badly that the pain is overwhelming.

And there’s nothing there. And the room is cold.

“I miss you.” He’ll murmur to the darkness, tongue heavier than his eyelids. And he won’t hear anything back.

Now, Vanessa Fisk pushes something towards him. A picture.

Of you.

His near-useless hand paws at the table, something like desperation surging through him as he grasps for it. They won’t let him have any pictures of you here. They call you one of his ‘victims’. He hasn’t seen your face in so long.

“She misses you.” And a part of him knows Vanessa is manipulating him. Even through the drugs, and the longing, he knows it.

And yet, she pushes the picture toward him a little more, and there you are.

You. You. You.

You, at that bar he found you at. The second time you met. You’re with Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page. You’re smiling, but not with your eyes. He knows what it looks like when you smile with your eyes.

You look sad. His eye twitches with the urge to fix it. The urge to touch you.

His fingers curl against the picture.

“I know what it is to love someone so much that being separated feels like…” Vanessa’s voice is gentle. Kind. Vulnerable, even. Dex can’t stop looking at the picture of you. That vulnerability in her voice is reaching him, matching with his own. “Like a hollowness in your soul.”

He makes a soft noise. It sounds desperate, even to his own ears.

His fingers curl a little more against the picture. Brushing over your cheek. Missing the feeling of your skin against his.

“They talk to her about you.”

His eyes, still slowed by the pills, move up to her face.

“They tell her that you were evil. Horrible. She is trying to convince herself that it’s true.” Vanessa leans forward, earnest. “If you want her, you cannot let that happen.”

His eyes fall helplessly back to the picture of you.

Vanessa slides a contract his way. He doesn’t look at it. His trembling fingers trace the printed line of your cheek.

“You can have her again. I only need one…favor. But you will have your freedom, and she will have hers.”

You. You. You.

Vanessa’s manicured finger taps the picture. Taps the face of Foggy Nelson. “I need you to kill him, and one of his clients.”

Dex looks up, a muddled question in his eyes. Foggy is your friend. You like Foggy. Foggy-

“They are poisoning her mind.” Vanessa repeats. “I do not want to see you lose the woman you love, Benjamin. I am offering you a mutually beneficial opportunity.”

You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you. His shaking hand holds the pen. Hesitates. He tries to form a clear and straightforward thought.

“With your freedom, you can get back to her.”

Back to you.

He signs the contract.

-

One good deed, and it’s all better. And you forgive him.

Not like you haven’t already. Even if you won’t admit it, he knows you have. He can see it on your face. Feel it in your quickened breaths at night when he’s got you laid out on the sheets, or on the couch, or against the wall…

And when you eat breakfast together, and he’s staring at you and you’re grinning right back at him, and the sounds of the chaos and the city and the world around him fade and everything is just you. You. You. You.

You’re out at the bodega down the street, grabbing more bandages and water. You’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.

You’re gonna be mad at him. He hates that.

But Matt Murdock showed up four minutes ago, and now the apartment is an absolute fucking wreck, and the lady down the hall is screaming and terrified because Dex had to use her as a human shield for a minute there, and you’re gonna come home to that wreck and worry but…

One good deed. He can do it now. Earn your forgiveness. Earn his redemption. If he doesn’t move now, he might lose his chance. And then what? What’s the point of living if it’s in a world absent of your love? Despite everything, he can’t help but fear a day when you decide that you can’t forgive him. That his sins were simply too much. Where you deprive him of the love you offer now because you just can’t seem to help it, where you stop smiling at him and letting him touch you completely.

No, he has to go now. Killing Fisk solidifies your forgiveness. Allows him to keep you. Keeps the world balanced right.

So he leaves. He leaves the apartment for the last time, and prays to whatever God might exist that you’ll forgive him.

- 

He throws the snowglobe. Plans the trajectory against Wilson Fisks’s swing. Watches the shard pierce Vanessa Fisk’s temple.

It was easy. Almost too easy.

But the bullet. That’s the problem. That landed home, and it hit all the wrong places.

He’s going to bleed out. You’re going to be upset.

But he did it. One good deed. He didn’t kill Fisk, but he killed Vanessa. At least, at the very least, he took that pain away. She ordered the hit on Foggy. Your friend. She made you hurt. She just made him the weapon. And now, she’s going to die.

-

“Mrs. Smithers, please shut up.”

She’s screaming, and crying, and you should probably be comforting her. ‘Tony’ just held a gun to her head, after all. And yet, you have bigger things to worry about.

Two minutes, and they’ll be here. Cops have been called. AVTF is on the way, guns blazing and you have seconds to find him and your heart is hammering in your chest in that familiar staccato beat.

Dex. Dex. DexDexDex.

There. The church. The fucking church, of all places.

Vanessa Fisk, mortally wounded. Daredevil and Bullseye at the boxing match. Dex Dex DexDexDex.

You smash your computer against the counter, cracking it in half, and bolt.

You take the fire escape, and begin scrambling down just as you hear them bursting into the hall.

And you pray, with every last shred of your desperate heart, that you’re not too late.

-

He’s bleeding out. He knows it. Seen it enough times to know he doesn’t have long, and Murdock isn’t gonna stick around to help him.

He misses you. He wishes you were here.

The dizziness of blood loss is a little frustrating, but Murdock is busy calling him a piece of shit. Fair. He shot his best friend, after all. If you’re still mad about that, it makes sense that he would be too.

“One last good deed.” He hums, propped up against the wall as blood leaks between his fingers, pooling onto the floor beneath him. “N’then she forgives me.”

“Asshole.” A whole conversation in the pews a minute ago, Dex’s whole speech about how he’s making it better and earning forgiveness and getting his mind back, and that’s all the guy can say. He thought lawyers were supposed to be more eloquent.

“Take care of her when I’m gone.” You. You. You. He sees Daredevil tense. He’s pissed at you, sure, but he cares about you. So Dex smiles, tired, and tilts his head back against the wall, confident in his next words. “Yeah, you will.” And if he ever touches you, Dex will return as a ghost and put a pencil through his eye. But hey, just something to worry about in the afterlife.

Murdock stutters some sort of apology. Has a whole little crisis about whether or not he can save him. He’s so stressed it’s almost funny, but he’s not gonna save Dex. He did it. He earned forgiveness. It’s time for judgement day.

The room pulses. The sounds of ATVF bootsteps echo above. His eyes close, and you’ll be okay. You forgave him. You didn’t admit it aloud, but he doesn’t need that. Never did.

Judgement day ticks ever-closer.

“Dex!”

His eyes open, and it’s too bright in the dark room. He’s too tired, but…

There you are. In the church and illuminated by low light like an angel. He smiles, bloody and exhausted and more than a little out of it. “Hey, baby.”

“Wake up. Dex, wake up.” You sound so panicked. So scared. For him. You love him. You. You. You….

“Dex! Fuck, please wake up. C’mon.” You’re pulling at him, trying to drag him across the floor and failing miserably, and he wishes you would just stay. Just admit that this is hopeless and let him hold you close. Admit that you love him, and that you need him, and let him feel your breath and smell your hair in his last few minutes on this earth.

“Fuck. Why are you so heavy?! Where’s Matt?” You’re trying to get your hands under his shoulders. It’s a little funny, but it hurts like a bitch when you jostle his bullet wound, so he grabs you and spins you down in front of him.

“In the wind.” He reaches up, fingers sliding over your cheek and smearing it with red. Fucking beautiful. They write poems about this shit. About women so lovely they steal souls and start wars. “You gotta go, too.”

“Fat fucking chance.” You press your forehead to his, unbothered by the blood, and cradle his own face in your hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”

Oh, that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. It’s the first time you’ve said it since that night on your kitchen floor, when you were still lying beneath him and still catching your breath and still all his after so much time. Back then, you whispered it like some horrible confession. Sweet music to his ears.

“My girl.” He’s fading. He’s fading fast. You hold him more tightly, smearing his own blood on his face as he does the same to you, the matching stains like a tether. Like a claim. “North Star….”

“Dex. Dex. Stop. Wake up. Don’t leave me don't you dare leave me-“

The sound of your voice is swallowed by the tide, and he doesn’t close his eyes, refuses to look away from you, but his vision begins to blur.

And then, from deep under the water, he hears it.

The door creaking open. Your panicked voice as your head whips to the side, dislodging his bloody hand from your cheek.

“Matt?! Matt! Help him! Please-“

…

-

You’re by his bedside. You have been for hours.

Karen is not happy with you. Neither is Matt. Soledad is stitching up Dex’s wound, pulling the bullet out, and he keeps waking up.

Not only does he keep waking up, he keeps jolting awake from the pain. Keeps squeezing your hand so tightly you wonder if he’ll break bone. Keeps finding your face in the haze of sleep and agony, and grinning like a lunatic when your eyes meet.

And then he’s healed. Somewhat. For now. And you’re fighting exhaustion of your own in the chair you’ve pulled up to the cot he’s asleep in.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Karen sounds pissed. You get it. But Dex is pale and his breathing is ragged and slow and you can’t let go of his hand.

“Hey, Karen.” The casual tone of your voice is insulting. You know it. You think you’ve been spending too much time with Dex.

“Him?” Matt isn’t here. Not now. You see sweat on Dex’s brow. Look down to make sure that his bandages are still in place. Every time his breathing slows even a little, your ears ring and your vision narrows.

“Yeah.” You don’t look away from him. You’re still covered in his blood. “Cute, right?” A lame joke, like he’s some boy you just met at the bar, rather than…well, fucking Bullseye.

“We’ve been trying to find you. We thought he kidnapped you.”

Your thumb trails its way over bruised knuckles again. “Well…I mean, he kinda did.” However things ended up that night after the party, you’re pretty confident that he wasn’t going to let you leave. Not without him.

“Are you sleeping with him?” You’re getting a little tired of the twenty questions.

“I’m in love with him.” You answer simply, and hear her suck in a horrified breath.

“He killed Foggy.”

“I know.” Dex stirs, just barely, like he might be reacting to your admission even in sleep. You squeeze his hand, and when you reach up to brush your thumb over his cheek he turns his face into your palm. “And I still love him. Isn’t that fucked up?”

-

He wakes cuffed to the cot. They’re worried about what he might do. Honestly, you’re surprised they didn’t cuff you too.

He winces as his eyes open, and smiles when they land on you. His low rasp of a voice is even more gravelly, hoarse with sleep and pain.

“Hey, baby.”

He always says that in the most fucked up situations. It always makes your heart beat a little faster.

He sits up, slowly, and pulls at the cuffs on the bed.

“Do your staples hurt?” You ask, eyes falling down to the bandages. 

He grunts in acknowledgment. “C’mere.”

You do, slowly, and it’s only then that he seems to notice the gun.

“You gonna shoot me?” He asks, smile widening a little as he tilts his head to the side.

“I might.” You reach down, slip a paper clip into the cuff on his right wrist, and hear it pop free. He makes a soft noise, rolling his wrist once before sliding his hand up your back as you sink down to straddle his lap.

He leans in to kiss you. You press the barrel against his forehead and push him back. He smiles even wider.

“You disappeared.” You hum, and he pushes his forehead a little more into the gun. “You tried to get yourself killed.”

“Balancing the scales.”

“You got shot. You almost died. I watched you die.”

“You love me.” He breathes it like the memory is a fucking treasure - a shot of heroin straight to the system. His hand tightens on your back, pulling you more firmly onto his lap.

“I still hate you. For Foggy.” It’s a lie, but it should be true. He hums, and you slide the gun around to his temple.

“You love me.” He repeats, and brushes his nose against yours.

“I do.” You admit, soft, and he kisses you. Hard. Slow. His fingers slide up into your hair, curling into a fist behind your head as he completely ignores the firearm digging into his skull.

You pull back, and push it in harder.

“Listen to me, Poindexter.” You murmur, low and dark as your own hand slides up to his hair, pulling his head back and making him groan as he looks at you with a blissed-out grin on his scarred face. “Never do that shit again. You don’t get to leave me. Not now, not ever.”

Words he’s said to you before, albeit in different forms, back when you told yourself you hated him.

“Never.” He agrees, and his eyes fall closed like he would die happy if you pulled the trigger right now. He opens them after a moment, and leans up to bump his nose against yours again. “Wanna put that down?”

“I could shoot you.” You don’t know why you’re saying it. You’re smiling too.

“No bullets.” He hums, pleased. “And it’s not loaded.”

You laugh, and wonder just how crazy you’ve become. “The FBI trained you too well.”

He uses his free arm to tug you a little closer, until there’s no more space between your bodies, and you drop the unloaded gun in favor of wrapping your arms around him again.

“Not the FBI. I know you.” He kisses you again, in that slow and determined way, and slides the palm of his hand up beneath your shirt. “Uncuff me.”

You smile, and shake your head. Push him back down and chase his lips with your own.

He hums, nips playfully at your lip, and tugs on the other handcuff until it rattles.

“You’re injured.” You murmur, muffled by his kiss, and he tangles his fingers in your hair again.

“Feels better.”

“Liar.”

He grunts, and rocks his hips against yours. “This feels better. Let me touch you.”

“You are touching me.”

“Let me touch you more.”

You reach down between you, as wrong and stupid as it is, and unbuckle his belt.

He makes a very pleased noise, and moves his free hand down to unbutton your jeans.

“Uncuff me.” He growls again, demanding, as you shuffle out of your pants and move to pull his down.

“No.”

He pulls you back down to him by the back of your neck, traces his tongue over your ear. “Don’t wanna do this with one hand.”

“I could cuff your other hand.”

He grunts, and the next roll of his hips is harder. More punishing. You gasp, control slipping a little more than you want to admit, and he pulls at the hem of your blood-stained shirt.

“Off.”

You comply, and he leans back to look you over like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. You love how he looks at you like that. You love him so much it hurts.

“Your staples.” You murmur, as he drags himself back up to a sitting position, pulling you more firmly onto his lap until you can feel the very prominent evidence of his desire against you.

“Doesn’t hurt.”

It’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to focus as he moves his hand down to slide your underwear over your legs. You maneuver to help him, and his own breath catches in his throat.

“Liar, liar.” It comes out as a whisper, soft and teasing as you press a soft kiss to his lips, and his own lips curl into a smile.

“I want it to hurt.” He noses at your jaw. Down to the hollow of your throat. “Reminds me I’m alive.”

You kiss him, hard, because he is alive and he’s here with you and you suddenly need him so badly it hurts. When you finally sink down onto his lap, bodies joining and breath shaking with the feeling of becoming one, he buries a groan into your hair, hips stuttering as you begin to rock against him. Your thighs burn already at the angle, and he meets your movements with his own as he crushes you to him. It must hurt, and you want to tell him so, but when you open your mouth he groans low against your neck and finds that spot that has your toes curling and hands flying up to find purchase on his shoulders.

You slide your hands over his cheeks, pull his face back so you can kiss him breathless, and pleasure begins to build almost alarmingly fast in your core. You almost lost him. You love him. He’s kissing you like you’re the only oxygen he’s ever wanted to breathe and dragging his rough palm up over your bare back as he meets your movements with his own. The cuff rattles against the chair, but despite his restricted movement and injuries he’s still using his one arm to move you in his lap, angling your body to hit that spot in your core that has you gasping desperately against his lips.

One particularly rough thrust has him hissing in pain, and the reminder of exactly why he’s hurting like this possesses you in the strangest way as you slide your hand down to grip his throat, forcing his gaze to your own.

And there’s so much power in it. In watching this large, scarred, deadly man stare at you like he’s in awe of your existence. The sight of it alone has you falling apart, moaning his name as your body spasms against his. He clings to you, and your hand squeezes around his throat as he pushes his forehead against yours like he’s drinking in the sight of you, too.

“Mine.” You whisper, and he falls over the edge so violently you wonder if he might pass out, hand dropping down to grip your thigh tight enough to bruise.

You sit there for a while, tracing your fingers down the scar on his back as he catches his breath with his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“I have to re-cuff you.” You murmur eventually, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. He uses his free arm to grip you tighter.

“No. Don’t move.”

“If they walk in here and see you uncuffed and inside me, they’ll probably cuff me too.” You hum, and feel him smile as his teeth dig playfully into your collarbone. You turn your head, lips brushing his ear in a conspiratorial whisper. “They think I’m crazy.”

He laughs, broad shoulders shaking as he pulls back to kiss you.

“Love you.” His fingers trace up your body, trailing slowly over your heated skin.

“Love you too, psycho.” You kiss his cheek. “No more suicide missions, or it’s both cuffs.”

Something sparks in his eyes. “Promise?”

“Both cuffs, and no touching.”

He frowns, and kisses you again like he’s trying to prove that he’s allowed to touch you now. “No more suicide missions.”

-

When Matt comes an hour or so later, you’re fully dressed and back in your chair at Dex’s bedside, one eye closed in concentration as you aim a knife at a bullseye you drew on the wall.

You throw it, and it bounces off the wooden surface and clatters to the ground.

“Flick your wrist.” Dex says, but his eyes are on you, hungry and dark. He’s tried to teach you how to aim weapons a few times before, and the lessons have more often than not been cut short by whatever seems to ignite in him like a bonfire at the sight of you holding a knife. It helps now that he’s in cuffs, but despite your activities earlier he looks damn close to trying to break out of them.

You pick up the knife, and try again. It sticks a little outside of the center, but it sticks. You turn to grin at Dex. He grins back, and the expression is downright feral.

“Uncuff me.”

“Bad boy. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

Any response he may have, inappropriate or demanding or whatever it may be, is interrupted as the door swings open and Matt walks in. Angry. Silent.

He uncuffs Dex roughly. Sits across from him and doesn’t even acknowledge you. Rude, but fair. You can still understand why he and Karen are so pissed at you, even if you find it a little difficult to care.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I hate you for Foggy. And Father Lantom. And Agent Nadeem.” Dex’s eyes are right on you as he rolls his wrists, stretching the no-doubt stiff muscles and seemingly oblivious to how off-putting it must be that he won’t even spare a glance toward the man telling him how much he hates him. “And I even hate you for what you did to her. Whatever you did that broke her mind.”

“Woah, hey. I’m of completely sound mind.” You snap, defensive. Matt doesn’t turn around.

“Your shirt is on inside out.”

You look down, flush, and look back up in time to see Dex smirk.

“Dick.” You grumble, because he definitely knew, and he definitely didn’t tell you on purpose. You frown at Matt again. “I didn’t uncuff him.”

“Not all the way.” Dex supplies, and you glare so hard his smirk turns into a manic grin.

“Shut up.”

“Stop. Both of you stop.” Matt snaps, annoyingly serious Daredevil voice and all, and it takes a significant amount of effort to swallow your response and sit back in your chair.

He talks about forgiveness. About how he needs it for his own sake, and not for Dex’s or even yours.

But you saw Matt’s face, when you found him at the gala. When he tried to pull you out of there before you got yourself hurt in your anger and grief. And in the church, when he pulled you and Dex to safety as you begged the near-unconscious man to stay with you. To live because despite it all you couldn’t fucking lose him.

He’s angry. He’s hurting. But he cares about you. And you care about him, too. Your love for Dex doesn’t make those years of friendship just go away.

And then, the ultimate question. Aimed directly at Dex. “So, do you wanna do one good thing in a life full of shit?”

Benjamin Poindexter turns to you. You smile at him, an entire conversation passing between the two of you in the span of a second before he rolls his shoulders and turns to Matt.

“What do you need me to do?”

-

The whistle echoes through the vast expanse of the room. Three floors up. Directly and strategically across from the courthouse.

Four ATVF officers whirl, guns raised, and…

And then lowered out of pure confusion.

A woman stands in the doorway, in casual clothes, with her eyes wide and her hands raised in shocked and horrified surrender.

“I-I was just looking for the bathroom.”

Shit. A civilian. They’re gonna have to figure out what to do with her, now. There’s no way she didn’t see the fake Bullseye across the room, and if she tells anyone-

“Wait, please don’t shoot! I know what you do, right? You’re the good guys? You find vigilantes and…you know…” she curls her fingers into the shape of a pistol, aiming at the closest officer’s head, and pretends to fire in demonstration.

Exactly where the woman ‘shot’ him, a knife appears, jutting out right between a pair of wide eyes.

He goes down.

She jumps, surprised, and inspects her hand with alarm like smoke might start coming out of her fingers.

And then, she aims again, almost experimentally, at the second officer. The moment she ‘fires’, another knife flies through the air and hits home.

Just as the shock begins to wear off, spurring the startled men into action, she lowers her other hand into the same shape, and ‘shoots’ the final two men in rapid succession before they can even think to lift their guns.

And then, when all that’s left is the ‘fake Bullseye’, who is still standing there frozen and confused, she laughs.

The sound of heavy bootsteps echoes through the room.

“That was even more fun the third time.” She says, tone bright and amused as she tilts her head back towards the source of the sound.

Bullseye, the real one, appears behind her, and his low chuckle is the most frightening sound the other man has ever fucking heard.

The new Bullseye fires his gun, and screams as his hand is impaled by a knife. He goes down, crumpling to his knees and cradling the bleeding appendage, and his counterpart walks casually forward with the mysterious woman behind him.

He’s only in pain for a few seconds, just long enough to be pushed to the ground, and just long enough to see the glimpse of another knife before it finds its home in his eye.

-

“Holy shit.”

“Hm?” The click of the rifle. The subtle shift of his shoulders as he adjusts his shot. So careful and calculated, and yet you can feel him locked in on every word. Every blink. Every movement.

Even with another target in sight, he is always focused on you.

“Matt just told everyone he’s Daredevil.”

Dex hums, cocking his head to the side. “And?”

“And he’s probably gonna go to prison for it.”

Dex loads the sniper, the shell of the bullet clattering onto the floor. “Prison’s not so bad.”

“Says the guy who broke out of it.”

“For you.” He turns, and you can see his eyes crinkle in the corners even if you can’t see him smile behind the mask. “For romance.”

You hum, and pop your headphone back into your ear, eyes moving back to the monitor as you sit cross-legged atop the table beside the gun. “You’re a fucking psychooo~” you sing, under your breath, and feel him catch your chin between his gloved fingers before you have time to look back up. He tilts your chin towards him, and you feel the warmth of his lips beneath the rough fabric of his mask as he pulls you into a kiss.

He moves back to the gun with the grace of a cat, satisfied, and you do your best not to worry too much about Matt Murdock. Your friend. Daredevil, who has just outed himself to the entire world and sealed his own fate.

The shot is fired and thus your location is given up. It’s time to go.

You hesitate. You sit by the computer, and you watch the screen after it goes blank.

A gloved hand comes up, a warm chest against your back as that same familiar hand guides yours away from your lips.

“What’re you up to?”

Dex’s couch, so long ago. Your eyes locked on a screen. Warm fingers curling around your own. You must have been biting your nails again. It must be late. You barely even heard him come in.

“Tech company. Innocent employee. Spreadsheets.” You tilt your head back, sleepy, and catch his lips with your own. “Not supposed to talk about it though, remember?”

“Criminal.” He kisses you again, but he’s smiling.

“Not technically.” You kiss him back, pulling him closer, catching his hand to guide him around the couch and over to you. “You gonna tattle, Special Agent Poindexter?”

“Never.”

“Time to go.” That same voice is lower now. Raspier. Still just as achingly familiar. So much has changed, and everything is so different, and he’s still so incredibly yours.

“Matt…” the word is released on a breath, and that breath feels too heavy. Too weighed down by memories. Matt. Foggy. Karen. So many memories. So much loss.

“Can’t do anything for him now, baby.” His nose against your temple, his arm around your waist. He took his mask off, at some point. “But if they catch us up here, it’s gonna be a lot worse for him.”

You turn, still frowning, still worried, and reach up to brush your fingers over the deep scar on his cheek. He tilts his head into the touch, like he always does, and smiles.

That smile, sweet and scarred and as familiar as the palm of your own hand, will always feel more like home than any place in the world.

And that’s how it was always gonna go, wasn’t it? Since the day you ran into him in front of that coffee shop, the night he kissed you for the first time, the moment you saw the bullseye etched on the door of your apartment…

It was always him. It was always going to be him. The trajectory of your life changed before you even knew it was happening, jolting in a different direction like a ricocheted bullet, and always still pointed home.

Home, to him.

You smile back, and meet his eyes.

“Where are we going?”

-

Benjamin Poindexter rolls a coin over his knuckles, glances out the window of the airplane towards the earth thousands of feet below, and smiles.

The flight attendant speaks to the man in the seat beside yours, welcomes him into the ‘Million Milers Club’ or whatever, and he does his best not to glare at the noise. The man is beaming - annoying -  but you would tell him that it’s rude to glare if you were awake.

Speaking of which, your head is snuggled up to his shoulder, breath soft and even and both arms wrapped around his bicep like he’s some kind of teddy bear, rather than a dangerous assassin.

Then again, you’re almost just as unhinged as he is these days.

He hums, content, and turns his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply and feeling you sigh and shift a little closer.

“You two seem happy.” The too-friendly guy in the seat beside you is smiling, and Dex resists the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you onto his lap, hiding you from the world because you’re his only his no one else-

He’s gotta reel that under control a little more. That possessiveness. But, well, you’re his. And he’s yours. Two sides of the same coin. Soulmates in every way.

And he knows that you do seem happy. You always do, because you are. You walked onto this plane together in an almost sickening display of blissful love. He lifted your bag into the overhead bin for you, pulled you into the seat after, wrapped his arms around you and basked in your laughter as he shamelessly pressed kisses to your neck and shoulder. You’d leaned back, grinned at him like you were the only two people on the plane, in the world, and slid your hand into his own.

No one suspected that you’d helped him kill people only a few hours before. That you washed the blood off of each other before you came to the airport.

He raises his eyebrows. Too-friendly Guy keeps going. “You headed to your honeymoon?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. He rests his chin on top of your head. He has a ring in his pocket, and when you land in the next country, and he gets the very first opportunity that comes his way, he already plans to drop to his knee and beg you to marry him.

But for now, he nods, and fixes the stranger with a practiced smile.

“Yeah.” He hums, feeling you shift comfortably against him, sighing contentedly against his shoulder. Perfect. His. “It’s long overdue.”

The man looks the two of you over, and seems to be about to say something else, but you shift again and Dex’s attention suddenly couldn’t be any less focused on him.

Honeymoon. Yeah, you’ll have a thousand honeymoons. A thousand lifetimes of happiness and togetherness and love so intense it’s taken lives, saved lives, shattered governments, and so much more.

There’s something that catches his interest the sixth week it happens. Like always you’re sat in the little corner of the small dinner he visits weekly.  You’re wearing almost the same outfit. A black bomber jacket that falls just below your ass. A washed out grey hoodie. A dark red scarf and a black cap that's been worn out and shredded over time. Sometimes you wear a black pleated skirt, but for the majority it's a pair of Adidas jeans,with three black stripes down the side and the dirtiest pair of converse he has ever seen. The same piece of gum has been stuck to the bottom of your shoe for at least two weeks. 

When you sit down in the corner you shed the bomber jacket and the scarf comes off with it, and then your hood comes up. He watches you press yourself deep into the cracked leather. The server will fill up two cups of the burnt dark roast coffee, always steaming, and then she’ll come over with a slice of cherry pie. It is cold at this time, the bottom is usually soggy. It's why he orders a slice of Banana Bread instead. 

He’ll watch you drink the two cups quickly. They do not get refilled and then he watches you stare at the cherry pie, watching the cream deflate for about fifteen minutes with your knees pressed against the table, tucked into yourself. You scoff it down  quicker than the coffee. You’ll slam down cash, leaving a two dollar tip. And leave. 

The whole thing takes 30 minutes exactly. He knows. He’s timed it thrice.

Every Wednesday for six weeks, around 7:15 you will enter that dinner. You will sit in the same corner booth. And then you will leave. You’ll stand outside with a cigarette hanging from your mouth, the lighter banging into your hand until it lights a strong enough flame. And then you walk away. 

On the seventh week, while you bang the lighter against your palm, eyebrows furrowed. You meet his eyes through the window, your expression doesn't change. You don't blink. Don’t shy away as he stares back. Unwavering until you light your cigarette and then turn back on to the street, the red glow of the neon light slips off your shoulders until you dissipate into the darkness. 

He can’t help himself, already piecing together the story in his mind. As you walk down the alleyway three men will come out.

One will push you against the wall searching your pockets, the other standing by the entrance of the alley keeping watch and the third will search your bag. They find nothing and because of this they get angry.

So, so angry.

He can’t imagine your face changing from the straight resting look you gave him. So he imagines that instead, a tear will slip out the side of your eye, and he can see his reflection in it  as he comes behind the guy that has pushed you into the wall. 

The guy pushes you into the wall with a knife, and his friends are already down on the floor. 

Yes. 

He did this quietly and quickly with a penny, because he never misses. 

And he imagines that the knife presses against your pretty little throat. Which he hasn’t seen yet. But he already knows how soft the skin will be. Because he's already imagined how he will hold it, without pressing. His fingers will caress softly. And you will whine.

The knife presses into your throat, but you don't look scared, and the assailant gets angry.

 And he's all like. “Look at me! Bitch, Fucking look at me” 

Dex would never call you a bitch. 

But you’ll look at him instead, eyes softening and the knife slips slowly and nicks the skin. Your breath will catch. But it doesnt even matter bcs the bad man is on the ground. Dead. Toothpick lodged through his skull.

That's about as far as Dex gets before he's slipping out the door to follow you for the first time, following a trail of ash.

Your red scarf billows in the wind, it's like a big red sign that says “Come quick! Follow me!” 

And so he does. It's a short ten minute walk before you cross the road and head inside an apartment building. He waits over the other side of the road. Watching at the windows until one on the third floor lights up a shade of orange and he watches a very solemn you. Pearing out the open window before shutting it. Light switches off and then  you move to what he believes is the bedroom, shedding your jacket and lying on top of your bed. 

He knows your routine by the end of the week. 

Following you to work at the little boutique, watching you through the window of some rundown coffee shop, dark roasted coffee burnt on his tongue, that's sacrifice. That's his good deed. He keeps you safe.

He’ll call your phone just to hear your little sighs, soft breathy “hello?” savouring those moments of bliss as he watches the phone press against the heat of your cheek. Your voice rings out like a good luck charm. Watching the huff of annoyance leave your lips as the phone slides down your face. ‘Cold-Caller’ you’ll think. You’ll go along with your day. No notice of who's watching. 

When lunch break rolls around you come to the coffee shop, ordering a light salad, black decaf. You take your seat outside on the bright and sunny days, pulling out books, ‘Bad Behaviour’ by Mary Gaitskill, ‘The Monk’ Matthew Gregory Lewis. Or tucked away in a big chair on the rainy ones.

You’ll trace the words with light fingers, taking your bottom lip into your mouth. One foot on the chair as the other rocks Back and Forth. 

Back and forth. 

You eat slowly, often never finishing a meal. But the coffee is always empty, it doesn't matter how bad the roast is. He thinks its pumping through your veins. 

After 30 minutes are up, you’ll pick up your stuff, and then walk back over the road, cigarette in your mouth, you tuck yourself down the alley next to the shop. Smooth clouds of smoke appear from the alley, and it's ten minutes before he spots you back in the shop window. Preening at the display. 

He’ll always spend lunch with you. Lunch break. He treasures this time with you. Soft fleeting moment, he's just feet away and you're so blissfully unaware.

He likes Saturdays  more, Saturdays finds you sprawled over the couch, a box of take out on the coffee table as you lounge about in underwear and a band shirt. Sometimes Thai food, often a cheap burger and fries. You'll eat half, the rest left in the fridge until you throw away the stale food. He’ll watch you guzzle down a glass of wine, and then watch something on tv. Something light hearted. He sees your eyes light up, giddy from the wine.

When the wine is finished, you'll stumble to the bedroom, pulling off your clothes. 

Wine makes your skin hot, he realises. 

Flushed and half naked, you pass out over the comforter, window open, blinds half shut. Lights still on. He’ll watch the way your chest lifts up and down slowly till you're asleep. 

The first time he did this he felt every nerve in his body light up with proverbial bliss.

Climbing through your window. Shutting the blinds slowly, he double checks the stove three times as he passes. When your skin has cooled and you start to shake, he drapes a thin blanket over you. He leaves two Advil and a glass of water near the coffee, just like you do. 

As another Wednesday rolls around over three months later, he's at the little support group you go to at six, just a short walk from the diner that sits halfway between your home. He decides it's time to insert himself into your life.

He hovers over the donuts with a steaming cup of black earl grey. He can smell you before he can see you. Cigarettes, Coffee and Whiskey layered over the fresh caramel smell of your perfume. Drug store. So he knows you sprayed it after your cigarette as you walked in. 

“They’re always stale, don't bother” you sigh, stirring the pack of Stevia into your coffee. 

It's the first time you've truly spoken to him, He doesn't reply. Too nervous to think. He never noticed you taking your coffee with anything.

His heart rushes. But your presence disappears. He repeats the words in his head until your voice merges into his and then he chooses a glazed donut. The sugar falls apart in his mouth, shedding like snake skin over the floor. And you’re right. The donuts are stale. And he takes to dunking them into his tea so they soften up. He wonders if that's why you order the cherry pie after this finishes.

He sits in the back row for the hour. Staring at the back of your head. Speaking is optional. And you don't make a move to stand, nor do you hang around after the hour is up. So he grabs his coat off the chair next to him and then follows behind you to the Diner. Where this routine starts, he sits at the counter this time watching you, he peers over a book he found in your apartment, some depressing little thing about memories and a library. He orders the cherry pie as well. He watches the cream melt and then takes a bite and a smile cracks into his face.

The pie is terrible. Bitter and sweet at the same time. The crust is warm, gooey but chalky from sitting under a heater all day. He wonders why you like it so much. The cream and coffee help the pie go down easier. When he turns his back to look at you again, you’re pulling your scarf and bomber jacket on. He watched nimble fingers pull out the pall malls from your coat pocket, the pack rattles and you pull out the lucky last cigarette. 

Lucky indeed. 

It takes place in the corner of your lips, and the cash is placed onto your table, a few extra quarters this time. You smile. For the first time. 

And something in his gut tells him something bad is going to happen. He watches you adjust your hat. You take a few steps before stopping in front of him. Grin on your face. You pause. And then walk away. Your posture is different. You stand straighter.

When he follows you home this time, your body sways into the music from the street, you’re almost skipping. He catches up with you fast and dashes for the building on the other side of the road, he sprints up the steps and takes his place on the rooftop, looking through the scope of his gun.

A few minutes past and the light switches on, you shed off your clothes, even your hoodie this time, and you’re wearing a tight black long sleeve that stops an inch before your baggy jeans. 

The sliver of skin gives him goosebumps, you bend down to what he thinks is your liquor cabinet. The shadow that falls over your face shows you’re still smiling. You pull out the whiskey. Glass on the counter. And you pour half a cup. His sight follows you as you shuffle towards the bathroom. 

His heart starts to pound on his chest and he's already got an inkling of what you may be up to. 

Your hand reaches the medicine cabinet and you pull out the codeine pills that have sat in there untouched for months. 

He swallows as he watches you dance towards the counter pills in hand. When you get there you reach for your phone, and then count out the pills in a neat little line. 

He’s seen you do this five times before, but never with a smile on your face, you have never danced your way into any room, nor had you skipped home. 

Usually after counting them out, you had pushed them all back into the counter, taking your head into your hands, rocking back and forth and then bringing the pills back into the bathroom, emerging with a shiny flushed face.

And so Dex watches you gather the pills into one hand and grab the glass with the other, he watches your head tip back, bringing you hand to your mouth, full of pills. 

Anyone else and he wouldn't care. But he's been stuck in this routine, for months now, he's been on the right track. He's being good, he thinks you can make him better. 

He knows he can help you. 

Help you.

Help him. 

Together.

He pulls out a hair clip of yours, dropped from your hair weeks ago, fished away into his pocket like a prize. Flinging it through the open window, where it wedges itself between the bones in your hand holding the pills. 

You let out a cry, so with taken from the impact you drop the pills, they scatter all over the floor. He watches your eyes look upwards to where the clip was thrown from, blood trickling down your hand. And then you spot him. Well his shadow. You’re sneering.

Looming over the building just over the road, he watches you approach the window slowly.

He thinks you curse at him. He sees you shout. Should’ve wired the place.

He watches you run to the bathroom, pulling out the little piece of metal. Lips wobbling, wrapping your hand in a towel, your face scrunches up. He thinks you’re going to cry. But then your body rocks back and forth like your laughing, mouth wide open. 

He wishes he could hear it.

You fall asleep in the tub, but you wake up bandaged in bed. The pills are gone. The whiskey has been drunk. 

You don't even think to ask any questions. You already know.

You know you’re being followed. Stalked, even. Mugs moved around, panties missing. Lip balms that had been placed in coffee tables bowls, are gone. Sometimes the bed is made, sometimes the washing is done or your favourite candy is sitting on the counter waiting for you when you get home.

You see his figure looming over the building every night. Always gone in the morning.

This happens for weeks, months even. You half expect him to clamber through the window when you can't sleep. Waiting for the day the door swings open.

You focus on other things, like the cute guy that's started coming to the support group. Never speaking, always sat at the back. You'll catch a glance of him at the coffee station. Never finding the words to say to him. 

Until one time, you're late. You find yourself rushing to make a coffee at the back of the hall, scalding hot water rushing out the catering urn. 

“Fuck” you shout in pain. You look behind you after a shush rings out, smiling apologetically, the speakers go back to talking. And you press your hand against the water cooler to ease the pain of your burning skin.

“Here” 

Your ears perk up, looking behind you, finding the cute guy from the Diner. He's handing you a handkerchief. You pat your hand dry of water. “Thank you” you smile towards him.

“Theres a small kitchenette that way, if you want to run your hand under water” 

You nod, taking a leap of faith. “Could you show me?”

He nods in return. You find yourself following after him, as he leads you to the cold kitchen. Slightly rundown. Mold dusts the pale yellow walls. He guides your hand over to the sink, feeling his jacket brush over your hoodie. 

You drop his handkerchief on the counter. Hes so close you can smell his cologne. He starts the tap, double checking the temperature before pushing your hand gently under the stream. You sigh, the cool water easing the pain. His hands leave yours.

“Im Dex” You smile, sharing your name in return. He speaks your name like he's tasting it on his tongue. It rings out slowly in his deep voice.

“What do you do for work, Dex?”

“I work for the FBI” 

“Oh, shit that must be hard, makes sense why your here” you scoff.

“Yeah, It’s hard. It's really hard. But I like it, I'm good at my job, I like knowing I'm protecting people, what do you do?”

“I work at some snobby boutique, it used to be a second hand shop. But the owner decided she wanted something more elevated” you roll your eyes. “ So now we sell Moroccan scarfs and beaded jewellery.”

“Doesnt look like your type of stuff” he smirks. Eyes running down your body “You seem a little edgier than that” 

Is he flirting?

“I think she kept me around, because I have the resting bitch face that scares old women to come in and buy a forty dollar plastic tote bag with ‘she who is brave is free’ written in silver ” 

You turn your hand under the tap, watching water droplets run.  His gaze follows yours. Eyebrows furrowing, “I wanted to be a writer, I-um, moved here for college, but I dropped out. Because im a~failure”

“I'm sure you're not,” he argues. You watch his eyes falter, grin fading. Jaw clenching.

“No, It's true. I never finish anything. I’ve been engaged twice and I called them off. I've tried to leave my job six times but everytime I go to hand in my resignation letter I just feel this pull to not do it. I've written four books without endings.  It's why I'm here. Because I can't go through with it, I have it all planned out and I just can't. I line up all the little pills, the exact amount I need but I just put them back in the pot.” Your head tilts forward. Hat hiding your face. “Its like every time I go to reach the finish line, I turn back.” You pause, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes are restless. “ shit, sorry I shouldn't have said anything. You're probably not even trained to deal with that.”

“That sounds hard, You're not a failure. Even if you think you are. But, it seems like you're clinging on just a little. Why would you be here, if not?”

You pull your hands towards your face, water splashes up your chin. “ I just want to know if other people have it worse, does that make me a bad person?” you shake your head, removing your hands “God you're easy to talk too. Some kind of bullshit fbi technique to make me comfortable I bet”

He doesn't say anything. Instead he grabs the handkerchief of the counter, moving it towards your face, brushing the droplets of water off of your cheeks softly. You look away from his eyes shyly. 

“Do you wanna grab a coffee after this” you utter.

“Is that okay with this group?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Its a suicide prevention group. I'm not trying to thirteenth step you." You watch his face for any sign of agreement. “ It's fine we don’t have to, actually I should probably go home. I think I-um, left the oven on?” you send him a quick smile, “ and 

I don't want a fire, aha” you walk out the kitchenette shaking your head. Not bothering to finish the session. Windbiting your wet cheeks as you leave.

You find yourself praying for comfort at home, a hand on your back. A  thumb grazing your cheek. The bag of candy is left on your counter like always. You want him to break in. You just want comfort. Someone . You pray to god for someone. Bent over the counter. Watching tears run down the wood.

a/n part two shall be with your shortly, if u would like to be tagged, pls comment!

@poruchik-logy

　You’re not sure what life in your small town was like before you were born. You can imagine it’s not too different from what it is now though. The thing about old country towns is they never seem to change. Open fields and miles of farmland. Two gas stations, one grocery store, a few family owned vegetable stands or in-home produce product shops. Only one notable neighborhood where the majority of the townspeople lived if not hidden somewhere else in the countryside. And too many churches to keep track of if the abandoned ones were included in the count. 

You like to think your parents were happy before you too. Hopeful and optimistic when offered to take over your uncle’s farm. Excited for the next step in their relationship after their marriage. They were the ideal family dream coming to life: high school lovers, engaged after graduation, married, a career handed to them through family with a large property of land and lovely farmhouse. All that was left was to grow that family. To have children to not only help tend the fields and animals but run around barefoot, all smiles, and wide eyed. 

You were positive that it was something they wanted. 

But life couldn’t have been that easy for them; it would’ve been too gratuitous of a blessing.

The day you were born, your father knew there was something greatly wrong with you. He claimed that on the day you ripped your mother open, screaming and crying, that God spoke to him for the first time. He called it divine intervention. Believing the birth of your soul was a red-herring of all that was set to come but God would show him the light, the truth: that you were nothing short of evil and needed saving. 

That year on the farm there was nothing but death. It only furthered your father’s harsh thinking of you. The crops and produce either died or rotted before it had the chance to grow or ripe. The animals were dropping dead from unknown illnesses. Every female livestock that gave birth passed in doing so. Barely any profits were made that year. Taxes were rising and so were the prices of nearly everything. It was a huge toll for your family, especially when raising their first child. Before you were even conscious of the situation everything was already deemed your fault. 

Through the harrowing struggle, your father’s optimism turned to resentment. He claimed that bringing you to the farm was not like bringing a daughter home, but a corrosive parasite. He believed that you were the reason for the life being sucked away from their perfect farm life. So, he turned to the only thing that he could trust to save the family from your curse: God. Begging and pleading through prayers every morning and night to the sky for a better season. 

He studied religion here and there before taking over his brother-in-law's farm but with the farm failing for the first time, he took a change of career paths. He was already well known among the locals, close with the church goers in the community. And somewhere along the way, he managed to start preaching himself. Nearly every christian in your town moved churches to follow where he went. Like sheep to a shepherd. 

If only they knew what you did, what he was truly like behind the closed doors of your home. How his devotion was turning to violence. Day by day, becoming uglier. 

While your father busied himself with his new found family, often away from home on the farm, the crops and animals began to thrive again. Slowly but surely, growing and regaining health. He would say it’s God’s doing, a small taste of His salvation. 

Your early years were mostly troubled by the relationship of your parents. Too young to fully understand their disputes, drawing at the kitchen table with their yelling sounding the house. It was always about you, that much you knew. Because you watch and you listen. Quick to learn that they tried for another child but never had any success. They wanted someone else to be their baby. Something that felt more like a blessing than you. Your father constantly spitting in your mother’s face that you were the rot to the fruit of her womb. And then he would always end up leaving by slamming the door and your mother would always join you at the table with tears and a bottle of wine. You always just watched, listening in silence. Perhaps just born resilient.

Growing up was different for you compared to most of the kids in your town. You never had the opportunity to make many friends being homeschooled. The only time that was spent around others your age was kindergarten. Kindergarten was short lived because of your behavior; the teachers at school were concerned about you. How you were mean, rough, and sinister with your actions towards others. Picking on the kids you were simply interested in because of how different from you they were. Drawing pictures of gutted cattle or dead, half developed baby chicks still in their shell and giving them as gifts to the teachers. Sharing to classmates the cruelty of farm life and why it was pretty with a smile. 

Your father loved to find out about this, you could see it in his eyes. The way they were wicked and screamed I told you so to your mother. You didn’t understand why it was bad or caused trouble. You were only having fun for the first time. The way the kids ran away crying or the teachers wore faces of shocked horror, it made your insides light up in joy. A new feeling—a sense of excitement. You didn’t know it was sick. And of course, it was taken from you. You were removed from school and your mother became your teacher. Your classmates became stuffed animals and the real ones in the barns. It was hard for you to find that joy you briefly felt with others. 

Sometimes you had a glimpse of it again when your father would punish you. But even that you grew sick of. The mess, the stench of it all. Sticky and red, worse in the heat of summer. He drilled the sick moto for his actions into your head, “I know no punishment, only mercy.”

Father took you both to church more often after that. He had a false image to uphold afterall, one of a happy, God loving family. In his ego he had to prove that his preaching and prayers could fix you, save you. But that was only admitted at home, loud and scary to your mother. Your poor mother, weak and defensive of you, eventually waved her white flag. You wished she kept fighting for you and that she wouldn’t begin to see you the way your father did. 

Childhood and adolescence was a string of questions about yourself. Never quite finding out what made you so bad to be seen as devilish when all you thought of yourself was curious. Perhaps just unlucky to be correlated with negative happenings on and off the farm, always gone without a chance of understanding. Despite it all, you knew well enough the way your parents talked and looked at you was without unconditional love. 

On your 17th birthday, the family dynamic made the biggest shift to be experienced. 

At this age, you had such a strong sense of independence and with the lack of parental guidance and monitoring, you would leave town when you could. Ride your bike down the long road to the bus stop at the center of town and take the bus into the city over. Your mother was generous with allowance and you saved your money well, only spending it on books or trips to the movie theater. A form of escape that allowed you to learn more about the world and all the things your parents tried to keep hidden from you. A way to learn how to be human. 

So when your father was tearing your room apart in search of the same gift he re-gifts you every year, he found some things that made his stomach churn. Every year for your birthday he rewrapped the same, first ever, bible he’d given you. Funny enough that he gave you anything at all considering he never even referred to it as your day, only his day of revelation. And to his disgust, on his sacred day, he found books and journals of explicitly detailed copulation and debauchery. 

He almost fainted. Stumbling over his own feet, hands shaking as he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the words on the pages. That was the only time you smiled on that day. Just for a second. And then a glimpse of hell broke loose. 

In a rage, he destroyed everything. Your mother stood next to you in tears, telling him to stop and stop. Her hands covered her face but she saw everything through her fingers. You only watched in silence, hands balled in fists by your side. A silent hatred and anger coursed in you. He called you names that no man of God should, especially to his own daughter. 

“You’re a disgraceful deviant of Satan! I should’ve known. My own day of revelation is a curse!” You watched him rip pages apart, his voice booming through the house. “Years spent praying for you and this is how you turn out?! Succumbing to nothing but a dreaming whore?!”

A part of you liked his mean words. It was so rare for him to use such colorful language. 

You knew what would come next. He was going to have you ‘cleansed’. Something he always did when he discovered something new and sacrilegious of you. 

But it didn’t come. Because there was no dying, old sheep on the farm at the time. He did make a promise to not forget though. A promise to have you washed in sacrificial, blessed blood on a day you least expected. 

Your father left after that, leaving you and your mother behind. He moved to the city to continue his preaching at a larger church. He became known as the closest reverend to God for miles and miles. Lost in his ways, he only made visits when he needed to sort things out for the business of the farm.

You were content with his departure, yet couldn’t quite understand why your mother missed him. As far as you’ve seen, he was never kind towards either of you. 

　But now, it’s several years later. And although you’re free of your father’s heavy presence and homilies, he still makes his trips to the farm. You can feel the air change whenever he does, as if you’ve gained a sixth sense for his coming. Naturally intuitive to things having spent your childhood walking on eggshells in your own home. 

And today, the air feels particularly chill for summer. The breeze sweeps in through your open window. The forecast called for nothing but sunshine all week, yet there’s an angry, dark cloud hanging over your farm. A foreboding feeling shivers through you, and you know he’s going to fulfill his promise today. You sigh and slide out of bed. “Let’s get this over with.”

You spend the morning doing your usual routine. Brushing teeth, washing your face, then dressing in farm work attire. Your breakfast consists of tea and your mothers homemade strawberry scone. Next is tending to the animals. Your mother usually takes care of the crops and gardening. It’s a quiet and early morning, as most are. The both of you keep to yourselves, just doing what needs to be done day by day. 

The sound of a car is heard coming down to the long dirt road and you know who it is by the sound. It’s a fancier vehicle than the one he left this property with years ago. A meaner part of you likes to think his greedy hands got into that mega church’s donations but you’re too self aware of the successful farm your family owns. 

Your father parks in front of the house and your mother is quick to rush over to him, presumably with many questions: How have you been? Are you hungry? Thirsty? What brings you here so early in the month? 

You roll your eyes at her desperation to cling onto the relationship that clearly ended when you were a child. 

You place a hand on your hip, leaning your weight to the side that isn’t carrying the heavy bucket of chicken feed. Walking away from the coops and back towards the shed by the house, you make eye contact with your father despite only taking a glance. 

He watches you with narrow eyes from the lowered window of the car he’s still sitting in, very much not listening to a word your mother is saying. 

He calls your name before you can open the shed. Spinning on the heels of your boots, you turn around with raised brows of questioning. 

He mouths the words sacrificial tree as he exits the car. Your mother sees this. She wears pained disappointment as she scurries away. Presumably to the barn where the sheeps and lambs are kept. She might as well be a sheep too, you think. 

The bucket slips from your fingers and drops to the patchy dirt grass by your feet with a thud, spilling over in a mess that will be cleaned later. 

You don’t bother giving him a nod of understanding. You just turn around and begin your walk to the tree line where the man made path is. Knowing it would take some time for his preparations, you walk to the lake that’s hidden behind the farmland. 

It’s a brief walk through your familiar woods. Once at the short wooden dock, you sit down at the end, taking in the gloomy summer scenery. A light fog hugs over the water. You bring your knees to your chest, in your sitting position, and hug yourself the same way. 

This is your favorite place out of all the land your family owns. It’s serene, mostly. Always quiet. You’re the only one who comes here. And it’s nice to swim with when the weather warrants it. There’s a feeling here that’s hard to feel anywhere else you find yourself. Sometimes you imagine what it would be like with someone else, but you doubt it would be as nice. Trouble has a way of following you, it seems. You frown at the thought. 

It’s silent like this for a few minutes, just you trying to find a sense of calmness before the impending chastisement. Then you hear some rustling of leaves, heavy footsteps following. You don’t turn around yet, you only wait for the call of your name. Your time of tranquility is too brief. You sigh before giving yourself a squeezing hug. 

“It’s time,” the reverend calls out loudly, “quickly now, we have new farmhands arriving soon.” The sound of his feet walking away is when you stand. You wave a goodbye to the foggy lake before parting ways. Your feet move unconsciously, taking to where your body knows to go. 

Leaves crinkle underneath your boots and twigs snap. The trees’ branches sway in the gentle morning breezes that pass. 

In the mix of the small forest, man made crosses of sticks or plywood are spaciously scattered. Like a graveyard to all your bad doings. Most small but one large. Old rotted wood that stands crooked and begging to fall over right next to the largest, strongest tree. Your eyes, that are trained to ground, move upwards the cross and then to the tree. Your father stands there with a large knife in hand. Your mother waits cautiously not too far away. Her demeanor is frightful as if this is the first time. Coward.

An old sheep hangs by its hind legs from a sturdy tree branch. Unmoving and defenseless. Big beady, dumb eyes look in all directions but you. You think it must feel the same guilt as yourself, sorry that its life purpose is to embarrass you, make you hate what you are. 

“God told me to make a sacrifice to prove my faith. He guides my hand in washing your soul clean of sin. So here I am with our blessed, dying lamb.” He’s said this every time. His voice is always miserably rehearsed and preacher-esque. 

You thought long ago that this was their, the lambs, only use on the farm. It’s a shame. All that devotion has made him so ugly and violent. 

You make small steps closer to the lamb. It’s whining in bleat baas and mehs. Does it know what’s happening? Is it scared? You like the lambs, sheeps. Pure white, soft, and docile. They never fight back. They just take it. I doubt they need restraints. You could hold them above me just the same and they’d never resist. 

“Move faster, for the love of God. Yeah, stand right there underneath like you know how to.” He instructs you, annoyed. His patience running thin as the distant sounds of a truck makes way down the dirt road to the farm property. 

“Okay…” You don’t fight him, with arms crossed behind your back and a hand squeezing around your own wrist, you move closer. Maybe you’re a lamb too. 

Maybe all your father really was is the executioner. 

He raises the knife as he begins to speak, it slides over its cotton, white throat but does not cut, “Revelation 7:13-17 Then he told me, ‘These are those who come from the great tribulation, and they’ve washed their robes, scrubbed them clean in the blood of the Lamb. That’s why they’re standing before God’s Throne. They serve him day and night in his Temple. The One on the Throne will pitch his tent there for them: no more hunger, no more thirst, no more scorching heat. The Lamb on the Throne will shepherd them, will lead them to spring waters of Life. And God will wipe every last tear from their eyes.’” He slits its throat in a quick, harsh movement. The blood spills just as fast, squirting spurts of red before it comes pouring down onto you. “Face up,” you obey even though it brings you rage, “it ought to cleanse those unholy thoughts I know that are still in there.” 

Head raised to the sky with eyes and mouth squeezed shut, you let it consume you. Warm, thick and wet washes down from your head onto your clothes then down to your feet. The smell of animal, metallic iron covers you. It’s sticking to your hair, eyebrows and lashes. You can already feel your clothes clinging to your skin in the dirtiest ways. 

You stand there, drenching in the its blood. Your father speaks again, firm and slow, “Say it with me now, ‘I know no punishment, only mercy.’” All you feel is the animal’s rain of life flooding you.

You open your mouth to speak but are quick to spit and cough out the blood that manages to get into your mouth. Smack. 

“I don’t have time for this,” his voice sounds like an echo, your head is ringing from the harsh swing of his hand. The skin of your cheek stings. He hits like a bitch, you think. “Say it with me now, dammit!” You can feel him wipe his bloodied hand on the side of your shirt. 

You step back from under the red shower. “I know no punishment, only mercy.” Your words align with his in the perfect paced harmony you’re trained to do so. Enunciated, slow and strong, through gritted teeth.

There’s a beat of silence before the sound of your parents footsteps walking away. 

Standing there in red, yet to open your eyes, you breathe out a shaky sigh of defeat. It sounds more like a growl. With the mostly clean hands you kept safely behind you, you bring them up to wipe the blood from your face. You don’t dare to look at the dead animal in front of you. Being covered in it is enough alone to make you feel sick. 

You think of going back to the lake, jumping in and letting the blood wash off you there, but knowing you’d either walk back with further drenched clothes or naked didn’t seem like options you wanted to deal with either. So you just head back to the house. It’s a slower walk than need be, but you just felt like avoiding the eyes of the newcomers, hoping they’d be off in the fields or in a barn by the time you walk through. You feel numb. 

You’re wrong though, by the time you’re passing the barns and coops, the group of new farmhands are already lined up outside the horses’ stable. Your mother is talking to them, although not all are paying attention. Only a few pairs of wide eyes follow you. Catching the sight of you must really shock them but you can’t blame them. Something about this makes you excited. You stop in your tracks and look around to see if your father’s car is gone. It is. The realization feels like a wave of relief and it suddenly feels brighter outside already. 

You take a glance down to your disheveled appearance. Shirt, pants, and boots painted like the barns. You look back to the group, brushing the soiled hair back from your face. Some pieces stay stuck, in the early stages of drying against your skin.

It’s safe to have a little fun. 

You begin a slow walk over to the group. You take a headcount and there’s five of them. Two younger men, closer to your age. The other three look a bit older, not by much but definitely older. Your mother is yet to turn around from whatever rundown she’s giving them. Too dense to even recognize that now none of them were paying any attention to her. 

You creep up beside her and open with, “Hello,” your voice is louder than even you’ve heard it be in a long time. It’s nice to be heard, noticed. You usually avoided the farmhands, but this summer was going to be different. You decided this on the walk over. 

Being cooped up on the farm for so long made you different, it’s obvious to anybody. Not properly socialized in your developmental years caused you to be an anomaly to the ones who did come across you. Enigmatic from far away and up close. Now isn’t the greatest example though, the situation is too clear as to why. 

Your mother turns to you, gasping and jumping back slightly in the shock of your gross state and sudden introduction. “My goodness, girl, whatta ya doin’ here like this?” Her voice is hushed, clearly unsettled with the situation. 

They all just stare at you, open mouthed and bewildered. You take the time to get a good look at each of them up close. Your eyes follow their faces individually down the line. And then they stop. 

At the end of the line is a man more beautiful than the ones you’ve seen in the movies. You feel stuck in time, left with parted lips, staring at the man before you. And far too intently for your character. He stands tall, sharp, pale, and elegant. What is a boy like this doing here? He averts his eyes from you, clearly uncomfortable by what’s before him. He looks uneasy, shifting his weight foot to foot with his hands behind his back. His pretty eyes glance around from you to your mother to the other men and the ground. He simply doesn’t know what to do with himself. You find it dangerously darling of him. 

You don’t even realize the small smile that takes your lips. You step closer to him and he steps back, now looking at you with wide eyes of small fear. You extend your hand to him, it’s coated in drying blood. He gulps and the sight, his adam’s apple bobbing in such a biteable neck stirs something in you. This will be far more fun than you intended. 

You say your name softly for introduction and step a little closer, “Nice to meet you," you feign cuteness as much as you can, looking up at him through your blood clumped lashes. It’s clear to everyone there is something off; there’s little to no real emotion behind your voice and face. 

Your mother eyes you suspiciously as you corner the handsome man, but she says nothing. Sometimes she fears you too. 

He looks from your eyes to your hand, having an internal battle with himself on what to do, “Ah, I am Sunghoon... Nice to meet you too.” His politeness must be stronger than his frighteness, because he takes his hand in yours and shakes it gently. His hand is large in yours, nearly covering it entirely. You squeeze it hard, your eyes never leaving his, trapping him in the scene. 

He wants to look away, to hide somewhere. The way his skin crawls tells him he’s a prey already in the mouth of a predator. And you know he’s nervous under your intense gaze because your hand feels like a lamb is still bleeding above you. His palms are sweating, and it’s nowhere near hot enough for that yet. Your smile grows to a smirk. 

Although you’re wearing the lamb, having Sunghoon’s hand in yours made you feel like a wolf. 

　Sunghoon’s first day of his summer job starts off duller than he imagined. The sun isn’t out this morning and it only intensifies his anxiousness, as if the grey skies reflect his inner emotions. He’s already new to the area, away from home and staying in an apartment not far from his college in the city. A private, christian school that he studied hard to get into with his friend. He wishes his best friend and roommate, Jake, was joining him in this job, but Jake already had plans to teach at a summer soccer camp for kids through their school. 

He found this opportunity through the college church they attend together. A reverend from another church in the city came to visit one Sunday, handing out flyers to the young men in hopes of finding farm help. The pay is good and the bus fairs to the small town over where the farm’s located is covered. He’s never done work like it before, nevertheless was he going to let a simple offer pass him up. 

Things are going smoothly to start, being told how to care for, clean, and feed the animals to crop preservation. Everyone would have their own specific roles on the farm. Sunghoon was assigned the easier of the tasks, either feeding animals or watering and fertilizing the vegetables and fruits crops. He learns there are already regular farm workers that would come throughout the week to collect produce, material, and use the machinery for the more laborious work. And if she wasn't around when needed then they could ask any of the regular employees for assistance or find her at the house. 

As the farm owner is about to give details on the horses’ maintenance, a girl saunters in. And the anxious feelings become of Sunghoon all over again. His eyes are wide, taking in her appearance. The smell of the farm dissipates and putrid copper takes over. The worst part is how calm she appears, and the fact that she’s unbothered with all that she wears. 

He thinks his brain short circuits, everything seeming muffled and unreal. He doesn’t even realize he introduced himself or touched her. It all was too quick and unfamiliar for him to grasp. 

He watches as she walks away, back to the house that sits slightly over the hills and valleys of the property. His expression is blank, blinking slowly at the strange girl then down to his hand that’s stained red too. 

“Don’t pay her no mind,” the woman speaks up, she sounds as if she’s warning them. “Just get yer work done and when everyone’s finished y’all can head back home. I won’t ask too much of ya in yer first month here, alright? That might be a different story later.” She tries to end the statements in humor with her forced laugh. 

Sunghoon nods but his eyes don’t leave his dirty hand. The other men nod along too and give their ‘yes, ma’ams’ in return. 

The woman continues walking them around the farm, listing rules and guidelines they must follow, along with advice and tips for the work they’ll be doing. 

The day flows as easy as it can for Sunghoon. He doesn’t talk much with the other farmhands. He also doesn’t know them well enough to be comfortable in their conversations, so he just exists in awkward silence, sometimes reacting. While they can joke around and find fun in the work, his mind keeps wandering off to the girl from earlier, to you. How your empty eyes held onto his and small hand even tighter. He thinks the palm of his hand still burns from the interaction. 

Around the afternoon time, Sunghoon and the guys are sitting around a picnic table near the house. The sun is beating down on them all now while they chug down water and eat their lunch. The owner was kind enough to provide their refreshments and meals. They were all thankful. 

She adds that there’s a small lodge up the dirt road. It’s a little old but homey and has space with two spare bedrooms if they need to wash up or rest at any time. It was originally built for the farm workers that worked late and needed a place to stay if need be. 

Once done, the boys stand up and talk about what they have left to do. The next bus back to the city isn’t running for another two hours so they speak of taking some leisure time and exploring the farm property. Meanwhile Sunghoon is still sitting, watching them huddled in conversation. He wipes some sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand as they begin walking towards the fields.

Sunghoon, taking what the farm owner had mentioned previously, decides that he’d like to stay inside to get away from the beating sun for a while. So he gathers his trash to throw away in the bin by the road near the house’s mailbox and begins his walk to the lodge. 

Once inside he takes in the rustic, outdated furniture. It’s a little dusty and the floorboards creak beneath his feet but he finds it somewhat comforting. The living space has two couches by an old stone fireplace, a center table with board games and cards, a kitchenette, and a large dining table with enough space to seat six people. 

The decor is very farmers-life-esque. From a cow print rug in the small kitchen area to the antlers mounted on the wall near the dining table. There’s scenic southern paintings hung up along with antique crosses and prints of bible verses, all adoring the faded and peeling floral wallpaper. Above the fireplace hangs a painting depicting Jesus healing a blind man. 

He walks down the only short hall in the lodge to find the two spare bedrooms the woman had mentioned along with a bathroom. He takes this time to wash his hands thoroughly and splash some cold water on his face. With his hands resting on the sink, he stares at himself in the mirror. The cold drops of water slip down his face, jaw, and back into the sink. 

In his mind he’s questioning whether or not he’s sure of this job. It’s all too different from what he knows and he can’t help but feel out of place here. With a sigh, he drops his head and watches the water slip down the sink. 

He jumps slightly at the sudden sound of the front door opening and closing, not expecting the others to join him here quite yet. No noise follows the action for a moment, not even footsteps. Then there’s the sound of a click, like the door is being locked. He straightens his posture and peaks out the bathroom door, listening for their voices or any sound other than silence. It offers nothing to him so he begins to feel tense. 

“Hello?” Sunghoon calls out skittishly, but there’s no response. His heart rate picks up a little and he starts to think the boys are trying to pull some sort of childish prank on him. He leaves the room and makes slow steps down the hallway to the main area of the lodging house. 

As he rounds the corner he doesn’t find any of the boys there though, he just sees you. His heart jumps at the realization. Sitting on the couch, in overall shorts and nothing else. Bare legs crossed and hands against the couch by your sides as you watch him peer around the corner with apprehension. You’re  just sitting there, leaning forward and waiting for him to come find you. 

Cowardly, Sunghoon makes a half turn. He presses his back against the wall of the hallway as if he could hide away or disappear into it. He even closes his eyes, thinking of a quick prayer to save him from this circumstance. 

“Are you pretending to be shy or are you really this cute?” Your voice is teasing, and he can hear the wicked smile in it without seeing. 

Feeling caught, he just sighs and slowly makes his way to the living area. He tries not to look at you, thinking you are too revealing. So he looks everywhere else and then to large windows that give view to the farm; none of the guys are in sight. Most likely somewhere goofing off. All he can see is the fields and farm buildings standing large in the distance. 

He doesn’t move and speaks softly, “I should probably go find the others-”

You speak before he can finish his attempt of an excuse, “Come sit with me.” You pat the space on the couch next to yourself. Your voice sounds welcoming but he knows there’s an undertone of mischief. 

He makes a quick glance to you and sucks in a breath at the view of your body that’s exposed from your overalls. The glimpse of the curve of your breast disappearing under the denim already makes him feel like he’s seen too much of you. And he has. He’s never seen such bare skin on a girl and he’s never been alone in a room with one either. 

“Come sit with me, now.” You’re more stern this time, demanding in a gentle way. Your hand makes small movements, soothing over the material of the couch like you’re warming the space for him. 

He visibly swallows as he makes his hesitant steps over to you. His heart is racing and with every beat there is a question of his strength. He sits down on the same sofa but not directly next to you like you want. You smirk nonetheless and turn to face him, sitting with your legs criss-cross now. 

With your elbows to your knees you hold your head in your hands, watching the side of his face. You’re again realizing how sculpted his features are. Dark thick hair on his head, eyebrows and lashes too. An array of moles sprinkle his pale face. A sharp nose that sits above pink, full lips. You wonder if he knows of his own beauty. It’s fascinating to see such a person like him in front of you. 

He’s sitting with perfect posture, not relaxing into the couch. Alert like a deer that’s waiting for too sudden of movement to pounce away. His eyes just watch the table, reading through the names of the board games that lay there as a way of distracting himself. He’s awkward. 

“Uhm… d-does your family own this farm?” he tries for small talk to break the silence. His bottom lip finds itself between his teeth as he makes one quick look over to you. Luckily your overalls sit high up or he’d have a full view of your chest. He can’t help but think of the fact and it makes him shift uncomfortably. 

“Do I make you nervous?” you question, seriously so. Brows pulled tight in a furrow with a straight face. You lean in even closer to him, watching for every change on his face. 

“Yes,” his response is honestly quick and ends with a tight lip, like he’s holding his breath. He is yet to comprehend what is happening, still in a whirlwind of thoughts of what could—will—happen. 

“Why?” Your head tilts slightly to the side, it makes him think of his roommate briefly. And man does he wish he were here to ease the tension. 

He doesn’t want to admit that he’s never been in such close proximity with a girl alone before, so he just clears his throat and remains quiet after doing so. 

Curiously, you bring a hand up with a pointed finger and brush the tip of it over the mole on the side of his nose. He jolts back at the sudden touch, his cheeks flushing a warm pink. His eyes now watch you with gentle confusion. He touches the same spot you did with a trembling hand. 

“You have a constellation on your face. So many moles… Do you have a girlfriend?” 

His face burns a little more, both from the observation and the question. He shakes his head, sitting himself further into the couch and further away from you. He can’t quite understand the situation. Are you messing with him? You seem too serious for such. Maybe you’re just weird like he initially thought. Either way he can feel his faith slipping; he is cupping holy water in hands during an earthquake. 

“Did I do somethin’ wrong? Am I not pretty?” You pout to be playful with him, acting as if his actions are offending you. He takes it literally though. 

“No!” his hands rest on his knees and he holds them hard, trying to find stability despite sitting down. “Y-you are… pretty,” his words grow quieter, like he’s sharing a secret. “I just don’t know you or why you want to talk to me.” 

“Hm.” You lean your head back against the couch. With your eyes still on his face, you speak just as quietly, “I’m still trying to figure that out too.” After some beats of muted air you speak up again, but with more presence, “You came to work here. Why?” 

“A man was handing out flyer ads at the church. I wanted a summer job.” 

Is he always this direct and boring? And church, of fucking course. You roll your eyes, pushing yourself off the back cushion and even closer to the man. Your knees touch the side of his body and his thigh. He looks like he’s trying to control his breathing, to feign lack of disturbance, but his face says everything you need to know. 

You place a hand on his thigh and his whole body stiffens at the action. Your smirk to yourself. It’s only resting there on the top of his jeans. “You act like a girl has never touched you before.” You give him a soft squeeze and he sucks in a sharp breath. “Well? Has a girl ever touched you?” 

He shakes his head quickly, “No,” he breaks, feeling overwhelmed and wrong, “and I don’t think you should be. It’s against the churches values-”

“At your age you still follow the rules?” Your hand slides lower and back up his thigh, it’s a slow and teasing motion. There’s enjoyment in how scared he’s becoming. 

Sunghoon knows that this is only going to lead him down a path he swore to God not to take. And if his parents were to know that in his first year away from home in the summer since college was locked in a lodge with a promiscuous girl he’d have it handed to him. The thought of their wrath makes him shiver all the more. 

“I just don’t want to sin.” His eyes close and he bites down onto his lip again. He no longer cares if a stranger sees him as a loser or prude. His virtue is being tested in real time, and he’s feared facing this battle many times in the night because even in his dreams he loses. 

“I’m only touching you. How is it a sin?” The tone of your voice changes, it’s soft like the hand that moves closer to in between his thighs. Your fingertips press into his clothed skin here and there, curiously feeling him up. You just try to get a reaction out of him. There’s a warm feeling in your stomach that you don’t recognize; it’s faintly familiar. 

“Your hand isn’t supposed to be… there.” He makes a strained sound, something like a low whine, as your hand ghosts over his cock. 

You look down to your movements for the first time and realize he’s sporting a half chub. You snicker quietly, cupping him in your palm. “Then why are you getting hard, Sunghoon? Do you like the way I’m touching you? I bet you’ve thought about doing this before too.” 

He makes another noise, a whimper. He can’t bring himself to open his eyes and accept what’s happening. He also can’t find it in himself to stop you, or get up and leave. This wasn’t just a struggle with evil’s temptation but his own biological nature. Something yet to be explored, something that’s been scratching at his ribcage for years to be fed. 

There’s too much he can’t admit in this moment. Starting with how he enjoys the sound of your voice, the slight accent and dialect difference he picks up. How the way his name leaves your lips makes him want to crumble like a burning church. And how he silently likes the fact he can’t control the way his body is reacting to your hands on him. 

It’s all wrong, wrong, wrong. And he is weak.

“Answer me, Sunghoon.” Your hand presses down on him, feeling the growing hardness under your palm. You give him a small squeeze, massaging over the bulge. To your surprise he feels big. Your eyebrows quirk at this and then you look back to his face. A single tear runs down his face and you find satisfaction in it. “Lying is a sin too,” you remind him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hands fist the couch cushions at his sides. He grips the material so tight that his knuckles turn pink through the pale of his skin. His chest rises and falls through slow and deep breaths. 

“You shouldn’t feel sorry for something that makes you feel good.” You palm over him a few more times, drawing out little moans and whimpers from him. He’s struggling to sit still. You can even feel him try not to push his hips back up into you; if only he would admit that he wants it. He’s practically pulsing beneath you, like there’s never been such a rush of blood to his cock in his life. You sigh dramatically and pull your hand away from him, sitting back to give him space. “That’s too bad. A good dog will always be loyal, huh?”

His eyes shoot open when he feels your hand is gone. He looks at you desperately with wet eyes, a small pout to his lips. You make him feel sick for wanting to ask why you stopped, or if he did something bad for you to take away his short-lived pleasure. 

You smirk at his expression, so pitifully beautiful with want. “Have you ever touched yourself?” you ask, placing your hand over his that hasn’t let go of the couch. It takes you back when he flips his hand around to hold onto yours, clingy and wretched. His thumb brushes over your knuckles. Repulsed, you react quickly and take your hand away from him at his impulsive intimacy. It makes him frown with a meek whimper. 

He shakes his head slowly, looking down to his lap. “I can’t.” He knows he’s not allowed to. His father was adamant through his puberty that he mustn’t succumb to his body’s natural taste for sin. He was told that sometimes the devil had a funny way of sneaking into a man’s mind. That Satan would haunt boys in their sleep to wake them up with guilt of uncontrollable lust to be like him. 

“But you like when I do it, right?” You rest your head on his shoulder and look up at him. His eyes look from your face to the thin opening of your overalls where your chest can be seen from the angle. He bites down hard and nods slowly. You coo, moving your hand back to his still hard, clothed cock. “I can make it go away if you want. You want that?” 

He’s battling all the repressed things he’s been too afraid to explore; fearful of the swing of his parents belt he felt once long ago after being caught in a misunderstanding. In spite of it, he nods again. “It hurts.. Please, help me.” His voice is so quiet. Even he doesn’t want to hear his own pathetic begging. 

Your fingers find the zipper of his jeans then you tug it down slowly as you stare at him. “You have to pull them down for me, okay? I can’t help you with just this.”

Sunghoon freezes for a second knowing he has control over being the one to take out his own cock. Yet apprehension leaves in a breath. Then he’s pulling the clothing down to his knees with frantic haste. You didn’t expect him to take everything off so fast but there’s a sense of pride in how eager you’ve made him become in such a short time. 

You weren’t sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this. His cock is as beautiful as him. Pale and raging pink, crying at the tip much like his eyes. He’s also big, bigger than you knew dicks could be. You thought they’d be ugly, gross and worm-like. But his is clean and pretty. It’s your first time seeing one in person; you wouldn’t let him know that. 

You take him bare in your hands, feeling him like a foreign object. More curious of his body than in his pleasure in the moment. His body tenses then relaxes against the couch. A shaky, breathy moan leaves his lips. His eyes flutter at the contact of skin. 

You squeeze him, making his moan weakly again. It’s heavy in your hand. Truly just a stick of warm flesh. A part of you wants to squeeze him as hard as you can just to see if it can break, but you withhold on hurting him for now. Not wanting to scare him too much in hopes of exploring him further through the summer. 

Your hand wraps around the length as much as it can, pads of fingertips brushing over every vein and curve as you slowly move your hand up and down. When your thumb circles around his tip and flicks the leaking hole, his body lurches forward with a loud cry of a moan from him. You wonder if he’ll cum in the next few seconds of simply touching him. 

“I think you’re a slut for a little pleasure, Sunghoon.” You use your palm to gather his precum, circling over the tip to smear the thick cream around. Then you drag it back down himself, wetting his cock in his own prerelease. It slides easier now, your hand. You move faster, jerking him off in lazy, inexperienced motions. Not that he would know anyways. “You gave into lust so easily, didn’t you? Must’ve wanted this for so long. Your body’s nasty, eager for it.”

In his ears, you make the nasty words sound delicious. And he wants to devour more and more, like the starved man he is. His hips snap up into your hard, sudden and rough. You wrap your free arm over his shoulders, a hand sneaking up into his hair to tug aggressively on the thick dark locks. You’re pulling his head back, forcing him to look at you. “Don’t be a whore. I’m helping you. I didn’t say fuck my hand.” 

“Ahsh- I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he whines, tears burning his eyes, “it, it f-feels good. I feel so good.” His head falls to lean against yours, face burying into your hair. His head makes little shakes as he begins to cry, telling himself no, no. 

“Shut up...” You don’t like how close he is to you. You only like doing so to tease him, but when he does it, it makes you feel a fiery anger in your chest and belly. Uncomfortable. Smothering.

Your hand works in sloppy motions. Pumping his pulsing cock to reach his orgasm. At the tip your wrist makes flicks with your thumb, working him up further and further. 

He stutters out incoherent apologies into your hair throughout his sobs of wanton, whimpering moans. Everything about his body is sensitive to the new sensations. He can’t help but move his hips up into your hand, humping the small fist that’s fucking down onto him. 

Confused by the warm, tight feeling flexing of his abdomen he whines against you, “I can’t- I can’t take it. My body feels weird now. Mmph, ‘m sorry. I don’t know what’s h-happening.” His body feels volcanic, ready to burst. 

You continue your movements, jerking his reflexing length until he’s cumming into your hand. It’s a heavy load of thick, creamy mess. His voice is too close to your ear as he moans a drawn out needy sound. Your face remains plain while you pump him until he’s milked dry. His body flinches and curls into yours through the aftershocks, clearly overstimulated and over-sensitive. His arms snake around your waist to pull you against him.  

You stare down at your hand that was earlier covered in the blood of a lamb and now the cum of a virgin. It looks like fucking snot, you realize with repulse. Without thinking you bring your hand up and lick the strange release. Your face scowls at the unknown taste so you just wipe the rest on your overalls. “You are disgusting,” you mutter. 

Sunghoon remains silent aside from his sniffles, eyes peeking through his bangs to watch what you’re doing. He still hasn’t stopped clinging to your side, as if you could save him from his first lustful sin. 

You push yourself up and off the couch, his body slightly falls to the side where he was leaning on you but he catches himself. He watches you with sad, scared eyes. You stare blankly in return then look out the window to see the group of men walking around the picnic table they ate at earlier. 

“Farmhands will be leaving soon. Clean yourself up in the bathroom.” You don’t spare him another look, you just walk to the front door, unlock it, and leave. You ignore the way he looked like a sad abandoned puppy. Something about it angered you in the same way he was being clingy. 

You walk back to your house with a slight skip to your steps. As you step through your front door, you’re about to head upstairs to your room but stop in your tracks because your mother speaks.

“Hate him all ya want,” your mothers words slur, she speaks slowly and tired-like, “but he was a good man. He used to love me… And then you came along.” You turn to the living room on your left where your mother lays on the couch, wine glass in hand and eyes heavy lidded. “I know what yer capable of. I’ve seen the things ya do on this farm, in this home.. When ya think no one is watching.. He just might be right about you.” You glare at her now. “There is something evil in ya, child. Leave that boy outta yer wickedness.” 

Her wine glass falls to the floor from her fingers and she groans, turning to her side. You stare at her for a moment before walking up to your room. 

Meanwhile Sunghoon spends his next 20 minutes in a spiral of guilt and shame. He cleans himself up in the restroom like you told him to. Then waits, watching outside the window for when the boys are gathered around the truck they drove in from the bus stop to leave in. It was hard for him to get the tears to end. He fell right into sin’s lustful trap and it made him feel so- No, it only made him feel hurt. Stupid. Bad. 

On his bus ride back into the city he prays. Sitting in back, alone with his indignity, and head bowed low so no one could see his red rimmed, glossy eyes. Time goes by so fast that he nearly misses his stop to get off. 

He ignores his roommate when he’s home. Jake, excited and curious of Sunghoon’s first day, is left cold. Sunghoon showers for longer than usual. He scrubs so harshly at his skin he turns red; unable to feel clean no matter how much he washes. He doesn’t eat dinner because he feels he doesn’t deserve to. He gets into bed earlier than most days too. He tries to sleep but the day haunts him, keeping him awake. 

He’s up all night in tears, face in his pillow with the blanket thrown over his head, trying to hide from He who watches. The begs of forgiveness seem endless. 

“Dear God,” he whimpers, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” He doesn’t sleep much that night because he can’t find it in himself to stop humping into his mattress in hopes to chase and achieve the feeling you gave him earlier. His hips rock his aching hard cock into the bed, anguished yet titillated. “Please, forgive me. Forgive me. I’m so sorry.” He continues to cry, drowning in his pillow, knowing he will do it again. 

　The next day on the farm is an early morning for everyone. Sunghoon sits quietly in the truck with the other summer volunteer farmharms. They talk amongst each other about the day’s schedule of duties and tasks. He struggles to keep his eyes open, head leaning against the window despite its bumps from the uneven dirt road. He thought about calling it quits on the whole job after yesterday, but couldn’t bring himself to. It’s for selfish reasons too. The ones that deepen his guilt. 

The arrival to the farm is quicker than anticipated. Sunghoon forces himself to be more alert and awake, starting to pick up on the conversations between the others as he exits the parked truck. 

“Do you think it’s still hanging there?” One says. “The lamb of slaughter?” Another dumbly asks with a snort. “Well yeah, dipshit. You guys think that girl did it? She was weird as hell.” A third voice chimes in, “Being covered in blood and then leaving a dead animal hanging from a tree is creepy as fuck. The lady was right, stay the hell away from her.” He laughs. The others walk away in continuous chatter, leaving Sunghoon by the truck. 

Sunghoon is confused by this conversation and deeply disturbed. He doesn’t follow or press them with questions though. But it will give him much to think about for the day. He’s so exhausted from the lack of sleep, he wonders if he even heard them all correctly at all. Yeah, your whole introduction was strange but killing an animal and acting like nothing happened and then toying with him on the same day? Was all that really something a girl like you would do? He can’t say for sure because he doesn’t know you. 

He goes about his morning tasks lazily. His mind is too busy with the thoughts of you. He thinks of when or if he’ll see you today. You haven’t shown around the farm all day. It’s only an hour before noon, he tries to rationalize with himself. He still ponders throughout his work. What time will you come? Will you mysteriously show up like yesterday? Will you touch him again? Will you let him feel good? Is he forgivable or going to burn in hell for wanting more?

He shakes his head to rid it of the thoughts. Perhaps he’s too hopeful. After lunch time he goes back to the farmers lodge to take a nap. At least that’s the realistic excuse he used. He struggles to even fall asleep because he’s so anxious about listening for any sound of you possibly coming back here. 

His eyes, sullen and tired, just can’t stay open after half an hour of waiting. So eventually he does fall asleep. You never show up. When he wakes up from his long needed nap he somehow feels worse knowing you didn’t visit than he did committing his first sin. 

The following day of work is a repeat. He doesn’t see you at all yet you occupy all of his thoughts. He thinks badly of himself for many reasons. 

　On the fourth day, you finally decide it’s time to check up on the poor boy. You watched Sunghoon mope around the farm for two days and it was cute at first but you’re getting bored again. You did like how his eyes were always searching around, hopeful that every sound he heard from behind or around corners was you. Knowing you had such an effect on him made you wonder how much more you could do to him. 

From the window of your room, you watch when they all arrive. Your mother greets them like she does in the mornings and gives them all tasks that need to be completed for the day. It’s Thursday which means she’ll be out for a few hours to go into town and sort out business for products: cow and goat milk processing for cheeses and soaps. At least you assume considering you overheard her phone call about such the day prior. 

You spend the morning around the house, reading and snacking on fruits, waiting for your mother to leave so you can proceed with your plan. There was some effort into your appearance today. You wear a spaghetti strapped white babydoll dress, lined at the bottom with sewn embroideries. It’s simple and flows nicely above your knees when you walk. You hate it because it alludes to soft purity but at least it feels good to dress light in the summer heat. And it might make you all the more approachable to feeble Sunghoon. 

After about an hour, your mother finally leaves. You give it about 10 minutes before you’re shoving on your boots and leaving the house. Some of the blood from earlier in the week still stains the brown leather; you did clean them off but clearly not to the best extent. You’re okay with that though, it seems prettier this way to you. 

Looking and walking around the property, you see the scattered farmhands busy with different things. The sun isn’t kind today, it’s piercing in brightness and temperature. The sweat begins to seep from your pores in a matter of minutes, making you feel sticky. You run a hand through your tangled hair, fingers getting caught in unbrushed knots that you yank through anyways. You don’t see Sunghoon anywhere that’s directly under the sun. You continue to search around the farm, gaining a few cautious looks from the other workers. As you walk past their gazes you wear a wry smile with a tilt to your head. They look away quickly after being caught staring. 

Some wandering in and out of the different barns and coops are done. He wasn’t in any of them though.  You greet the animals you pass by and give pats to some of the cows. “Have you guys seen him nearby? I’m not a fan of hide and seek.” You mumble to one of the goats, scratching lightly beneath its chin while it chews away at grains and hay. It maas in return. You pull your hand back out from the stable then leave to continue the manhunt. 

It’s when you’re walking by the horses’ stables that you see they’ve already been cared for, telling you that someone was here already. You glance to the smaller shed nearby, having a suspicious inkling that it's where Sunghoon is. You walk to the shed and see yourself inside. And he is. He has his back turned to you, standing at a work bench table and cleaning something off. 

You walk up behind him, the sound of your footsteps being dulled by the scattered hay on the wooden floors; he doesn’t notice that you entered the space, clearly lost in his own thoughts. You tap his shoulder which makes him spin around in surprise, dropping the brushes he was cleaning. 

Sunghoon’s eyes are wide at the sight of you standing so close to him. You can tell he’s lost sleep by the dark circles around his eyes and how his complexion is impossibly paler. His mouth is stuttering to find words, opening and closing. 

You step closer to him and he steps back, his backside now pressing against the table. It wobbles on the uneven wooden stilts that hold it up. Reflexively, his hands reach back to hold onto the table, but he’s using it for his own stability. You simply stand there in between his legs, staring up at his face and taking in all the details that differ from the last time you saw him. He swallows, quietly watching your face in return. 

“I haven’t seen you around.” Sunghoon speaks first, his voice a soft surrender. You feel his breath on your face. 

“I know. I saw you though. You missed me.” You state bluntly, taking note of the little fangs he has for teeth. He probably bites good, you think, licking the back of your own teeth. 

“If you saw me then why didn’t you…” he trails off into a quiet again, closing his eyes for a moment with a sigh. “I wouldn’t call it that.” His eyes open again as he feels your hands on his chest, sliding up his white tank and underneath the sleeves of his denim jacket to his shoulders. He bites down, suddenly stiff. 

Ignoring his response you continue, “How can you wear this when it’s so warm out?” Your hands slide over his shoulders and down his toned arms, the jacket slips down to reveal the toned limbs. Your eyebrows raise at the sight yet your face remains relatively blank. “You’ve got muscle. Good for farm work.” Small hands continue to run over the smooth milk-like skin, learning every curve of his lean built physique. It’s not sexual, just exploratory. 

Sunghoon sucks in a breath, watching you inspect him. He begins to feel flustered, relishing in the contact of skin on his. You notice his tense body and ask him if it’s okay, to which replies a raspy stutter, “Y-yeah.” Your hands slide down his arms and back up to his shoulders. Then down his chest and body to stop at the waistline of his jeans. He has a nice body; he must be athletic. You don’t care to ask in what ways. Your fingers dip into his jeans just slightly to pull him in closer to you, he gasps, his growing cock pressing against your stomach. 

“Sunghoon,” You ridicule him, tsking under your breath at the pressure you feel of his arousal. “Already?” You look up at him but he can’t meet your eyes, feeling embarrassed. You play with the waistline, your fingertips running back and forth between the denim and his skin. “Is this sinning?” It’s a soft question yet mocking. He only shakes his head, nervously gnawing at his bottom lip. “Do you want to?” He whimpers, slowly nodding his head. You take your hands off him, crossing your arms. “You have to tell me. Look at me and tell me.” 

He looks back at you dispirited. He knows that you know what he wants. And here you are making him admit it outloud, both to you and God. “Please.” He begs quietly, hoping it only reaches your ears and not the sky’s. “I want you.” 

There’s that feeling again. The lit match that falls from your throat to the gasoline of your stomach that erupts in flames. Fire to your abdomen and loins; it’s an angry feeling, sparked by his honest admit of want, and for you specifically. You watch him with narrowed eyes while mumbling, “you revolt me.” 

He doesn’t reply to your venomous insult. It stings to hear the degrading words in both his heart and pants; he thinks himself disgraceful too. 

You drop to your knees, hands finding place back on his jeans to undo his zipper. He stares down at you in bated breath, hands still gripping tight on the table behind him. His are pulled down slowly, purposely so. You watch him writher, body and face. “Did you do it again?” you question, looking up at him from below. He would never avow to how the sight of you on your knees alone makes him ache all the more. 

He wants to tear his eyes away from you but he can’t. The image of you in your white dress on the ground before him needs to be burned into his memory. He stutters a mumble of words but you don’t catch anything, if he even said a coherent response at all. You ask again, pinching his thigh. He tries to hum over the strained noise in the back of his throat, “Yes.. I mean no! B-but I didn’t touch myself.”

You try not to giggle, biting the inside of your cheek. Knowing he wanted to feel that way again but couldn’t on his own gave you a funny sense of power over him. One of your hands traces the outline of his hard cock through his boxer briefs. “You make a mess?” He shivers at the feeling of your breath on his suffocating length. He breathes out a ‘no’ while you lick a strip over the material. “Why not? I showed you how.”

He moans softly, trying not to let his hips chase after the feeling that he’s been after for days. “You know I can’t,” he exhales. You roll your eyes, mouthing and licking at him languidly. Your hands are still half tugging at the material that keeps him hidden. A faint pool of precum quickly stains his boxers. 

“Sunghoon,” you look up at him with your chin resting on the bulge. He swallows hard, acknowledging you with a hum. “You will never be free from it. The sin I let you taste will forever linger on the tip of your tongue, begging and licking to taste more in crave. No holy blessed water can possibly cleanse you even if you drown in it.” 

His bottom lip pouts out with a little droning whine. He should defend himself, say that his faith is stronger than he is and that his soul is saveable by mercy. But a part of him also feels that doesn’t want to be. His eyes begin to well with tears. 

“Not even a god could make you pure again,” you give him a small smile and pat his naked thigh before pulling down his underwear. His cock now free slaps his stomach to which he breathes out heavily. You grab him with both hands, giving him one last look before taking the leaking head into your mouth. Hands working on him steadily. 

“T-that’s dirty!” he leans forward with a low sounding moan, his hands on your head and in your hair. Your eyes go wide at this. “Why would you put that in your mouth?!” he gasps, the warm wetness around his tip making him dizzy. “This is so vulgar, oh God, forgive me.” he cries, not pulling your mouth off of him but holding you there. 

You circle your tongue around the tip and over his leaking slit, licking the beads of precum that leak out. It makes your grimace before you lean back, a wet pop as your mouth leaves. “Enough of your penitence, and take your hands off me.” It sounds like a warning to which he complies without question, only a hushed apology. He’s the one who wants to be touched anyways, not you. 

You take him into your mouth again, your lips wrap around him in a painful stretch to accommodate his size. He sits heavy on your tongue that lays flat underneath, doing what you can with it. Your hands at the base work around him, jerking and squeezing him like you did before. You weren’t really sure what you were doing, mainly just mocking the actions you read about in books. It seems to be working for Sunghoon regardless because he can barely hold himself together. Whining and whimpering through fat tears, whole body shuddering from the overwhelming wet heat of your mouth. 

His jaw goes slack, mouth hung open only to elicit a breathless moan. His head rolls back on his neck and his eyes flutter to a close. The feeling of your mouth wrapping around him is hot heaven. His body trembles with the new, sweeping sensation. Stomach already tight with contracting muscles. He thinks he could pass out. 

Watching his face, him, discover and feel pleasurable sin is slightly euphoric to you. You’ve seen it in movies and read of it in books, but it was something you never quite fully explored yourself. There’s been a few instances that you did touch yourself; it always felt empty or like something was always missing. There’s little to no excitement when doing it alone in shameful hiding. Witnessing, causing such debauchery is different somehow. Safer in ways you didn’t dwell in thought on. You do wish he would stop crying about it, you find it pathetic of him in a provoked way. 

Involuntarily, he thrusts himself down your throat with a guttural groan. You gag and cough around him, tears sting your eyes that make you squeeze them shut—refusing to let a single one dare to escape. Now it felt like a challenge. One to which you wouldn’t back down in fear of looking weak. 

Your hands hold his thighs roughly, bruisingly so if you had the strength. You move his body in a small back and forth motion, encouraging him to continue his movements. You’re looking up at him with glazed over eyes and a slight nod. He chokes a sob at the sight, you on your knees not to pray but to devour him.

“Ah, I- I’m sorry. Your mouth is so wet, so warm.” He starts off with shallow thrusts, dragging his cock along your wet muscle. His hips stutter while his world seems to be crashing down. “This is so dirty. You look so dirty. And—ngh—it’s.. it’s so good. It’s so good,” he babbles, pushing himself as far down into your mouth as he can. His tip kisses the back of your throat making you gag around him. Your nails digging into the flesh of his strong legs. He can’t stop moaning and whimpering, becoming a slave to pleasure. 

He watches your face. Hollowed cheeks sucking and swallowing around him, the tightness of your throat around him hugging and contracting through chokes that reverberate your body to his cock. The spit that leaks from your lips and all over him is obscene, such a sinful mess. He so badly wants to grab your head and force himself down further, but his nails dig into the wood of the table instead. 

“Hm, I can’t—” he moans your name, thrusting rougher now. His whole body crumbling in on itself, chasing the feeling of release. 

Then there’s the sound of footsteps and a few voices that follow. Sunghoon sucks in a deep breath, taking a fist to his mouth to bite down onto. He looks at you in fear because of the proximity of the other farmhands right outside. This only makes you smirk around him, a glint of evil in your eyes. He shakes his head hurriedly, stopping his movements—as if that would make you both disappear. 

You push yourself off his cock, licking over your cracked and saliva covered lips. You bring a finger to your lips and shush him. “Be quiet or they’ll find out what a nasty whore you are. Unless you want that.” Your voice is quiet and raspy from the abuse of him fucking himself down your throat. You stare into his eyes intently before taking him back in. He glances from you to the door of the shed, his body shaking. 

You slurp and suck him up, purposely loud and sloppy. A hand jerking off the base that doesn’t quite fit in your mouth. He cries quietly with his mouth open, meek and desperate sounds escape that he can’t withhold. “Please…” He’s whimpering, begging for something that he doesn’t know the context of. 

“Do you think the extra feed is in this one?” A voice questions, the door being opened just a crack. 

Sunghoon quickly tries to bend down for his jeans but you slap his hand away, pushing him back into the table. You grip his thighs and force yourself to take all of him down. You gag around him, eyes never leaving his panicky and fucked out face. His face silently begs for you that enough is enough but you don’t stop, because a part of you knows he doesn’t want you to either. 

“It doesn’t hurt to check, does it?” The other replies with a light chuckle. “Could take a break for some shade too while we’re at it.” The door opens slowly with an agonizing creak, sunlight barely pouring. 

Each passing second feels like an eternity to him. The door is still only cracked, not enough for them to see inside but it’s cutting it close. His cock twitches at the thought of being caught with his dick down the throat of the farmer’s daughter. A blazing adrenaline rushes through him. 

Sunghoon can’t bear it any longer. His hands find purchase on the back of your head, pushing himself completely into your mouth. His hips stutter with a whimper on his lips as the hot cum pours down your throat. “Ah, sh- ngh!” You smack at his legs for him to release the hold, choking for air to breathe. You instinctively swallow around him, consuming his load of sin.  

“You dumbass! The horses are already fed, let’s just go for a water break.” The door slams back on itself to a close. Their footsteps can be heard walking away. 

Sunghoon breathes heavily, letting go of you. His body instantly relaxing back with his elbows on the table to support him. Meanwhile you fall onto your ass, a hand around your throat while you gasp for air through rough coughs. “What the fuck did I say about putting your hands on me?” You rasp before coughing again. The taste of him sits on the back of your tongue no matter how much you swallow. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “we shouldn’t get caught.” He pulls his pants and boxers back up then extends a hand to you, an offering to help you stand back up. 

You scoff, ignoring his hand and stand up on your own. You brush the dirt and stray strands of hay from your knees. “Whatever. We both got what we wanted.” You start to turn for the door to leave the shed with the thought of brushing your teeth in mind. 

Sunghoon, confused as to what you could’ve gotten out of helping him, just reaches for your hand. He grabs you and pulls you back to look at him. His eyes are sad, maybe even a little afraid by your haste to leave. “Y-you’re just going to leave me again?” He sounds broken by the fact. 

“What?” You can’t help but breathe a laugh, “Did you expect me to do more?” You ask with raised brows. 

“No! No, not like that.. But..” He swallows his pride, “I- I don’t know. Just don’t leave yet. Please.” 

You blink at him, scanning his features like a robot in calculation. The pleading of his expression and his words aggravate you. A fiery burning to your insides and the skin that he touches, that he reached for. You look down to his tight grip on your hand before yanking it away. You don’t say anything more, and neither does he. He wipes his eyes from whatever salty wetness is still there. 

A moment of silence solidifies your decision. You beckon him to follow you out and he does. 

For the rest of his work day you remain. You try not to think about why. But subconsciously you know it’s because for the first time someone willingly wants to be by your side. At first you imagine it’s because of what you’ve done for him—gave him what any man desires: pleasure. A man falling into temptation is far too easy. 

Though he doesn’t ask for more and he doesn’t bring it up. Almost like it never happened. 

It seems like he really just wants to be around you. There’s little said between each other. It’s just idle farm work with company. And it’s more peaceful than you expected it to be. He didn’t touch you, question you, or do much at all to bother you in general. 

Sometimes he stares at you, but you do the same to him. He even gives a sheepish smile when he catches you; it doesn’t get returned. That doesn’t bother him though. He thinks you look beautiful on the farm in your dress with dirt covered hands and hair messy from the wind. He hopes to tell you that one day but for now he stays shy, still weary and afraid. 

The sun shines relentlessly unless a cloud mercifully passes by. The breeze is rare yet kind. The animals make their sounds to sing a collective song. The trees and crops sway like waving hands of hellos and goodbyes, depending on where you’re headed to or from. It’s not so bad. 

　Two weeks go by. Time flies by for both you and Sunghoon. He comes to work during the week, and he spends his weekends missing you. He doesn’t know what you two are to each other, and he’s too scared to ask. There’s definitely been changes to the dynamic, however. Subtly so. You still don’t smile, or let him touch you. You roll your eyes and insult him if he’s too emotional. But you’re there. 

Certainly not everyday, but most, you spend his work days with him. It’s easier to be around one another. There can be small talk, usually about the farm or the weather. Still much to be learned about on a personal level, but he’s fine with the pace of the relationship (outside of the unholy acts that are committed). Sometimes you even end up helping him. Or at least he thinks of it that way. In reality you don’t like how he does things and take over to do it yourself. 

You still tease him in your cruel ways. Always ending with him in a mess because he’s easily worked up by your handsy curiosity. He caves into you every time because he can’t fight the divinity that you show him. 

There are other times where you confuse him. You suggest a water break knowing he’d gone hours without hydration under the summer heat. You insist on having him take a break under a roof away from the sun when his skin gets too sweaty or red. Which is followed by a reminder that sunscreen is important if he wishes to keep his milky complexion. It’s critical statements that you provide him, but he can’t help to think it’s a weird way of showing you care. 

Sure, it could be seen as you selfishly saying these things because it’s what you want for yourself, but in the back of his mind he’s very aware of how you watch and cater to him. It makes his heart jump every time and butterflies swarm his stomach. He can’t help it. The little things, the small acts of kindness—that you might not even intend—make him delusionally overthink. 

On the third weekend since starting his summer job, Jake can’t help all the questions he’s been building up and dying to ask. Jake doesn’t understand what Sunghoon has been going through, especially when his moods change so drastically. At first, Sunghoon was self isolating and pouty, clearly in his own head and sulking. But then he would come home from work beaming with an afterglow to his aura. And then on the weekends he was back to his reclusive, depressed state. 

Sick of being left out of Sunghoon’s inner turmoil, Jake finally pesters his friend. 

“When are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Jake stands in the doorway of Sunghoon’s room, staring at his friend who’s laying face down in his bed. 

“I don’t know…” Sunghoon’s words are muffled in his pillow. 

Jake walks in with a sigh and sits at the end of the bed. He playfully slaps Sunghoon’s leg. “Dude, just tell me. You’re obviously going through something. You know I can keep a secret. I won’t judge.” 

Sunghoon rolls over on his back, his hands clasped together over his stomach as he stares up to the ceiling. He confides in Jake, telling his story from the beginning of when he first met you. He stutters over his words when he admits to the sinful acts he partook in with you. He tells Jake of his guilty conscience and how he enjoyed indulging in the feelings. Then he tells Jake about how he simply likes your company even without the sexual circumstances involved. How he’s mystified by your complex personality and only wishes to know you more. However, he does leave out the viciousness of your nature, since a part of him doesn’t quite believe in it. 

“It seems like you’re starting to develop a crush.” Jake laughs lightly, “And if it’s about religion, don’t overthink it too much. Nobody dies completely pure.” He reassures him. “You should show her more of you. That you like her too.” 

Sunghoon groans and covers his face at the terrifying suggestion. If only you were that easy to approach in such a vulnerable way. “I guess… I’ll consider it.” 

The next day is Sunday. Jake and Sunghoon attend church as normal. Sunghoon participates less in his prayers and songs than usual. His mind is too preoccupied with all he has going on in life. He feels guilt and frustration. 

Sunghoon, lost in his own world, fails to realize that his best friend—Jake—battles something similar internally. 

You’re never as alone as you think you are if you take a better look around. Everyone is riddled with their own self disgust, guilt, or shame. How else would the churches be so full? 

　Entering the fourth week of summer should feel easier than it does for Sunghoon. The work seems to be picking up regarding responsibilities. The weather is only becoming less forgivable. The peak is yet to hit, but that only means the seasonal storms are right around the corner. More care is needed in the fields and barns in terms of protection in case of unpredictable weather. 

Aside from the work, Sunghoon is anxious because of you. He hasn’t seen you yet today and he feels nervous about it. Perhaps he has grown too clingy, finding close comfort in knowing you’re there with him on the farm. There’s a sense of safety when you’re in the line of sight; you make things easier for him and he enjoys the presence. 

While he’s watering plants and checking the sprinklings through the fields, an older man approaches him. It’s a familiar face that he’s seen around a few times over the past month. The man waves with a smile and Sunghoon does the same. 

“It’s amazing what you’ve done, boy.” The man begins, Sunghoon questions where he’s going with the start because he’s just an extra hand of help and doesn’t feel he’s accomplished or improved the farm in drastic ways. “I’ve worked here, hm, well I’ll be damned! Nearly 15 years! And I’ve never once seen that farm girl talk to anyone. Much less spend time.” the man chuckles. 

“Oh!” Sunghoon blushes and hopes it’s only mistaken as feverish from the summer. He smiles small and stares down to the bundle of plants he brought with him to the farm today. He feels special knowing this much of you. “She’s something…” 

“Sometimes I’d see her talk to herself and the animals.” The man pulls out a cigarette and lighter to smoke. “She’d walk around aimlessly like a ghost. Used to scare the hell outta me.” As he laughs, smoke escapes his lungs. He wheezes a little before continuing, “But now she follows and watches you like she’s worshipin’. If only she did the same with her daddy. Although with a face like yours, I can’t blame the girl.” 

“Pardon? What do you mean by that?” Sunghoon, bemused, watches the man smoke and laugh between weak coughs. “She has a dad?” His last question is overroad by the man who speaks over him. 

“You keep up your work, kid. I outta get back to mines too.” And then he’s walking away with a low chuckle, shaking his head to himself. 

Sunghoon’s aware of your mother. He always thought it was just the two of you running things. He’s never once seen a man, your father, leave the house or so much so be around it. This gives him more to think about, especially on the fact that he still doesn't know much about you at all. You’re still an enigma to him, but he wants everything. 

By the afternoon when all the guys are finishing up their break, you finally come out of the house. With the sound of the front door opening, Sunghoon is quick to straighten his posture and find your eyes. You’re already looking at him, watching him and his surroundings with no expression. His cheeks burn and he can’t help the smile forming on his lips. 

Two and a half days without seeing you feels like so much longer. 

He stands up from the picnic table, grabbing his newspaper wrapped bundle of greenery and shyly hiding it behind his back. He walks over to you, tripping over his feet as he approaches the porch steps to the house. You stand there in front of the door but at the top of the few stairs, arms crossed and amused. 

He’s diffident, arms behind him and modestly attempting to hide how nervous he feels on the inside. His stomach is doing flips, his heart racing. On top of already sweating. He feels like he could throw up his lunch right in front of your feet. He swallows thickly before slowly bringing his hands out in front of himself. 

“I,” he clears his throat, “ehem, I got these for you.” With outstretched arms, the bundle of flowers shake in his trembling hands. He suddenly feels he’s too nervous to even meet your eyes, so he watches the chipped paint wood of the front porch steps. 

You just stand there, watching him with wide eyes and your heart in your throat. Your mouth is lost for words, glancing around at the few farmhands who haven’t left yet and are staring at Sunghoon’s exchange in a similar bewilderment. Some are trying to keep themselves from bursting out into laughter.

“Are you some kind of stupid?” You whisper harshly for only him to hear, snatching the flowers out of his hands. “Why the hell would you do this?” Your words like your tone are mean, but in your chest there’s a raging pounding. It’s a seething raw emotion that doesn’t know how to be dealt with. You’ve only just stepped out of the house and your body feels like it’s inside a furnace. 

Sunghoon’s head shoots back up to look at you, his face and heart drop. “I-I’ve never had a girlfriend before so I wasn’t sure what to do.. This is what boyfriends do, right?” He takes a hand to scratch at the back of his head. Inner turmoil takes over and he thinks he’s fucked up. He bites at his lip, doing his best not to instantly cry in regret. 

You notice this and sigh, irritated. You look from the neatly wrapped white roses and tulips and back to Sunghoon. “So you are stupid,” you mumble before taking your own bottom lip between your teeth. A part of you wants to sneer, but you spin on your heels to hide the warmth that floods your face in substitution. “I’m throwing them away,” you announce, opening the door and walking back inside your house. 

Sunghoon, broken, just drops his head and turns back. A few of the farmhands are snickering from not too far away, chattering among each other and eyeing Sunghoon. He wishes God would smite him on the spot from the humiliation. 

Wanting to avoid everything for a little while, he thinks of heading to the lodge to lay down in hiding. But before he can walk away, the front door of your house swings open once more. He glances back at you, meeting your eyes like he always seems to do. 

“Done for the day already?” You call over to him, now leaning over the banister of the porch with crossed arms. 

Sunghoon, unable to refute you, offers a weak smile and shakes his head. “No.” 

He walks back over to you and you meet him halfway. You don’t say anything else. You don’t bring up the fact that he had bought you flowers or confused the odd relationship you share for dating. It’s cute in all its blind innocence, but that just goes to show you that you have more work to do with him. 

You don’t think of messing with him today. He’s distinctly grown too clingy with how much time you’ve spent with him. Yet you can’t ignore him either. The two of you carry out the rest of the day’s farm work in silence. The inner fury you feel with him doesn’t seem to go away, despite how he hasn’t said much or even brushed skin with you. 

You don’t know how you’re remaining pacific by his side. The rampaging of your heart strings tug like a screaming instrument just from being next to him. How he can keep walking tall, stare at you when he thinks you aren’t looking, or even smile at you is beyond what you know is capable of humans. Men like him only existed in books and movies. You wonder if he’s perhaps playing a game like you.

By the time he’s in the truck to go back to town to catch a bus into the city, you’re sitting at the lake dock. Criss crossed legs, a bouncing knee, and fingernails being ripped at by your teeth. You stare blankly at the water, hoping for that sense of serenity to encapsulate you. It never seems to come. It just feels cold.

So you decide on punishing him for making you feel this way. 

You don’t leave your house for the next three days. You don’t make yourself known, heard or seen. However, you’re peeking out every window of your house to get any chance of a view of him. You hate yourself for being so curious of him in the first place. What was supposed to be good fun has only left you feeling angry. Taking his innocence was never going to heal you, or even make him like yourself. In fact, it’s making you sicker.

And on the night of the fourth Thursday, you’re laying in bed staring at your ceiling. A stuffed animal is hugged tightly to your chest. You can’t sleep and you can’t stop thinking about someone for the first time in your life. No amount of tossing and turning, counting sheep, or button presses to your distorted singing, stuffed bear made it easier. 

Somehow, you ended up punishing yourself. You always had a knack for that, historically, but this time felt different. It actually kind of hurt. Being alone came naturally to you, but tonight it hits you just how lonely you’ve always been. 

　Friday, the farmhands are huddled on the front porch of your house. All the animals are safely away in their designated homes thanks to their help. It started to storm in a heavy downpour only minutes ago. What started out as a dark gray gloom and windy rain quickly turned into an early flooded property, illuminated by strikes of flashing lightning and roaring thunder. 

You stand dry under the protection of the porch roof by the front door. Watching and listening to your mother suggest the shaking cold, soaked men take shelter in the lodge until the sky lets up so they can head home. 

Sunghoon hasn’t spared a look to you all day, but you know that he feels his eyes on you. It’s in the way he shifts awkwardly amongst the men that ignore him. How his eyes are trained low and unfocused yet always trying to move in your direction. His wet hair falls over his face, concealing his emotions you wish to dissect. He comes off as stoic but you know he wears his heart on his sleeve; how his body language speaks volumes. 

Your mother pushes past you to get back inside, saying she’ll check the basement for a spare heater that the boys could use at the lodge. There’s something in you that makes you move without thinking. Suddenly a hand is tugging at the bottom of Sunghoon’s damp jacket for his attention. The material is too thin for this weather and the thought of him becoming sick crosses your mind. 

“It’s warmer here,” your words, for once, came out soft. Too much so, being lost in the cracking sound of thunder. He looks at you through his bangs. The wave of alleviation from whatever he was dealing with is palpable. His eyes and body almost look relaxed. You tug him towards you once more, insinuating that he follows you. 

He does. Like whatever subconscious emotion made you approach him also made him follow you in. As he steps in, he notices the indistinguishable vibes of the farmer’s lodge. It’s updated and cleaner, but similar in aesthetics. A shotgun sits leaning up against the wall by the front door. His brows furrow and eyes narrow. “Those aren’t safe to have lying around…” he mumbles. 

You tug him towards the staircase to walk up, “It’s protection. Only my mother and I are here,” is mumbled back as you lead him up the wooden, creaking stairs. Your feet move light and quick, like a mouse in a home not theirs. If your mother saw you, there would be unnecessary consequences. And the possibility of your father’s involvement would only worsen such. 

Sunghoon cautiously steps into your bedroom, his body tenses at the sound of you shutting and locking the door. He feels on edge, wrapping his arms around his shivering body and soaked clothes. You move around him to sit on your bed, telling him to remove his sopping attire. He does so with shaking hands, leaving him in nothing but his underwear. He shyly looks around the room while using his hands to cover his manhoon. 

His eyes scan over you, sitting quietly on your bed with a look of contemplation that stares past him. A wooden cross hangs on the wall above your bed, the dark wood matches the decadent bed frame. The nightstand nearby has a pile of books and journals with a low light lamp and unlit candle. 

The large window has sheer white curtains drawn open and a vase on the windowsill. A glass vase filled with the flowers he gave you earlier in the week. His heart aches at the sight of the still healthy white roses and tulips, and a smile graces his lips. You liar! You kept them! Is what runs through his thoughts. 

Without Sunghoon realizing, you got up to grab a towel and drape over the back of his shoulders. He’s taken aback by your ghost-like actions, but offers you a small smile of appreciation. “Thanks…” 

You nod for response and glance from him to the vase of flowers he was lost in thought over. You didn’t have it in to explain yourself, mostly because you didn’t understand why you had done so either. 

He dries himself off and finds a place to sit at the end of your bed. You’re on the other end with your back pressed to the headboard, watching him, counting every mole you can find on his pale canvas. The stuffed animal you sleep with is being mindlessly fumbled around in your hands. 

Sunghoon turns to face you directly, he reaches a hand out, eyes shifting from your face and the winged bear. You shoot him a mean look at first, only holding it closer to yourself before your face softens to slowly extend it out to him. 

He takes it with careful hands and looks down to inspect the old toy. Its cream colored fur is dirtied and matted with age. The holographic satin wings on the back have loose stitching and its halo is crooked. Across the chest of the bear reads ‘Jesus Loves Me’ but it’s obvious the sewn name Jesus has been ripped away at. One paw has a red heart embroidered saying ‘press me’. His thumb brushes over the button heart before pressing down. The bear sings in a distorted happy voice the lullaby of Jesus loves me. 

“His name is Saint Michael,” you say quietly and he almost doesn’t catch it. Sunghoon can only breathe a laugh because he finds the dichotomy cute. You almost laugh too, but bite your tongue and look back to your empty hands. You don’t know it but he can see you try to fight your little smile. To him, this moment means more than anything; he’s starting to see you’re more tender than you realize. It brings him a sense of surety in knowing that he can break you like you to do him. 

Silly as it may seem for a troubled girl, the bear was the only comfort you had throughout childhood. There was no kindness from your father, no solace from your mother, no guide in knowing life or love. But there was Saint Michael, the stuffed angel bear; he may not have defended you in battle but he hugged you back, and that was enough to cherish him like a deity. 

Sunghoon crawls across the bed and sits himself next to you, too close for your liking, but you don’t push him away. He hands the stuffie back to you and you place it on the nightstand to face away from you. You lower yourself in the bed, shuffling under the covers of the blanket and he does the same. His skin naked bare yearns for more warmth, yours specifically. 

You feel him turn on his side next to you, pressing up against you despite there being enough space on the bed. His movements are awkward and nervous like he is. You feel a certain pressure against your thigh that isn’t his bones or limbs. You spare him a glance, he doesn’t know if it’s a warning or dare. 

“...Have I ruined you?” You wonder aloud, looking back to the ceiling. 

“No,” he answers quickly, shaking his head against your shoulder. The way he’s missed you in his desire to touch you, hands tingling with want to snake around your waist and pull you in tight. “I think I just want you all the time now. I can’t help it, m’sorry.” He sounds ashamed in his soft mumbles. 

“I’ll only keep stripping all that purity from you. Once it’s mine it’ll remain mine, you know that right?” You look back at him before brushing some of his drying hair from his eyes. He tries to lean up into the touch but your hand is taken back. “And I will pretend it’s healing all that’s missing from me. Do you really want to be mine, Sunghoon?” Your words are so gentle yet laced with threat. 

“Yes,” he exhales, “I want to be yours. Let me be yours please.” It’s hushed, a secret prayer with hope. His hips push further into the skin of your leg, where the hip meets the thigh. He wouldn’t mind going to Hell if it meant more time with you. 

“You beg like a needy barn animal in heat.” You use a hand to cup his face, he sighs into the hold as he eyes flutter to a close. You push your leg in between his, terribly close to his exposed and vibrating body. “So hump me like one.” 

“W-what?” he stutters out before licking over his lips, his thighs squeezing around the plush of yours now trapped in his. His eyes already wet with desperate want, staring back at yours.

“Do it. Like it’s mating season and you want to claim me before anyone else.” 

A cracked voice whine falls from his lips and he begins to roll his growing bulge against you. You watch as he sucks in breaths between quiet breathy moans. His pink, plump lips pursing and falling open. His eyes try to stay on your face, how close you are to him, but they fall shut sometimes in his basking of rapture. It’s a slutty sight of a faith-sickened boy. 

He loves the little to no proximity that there is. His hands find place on your waist, and he’s aware of how that makes you feel, but he can’t stop it. He wants more and more of you. His hands slide up under your shirt, the feeling on your bare skin in his hands makes his body shudder. Untouched, warm flesh for his large hands to explore and learn every curve of. 

Even you stiffen at his exploration, holding in your breath as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe. Your shirt lifts up more with his hands and the exposure is daunting like you’re revealing your insides. 

The pit of your stomach lights up and you're frozen under his clutch. The pads of his fingers hold you so tight as if he’s scared you’ll disappear. His cock is raging and you can feel every pulse of blood that his heart beat floods to. He’s humping into you desperately, chasing the euphoria that he could never find on his own. Such a delicate, shy boy now driven by lust and longing. 

“You’re pathetic and disgusting. You’re practically fucking me through our clothes,” you murmur while you try to push his hands down off you, but his grip won’t let up. Instead his nails dig further into you, a barely sounding broken noise escapes you from the pain. This makes his body collapse further into you, his head dropping between your shoulder and neck. His movements are sloppy and rushed. 

“N-no, I’m still good. You make me feel good, I am so good,” he whines, tears beginning to fall from his eyes to your shoulder. You try to imagine his holy water is washing you clean but it only singes. 

“Tell me that only I make you feel good, that you’re only good for me.” 

“Only you—can only be you to make me good,” he cries against your warmth, rocking himself into you roughly. His leaking cock begins to twitch against you and his hips won’t quit their stuttered jerks. 

You hum lightly and run a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He looks up at you with those desperate, wet, dark eyes and you can’t help but acknowledge how pretty he is like this. His puffy cheeks are flushed pink as the tip of his nose. “Only for me,” you mumble.

“Yes, thank you, I am yours. Yes.” His breaths are jagged and heavy. There’s a coiling in his abdomen that feels borderline explosive. You were right, he craves this feeling. It’s surreal to him how he’s gone so long without it. His arms wrap around you completely now, holding you down while his body rolls on top of yours, situated between your legs. His heart hammers against your chest; he wants to mold into you, to become a singular rot. 

You squeak a gasp, being caged down by him. Your heart beats with the same veracity. One of your arms wraps around his waist to hold his back while the other holds the back of his head that hasn’t left the safety of your neck. He continuously sobs through meek moans. His hair tickles your skin like sparks while his lips brush over your jaw and neck making the tingle feel like crackling flames. 

Under his weight you feel yourself slipping in both confidence and dominance, your body wanting to sink down in submission from the unknown comfort of his control. Your heart aches and you feel something you’ve never felt before. You think you’re scared of it, yet your body pulls him closer. Hand in his hair, tugging with fearful aggression. Nails piercing the skin of his shoulder blade. You’re pliant under his heavy thrusts and sounds of sin. 

The rain pours harder outside with whips of harsh winds smacking the window. It’s almost like God’s wrath is screaming to be seen, to shout that He is watching. 

Sunghoon’s hard cock is relentless against your core. The rough grind of him is stimulating in ways   you’ve never felt before, your body sensitive and starving for more. You squeeze your eyes shut and moan within your closed mouth, hating yourself for feeling this way because it was never supposed to be about you. You are betraying yourself more than your fathers.

The sounds you try to withhold make Sunghoon weaker. He feels uncontrollable, only becoming needier and hungrier with his movements, “I can’t stop. I can’t stop.” He whines, begging for you to vocalize how you feel it too. 

You feel like you’re breaking underneath him, and it feels shameful. Like every harsh word your father ever spat at you was true now that you’re a part of the experience and not just the cause. Everything is too much. It takes every ounce of strength you have to turn both of your bodies over. Now sitting up on top of his lap, you can finally breathe again, sighing in relief. He whimpers at the distance between you both but also from the view of you. 

He moans your name softly as he grips your hips, pushing himself up into your clothed pussy like he’s fucking you. Your hands push down on his shoulders. You stare into his eyes with a plain expression and contrasting sharp eyes, grinding your hips back down on top of him. It’s hard to ignore the way it makes you feel, watching him fall apart beneath you as his pulsing cock fucks against you, but you manage. 

“Cum for me,” you demand quietly, “make a mess and imagine it’s inside me.” 

“Holy fu—ngh,” his entire body spasms and shudders with a low groan falling from his open lips. His movements slow down only to become lazier and uncoordinated. You can feel the warm wetness he spills soak through your thin pajama shorts and underwear. 

“You’re right. You are good for me,” you coo softly, cupping his face and using your thumbs to wipe away the tears. Your hips circle and swivel slowly on him until his quivering cock finishes cumming. 

Sunghoon has a sparkle to his wet eyes. The way the gentle praise left your lips makes him melt, and he can’t stop the flickering glance between your eyes and lips. He breathes heavily through his post clarity. Still he basks in your touch with a hopeful look in his eyes. His tongue slides over his lips before he’s leaning up towards your face, hands affixed to your waist to pull you closer to him. 

This makes a wave of panic wash over you, knowing what he wants to do. You shake your head no and pull yourself away, slipping off of his lap only to turn away from him. 

“None of that. It’s not what-” 

And then there’s a press of lips to your cheek. Your face burns as if a hot coal was what kissed your face. Your eyes go wide, turning to see the boy sitting up next to you. He only wears a shy smile as he sees your reaction.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a week now,” he admits with a small laugh. “Not exactly there but that’s fine. I wish you would let me help you feel good too.” he whispers, looking back to the windowsill where the gifted flowers stood in their vase with the raging storm as their backdrop. 

“That’s dumb and I don’t need to,” you reply, still watching him stare forward. Your chest feels painful; it’s an ache like shattered glass trying to piece together in the wrong ways. Stabbing but trying.

“I think you deserve to,” he argues. “But I understand if it’s not what you want. I was really touchy and I shouldn’t have been because you don’t seem like it. I was too caught up in the moment.” His mind goes to the mess he’s still sitting in and he feels self-conscious all over again. “Is it embarrassing how much I need you?”

You blink at him, swallowing the words that were never going to come out because you didn’t even know what they should or would be. So you settle with a simple, “No.”

You think it would kill you to admit how much you actually always wished to be wanted, needed, or loved. A bigger part of you didn’t think you were worthy of it, let alone capable. The world had such a way of saying otherwise. Until it brought Sunghoon to you; the boy who showed you feelings and experiences you never thought possible. 

As if he could read your mind, he asks, “Why did you choose me out of everyone?” He falls back onto the bed, laying down and pulling the blanket over himself. 

“I think you reminded me of a lamb.” 

“Pardon?” His brows furrow. 

You lay back down next to him, facing him like he is to you. “Pretty, white, and docile. You were so nervous when I first saw you—sometimes you still are.” You even laugh a little. “When you shook my hand I knew I could do anything to you because you’d let me.” 

“You think I’m pretty?” He smiles wide, scooting closer to you. 

You scoff with an eye roll, leaning further away from him. “Oh shut up, you’ve seen a mirror.” 

And then it’s his turn to laugh a little. He looks at you like you’re the reason the sun rises and falls. It kind of hurts you to see him like this because it reminds you of your initial rotten intentions and how they’re dissipating the more you’re with him. 

Time passes faster than the two of you realize. There’s light banter and easy conversations. You learn more about Sunghoon. Where he goes to school, what he studies, and who his friends are. He tells you of the sports he used to do and what he does in free time with his best friend. The more you learn about him, the more you understand his naivety and how despite what you’ve done, he won’t change. There’s something lovely about it. 

You don’t have much to share about your life the way he does, at least not in the same light. But you show him your favorite books, drawings you made over the years, and share the stories of movies you found interesting. He savors the moment of you simply confiding, enjoying the more he can know about you. 

The storm passes later in the evening. So caught up in borrowing time, the rain has slowed down to a simple pitter patter. The clouds dispersed and the setting sun only came through to say goodbye to the day. 

The sound of the truck that the farmhands use to take back to town is heard roaring to life, signalling you and Sunghoon that it’s safe and time to head out. 

Sunghoon jumps out of bed but by the time he’s shoving himself into his still damp jeans and looking out the window, the truck is already speeding down the dirt, now mud riddled road. 

“They just left without me,” he breathes out. “I’m used to them leaving me out, but t-this is.. How am I going to get home?” He looks back to you with sad eyes, not the light they had earlier. He’s not shocked by their actions, but he is disappointed. A hand runs through his hair in his stress. 

“Should I kill them?” Your question is brazen, body and voice eerily still in your seriousness. 

“W-what?!” he whispers in shock, freezing for a moment. 

“I’m joking.” You sit up and watch Sunghoon resume getting dressed. “I think you should head back to the lodge for the night. There’s a washer and dryer for your clothes. And spare food for dinner too.” 

Sunghoon nods slightly, “your jokes are weird, but okay.” He looks like he’s thinking of something, taking his bottom lip between his teeth in thought before speaking again. “Can you stay with me for the night at least?” he asks shyly. 

“No,” comes out quicker than you intended. “...But I guess I can walk with you there.” 

He nods again but now with his signature small dimpled smile. You almost forgot about being angry at the other farmhands for taking it away. 

You have to make sure the coast is clear before leaving the house. You tiptoe down the halls and stairs, weary of where your mother is inside the house. To your luck, she’s in her usual state. She’s passed out on the couch with two empty bottles of wine on the floor. The television volume is low, playing a rerun of the reverend’s sermon; the devil himself of your childhood, preaching about how he lost his child to the otherside. 

With a finger to your lips, you silently signal for Sunghoon to be quiet and to follow you out. 

Once safely out of the front door, you take his hand in yours and start running for the lodge. The tall boy is behind you, so you don’t get to see the bright smile on his lips or in his eyes as you run through the light run towards the lodge. 

Now standing in the front doorway of the farmer’s lodge, wet from the sky all over again and still hand in hand, Sunghoon bravely speaks up.

“I don’t like it when you disappear on me,” he breathes out shakily, honestly. “Nobody else sees me like you do,” he squeezes your hand tighter in his, feeling you begin to pull away. “Come with me into the city tomorrow. We can- I’m not sure yet, but I’m sure I want more time with you.” 

His eye contact is unwavering, begging. Both of his strong hands hold onto yours. You glance from your hand then back to his pleading expression. He will always remain so sweet, no matter what you do to him. 

“I felt less lonely before I met you,” you confess, eyes unblinking as you stare up at him for a long pause. “I’ll meet you here in the morning.” 

In only seconds, he’s pulling you into a hug. His arms wrap around you so tightly as he holds you to his chest. You go stiff in his arms, forgetting how to breathe for a moment. What feels suffocating at first turns into a warmth you’ve become all too familiar with, and it was never anger. The indignation you always wear is just a hand me down from your parents; it doesn’t fit you right even though it’s comfortable. 

With a shaky exhale, you wrap your arms around him too. The hug surrounds you like a blanket of unknown comfort. Your ear pressed to his chest listens to the sound of his racing heart. You can feel the pound throughout his entire body too. Every emotion held within is trying and fighting to be seen. It’s still so cold from the rain but he feels contrast, only warm. His lips press a kiss to the top of your head, making your body burn even more and your hold all the tighter. 

　True to your word, you meet Sunghoon at the farmer’s lodge the next morning. He seems happier than usual. Very giddy to be spending a weekend day with you without work in the way. No distractions or excuses to leave. Just the two of you and a new day with zero obligations.

Because you had a spare bike, you both are able to peddle towards town to the bus stop together. Having made these frequent trips alone, you’re familiar with the owner of the gas station at the stop. He’s a deaf older man, and it surprises Sunghoon that you know how to sign and ask him to hold onto the bikes until you’re back. You tell Sunghoon that you learned some basics from reading a book you bought a long time ago. 

Stunned, Sunghoon realizes that you went out of your way to do so for one man who watches your bike while you endure solo trips. You, the odd girl who was mean and sinful, used your money and learned a language for one man who did a simple favor. He’s learning more to admire you for by the day, and it’s crazy to him how you don’t see your own charm. 

Sunghoon pays your bus fares even though you insisted on being capable of doing so yourself. Sat in the middle of the bus that’s only barely half filled, he asks if there’s anything you’d like to do for the day while in the city. Nobody has ever asked you such an effortless thing, and you like it more than you imagined. Just uncomplicated curiosity of your wishes. 

“The book store. The small yellow one on main street. Maybe see a movie if anything is worth seeing.” You shrug, spewing out the usual things you do. Looking around the taken bus seats, you notice some familiar faces. 

“That sounds nice,” he smiles, “our first real date! I think there’s a cafe near that book store too. Do you like coffee?” 

Your cheeks burn as you stare at him in bewilderment, “you think we’re going on a date?!” 

“Of course we are,” he laughs like it’s obvious and wraps an arm around your shoulder, looking out of the window. All that the town can offer him other than you passes by. “I’m a fan of americanos. You seem like you’d take your coffee black.” 

“I don’t even like coffee,” you mumble, turning your attention out of the window as well. “Tea is nice though.” You add in, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Hm. I can see that too,” he hums as he pulls you closer into his side. 

So much can change in such little time. You’ve experienced this many times in one life. How one day can open a new door to a path otherwise not taken. Showing Sunghoon more of you has made him bloom into a larger ray of light. He seems more comfortable, and now you’ve become the awkward one. 

The ride to the city doesn’t normally take this long, or at least you don’t think it does. Every second with him by your side makes the experience feel brand new. The theme of time being unreal is common with him, you’ve discovered. It’s when you’re in the bookstore and see a holiday sale that you realize it’s not even June anymore. 

While Sunghoon looks for books for his upcoming college semester, you find yourself in genre sections you never really cared for before. The dark and racy ones were fun to bring home, sure. But innocent, cliche romance was always something cringey to you. Now if you change your perspective to that of research then it’s less daunting, right? Perhaps you’d make sense of all the things you’re discovering about yourself and him. Yeah, that’s convincing enough. 

He teases you at the checkout counter when he sees what you picked out. Your face flushes in embarrassment and you can’t even bite back at him or defend your choices. So you smack him with the book on the way out while he laughs and makes jokes that aren’t very funny. 

The two of you do manage to catch a movie. You honestly didn’t care to see one, but having to sit silently in a theater for at least an hour and half seemed like enough time for him to, hopefully, forget and drop the whole book situation. It’s a summer slasher film. A group of teens go camping and the plot is very ‘who done it’ style. Overall, it’s a fun choice. You have your turn to laugh and joke when Sunghoon gets jumpy or scared. 

After the movie, you both end up at the cafe Sunghoon mentioned while on the bus. There was something painfully intimate about everything today. But especially sitting down to eat with him. Not even your mother could meet you at the table anymore. 

“You seem softer today,” Sunghoon states, setting his half-drunk coffee down. “Almost nervous. Is it because we’re out together for our first date? Or just the people in general?” 

You raise a brow at his brazen curiosity and observation. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” you play with your fork to move around the barely touched food in front of you. “Or maybe it’s a bit of both.” 

“If you come to the city enough to know sign language for the man who watches your bike, do you like it better than the countryside?” 

“Don’t know. I’m used to the quiet life, but leaving it behind and pretending it’s not there is nice too.” 

“What keeps you there?” 

“The scenery. The air. The lake. Being friends with the animals.” You look up from the plate to Sunghoon who is watching you like a lecture: attentive and learning. “I’m not very good with people, so I think it suits me alright.” 

“You’re good with me though,” he argues softly.

“No, not really. I wish I was more like everyone else,” you inhale deeply as your eyes wander around the bustling cafe. There’s a choir of laughter, conversations, and social dynamics you would have to study to master. “If I were a good person, everything would be easier.” 

“...but I like you as you are,” he mumbles loud enough for you to hear, watching you shift in your seat. He doesn’t think you’re not a good person, and it hurts that you see yourself as such. 

As Sunghoon speaks, there’s a chime that follows as the front door of the cafe is swung open. A disheveled man stumbles inside, heavy feet stomping the tile floor to attempt to stabilize his disorientation. The man burps obnoxiously loud, and many eyes find him with the grand entrance. 

He scratches at his lengthy, unkept beard as he looks around. When his sunken eyes find you sitting at the table nearby his eyes grow wide and his mouth falls open. His hand shakes with a pointed finger in your direction, “y-you! The girl from the reverend’s sermon!” He’s loud, capturing the attention of everyone now. His sloppy movements make way towards you and Sunghoon; you feel everything within you freeze, and your heart knocks at your chest fast and hard with anxiety.  

He slams his hands on the table, causing your plates and drinks to rattle. He reeks badly of alcohol and his crazed eyes never leave yours. You swallow thickly, fight or flight mode still trying to understand the situation before you. Meanwhile Sunghoon, worried and confused, slowly begins to stand up and grab your bags. 

But you, you’re frozen staring at the messy man who talks of your greatest hate. Your hands tremble on the table. 

“I thought the reverend made you up for stories, but my God! You’re the real living thing just like the pictures; his only sin,” he laughs boisterously in your face and you try not to gag. “I saw him a little whiles earlier, ya know,” his voice goes quieter, it’s taunting even. You wish to remain calm but your eyes tremble and a frown takes your face. “I should go find him and tell him you’re here. He really-”

Sunghoon takes your hand, practically dragging you away from the table. You almost fall from your seat, like a baby deer just learning to walk, there’s little strength to your legs. 

“It’s not too late! You can be on the right side of things!” his voice ricochets off the walls of the now quiet cafe. “If I can be saved by his preaching, so can you! Look at me!” His mad laughter follows you and Sunghoon outside. 

Sunghoon watches you stand on uneasy feet, zoned out staring at the sidewalk. It didn’t take much to put the pieces together that the drunken man was talking about your father. Your father being a reverend who’s not in the picture gave him much to wonder about, but now isn’t the time. He just wanted to get you somewhere away from this memory. 

He crouches down in front of you. You slowly blink back to reality, now looking down at his back. You don’t want to speak so you poke his shoulder in questioning.

“Hop on. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“What if I’m heavy?” you look at the bags he’s already holding, feeling that you too are a burdened weight he doesn’t need to hold. 

“I’ve got good muscles, remember? Good for farm work,” he’s patient and calm with you while his eyes watch the man from outside the glass cafe windows. “Come on, baby.”

Without thinking, you end up on his back. He carries you on his back, strong arms holding your legs while yours are loosely around his neck. Your insides are a flared up hurricane but at least that allows your body to forget the empty ache you left at the cafe. With your chin hooked over his shoulder, you watch the many people and downtown stores that pass by.

Sunghoon doesn’t exactly know where he’s walking, but thinks it’s best to end the day here and return you to the bus stop. He’s never seen that look on your face before—the one you had when the man was loud in your face. He didn’t like it, and he’s sure you hated it. You looked intimidated, or afraid. 

“Would you kill him for me?” you watch the side of his face, “the reverend, I mean.” 

He stops in his tracks and turns his head to look back at you, “w-what? I can’t kill someone… and you should joke like that.” he panics, looking around to see if someone was listening to the wild conversation and request.

“Yeah, I know. I’m fucking with you,” you look away to hide your smirk, “and only half joking.”

“Did you believe him before?” He starts walking again, but this time at a slower pace knowing the bus stop isn’t too far now. 

“Who? My dad or Our Father?” There’s a use of air quotes at the end of your question. 

“Both?” his head tilts. 

“Neither,” you confirm. There’s a pause for thought and Sunghoon waits for you to further explain. “My relationship with both is too similar. They’ve both known me my whole life, right? Seen all of my wrong doings and in return shown wrath through unnecessary punishments called forgiveness. In what good world is tolerance violent?”

“What do you mean? What did he do?”

“Sometimes, after my mother set the table for dinner, he would knock my plate to the floor. Tell me to eat off the ground like the animal I was or starve.” Sunghoon frowns at this, coming to a slow stop when he sees the bus shelter bench. “Sometimes I had days and nights locked in the barns, but he switched it up to the basement when I was too close with the animals.” You laugh a little, but he senses the pain behind it. “I watched him kill the animals, too, only to smother me in their blood. Beatings were rare, but I think only because he despised the thought of even touching me.”

Sunghoon slowly sets you down to the ground and breathes out your name safely, taking your hands into his. He looks at you with sorrow, like he was the one who endured it with you. 

“God’s orders, am I right? My father, the church goers, speak of God like they’ve seen his face and heard his voice, but they haven’t. I would’ve by now too.” 

If He was really in everything, all around, why did He always turn a blind eye? Why does He pretend to not know you? It only made it harder to believe in—something that would bring you here, torture you then watch you suffer for not living how it pleases. God wants to be believed in, but so do you. Only you would never beg for compassion. 

Sunghoon squeezes your hands in his, “I don’t think you should stay there. You never deserved that… even if you’re volatile and strange… because you’re also kind and caring. It’s why I like you. It’s their fault for not seeing that,” he reassures. “I haven’t been through what you have, and I can’t understand. I-I mean I can try to, ya know… it’s not like I’d leave if I didn’t.” His words begin to stumble nervously, not confident in its sympathy reaching you where needed.

You laugh nervously, trying to tug your hands away from his grip that doesn’t let up. “Okay sure whatever, this is really embarrassing now…” You swallow hard and find difficulty in meeting his eyes. 

That’s all that matters, what he said to you, but you didn’t have it in you to say it. He already knows it though, smiling small and holding your hands still. Without words or excessive displays he can still see it in your eyes, the subtle comfort of acceptance. 

He could never blame you for your nature. He sees your anger as you just trying to be strong all while being sad. Whether you are his lover or executioner, he would accept you as you are every time with open arms, receiving hands. Even more readily, now.

　Even more time has passed since knowing Sunghoon. Summer has never flown by so fast. The calendar doesn’t exist to you anymore. It’s only the days you see him and the days that you don’t. The season will be wrapping up in the next few weeks, but only for him. He has to return to his regular scheduled routine of pursuing education while you will stay here, on the farm. It’s rare for you to feel this emotion: fear. You are scared of losing him. And the concept is something you do your best to avoid thinking about because it makes your skin itch with anxiety. It crawls over you like something that needs to be cut out. 

And then an idea hits you. Something far more deep-seated than everything else you’ve done with Sunghoon that would solidify that this summer is real and yours. Something that will always stay; a reminder that good things are possible despite how the world has made you. 

It’s a damn near perfect day. The sun is so bright, and only peers down onto you both through the gaps of the trees. It’s just warm enough. Just quiet enough aside from the sound of Sunghoon’s gentle breathing and natural composition of the nature that surrounds. Rustling of leaves, chirps of birds, and scurrying of whatever life that wishes to not be seen. 

You both sit criss cross at the wooden dock by the lake, simply enjoying the scenery and all it has to offer. His large knee is affixed to yours. If this was early June, you would have moved away. But now it’s a week into August and you wouldn’t have it anywhere else. Just like you always imagined, and secretly wanted, the view is nicer with someone else. 

He didn’t bother asking why you never brought him here before, or why it is that you chose to now. He’s just happy that you decided to at all. 

You slip a hand into your boot and pull out a pocket knife. You flick it open and do a brief inspection of the cleaned blade. The sun glints off the metal as you turn it. 

“Sunghoon, do you trust me?” 

His eyes flicker from your blank face to the blade. He nods slowly with a swallow, “of course.” There’s a subtle apprehension to him. You hand him the small blade and leave your palm facing up, open to him. 

“Cut a diagonal line down my hand,” you point and draw a line down the middle of your palm. 

“Huh, seriously?” he takes the blade confused and concerned with what you’re asking of him. “Why? I can’t hurt you.”

“Do it. Don’t think of it as hurting me, but still do it deep enough to leave a scar.” 

He struggles to understand the situation, but you’re so serious and clearly waiting for him to do as you asked. He exhales deeply, taking your hand in his while the other holds the knife just above the bared skin. Hesitant and slow, the tip of the knife pressed down into your flesh. You wince a little, which makes him pause. You nod, encouraging him to continue and he does despite hating the act. He slices the palm of your hand open just as you wanted. You hate blood, but it’s not so bad when caused by him.

“Shit, it stings,” you swallow through the pain. The feel of open flesh burning and stinging. “Your turn,” you exhale while taking the knife back with your free, unharmed hand. 

“My turn,” he agrees as if all logic has left him and readily displays his palm to you. Deep down, he feels guilty for hurting you, so to make it even he wants to feel the same.

Just as hesitant and careful, you create a matching wound in his hand. A deep enough, bleeding, lesion in his left hand to match  your right one. He cringes at the sight and the pain before looking back to your face. Your expression is so soft yet attentive, almost awestruck. 

“Even when you hurt me you’re gentle,” he remarks, watching you in amazement with a meek smile. 

“I am not gentle. I have sullied you,” you remind him, your eyes attempt to glare but they’re too bright in his. 

“In the softest way, why?” His voice is delicate and still like the lake that sits before you. You blink slowly at him because there are no words to be found. He continues, “I never thought of you as a bad person,” he pauses as you drop the red stained knife, unsure if he should continue at first but does regardless. “And, uhm, I’ve thought a lot about this summer. What I've learned from you. Purity is constructive—like something made to bring shame.” You don’t move, watching him. “I don’t have to be clean to be good…and your hands never made me dirty. Because they never were either.” 

Like an excavator to your tall, strong built walls Sunghoon has knocked your shield down. The facade of your character is breaking down, crumbling into the broken pieces that made it. A single tear escapes your eye and runs down your cheek. It’s rare for you to cry and you’re disgusted with the reality as to why it’s now that you break. Simply falling apart from kind words. 

You try to use everything in you to ignore the heat in your body, to show the anger you think you’re feeling inside. So your eyes remain sharp and strong, boring into his, as they still water. You swallow the dry lump in your throat and without a word, you take his hand into yours to join in a mix of blood. 

At first, you had one goal; one similar to murder. The sparkle he had in his eyes, you wanted to eat—to make them empty—and see the world ugly and godless like you. Yet somehow, somewhere along the way, his eyes shone even brighter. You only wanted to take and take of the innocent boy, but in this moment you realize, maybe I just wanted to give him some of me. 

You wipe the wet drop away from your face with haste, pretending as if it was never there. Whatever blood oath you’re making with Sunghoon allows you to feel something indescribable. You don’t know if it’s deserved, but you smile anyways. Because the indescribable feeling feels like it’s an unknown, unspoken promise. 

He’s seen you smile before with insidious malice, but this time, for the first time, you are really smiling. It’s a raw expression of surfacing emotions, and he returns the emotion like the sun. He thought of you beautiful before but with your brightness finally peering through your clouds, he believes you to be heaven sent. A part of him always wanted to see you cry—usually it was him with tears in his eyes; which is funny, because he wasn’t much of a cryer himself. You just had that way of breaking him down. He knows now he does for you too. And he can tell that you’re probably the type of person who needs to cry the most. 

His hand squeezes yours tighter, a grip so loving, as you bind in one. Neither of your eyes or smiles leave each other until the bleeding stops. 

　A week later, Sunghoon asks you on a date. The summer fair is in town. It’s something like a festival where all the locals from towns around the city come to visit and join in on festivities from carnival games, rides, food, and uncommon entertainments. You think of being mean, denying him the acceptance of the date, but you have always wanted to go. So you said yes without your words: took his scarred hand in yours and nodded. 

The evening sky is a watercolor of warm tones as the sun begins to lay down for the night. The bright lights of the fair illuminate the large open field turned carnival. There’s a sea of people here tonight, and although it makes you nervous inside, having Sunghoon by your side makes the ordeal easier to handle. 

The line for the ticket booth is lengthy but it passes by. You approach the booth, standing a little behind Sunghoon who takes out his wallet to buy your entrance wristband passes and tickets. You look around at the many people: families, friends, and couples, all immersed in their own experience as the music and sounds blend in the background of conversations. 

“Oh wow! You’re really handsome,” the girl at the ticket booth gawks at Sunghoon. She straightens her posture and fixes her hair from her face, “one ticke-?”

Catching this, you step forward and snatch Sunghoon’s wallet from his hands, “he already knows that. Do your job or I’ll feed you to pigs.” You slap the cash amount for what you need down onto the table top with a straight face and mean eyes. 

Her eyes go wide and she hushes an apology, quickly giving you both wristbands and tickets for the evening. She even threw in extra tickets as you stared her down. 

Sunghoon watches you with a flushed face, even the tips of his ears burn red at your jealous threat. You both walk off into the fair, a sheepish smile on his face as he leads you through the crowd with an arm wrapped around your back and hand to your waist. 

“Was that one of your jokes too?” he grins down at you.

“Nope,” you glance at him with a small smile. You weren’t sure what came over you in the moment, but it was something internally deep, and territorial. An innate reaction to someone trying to appeal to something that belongs to you. It felt ugly and you didn’t like it. 

The idea that he could possibly be taken from you was a phenomenon you’ve thought of for a while now. Knowing he has an existing life outside you, outside of this summer, that he would return you made you sick. You’re far from perfect, or the right thing for him, and he could find a safer option if he ever pleased. Pushing the thoughts away is harder than you imagine, so you cling to his side even more. 

You and Sunghoon use up your spare tickets for carnival games. You toss rings around bottles, shoot water guns into the mouth of a clown frame, and throw darts at balloons. The both of you aren’t very skilled at any of the games, but it's fun enough to enjoy the time without winning a prize to show for it. 

Eventually, Sunghoon does find frustration within the ‘rigged’ set up of the games. He even pulls out his wallet for cash when the tickets are gone. You’re surprised at how competitive he is; his determined nature is something that stirs your insides around. You don’t know if you’ve ever smiled so much in your life. 

After 3 rounds of throwing a ball to knock over a moving target, he does manage to win. Going 3 for 3 and not missing a single shot. The excitement you feel when he succeeds takes over and you’re proud, doing little jumps in place and clapping your hands together. 

“You did it! You won!” you exclaim, hugging onto his side. 

He can only smile down at your joyfulness. A fire burns in his heart and he hugs you back, kissing your forehead. “All for you. Which prize do you want?” 

“It’s yours, you should pick it,” you blush, elbowing his side with a shy smile while your eyes keep looking up to the stuffed white lamb with a lace ribbon around its neck and a cushion gold bell adoring the throat. 

Of course, that’s the prize he ends up choosing. It might not be Saint Michael the stuffed bear, but it’s something far happier, cleaner, and softer. 

The stuffed animal never leaves your hold throughout the rest of the evening. It rides the many rides you and Sunghoon do. And sits at the picnic table with you both as you share fair snacks. Popcorn and cotton candy was never so sweet for either of you. Like contentment melting on your tongues. 

Cliche as ever, Sunghoon wants to end the night there with a round on the ferris wheel. The line moves quickly and when it’s your turn to step into the carriage, he takes your hand and sits you down the seat next to him. 

It moves slowly and rocks back and forth with shaky movements that have you gripping the side handles. With an arm around your shoulder, he holds you close to him. The array of flickering colorful lights and people below you feels almost magical. 

Taking your eyes from the heightened difference between you and the ground, you look back to the boy beside you who is already looking at you. The reflection of rainbow luminescence glistens in his eyes. It’s even prettier than the view from the top of the little world you’re in. You give him a shy smile, finding it impossible to look away. 

He says your name in a whisper, taking your chin between your fingers. “Thank you for choosing to let me in.” 

Confused and wide eyed, you watch him lean into your face. You gasp when his lips meet yours before returning the notion. With eyes closed, you melt into his kiss. It’s sweet as all the things you’ve experienced today because of him. 

It’s also as clumsy and messy as a kiss can be for two people who’ve never done so before. However, human nature and desire take over and ease the rest for you both. Lips move over another in a gentle waltz, careful and slow. 

And as if the situation couldn’t get anymore cliche, fireworks light up the sky. At first you thought it was just your imagination and all the books you’ve read flooding your consciousness, but the booming sounds and cheers of the crowd are too loud to not be real. 

You pull away from him first, and he’s already wearing a shit eating grin so wide that you can’t help but roll your eyes, fighting the urge to smile back at him. Your face burns in both embarrassment and adrenaline from the kiss. 

After that, you don’t leave the city like you should. The bus takes you both back downtown but neither you or Sunghoon feel it’s time for goodbye. So, for the first time, he takes you back to his apartment. You’ve never been to anybody else's home before, and it’s nerve wracking to say the least. The complex is large and somewhat modern, housing many of the second and third year private college students.

When you step inside, it’s quite plain but at least clean. You’re immediately greeted by a boy shorter than Sunghoon. He has a big mouth smile and shining dark eyes. His hair is shaggy but it suits him. He’s practically bouncing on his toes. You shift yourself behind Sunghoon and hold onto his shirt, hiding slightly from the excited puppy-like roommate. 

“How did it go? Oh, and nice to finally meet you,” he rambles out quickly, “I’m Jake. The best friend and roommate. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He shoots Sunghoon a wink before grinning back at you. He extends a hand for you to shake but you don’t reach out. Something about his eyes doesn’t sit right with you. 

“She’s shy,” Sunghoon laughs a little as he guides you past Jake and towards his room. “It was fun though. I recommend going before it’s gone.”

“Ah, you got yourself a nice little angel, huh?” Jake leans over the kitchen island, watching you both. His smile falters. “I’ll have one of my own some day.” For some reason, you think of him as a secret pervert.

Sunghoon laughs his comment off and tells Jake goodnight before showing you to his room. His room is neat and as simple as a college boy’s room can be. A bed, desk, dresser, closet, and bathroom. One poster of a musician you’ve never listened to and a window with unopened blinds. 

You sit yourself at the end of his bed and he sits down next to you. There’s some awkward silence as you look around, unsure of what you’re supposed to do. He feels similarly to your internal dilemma. 

“I-I’ve never had-”

“It’s okay,” you cut him off. Of course he’s never had a girl over. And of course you’ve never been over to a boys house. 

“Are you tired?” he asks, and you lie by nodding your head. So you both get ready for bed. He gives you a shirt to borrow for bed that change into in his bathroom while he changes into sweats and a t-shirt in his room. 

In minutes you’re both laying in his bed under the covers and staring up at his ceiling in the dark room. Not a word is said as you both lay there wide awake and untouching. But you know he’s wanting to by the way his body is shifting and turning, inching closer with every minute movement. 

And before you know it, although expected, his body is nestled closely to yours. His arms wrap around you, pulling you into an embrace. For the most part, he usually does keep his space. Knowing how you are when it comes to physical touch that feels too sudden or invading. But with barriers breaking down more over time, he thinks you’re learning to handle the comfort better. 

“I thought you were tired?” he mumbles, head on your shoulder. His hands trace up and down your arms that are wrapped around yourself like a guard. 

“I lied,” you whisper. Your eyes can’t look at him yet, so they remain aimless to the ceiling. Some moonlight slips through his cracked window blinds, giving you enough view of the spinning ceiling fan. 

“I had fun today. Mostly because you did. I like seeing you happy,” he smiles after kissing your shoulder that’s exposed in the neckline of his shirt too big for you. “And… I liked when you kissed me back,” his voice is quiet and shy-like. 

“Do you want to do it again?” Your eyes shift to him and you can barely see the warm flush to his cheeks. He’s cute. 

Taken aback at first, he just blinks at you with a parted mouth. Then he nods his head slowly, licking over his lips. 

You turn over onto your side to face him and his hands don’t leave your waist. Unsure of what to do with your own, you wrap them around his neck. Good thing they sit behind him and it’s dark in the room because it would kill you for him to notice the slight tremor in your fingers. 

With a scarily racing heart and stiff, trembling body you surge forward to kiss him. His lips are quick to capture yours. Soft and pillow-like, they mold into yours in waves. What starts off as clumsy and unskilled turns into hunger. Something desperate and needy. His grip feels bruising to your hips but in a nice way. In a way you want it to hurt more. 

His nails digging further into your flesh to keep you impossibly close make your lips gasp, or maybe it’s the lack of air, or just both. And instinctively his tongue is licking its way past your lips and into your mouth. He kisses you like he’s starved for it. His wet tongue drags over yours, and your teeth, then as far as it can inside of you. He whimpers, pressing his already hard cock to you as he licks and kisses you open. 

Your stomach has never burned this way before, and you feel the hot sensation all over then down to your core that aches like it’s hungry too. You feel disgusted by yourself but can’t fight the hum you make as you devour him right back. You’re getting wetter every second he’s in your mouth. 

This time, he pulls away first. Panting for air and staring at you with glazed over dark eyes. He licks over his wet lips again, savoring the taste of you on himself. He bites down onto it and a part of you wishes it was you he sunk his teeth in. 

“Can I do what I did last time?” he breathes out, his hips involuntarily jerking up against you at the thought alone. 

While trying to act like you’re not catching your breath too, you say quietly, “do whatever you want.” 

He kisses you again but with more desperation. You try to do the same but you can feel your heart and your head preparing for battle. The way he’s feeling you up and grinding himself on you is in no way unwanted, and that’s part of the reason you’re struggling to maintain presence. 

It’s so much happening so quickly, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t imagine this happening eventually. Sex was inevitable. The way his body yearns to be one with yours makes you feel special almost. He’s already engraved into you but in his mind he has to be inside of you and it hurts so badly how you think the same. 

But is the last thing that keeps him pure really yours to take? You’ve stripped so much away from him for all the wrong reasons before and now it feels strange. You are no good and that’s all he is. 

The only thing keeping you here, in the moment, is him. His exploratory and gentle yet rough hands, his body grinding into you, his lips that can’t leave yours or your skin for even a second, and the weak wanting sounds that leave them. 

“I need more, please. I want- I need to feel good with you. Please,” he’s whining into your ear. Then pressing kisses along your jaw and neck that are all so tender, slow, and deliberate. Large hands caress you like you’re breakable, as if not already just a body of fragmented pieces made whole and called a person. 

Your still shaking hand reaches down between your two bodies and slips past his sweats. He had the nerve to go commando and you wish you could tease him, but you can’t. You’re lucky you’re even here right now and breathing his air. Your hand wraps around his aching length and gives him a few tugs to which he’s quick to moan. He kicks off his sweatpants while you bring him closer to you. The plush of your thighs trap him; he whimpers against the soft heat of your flesh. 

Your hips grind up into him once, showing him what he should do too. He’s slow to start, rocking himself between your thighs. Slutty and hopeless sounds leave him in a string of his want. His leaking hard cock is so close to your core. Only the thin layer of your underwear keeps him from feeling your clear need for him too. 

Wrapped in each other's arms, you bury your head to his shoulder. You can feel the pulse of his aching desire rubbing and grinding against you. It makes you shiver in sensitivity and cower further into his neck. You don’t bite down onto your lip, but his neck. There’s a sting to your eyes because you hate it—the wet warmth that pools out of you. Your sin sticks to your underwear and your skin like the red raining life of all the animals you made leave the earth; your haunting subconscious correlates with your growing pleasure. 

You know you’re not religious yet every time Sunghoon touches you there’s a divinity to it and it makes your hands want to join in prayer to thank the universe for sending someone like him to you. Because his hands roam your body as if they have in every world; as if there is not one timeline where you have not been made for him. Like you were carved from his rib every time. 

Your body smolders in that angry way it always did whenever Sunghoon got too close to you. Whenever his words were too kind, his touch too gentle, or god forbid when he just smiled at you. That fire is just the divine nature of your relationship, lighting up everywhere he touches and leaving flames in the wake. You thought it was your body rejecting his purity, but you were only denying the likeness. He made you feel good. And in the most ironic way possible. You just didn’t think you deserved it. 

Yet an anguished moan leaves you, rumbling against his skin as you bite down harder. Regardless of it all, he is yours right now. 

The feeling of your sinking teeth in him, the sounds you’re now making, and the damp heat between your legs he can’t stop chasing all makes his head spin. He bites down onto you just the same and it only makes you moan louder. 

“Please,” he’s whining again through the bite. His voice a needy tremble while his hips stutter and thrust between your legs that only squeeze tighter together. The way the fat of your legs hug his raging cock through his desperate grinds makes him chase more and more for that feeling he just can’t seem to reach. The crying tip kisses and pushes up then past your leaking folds every time. It drives you both insane. 

If your body is the fiery lake of creation's deepest pit, then he is the cleanest ocean of earth’s highest point. If anyone could extinguish you, and possibly make you feel whole, it was Sunghoon. 

This is the most horrifying reality you’ve come face to face with. Not just intimacy, but a stronger driving emotion. You have to open yourself, rip open your chest and bare your beating heart in all its naked vulnerability. Let it scream out I like being with you. You have allowed this person into your world that nobody else has dared to step foot in. To see you in such ugly ways yet still extend their arms for you. It’s a terrifying level of closeness that you’ve never once experienced and you don’t know what to do with. You’re beyond perplexed by what he’s done to you, in both terror and awe.  

You pull back from Sunghoon and he pauses everything for a moment to look at you, noticing your wet eyes. Before he can ask what’s wrong you reach down and slip off your underwear. You shift your body and maneuver him as best you can until he’s on top of you. Rattled with concealed embarrassment you remove his shirt and toss it somewhere to the floor, and he does the same. 

You take a deep breath and reach back down to his cock, lining it up with your pussy. You blink and swallow away all the things trying to stop you from allowing yourself him. Pliant beneath him, you grab his shoulders and pull him down to you for a quick kiss. Foreheads now pressed together with lips ghosting over the others, you tell him, “I hate you.” 

Sunghoon only smiles down at you before kissing you once more. With his arms caged around you, he slowly pushes himself forward. The fat tip of his cock fails to go through you, only sliding up and past the wet folds. He whines feeling the warm slick coat the head; his entire body shudders. He nearly cums from that alone. 

He looks at you confused, and nod once while trying to shift your hips around for a better angle. It’s not like you to be so quiet during things like this. It only tells him that for once, you’re nervous about new things the way he was. 

So he tries again, this time a little rougher. He thrusts his hips forward, the tip pushing past the tight walls but still barely in. You whimper at the intrusion and the feeling of you being stretched open. Your hands squeeze hold onto his biceps for purchase. 

The tight sensation of your pussy squeezing his tip feels otherworldly to him. He can’t help but need to sink deeper into you. His cock pushes in further at an agonizing pace until he’s as deep as he can possibly go. His arms shake while he tries to maintain his strength and keep himself from collapsing onto you completely. The wet walls that surround him flutter and try to pull him further inside, making him feel lightheaded. His moans are so needy it’s almost like he’s crying from the feeling. 

“Oh, f-fuck!” you whimper. Having Sunghoon completely inside of you feels so full. You’re stuffed with him and it hurts so good. “You gotta move, Hoon. Feels like you’re splitting me open.”

“You're so tight, mm.” His hips stutter from your words alone and he whimpers again. He pulls himself out halfway while your gummy walls kiss around him in an attempt to suck him back to be filled again. He begins to rock himself in and out of you. It’s inexperienced and awkward, but he gets the hang of it quickly. Doing what feels best for him and what seems to be the best for you too. 

“I hate you. I fucking hate you,” you whisper harshly, looking up at him with tear filled eyes. It all burns while feeling like heaven. Never have you been so full, held so gently, or seen than this summer. You bite back the breaking moans and whimpers. You claw at his skin. You even begin to cry when your hips can’t stop chasing his thrusts. 

“I love you too,” he whispers back. A kiss is pressed to your forehead as his cock pistons you. Sunghoon is smart enough to know you’re a liar. Your mean words that used to hurt him, he now understands. You’re not really a bad person. And you don’t hate him. You were just really damaged and if he’s damned for trying to heal that then he’s fine with that too. 

“I mean it,” your body shudders, feeling his tip pound so far and deep in places inside you that you didn’t know reachable. His fat cock drags out and forces through your tight hole, making you cream all over him more and more. The sounds that leave your body, the sounds your bodies are making, it’s so obscene. Fighting off the disgust and focusing on how he makes you feel is war. It’s so hard for you to win. 

“No you don’t,” he shifts himself to sit on his knees, taking your legs and wrapping them around his waist. He leans forward and kisses both of your cheeks before fucking himself into you again, only harder and faster than before. 

“Ngh,” you moan again through broken sobs, blinking away the tears as you stare up at him. “I’m t-trying to.” 

“I know, baby.” he mumbles before capturing your wobbling lips into a searing kiss. “It’s okay, haah, don’t cry. You’re good. You’re so good for me,” he says against your wet lips. You can only sniffle and try to turn your head away from him in your embarrassment. “No, no.” he takes your chin with his thumb and finger, forcing you to look back at him. His thrusts never letting up during his care. “Look at me. You’re so good to me.” He reminds you over and over. “We’re so good together. I’m yours. you’re mine.” 

“Say it again,” you sniffle through little sounds of sin. Your hand finds a place on his cheek, and your thumb rubs over his lips that wear a smile. 

“You’re so good, good for me. We are so good together. I am yours. And you are mine,” he says softly. His eyes are so filled with love, and if you could see your reflection in his then you would know yours are too. “Say you’re good, baby, it’s okay.”

“I’m good,” you sob through your whimpers, “I’m yours.”

To Sunghoon, the idea of sex was always sacred. Something that’s only done and shared between lovers bound by marriage of the church. But now, he thinks differently. He knows that there is no shame in him loving you now or years later. And he was more than happy to make love to you all night until you believed it too. 

　Perhaps there was a thing such as divine intervention and if God’s timing was alway right, he knew how to be evil with it too. Because the next day, when Sunghoon takes you home, he’s met with your maker. 

Your mother, aware of the frequent trips you’ve been making and how close you’ve grown to the summer farmhand boy, is quick to make a call to your father the night you don’t return home. It wasn’t necessarily because she cared for your well being. You’re more than capable of handling yourself. But it was an excuse to try and get him to come back. Only it doesn’t go how she wanted.

When you see the reverend’s car parked in front of your house, your heart drops. Sunghoon picks up on your tension, He sees how you go blank at the sight and slowly turn back into the empty girl he met months ago. He tries to hold your hand but your fingers can’t move, can’t return the embrace. 

When the reverend walks out of the house with his infamous weapon of sacrificial forgiveness, you know what to do. Your body moves on its own, leaving Sunghoon to reach out for you that walks towards the woods. He goes to follow you and the desolate man that stalks behind, but your mother stops him. She’s hysterical as she drags him towards your house saying, “it’s going to be okay.” But she’s crying. 

Once out of their sight, the reverend takes you by the hair. He yanks your head around, pulling you towards that cursed tree. He’s uncharacteristically rough and your scalp screams for a release but you don’t show it. You don’t even look at the man. Not even when he’s tossing your body to the ground. 

“So you’re whoring around with my employees now, huh? Was ruining this farm not enough for you?” His words mean nothing to you. You dust off the dirt and go to stand again, but he kicks you back down. You tsk under your breath as he speaks again, “I’ve seen all the things you’ve done. Seen you leave my barns with red hands and smile. Cut heads off chickens like an anatomy project. Is he next? That church boy?” 

Now you look up to glare at him. Seeing the reverend was aggravating enough, but to say something about Sunghoon was infuriating to you. “I am not a killer. You are! And those animals were already dead.” You spit at his black leather church shoes. 

“Oh, you disgusting little devient,” he laughs lowly, untying the rope from the tree. “Your cruelty shouldn’t bring you joy. Sick and twisted, I should’ve dealt with you sooner regardless of what your drunk bitch mother protested. I can save the boy when you’re gone.” 

“What?” you shuffle backwards from him, angry and confused as he stalks closer to you until you’re backed against the tree. “All those things I did was because of you. Your righteousness made me rotten!” Your hands shake, gripping at the dirt ground for anything to make the fear stop. You glance up to the empty tree branch then the rope in his hands. Where is the lamb? You think briefly before it hits you. “You’re crazy,” you whisper, “I will not be your martyr… not now what I’m finally-”

“Condemn me to Hell for all I care,” he crouches down in front of you, “This is the last time I’ll be a killer.” He throws the rope to your lap and tells you to tether yourself. 

“Why do you hate me?” The words scratch at your throat. When you were younger, you did want the reverend to hate you. It was when he noticed you most, and it’s all you really knew. But now you’re older, and his disdain never made sense. 

You can’t bring yourself to move even if you wanted to. Was this His plan? To allow you one good thing in life before ending it? Was ruining Sunghoon your final sin? 

The rope shakes with your fingers as you stare down at it. The twine of the rope burns over the palm of your hand where Sunghoon carved his promise. Your throat feels dry, tight and suffocating; choking on everything you’ve ever done. And your eyes still puffy from the night before well with tears all over again. 

“I just do,” he thinks of slicing your neck open right there. So fuck tying you down, you were always secretly another lamb anyways. He raises his knife and the metal sits cold under your chin as he lifts your head up to look back at him. 

“Okay…” you swallow. 

Your eyes squeeze shut and so does your mouth, as you raise your head to the sky with an exposed throat. Why isn’t this easy? Unlike the animals, you do know what’s coming. And it’s scary. Scary not because of death, but because you aren’t ready. You haven’t told Sunghoon goodbye or that you love him back. And the thought of him finding something in this world to hate, is such an ugly feeling to die with. 

And then there’s a loud noise. A booming bang, followed by unsteady feet falling back and the ground rumbling with a thud. 

You open your eyes and your father is on his back clutching his abdomen. He coughs and gasps before raising his hand. It’s dripping in deep red. And you can’t help but smile with tears in your eyes as you exhale a jagged breath.

You turn your head and Sunghoon stands there with the shotgun in hand, open mouthed and wide eyed. 

“Sunghoon!” you scramble to your feet and run over to him, taking the gun from his hands as he’s frozen in shock. 

“H-he was going to- he was about to hurt you. I had to-!” he stutters, his eyes already crying and hands shaking, still feeling the weight and recoil of the gun. 

“It’s okay,” you coo softly. “Just- go back to the house and I’ll be right there, okay?” You rush out. Still in shock and dazed, he blindly trusts you and does as you say. 

When he’s no longer close by, you walk over to the reverend with a blank face. You stare down at him as he tries to crawl away, dirty and bleeding. The smile you make doesn’t reach your eyes. 

You point the gun back down at him, and place your foot over the shot wound Sunghoon created. The man gasps and tries to swat at your leg but you only press the gun further into his face, making him surrender. 

“Divine intervention, huh? Say it with me now. I know no punishment, only mercy.” Your voice is quiet, calm, and mocking of his tone. With the barrel to his forehead, you watch him writhe in pain and cough up a little blood. 

“Go to Hell,” he spits his words like venom. 

“If you say it, I’ll let you live. But if you show your face to me or Sunghoon again, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes.” Your foot presses down harder. You can feel that angry little girl inside of you jumping with joy.. Knowing his God demands to be bled for, and making him know the sacrificial suffering, well it feels good to say the least. “Say it. With me. Now.” Each word pronounced with the growing applied pressure to his shot wound. And then he begs for forgiveness. He’s never seen you smile the way you did when he was below you with those words. Empty eyes were never so alive for him either. He cries and chants ‘I know no punishment, only mercy’ over and over. It was like the most beautiful hymn.

　There wasn’t much to be said about that day. Sunghoon and you just pretend you shared a nightmare. Neither of you talked about it. It was just another thing that tied you together. 

Sitting there in the peak of summer’s heat. A day before Sunghoon returns to college classes. Birds chirp. The leaves of the tall trees thistle in the light breezes that pass by. Sunghoon sits criss crossed and while you have your feet hanging off the edge of the dock, kicking in the water. 

“I’m sorry,” you break the silence. Shocked, he looks over to you. He never would have expected you to apologize for anything. “I was selfish when I approached you. I wanted to take all that goodness out of you and keep it for myself. I thought I wanted to hurt you, but after sharing all this time with you, I realized I was wrong. It’s weird to say it out loud,” you laugh small, awkward, “but I really am sorry. I love you more than even I know.” You stare down to your feet in the water that has gone still. A tear falls from your eye, and down to your cheek. 

“I know. I love you too,” he wraps an arm around your waist. “But now the same sins bind us.” You hiccup silently and turn to look up at him. “Harvest all of my purity, farmer’s daughter.” 

For the first time, you really laugh. It’s bright and loud like the big smile he’s seeing for the first time on his favorite face. It’s morning sunlight that whispers through trees to kiss the forest floor. Birds that sing songs of hope to awake life into a new day. Nostalgic, expansive days of childhood where the concept of time doesn’t exist. To him, you look like the epitome of summer; he doesn’t want this season to end. 

You were never the lamb. Or the wolf. Not an animal at all. Nothing like the ones you grew up with. You were just a girl, scared and alone. But not anymore. Because it’s your last day on this farm, and tomorrow is the first with only Sunghoon. 

“Your humor is poetry.” you continue to laugh until tears prick your eyes all over again. You love it. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be funny.” he looks away shyly, blushing. It only makes your giggle more, but you stop to press a kiss to his cheek. He blushes harder. 

“I’ll keep doing it, harvesting all of your purity, for as long as you’re good.” you say with a smile. 

“Do you promise? I am always good, especially with you, so it could be a long while.” He bumps your shoulder playfully with a laugh. 

You take his scarred hand in yours and you laugh like he did, pure and true, “I do.”